by Damien Boyd
‘What’s the Bearpit?’ asked Dixon.
‘You’re not from Bristol, I take it?’
‘Bridgwater.’
‘It’s the St James Barton roundabout. There’s an underpass and an area in the middle. It used to be a popular spot for the homeless – there were shelters under there and then one day the council went in, cleared it all out and fenced it off.’ She selected ‘St James 1’ from the dropdown menu and jabbed her finger at the screen. ‘See here, there were shelters all along this back wall and now they’re gone. Occasionally you’ll see people sleeping rough, but it’s nothing like it was. Sad, really. I mean it’s not as if there’s anywhere else for them to go.’
Dixon took out a business card and dropped it on to Maria’s keyboard. ‘Let us know if you see him,’ he said. ‘Any time of the day or night.’
‘I’ll circulate his details now.’
‘And if you could email any footage you get of him to me, that would be great.’
‘Where to now?’ asked Cole, when they stepped out on to the pavement.
‘We’ll start with the address he gave when he was on bail, then we’ll try the Hobb’s Lane Collective. If they haven’t seen him yet they can keep an eye out for him.’
‘Let’s hope we find him before the killer does.’
‘Before would be good, but I’d take at the same time. It’s finding him after the killer does that worries me.’
‘It looks like a squat.’
‘That’s because it is a squat, Sir,’ replied Cole.
‘You’d have thought they’d have bloody well checked when it was a bail condition that he stay here.’ Dixon let out a long sigh as he stepped over the bags of waste blocking the gate. Some of them had been ripped open by seagulls, spilling the contents across the front garden: beer cans and pizza boxes, with the occasional foil tray thrown in for good measure. The gravelled garden, once someone’s pride and joy, was littered with fly tipped rubbish – a rolled up carpet, a fridge with the door ripped off lying on its side, a television, two rusting bicycle frames.
The drive was blocked by a skip, so someone had been making an effort to tidy the place up. A layer of plasterboard and smashed kitchen units in the bottom; the rest of the stuff in it appeared to have been thrown in from the road and consisted almost entirely of fast food packaging of various shapes, sizes and brands. The seagulls had had a go at that too.
Two posters had been taped to a metal shutter covering the front door, although Dixon chose not to linger long enough to read more than the headings: Bristol County Court: Notice of Possession and beneath that Environmental Health: Notice . . .
He looked through the bay window, his hands shielding his eyes from the reflections in the glass. The front room had been stripped to the floorboards, only the fireplace remaining, a single beer can sitting on the mantelpiece.
‘Looks like the owner’s taken possession and boarded it up.’ Cole was stepping over a shopping trolley. ‘This side’s the same. Cleared out.’
‘Let’s try round the back.’
The windows at the side and rear had been boarded up and a steel shutter covered the back door.
‘What was the bloke’s name, can you remember?’ asked Dixon, looking up at the first and second floor windows.
‘No, Sir. I’ve got the address but not the name of Craig’s friend.’
‘Get Louise to see if she can find him.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Cole turned away, talking into his mobile phone, although his stroll down the back garden was blocked by a gas oven and an old enamel bath.
A flat roof gave access to a first floor window, so Dixon stepped up on to an old washing machine and was able to reach the edge of the roof. Seconds later he was peering in, rattling the old sash frame.
‘Any luck?’
‘There’s a lock on it.’ Dixon was picking his way back along the edge of the flat roof. ‘It’s been cleared out anyway.’
‘Lou’s going to see if she can find him. She’s already tried once and got nowhere, she said, but she’ll have another go.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jasper Fish.’
Dixon lowered himself down off the roof until he was standing on the washing machine, then dropped down on to the small area of patio that wasn’t covered in litter. He turned to find Cole waving his warrant card at a neighbour peering over the fence.
‘Is there anyone living here?’ asked Cole.
‘Not for a while,’ came the reply. ‘The owner’s applied for permission to turn it into flats.’
‘We’re looking for Jasper Fish.’
‘Not seen Fish for a while. He used to sell the Big Issue down the Broadmead shopping centre. Still does, I think; I saw him only a couple of weeks ago. Nice lad.’
‘Fish’s pitch is just inside the entrance to the Galleries, the bloke said. Along from Gap.’ Cole rang off. ‘He’s probably gone by now, though. The afternoons are quieter and sometimes they sell out anyway.’
‘What did he say when you asked for an address?’
‘He laughed.’
‘We’ll park in here and try the collective,’ said Dixon, turning into the Trenchard St multistorey car park. ‘Then we’ll try St Govan’s.’
The stale smell of urine hit them before they had even parked the Land Rover.
Cole shuddered. ‘I’d park on the ground floor if I were you, that way we won’t have to use the stairs.’
Several people were begging by the paystations, leaning on the bollards placed by the council to stop rough sleeping in the alcoves by the machines; hands outstretched, one rattling a cup, the elderly couple feeding coins into the slot trying to avert their gaze. The same scene would be unfolding at the paystations on each of the six floors above them.
Straggly dark hair, her face pallid; the girl was standing next to a younger man, unshaven with short matted hair, wispy beard and a torn padded jacket, the stuffing hanging down. No laces in his boots either.
‘Blue jeans and a black hoodie,’ said Cole. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Maria at the CCTV Hub would have told us if he was. And besides, he only got out this morning so he should be clean shaven.’
Hobb’s Lane was narrow and spent its life in the shadows; high buildings on either side saw to that. Maybe an hour or two of warmth in the summer when the sun was directly overhead. Double yellow lines on both sides, needles and syringes in the doorway of the old warehouse, it was a rat run behind the Hippodrome, the music from a rehearsal for something or other following them around the corner as they turned into the lane.
Opposite the warehouse – Dixon peered through the window – converted warehouse, stood a terrace of two-storey buildings, rendered and painted cream with a black band along the base and newly painted sash windows. There was an Entryphone on the wall beside each of the four black front doors.
Dixon brushed past Cole on the narrow pavement. ‘It’s that end one.’ He stopped outside number one and pressed the buzzer.
The sound of a phone being picked up, followed by ‘We’re closed now. You can get something to eat at the Bearpit or there’s the St Govan’s hostel in Old Park Hill.’ Then the phone was slammed down.
Dixon rang the buzzer again. ‘It’s the police,’ he snapped, before the voice on the other end had a chance to say anything.
‘Oh. How can I help?’
‘You can start by opening the door.’
‘Er, right. I’m on my way down.’
She sounded young, but then the line had crackled as only Entryphones do. Dixon heard footsteps, the faint metallic click of the cover on the spyhole sliding to one side. Then the door opened slowly.
‘Yes?’
The rainbow sweater must have been hand-knitted, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows revealing a new and painful tattoo of a red rose on her left forearm. Her hair was bleached blonde and cut short, very short; studs in her nose and tongue.
‘And you are?’
‘Ma
isie. I work here.’
‘Is there anyone else here?’
‘Molly’s upstairs. She runs the place.’
Dixon waited patiently for the invitation; Maisie got there in the end.
‘D’you want to come in?’
‘Thank you.’
They followed her up the stairs into an open plan office on the first floor. The sash windows were open, allowing a cool breeze to drift in, carrying with it the noise from the Hippodrome.
‘That’s Elvis, isn’t it?’ Cole was craning his neck to listen.
‘This is Elvis opens tomorrow night,’ said the older woman at the far end; a red T-shirt with Hobb’s Lane Collective on it, a fleece with the same logo on it hanging over the back of her chair. She was looking them up and down. ‘You must be detectives. How exciting! How can we help?’
Dixon chose to ignore the hint of sarcasm. After all, he may have been wrong. ‘We’re looking for a man who was released from HM Prison Leyhill this morning. He has a history of rough sleeping in Bristol and we believe he may have come back here.’
‘He hasn’t wasted much time, has he, if you lot are after him already?’
Dixon was watching a group of people milling about in the lane outside. ‘He hasn’t committed an offence; we believe his life may be in danger. That’s why we need to find him sooner rather than later.’ He handed Molly his phone. ‘His name’s Craig Pengelly and this is a picture of him.’
‘You’d better have a look, Maisie,’ said Molly, handing her Dixon’s phone. ‘You were on duty downstairs.’
Maisie stared at the phone. ‘We had a few in today, but not him.’ Her hesitation was just long enough to be noticeable. ‘I’d have remembered him.’
‘He was in Weston earlier so he wouldn’t have got here until after lunch.’
‘Not seen him. Sorry.’
‘What do you do here?’
Molly stood up. ‘We’re a port in a storm, so to speak. We find them a bed for the night, if we can – it’s not always easy – treatment for the drug users, help them with benefits; we’ve got a small food bank downstairs, clothes, sleeping bags, that sort of stuff, and we run a food stand in the Bearpit, although for how much longer I don’t know. Bloody council . . .’
‘So, you’re a registered charity?’ asked Cole.
‘We are. Staffed by volunteers in the main, but we have a couple on the payroll. Maisie is one; joined us a couple of months ago.’
Maisie leaned out of the sash window. ‘Oi, you lot, clear off.’
‘There’s a group of kids hanging around, up to no good.’ Molly curled her lip. ‘A couple of our clients have been picked on, their belongings set fire to. Little shits, they are.’
‘What did you mean when you said his life was in danger?’ asked Maisie.
‘He was involved in a pension scam and one of the victims is taking his or her revenge.’
‘Killing people, you mean?’
‘The body in Harptree Combe just over a week ago; the tax officer over at Bradley Stoke.’
‘I saw that on the news,’ said Molly.
‘There were two more on the Costa del Sol at the weekend.’
Maisie was still watching the group of youths out in the lane. ‘Does Craig know you’re looking for him?’
‘No.’
‘Should we tell him if he comes in?’
‘Please do, but stress it’s for his own safety.’ Dixon looked out to see the small group of teenagers drifting up the lane. ‘I’d rather he was a witness than a victim.’
‘Where would he be likely to go if he came to Bristol and knew his way around?’ asked Cole.
‘St Govan’s, if he needed a bed for the night, although they’re full at the moment. Unless he’s got a tent, I suppose. Then he might be up on the Downs, most likely,’ replied Molly. ‘The Bearpit for food. Is he on drugs?’
‘Spice, we think,’ replied Dixon.
‘Not as easy to come by on the streets as you might think, that. There’s no shortage of crack and heroin, but I’m not sure where he’d get his hands on spice.’
‘He has a friend known as Fish.’ Dixon was listening to a commotion at the far end of the lane, the shouts drowning out ‘Suspicious Minds’. ‘Jasper Fish. He’s a Big Issue seller down at the Broadmead.’
‘I know Fish,’ said Molly. ‘He’s been around for yonks. Used to live in a squat up in St Paul’s. Then he had one of the shelters in the Bearpit until the council cleared them out. I think he said he’d got himself a bedsit last time I spoke to him. He was one of our first success stories; pitched up in a hell of a state, but we got him clean and then he started selling the Big Issue. Saved his life, that did.’
Dixon stopped on the way out to empty the contents of his wallet into a collection box on top of a filing cabinet. A nudge prompted Cole to do the same.
‘Thank you very much.’ Molly raised her voice as they disappeared down the stairs.
‘You’ll have to use a card when you pay for the parking,’ said Dixon, when they stepped out on to the pavement.
‘That Maisie’s seen him,’ whispered Cole, with a nod towards the open window just above his head. ‘Did you see her reaction?’
‘I did.’
They turned the corner into Denmark Street, Dixon dragging Cole back into a doorway. ‘You can see the front door of the collective in the reflection in the window of that Italian restaurant over there,’ he said. ‘Any second now . . .’
Then the black door opened and a young woman in a rainbow pullover sprinted off in the opposite direction along Hobb’s Lane.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘They lost her behind the hospital, heading up into Montpelier. The CCTV thins out up there.’ Cole slid his phone into his jacket pocket. ‘She could’ve gone anywhere after that.’
‘Let’s try in here then,’ said Dixon. They were standing on the pavement outside the St Govan’s Community Project in Old Park Hill. ‘We’ll try the Bearpit next if he’s not here, then take a turn around the Downs before the light goes completely.’
Dixon pushed open the heavy glass door, a shout going up before he had even stepped into the hall.
‘Police!’
‘We’re not even in uniform, for heaven’s sake.’ He glared at Cole.
‘They say it’s the smell, Sir,’ said Cole, rolling his eyes.
‘It must be you.’
Three people sitting on the far side of the reception area turned their backs, pulled up hoods or buried their faces in copies of the Big Issue that were scattered on the plastic coffee table.
‘You got a warrant?’
The question came from behind a Perspex screen to Dixon’s right. Black everything: lipstick, hair dye, nail polish, T-shirt, tattoo ink; hostile with it.
‘No.’
‘Why not go and harass someone else then?’
‘I wasn’t aware I was harassing anyone.’ Dixon was watching the split screen CCTV monitor on the side in the small office: four cameras, one showing outside the front door, the others flicking from the corridors on the three floors upstairs to the lifts, the stairwells, landings and back round again. ‘We’re looking for this man.’ He pressed his phone to the Perspex screen.
‘Not seen him.’
‘It might help if you looked at the picture.’ Dixon was quite calm; Jane would have been proud.
The woman looked up from her computer and stared at the photograph, her impatience softening. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Nothing. He’s in danger and we need to find him for his own safety.’
‘Does he know?’
‘No.’
The woman took a deep breath. ‘What’s his name? I can check the register if you like, but most of the names on it are false anyway.’
‘Craig Pengelly.’ He watched her scrolling through something on her screen, the reflection in the mirror on the mantelpiece behind her partially blocked by her hair. ‘You didn’t say whether or not you’d seen him?’
�
��He’s not been in, no.’
‘I didn’t ask that.’ Dixon was still holding his phone to the screen. ‘I asked whether you’d seen him.’
‘When?’
‘It would’ve been today.’
‘I told you, I’ve been here all day and he’s not been in.’
‘So, you haven’t seen him?’
An exaggerated sigh. ‘No.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘People call me Riz.’
The hand rolling tobacco and packet of Rizlas on the desk next to her explained that, possibly, but it still wasn’t getting any easier. ‘I didn’t ask you what people call you. I asked you what your name is.’
‘Andrea Lukic.’ She smirked, an eastern European accent suddenly more noticeable. ‘I came here from Slovakia before Brexit so I get to stay.’
‘And most welcome you are too.’
‘I live here and volunteer.’ She pushed her mouse away with a flourish. ‘There’s no Craig Pengelly on the list.’
‘Can we have a look around? Show the photo to people, see if they’ve seen him on their travels?’ Dixon tried his best disarming smile.
‘You’re not here to arrest anyone?’
‘We’re not interested in drugs either.’ Dixon had stopped sniffing the air when he walked in, although Cole seemed determined to inhale as much of it as he could.
‘We don’t tolerate those in here.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘I’ll have to come with you,’ Andrea said. ‘Give me a minute.’
A noticeboard was mounted on the wall next to the fireplace, the original ground floor of the big old house having been knocked through, and a whiteboard was on the wall above the mantelpiece, felt pens scattered on the marble top. Various messages had been scrawled on the board: a couple of mobile phone numbers and several asking people to get in touch; probably the same people whose missing person posters crowded the noticeboard.
Dixon sat down opposite the group of three sitting in the corner of the reception area, rucksacks and rolled up sleeping bags on the floor next to them; they looked as if they had settled in for the night. ‘You seen this lad?’ He held his phone out with Craig’s picture still on it. One of them took the phone, looked at the picture and passed it to the next with a shake of his head.