Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “Tempted to wear shorts today,” Chris said. “Bloody posties are allowed to. Don’t see why we can’t.”

  Phelps turned his head to reply, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out. His arm felt strangely numb, as though it were no longer a part of his body; seconds later the numbness was superseded by an acute pain that left him gasping for air. Gradually the sensation spread to his chest; it felt like a giant claw squeezing his insides, then releasing, then squeezing again. He clutched at his shirt, ripping the buttons as he tried to stand. He was vaguely aware of Chris’ voice in his ear, calling for help.

  By the time the paramedics arrived Phelps was flat out on the paving stones surrounded by a gaggle of police officers. His breath was coming in short, stabbing gasps as he clung to consciousness, but he was fighting a losing battle; soon the airliner’s puffed-out vapour trail smeared the surrounding sky into a wide, all-encompassing shadow which fell slowly earthwards until it spread its darkness over him.

  Chapter 13

  Moran rubbed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Traffic was bad, the heat wave shortening tempers and lengthening journey times as Berkshire’s working population were forced to compete with carloads of coastbound holiday makers. The perennially cheerful Chris Evans grated in Moran’s ears as he searched for the turning to West Reading Physiotherapy clinic.

  Returning a burst of horn-blowing from a stroppy Tesco lorry he slipped past the gesticulating driver into the service road where, miraculously, there appeared to be a few parking spaces left. Cursing the clinic’s owners for electing to site their practice in one of the busiest areas of Reading, Moran shoe-horned his car into a space and withdrew the business card from his wallet. Smile at someone today, make a difference, Evans was burbling. Moran, however, had little to smile about; he’d just received a call from the hospital informing him of DC Hill’s death at ten past seven that morning from ‘catastrophic brain trauma’.

  The waiting room was half-full and the receptionist greeted him as if she’d been listening to Chris Evans as well. He presented his ID and asked gruffly to see the practice head.

  “I’m afraid he’ll be in clinic all morning,” the receptionist told him. She was a pretty twenty-something with a dusky, lightly made-up complexion, shoulder-length black hair and slim, articulate hands.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt clinic,” Moran told her. “I’m conducting a murder investigation.”

  “Oh. I see.” She looked him up and down briefly as if satisfying herself that he was the genuine article, and then asked him to wait.

  Moran scowled at the waiting room and hovered at the reception desk. Why did Hill have to die? Why? Was it his fault? If he’d teamed Hill up with the more experienced Banner it would never have happened. By now they might have the Chinese in custody and the case well on the way to being wrapped up. Hill and McKellar would probably have started dating, Sheldrake would be a distant memory and–

  “What can I do for you, Inspector? My name is Sandeep Suri. I am the practice manager.”

  Moran jerked his head up. The owner of the silkily smooth voice was a tall, handsome man in his early thirties. His skin was testimony to his Asian origins, his accent to the upper echelons of the British education system.

  Moran shook the proffered hand and showed his ID. “Perhaps we can talk privately?”

  “Of course. Please follow me.” Suri led him through a narrow corridor to a door marked Sandeep Suri BSc MSc MCSP HPC ACPSM AACP.

  “Please, Inspector.” Suri invited Moran to sit and took his place behind the plain walnut desk. The desk was uncluttered, holding a framed family photograph, a PC and monitor, a blotter and an old fashioned twin-potted brass inkstand. “So what can I do for you, Inspector?”

  Moran produced a Photofit picture of the dead Chinese driver. It was a skilfully realised image, created at Moran’s request due to the disfiguring injuries sustained by the Chinaman in the fatal RTA. “Seen this man before?”

  Suri took the picture and studied it. He made a negative side-to-side motion with his hand and returned it. “No, I am afraid not. Why do you ask?”

  “Because we found your business card in his wallet.”

  Suri shrugged. “That is no crime, surely? We are a reputable practice, all legal and everything.” He made a half-hearted attempt to inject humour into his statement by holding up his hands in mock surrender.

  “I’m quite sure you are, Mr Suri. Are you positive you’ve never seen this man before?”

  “Completely sure. I am sorry I cannot help. I hope very much that you will find him.”

  “Oh, we’ve found him. That’s not the problem. The problem is that he’s unable to answer our questions; that’s why I’d like to talk to someone who could perhaps identify him for us.”

  “I see. I see. Perhaps I can ask our receptionist? She is quite new, but really on the ball, you know?”

  “That’s very helpful. Thanks.”

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” Suri said. “I will also ask my partner.”

  Suri took the Photofit and left the room. Moran waited a few seconds before carrying out a more thorough inspection of the office. There was little to see: a locked filing cabinet, a small occasional table supporting a vase of fresh flowers, a single metal-framed painting of a Third World rustic scene adorning one of the tastefully sponged walls. The room was uncomfortably warm, the windows shut and security-bolted in spite of the heat, and Moran felt his head beginning to pound as he sat down and waited for Suri’s return. As he took out his mobile it began to vibrate. He didn’t recognise the number.

  “Moran.”

  “Ah, Brendan. Mike Airey.”

  Moran groaned inwardly. The Superintendent. The last person he wanted to speak to. He took a deep breath. “Sir.”

  “I’ve had a call from Superintendent Alan Sheldrake. Chap from Organised Crime.”

  “I thought he might call you, sir.”

  “He’s not very happy, Brendan. What’s the story?”

  Moran explained. When he’d finished there was a brief silence at the other end. The door opened and Suri appeared, but when he saw that Moran was on the phone he discreetly withdrew.

  Airey cleared his throat with a metallic sounding cough in Moran’s ear, and then continued in a slow, deliberate tone Moran understood to imply that he’d better be listening, and listening well. “You can’t tread on this chap’s toes, Brendan. He’s a very high profile officer. He tells me they’ve been working on Kestrel since the operation’s inception. You must know how big this is.”

  “I do, sir, but I’m not convinced that Reed-Purvis’ murder is drug-related.”

  “How can you be so sure? It seems to me that she was in it up to her neck. Someone sussed her out and she was deliberately targeted. Makes perfect sense.”

  “It’s too neat, sir.”

  “I like things neat, Moran. So does the chief.”

  Moran noticed the switch to his surname, but he was in no mood to be patronised. “Sir, with respect, I have cooperated fully with Superintendent Sheldrake. I’ve already confirmed that we’ll hand over the case by Thursday evening.”

  “See that you do, Brendan. If you please.” Airey cleared his throat again. “By the way, I was very sorry to hear about DC Hill.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “You’ll be in touch with the parents?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll deal with the press,” Airey went on tersely. “It’s critical we don’t upset the Kestrel applecart. I don’t want alarmist headlines all over the shop. I’m sure the parents will understand. Tell them we’ll see that justice is done.” A moment’s hesitation, and then Airey added, “And Sergeant Phelps. Damn shame about that. I know how close you two are.”

  Moran’s brain shuddered as if under fire. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Haven’t you heard? In that case, I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. Robert Phelps suffered a serious heart attack earlier th
is morning. He’s been rushed into the Royal Berks. DI Pepper has been told to report to you ASAP.”

  Moran hardly heard Airey signing off. As he flung the office door open and left the clinic he threw a promise in Suri’s direction that he’d be in back in touch before the end of the day.

  The Catholic church was situated by the roundabout on the Tilehurst Road, just as the Kafir had remembered. He’d deliberately picked a quiet time of day, so he was confident that few parishioners would be around to interrupt his work. He noted with satisfaction that only two other cars occupied spaces in the church’s expansive car park.

  He briefly debated whether he should wear his jacket, but the wave of heat that struck him as he left the comfort of his air-conditioned vehicle made the decision a no-brainer. There was nothing unusual about the way he was dressed; T-shirts and chinos had become de rigueur while the weather held.

  He twisted the large wrought iron door handle and stepped into the church’s gloomy interior. At once the all-pervading smell of incense provoked rapid-fire snapshots from his memory; the discomfort of a surplice, the sick terror in his stomach as he walked from the vestry into full sight of the packed congregation...

  He hesitated on the threshold. The stench of Catholicism began to evoke a more terrible memory, a feeling so powerful that his mind could scarcely articulate the fear. He shuddered. For a moment he wondered if he could go on, whether he could even physically enter the building.

  You have buried the past, said the voice in his head quite clearly. You are not what you once were. You are the Kafir. Now, do what you must...

  Yes, he nodded, you’re right. Someone has to pay...

  As his eyes became accustomed to the reduced light he saw that the queue for confession was, as he had hoped, down to just a handful of patient sinners. He took his place behind the last occupied pew and bowed his head. The feeling of sheer rightness intensified. He was supposed to be here. It was as if he was driven by some external force, animating his senses and filling him with assurance. He felt the need to respond, so he made a solemn vow: while the rot of religion existed, he would be there to stamp it out, to be its nemesis. His name would be spoken with reverence and awe by future generations. He knew this with certainty. It was as inevitable as the setting sun or the waning moon. He would not be stopped, not by the policeman Moran, not by them, not by any human intervention.

  He winced as a stab of pain lanced through his head. For a moment his vision blurred, as if a migraine were about to strike. Then, as abruptly as it had arrived, it cleared.

  The Kafir looked up at a slight noise, the creak of some roof timber expanding in the heat perhaps. He was alone in the church; all the penitents had gone. Then he realised that the noise he had heard was the click of the confessional door as the priest checked to see if any souls still awaited absolution.

  The Kafir rose to his feet and the priest withdrew into his cabinet of contrition. The interior of the confessional was just as he remembered from his boyhood – musty, claustrophobic. The curtained grille, directly in front of him as he knelt, masked all but a faint outline of the black-garbed priest. For a moment the Kafir was tongue-tied, a boy again, struggling to remember his lines. Then they came to him and he heard himself recite in a low monotone. Bless me father for I have sinned...

  Moran drove soberly and sadly back from the hospital. It had been a pointless visit, as he had known it would be. Phelps was in ICU, still fighting – and no, the duty registrar (who looked to Moran as though she should still be studying for her A-levels) was unable to say which way it was likely to go. In his favour, Robert Phelps was a strong man. Stacked against him was a lifetime of smoking, a penchant for malt whiskey and all-too-infrequent exercise. The doctors were doing all they could. Moran had thanked the registrar and the ICU staff and asked them to keep him abreast of any developments, positive or otherwise.

  When Moran got back to his desk he found a brief note in DC McKellar’s precise handwriting tucked into the corner of his blotter. Call Marie Alder ASAP Time: 3.45pm.

  Moran sank into his chair and rested his head in his hands. Marie Alder was the senior manager at Monkfields nursing home in Newbury, where his elderly mother was one of the oldest residents. A call from Mrs Alder was not going to be good news. Moran’s mother had been a bright, intelligent woman until premature senility had struck her down at seventy-one. He had been forced to watch her decline, helpless to intervene, until she had reached the point where she could no longer look after herself. The transfer from Cork to Newbury had been painful and traumatic. Even now she still asked when she was going home.

  For this reason among many others, visits were an emotional trial for Moran, but at least she was in good hands – or so he hoped. The home enjoyed a good reputation, even though in Moran’s opinion staff interaction with the residents often seemed cursory and abrupt. He found that he could not bear to extend his visits beyond thirty minutes, and sometimes, guiltily, he made his exit after only twenty. Sure, the home was materially comfortable; all kinds of events and outings were planned, but he could never shake off the feeling that the residents’ foremost occupation was simply waiting for the inevitable. They’d lived their lives, and now they were at the front of the queue for departure. Sitting in the overheated lounge for any length of time made him feel as if he too had reached the front of the queue.

  When he got up to leave his mother would always say, ‘Are you going already, James?’ which made him feel even guiltier. James, his youngest brother, had died tragically young in a boating accident. His mother had put on a brave face for many years, but Moran often wondered if the strain of grief had contributed to the eventual loosening of her grip on reality. For this reason he hadn’t told her about Patrick, his elder brother, who had died in Moran’s land rover along with Kay barely eight months ago.

  He took a deep breath. Having just come from the hospital where Robert Phelps was fighting for his life Moran had no desire to make Monkfields his next port of call, but it had to be done. Reluctantly he dialled the number.

  After a brief conversation he replaced the receiver. His mother had fallen – no broken bones, but a badly sprained ankle and some severe bruising. She was very confused and agitated. Could he come immediately?

  On his way out of his office he almost collided with a young woman poised to knock on his door. She took a step back in surprise as Moran emerged, clearly in a hurry.

  “Oh! Sorry,” she followed up with an apologetic smile. “DCI Moran? I’m DI Charlie Pepper. DS Banner told me you’d just got in.”

  Moran was taken aback. He’d assumed that DI Pepper would be a male officer. Automatically he looked her up and down, noting her trim figure, her almost Mediterranean complexion and her short, spiky blonde hair. Moran guessed her age to be around the early thirties. When she offered her hand, Moran noted initially that she was a leftie and secondly that her fingers bore no traces of rings, wedding or otherwise.

  He took her hand and squeezed gently. “Nice to have you with us, DI Pepper. I’m afraid I have a personal problem to attend to, but DS Banner will update you. I’ll be back by six, all being well.”

  “Thank you, sir. See you then.” She smiled again and stepped aside to allow him to pass.

  Moran turned, remembering her illness. “You’re fully recovered?”

  “Pretty much, sir. Trust me to pick up the ’flu during my summer hols,” she added with a self-deprecating snort of derision.

  “It happens.” Moran smiled thinly. “Look after DI Pepper, would you, Banner? Or perhaps you’d care to brief our new DI, DC McKellar?”

  “Sure, guv,” McKellar answered brightly.

  Moran noted Banner’s aggrieved expression, but his face also betrayed something else – a look Moran recognised. It was a look of carnal interest mingled with the oldest human emotion: hope.

  You’ll be lucky, Banner, Moran thought to himself as he took the stairs two at a time. Pretty as she was, DI Pepper had her work cut out; Rob
ert Phelps was a hard act to follow.

  Chapter 14

  “What’s he like, then?”

  “The guv?” DC McKellar looked up from her perusal of her alter ego’s back story. She had elected to become Gill McShane, unemployed, into dubstep, men and dope, not necessarily in that order. She had been concentrating so hard she hadn’t heard DI Pepper approach. Banner looked up and leered in her direction, distracting her. DI Pepper half-turned, but Banner quickly put his head down and his pencil back in his mouth. McKellar would have liked to stuff it down his throat, given the opportunity. She was sick to death of his sexist attitude. He belonged in an episode of ‘Life on Mars’, not in the twenty-first century.

  DI Pepper read her expression and grinned. “Ignore it,” she mouthed and made a conspiratorial face. “He’s not the first male DS to make a prat of himself, and he won’t be the last, neither,” she whispered sotto voce.

  McKellar giggled. DI Pepper’s accent had a slight trace of the Midlands about it which appealed to her. Her blue eyes and blonde hair made McKellar wonder if there was Nordic blood in her family. At any rate, she looked and sounded as if she knew how to take care of herself. Good at her job too, I’ll bet, McKellar decided as Pepper drew up a chair.

  “Go on, then. Spill,” Pepper prompted again.

  “Oh, right, the guv. Hmmm. Well, he’s great to work for – fair, you know. He can seem a bit preoccupied, but he’s got a great sense of humour when you get him going.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Totally.”

  “That’s all I need to know.” DI Pepper nodded, satisfied. “Now, what can I get stuck into?”

  McKellar gave her a rundown on the Reading and Slough murders, spending a few minutes on Reed-Purvis before moving on to the attack on DC Hill. Pepper listened intently, interrupting occasionally with pertinent questions concerning the MO and commenting perceptively when McKellar told her about Sheldrake’s imposed.time limit and the haul of heroin.