Falling More Slowly

Chapter Fourteen

Eleni. Gary loved the name. It suited her. A simple name, old-fashioned, unpretentious, yet classy. He was glad the new owners hadn’t insisted on renaming her. Not only would he have considered it bad luck for a boat to be renamed but a modern name would not have fitted a classic motor yacht like the Eleni. Laid down in 1915, completed in 1920, she was a gentleman’s yacht and every one of her seventy-three feet and seven inches a lady. Loved, abused and neglected in turn, she had been at home in the Adriatic, had languished in a lonely berth in the thirties, had seen action in WWII on harbour defence patrol and had survived a near miss off Dunkirk. Gary tapped the soft soles of his shoes on the wooden deck. Beautiful women had sunbathed here under tropical skies, soldiers had huddled here after having been picked off the beaches. Both tanning lotion and history had soaked into these planks and would stay sealed inside them now for as long as she stayed afloat, no matter who walked on them. He would miss her, missed her already. The refurbishment had taken six months and he had worked on her almost from the beginning.

In the light of the setting sun the Eleni inspired nostalgic dreams. Here, moored at the very end of the harbour basin, surrounded by nothing but boat sheds and the gutted hulls of barges and houseboats waiting for a second chance for a useful life, it was easy to forget which century you lived in. You could lean back against the woodwork and dream.

Almost as soon as the press had finished scribbling notes and taking pictures of smiling people holding aloft glasses of champagne everyone had packed up and left. Gary was not important enough to have been invited along to the celebration dinner, only the project leader, engineer, vendor and new owners went. He himself, along with Dave the mechanic and Sharon the general dogsbody, had been given money to celebrate in the pub. But he’d declined and Dave and Sharon had left without him. All day sadness had crept up on him, and more than sadness. Not far below it nagged an irrational anger as though the yacht had been stolen from him. Sold into slavery. Like a beautiful woman the Eleni could inspire jealousy as well as love.

The fact they had chosen to celebrate in a restaurant rather than here, probably for fear someone might spill champagne on the polished fittings, simply added to his resentment. If they felt any real connection to her they’d have celebrated on board, started up her two Gardner engines and taken her out to sea, where she belonged. But the new owners were not really interested in her, she was a business tool now, to be used for corporate hospitality around Majorca. He wasn’t likely to see her again let alone be allowed on board. In the end he had chosen to remain behind and say a quiet, undisturbed farewell.

What he really wanted to do was to cast off and take her back in time all the way to the Indian Ocean of the nineteen-twenties and — thirties, to Ceylon and on to the islands off Siam. He ran his fingers over the cool, polished teak of the wheelhouse. He’d had a hand in restoring it, as in most other things wooden on the yacht: her steamed oak beams, rock elm timbers and teak deck. He wouldn’t really call himself a shipwright yet, though he had when he applied for the job. He’d lied a fair bit but got away with it and learnt on the job. Now that the project was finished there was no more work here for a while. Perhaps he would move to Cornwall or up north, he hadn’t decided yet. There was still boat building going on in Scotland, he knew.

Dusk had crept through the harbour and the sodium glow of the city lights threw workshop and sheds into sharp relief. Without illumination from the boat or the office there was just enough residual light in the west for him to take one more turn around her deck. Trailing the fingers of his left hand lightly over the familiar surfaces of the wheelhouse, the edge of the coach roof, the radar mast and finally the wheelhouse again he completed his last inspection. As he got ready to go ashore via the short gangway connecting the yacht to the deserted quay his foot nudged a heavy object that did not belong there. Gary stepped back and picked it up. It was a bottle.

A full bottle of champagne. An unlikely bottle of champagne. He could just make out the label, a supermarket own-brand! How did it get there? All the champagne drunk earlier had been vintage stuff. He knew, he had been given a glass, well, half a glass, most of it had been froth, and he had seen the bottles, it was Something amp; Something French champagne. Had this one been bought for the lower deck to drink and then forgotten about? Yet he was pretty sure that a bottle of champagne, supermarket or not, would have been spotted if it stood on deck right by the gangway. In fact he was pretty sure it hadn’t been there a few minutes ago when there had still been more than enough light to spot it.

Stranger things happened at sea. The bottle felt well chilled and it was perfect for the occasion. Even the fact that it was cheap champagne fitted well with his tiny contribution to the story of the Eleni. He would drink a private, quiet toast to their parting. The foil top slid off easily. Unused to opening champagne bottles, a little fearful of the bottled power behind the cork, he pointed the neck of the bottle well away from himself as he untwisted the wire clip and set his thumb under the rim of the cork. His nervousness and the sturdiness of the champagne bottle probably saved his life. The neck of the bottle disintegrated as the small explosive charge ignited the petrol in the bottle. The content self-propelled in an imperfect arc towards the door of the wheelhouse and splattered flames across the varnished teak. Gary fell backwards on to the deck with his hair and clothes enveloped in petrol flames. He wasted no time rolling towards the guard rail and heaving himself overboard into the harbour. When he resurfaced the shock and pain made him gasp and thrash as he struggled in the freezing water towards the quay.

Above him the Eleni burnt. Oiled planks and varnished timbers caught easily even as the petrol burnt itself out. A petrol bomb. One minute he was going to toast her, the next she was ablaze. He had set her on fire. He had to make it to the quay, he had to put it out somehow, call for the fire brigade. She mustn’t burn, not after all the work they had put into her, not after all she had survived. It was his fault. It was insane, completely insane, but it was. When he reached the quay a few yards away from the burning yacht and the raw flesh of his palms closed around a rusty ring set in the harbour wall, Gary screamed.

‘It doesn’t smell as bad as I expected.’

‘Yeah, quite pleasant really.’

‘The owners might not agree of course.’

‘Perhaps not.’ McLusky sniffed audibly. ‘Or is that your sandwich I can smell?’

Austin folded up a corner of sliced white from his home-made sandwich. ‘Bavarian smoked cheese. You’ve got a good nose.’

‘It’s house fires I can’t stand, they smell truly awful. It’s all those burnt plastics and melted TVs.’

‘No plastics here, she was a posh boat, all natural ingredients.’ Austin rocked lightly on his heels beside McLusky as they continued to look down on to the charred hull from atop a tarpaulined nest of oil drums on the quay. The Eleni had remained afloat but her wheelhouse had disappeared and the galley had burnt fiercely after a small propane bottle had exploded there with the fire spreading to the saloon. There were two holes in the deck, which was blackened from bow to stern. Now that there was daylight fire investigators were going through the treacherous remains.

Further up the quay, at the perimeter of the taped-off area, a silver Porsche was being carefully parked. As the driver approached the police tape he was challenged by a constable and after a short conversation allowed to proceed. McLusky watched him take his time as he picked a route through the harbourside snake pit of hoses, cables and ropes. His hand-made shoes crunched reluctantly over crushed glass and eroded concrete. He was talking on a mobile. ‘Place is a mess. I can see the boat, she’s a goner. It’s a disaster from start to finish. I’m flying into Palma this afternoon, you can kill me then.’

‘Jane, go and ask him what …’ McLusky rolled his eyes at Austin who appeared to have stuffed the entire sandwich into his mouth at once. ‘Forget it.’ He called to the new arrival. ‘Hello. Are you the owner?’

The man walked over before answering. ‘Was. One of them. Nothing much left to own.’

‘She might be worth restoring … not that I know much about boats.’

‘Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?’

McLusky held out his ID for the man to peruse.

The man shrugged: so what? ‘It was arson, I’m told. Have you got someone in custody?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What about the shipwright chap? Wasn’t it him?’

‘We don’t think so. He just happened to be the one who picked up the incendiary device. He’s recovering nicely in hospital, by the way.’

‘Good for him. Meanwhile we are short one motor yacht. I’m going to get the blame for this. There are plenty of yachts for sale in Majorca but, like an idiot … I saw her advertised, liked the style and persuaded my partners. She was hardly seaworthy then. We had her brought up overland from Cardiff last year. They worked like demons, only finished her yesterday.’

‘Why here?’

‘I’m from here. My children live here with their mother. And I wanted to give work to the last surviving boat builders here. Bloody disaster.’

‘She was insured?’

‘Generously. That’s not the point. Might not look it here but in Majorca the summer is well under way. There’s people waiting.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘Financing development. Balearics and southern Spain. I hope you find who did this. Not that it’ll make much difference. I’m flying back to face the music now. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye Mr …’

The man was already walking back to his car and didn’t bother to turn around. ‘Chapman.’

They both watched him blast off, blaring his horn impatiently at an elderly man wheeling a bicycle along the harbour front. Austin rolled the tinfoil wrapping of his sandwich into a ball and flicked it in the direction of the departing Porsche. ‘Cheery chappy, Chapman.’

McLusky didn’t comment. Something had disturbed him this morning and it wasn’t the extremely early appearance at his door of DS Austin with news of a suspicious incendiary. No, the early hours of the morning he had always considered to be the best of the day, still fresh, untainted, at least if you avoided police radio. It was something else that niggled at him now, back of the mind, tip of the tongue. Something he heard, saw or smelled but he couldn’t grasp it. Hopeless. It slipped away like the tail end of a dream, back into his unconscious. He was out of cigarettes, too. He thought better with a cigarette, a walk and a cigarette. ‘Got a ciggie, Jane?’

‘Didn’t I say? I’ve packed it in. As of today. Eve is making me, she was livid when I started again.’

McLusky looked hopeful. ‘So … no doubt you have stocked up on mints, chewing gum and chocolate-covered peanuts then?’

‘No, I’m going cold turkey.’

‘Well, that’s no use to anyone. You’re really not getting the best out of your addiction, DS Austin.’ He hopped off the oil drums. With his mobile phone held at arm’s length he turned through 360 degrees, recording the entire scene, ending with Austin’s glum face. ‘Smile, Jane, think of the money you’ll save. See you back at the station, I’m taking a walk.’

At a newsagent’s McLusky handed over his bank card to pay for two packets of cigarettes. Austin’s fiancee was right. Quite apart from the health risk the damage to your finances was insane. There were people out there earning less per hour than the price of a packet of twenty. But this was not the right time to stress over it. Or the fact that even Extra Lights made him cough like a coal miner in the morning. He would compensate with fresh air, go for a walk, set his brain working, try and retrieve the disappearing strands of thought in his unmethodical mind.

He had simply turned his back on the harbour, intent on exploring a few more streets of his new home, and was pleasantly surprised when he came across a small park. Queen Square with its tree-lined perimeter and its lawn dissected by a star of paths was just what he needed. He would walk its perimeter under the trees and think.

Only when he had walked one length of the square did he allow himself to light the cigarette he’d been craving. Games, they were just games, he had to pack it in for good. When he caught the bastard. The day he caught the bastard he would give up smoking. Just please don’t let it be today.

It promised to be a warm, sunny day yet here in the shade under the trees it was cool and the smells of the nearby river and of early morning lingered. At this time of day there were few people in the park, mainly mothers with children and the elderly. A community support officer on a mountain bike was making the rounds, cycling past him at a leisurely pace. There had to be worse beats than one that included Queen Square in the morning.

Two devices in two days. Phil Warren’s latest article on the bomber had graced the front page of the Post only yesterday. True to what McLusky now recognized as her form she had called the bomber not only a coward but also a twisted loner and a perverted madman who had clearly targeted children when he hid explosives in Easter eggs. Neither the bottle nor the phone would have been planted in response to the article, it would have taken too much time to build them. If the bomber was to react his response was still to come.

The mobile might have been there for days, there was not enough left of it for Forensics to give a verdict on that. The champagne device had clearly been tailored to the occasion. But why the boat? Why include the yacht in his list of targets when all the others had been left where they could be triggered by anybody who found them? The apparently random nature of the attacks suggested a man — surely a man — who hated everybody. Random attacks always meant that the perpetrator was dissociated from real people. The man he was looking for was isolated, a loner, a man for whom other people had no real substance.

Only the yacht was different. How could the yacht offend a man like the bomber? Did it stand for something, symbolize something — luxury, conspicuous consumption? Did all the places and devices have a symbolic value? Or did that only happen on TV, where eventually you found that it all corresponded to some damn poem or Shakespeare play or verses of the Bible? Unfortunately it was difficult to tell what was significant to an unhinged personality until after you had caught him and taken a good look at the hinges. Few murderers had a poetic streak and in his experience the poetry-writing, opera-going, hard-drinking but lovable CID officers who solved such crimes were thin on the ground in the force. Hard-drinking, maybe …

Unhinged, another word Warren had used. As instructed she had also used ‘according to a source close to the investigation’ more than once. So far there had been merciful silence about that from the super’s office since Denkhaus probably assumed Warren had simply made it up. But the bomber would assume no such thing.

He dropped the butt of his cigarette on the ground, refusing to feel guilty. Well, why didn’t they supply ashtrays? The great outdoors was one of the last places you were allowed to smoke after all. For now. His mood hadn’t lifted, far from it. He clawed another cigarette out of the packet. Extra Lights just didn’t work as well as real cigarettes. As he focused his eyes on where he touched the flame from his lighter to the end of the cigarette a blurred movement entered his line of sight. He looked up, refocused. Away to his right beyond the equestrian statue in the centre moved a skateboarder. McLusky stared hard at the small receding figure. Move your legs, let me see you move your legs. The figure didn’t, just glided on in effortless, lazy zigzags. It might be his imagination, might be wishful thinking, but the skateboard looked larger than normal, chunkier. He couldn’t hear an engine but what of it, perhaps the guy had silencers fitted, whatever. He screwed up his eyes as the quickly disappearing figure moved into the shadows under the trees. There it was, the hand holding the control wire — a motorized bloody skateboard. Which way was he going? Left.

McLusky fell into a trot on the path across the green. After a few yards he dropped his cigarette and speeded up. The skateboarder looped sharply and moved in the opposite direction. McLusky turned too and jogged back under the trees. Fingering his radio he thought of calling for back-up, then thought better of it. Just a hunch, could be anybody, and by the time they got here … Denims, red scarf. Looked like a red scarf. He was wearing blue, anyway. If he left the park he’d never catch him. McLusky speeded up. Definitely give up smoking. If he caught him and it turned out to be him, he’d quit. His legs ached already. Definitely quit. He had to cut him off without alerting him. When he saw the community police officer cycle back towards him he stopped running, rested his hands on his knees for a second to catch his breath, then he flagged him down, waving his ID.

‘I’m DI McLusky.’

‘CID? I wasn’t aware — ’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Botts, sir.’

‘I need to borrow your bicycle, Botts.’

Community Support Officer Eric Botts hesitated, standing astride his bicycle. ‘I’m not sure, I mean, when will I — ’

‘Get off the damn thing, he’s getting away.’

‘Who, sir? Do you want me to pursue him?’ To Botts, who went swimming on Tuesdays and cycled everywhere, the inspector didn’t look too fit. But he sure looked furious. ‘Okay, here. Third gear’s a bit sticky, mind.’ As soon as he had got off it the inspector dragged the bike around, swung into the saddle and started pedalling away furiously. Botts felt uneasy. He’d never heard of a Detective Inspector McLusky. What if it was a fake ID? You could run up anything on a computer now and laminate it. If so, then he’d just been mugged of his police issue mountain bike. He’d never live that down. He called after the man who was riding his bike straight across the grass now. ‘I’ll just wait here then, shall I?’ No answer. Sod this. He started jogging after him under the trees.

McLusky bumped on to the grass into the dazzling light. Where was the bastard? A glimpse of red on the far side, moving too fast for a walker, was all he could see. McLusky pedalled. As the bike’s tyres left the grass and reached the hard, flat surface of the path he gained more speed. He could see him clearly now, the age was right, the clothing, he was wearing sunglasses, all fitted the description apart from the hair, which wasn’t spiked. So what? It was him and he would cut him off in a minute. How did you make this damn thing go faster? Impatiently he pushed at the gear lever: the gears crunched, the chain raced and became slack. The bicycle rolled to a stop — the chain had come off. McLusky told the square what he thought about it: ‘Crap!’ Then he got off and started wheeling the bike back. The skater was still gliding along the perimeter. He lost sight of him on the other side. The man’s description had been circulated internally, though no one had been told what he was wanted for. ‘In connection with a serious incident’ was the euphemism. Why hadn’t that dopey hobby bobby spotted him then? He wheeled the bike across the grass and back under the trees. No sign of the support officer. This hadn’t turned out to be the stroll he had had in mind.

‘Sir!’ He turned around to the voice behind him. It was Botts. And behind Botts, blissfully unaware, approached the skateboarder, doing a showy slalom around the promenading people.

McLusky pointed. ‘Botts, stop that skateboarder!’

The officer turned around, walked into the man’s path and opened his arms wide. ‘Stop, police!’ The skateboarder careered past him with an easy manoeuvre and turned the speed up, looking panicked across his shoulder at the officer.

‘Not like that, Botts.’ McLusky picked up the bicycle and threw it at the skateboarder just as he whizzed past him. It hit him at waist height and sent him sprawling on to the tarmac. ‘Like that!’

Botts trotted up. ‘Sir, my bicycle.’

The skateboarder groaned as he disentangled himself. He remained sitting on the ground, massaged a wrist and bellowed at his assailant: ‘You fucking maniac!’

McLusky held out his ID for him. ‘The nice officer asked you nicely. I’m not so nice, of course.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Motorized skateboards — not allowed in the park.’

‘You can’t be serious. I could have cracked my skull open.’

‘Yeah, that’s another thing. No helmet, so I thought I’d have a word.’

‘You’re nuts. I’m going to sue you for assault. I’ll have you investigated and thrown off the force.’

Botts went to help him up. ‘Calm down. What’s your name, sir?’

‘I’m going to sue him for endangering my life — ’

‘Up you get.’

‘I don’t need any fucking help. I can’t believe this.’

McLusky briefly wondered how his method of stopping skateboarders might go down with the super. Not so well if he had got the wrong man, perhaps. ‘Actually, you might be an important witness. Tell us your name.’

‘It’s John. Witness to what?’

‘Any other names?’

‘John Kerswill.’

The name rang a distant bell. Ah, yes. ‘You wouldn’t be in any way related to Joel Kerswill?’

‘What if I am?’

‘Well?’

‘He happens to be my son.’

‘Visited him lately?’

An hour later McLusky still kept up the pressure on John Kerswill in interview room 2. ‘You were seen near the Knowle West bomb, shortly before a man died in his car there.’

‘I told you I live near there now. I must have been just testing it out, I don’t often ride in the street, only when I’ve been working on the engine. The new electric board needs no work at all, of course.’

Austin couldn’t contain himself. ‘We’re very happy for you.’

McLusky impatiently flicked at a file of photographs containing pictures of the bomb victims. ‘Come on, Kerswill, the jury is never going to believe that, it’s too much of a coincidence. You just happened to be right there on Brandon Hill moments before the bomb went off, too? And you skated right past your own son.’

‘I didn’t know that, did I? I didn’t see him. It really was coincidence. Stuff like that happens all the time.’

‘Are you telling me you didn’t recognize your own son?’

‘I didn’t really look, did I? I was skating. People just sort of become obstacles, you don’t look at what they look like, really, you’re busy skating.’

Austin nodded knowingly. ‘People become obstacles. Of course with bombs going off in parks you might have fewer obstacles to avoid.’

‘When the bomb went off, where were you? How far away?’

‘Already at the bottom of the hill. Nearly. Close to the exit.’

‘Did you go back?’

‘Yeah. A bit. But not close.’

‘Why not?’

Kerswill took a sip of polystyrene tea. He stared at the grey liquid left in the cup and shrugged. ‘I’ve been sort of avoiding things. I thought people might be after me.’

‘For …?’

‘Child Support. They do go after people.’

‘The story of your son’s injuries was plastered all over the front page. Did you visit him in hospital?’

‘I couldn’t, could I? And it said he’d only been lightly injured.’

‘Well, I myself did visit your son in hospital. And I met your wife. She wanted me to pass on a message in case I ever ran into you.’

Kerswill looked up. ‘Yeah?’

‘You don’t want it, son.’ The ‘son’ had just slipped out. The man was older than McLusky yet he dressed like a teenager and ran around on a skateboard. In broad daylight.

Kerswill looked contrite. After a long silence he spoke slowly, eyes unfocused. ‘I suppose you would call it a mid-life crisis.’ A slow shrug. ‘We were married for what seemed like forever. I just thought I saw my life slipping away, work, home, work, home, the wife at me all the time about money, nothing but work … I mean, they get taken care of when there’s no one there earning, it’s not like they’re starving and I never meant it to be forever. I hadn’t planned it, either. I just flipped one day, took the van and left. I didn’t even take much of my stuff, I was going to go back, only I really needed to get away for a while.’

‘But going back got harder.’

Kerswill brightened up. ‘Yeah, that’s right. The longer I’d been away the more I couldn’t imagine going back. I knew it was selfish but with every day it got even more selfish. I mean, I felt much freer again doing just enough decorating work to keep me going. I could do what I wanted.’

‘Riding a skateboard.’

‘Not just that, but yeah. A powered skateboard is … it’s like magic, it transforms things.’

‘Your own son didn’t recognize you, so I expect you have been transformed, Mr Kerswill.’

‘Well, I had the hair spiked and all that … It said in the papers he’d been to an interview for an apprenticeship when the bomb went off. I wonder if he got it.’

‘I strongly suggest, Mr Kerswill, that you call him and ask.’

Where was the camera? She couldn’t go to Barcelona without a camera. Rebecca toured the flat again, finding yet more of her things to throw into the holdall or stuff into a bin-liner. Five days in Barcelona, what would she need? It was a college trip and they’d be traipsing through museums, Picasso, Miro, Gaudi. Didn’t he fall out of a tram and die? She subjected the clothes she picked up from the floor to a sniff test and dispatched them into holdall or bin-liner respectively. She’d find somewhere else to live when she got back. Liam was all right but he was a bit old, over thirty. There was no way she could introduce him to any of her art school friends, that would really freak them out. A policeman, he would never fit in there. Especially since he was so down on drugs too, any kind of drugs. She couldn’t make him see that there was a difference between hard drugs and, let’s say, a bit of E. He wouldn’t even let her smoke one piddly joint in the house. It got really boring and there was no telly. Why would anyone want to live like that?

Sketchbook, drawing stuff, she’d need that, had packed it, but she wouldn’t go without the camera, the one on her mobile was rubbish. Well, she’d looked everywhere twice, there was only one place where it could be now, and that was Liam’s manky old Polo. She vaguely remembered having it last time he’d given her a lift, perhaps it fell out of her bag. He’d gone to work this morning with DS Austin in his nifty Nissan, why didn’t he get a car like that? They were cute. So she’d go and check, the old wreck was always parked round the corner. The car keys were nowhere to be seen but he never locked the thing, probably hoping it might get nicked but she doubted even a joyrider would go near it.

It was a shame it couldn’t work out because she really liked Liam, he was quite funny and really kind but he totally cramped her style. It made her feel like she was living in two different worlds, living a double life almost, with college friends in one and Liam in the other. She couldn’t really tell him what she got up to with her mates, he wouldn’t approve, and she couldn’t take him with her. He was always busy and on call anyway and liable to be dragged out of bed at unholy hours like this morning. Bed, now that was the one thing she would really miss him for. He was so different from the other guys she had slept with so far, a lot gentler. And a lot rougher, too. Liam always had that puzzled look when he woke up next to her and then he’d break into a smile as though he’d just been given a present. Every time. She’d miss that. She’d probably miss that most.

Halfway up the next street there was the car, with a brick behind the offside rear wheel since the handbrake was as dodgy as the rest of the thing. Some old cars were quite cool but this one was just embarrassing. Rebecca opened the hatchback door. Impatiently she rifled through the empty plastic bags and rubbish — nothing. She opened the passenger door and looked in the footwell then searched the glove box — nothing. There was a letter on the passenger seat. She picked it up. It just said Inspector McLusky on the envelope and no stamp or anything, someone must have dropped it in the car, someone who knew it would be unlocked or they’d have stuck it under the windscreen wipers. Probably someone wanting him to park his eyesore somewhere else. Well, damn, no camera. Where the hell was it, then? She pocketed the letter and slammed the passenger door shut with all the force of her frustration.

Like a biblical column of fire a gas-blue flame rose from the centre of the driver’s seat, reaching up to the roof with a fierce hiss. Seconds later flames and smoke spread out and began to engulf the entire interior. Now all she could see was a dull red glow at the centre of the blackness, filling the car like an evil eye. Incredulous and transfixed by the spectacle, she forced herself to move backwards away from the car, just as the first window blew out.

The further the interview had progressed the clearer it had become that John Kerswill simply didn’t fit the bill. He was far too busy reclaiming his lost boyhood to litter the city with explosives. McLusky hadn’t had much time or inclination to think about the effect the bombs were having on the rest of the city. In sharp contrast Superintendent Denkhaus, in whose office he found himself after releasing Kerswill, had been only too aware, having had to field urgent questions from the press, business leaders and the Assistant Chief Constable.

‘It’s the randomness of the attacks, McLusky, that scares people. I’m told hotel and B amp;B bookings are down by forty per cent. Businesses are hurting. Even if we apprehended the culprit today the damage is already done, people are going elsewhere. And it’s not just the tourist industry that’s suffering, I mean some people have taken their kids out of school.’ Denkhaus stood and turned his back on McLusky while he took in the panoramic view his large window afforded him. Policing had ramifications well beyond crime prevention and detection: it influenced economics and politics and was in turn influenced by politics and dictated to by economics. It was as well if young DIs understood that. He was under constant pressure, not just from the ACC but from the mayor’s office and representatives of the business community. ‘Our citizens don’t feel safe any more, small retailers report a drop in sales. Pubs and clubs get fewer people through their doors. People shop at the supermarkets and spend more time indoors. More worrying still, two major conferences have been moved to other cities and the organizers of the half-marathon are thinking of postponing until the autumn, and the kite festival was nearly cancelled.’

‘Kite festival nearly cancelled?’

Denkhaus turned to face the young DI. He couldn’t remember, did he have children? Not that it mattered. ‘Yes, so you see how far-reaching and unexpected the consequences of these attacks are. It simply can’t be allowed to continue. A valuable yacht was destroyed in this latest outrage. People will seek mooring for their expensive boats elsewhere. If that happens then the plans for the harbourside development could be jeopardized. The development depends entirely on investors having complete confidence that our city is the right place to be.’ Denkhaus quoted almost verbatim from the tirade he had endured from the ACC earlier that day.

McLusky nodded distractedly. ‘Indeed, sir.’ Kite festival, now why did that ring a bell? The bell it rang had an uncomfortable sound. It conjured up a nagging, like a thing he’d forgotten to do, like an unposted letter. He would look in his notes …

‘I presume DI Fairfield’s success didn’t escape your notice? We finally got the Mobile Muggers off the streets …’

‘Quite literally, too.’

‘Yes, quite.’ Denkhaus allowed himself a smile. ‘It was pure good fortune that DS Sorbie happened to be there on his day off. And he reacted professionally and bravely. Even saved the life of one of them. Jumped after him into the river and dragged him to safety. The other one either drowned or got away. And practically at the same time Fairfield got an anonymous tip-off and was able to catch Mitchell, a notorious fence, red-handed as he was bringing the rest of the gang to his lock-up. We were there ready and waiting. Intelligence-led policing, McLusky. The man was actually running the gang, even supplying them with the scooters. So you can see, persistence and hard work pay off. It certainly didn’t do Fairfield and Sorbie’s clear-up rates any harm. You on the other hand appear to be — ’ There was a loud knock. ‘Yes, what is it?’

Lynn Tiery appeared in the door, frowning at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Sorry to interrupt. There’s an urgent message for DI McLusky, concerning his car.’

Denkhaus insisted on driving them there, despite McLusky’s protests. The superintendent’s lecture continued on the tortuous drive across town but drifted at last into reminiscences, how he himself had risen through the ranks, starting as a beat officer in a small West Country town, grasping every opportunity, applying himself, not bucking the system. And here he was, ambitions fulfilled. He had no desire to rise any higher, not wanting to lose touch with real, frontline policing.

The street was blocked with police, fire engines and a fire investigator’s car. They abandoned the Land Rover in the middle of the road and walked up without speaking. Accident, vandalism or the bomber, all depended on the verdict of the fire investigators.

They showed their IDs and approached what was left of the Polo, a blackened evil-smelling shell. A sulking Rebecca was there, being shadowed by a PC. She pounced on McLusky. ‘You took your time getting here, they’re treating me as though I set fire to the damn thing. It just caught fire, I swear, I just slammed the door and whoosh, up it went. I was just looking for my camera.’

McLusky calmed her down and sent the PC on her way. Almost immediately a fire investigator confirmed their suspicions. ‘A small device wired into the springs of the driver’s seat. Nasty. Had you sat in it you’d have been in trouble. There was no explosion, it was an incendiary device, probably a mixture of accelerant like petrol, some flammable adhesive perhaps, magnesium, some kind of trigger.’

‘Shit, I nearly sat in it! Ouch!’ Rebecca’s hand made an involuntary move to her behind.

Ignoring her, Denkhaus raised an impatient eyebrow at McLusky. ‘Who’s the young lady? How did she come to search your car?’

‘Ehm, she’s staying at my — ’

‘I’m his girlfriend.’ Was his girlfriend. Definitely was. He had the same problem she did, obviously, he had practically disowned her there and then. ‘And the coach to the airport goes in less than an hour from college. Can I go now?’

Denkhaus turned away to talk to the leading fire officer about the safe removal of the car.

‘I gotta go, Liam. Oh, here, nearly forgot.’ She pulled the letter from her pocket. ‘Sorry, bit crumpled. Found it on the driver’s seat.’

Same typeface, same envelope. McLusky folded it nonchalantly into a jacket pocket. ‘When are you back?’

‘Seven days.’ It was only five but she gave herself a couple of days in hand, time to think, make a final decision. ‘Can’t remember what time the plane lands, I’ll call your mobile.’ She kissed him hard on the mouth but disengaged herself almost immediately. ‘Don’t want to embarrass you any further. Really gotta go now. Buenos dias.’

‘Ciao bella.’ Or was that Italian? He’d never been much good at languages. He watched Rebecca walk away. She was a kid, really, and she could have been seriously hurt. He would never have forgiven himself. As she reached the street corner he got ready to wave if she looked back but Rebecca walked on without turning.

He slid the letter open and read. Perhaps This will Shut you Up. I have Warned You. Now I will employ My Armies everywhere. Homes and Churches will be safe but Silence will settle on the Parks and Streets of this City. This one he couldn’t possibly keep to himself. ‘Superintendent? Rebecca found this in the car before it went up.’

Denkhaus read. ‘I wonder if he intended you to read this before or after you were incinerated. I’m sorry this investigation has got a bit close to home for you. The man knows where you live, what car you drive. All, no doubt, a result of you talking to Phil Warren. You weren’t all that hard to find once the bomber knew your name. Is there somewhere else you can stay until he is apprehended?’

‘I’ll have a think.’

‘Think fast, McLusky, this guy wants to hurt you.’ He returned his attention to the letter. ‘Mm … I have warned you, what does that mean, I wonder. We hardly need any more warning.’

‘I think what’s significant about the letter is the mention of parks.’

‘He exploded his first device in Brandon Hill …’

‘I think he’s going to target parks again. This kite festival, where is that held?’

‘That’s at Ashton Court.’

‘Well, I think it should be cancelled.’

‘Bit late for that, McLusky, it’s today.’ He checked his watch. ‘Started an hour ago. Do you have any particular reason for thinking the festival could be a target?’

McLusky hesitated. If only he knew why the words ‘kite festival’ reverberated in his mind. ‘No, just … a feeling. The place will be full of children, sir, they’ll pick up anything, no matter what they’ve been told. It’s a golden opportunity for the bomber to spread panic.’

‘And you think on the strength of your … feeling I should order the festival interrupted? Send everyone home and have the whole bloody park searched?’

McLusky held the superintendent’s critical stare for a few seconds before answering. ‘Yes. Yes, I do, sir.’

‘I thought you might say that.’ Denkhaus was already walking away shouting instructions at uniformed police. ‘Constable! Get yourself across to Ashton Court at the double, it needs to be evacuated. You may be the first there but back-up won’t be long.’ The constable made a tentative move towards his car, then stopped and opened his mouth to ask how on earth he was going to evacuate a huge place like Ashton Court but Denkhaus cut across him. ‘Use your initiative, go.’ In his car he gave orders over his airwave radio for several units to converge on the park and to use loudhailers to clear the area. ‘Don’t create a panic, I want an orderly evacuation.’ He turned to McLusky. ‘Let’s go and watch your drama unfold, shall we?’

By the time Denkhaus had threaded the Land Rover through the traffic, across the river and into Ashton Court a thin stream of people were moving towards car parks and the nearest exit. Many were adults with children. Practically all carried one or more kites, large box kites, Chinese dragons, kimono girls, birds, stunt kites. The bright colours of kites and children’s clothing were enhanced by rays of sunshine piercing the grey, threatening cloud that had rolled in again from the west. Many more people were still on the slope where the main event took place, packing up. There were refreshment marquees and trading stands selling everything from kites to crystals. A patrol car drove slowly up the gently curving lane beside the hill using a public address system, telling people to leave the park by the nearest entrance, not to run, not to pick up anything that did not belong to them.

They stood by the Land Rover and watched. McLusky was shocked at the extent of it. ‘I had no idea it was that big.’

‘Spring kite festival. People come from all over the country to show off with stunt kites and what have you. It’s a big deal.’

‘I thought it was just a couple of hundred kids flying their kites. There must be a thousand people here.’ He took out his mobile and started recording the panoramic scene of exodus from the festival site.

‘We usually get two-and-a-half thousand visitors, perhaps fewer this year thanks to our little problem.’

McLusky saw the plume of smoke and the man falling a second before the crack of the explosion reached his ears, like the blast from a large-bore shotgun. People started to converge on the spot halfway up the slope, others hurried their children away. Some waved kites and clothing in the air to attract the attention of the paramedics parked on the road. They didn’t need telling. Having heard the noise they had started their engine and were now already driving on to the grass.

Denkhaus fixed him with an evil stare. ‘McLusky, I hate intuition and hunches and especially hunches that come too late to be of any bloody use. I want to know how you knew!’

McLusky’s mobile told him he had reached the limit of his recording facility. He pocketed it. ‘I didn’t know anything, sir. I don’t even know where I heard about the kite festival before, on the radio perhaps.’ They made their way up the slope, walking fast, following the tracks the ambulance made on the grass. ‘I think we can expect many more devices to go off. He says in his letter something like … can I have it again, sir?’

Denkhaus stopped, glad to catch his breath for a moment, and handed him the note, now protected by a clear evidence bag.

‘Here. Now I will employ my armies. The devices are his soldiers. I think he has a suitcase full of the damn things and he’ll probably dot them all around the city in one go, if he hasn’t already done it. From then on all he has to do is stay at home and watch it all on telly.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Denkhaus took the letter back and stared at it with disgust for a few seconds, then put it away. ‘I know what you’re saying, but you might be wrong there.’

‘How so?’

‘You got us here, didn’t you? You were just not quick enough and you haven’t got a clue why you brought us here. You’re unmethodical, McLusky, that’s your problem. Get yourself organized!’

They had arrived at the site of the explosion. Curious onlookers had formed a tight circle around the paramedics who were tending to a middle-aged man sitting on the grass, a woman and young boy kneeling by his side. Denkhaus waved his ID and bellowed at the civilians. ‘Make your way to the nearest exit unless you’re close relatives of the victim. Get going, this emergency isn’t over. Walk, don’t run, and for God’s sake don’t pick anything up, not even if you find the crown jewels.’

The man doesn’t need a megaphone, McLusky thought. He squatted down by the victim, who drank shakily from a water bottle. ‘How are you feeling, sir? What happened?’

‘I nudged it. It was just back there.’ He nodded his head at the hill behind him.

‘What was?’

‘It was a box of biscuits. I hadn’t seen it before but I thought it might be ours. I had my hands full so I nudged it with the folding chair I was carrying. To see if it was full or empty. It knocked me back off my feet. Completely winded me. Thank God my wife and son had gone ahead.’ The man’s face and hands were peppered with angry red spots where debris from the device had hit him. ‘I mean, I know we were told not to pick anything up but it was instinctive, you know?’

‘Do you remember what kind of biscuits they were?’

‘I don’t know the brand. It had pictures of different sorts on it, what you call it, an assortment.’

McLusky left a sergeant in charge of getting personal details and securing the site and joined Denkhaus who was staring unhappily out across the park and the city beyond.

‘We’ll have to search the entire park again for devices. Possibly all the parks. How many are there, sir?’

‘Too many. We might as well close the entire city. It can’t be done without declaring martial law and imposing a curfew. People will just have to be extra vigilant. I’ll arrange for another press conference but we can’t have people panicking, that’s what the bastard wants to happen.’

‘I get the feeling he wants people to stay quietly at home.’ So he can do what? McLusky had a mental image of a lone skateboarder moving through an empty town on an electric board, unimpeded by people or traffic. John Kerswill’s dream.

‘We don’t have the resources to close and search every park, railway station, bus and public space.’

‘I’m aware of it. We’ve had over five hundred false alarms so far, it seems we’re doing little else but chasing up suspicious packages.’ Each time a car backfired the phone lines got jammed with reports of bomb blasts. People saw bombs everywhere.

The sun disappeared and the first heavy drops of rain began to fall. McLusky cheered up. ‘We did them all a favour closing down the festival, saves them getting soaked. All snug in their cars now.’

Denkhaus grunted and walked off quickly towards his own car. He hated getting wet. ‘You’re in charge. I’ll call a press conference.’

McLusky stood on the knoll as the heavens opened. By the time Forensics turned up every officer in the park was soaked to the skin.