Falling More Slowly

Chapter Fifteen

‘I still can’t get over how quickly you made up your mind. It would have taken me days of thinking about it. And you didn’t even test drive it.’

‘I’ve driven one before.’

Austin had given him a lift to the dealership. After spending half an hour looking at nothing but black cars he had turned around, pointed at an olive green Mazda 323 with excessive mileage and a thirsty engine and bought it.

‘It’s a kind of elimination process. If I look long enough at the wrong stuff then I suddenly find the right stuff.’

‘Does that work with suspects?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Shame.’ Austin rubbed a smoothing hand over the letter on the table to deflate the air bubbles in the evidence bag that protected the paper. He read out loud for the second time. ‘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.’

‘I know it by heart, Jane, there’s nothing there, no hidden clues. Photocopy it and get it off to Forensics. Even they should know it’s urgent by now though I expect them to find nothing.’

McLusky drove to Trinity Road, the central police station in St Phillips. At Technical Support he clicked the memory card from his mobile and handed it to a young suntanned technician. ‘See if you can do something with this. I shot some video at the kite festival just as the bomb went off. It’ll be crap quality — do you think you can sharpen it up somehow and stick it on a disk for us?’

‘Yeah, no sweat, we do that all the time. I’ll have a go at it now if you want to wait. Not got him yet, then?’

It was a rhetorical question and McLusky treated it as such. In turn he didn’t ask any questions beginning with ‘How on earth …’ about imaging technology and video enhancing. To him it was pure witchcraft. How you could take a rubbish image and turn it into a clear one was beyond his comprehension. Surely if something wasn’t there it wasn’t there?

But apparently not; in less than twenty minutes the technician was back, handing him his card and a CD in a hard protective case. ‘See how you get on with that. Hope you catch him soon.’

Back in his own office, still cramped with several TV monitors, he slipped the disk into his computer and settled down to watch with a mug of instant coffee and a custard Danish. There was only three minutes of footage. What Technical Support hadn’t managed to fix was the jerkiness of the camera movement. Off screen a tin-voiced superintendent spoke of the kite festival’s popularity. Then the sudden movement of the man falling backwards and the small plume of smoke blowing on the wind. People reacted by moving either away or towards the locus of the incident. Except …

Except one man. An elderly man carrying what looked like a canvas satchel on a strap across his chest and wheeling an electric bicycle. He looked up towards the victim, nodded — clearly nodded — and kept going. He was in shot for no more than four seconds but at least McLusky had been holding the mobile more or less still at the time. Old boy on bicycle. Another old boy on a bicycle. He remembered the man cycling away from the site of the burnt yacht Eleni. Had it also been an electric one? He couldn’t remember. There had to be thousands of men over sixty riding bicycles in this city, electric or otherwise.

He dug about on his already cluttered desk and found the disks Technical Support had produced from the SD cards Austin had commandeered on Brandon Hill after the first explosion. Some contained video footage and pictures taken before the explosion as well as after the incident. It didn’t take him long. There he was once more in a still photograph, obviously taken before the explosion. The camera was focused on the group in the centre, three middle-aged women posing in front of a bed of red and white flowers in the park. On the tarmac path behind he once more wheeled a bicycle, same man, same bicycle, same satchel. While zooming in on his target with clicks of the mouse he dialled the CID room number but before he got an answer there came a knock on his door. It was DC Dearlove with a sheaf of reports.

‘Dearlove, where is DS Austin?’

‘Ehm, haven’t seen him.’

He hung up. ‘Look at this man, Dearlove.’ He swivelled the monitor for him. ‘I think this might be our man.’

‘The wrinkly with the bike?’

The phone rang. ‘Hang on.’ He snatched up the receiver. ‘McLusky.’

‘Inspector McLusky, it’s Dr Thompson. At the Burns Unit, Southmead. We spoke in connection with a patient of mine, Ms Bendick.’

‘Oh yes, how is Ms Bendick?’

‘Recovering, though she will require extensive surgery. But that’s not what I’m calling about.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Well, it’s a bit tricky for me. It would mean breaking patient confidentiality and puts me in an awkward position.’

‘Look, doc, if you’re calling me then you’ve already made up your mind to tell me so why don’t you just go ahead and do it because I’m a bit busy right now.’

‘Okay, sorry, I’ll get to the point. I treated a patient in A amp;E the night before last. For burns to his right hand. These burns and the damage to his skin were quite severe in some places and will need aftercare but the point is he told me he had burned his hand at a barbecue. I’ve treated burns for eight years now and those injuries were not consistent with burning yourself on a barbecue. I have seen injuries like these before and they were invariably caused by fireworks going off in people’s hands. Naturally I thought of all those devices going off. The man may just be an innocent victim, I want you to bear that in mind.’

‘You were right to call me. You haven’t still got him there, then?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Do you have his name?’

‘He didn’t want to give his name. Then later he said his name was Dave. But one of the nurses recognized him from a previous injury he presented involving some barbed wire and she thought his surname was Daws.’

‘Daws! Around twenty-eight years of age?’

‘About that, yes.’

‘Doctor, you did the right thing when you called me. I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, if he shows his face for some more treatment you must call. Not just me, dial 999 and try and keep him there for as long as you can. I’ve gotta go now, thanks, doctor.’

For a few seconds he remained standing at his desk, staring at the image on the screen, then grabbed his jacket and keys. Old boy or Daws, what did it matter? He wasn’t precious about his hunches. ‘Dearlove, get this image printed out and distributed and put it up on the board in the incident room. I want that man found.’

‘Okay. Where will you be, sir?’

‘I’m going to check something out. Tell Austin to get in touch with me when you see him.’ He walked down the corridor, then fell into a trot. Daws, Timothy Daws. They had never followed that up.

As he unlocked his car in his new reserved parking space he was hailed from the far end of the car park.

‘DI McLusky, sir?’

He recognized the grey-haired officer from Traffic. ‘What can I do for you, sergeant?’

‘Not sure I should show my face here. I owe you an apology for leaving the mud sample in your lobby without telling anyone but I was in a hurry as usual. And I want to thank you for delivering the perpetrator as well. That was well beyond the call of duty, sir.’

‘No problem, though I’ve had mud-jokes up to here.’ He indicated a line below his chin. ‘But while you’re here, there’s something that’s been bugging me. Was it you who mentioned the kite festival to me?’

‘Might have done. I think we were talking about the gridlock situation we had last year. The traffic from the kite festival was definitely a contributing factor.’

‘Remind me what else went on.’

‘A tourist bus broke down …’

‘One of those Citytours things?’

‘I don’t remember what company. There was also a running fight between drunks and an abnormally wide load came in off the motorway from Wales.’

‘What kind of abnormal load?’

‘A boat, sir. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Big thing, they delivered it to the docks here. I didn’t see it myself.’

‘Why would a boat come by road rather than sea?’

‘Not seaworthy?’

The Eleni had come overland from Cardiff, he was pretty sure that’s what the owner had said. ‘Bloody hell. Didn’t you also say emergency services couldn’t get through? Thanks, sergeant, I think we might be quits.’

Sitting in his car he dialled Austin’s mobile. It was answered instantly. ‘Jane, it’s Liam. I’m in the car park about to pay Daws a visit.’

‘You want me to come down?’

‘No. I want you to check something urgently. Last year, I’m not sure of the date, you had virtual gridlock here one day.’

‘Nothing virtual about it — ’

‘I want you to check the logs for all emergency calls for that day. Find any that had a long delay in being responded to. I think that’s where our man’s grievance might originate. Get back to me as soon as. I’m following up on Daws. Apparently he presented with a burnt paw at A amp;E.’

Timothy bloody Daws. Damn. Why hadn’t he followed that up ages ago? Because he didn’t fit the bill, that’s why. A cheat and petty criminal of his age certainly had the potential to graduate to the big stuff, especially if he was sent to prison for any length of time, but a sustained campaign of terrorizing citizens with bombs surely was too long a jump?

Yet the boy he had living at his house had definitely been nervous about something, he thought, as he parked the Mazda out of sight of Daws’ front door. He shouldn’t be doing this by himself, really needed someone to cover the back of the house. Better check the back of the house first.

As soon as he rounded the corner McLusky began to feel uncomfortable, though he couldn’t explain why. He hesitated at the entrance to the alley that ran along the rear of the fenced-off back gardens. Why should he suddenly feel spooked in the middle of the afternoon? Mentally shaking himself free of the strange feeling he nevertheless advanced cautiously to the locked back door of Daws’ desolate little garden. He pulled himself up, peered across and dropped back instantly. Someone was in the kitchen, just behind the window, and it didn’t look like the young kid. He walked back to the glass-strewn entrance of the alley. What was the rush? Better call for back-up.

As he reached inside his jacket for his phone he was grabbed by two men and slammed against the fence, face first. ‘Police, don’t move, don’t speak!’ Suddenly the place was busy. In the corner of his eye he saw uniformed officers in body armour troop past up the alley. Seconds later he heard the splintering of wood and the familiar shouts. ‘Police! Show yourselves! Police, come out, keep your hands where we can see them!’

The two officers released their grip and swivelled McLusky around. Both were in their twenties, had shaved heads and weighed fifteen stone plus. ‘Who are you, what are you doing here?’

‘Detective Inspector McLusky.’ He showed his ID.

‘Ah. Sorry, sir. Bad timing. Drug squad raid. What were you doing here?’

‘Is it Daws you’re hoping to find in there?’

‘That’s who we should be finding there. And quite possibly a cannabis factory. Helicopter chased some kids around here a few days back, using infrared. Apart from the kids the infra showed up a huge heat signature for the roof of this house. Now unless he’s converted his entire loft into a sauna that usually means it’s full of heat lamps for growing pot.’ A message over the radio soon confirmed it. ‘Two in custody. Tropical gardens upstairs, wall to wall cannabis plants.’

McLusky nodded grimly. No wonder the kid had been nervous. ‘Ask him if one of his prisoners answers to the name of Daws and if he has a bandaged hand.’

The answer came back instantly. ‘Affirmative.’

‘Gentlemen, I need to ask Daws a few questions and I need to ask them quickly.’

‘Whatever he tells you he remains our prisoner.’

‘First come first served, naturally.’

Daws was still in the kitchen cuffed by his left hand to a huge officer. Innis Cole, his young apprentice, sat bewildered and close to tears on a kitchen chair. The place was busy with officers. The front door had been knocked at the same time as the officers had entered the garden. McLusky showed his ID to Daws who tried to look bored, though fear had widened his eyes. ‘Timothy Daws, I presume. That’s entirely the wrong type of gardening you’ve been doing up there.’

Daws didn’t meet his eyes but looked out through the window at the shed which was being searched. ‘Just a few plants for private consumption.’

‘I doubt the judge will see it like that. Even what’s in that shed will be enough for a custodial sentence. But then I’m not really interested in your shed or your attic. Or your driving offences or your benefit fraud for that matter, though it all makes a tidy bundle for the CPS. I’m interested in this.’ McLusky grabbed the prisoner’s free arm and lifted his bandaged hand chest high. ‘Where did you hurt yourself?’

Daws tried unsuccessfully to pull from the grasp. ‘Burnt myself on the car engine.’

‘I thought it was a barbecue. Try again, Mr Daws.’ He turned to the officer in charge. ‘Has he been arrested yet?’

‘For drugs offences, intent to supply etc.’

‘Marvellous.’ He turned back to Daws. ‘You got that injury when something unexpectedly blew up in or near your hand. I think you’re involved with the spate of bombings in the city. I think we can safely add murder to the list.’

Daws met his eyes with an unbelieving stare. ‘Nah, rubbish, that’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Who has it to do with?’

‘How the fuck would I know, I had nothing to do with that shit.’

‘Who has, Daws?’

‘I don’t know his name, do I?’

‘But you know where? Because you, Mr Daws, during your recent spree of burglaries, got a painful surprise somewhere.’

Daws clamped his mouth shut and stared out of the window.

‘Daws, if you think it would incriminate you then I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll be nothing compared to withholding evidence in a terrorism case. If one more person dies because you didn’t tell us, we’re going to add manslaughter to your charge sheet. I’ll see to it personally.’

Daws appeared to be thinking it over but his shoulders had already sagged. ‘Nelson Close, one of the old prefabs.’

‘Which one?’

‘At the end. The last one before the field. But it was an empty one, boarded up, no one lives there, so it wasn’t even really breaking in or anything. Only I’d seen someone go in and out the back the day before so I thought I’d check it out. It had some kind of workshop in there. There was an MP3 player on the workbench. It blew up in my fucking hand. I got the hell out of there and down to A amp;E.’

‘It didn’t occur to you to let us know what you had stumbled upon there?’

Daws shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly my style, is it?’

The incident room was empty. DC Dearlove had enlarged the photograph of the old boy with the bicycle to A4 size and printed several copies, one of which he now pinned up on the board opposite the row of photos of the bomb victims, all thankfully taken before the explosions. The girl was the most upsetting, he thought, although the gym woman had been quite a looker too. It wasn’t really fair, of course. The better looking you were the more sympathy you got. He had noticed that long ago. If you were ugly and covered in spots and had thin hair nobody really cared.

Where was everybody? Further down the corridor in the CID room he found only DC French listening to someone on the phone while demolishing a packet of Jaffa Cakes and ignoring him, both as per usual. Through the open door he spotted DS Sorbie in the corridor, moving past in a curious slow motion. When he called after him he only got a feeble wave in return. He drew level with him by the stairs. ‘Are you okay, sir?’ The DS certainly didn’t look it. His skin was glistening and he seemed to have shrunk into his suit.

‘No, I’m not, thanks for asking. I’ve been throwing up merrily and worse and I feel shite. Drank too much river water the other day. I’m out of here.’ Or it could have been the celebrations of course. Should have taken a couple of days off like Fairfield.

‘It’s only that DI McLusky asked me to disseminate this picture.’ He held out a copy to him. ‘He thinks this might be him. The bomber.’

‘Oh yeah? About time. Hang on. I’ve seen him before, I’m sure of it.’ And he hadn’t been feeling too clever that day either. ‘He’s that grumpy bastard at Nelson Close, in those prefabs.’ A new wave of nausea was gathering just above his navel. You’d have thought all that alcohol would have killed any bugs he might have swallowed with the river water but apparently not.

‘You wouldn’t have a name, would you?’

‘For him? No. Last but one of the bungalows before the demolished brickworks.’ He was feeling hot, sweat pricked his skin. ‘Go get him, Deedee. Cover yourself in glory. Before I cover you in puke.’

Dearlove watched the DS turn away and shuffle back down the corridor towards the toilets like a very old man. ‘Right. Okay.’ Well, he would certainly have a look at him. One old dear he could deal with. And then if he found anything suspicious he would call it in, of course.

DS Austin was in the process of dialling the inspector’s number when McLusky stuck his head into the incident room. ‘Jane, what have you got?’

Austin consulted a sheet of notes. ‘Well, there was a flood of calls as you’d expect on a day like that, most of them what you’d call nuisance calls, about being stuck in traffic and when the hell were they going to do something about it. But there were some serious calls. Two women in labour, for a start. They got attended by local midwives and a doctor legging it round there. But I just found this. The name is Cooke. The wife took an overdose and her husband found her and called for an ambulance. He called six times. When they eventually got her to the Royal Infirmary it was too late. She died later of liver failure.’

‘And he lives in a prefab?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Because he’s our man, Jane. Let’s go, let’s go.’

A thin, half-hearted rain began to fall as McLusky drove across town in his usual style, though he did refrain from using the pavements. Austin found he had to give fewer directions now; the inspector was getting to know the city.

‘I think he always tried to watch, that was his mistake. He was certainly there when the bombs in the park went off. And I do think he was at the docks that morning looking at the aftermath of the firebomb on the Eleni. He enjoys the fruits of his work a bit too much.’

‘It all makes hideous sense. He blames whatever caused the gridlock and takes his revenge.’

McLusky grunted with disgust and swerved to avoid a child struggling on a tiny bicycle into the middle of the road. ‘Only it’s gone far beyond that. He hates everyone, he hates the city. He wants us all to stay at home and be quiet. So he can grieve in peace.’

‘If he was hoping to scare people into staying at home then he should have known better. Especially if he is the old boy in this picture.’ Austin patted the photocopy on the dashboard. ‘Even the blitz didn’t make people stay at home.’

‘I think it soon stopped being about getting a result and became all about doing it, hurting people. You hurt me — now I’ll hurt you back.’

‘We’re nearly there. What kind of back-up have we got?’

McLusky checked the clock on the dashboard. ‘Firearms unit will meet us in forty minutes. Just here actually.’ He slowed down. They had arrived at the turn-off to the close. A clump of trees, untidy shrubs and a substation obscured the view of the prefabs from the main road. ‘It was the best place I could think of, not knowing the area too well. We’ll send some of the boys across the other side through the demolished brickworks. But that’s all academic until we know that the bastard’s at home.’

‘Do you think he’ll be armed?’

‘Hard to say. But we know he doesn’t mind killing or maiming so he might not come quietly.’ He turned the car down the narrow potholed road into Nelson Close and stopped by the first bungalow. ‘This is number one, unsurprisingly, what number is he?’

‘Last but one with the back to the service road, number thirty-five. Right at the back.’

Standing in the rain they surveyed the area. The bungalows were arranged in a rigid grid, with wide concrete paths between front and back gardens. Every two bungalows shared an area of perished concrete hard standing, most of which gave room to bins, rusting white goods, old paint tins and broken furniture. While all the bungalows looked identical — hunched, asbestos-grey shapes with moss-covered roofs — it was the gardens that had once given them their individuality. Waist-high weeds surrounded most of the boarded-up prefabs but some still showed signs of cultivation. There were only a few small cars visible in the close, parked in front of neatly kept houses. An old two-stroke disability vehicle rusted in front of a bungalow where the front garden had been concreted over.

Austin let out a long breath through puffed-up cheeks. ‘Tumbleweed alert. The close that time forgot.’

As the sky darkened a light came on behind the small net-curtained window of number three.

‘We’ll try this one, have a chat, find out if anyone’s seen him today.’

‘I bet people round here know everything about everybody.’

‘You’d have thought so. Yet obviously not everything.’

‘Got a point there.’ Austin pressed the tiny electric bell button in the centre of number three’s front door.

A woman in her late fifties opened it as far as the chain allowed. McLusky showed his ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector McLusky from CID. With me is Detective Sergeant Austin. Could we have a word? Won’t keep you long.’

‘What is it now?’ The door closed to allow for the removal of the chain, then opened wider.

‘May we come in?’

‘Make sure you wipe your feet. What is it you wanted?’ The woman stood in the tiny carpeted hall, allowing them just enough space to come in out of the rain.

‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. May I ask your name?’

‘I’m Mrs Woodley. Joan Woodley.’

‘Mrs Woodley, we would like to ask you about Mr Cooke. He lives in number thirty-five, I believe. Do you know him at all?’

‘Yes, poor Mr Cooke, well, of course we know of him.’

‘He lost his wife.’

She shook her head at his ignorance. ‘And his daughter. Both dead within two years. He lost everything really. His house, business, family.’

‘His daughter too? I didn’t know that. And his business? How …?’

‘Yes, well, he used to have that electrical repair shop in the old town, I remember Frank getting our radio repaired there once, years and years ago now. But people don’t have things repaired any more, do they? They just buy new things now, and then perhaps Mr Cooke didn’t know how to repair all the new technology and that anyway. The business folded and then he lost the house too, they lived over the shop and he had remortgaged it to prop up the business.’

‘His daughter, how did she die?’

‘Jenny? She was run over. Well, squashed by a reversing lorry against a house. That’s what sent Barbara, Mrs Cooke, over the edge, I’m sure of it. They’d just lost the house and all and had moved here.’

The hall was so narrow Austin had to speak over McLusky’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Woodley, does Mr Cooke have an electric bicycle?’

‘That’s exactly what the other policeman asked. Yes, he does all his shopping on it. What’s so important about it? Did he break the speed — ’

McLusky interrupted. ‘Other policeman, Mrs Woodley? When was that?’

‘Today, earlier. Can’t be more than an hour ago. Actually he looked too young to be a policeman, but you know what they say about policemen looking younger.’

McLusky fleshed out the picture for her. ‘Thin hair, bad skin, terrible suit?’

She rewarded him with a broad smile. ‘You describe him very well.’

Austin was already outside. McLusky thanked Mrs Woodley and urgently followed. ‘Right, Jane, let’s go check it out. That could only be Dearlove, what the hell does he think he’s doing?’ They walked fast towards the other end of the close. The further they came the more boarded-up prefabs they saw.

‘Deedee’s not the shiniest tool in the box.’

‘He’ll be the dullest bobby on the beat if he’s spooked Cooke. Right.’ He counted off the house numbers. ‘There’s his house, let’s walk along the hedge out of sight.’

McLusky stalked along the fence among heaps of builder’s rubble, some of which looked like dumped asbestos — he was glad it was still raining. Number thirty-five was entirely surrounded by uninhabited and partly derelict houses. It was a dark and desolate corner of the close, richly overgrown.

Austin nudged his boss. ‘Look in there.’

McLusky followed the direction Austin indicated, into the wilderness of number thirty-four’s garden. A car had been parked in here, then covered with bits of tarpaulin and partially surrounded with corrugated iron and chipboard.

‘That’s Deedee’s little Ford.’

‘You sure?’

Austin pulled more of the camouflage away and nodded. ‘It’s his.’

‘Shit. Okay, we’ll go in now.’

‘Aren’t we waiting for the firearms unit?’

‘He didn’t park it like that himself. If he’s no longer in control of his car then he’s in trouble. Sod the firearms unit, they’re twenty minutes away.’ He keyed his airwave radio. ‘Alpha Nine to Control request immediate back-up my position Nelson Close number thirty-five one officer down ambulance required immediate officers McLusky and Austin attending over.’ As soon as Control acknowledged he put the radio down and took his mobile out. ‘Switch your mobile to vibrate.’

Austin did so, squinting into the thin drizzle. ‘It’s very quiet at this end away from the road.’

‘Not for long. He’s got net curtains on every window and the glass in the door. Probably the same at the back. He’ll see us coming if he’s in there. There’s no time for subtlety. You take the back door, I’ll take the front. Go, and move fast. If you hear me smashing through do the same at the back, otherwise wait.’

There was no possibility of approaching by stealth. They moved in quick strides past the front of the derelict house neighbouring Cooke’s, then split up, Austin putting on a spurt to get to the back door. If Cooke was in there he must have noticed the movement. McLusky didn’t hesitate: he turned the door handle, ready to break the half-glazed door down if it was locked. It wasn’t. He opened it and moved quietly inside, listening. A narrow hall, identical in proportions to the first one they had visited. Cabbagey cooking smells mixed with the lemon scent of furniture polish. A half-open door to the left led into a small, sparsely furnished sitting room; two-seater sofa, half of it taken up with piles of newsprint. A closed door to the right; he threw it open. A double bedroom, neatly made bed. Quickly on to the next closed door — a tiny bedroom, green carpet, empty apart from a silver electric bicycle leaning against the wall, connected to a charger on the floor. McLusky stepped through the final half-open door into the small kitchen. Behind the net-curtained half-glazed back door stood Austin, waiting patiently for a sign from his boss. McLusky stepped towards the door to open it for him, reaching out towards the handle. Below it a black round metal container, fixed to the door by an iron bracket, looked out of place. He withdrew his hand sharply and opened the tiny window above the sink instead. ‘Step away from the door, Jane, it’s booby-trapped. He’s not in here.’

They met up by the front door. ‘Was the booby trap meant for us?’

‘Hard to say. Perhaps it’s a burglar trap. No sign of Deedee or of a struggle. The door was unlocked and his electric bike is in there. He’s in his workshop in one of these derelict houses.’

‘Yes, but there’s scores of them. Which one is it?’

McLusky pointed. ‘It’s that one.’ Cooke had appeared from around the back of the last bungalow, whose garden backed on to the towpath. As he saw them he stopped in his tracks, then turned quickly back around the corner.

‘Stop, police!’ McLusky was running already. Austin sprinted around the front in case Cooke tried to escape that way. They met up by the back door, having seen nothing. Windows and door were boarded up and, to the casual observer, secure. Yet on closer inspection the chipboard over the back entrance was in fact a hinged door. A bolt lying on the ground beside it would secure the door from the outside. McLusky picked it up and flung it far into the long grass. There was no sign of Daws’ break-in. It had either been repaired or he had come in a different way.

Carefully he pulled on the edge of the chipboard. It moved easily on its hinges and he folded it back completely until it rested against the side of the house, revealing the door underneath. It was ajar. Closer inspection showed that it had once been broken open, possibly with a crowbar. He shone his pen light into the gap around the door frame. Booby traps could take many forms, there might be one standing on the floor, waiting to be triggered as the door opened. McLusky doubted that there had been enough time but he pushed Austin aside. ‘Get back.’ Then he flattened himself against the wall and with one hand swung the door until it was half open. There was no resistance. ‘Mr Cooke, it’s the police! Come out, Mr Cooke, show yourself!’

It was dark inside with all the windows boarded up. What little light fell in through the door revealed a gutted kitchen and a filthy, half-perished floor. Something or somebody had been dragged through the dirt recently.

McLusky strained to listen through the drumming and splashing of the rain. A small noise, like something dropped on to the floor somewhere in the house, not in the kitchen. McLusky slipped into the gloom of the inside and moved to the door connecting the kitchen with the hall, with Austin close behind him. A thin cold light fell on to the mouldy hall carpet from a half-open door at the end of the hall, from what he guessed would have been the sitting room. He could now hear a hissing sound, too. It made him shiver.

He repeated his call. ‘Police! Come out with your hands up, Mr Cooke!’

The answering voice was harsh and defiant, yet unmistakably that of an old man making an effort to sound strong and confident. ‘Go away! I’ve got one of your lot in here. He’s my hostage.’

McLusky moved slowly forward into the hall. ‘Nonsense, Mr Cooke, it’s over. You don’t want a hostage. That’s never worked before for anyone.’

‘You’re coming closer, I can hear you coming closer. Stay where you are or I’m going to hurt this officer.’

‘You don’t want to do that, Mr Cooke. How is the officer? He’s very quiet.’ As he moved closer to the door he thought he could detect the sound of laboured breathing. The hissing, he now realized, came from a hurricane lamp.

‘He’s not feeling too clever. I had to hit him on the head and I had to gag him. Don’t come any closer now or he gets it.’

‘I’m afraid I have to see him for myself, you could be lying.’ Keep him talking, Cooke has no plan, don’t give him time to make one.

‘Lying? I don’t lie, you are the liar, you are all liars, all that rubbish spouted about me.’

‘Nevertheless, it’s my duty to satisfy myself that my officer is alive. I’m going to come and look now.’ He moved slowly sideways into the rectangle of hissing light and stood still.

The centre of the room was taken up by several small tables. Every inch appeared to be covered in tools, boxes, wires, a car battery, bottles, canisters and a vice. Under the dark windows stood shelves filled with more material; in the corners bin-liners were overflowing with the remains of carefully dismantled fireworks.

Dearlove sat rigidly on a kitchen chair. He had been tightly trussed up with cables and his limbs taped to the legs and backrest of the chair. There was drying blood on the side of his skull and face. Several lengths of silver gaffer tape had been used to gag him. Dearlove breathed with noisy effort through a nose and sinuses choked with his own vomit, some of which encrusted his nostrils. His eyes stared straight at McLusky with wide unblinking terror. Behind him stood Cooke, his deeply lined face thrown into sharp relief by the hurricane lamp hissing on a foldable workbench by his side. Standing quite still he looked like a figure made from leather. His right hand rested on a petrol can. It was uncapped and McLusky thought he could smell the contents.

‘His name is David. I don’t think David can breathe very well. There’s no need for a gag any more, we’re here now. Everyone knows we are here. Any chance of taking David’s gag off?’

‘Shut up about him, you’re trying to distract me.’

‘Distract you from what, Mr Cooke?’ He took a casual step forward.

‘Stay where you are. Distract me so you can rush me. But I warn you, I have lots of weapons at my disposal. And there’s petrol in this. One false move and he’ll burn.’

‘Then we’d all burn. There’s no use in that. It won’t make any difference. It won’t bring them back.’ McLusky craned his neck left and right, leaning forward, looking about, moving forward a few inches. ‘Is this what they would have wanted you to do? Your daughter? And your wife, Barbara?’

The name electrified Cooke. ‘How dare you speak about them? How dare you mention her name?’

‘Would Barbara approve of this? Would she have liked it?’

‘Shut up. I warned you!’ His hand jerked forward and petrol splashed over Dearlove’s head and side. In response the DC let out a long insistent grunting noise of fear and pain as the noxious liquid bit into his head wound.

‘How many bombs are there? Just out of interest.’ McLusky spoke casually as though what had just happened was of no concern to him.

‘That you will find out over time.’

‘You’ve got none left, have you?’ He looked about, displaying disappointment. ‘All your arsenal deployed, all your little soldiers out there. It’s all over then, isn’t it.’ A statement, not a question. ‘Well, you outsmarted us then by the looks of it. So there’s no longer any need for all this.’ His hand gesture encompassed the room, indicating Dearlove. ‘Well, that’s it then. I’m going to go now, Mr Cooke.’

‘You’re going to go?’ He looked puzzled.

‘Are you going to tell me where you planted the remaining devices?’

A single flat syllable. ‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so, and I can’t make you, I know that too, so there’s nothing I can do here.’ McLusky spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Obviously, I’ll have to take him with me.’ Three steps brought him into the middle of the room. Keeping his eyes entirely on Dearlove as though Cooke couldn’t possibly have any more objections, he took hold of the back of the chair and dragged it around until Dearlove was facing the man with the petrol can. With one swift movement he ripped the gag off his mouth. Dearlove gasped, coughed, spat. McLusky tilted the chair back and began dragging the groaning constable through the door. As soon as there was room Austin took over and pulled him away. McLusky remained standing in the hall, facing Cooke. Several sirens could now be heard approaching. Cooke’s head appeared to shake with tiny nods as he let the petrol flow from the can to the uneven vinyl floor where it pooled by his feet before creeping towards McLusky and the door.

‘Why don’t you come outside with me, Mr Cooke. It doesn’t have to end in here. Not like that.’ He searched the man’s face for anything worth saving. Still holding the empty petrol can Cooke stood very still now, a leather statuette. He no longer appeared to be seeing him. One thin stream of petrol had reached the tip of his own shoes. McLusky nodded. ‘But perhaps it’s for the best. Goodbye, Mr Cooke.’

He stepped over the creeping stream of petrol and crossed the hall just as Constable Pym entered the kitchen. McLusky shouted at him: ‘Get out!’ The flash of igniting petrol reflected in Austin’s eyes as it snatched the oxygen from the air. They tumbled out into the rain together. McLusky swung the outer chipboard door shut. It was a symbolic gesture rather than any attempt to deprive the fire of oxygen. Out here the close was busy with police and paramedics, many converging on the prefab. Just as he filled his lungs to shout a warning a window blew out in a vicious blast, making his warning superfluous. There had obviously been some gunpowder left.

An ambulance was leaving with DC Dearlove on board, its siren wailing as it neared the main road. McLusky found Austin standing by a defunct lamp-post. He lit a cigarette, offering one to the sergeant, who barely hesitated before accepting it. Both greedily inhaled while watching the black smoke and flames pouring from number thirty-five. ‘Deedee all right, you think?’

Austin scratched the tip of his nose. ‘I guess. He was cursing coherently.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘So we’ve no way of knowing how many devices are still out there?’

‘No way at all. Could be one or two, could be dozens.’

‘Isn’t there some way we can stop people from picking the things up?’

McLusky shook his head and began walking towards his car. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Shouldn’t think so for one minute.’

It was raining harder now. The remaining residents of Nelson Close saw the bungalow burn, though most stayed indoors to watch from their windows.