Falling More Slowly

Chapter Two

Inside the cramped Mercedes command unit parked in Charlotte Street Superintendent Denkhaus doled out tasks to the team in a practised stream, much of it devoid of punctuation. Then he slowed to add a few more thoughts. ‘Colin Keale, most of you will remember, planted three pipe bombs behind the Magistrates’ two years ago and got twelve months suspended because of his medical history. I sent Uniform round there to pick him up and see if he’s up to his old tricks again. In the absence of DCI Gaunt, DI McLusky, who most of you will have met by now, will be in charge of this investigation. That’s all.’ He looked around the familiar faces in the room, several of which allowed their surprise to show. Like DS Sorbie: sharp, smart and dark; DI Kat Fairfield: immaculate, eager and self-possessed. DS Sorbie was fiercely chewing his biro while watching DI Fairfield for a reaction to the news that the new man was in charge. Kat Fairfield was looking straight ahead, rigid with anger, avoiding all eye contact. ‘Carry on, then. DI McLusky? A word.’

McLusky followed his superior outside. Denkhaus pointed a fat finger straight at his chest, lightly tapping his tie. ‘It’s your investigation for several reasons. A, because you somehow managed to be first on the scene. B, because I like to shake things up and C, because it’ll give you a chance to jump in at the deep end. You won’t have to run after anybody, they’ll all come to you. You’ll not make many friends but then I’m not running a social club. And there’ll be a lot of questions, none of which you can answer since you only just got here. My theory is that by the end of it you’ll know the answers and feel right at home. Of course there’s always the possibility that you’ll completely louse it up in which case I’ll make your sojourn in the city a short one. You might not be in charge for long, of course. You know how it is, not that this looks much like a terrorist bomb, but anything goes bang and CAT will immediately want to take over. I’m expecting a visit from them soon and I want to be able to show them that we’re not a band of yokels waiting to be rescued by the Combined Anti-Terrorism bunch. Colin Keale went before the magistrate for drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest etc. and got a fine. He took exception to this and built some pipe bombs which he set off behind the courts. They weren’t really meant to harm anyone, just meant to express his displeasure with one hell of a bang. He’s got mental problems, that boy. In a way I hope it’s not him, because that would mean his illness just progressed. We’ll see. What’s your first impression, anyway?’

‘Hard to say, sir. It was quite a blast but an unlikely target for even the weirdest terror group. We might be looking for local lads here.’

‘Let’s hope so. I agree it’s a strange place to plant a bomb. But then bombers are weird by definition, which makes them so dangerous.’ He checked his improbably thin wristwatch. ‘I’ll be going to lunch now after which I will be in my office.’

‘There’s only one thing, sir …’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t have any transport at the moment.’

Denkhaus’s nostrils flared. ‘Then get a space hopper or something, I fear we’re fresh out of Skodas! And you can also stop using my uniformed officers as chauffeurs, they’re needed for more important things than driving young DIs around town.’ A passing constable smiled grimly. Too right.

Despite the extended side pods — the van’s ‘hamster pouches’ — the office of the Mercedes command unit was small for all the bodies crammed inside it. When McLusky went back in a few heads remained studiously down while some of the detectives studied the new man with open curiosity.

He stood in front of the whiteboard. Austin had spent some time bringing him up to speed with the current caseload they were battling. It was quite insane but average for a city this size. He hoped he could strike the right note. ‘Okay, I’ll make this short. There’s always a chance that Mr Keale of past pipe-bomb fame is responsible, but let’s not pin our hopes on it. We do however want a quick result on this and we’re stretched, with lots of Uniform tied up doing fingertip searches of the park. There’s also the matter, I’ve been told, of hunting a roving gang of mobile phone muggers that appears to be high on the super’s list of priorities.’

Some murmurs and groans. The public — and the press — saw the so-called Mobile Muggers as the main menace in the city. Until today perhaps. Chasing them down to get them off the Evening Post’s front page had until now been one of the superintendent’s pet projects.

‘That’s why even overqualified detectives like DI Fairfield will be joining in the house-to-house effort to bring in as many witness statements as possible by the end of the day.’ A curt nod from Fairfield, a hard stare from her DS. ‘Anything to do with explosions will naturally attract the attentions of the Combined Anti-Terrorism people. Several of them may even as I speak be riding west to pay us a visit.’ Groans. ‘The super feels it would be nice to have something to show our visitors, specifically evidence of our competence, brilliance, efficiency and, I’m sure, cost effectiveness.’ Boos and ironic cheers. ‘Any questions?’

Only a few hands went up, everyone wanted to get going. He dealt swiftly with the questions then dismissed his troops. ‘Right, let’s do it.’

Shuffling of papers. The team were getting ready, most to go out, a few to start sifting through the witness statements already taken.

The relief of having started work began to relax his shoulders. He shook a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, mainly to dampen his hunger. That Danish was a distant memory to his stomach.

‘Sir?’ It was Sorbie, standing by the exit door.

‘Yup?’

‘It’s no smoking in here, sir.’

He grunted an acknowledgement and went to stand outside, watching the detectives troop off, Sorbie and DI Fairfield among them. There’d been no time to talk to the inspector. If she felt resentful about a newcomer of identical rank and seniority being put in charge then she hid it well. Fairfield seemed the efficient type. Very smartly dressed and almost too good-looking for a detective. He wasn’t sure himself what he meant by that but wondered how suspects reacted, most of them young and male, in the interview room, for instance.

At least it had stopped raining for a bit. Austin joined him. ‘Couldn’t scrounge another cigarette, sir, could I?’

McLusky obliged. ‘If you’re going to keep smoking my cigarettes you might as well call me by my name. I’m Liam.’

‘I’m Jane.’

‘You are?’

‘Well, it’s James Austin, so everyone calls me Jane.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Not really. Bit late for that anyway. She lived just down the road in Bath, did you know that?’

‘Did she?’

Austin nodded. ‘She hated it. Too pretentious, too noisy.’

Too noisy. McLusky reckoned here in the park the police made all the noise. Calls, engines, doors slamming, the growls of so-called low-noise generators. ‘It’s beginning to look like a bloody film set out there.’

It was a gloomy day so arc lights had already been set up to make sure crime scene investigators and Forensics didn’t miss anything. This side of the park was out of bounds to the public now, entrances closed off. Lines of uniformed police were doing a fingertip search of the surrounding area. Every bit of debris, down to the smallest wood splinter, was being recovered. A photographer with a large video camera took endless shots of the scene, the surroundings, the entire operation. Press photographers had managed to scramble up through the undergrowth to get as close as possible to the locus of the explosion. They were popping off so much flash photography towards the scene that investigators had to avert their eyes in order to avoid being temporarily blinded. When their protests fell on deaf ears they complained to McLusky.

He sent Austin. ‘Go sort them out.’ The DS sauntered over, then at the top of his voice threatened to arrest ‘the next idiot using a flash for obstructing the investigation’. McLusky approved. He hated the press. Unless he could use them for his own ends, of course.

The chief investigator repaid them five minutes later.

McLusky flicked his cigarette into a puddle. ‘What have you got for us?’

The white-suited man twitched his blond moustache. He probably thought he was smiling. ‘It was a bomb, homemade. We can’t say for sure what type of explosive was used, we’ll leave that to Forensics, though I have my own theory. What I can tell you gentlemen is that the explosive material was probably housed in a thin metal canister.’ He held up an evidence bag containing a triangular piece of torn metal. ‘It’s a bit of a miracle that apart from the boy no one else was injured by the shrapnel but then it’s quite flimsy stuff. Are you a drinking man, inspector? Does this look at all familiar?’

McLusky took it off him and leant back, angling it into the light coming from inside the command unit. Despite the slight blistering he could still make out the embossed writing, Special Reserve and Aged 12 years. The type of metal canister single malts came in. He half-closed his eyes, visualizing the bottle. ‘That’ll be Glenfiddich. I prefer the Ancient Reserve myself.’

‘You’re a connoisseur, then?’ Austin squinted at the bag.

‘Not on my salary.’ McLusky handed it back. ‘Thanks for the preview.’

‘No sweat.’ The man left to rejoin the group of CSI technicians working the area.

‘The public’s new heroes, apparently.’ Austin nodded towards the white-suited army.

‘What, crime scene techies?’

‘So it would appear. American TV series. All you have to do, apparently, is run that bit of tin through the lab and they’ll tell you where it was bought, what the perp has for breakfast and whether he takes water with it. Then you wash it through the computer and it’ll spit out his address. You haven’t seen it either? I can’t get Channel Five.’

‘I haven’t got a telly.’

‘Blimey, that’s radical.’

‘Hardly.’ It was probably just another of those things he’d forgotten to get, like a wife and kids and a group of close friends he could ask round for supper. He did have friends of course but they fell into one of two categories: they were either drinking friends or colleagues and former colleagues. Both those categories he had now left behind in Southampton and he didn’t expect any of them to come and find him. Tabula rasa. He could start over.

Witness statements had been taken and were now being collated in the office inside the command vehicle where for the time being all information came together. House-to-house inquiries were being made at every property that overlooked the park on this side.

‘All right, Jane, so what are we looking at here? Terrorists? Kids? A crank?’

Austin rocked lightly from side to side, making himself comfortable on his feet. ‘Not sure what I think. It could have been a schoolkid prank that went wrong. It was one hell of a bang. Kids do hang out here, though not so much after dark now since the Mobile Muggers have struck here twice.’

‘Could well be kids. It’s the kind of stupid thing they would blow up.’

‘I can’t see the terrorist angle at all. It wasn’t a big enough explosion for that. And there weren’t enough people around. You’d leave it in a crowded place, wouldn’t you?’

‘And you’d spike it with nails to do as much harm as possible.’

‘Then there’s always the crank with a grudge against … gazebos?’

‘Yes, quite. What do we know about the boy who was hurt? Could he have been the one who planted it, only it went off too soon, injuring him in the process? Not forgetting the woman. Stands to reason that the two people who got hurt most were probably closest to the centre of the explosion. We don’t know yet how the bomb was triggered but if it was by remote control for instance then they might of course have been the bomber’s targets. Do we have any news on their recovery or otherwise?’

‘I’ll find out.’ Austin disappeared inside. McLusky took the opportunity to count his cigarettes. Not enough to get him through the rest of the day. He didn’t mind sharing his cigarettes around as long as there were enough of them. Almost without his participation in the process another one appeared between his lips, flaring as he touched the flame from his plastic lighter to it. He walked across the street towards the wet, steaming heap of debris, still being attended by the army of white-suited technicians. The press had given up and returned to their offices, no doubt to fill in the gaps in their knowledge with column inches of speculation. Were he to write the front-page article it would run something like this: At 11.20 a.m. today an explosive device detonated inside a wooden shelter in Brandon Hill Nature Park, destroying it completely. Several passers-by were injured. The identity and motive of the bomber(s) are unknown. End of transmission.

Now it was up to him to provide the rest of the copy. With an incident like this you hoped for a witness and prayed that Forensics came up with something useful, however small. The problem was, forensic laboratories all over the world were stretched beyond endurance. The backlog of items to be examined and analysed was now so great that a simple blood or DNA sample took several weeks to come back. If it was urgent it seemed longer. Even then the most you could usually hope for was another person eliminated from your list of suspects.

Austin reappeared by his side with a scrap of paper filled with his swirly handwriting. ‘Good news and not so good news. Uniform went to Colin Keale’s place. According to the upstairs neighbour he’s on holiday in Marmaris. That’s in Turkey.’

‘Yeah, I know where it is. We need it confirmed and we need to know when he left.’

‘He left yesterday, apparently, so that’s him out.’

‘Is it hell. The bomb could have been sitting there for days. I want to know exactly when and where he left the country and when he’s coming back. Do we know that?’

‘Not yet, someone’s checking it out for me.’

‘What else?’

‘The woman who got hurt, an Elizabeth Howe, remains unconscious though they’re not sure why. No fractured skull as they first thought but she has damage to both eardrums, hence the bleeding, and probably won’t be listening to any questions for a bit even if she does wake up. The boy, a Joel Kerswill, had a metal splinter removed from his right eye. They managed to save his eyesight. They’re keeping him in for observation too but we might get a couple of minutes with him.’

McLusky glanced at his watch. The afternoon had drained away. ‘All right, we’ll have a chat with him then.’

‘There’s sandwiches now, by the way, if you want. You’ll have to hurry, though, they’re like animals in there.’

‘No, that’s fine, I don’t eat triangular food.’ Everyone seemed to define themselves by what they didn’t eat these days, no dairy, no wheat, no carbs, no meat, so why should he feel left out?

‘I see. A geometrical diet.’

‘Indeed. I prefer a square meal.’

Austin groaned. A constable approached them. ‘DI McLusky?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Sign this, please.’ He handed over a limp form, A4, folded in half.

‘Got a pen? What am I signing?’

‘I haven’t, sir. It’s your transport.’ He dangled a set of keys.

‘Oh good. Got a pen, Austin?’

‘I have. It’s in your inside pocket.’

‘Genius.’ McLusky signed and returned the pen to his jacket and the form to the constable. ‘What is it, anyway?’

‘VW. There’s also a message from the superintendent.’

‘Well, what is it?’

The constable looked doubtful. ‘He told me to say “space hopper”, sir.’

‘Right, thank you, constable. Oh, hang on, where’s it parked?’

‘Right at the end there, behind the Forensics unit. It’s a white one.’

‘Things are looking up, Austin.’ He jangled the keys. ‘Sod sandwiches, lead me to the nearest fish and chip shop. No, lead me to the best fish and chip shop in the city. Afterwards we’ll visit Joel Kerswill in hospital.’

The street was crowded. Every parked car had to be examined, every owner found and interviewed. Just as the last of the fire engines departed, leaving behind the senior fire officer and one fire investigator, two new cars arrived. The first to park was the superintendent’s large grey Ford. Not bothering to find a parking space at all was the driver of the dark BMW3 series that had followed him here. He stopped in the middle of the road and left it there. Driver and passenger debarked. Sharp suits and cropped hair. Both put on identical grey overcoats. Special Branch or MI5. No matter who they were, McLusky could practically feel himself become invisible. Denkhaus led them straight over. Before the superintendent could make introductions the younger of the two men stretched out his hand. McLusky shook it.

‘My name is Kelper, I’ll be taking over. You can go now.’ He nodded at both of them, then turned his back.

Denkhaus led the new arrivals away, gesturing expansively at the command unit. ‘This way. Allow me.’

McLusky offered Austin one of his cigarettes and lit one for himself. ‘And there we have it, a bloodless coup. Well, it was lonely at the top anyway. Let’s go, Jane.’

‘That was damn quick.’ Austin consulted his watch. ‘Especially if they drove up from London.’

‘Oh, I have a feeling Kelper doesn’t waste time on motorways. I’m sure he took a plane and had the Beemer waiting for him. Tonight he’ll dine with the super and by this time tomorrow he’ll be eating rectangular food on the plane home, having effectively put the investigation back a whole … Fuck me, our super’s got a sense of humour.’ They had arrived behind the Forensics van where the constable had hidden McLusky’s new transport. It was a little dirty-white car that had been in the police force a lot longer than he had. An appreciative member of the public had scratched PIGS in large angular letters across the bonnet. The scratches were old and had had ample time to rust.

‘Looks like you really hit it off with the super then, doesn’t it? I like the livery, by the way. But what’s it supposed to be?’

McLusky gave the roof a friendly pat and tried to look proud. ‘This baby is a 1981 VW Polo. 40 bhp. It does nought to sixty.’ The car was unlocked. The doors opened stiffly with ominous metallic yawns.

Austin sniffed doubtfully at the musty interior. It smelled like it had been stored in a cave since the mid-eighties. ‘We could drive to the station and pick up my car.’

‘Nonsense, man, it’s not that bad.’ He turned the ignition key and listened to the nasal parp of the exhaust as the engine rattled and shook itself awake.

‘On second thoughts, this could be a wind-up … did you see them drive it or did it get here on the back of a flatbed truck?’

Fish and chips from Pellegrino’s. They ate sitting in the car. The heater didn’t work but right now McLusky was quite happy just to sit out of the rain in the vinegary fug rising from their paper parcels. A traffic warden knocked on the steamed-up window. McLusky cranked it down. It took some effort.

She shook her head at them. ‘Sorry to disrupt your meal but you can’t stop here, gentlemen.’

McLusky fished with greasy fingers for his ID and held it aloft for the woman to inspect. ‘We’re under cover, please move along.’

The warden shrugged, then took a last glance at the graffiti’d bonnet before moving on. ‘Of course you are.’

McLusky stuck his head out and called after her. ‘You blew our cover!’

While following Austin’s directions to the Royal Infirmary he wondered how soon he would be able to drive there in his sleep. Every CID officer in every city could sleepwalk to A amp;E and the mortuary, it was part of the job. He cruised around for a parking space. How could the National Health Service have a funding crisis? The parking fees alone should take care of it. He squeezed the little Polo on to the end of a row reserved for staff and abandoned it, two wheels buried in spiky shrubbery. ‘Sorry about that. Get out my side.’

‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ Austin levered himself across the gear stick and out the driver’s side.

‘Yeah, right, if it gets towed away I’ll cry.’

‘Not that, I mean if whatsisname, Kelper, is in charge shouldn’t we await orders from on high?’

‘Bollocks to that. You don’t think they’ll actually do any investigating, do you? They’ll throw their weight around for a few hours and get waited on hand and foot. When they’re satisfied that Al Qaeda hasn’t taken to blowing up park benches in an effort to undermine British morale they’ll disappear again. No, we’ll carry on as normal. Let’s ask at reception here.’

He hated hospitals. Never mind the smell, never mind the lousy food or MRSA superbugs; never mind his unhappy memories of the weeks spent mending after two suspects had reversed over him. It was more than that: McLusky hated hospitals because he felt depression oozing from the very fabric of the buildings. He knew that the cloying, stifling mood would hang around in his clothes and hair like a miasma of hopelessness for hours afterwards. He simply couldn’t believe that good things ever happened here. Post mortems he avoided for the same reason. He’d yet to learn anything at a post mortem he couldn’t read in a report at his desk or ask over the phone without having to try and shake off the reek of death afterwards. Someone had to attend of course but who said it had to be him? Once a dead body had been removed from the crime scene he was happy to leave it to the scientists and grave diggers.

The boy’s bed was by the window in a room with two other male patients who were either asleep, unconscious or dead, it was hard to tell. Joel Kerswill’s mother was there, on a hard chair at the bedside. It was clear she had cried recently and since cheered up again at the excellent prognosis. The curtain separating the Kerswills from the bed next to them was drawn but the front curtain was open.

The boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. He was sitting propped up against the big hospital cushions with a fierce expression of disapproval on his pale face. His right eye was covered with a white dressing. There were scratches and pock marks on his cheek and forehead where flying splinters had hit, all scabbing over now.

IDs at the ready. ‘I’m Inspector McLusky, this is DS Austin.’

Mrs Kerswill was in her mid-thirties. She wore a grey and blue track suit and trainers. Her dark hair had been subjected to a utilitarian cut that she imagined allowed her to forget about it. She clutched car keys and mobile in one hand and a packet of cigarettes and lighter in the other. ‘He could have been killed! It’s a miracle he hasn’t been killed! He could have lost an eye, or both. My son could be blind now, d’you realize that? Just from walking along minding his own business. First London, then Glasgow, now here. I mean, London, fair enough, but you’d never expect them to do it here, would you? Not in a park either. Do you have a lead yet? Do you know who did this to him?’

‘The inquiry is well under way.’ Platitudes. He turned to the son. What was his name again? ‘How are you feeling, son?’

‘I’m not your son. It hurts and I want to go home, okay?’

‘Joel! No need to be rude to the man.’ She turned an apologetic face to McLusky. ‘They want to keep him in until tomorrow. As a precaution, they said.’

‘Joel, do you feel up to answering a few questions?’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Well, for instance, did you notice anyone near the place just before the explosion?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did you notice anyone near the shelter just before the bomb went off?’

‘I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t pay any attention, though. Didn’t expect there to be a bomb, did I?’

‘And you were walking past? In which direction?’ Joel’s injuries seemed to be on the right side so he presumed the boy had been walking along the path towards town.

Joel Kerswill confirmed it. ‘I was walking towards Park Street.’

‘Why were you there?’

‘To look at it. I’d just got back from the Parks Department. I went for an interview.’

‘For …’

‘Apprenticeship. Gardening. Working in the nurseries and that. At Blaise Castle.’

‘Did you get in?’ Austin asked.

‘Don’t know yet. I think I deserve to though.’ Joel’s antagonism seemed to melt a little.

‘Because of what happened?’ McLusky asked.

‘Yeah, don’t you think? I nearly died there. Well, I could have, if I’d sat down for a bit close to where the bomb was. I’d be well dead if I’d sat down. I don’t think they should give it to someone else, it wouldn’t be fair.’

‘I should think so, too. But to come back to the moments before the explosion. You said you didn’t see anyone. Was anyone running? Riding a bicycle?’

‘Not that I noticed. There was some guy on a motorized skateboard who overtook me? Maybe a minute before? But I didn’t see him near that pavilion thing that blew up. Unless he chucked a hand grenade or something.’

‘Okay. We’ll leave it there then but we might need to talk to you again if anything new turns up. Someone will come and take a written statement for you to sign but perhaps later at home, when you’re feeling better.’

‘I feel all right, I could go home now.’

‘He wants to play on his computer.’ Mrs Kerswill smiled and was rewarded with an embarrassed scowl by her son. ‘His father walked out on us, perhaps the useless sod will get in touch if he reads about this in the paper. A photographer took Joel’s picture for the Post.’ Her son’s scowl deepened. Why did she have to tell everyone? ‘He owes us a fortune in maintenance. And Child Support, in case you were about to ask, are bloody useless. If you ever come across him you can give him a message from me. Right where it hurts.’

McLusky promised to keep them informed and left. Just before they gained the corridor Austin nudged his arm and nodded in the direction of the nearest bed. The middle-aged patient in it, propped up in a sitting position, was staring straight ahead, oblivious, under a sign warning Nil by mouth. His skin was a cardboard shade of grey.

Once in the corridor McLusky pointed back at the room. ‘Wasn’t that …?’

‘Mr Spranger.’

‘I didn’t recognize him without his bulldozer.’

‘Wonder what he’s here for.’

‘Nothing trivial, one hopes.’

The receptionist made a phone call and sent them down to the Observation Ward. There a doctor was found who could give them news of the second victim.

He was a young man, bright, brisk, alert, not the half-dead, asleep-on-his-feet junior doctor you were meant to expect these days if you believed the papers. ‘She still hasn’t regained consciousness though all her vital signs are strong. We’re a bit baffled by this but for the time being we’re just monitoring the situation. She’s suffered two perforated eardrums, though miraculously hardly any shrapnel damage. From what I’ve been told she was on her way home when the blast knocked her off her feet. Have you any idea as to the kind of explosion? A bomb in the park, said the news … Who’d put a bomb in a place like that?’

McLusky nodded his agreement. ‘That’s a damn good question. It’s early days yet. What kind of a person is Miss, Mrs … Howe?’

‘Ms Howe is a retired postmistress.’ The Ms, McLusky noticed, fell naturally from the doctor’s lips, while he himself could never pronounce Ms without putting undue stress on it.

‘Bit young to be retired? How old would you say she was?’

‘She’s forty-nine. Unemployed postmistress, then. It’s the same thing. Post offices are closing and they’re not coming back. From what her sister told us she hasn’t been unemployed long but didn’t expect to find another job. Not at her age.’

‘You just mentioned a sister …’

‘We found identification among Ms Howe’s possessions and traced the sister through the hospital records. On a previous visit to the hospital she had named her as next of kin. She’s with her now.’

‘Do you think we could talk to her?’

‘That’s up to her. I can ask her. Wait here.’

It turned out that Ms Howe’s sister had stepped out for a breath of fresh air, which in her case involved a packet of Superkings and a persistent little cough she didn’t know she had. They found her by the nearest entrance. She looked to be the older sister, with hair the colour of concrete and the deep crags of a lifetime’s smoking around her mouth. McLusky joined her and gratefully lit a cigarette himself. When he suggested her sister might have been the intended victim Mrs Henley scoffed at the idea. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who would want to kill my sister? Her? And with a bomb?’

‘Your sister isn’t married, does she have a partner?’

She shook her head. ‘Liz finds it quite a lonely life since the post office closed. Turns out that was where she got most of her social contact. She lives by herself on Jacob’s Wells Road. She’d have been coming from the shops, she always comes up through the park. She probably sat down on one of those benches, we did it once when I went with her. Liz’d be dead for sure if she’d still been sitting there but I was told she had moved on already.’

‘That’s our understanding. We believe nobody was sitting on the benches when the bomb exploded.’

‘If only she’d got up a minute earlier. That would have been enough, wouldn’t it? A minute? She’d have been far enough away then.’

‘That’s very possible. When did you last visit your sister at home, Mrs Henley?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ She prised another cigarette from her packet and lit it. ‘We don’t see each other very often, that’s all. It’s not that we didn’t get on, we just lived our own lives, it’s just the way it was.’

‘I meant would you notice if there was anything different at your sister’s place, an indication that anything had changed in her life, besides her unfortunate unemployment.’

‘Oh that. I see what you mean. Well, I was there earlier to pick up some things for her, you know, toiletries and that. It was just like it always was, inspector, there was nothing different, not that I noticed.’ She didn’t think she ought to mention that the fridge had been empty and the cupboards almost bare. Liz didn’t do much shopping these days. The flat had felt cold and lifeless.

Austin noted down addresses for both Mrs Henley and her sister before they left the woman to finish her angry cigarette in the chill evening wind.

McLusky drove the car out of the shrubbery so Austin could enter by the passenger door in a more dignified fashion. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘Let’s see. Do I think anyone wanted to blow up Joel Kerswill as he walked back from his interview? Hardly. Do I think Joel Kerswill set the thing off himself? Perhaps. No, I don’t think that either, though I couldn’t tell you why.’

‘A lot depends on what type of bomb it was. We’ll need to know what kind of expertise would have been needed to make it. And the postmistress?’

‘An even more unlikely suspect.’

‘Also an unlikely target. We don’t know how the bomb was set off yet but it’s possible it was just a prank that went too far. It must be hard to judge just how much home-made explosive to stick into a bomb.’

‘It’ll turn out to be a couple of kids who are at this moment sitting in their bedrooms shitting bricks, waiting for the heavy knock on the door. Another stupid bit of vandalism by kids bored with their computer games.’

‘Might well be. Unless …’

‘You can go left here, less traffic this time of day. Unless what?’

McLusky nosed the car out into the road. This was ‘less traffic’? ‘Unless it was none of these. Unless it was attempted murder but the intended victim was unharmed. And perhaps even unaware he, she, was meant to be blown sky high.’

‘No way. Rubbish way to bump someone off. You’d stick it under their car, surely.’ Austin felt he could talk easily to the new DI, who didn’t seem precious about his own ideas.

‘Quite. Or shove one under his bed. But not his favourite park bench. Always presuming your intended target has a car or a bed, of course. I’m just trying to think of every possibility here since I don’t believe at all in the terrorist angle. We get quite a few tourists, of course, so if you wanted to harm British interests then scaring the tourists away would be a good start. But …’

Austin took up the baton. ‘… but you would blow up a hotel or Temple Meads station, say, not a pavilion. Turn left here, that’s Jamaica Street, that’ll take us back to your neck of the woods.’

‘Right.’ McLusky was committing every turn and street name to his mental map of the city. His new city. It didn’t feel real yet. ‘And it never works anyway. PKK in Turkey, ETA in Spain, a couple of bombs go off and there’s a flurry of holiday cancellations but a few weeks later the bookings go up again.’

‘Which makes no sense since all it does is give them time to get the next bomb ready for just when you arrive.’

‘Also, you would have to keep up the bombings over a long period to do any lasting harm to the tourist business and not many organizations have those resources. Not the kind that sticks explosives in a whisky tin and blows up park benches, anyway.’

‘You’ve given it some thought then. Are you going back to the station?’

McLusky checked his watch. ‘Your car’s down there, isn’t it? I’ll drop you off, but let’s call it a day. After all, Kelper, whatever his rank, is in charge tonight and he didn’t seem to want us around, did he?’

‘It’s all right, you can drop me off outside your place. It’s stopped raining. I’ll walk back.’

He turned into Picton Street. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘Sure I’m sure. Probably quicker, anyway.’

‘Are you being offensive about my new motor, Jane?’ McLusky turned into his street and stopped outside his house. There were no parking spaces.

‘It’s a fine example of German engineering. For the transport museum. No, traffic across town is really bad this time of day, is all I meant.’ Austin got out. ‘See you in the morning.’ He pushed the groaning car door shut.

McLusky cruised and eventually found a space to park near Herbert’s Bakery. The handbrake squawked and the car rolled back a few inches. He left it in gear.

Standing in Northmoor Street he looked up at the lifeless windows of his flat. He didn’t yet recognize it as his own, anybody might live there, it wasn’t home. But then where was? With his mother dead and his father God-knows-where he hadn’t felt at home anywhere for years.

He had no provisions in the house and the place was still a mess. There was really no point in going back there unless he wanted to go shopping first and then clear up the place so he could prepare some food, by which time he would probably be past caring. He walked into the pub instead. The bar at the Barge Inn seemed to take up most of the space though they had managed to cram a few tables along the windows and the left-hand wall. A pool table had been shoehorned into an adjoining room somehow though you probably had to play with sawn-off cues. There was a door that led to vaulted cellars, available for hire. He ordered a Guinness and asked the barmaid about food. Yes, they did food every night except Thursdays which was quiz night. He perused the blackboard menu. Perhaps the shop across the street was making its influence felt since most of the food was Italian. The most English thing on the menu was probably the chicken tikka. Against his instincts he asked for lasagne to go with his beer and took the only free table, from where he could look up at the blank windows of his own flat. Below it someone was still working at the back of Rossi’s though the place was closed with the vegetable displays cleared off the pavement. There was a newsagent’s at the corner, a launderette called Dolly’s and a strange little shop selling hippy paraphernalia. He knew there was a vet’s, a hairdresser’s, a greengrocer’s and a junk shop just two minutes down the road. A chemist at the other corner completed the impression that McLusky had moved into a small village inside the city.

The food arrived and he ordered a second pint, the first appearing to have evaporated. He certainly felt no different for having drunk it. Halfway through demolishing his lasagne he looked up to catch sight through the window of a man slouching a little unsteadily through the rain towards the pub. He was bleeding from nose, split lip and eyebrows. A moment later he arrived at the bar.

‘Oh no, Rick, what happened to you? Here.’ The barmaid handed him a clean cloth. ‘You been in a fight?’

Rick dabbed gingerly at his nose. ‘Mugged. Bastards got everything.’

‘Oh no, the Mobile Muggers? What’s everything? Were you carrying much?’

‘My money, twenty quid. My credit cards and stuff. I was listening to my MP3 player, they got that. My watch.’ His voice shook and he winced as he dragged himself on to a bar stool.

‘Poor Rick. Here, get that down you.’ She put a pint of lager in front of him.

‘I can’t pay for it, Becky.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s on the house. And please don’t call me Becky, I hate that name. It’s Rebecca.’

He took a few deep gulps, pulling a face as the liquid touched his shaky teeth. Blood had dripped on to his jacket which was grimy at the back where he had fallen to the ground.

‘Have you called the police yet?’ The barmaid’s blonde head disappeared below the bar top where she was rummaging about.

‘They got my mobile. There’s no point, anyway. The police can’t catch them. They’ve had their description countless times now, no point telling them again.’

‘You’ll have to report it anyway, Rick, just for the cards and your mobile.’ She had found a first aid box and produced a bottle of iodine.

‘I know but I’ll do it tomorrow, I’ve had enough aggro for one evening.’

‘Go and clean yourself up in the toilet and then we’ll put some of this on you.’

‘No way, that stuff stings.’

‘Don’t be such a baby. And if you don’t cancel your cards now they’ll have spent your money by the morning. Here, you can put it on yourself, I’ve got work to do anyway.’ She walked off to serve customers at the other end of the bar. Rick stayed put, dabbed, sniffed and drank. A middle-aged couple who walked in a few minutes later seemed to know him. The story got told again, sympathy was expressed and they bought him a drink before squeezing on to a bench in the corner.

McLusky had finished his meal and brought the empty plate to the bar, next to the mugging victim. Rick was in his late twenties with dark curly hair and a peeved expression on his narrow face, which might have a lot to do with recent events. ‘How many attacked you?’ McLusky asked.

‘Four, there’s always four, isn’t there? Two scooters, two riders and two big bastards on the back who deal out the shit and do the mugging.’ He looked morosely into his pint glass.

McLusky guessed more beer would be required soon. It would numb the pain but the humiliation and anger would take time to dissolve. ‘Buy you another?’

He looked up at him. ‘If you like. Thanks. The bastards.’ He drained his glass.

McLusky signalled his order across to the barmaid. She seemed to be running the place single-handedly tonight. ‘So what did they look like, your assailants?’ There it was, assailants, perpetrators, suspects. Police speak. Bastards.

Rick didn’t notice. ‘Where have you been? Same as what they always look like.’

‘I just moved here. First time I’ve heard about it.’

‘Oh, right. Well, they all wear black. Black jeans, jackets, gloves, helmets. They’ve got balaclavas on under their helmets and they wear sunglasses, one had pink lenses the other yellow. Didn’t see the blokes who rode the scooters really, I was busy getting my face kicked in.’

‘What were their voices like?’

‘Voices? Normal, like from round here.’

‘Young, old? What age, do you think?’

‘No idea, mate.’

A pint of Guinness and one of lager arrived. The girl put the lager in front of Rick. ‘Looks like you’re doing all right out of this, anyway.’

‘You didn’t get a number plate, did you?’ McLusky asked.

‘I didn’t. But they’re always either so muddy you can’t read them or they’re nicked anyway.’

McLusky left it there and returned to his little table by the window. Asking any more questions would have given the game away. He felt he had done enough work on his first day. Starting with that maniac in the digger demolishing his house and the zippy Skoda. He regretted having sacrificed the car now but it seemed the obvious thing to do then. It would read badly in his report, he knew that much. Not at all how he had intended to start his new job but in retrospect not at all untypical. And then the damn bomb in the park.

If it was a prank then whoever planted it had to have been either unaware of the strength of the explosion that was going to occur or completely indifferent to the possibility that people might be killed. What he didn’t see was why someone would have planted it in that spot if they had actually intended to kill a lot of people. Unless …

Unless they had intended to kill a specific person and failed. Or a group of people. Had someone or a whole group of people agreed to be there at a certain time but failed to turn up and thus escaped being blown to kingdom come? Had it been triggered remotely? Was the woman now recovering in hospital the intended victim? At least in his book a bomb to kill a retired postmistress was definite overkill. All these questions had to be worked through and new ones found. Asking the right questions was what CID work was all about. How was the bomb made? Where did the components come from? How was it detonated, etc? McLusky yawned. Tomorrow Albany Road would no doubt be back in charge of the investigation and that’s when he would start asking good, intelligent questions of the team. But for now he had had enough. Possibly not enough Guinness but enough of his first day back at work.