Falling More Slowly

Chapter Nine

‘With respect, sir, since I can’t go anywhere near Ady Mitchell I might not be the best officer to work on the muggings.’ DI Fairfield sat very upright in front of Denkhaus’s desk. From somewhere she found the strength to control her expression and keep her voice calm. Any betrayal of emotion, any sign of anger, and the superintendent would put it down as hormonal. In this environment a woman had to be careful not to react in any way that could be construed as ‘typically female’. If you could make people forget you were a woman, if you made them believe you were one of the lads, then you would be taken seriously and get ahead.

‘Nonsense, Fairfield, you have it back-to-front. We found no evidence that Mitchell is dealing in stolen goods. These days you can make a fortune selling crap to morons on eBay without having to break the law. You had a shot at him and nothing turned up. Now concentrate on the guys who are doing the actual mugging. Because in the absence of any evidence — ’

‘Mitchell does have — ’

‘Please don’t interrupt me, DI Fairfield. If you know what’s good for your career then you’ll leave Mitchell out of it and catch the scooter gang, preferably red-handed. Because that’s the kind of headline the force needs right now. That’s what you’ll concentrate on, Fairfield.’

‘We’ve simply been unlucky, sir.’

‘Since when does intelligence-based policing rely on luck? Our statistics prove that whenever resources are targeted in the correct …’

Fairfield just nodded and nodded. She would never convince the super. He had already told her she had to make do with the resources she had, which was basically DS Sorbie, since everyone was working on the beer-can murder or buried deep under their own caseload. The quicker she agreed to everything the sooner she’d be out of his office. To make matters worse she had heard this morning that DCI Gaunt wasn’t coming back for at least another fortnight. The chief inspector would surely have backed her up and shielded her from this continuous pressure from the super.

‘… and we simply have to learn to live with it.’

It sounded as though Denkhaus had talked himself to the end of a treatise. Quick, before he jumped on the next passing hobby horse. ‘Yes, sir, of course. Will that be all, sir?’

Denkhaus supposed it was. Fairfield had to learn to be flexible and get results with the resources available. She was too ambitious and so took things personally. ‘Yes, that’s all.’

Fairfield left the super’s office with as much grace as she could muster and closed the door with exaggerated care. Ten minutes later she was in her office, sipping the blackest espresso from the tiniest cup. As the bitter fragrant liquid revived her spirits she managed to raise the ghost of a smile. One day she would sit where Denkhaus was now and all this would be nothing but a footnote in the ancient history of drudge.

McLusky hammered away at his keyboard while issuing sporadic bulletins of bitching that others had already learned didn’t want answering. ‘Of course one good reason for having an incident room in the first place is that without it the amount of useless misleading dead-end crap information murder generates would bury a detective and his desk so deep in dross you’d have to get a dog team in to dig him out …’

At a desk opposite him Austin had another crank caller on the phone, the third one so far to claim responsibility for the beer-can device. ‘And you packed it with TNT you bought over the interweb?’ There was stifled laughter among the computer operators.

McLusky wasn’t in the mood. Austin had been talking to the moron for ages. ‘Get rid of the wanker.’

Austin covered his mouthpiece. ‘No, this one’s a special wanker, he’s calling from a landline. It’s an address in town so I’ve sent a note down to Uniform, they’re on their way there to read him the riot act.’ He uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Is that your door bell I can hear, sir? I think you’d better answer it. There’ll be a couple of officers there to explain the meaning of wasting police time, okay? And the same to you, sir.’ He returned the receiver to its cradle with a flourish. ‘This call has been recorded for training purposes. Right, what’s next?’ He pulled a file off the pile beside him and started flicking through witness statements, or witless statements as he liked to think of them. And if he ever found the microsoftie behind the phrase ‘paperless office’ he’d add ‘justifiable homicide’ to the man’s vocabulary.

McLusky had had enough and logged off. There was a whole world of madness waiting for him outside, with spring sunshine to go with it. He would walk. It was Saturday and nearly lunchtime. The Saturday Traffic Protest should still be going and he wanted to see for himself what it looked like.

Every Saturday, to maximize attendance and optimize disruption, protesters met on the Cathedral Green before spreading out into the traffic arteries near the council offices and around the harbour. Every Saturday the place came to a virtual standstill. From where he was walking now he could see that traffic across the Old Town was hardly moving at all. Most drivers sat talking on the phone or fiddling with their sat navs and radios: there was little else they could do. In this otherwise picturesque one-way street, he came across a new development. Traffic here hadn’t moved for a while. The narrow street was solid with stationary vehicles. One driver of an ancient Fiat had got out of his car in front of a cafe with small tables on the pavement. He was now sipping coffee in comfort and nibbling on a biscuit. Since then traffic in front of his car had moved by a couple of car-lengths before grinding to a complete halt again. It was enough to get the drivers who were waiting behind his car agitated. A uniformed police officer was engaged in an argument with the man at the cafe table. As McLusky passed the scene the officer stopped him. It was lanky Constable Pym. ‘Ah, Inspector McLusky, I’m glad it’s you, sir.’

To McLusky this was such an unusual sentiment that his face expressed severe doubt. ‘What is it, Pym?’

‘We got a call from one of the drivers behind here, the second one along, I think. You see, sir, this gentleman here is the driver of that Fiat, which he simply abandoned in the street.’

The driver, a hungover-looking man in his thirties, shook his head. ‘I have not abandoned it. The keys are in the ignition and it’s unlocked and I’m having a coffee. Look, it’s gridlock, or as near as. I forgot it was Saturday or I wouldn’t have come into town at all, it’s always like this.’

‘I’ve been trying to tell the gentleman that it is a violation of the highway code to leave a vehicle unattended in a place where it is likely…’

The man raised a hand in protest. ‘It’s not unattended, I’m right here, I’m attending it, but I’m attending it while drinking coffee.’ He demonstrated this by taking a sip of frothy coffee and fixing his eyes on his car.

Pym scratched his neck with the pen from his notebook and turned to McLusky. ‘You see, sir, the problem is, if he refuses to go back to his vehicle I’ll have to arrest him but if I arrest him who’s going to move his car?’

‘Arrest him? I’m not sure you can force people to sit in their vehicles, unless they’re actually in motion. At least I think so, though don’t quote me on that. Well, I mean look at it …’ He swept an arm in the direction of the cars stacked up the hill. ‘Nothing’s moving, and somehow you’d think they’d turn their engines off …’

Somewhere in the queue someone gave an impatient blast of the horn. Several others joined in for a short concert. A shout of ‘Get a fucking move on’ came from somewhere. McLusky turned to the owner of the Fiat. ‘Is that cappuccino you’re drinking, sir?’

‘So?’

‘Is it any good?’

‘It’s not brilliant but okay, I guess. You do get a biscuit with it.’

‘Amaretti?’

‘I think that’s what they’re called. Has a sort of almond taste. You could always ask the waitress.’

Constable Pym couldn’t believe his ears. Out there a riot was brewing and the inspector was discussing the quality of coffee.

McLusky noted the name of the cafe, Carlotta’s. ‘Well, finish your cappuccino by all means, sir, but after that pull your car forward. With any luck there might be another cafe further along.’

The man grinned. ‘Yeah, there is actually. Okay then.’

McLusky widened his eyes at Constable Pym: and where was the problem?

‘But, sir, we might get a public order situation in a minute.’ He nodded the back of his head at the snarled-up traffic.

‘No we won’t, ’cos you’re here. Talk to them. Have a chat. But don’t let them pee in your helmet, however desperate. You’ll be fine.’ He moved on.

Pym watched him saunter down the road. McLusky. Where on earth did they find him?

Wherever McLusky went it was all the same: traffic crawling or stationary, and short-tempered drivers using their horns with un-British frequency and ferocity. Cyclists still squeezed through some streets, many no doubt feeling that their day had come, and pedestrians walked freely between the cars and into the path of the unexpected cyclists. He followed the fingerposts towards the cathedral, through narrow alleys and down uneven flights of steps, and soon got to the heart of the chaos. He stopped next to a grey-haired sergeant from Traffic who was standing in his viz jacket by his car parked on the broad pavement. Showing his ID, McLusky explained that he was new in town and they both watched the spectacle for a while.

It had the air of a carnival. Many of the protesters had dressed up in bright costume; a great number of them wore dust masks or gas masks. Whistle-blowing and drumming syncopated the slow march. There was a surprising number of elderly people too. A few children, some wearing Hallowe’en death masks, were being pulled along in soap-box-and-pram-wheel carts shaped and painted to look like coffins.

The earlier protest marches along the main arteries had been judged illegal because of their disruptive quality and the damage done to city centre businesses. These new tactics by the protesters were simple but just as effective. Strings of protesters simply crossed and recrossed strategically chosen streets at the centre of the traffic system in a continuous loop. The zebra crossings they had chosen were all within sight of each other. Many protesters worked the pavements too, giving out leaflets to pedestrians. The braver ones stuck them on windscreens.

‘Looks like we have all types of people here.’

‘Yes, it’s quite a disparate group, concerned citizens as well as the usual lot. There’s a few students, cycling clubs, Green Party activists, Friends of the Earth, old hippies, skip divers, concerned citizens. Not so many parents of school-age kids of course.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They’re mainly the ones in the cars, sir. Everyone thinks it’s the other people who should drive less.’

According to the sergeant there was nothing they could do about the zebra crossings. In fact police were now employed in stopping irate car drivers from trying to simply barge their way through the crossing protesters. ‘Clever and simple. But we’re not so worried about the fact that the traffic comes to a standstill, that’s a matter for the council to address. Because frankly, a few more cars and you won’t need a protest march to have gridlock on a regular basis. We had real gridlock once already, one Saturday, last year. We analysed it. All it took was the crowds from the kite festival trying to get home, a drunken fight in the middle of Park Street, a broken-down tourist bus just over there,’ he pointed to the junction, ‘and an abnormally wide load arriving from the motorway, delivering a boat. Oh yes, and some big football game on telly so the pubs were filling up. For several hours nothing much moved. You couldn’t get emergency vehicles anywhere. Even the motorcycle ambulance came a cropper. One arsonist could have levelled the town centre, we’d have needed bucket chains to put it out.’

McLusky stepped into the road and picked up a couple of discarded flyers. One had the picture of a dog wearing a gas mask on it — an image he seemed to remember from a book about the blitz — and carried stark warnings about the health impact of car fumes, especially on children. The second flyer concentrated on the contribution of car traffic to global warming.

‘These aren’t the ones we’re worried about, sir. I have two children myself and my youngest has asthma. They have a point about the pollution.’ He reached into the car and took out a blue folder, flicking it open. ‘But these have started appearing now.’ The leaflet in the clear plastic sleeve was simply produced on a computer’s printer and exhorted in large letters: HELP SAVE THE CITY, DISABLE A CAR TODAY. ‘That’s clearly going beyond legitimate protest. We’re trying to catch who’s been distributing them but we’re too late for today, I think. We do video the protests of course but we’re not exactly MI5, our cameras can’t tell one flyer from another.’

‘Is there any indication that people might follow this advice?’

‘There is indeed. Nothing too drastic as yet, just a spate of motorists finding all their tyres let down. Sometimes it’s a whole street and of course nobody’s got four spares so it is quite effective that, if you want to stop people from driving. Then there’s that nutter sticking fruit up people’s exhausts and splattering mud all over 4?4s.’

‘Yeah, I heard about that. Our super’s had his 4?4 treated thus twice.’

The officer’s face briefly brightened. ‘Denkhaus? I’m not saying a word. But the mud they use is very dark and sticky. We were wondering if perhaps we could get the mud analysed. Maybe if we knew where it came from we might be able to catch the little toerag.’

McLusky sadly shook his head. ‘Not a snowball’s. Oh, you can try sending in a sample, only by the time it comes back from Chepstow the internal combustion engine will be a distant memory. You’d have a better chance with a poster saying Have You Seen This Mud?’

‘That bad, is it?’

‘Even if you’re investigating murder.’ Unless … Perhaps mud was the answer. Perhaps mud was just what he needed. ‘Tell you what, though. I do know a chemist at the uni who might take a look at it. I can’t promise anything, of course.’ He gave a prolonged shrug. ‘But it might be worth a try.’ It might be a good excuse to see Dr Louise Rennie again.

Now the officer had visibly brightened up. It wasn’t every day a CID officer took an interest when he didn’t have to. ‘Really? That’s very … that would be good, yes. Where …?’

‘I’m working out of Albany Road. Send the sample direct to me, McLusky.’

As he walked on he spotted one of the offensive leaflets on the pavement and picked it up. Disable a car today. It had a clean logic to it. Stop the car and you stop the pollution. As he climbed back up the streets towards Albany Road he got a good view of part of the city centre around the cathedral, the council offices and the enormous Marriott Royal Hotel, the streets all around solid with cars. It looked like madness. All these people surrounded by painted metal, going nowhere.

One man’s misfortune, of course, was another man’s opportunity. Shoplifting and other petty crime had risen dramatically on Saturdays because the thieves knew police cars were practically grounded during the protests. Foot patrols had been stepped up. Bicycles had been issued to several fit constables to respond in a traditional, low-tech way. They were a hit with the public and had produced some arrests as well as sprained wrists and ankles and in one case concussion.

If only he could take a good look at his own case from a great height too, perhaps he’d be able to see what kind of madness lurked in there. He turned into the still-stagnant one-way street with the intention of trying the cappuccino at Carlotta’s, perhaps get a bite to eat too. For some reason he had felt perpetually hungry ever since coming to this town. When he got there he was drawn further along by the french-fry-and-ale aroma emanating from the Neptune Inn a few doors along.

The interior design leant heavily on the pub’s name, with tridents, bladder wrack seaweed and fishing nets on the ceiling. The blackboard menu included several fish dishes to keep up the theme and he ordered the simplest-sounding one, with an extra portion of chips and a pint of Guinness. The food arrived by the time he had half-drained his pint. When his mobile chimed with the sober factory-setting ring tone he recognized the caller as DS Austin. A premonition made him stuff his mouth with chips before he answered it. ‘Mn-nn?’

‘Liam, it’s Jane. Where are you?’

McLusky swallowed. ‘Lunch.’ He broke up some of the fish with his fork. ‘Where’s the fire?’ He quickly shovelled as much fish, chips and peas into his mouth as was feasible. From across the pub the barmaid eyed him with disgust: that man in the leather jacket ate like a pig while talking on the phone.

‘You’ll be lunch if the super is to be believed. And the fire will be under your posterior if you don’t get it over here quickly.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Can’t talk, just get here.’

‘On my way.’ He pocketed the mobile and looked at his barely touched food. Five minutes wouldn’t make any difference, would it? Perhaps it would, Austin had sounded worried. One more mouthful and he was on his way. He couldn’t even use the traffic as an excuse, the Polo had been sitting in plain view in the station car park all the while.

At Albany Road he caught the atmosphere at once. Everyone in the incident room tried to look heads-down busy. He was hoping Jane would fill him in but all DS Austin managed was to wave a newspaper from across the incident room before Denkhaus darkened the door and growled, ‘McLusky, my office, now.’ As the super turned away Austin held up the early edition of the Post so he could read the headline: PSYCHOTIC BASTARD.

He shrugged his shoulders. Who, me? As he walked past the CID room Sorbie’s smile followed him down the corridor. Another nail in the man’s coffin.

Denkhaus had left his door ajar. Lynn Tiery, his secretary, arched her eyebrows and puckered her lips but didn’t look up.

McLusky slid into the superintendent’s office and closed the door behind him. He remained standing and wasn’t invited to sit. Denkhaus slapped a copy of the Post across the desk, then slammed his open hand on the front page and began bellowing. ‘Have you lost your mind, McLusky? How dare you talk to the press without authorization? Since when do junior officers give interviews? What do you think the bloody press office is for?’

‘I’m really not sure what this is about. I didn’t talk to the press and I gave no interviews. Can I have a look?’

Denkhaus put an unpleasant smile on his fleshy face. ‘You haven’t seen the Post? Then by all means borrow my copy, DI McLusky.’

He picked it up and read while Denkhaus impatiently quoted bits at him from memory. ‘Police have branded bomber a psychotic bastard! We are looking for a coward! Investigating officer doubts bomber will be caught any time soon! God knows what will blow up next!’

An evil feeling stole into his stomach which had nothing to do with lack of food. He recognized his own thoughts but how …? Then it came to him. The chain-smoking woman upstairs at the Quiet Lady. ‘I didn’t know she was a journalist, sir. Just a chat with someone over a pint.’

Denkhaus thumped the top of the paper. ‘Phil Warren, that’s who she was.’ That’s what came from letting brand-new DIs loose when they didn’t know their way around town yet. He blamed himself. But McLusky should have had more sense than to express his opinions to a civilian like that. ‘It was underhand bloody tactics from Phil, which you should always expect from her. Of course we’ll make an official complaint but the damage is done now. The phones have been running hot. McLusky, you just can’t go and tell a civilian you think it’ll take a long time to catch this bastard. What’s the point of me giving press conferences, reassuring the public and managing the press if you shoot your mouth off in the pub? Were you drunk?’

‘No, sir, I don’t have that excuse.’

‘You think I’d accept drunkenness as an excuse? Don’t make things worse. You’re not endearing yourself to me, detective inspector. What’s more, did you mean it? Are you going to tell me you don’t think we’ll apprehend him any time soon?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. If the bomber turns out to be our skateboarder then we might wrap it up soon. But I have my doubts. In the absence of useful DNA or witnesses we’ll be hard pushed to make an early arrest. If the devices aren’t targeted, if they’re just left lying about, then the usual connection between victim and perpetrator isn’t there to tell us anything. Needless to say I have every confidence in the team. Jane, James Austin, I mean, is a first-rate detective.’

‘I know. But are you, McLusky?’ Denkhaus swivelled his chair and looked out over the city, hazy with pollution. There was no point giving the case to someone else, it would simply set the investigation back and if the papers got wind of it they would try and make something of it. McLusky would have to do for now. But he would have to do better. ‘I expect results. I want to see you making progress on tracking this guy. What do Forensics have to say?’

‘Very little, sir. Home-made devices, commercial gunpowder extracted from fireworks. There’s no report on the beer can yet but the preliminary report on the powder compact said it also contained a proportion of magnesium, which burns with a bright, intensely hot flame. That’s what did the damage there. All the ingredients, everything about the devices is freely available to anyone, though we are checking with suppliers of course.’

‘And no useful DNA?’

‘None at all, sir. If there ever was any, then it was destroyed when the devices went up.’

The faint cries of gulls penetrated through the glass along with the sound of car horns. Denkhaus nodded sagely. Destroyed. That reminded him. One thing he had to give McLusky: he wrote a good report. His account of how he had used the plain unit against the digger so he could get the woman out of the house read very well. It was bound to be pure fabrication but the ACC would be satisfied with it and that’s what really mattered. ‘Right.’ He swivelled round to face the DI, who was still standing. The man had one hand in his pocket and looked far too relaxed. ‘In future you will play your cards close to your chest and be a lot more careful who you talk to. I’ll see what I can do to calm the waters but it will be difficult. Stirring up panic sells papers which means they’ll milk this for all it’s worth. The next time you have something you wish the public to know you can talk to the press office. After talking to your superiors. I am very disappointed, McLusky. You have seriously undermined my public relations efforts. Now get out there and catch the psychotic bastard before the coward kills again.’

McLusky bit back the remark that actually he had been out there when he was called in here. He just nodded and left the office. Lynn Tiery’s eyebrows had returned to their normal position but she still didn’t bother looking up.

DI Fairfield was glad when she could reasonably call her shift finished and leave. Since it was Saturday she had left her Renault at home and taken the bus in. At least if that got stuck in the Saturday protests you could get off and walk. Miraculously she had managed to get to work this morning before the traffic seized up. Now she was walking home. Cars were still crawling through the centre and going on foot would probably be quicker. What she really needed was a drink. She had briefly considered the Green Man but the prospect of a pub full of colleagues, mainly those with no real homes to go to, failed to rouse her enthusiasm. Not that she felt great fervour for anything much at the moment. There seemed to be no movement anywhere, not in her work and not in her private life. The recent upsurge in burglaries had them all playing catch-up; sometimes householders didn’t see police until days after the event and complained bitterly to the poor officer who eventually did turn up. At least the Mobile Muggers gave it a rest at the weekend, though other street robberies increased. As a result her last two, or was it three, drawing classes had slipped away because she had simply been too tired to contemplate them. On the plus side McLusky had been reprimanded today for shooting his mouth off to the press, which meant her day had not been a complete write-off.

Fairfield was nearing her Cotham maisonette. The place seemed full of students, all walking in the opposite direction to her, knowing something she didn’t. It had taken her over half an hour to walk. The wind was now in the south; unseasonal cold had given way to curiously mild air. Abruptly she stopped walking as though her energy supply had been cut off. What was she going home for? There really was no point. She was tired but it wasn’t the kind of tiredness that could be cured by sleep. It was a tiredness of the mind that hung in strength-sapping billows around every thought. Her place would be empty. There was nothing she’d fancy eating in the house because the last time she’d been shopping she had foolishly decided to be virtuous and leave all her cravings unanswered. Damn. She didn’t want to spend another night drinking supermarket plonk in front of the telly. It was Saturday, when had she started staying in on Saturday nights? Probably years ago, she could hardly remember when she’d last been out having a good time. Or even trying to have a good time. Or just been out, even. She used to have a couple of girlfriends who could be relied upon for going into town with, but one had moved to London and the other was busy night-feeding twins.

If she was going to go out for a drink she should really go home and change first. And eat something. Only by the time she’d showered, changed, eaten something sensible in her sensible kitchen and come out again she’d be too fed up to enjoy a drink. She’d end up in front of the telly drinking supermarket plonk, she just knew it.

The kebab place was open and willing. When she emerged with her hot and soft parcel of junk food she looked guiltily up and down the street. She should arrest herself for crimes against nutrition. What would her mother say to this bad imitation of Greek food? Her mind went back to the light and heat of Kerkyra, where one of her numerous distant cousins had sweated cheerfully in a real psistaria, handing her fragrant kebabs in soft pitta bread at the price of a smile. On Sundays he would take her to the beach on the back of his tiny scooter … Kat blinked the images away. She hadn’t been back there for years. It seemed so long ago, so far away, it might as well have happened on a different planet or in a different life. Perhaps it had happened to someone else.

A distant rumble of thunder made her look up. Black clouds were drifting across on the warm southerly breeze. It didn’t matter, she knew where she was headed now. With practised timing she made the last morsel of junk food disappear just as she arrived at the Black Swan. It would be full of men, drinking with one or both eyes on the giant TV screen, but at least there would be no loud music. Any port in a storm.

The place was busy, all the tables taken. She found a free bar stool. The men occupying the others checked her over, some staring unapologetically. She was resigned to the fact that she would have to fend off some kind of unwanted attention sooner or later. It was the price you paid for being a woman and daring to drink alone.

She decided that after what she had just eaten only lager would do. The barman obliged. After draining half of her pint she was beginning to feel that perhaps the evening might be rescued after all. Fairfield relaxed her shoulders.

Then she heard the voice. There was no mistaking Ady Mitchell’s flat vowels and sloppy consonants. At first she couldn’t make out what he was saying above the general noise. He was talking excitedly, then there followed the laughter of several men. She turned slowly around to look, hoping that she hadn’t been discovered. He was sitting at a table with three other men she didn’t recognize. Mitchell himself was about forty, large, with a spreading tonsure of baldness. He was holding forth to his younger audience with his flat hard face grinning straight at her. Fairfield thought she heard him say, ‘Watch this, guys,’ as he made a big show of getting up, taking a drink, then working his way across the pub towards her.

Why did the bastard have to be drinking in this of all places? After her official reprimand for ‘harassing’ Mitchell outside his lock-up this was a bad situation. And Mitchell knew it. Fairfield reached for her glass, intending to empty it before leaving, but it was too late. Mitchell appeared beside her, elbowing her neighbour in the ribs to make space for himself. The man looked up ready to take umbrage. Recognizing the hunger for a fight in Mitchell’s face he changed his mind and retired to a safe distance, taking his drink with him.

Mitchell talked loudly, to give the pub the benefit of his wit. ‘Well, if it isn’t the delectable detective inspectorette. You just can’t resist my charms, can you?’ He smelled of aftershave and Southern Comfort. His thin wet lips stretched into a broad unpleasant smile. Fairfield realized she had reacted too late. If she slipped off the bar stool now he’d be towering over her by at least a foot and there was hardly space to turn around, the place was so crowded. He slapped a hand on the bar, attracting the attention of those who weren’t already watching. ‘The girl can’t help herself. The little inspector has the hots for me and just can’t stay away. I even had to take out a restraining order against her but here she is again like the proverbial bad penny.’ He was almost shouting now, no doubt for the benefit of the grinning audience at his table. One of his mates was filming the entire scene on his mobile. This wasn’t good. ‘What is this, police harassment or sexual harassment? Haven’t you got any mates that you have to follow me about? I told you before you’re not my type, sweetheart.’ Waggling his mobile in front of her he lowered his voice and spoke straight into her face from a distance of less than three inches. ‘You must think I’m real stupid if you think you can get to me like this. I could easily make life real difficult for you, love. One phone call from me to your boss Denkhaus and you’re up to your neck in shit. So fuck off, you stupid little bitch.’

Fairfield found that her hand was still holding on to her pint, gripping it hard. The urge to smash it into Mitchell’s face was strong but there was a stronger voice telling her to let go. Let this one go. There are too many witnesses. Say absolutely nothing. Back off. You’ll get him later. Be professional.

It was a career decision. She let go of the glass, took her leather handbag off the bar and used it to create enough space between herself and Mitchell to slide off the stool without colliding with his steamed-up face. The exit seemed a long distance away. She walked across the floor, people making way for her, many eyes following her. The boy with the phone was recording her retreat.

‘Piss off, copper!’ Not Mitchell’s, a young voice brave with anonymity. Someone near the door attempted a la-la-la version of a cop show’s title music. Applause broke out at Mitchell’s table, then she was outside, the door falling shut behind her, muting the noise.

Rain was bouncing off the pavement. Shit. She rummaged in her handbag for her tiny umbrella but it wasn’t there. There was no point in calling a cab, she couldn’t hang around here. It was only water. She struck out towards home through the hard city rain. And if she should cry, in this rain who would notice?