Fell Purpose

FIVE

All Creatures Grunt and Smell

It was late when Slider got home, but Joanna was there to greet him with a kiss, and there was a welcome fragrance of cooking in the air. He understood completely why married men were said to live longer than single ones.

‘I bet you haven’t eaten all day,’ she said. ‘I made a big soup. It’s all hot and ready, on the table as soon as you like.’

He only had to shed his jacket and tie and wash his hands. Joanna’s soups were a meal in themselves, so packed with good things you practically needed a knife and fork to eat them. After a large bowlful, accompanied by the heel end of a chunky loaf (she always saved the heels for him, though he suspected she liked them herself – she took wifehood very seriously, he realized humbly), he was feeling revived enough to pay proper attention to a morsel of cheese, with which she thoughtfully put out a glass of Bruichladdich. He sighed and looked at her. ‘I’d marry you if you weren’t a married woman.’

She batted her eyelashes. ‘I love you, too. So, how’s it going?’

‘Too early to say. Thousands of canvasses to go through, lots of sightings of young people and young couples in and around the area but nothing stands out yet. One obvious suspect but only because he’s a bad hat and he knew her. We’ve nothing on him.’

‘Oh, well that all sounds wonderfully positive,’ she said. ‘You look bushed. Another Brutal Laddie?’

‘Just a tiny one. Have one with me?’

‘Just a tiny one.’

‘I interviewed the victim’s best friend today,’ he said while she poured. ‘Or I should say “mate”. God, it was depressing. Girl from a well-to-do middle-class family, attending a fee-paying school, and she talks and behaves like a trollop. It made me think of Kate. I don’t want her becoming like that, but I suspect there’s nothing anyone can do to prevent it. I don’t suppose the Cooper-Hutchinsons planned their Sophy to be like that, but the culture is stronger than the people.’

‘Don’t be silly – the culture is the people,’ she said briskly. ‘Mostly people are too indolent. It’s a huge effort to take a stand over things, and they can’t be bothered. They’d sooner be friends with their children than try to discipline them.’

‘Tough talk.’ Slider smiled wearily at her. ‘I can’t even influence Kate now, let alone discipline her. We really have to find somewhere with another bedroom, so I can have them to stay. I can’t be a part of her life when I can only see her for a couple of hours at an amusement park like a Divorce Dad. Did you have any luck today?’

‘Oh, I saw the details of a lot of properties, but nothing we can afford. One estate agent recommended looking at the auction sites. There are a lot of repossessed properties coming on at the moment, at rock-bottom prices. I’ve got the details of a couple of sites. I’ll have a go at it tomorrow when the baby’s napping.’

‘Talking of the baby, have you found a sitter for Thursday night?’

‘I asked Emily, and she jumped at it. You’d think I was doing her the favour.’

‘Oh good! Funny Atherton didn’t say anything to me.’

‘She probably hasn’t spoken to him, any more than I spoke to you,’ she pointed out kindly. ‘She’s thrilled about it, bless her. Says she’s never looked after a baby before, and can’t wait.’

Slider stirred. ‘Never looked after a baby? Is that a good idea, then?’

‘Good practice for her, for when she and Jim get at it.’

‘I think they’re at it already.’

‘Parenthood, rather than mere vigorous bonking.’

‘But I meant, is it a good idea for the baby?’

‘Oh, what could go wrong?’ she said. ‘Worst case he howls all evening, which won’t hurt him, and will prepare her for the realities of life.’

He smiled. ‘I love your cavalier attitude to our only offspring.’

‘You’re a worrier. Probably comes from being an only child. When you come from a big family like me, you’re expected to get on with it and survive. My older sisters used to use me for netball practice,’ she boasted largely. ‘Never did me any harm.’

‘I used to sit in for the smoking beagles for pocket money,’ he capped her.

She smiled, glad to see he had relaxed: that tense, grey look had gone out of his face. ‘I’m ready for bed,’ she said. ‘How do you feel about sleeping with a married woman?’

He pretended to consider. ‘Sounds good to me. Have you got her number?’

‘I’ve got your number, you Lothario. Leave the dishes,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll clear it in the morning. I want my cot.’

He caught her up, slid an arm round her waist, and nibbled her neck. ‘How do you feel about making love with a married man?’

‘As long as you don’t wake up my baby.’

They headed for the bedroom, where the bedside lamp was already on to guide them home. ‘I can’t help feeling,’ he said, ‘that learning how to do it really quietly has got to come in handy some time.’

Detective Inspector Douglas ‘call me Duggie’ Sweyback of Woodley Green nick (which had responsibility for the Woodley South Estate) had trotted out the tea and biscuits – custard cream, coconut ring and Abbey Crunch – as soon as Slider arrived, and was plainly spoiling for a chat, so it was some time before Slider was able to get down to the matter in hand.

Sweyback’s name owed more to Nabisco than Quasimodo, as he had revealed during an etymological discussion at a junket they had both attended: in fact, he was as tall and straight as a reasonable man needed to be, taller and more heavily built than Slider, only somewhat under-endowed in the follicular department – something that was often on his mind. Slider had more than once heard his treatise on Why Bald Men Don’t Get On (subheading No Bald Man Will Ever Be Prime Minister Again). Sweyback regarded Slider as a bit of a soul mate, largely because it was unusual for an older copper to remain at station level rather than levitating to the SOs, or copping out to the cushy desk jobs. When they turned up at the same do, as happened from time to time, Sweyback would hasten to Slider’s side with the glad eagerness of a German tourist spotting a sausage, and would bend his ear about the sheer awfulness of the Job these days.

The last such occasion had been a seminar on Policing By Intelligence, and Sweyback reverted to it now, dunking his Abbey Crunch in the PG Tips, and reeling out a few things he had thought of since and hadn’t had a chance to air to anyone yet.

‘Policing By Intelligence? What we need is policing with intelligence, but fat chance of getting any of that these days! You know what the other thing means: crouching over a computer all day, never going out on the street, fiddling your figures to make it look as if you’re doing your job properly. You can’t police from a desk. But these youngsters don’t know what I’m talking about. Do you know, I haven’t got a single person over thirty-five on my firm? I’m saddled with kids still wet behind the ears, and of course that’s the way they’ve been brought up. If it’s not in the computer they don’t want to know. You talk about knowing your own ground and knowing your own villains and working up your own snouts, and they look at you as if you were talking Chinese. You know what I mean, Bill. You’re like me. We’re from the old school. I’m a copper’s copper, and I’m not ashamed to say it, I don’t care who’s listening. But the Job’s going to the dogs. I don’t know why I carry on sometimes. They won’t let you catch criminals, and when you do catch them, the CPS won’t prosecute. Did you see that statistic in the paper the other day? Only fifteen per cent of serious crimes end up with a jail sentence.’

Slider listened patiently – he agreed with much of what Sweyback said, but hearing him saying it was a useful lesson to take on board about not sounding like a disgruntled old fart. He waited for him to run down (it was never much longer after the ‘I’m a copper’s copper’ bit) and occupied the unused part of his brain with wondering whether Duggie’s teeth were natural or not. They were so white and even, it either suggested tremendous lifelong care, or the old Royal Doulton job.

Eventually Sweyback reached the bit about having had it up to here and thinking about early retirement, and Slider was able to say, ‘Go on with you, you’ll die in the saddle. What would you do with retirement – play golf and collect beer mats? You’d miss Woodley South too much.’

‘Miss it? It’ll be the death of me!’ But it was enough of a reminder. Sweyback pulled himself together and said, ‘You’re interested in one of my home-grown villains, aren’t you? Young Michael Carmichael.’

‘Yes, what can you tell me about him? What’s he like?’

‘Cocky young devil. Too much of this.’ He flapped his hand in the ‘mouthy’ gesture. ‘Too clever for his own good, that’d be my verdict. He’s bright enough, could have made something of himself, but like all these kids he’s lazy – wants everything now. So he goes the easy route.’

‘He’s been in trouble for possession, I understand.’

‘Yes, and I’d bet my last biccie he’s dealing, but we’ve never been able to nail him for it. He can spot a ringer too easily, and he seems to know by instinct when we set up a surveillance, and just melts away. But I know for a fact he supplies his mum. Well, who else’d do it? Lilian – Lilly – Atwood’s her name. She’s a big user.’

‘Not Carmichael, then?’

‘I don’t know that she ever married Michael’s dad. He calls himself Carmichael, but anyway what’s in a name, as the Bard says. Atwood’s her third, the one after Carmichael. He’s inside now – Atwood is – doing a ten stretch for armed robbery. He was the one that was around while Michael was growing up. Her first one, O’Dade, he’s dead, killed in a pub fight donkeys’ years ago. That was about my first case when I came to Woodley Green. Old Lilly was quite a looker in those days, not that you’d know it now. She’d already started drinking too much and putting herself about when O’Dade snuffed it. Then she had this brief thing with Carmichael. Could have gone respectable at that point – he was a rep for a paper company, Bowman’s of Bracknell. But he took off when she got in the club. He’d seen the future and it didn’t work. Then not long after she had young Michael she fell in with Atwood. That was her downfall. He’s a nasty, violent piece of shit. In and out of chokey, drunk more often than not, belted her and the kids – she had three more by him, one whenever he was out. They’re in care, now. First she went on the sauce, and now she’s doing drugs. She’s hanging round the pubs most nights, bumming for drinks.’

‘Prostitution?’ Slider asked.

‘She used to make quite a living that way. When she’s not monged she’s one of those women they call lively – which means she’s noisy, got a foul mouth and she laughs a lot – but there’s a lot of men on the Woodley South don’t ask for more. But she’s not often straight enough these days to make a living at it. It’s low-level stuff now. She’ll do it down an alley or in a car for the price of a wrap. We’ve taken her up for soliciting a few times – more to move her on than in hope of a prosecution. But she’ll do it anywhere with anyone. They call her Lilly the Pink. I’ll leave you to work out why.’ He paused a beat, and added in conclusion, ‘Not too much of a surprise that young Michael went wrong.’

‘He’s still living there, is he, with his mother?’

‘You tell me,’ Sweyback said, scratching delicately at his pate. ‘I haven’t seen him about as much the last few months, but he’s still there sometimes. Bringing her the doings, I suppose. Who knows where these youngsters hang out nowadays. It’s not like when we were kids – they all sleep on each other’s floors. Anywhere’s home. To be frank with you, if he’s not on my radar I’m not worrying about him. He’s the kind of lad that, when he finally goes over, it’ll be big trouble for everyone. You know some kids just potter along being a low-grade nuisance, and in some ways they’re the worst because you can’t do much about ’em. But there’s others marked out for glory, as the Bard says, and they eventually go down hard for something really big. Carmichael’s that sort. He’s a storm brewing, he is. A disaster waiting to happen.’

‘Is he violent?’

‘Quick-tempered, I’d say. Quick to take offence. And handy with his fists. Well, with a dad like Atwood it’s not surprising. That’s all he’s known – when in doubt, lash out. He’s been in a lot of fights but we’ve never had him for anything more than that. And being a fighter’s kept him out of the gangs, which is one blessing: the only thing we’ve got over them is they’re all pig stupid, and someone like Michael could pull ’em together into a real menace, if he was interested. What’s your interest in him, by the way?’ He gave in at last to the curiosity that had been burning him for the last ten minutes.

‘We think he might have known our latest murder victim.’

‘Oh, that girl on the Scrubs? I saw that in the papers, wondered if it was yours. You fancy him for it, do you?’

‘Haven’t got that far. But he was going out with her at one time.’

‘Was he? Sinning above his station, eh?’

‘Did he have a reputation that way?’

‘What, for girls? They couldn’t get enough of him.’

‘And did he smack them around?’

‘Never had any complaints against him. Of course, he grew up seeing it at home, and often they repeat what they know. But he never had to force anyone, I can tell you that. Good looking, leery sort of lad. Always had a girl on his arm. But I’ll say this – I can see him killing a girl in a temper, if she got across him the wrong way.’

Slider nodded. ‘It looks like that sort of murder.’ Except for the tights, he thought uneasily. The tights were a real thorn in the woodpile, as Porson might say. ‘Well, thanks a lot, Duggie. You’ve given me quite a graphic picture of him. A great help.’

‘Murder, eh?’ Sweyback said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I said when he went, he’d go big. Are you going round his mum’s house?’

‘Yes, in the hope that he might be there. What does she do, by the way?’

‘Drugs? Well, she’ll do anything she can get. Dope, coke. Scag – she smokes that. Booze when she can’t get anything else. Haven’t seen the boy around lately but he comes and goes, and you might get something out of her about where to look. Probably a good time to catch her,’ he added, looking at his watch. ‘After she wakes up and before she goes looking for the next fix.’

‘Right,’ said Slider.

Sweyback rose to his feet and extended a hand like a ham for Slider to shake. ‘If I spot him around, or if one of my snouts spots him, shall I tug him for you?’

‘That would be grand,’ Slider said. ‘Thanks a lot, Duggie.’

‘No trouble. Us old ’uns have got to stick together. There aren’t many of us left.’

The Woodley South was as depressing as he had known it would be – a wasteland of mean houses, boarded-up windows, broken fences and dying hedges, trampled front gardens full of junk, the rotting corpses of dead cars that the boy vultures were taking a long time devouring. Slider had brought Fathom and McLaren with him in case of trouble – Fathom because he was big and meaty, and McLaren because he was tough and whippy and quick in a fight. He collected them from the Woodley Green canteen where they had been wiling away the time he was with Sweyback. McLaren, at least, had understood that the purpose of the canteen stop was not to fill up the tea-tank – though he had managed to take on board a cheese roll and a massive chunk of coconut cake, and was now finishing a giant Mars Bar in the car while Slider drove.

But he said, ‘I got it from one of the woodentops in the canteen that Lilly Atwood’s shacked up with a black bloke at the moment.’

‘Don’t slobber chocolate down my neck.’

‘Sorry, guv. Anyway, this bloke’s half her age, name of Leonard McGrory, Lennie, local Reading lad, got a bit of form, TDAs, shoplifting, possession, and done time for malicious wounding – he knifed some dealer that was trying to stiff him. Got six months for that. God knows what he’s doing with Lilly the Pink, but maybe it’s got something to do with Mike Carmichael, if he is dealing.’

‘Well done,’ Slider said. ‘Always useful to know what we’re facing. What did you find out, Fathom?’

‘I didn’t know we were supposed to be finding stuff out,’ he said, a touch sulkily.

‘He spent the time smoking too much and watching me,’ McLaren said.

‘I didn’t know we were on duty,’ Fathom complained.

‘You’re always on duty,’ Slider said. ‘And if you don’t know that finding stuff out is your job, you shouldn’t be in the CID.’

‘Sorry, guv.’

‘Mind you, watching McLaren eat is always an education. But if he can eat and work, you can watch and work. You should have got chatting to someone.’

‘Lazy, that’s his problem,’ said McLaren, who had raised inertia to an art form.

If anyone was going to criticize Slider’s troops, he’d do it himself. To balance the books he said to McLaren, ‘If you applied to women the expert attention you apply to food, you’d have to become a Mormon.’ McLaren was famous in the firm for not having had a date for years. He slowed the car. ‘This is it. What a name for a road like this – Applelea.’

‘This used to be called the Orchard Estate when it was first built,’ McLaren said. ‘Bloke in the canteen told me it was all farmland, orchards and stuff, up to the sixties. So they gave all the roads farmy names. Gawd ’elp us.’

Slider had noticed. Apart from Applelea they had passed High Garth, Hay Wain, Cherry Orchard Lane, Plum Tree Lane, Tithe Road, Orchard View, and Blossom View. A rural paradise, care of central government post-war planning. As McLaren so aptly observed, Gawd ’elp us.

Number fourteen was just as tatty and desolate as its neighbours, but it was obviously inhabited: all its windows still had their glass and all were curtained. The curtains in the downstairs window were drawn shut, rough-looking red cloth hanging slightly askew, though the upstairs ones were open. There was a sheet of hardboard nailed over the glass portion of the front door, and the house number was missing, though a paler outline in the dirty paint showed where it had been. They walked cautiously up the path, and when they neared the house they saw that the front door, though pulled to, was not completely shut. The wood of the frame, however, was not splintered. It had not been jemmied or kicked in: it must either have been left open deliberately, or had been pushed carelessly by the last person in or out, who had not checked that it had latched.

Slider pushed it cautiously, and it swung back. A narrow, dark hall led straight back to a kitchen, whose open door revealed a scene of dirty crockery, fast-food boxes, and general rubbish in greater amount than you would have thought possible in a room that small. The stairs, narrow and steep, were to the left. To the right was the single downstairs room, whose door was slightly ajar, enough to see it was dark inside, the curtains closed and no light on. Pop music was sounding in there at medium volume from a radio station. The carpet underfoot and up the stairs was filthy with footmarks and spillings, and in the air was a smell of dirt, feet, fat, hashish and rancid garbage.

That living-room door had the look of a trap to Slider. Had they seen him coming, and were luring him in? But he thought of Lilly the Pink and her half-age shack-up. People like that rarely showed cunning. They just reacted belatedly when something came at them. A movement from the kitchen caught his eye and he could tell from the sharpness of the chill down his neck how tense he was. A rat was sitting on top of the heap of plates and cardboard boxes on the draining board, working on a Kentucky Fried Chicken bone. Slider forced his shoulders to relax. He wished the rat no ill. Anyway, it was the only one in this house who was doing any clearing up.

There had been no sound or movement anywhere, so indicating for Fathom to stay by the door, in case there was anyone upstairs, and for McLaren to keep close, he pushed the living-room door all the way open. Even in the dim red light filtering through the curtains he could see well enough to pick out a scattering of cheap furniture, a television – turned off – and a sofa bed in the pulled-out position taking up most of the room. The floor and other surfaces were a mess of clothes, fast-food boxes, bottles, glasses, empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and general litter. The radio was sitting in the hearth of the boarded-up fireplace. The smell in this room was intensified by the addition of bodies, sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

And two people were asleep in the bed, tumbled together with a grubby sheet to cover their modesty. One of them was snoring throatily, interspersed with an occasional wet gulping snort, like a pig enjoying apples.

Slider positioned his men, stepped to the window and pulled the curtains. He half expected an explosion of movement from the bed, but all that happened was that the tangled heap stirred and grunted, and after a moment the male half of it sat up blearily, rubbing its head with one hand and scratching under the sheet with the other.

‘Wassappenin?’ It rubbed its eyes, and then registered Slider and McLaren. ‘Wassgoinon? Who the fuck are you?’ Belated alarm widened the eyes, and he began fumbling about under the pillow.

Slider suspected a weapon under there, and said sternly, ‘Stay still. We’re the police. We just want to ask you a few questions.’ He went on fumbling. ‘Don’t do it, son. You’re not in any trouble – yet. Let’s keep it that way.’

But it was cigarettes that came out. At the same time, the female half mumbled itself awake – or half awake, at any rate. She turned over on to her back, frowning against the light, smacked her lips and groaned. ‘Whafuck’s going on? Put the light out.’

‘Wake up, Lil,’ the man said urgently, jabbing her ungently. He was sitting up, covered from the waist down – always thankful for small mercies, Slider thought – and from the undeveloped nature of his bare chest he looked to be no more than twenty. He was of West Indian stock, with longish hair, tattoos on his upper arms – a spider in its web on the right and a ghost on the left – and rings through both eyebrows and the left nostril.

Lilly dragged her eyes open, and then sat up slowly, instinctively pulling the sheet up with her to cover her breasts. She looked at Slider carefully, and then yawned widely. The yawn turned into a prolonged and hacking cough, which nearly dislodged the sheet, after which she wiped her nose on her fingers, her fingers on the bed, and said, ‘Can’t you fuckers leave me alone?’

‘That’s enough of that language,’ McLaren said, and threw her a T-shirt from the floor at his feet. ‘Put that on. We just want to talk to you.’

She inspected him, smiled unpleasantly, picked up the T-shirt and deliberately dropped the sheet so that they had a brief introduction to her womanly frame before it disappeared under the soiled cotton.

The youth, to do him credit, looked angry with her and muttered, ‘For fuck’s sake, Lil, it’s the filth.’

‘Well, they can get the fuck out of my house,’ Lilly said, feeling around in the bed. ‘Gimme a fag, Len, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I said that’s enough of that,’ McLaren said.

‘Oh, get lost,’ she said with weary irritability, taking a cigarette from Lennie and sucking at the light he offered. She looked, Slider thought, anything between fifty and sixty, but he knew how drugs aged people, so she was probably only in her early forties. Her face was sickly pale, with brown circles under her eyes and an uncomely spot coming up on her chin, and her hair was limp and greasy, flat to her skull and straggling over her shoulders. But she might once have been good looking: she had a strongly sculpted mouth (though it was turned down disagreeably now), a determined chin and a straight nose. But just now, sucking on the cigarette in between phlegmy coughs, she looked like an old bag.

Slider showed his badge and told them who he was. ‘I’m looking for Mike Carmichael,’ he said.

Lennie looked cautiously at Lilly, who said, ‘I don’t know any Mike. So you can piss off out of my house. What’s he want?’ She directed her verbal energy suddenly towards Fathom, who had appeared in the doorway, unable to bear not seeing. He didn’t speak, and she stitched an appalling smile on and said, ‘You got any change, love? I’m short me rent. Come on, love, a coupla quid. Give us twenty and I’ll give you a blow job.’

Fathom looked taken aback and she went into raucous laughter. ‘Your face!’

Lennie looked embarrassed and said, ‘Can it, Lilly, for fuck’s sake. It’s the police.’

‘Oh, don’t you think coppers do it? I’ve had plenty of them in the past, I can tell you. You want names?’ She leered at Slider.

‘Just tell us where Mike is, and we’ll leave you in peace.’

‘I don’t know any Mike. So get out.’

‘Your son, Mike. Michael Carmichael.’ Slider had seen the candle, spoon and glass straw on the mantelpiece, the tackle for chasing the dragon, which was evidence enough to arrest the pair of them – not that he wanted to. He gestured to McLaren to pick up the piece of silver foil from the floor – obviously the wrap the H had come in. McLaren picked it up and showed it to them.

‘There’ll be enough traces on this to show what was in it,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a field test kit in the car. Possession of scag is a serious offence – and what’ll we find if we search a bit more?’

It was enough to alarm Lennie. ‘Mike’s not here,’ he blurted.

‘Shut your mouth, you stupid little shit,’ Lilly growled at him.

‘Look, it’s her, not me. I don’t do scag.’

‘I’ll kill you, you fucking rat!’

‘You let me go, and I’ll tell you.’

‘Tell me, then,’ Slider said calmly. ‘Where can we find Michael Carmichael?’

Lilly flung herself at her lover with an incoherent scream, and Fathom leapt into action, throwing himself at her and grabbing her arms. McLaren had to go to help him, while Slider gestured Lennie back as he jumped out of bed, and warned him not to try to leg it. Fathom and McLaren were at a disadvantage with Lilly, since they had to fight fair, try not to hurt her, and keep from being bitten or scratched – God knew how toxic she was. McLaren could have felled her with a tap to the chin, but they weren’t allowed to do that. After a bit she got tired of the business and stopped struggling, otherwise they could have been fighting for hours. She slumped back on the bed, coughing. They kept hold of her arms, panting, but she said, ‘Let me go. I gotta find my fag, before the bed goes up.’ And when they let her go, she gave herself to rummaging about for the lit cigarette that had fallen among the sheets in the struggle.

Slider said, ‘All right, Lennie. Where’s Mike?’

In the interval, the naked youth had put on a pair of sweat pants from the floor, and now was standing with his arms wrapped round his chest, watching, his eyes flitting about as if calculating the odds of escape.

‘You’ll let me go?’ he said now.

‘I promise.’

‘Well, he ain’t here. He don’t live here no more. He’s got these friends up town – rich kids. He hangs about with them now. We’re not good enough for him,’ he added scathingly.

‘Where does he live?’

‘I don’t know the address. It’s in Notting Hill, that’s all I know. He wouldn’t tell me.’

‘Shut your face, you little shit!’ Lilly said angrily. ‘I’m warning you.’

He looked at her with a wrench of contempt. ‘I’ve had it with you, you rotten slag. You’re always calling me names. I don’t owe you nothing.’ He looked at Slider. ‘Mike’s got it good up there, selling coke to these rich kids for big money. Well, why wouldn’t he? Better than knocking stuff out round here for half the price. He doesn’t like me and I don’t like him. You should hear what he said about me and Lilly. He thinks he’s too good for the likes of us now. Well, stuff him! And stuff you, Lilly! You and your skanky son. I’m not getting in trouble for either of you.’

Lilly screamed at him incoherently, and Fathom and McLaren had to restrain her again, while Slider was having to persuade Lennie not to deprive them of his company just yet, which was how he excused himself afterwards for not having heard anything from outside. But suddenly all the ruckus stopped as if by magic. Someone had appeared in the doorway. Slider turned to see a young man in leather jacket and jeans standing there.

Lilly saw him too, stopped writhing, and cried urgently, ‘Mikey, have you got the stuff? Have you got the shit for me, Mikey?’

The man disappeared with amazing speed. Slider flung himself after him, feeling, rather than seeing, McLaren coming behind.

But the fleeing man had jumped astride a powerful motorbike parked at the kerb. Because the engine was hot, it caught at once. Slider only managed to touch a sleeve with fingertips as he swerved out of reach. McLaren passed him running as the bike roared up the road, but he stopped after a few yards, seeing it was hopeless. The bike turned the corner and was out of sight.

Slider ran to the car. There wasn’t the faintest chance of catching him with that sort of start, but the gesture had to be made. The others piled in, and he drove off with a squeal of rubber.

‘Anyone get the number?’ McLaren said.

No one had.

‘It was a Harley Davidson,’ Fathom said.

‘Yeah, we got that,’ McLaren said witheringly.

‘But he must be making big money, to have a bike like that,’ Fathom offered.

‘Yeah,’ said McLaren, ‘and better than that, we know we’re on to something, or else why did he run?’