Falling More Slowly (3 page)

‘Play with that for a bit, my friend.’ He made off towards the left, on all fours at first, then ran around that side of the house. Evidence that the digger had come through here once before was everywhere. Wheelie bin, recycling, firewood shelter all tossed aside or splintered, a giant scrape along the flank of the house. Spranger must have seen him but by the sounds of it was taking it out on the Skoda, as he had hoped. Around the next corner. An aluminium greenhouse stood crumpled and glassless, the potting shed a slant of splinters. At the back of the house he was faced with the choice between a large curtained picture window and a kitchen door. He tried both, finding them locked. The key was in the lock on the inside of the half-glazed kitchen door. Having pounded his fist on both doors and neither seen nor heard a thing from inside, he picked up a heavy glazed pot full of sodden compost and heaved it unceremoniously through the glass of the kitchen door, shattering it completely. He reached through and let himself in. The pot had broken too and vomited its contents on to the kitchen floor.

‘Mrs Spranger? I’m a police officer. Are you there?’ He rushed through the kitchen, the hall and the enormous sitting room with picture window, large modern fireplace and sofas but saw nobody. In the fish-tank twilight produced by the green curtains McLusky kept calling. As he turned to search upstairs a small sound like a grunt or a suppressed groan stopped him. Back in the sitting room he circled the group of furniture. Cross-legged on the floor behind a two-seater sofa sat a middle-aged woman with wild blonde hair.

‘Mrs Spranger?’

She was wearing a quilted sky-blue dressing gown and fluffy white slippers and clutched a brimful tumbler of Southern Comfort. McLusky could smell it. He hated the stuff. The woman looked up, lifted one buttock and farted.

‘Mrs Spranger, I’m a police officer, Detective Inspector McLusky. Your husband is threatening to demolish the house. I would like you to come with me to a safe place until … the issue is resolved.’ He sounded like a twit even to himself.

Her voice was hoarse from crying and shouting and heavy with alcohol. ‘He can fuck off, the two-timing creep. I’ll keep the house, he can fuck off to his tart. Go and arrest the fucking bastard, he trashed my fucking car!’

‘We intend to, Mrs Spranger. Only I don’t think it is safe to stay here at present. He seems pretty determined to attack the house with a digger. Come with me, please.’ He reached out a hand, offering to help her up.

She slapped it away. ‘Huh! I bloody won’t. Go and take the bastard away, that’s what I called you for. Anyway, you could be anybody, couldn’t you? Was that you breaking the windows? Show me some identification.’

‘Yes, sorry about the window, I couldn’t attract your attention, Mrs Spranger. I do think it’s urgent that we get you out of here.’ The noise and shouting outside had intensified. He held out his ID but she didn’t look at it. ‘I really think we should leave now, Mrs Spranger.’

She concentrated on her glass of Southern Comfort. ‘Bollocks to that. He’ll never dare do anything while he knows I’m in here. That’s why the house is still standing. The bastard squashed my car. Arrest him. You’re useless. You’re all useless. Just piss off. He might not love me any more but he loves this house, he’ll never do anything to it.’

A crashing and the sound of splintering wood contradicted her. McLusky had had enough. Manoeuvring behind the woman he grabbed her under the armpits and pulled her up. She twisted and screeched her protest, slopping Southern Comfort over both of them. As he bundled her towards the picture window the house shook. He’d intended to get her out by the inset door but she suddenly wriggled free and ran to the hall where clouds of brick and plaster dust billowed. She strutted into it, shouting abuse, throwing the now empty glass at her adversary. McLusky plunged after her, the dust stinging in his eyes and lungs, making him cough. The woman’s verbal onslaught had also been cut short by a coughing fit. A large hole gaped where the front door and window had once been and the threatening digger filled the gap, its bucket arm reaching deep into the hall. It jerked up, once, twice, bashing at the ceiling. Mrs Spranger retreated towards him just as the bucket swung sideways and pushed over parts of the first interior wall. He grabbed her arm and hastened her retreat, pushing her in front of him as they were overtaken by another cloud of dust and the crash of falling masonry. In the kitchen Mrs Spranger stalled. ‘Look at the fucking mess in here.’ The walls shook again. It took considerable strength to push the woman out of her kitchen, even though the ground shook under her feet. Once outside he managed to pull her along by one arm while she clutched at her dressing gown and released a torrent of abuse at him, at her husband and at the constables who took over and ushered her to safety. The street was now full of onlookers, some with cameras and camcorders. The ambulance arrived.

McLusky kept coughing and spitting out plaster dust as he stood on the lawn to watch the end game. One corner of the house had now collapsed, taking large chunks of roof with it. Most of the debris had fallen inwards. It looked like a bomb site. Spranger was still bashing away, but less frantic now, his expression businesslike. He slowly toppled another stack of bricks, then lazily nibbled at the edge of the roof which disintegrated in a shower of tiles.

DS Austin joined McLusky on the lawn. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He lit a cigarette, offering the pack.

‘No thanks, sir, I gave up.’

‘Me too.’

‘Just the one then.’ Austin eagerly lit his and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he frowned and checked the brand – Extra Lights. It was like smoking stale air. ‘That was quite a performance, if I may say so, sir. Wish we had it on video, we could sell tickets down the station, make a fortune.’ He jerked his head at the crumpled remains of the Skoda, now lying sideways on the churned-up lawn. ‘You didn’t get hurt?’

‘Nope.’ Strange though. He was nervous crossing the street but this hadn’t scared him. Proactive. That’s what the counsellor had called it anyway. As long as he was acting, taking charge, he was fine. Just standing still waiting for something to happen he couldn’t bear. His clothes were a mess.

Austin sniffed. ‘Southern Comfort? Did you find time for a quick drink, sir?’ For a moment he thought he’d gone too far with this unknown quantity of a DI but McLusky raised a tired smile and brushed half-heartedly at his stained shirt and chinos.

The noise abated as the digger shuddered to a stop, its engine falling silent. Spranger got out and stood for a while staring at it all, trying to take it in. Half of his house had collapsed. Water cascaded where the digger had bitten through the bathroom plumbing and the spare bedroom
had now slid into the kitchen. He could see through into the living room where everything was dull and dirty, covered in dust and debris. Only on the coffee table a glass paperweight sparkled in a thin ray of sunlight. He remembered. It had tiny starfish inside it. Probably not real. They had brought it back from a long weekend in Cornwall one autumn. Twelve years. All disappeared. Everything was fucked up. At least his headache was gone now, though his stomach cramps still came in hot waves like his anger. Two constables approached him across the debris-strewn lawn, reaching for handcuffs. God, they looked more like kids.

More Uniform turned up. Two fire engines and the press arrived. Firemen moved cautiously into the rubble to secure water, gas and electricity. The place became very busy all of a sudden. Another ray of sun pierced the fast-moving clouds. ‘Oi, no smoking there.’ A fireman gestured angrily at McLusky and Austin to put their cigarettes out.

McLusky flicked his cigarette into the lawn where it died with a hiss. ‘Let’s get out of here, we’re no longer needed.’ As if in confirmation a uniformed sergeant strutted on to the lawn and started asking questions and dispensing orders in all directions. Mopping up time.

Austin found a likely victim amongst the constables securing the scene. ‘Ah, Hanham, glad I found you. You can give us a lift to the station. Our transport is … temporarily out of action.’

‘Temporarily, sir?’ Hanham looked back at the battlefield and the crumpled lump of the Skoda. He’d seen the result of the stunt the new DI had pulled. What a nutter.

Austin shrugged. ‘Yeah well, the build quality isn’t what it was, they make ’em from tinfoil now.’

McLusky pulled his soiled shirt away from his torso for a better look. ‘Drove well though – I’m thinking of buying one myself. I need to change into fresh clothes.’ He let himself fall on to the rear seat and spoke to the tidily barbered back of the constable’s head. ‘Drive us to Northmoor Street first, will you?’

‘Sure.’ Hanham stole a glance at his senior passenger in his mirror. Typical CID. Not a care in the world. The new DI just destroyed a nearly-new car and now he was worried about a stain on his shirt. If muggins here got as much as a dent in the bodywork of this car he’d never hear the end of it, he’d be spending forever filling in forms. If he wrote it off he’d consider his career more or less finished. CID. They lived on another planet altogether. No one had ever suggested to him that he might make detective one day. He’d stay in uniform forever. And between now and retirement there’d be plenty of chances of dying in it, too.

‘Find yourself a parking space, the inspector won’t be long, I’m sure.’ Austin stood in Northmoor Street holding the door on the little panda car, letting his superior get out.

McLusky hesitated on the pavement. He needed another shower but didn’t want to leave Austin waiting in the car. Only his place was a shambles. Hanham would be accustomed to being abused this way and probably thought him a prat anyway. He could send them away and walk back to the station but it looked like rain again. What the hell. He’d never keep up the pretence that he led a normal life. ‘Here.’ He fished a crumpled banknote from his pocket.

Austin touched one finger to an imaginary cap in salute. ‘A tip, sir? That’s very kind, am I to share with the driver?’

‘Get us all a coffee from Rossi’s and bring ours up, I’ll leave the doors open, first floor. D’you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Ask them to put them in real cups, I can’t stand polystyrene. Tell them we’re honest cops and we’ll return them.’

Upstairs he stripped off his clothes and threw them into the corner with the rest of the stuff that was heading for the launderette. He opened his spacious wardrobe and rummaged for a clean pair of trousers. All he turned up was a pair of jeans, slightly frayed at the hem. He found a nearly ironed shirt that would have to do.

The gas from the boiler caught with a bark but he was prepared for it this time. The water didn’t seem to mix
properly and somehow managed to feel hot and cold at the same time. Plaster dust and grit sluiced from his hair, he could feel it travel down his back. DS Austin seemed all right. Straightforward, didn’t ask unnecessary questions and had a sense of humour. Most CID humour consisted of schoolkid pranks and bad jokes which could get tiring after a while but Austin didn’t seem the type.

The towel was still damp from his earlier shower and refused to dry him properly. Normal people,
real
grown-ups, probably always had a stack of freshly laundered fluffy bath towels in the airing cupboard. He was still waiting for the day when he’d wake to find he was grown up and mature, the way others seemed to manage so effortlessly, and discover that he had an airing cupboard.

‘Room service, hello.’

‘Take it into the kitchen, won’t be a sec.’

He dressed quickly. A blow-dryer would come in handy, too, now that his hair was getting quite long. It was already beginning to recede a bit and keeping it longer hid that well.

‘Real cups, as ordered.’ Austin handed back the banknote. ‘And it appears they take a warrant card.’

‘You didn’t ask for it, though.’ McLusky spoke sharply. He disapproved of police officers who solicited free stuff from civilians. Accepting an offer was sometimes the judicious thing to do, asking for it definitely wasn’t.

‘’Course not.’ Austin dismissed it. ‘Quite … minimalist in here. In a cluttered kind of way.’

While they leant against the kitchen counter and drank their cappuccinos McLusky quizzed Austin some more about the area. Downstairs Constable Hanham poured his coffee into the gutter. He hated the stuff but of course no one had thought to ask him what he actually wanted. A simple cup of decent Earl Grey tea is what he would have said, though he doubted you could get such a thing in a foreign shop like that.

Ten minutes later McLusky once more climbed into the
back of the patrol car. He hated being driven so much that he could never stop himself from working imaginary brake pedals, which was why he felt it was safer to keep his feet out of sight in the back. Hanham drove off in the opposite direction to the one he himself would have chosen.

The constable knew that the long way round often saved time. McLusky made careful mental notes, taking everything in like a camera as Austin continued to point out the landmarks, Queen’s Road, the Triangle, Browns. Sitting behind Hanham McLusky peered right up a side street and glimpsed a dirty mushroom of smoke growing skywards from among the trees. Half a second later the sound wave of an explosion hit the car like a roll of thunder.

‘What the fuck?’ Hanham flicked on Blues and Twos and cut across traffic, raced up the narrow street. ‘It’s in Brandon Hill, this side of the tower.’ He drove as far as he could towards the park, then braked sharply. All three officers bailed out of the vehicle and ran along the paths, then uphill across the grass towards the source of the explosion. The plume of smoke now had a ball of fire in its centre, licking twenty foot high towards a stand of trees. People were shouting. Hanham on his radio was breathlessly calling for back-up, ambulance and fire brigade even before they all came to a panting halt at the scene.

A boy and a middle-aged woman were lying on the path that wound around the rise. A wooden structure blazed on the other side of it, halfway up the hill crowned by Cabot’s Tower. Debris of the explosion was everywhere. Several people were sitting or standing, nursing cuts and splinters, dazed with shock. Small children were screaming throughout the park, scared by the sudden noise. McLusky noticed different reactions among the people in the park. The cautious were moving away, distressed, or dialling on their mobiles. Others were shouting, rushing towards the scene from all over the park. Some came intending to help, most stopped at a distance they deemed safe, watching. An elderly woman sat hyperventilating on the grass. The
teenage boy was wailing, hands clutched to his face, blood dripping from between his fingers. Several civilians were tending to him. The shockwave seemed to have set off every car alarm in the neighbourhood. Hanham ran back to the patrol car for the first aid kit. McLusky knelt by the second prone victim. The woman lay motionless among debris and supermarket shopping on the path. Her face was grey. A little blood trickled from her right ear into the straw of her hair. She looked dead. He pulled off her scarf and felt around for a pulse. It took him a while to detect it. It felt weak to him but despite his job he didn’t consider himself to be an expert in vital signs. He thought of putting her in the recovery position but didn’t like the look of the bleeding ear. What if her skull was fractured?