Falling More Slowly (7 page)

As the girl set the enormous cup of froth in front of him a loud bang outside made her jump and sharply draw in breath. McLusky tried to reassure her. ‘Just someone dropping stuff into an empty skip.’ He had caught a glimpse of the battered yellow mini-skip at the end of the lane earlier.

The girl relaxed her shoulders. ‘Well, after what happened yesterday you can’t help thinking. Another one could go off any time, couldn’t it?’

‘Is that what you think? That there’ll be another one?’

‘I don’t know, do I? But it’s scary, isn’t it, if someone blows up stupid things like a pavilion. On the tube you’d expect a bomb, but if they blow up stuff like that then anything could explode next. I never thought it would come here.’

‘I don’t think it has. I don’t think it was a terror bomb.’

‘Well, if it makes people terrified then I think it is.’

The girl had a point. As she left to serve other customers he tasted his coffee. His scale of coffee-rating only had three levels – ‘awful’, ‘drinkable’ and ‘the best’. This one was just about drinkable.

It did however have the desired effect of sharpening his senses. As he continued on his erratic march across town he took everything in precisely, filing away into his memory intersections, back streets, alleys and steps, possible shortcuts. He looked keenly, not like a tourist, but like
someone taking possession of a new car, a new house, a new lover. Everything interested him from street furniture to the location of the banks and the number of CCTV cameras. His street instincts were good today and eventually he found himself at the western end of Brandon Hill without having consulted the A–Z in his jacket pocket once. The park was still closed to the public and all entrances were guarded by extremely bored uniformed police. McLusky showed his ID and ducked under the tape. He avoided the locus of the explosion and took a circuitous route to the top of the hill dominated by a hundred-foot tower built from pink sandstone. He climbed the narrow winding stone steps that led him breathlessly to the top. From here he had views across the city in all directions but what interested him lay directly below. It wasn’t exactly Central Park but for a fingertip search it was big enough. There was a large children’s play area, plenty of trees, a pond. The entire area had been combed. There was no separate parks police so Avon and Somerset had provided enough manpower to make sure there were no more devices hidden in the grounds. Suspicious items had of course been found. Two had been blown up in controlled explosions by Royal Engineers; both had been duds. One turned out to be an old dried-up can of yacht varnish. The other had been a rucksack of an Italian tourist, already reported lost. Inside, among other possessions, were his camera and his passport, both now vaporized.

He clattered back down the ancient steps and approached the locus of the explosion. An inner circle had been taped off here, covering the area of scattered debris. A lone CSI technician wearing a coverall was still or again going over the scene, this time with a metal detector. He looked up, annoyed at seeing him approach. ‘Can you stay beyond that case, please?’ He pointed to an aluminium case standing on the path.

McLusky stopped dutifully by the case and brandished his ID. ‘DI McLusky.’

‘Makes no difference, I’m afraid.’

‘Point taken. Anything in particular you’re looking for today?’

‘You should get a preliminary report sometime this afternoon.’ He hesitated. ‘But yeah.’ The man came over to him, carrying an evidence bag. He held it up for him to examine. It contained a very small piece of metal that could have belonged to some kind of mechanism. ‘The device contained a timer, inspector. They used a wristwatch. A mechanical one works best for this kind of thing. Tick tock, a real ticking time bomb. I’ve come back to see if I can recover more of the pieces. I’m not saying we’ll get it back to work but the more of the pieces we have the greater the chance that Forensics can come up with a make. If it was a new watch then it will probably turn out to have been Russian.’

‘Russian? Why’s that?’

‘Real wind-up watches are relatively expensive but the Russians still make cheap ones you can buy here and there. You would probably not go and buy a precision Swiss watch just to blow it up. So unless you had an old one hanging about you’d probably buy a crap Russian one from a catalogue showroom. It’ll last just long enough to do the job.’

‘I see.’ He looked at his own wristwatch which was a cheap battery job from a catalogue showroom. ‘So if it had a timer that means it wasn’t radio controlled or anything? Not set off remotely by someone watching for his victim to get near it?’

‘That’s correct. It was a very simple device, anyone could have built it. It’ll say so in the report, I’m sure.’

‘So if you’re using a wind-up watch how long in advance can you set the bomb to go off?’

‘Twelve hours. Enough time to get to the other side of the world, inspector.’

Or Turkey. ‘Thanks. Good hunting.’ Or whatever one wished people who hoovered grass for a living. Anyone
could have built it? McLusky was sure he wouldn’t know where to start. His understanding of things explosive began and ended with the kind where you put a match to a fuse and retired to a safe distance. He ducked out of the perimeter on the other side. He called Austin on his mobile. ‘I’m in Great George Street. Bring the car. No, your car.’ He smoked two cigarettes before Austin crept up on him in a minute Nissan. Not really a convincing car for a big hairy DS, thought McLusky, even in blue.

The car park at Blaise Castle Estate out in Henbury had plenty of space this cold April lunchtime. The man at the estate office glanced at their IDs and gave them directions without asking what they had come about. They had to walk back along the road they had come and long before they got to the nursery McLusky wished they had taken the car. The signs on the gate declared
No Parking
and
No
Public Access
. McLusky and Austin weren’t public. They pushed through and walked up between long propagating houses and through an open door into a large shed with a concrete floor. There were wooden bays containing various composts and more empty flowerpots than seemed possible. By a still-steaming kettle stood two young men in green dungarees and green T-shirts, chomping sandwiches.

One of them swallowed down a large mouthful, looked like he regretted it for a second, then challenged them. ‘Help you gentlemen?’

They showed IDs. McLusky looked around. ‘Boss about?’

‘On her lunch break. It’s about the bomb, is it?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘We’re putting in for danger money.’

‘Good thinking. You wouldn’t of course have any idea who would want to blow up a shelter in Brandon Hill?’

‘Not the foggiest, and we’ve been thinking hard.’ He reached up a hand as if to scratch his head but changed his mind. His thin hair was ineptly spiked into a ridge that ran down the centre of his head like a flailed hedge.

The other man spoke with a strong Bristol accent,
modified by sandwich. ‘We hope it’s no one with a grudge against the park, since we’re out there all the time, like. We was planting bulbs around there only the other day, all round that shelter.’

‘Well, last October actually.’ The thin-haired gardener gave his colleague a pitying look.

‘A grudge against the park? Or the parks department? Has anyone left under a cloud recently?’

They looked at each other for a split second, seeming to come to an instant agreement on the matter. ‘Yeah, Three Veg did.’

‘Yup, got fired.’

Austin’s brow furrowed. ‘Three veg?’

‘Nickname. His real name’s Tim. He’s a veggie, so at school when others were having meat and two veg he used to ask for three veg. It stuck.’

‘What did he get fired for?’

The first man had at last dispatched his sandwich. ‘What didn’t he? Just about everything.’

The two gardeners slipped into their well-rehearsed double act. ‘Being late.’

‘All the time.’

‘Skiving.’

‘He’d be out there, like, supposed to plant up a bed and he’d be standing by the fence watching the girls instead, leaving all his stuff lying about.’

‘Smoking in the greenhouses.’

‘
Borrowing
power tools …’

‘Driving the minivan through the park like a maniac.’

‘Oh yeah, that was on his second day here, nearly got fired for that then, didn’t he?’

McLusky had heard enough reminiscences. ‘So he got the sack. When exactly was that?’

‘Last summer. September? Yeah, it was September.’

‘End of September.’

‘You seriously think he’s behind it? Building a bomb? Three Veg couldn’t do it, he hasn’t got the brains.’

Rapid shakes of the head from the first man. ‘Too thick.’

‘Apparently it doesn’t take much brains. And we have to explore every avenue. Does he have a surname?’

Hedgerow Hair nodded his chin at a door in the back. ‘They’ll have that in the office, won’t they?’

They did. Timothy Daws, twenty-eight years of age. An address in Bedminster. The admin worker wasn’t taking a lunch break. She was eating salad from a plastic container at her desk. ‘Yes, we had to let him go in the end. He was charming but a compulsive liar and never did any work. When he did turn up for work at all.’

‘Did he have any redeeming features? Was he mechanically gifted, perhaps?’

‘We thought so at first. He seemed to be so good at repairing things. Machines appeared to be breaking down as soon as he was supposed to take them out on a job. He would then say, Oh, leave it to me, I’ll fix it, and he would, eventually. Only it later turned out there was either never anything wrong with them in the first place or he’d been the one to sabotage them. He’d just sit around smoking, doing nothing. It was another way of delaying the start of any job you gave him.’

McLusky thanked her and walked out the other end between the propagating houses full of row upon row of plants growing in plastic pots. Two more gardeners working at this end looked up from what they were doing and gave him a friendly nod as he passed. One even smiled. People enjoying their work, whatever next? On the way back to the car park he called Albany Road. ‘Have we got the search warrant for Colin Keale yet?’

‘Still waiting.’

‘All right, can you run a name for me? Timothy Daws, as in jackdaw. He got fired by the parks department for being a waste of space.’

‘Won’t be a tick.’ The officer didn’t take long to come back over the phone. ‘Timothy Daws, yup, petty theft
and one caution for cannabis possession, nothing recent. Hardly a career criminal, sir.’

‘I don’t care, it’s all we’ve got. I have an address out in Bedminster, wherever that is.’

The DC compared it with the one on the computer. ‘Yes, same address he gave then.’

‘Right. Chase the search warrant.’ He slipped his mobile back in his jacket. ‘We’ll pay Mr Three Veg a little visit.’

Austin drove south and west. ‘Does he look like a candidate for our Bench Bomber to you?’

‘Not really but who does? If he’s a long-term pothead then he could have gone paranoid. Apparently he’s a lazy bastard so I wouldn’t have thought he’d go to the trouble of learning to make bombs. Also, if you wanted to take it out on the parks department surely you’d bomb the parks department.’ McLusky sighed. ‘Unfortunately there’s no “surely” with these nutters. So we’ll go visit.’

The address turned out to be at the end of a dispiriting terrace of small grey post-war houses. Tiny front lawns had mostly been tarmacked to provide parking, since the street itself was too narrow to accommodate the collection of low-budget cars. Only a few front lawns struggled on, some full of the brightly coloured impedimenta of child-rearing, some full of broken white goods. Daws’ address fell into the struggling-lawn category. Water from a split downpipe was leaking into the stonework. At the windows the remains of squashed flies dotted grey net curtains. Austin went round the back to stop Daws from disappearing through the garden.

There was a door bell but McLusky ignored it. He squatted down and peered through the letter box. A narrow hall, steep stairs on the right, a tangle of mountain bikes on the left and at the back of the hall what looked like a kitchen. There was movement there. He straightened up, rattled the letter-box lid and pounded on the door.

After a minute the door opened a crack and the pale spotty face of a young man appeared in the gap. ‘Yeah?’

McLusky pushed the door wide open and the kid staggered back. ‘Hey!’

‘Always put the chain on before opening the door to strangers, son.’

The young man looked alarmed. ‘There isn’t a chain.’

‘Then fit one. You Timothy Daws?’ He already knew he couldn’t be. This specimen was too young and had all the charm of a damp dish cloth.

‘No. And it’s not my house. Tim isn’t here. What do you want?’

McLusky waved his ID. ‘Police. Mind if I come in?’ He hefted past the skinny youth. ‘Thanks. Who are you?’

‘Innis Cole.’

‘You live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You a friend of Timothy’s?’ Innis Cole, McLusky decided, was barely twenty and nervous. Probably nothing more serious than an eighth of blow in his bedroom, though.

‘Not really. He’s a housemate. Well, landlord, really.’

‘Let’s go into the kitchen, Innis. So he does live here?’ He allowed the spotty kid to lead the way. Cole stalled however when he noticed Austin trying the half-glazed back door. Austin flattened his ID against the glass. McLusky gave Cole a playful push from behind. ‘That’s all right, he’s with me. Go let him in.’

Austin sniffed as he entered. The place smelled of sour washing and stagnant water. The kitchen was a mess.

Now that he had two officers to put up with the youth appeared even more nervous, looking from one to the other.

McLusky pressed on. ‘Where’s Three Veg then?’

The use of Daws’ nickname seemed to worry Cole. ‘Don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.’

Austin positioned himself behind him. ‘When did you last see him?’

The youth turned around. ‘I, er, don’t know. Couple of days ago?’

‘Three?’

‘Maybe.’

McLusky flicked through a small pile of letters addressed to Daws. None of them were personal. ‘Does he often disappear for several days?’