The place looked like an enormous upturned mushroom punnet, appearing to have practically no windows, and advertised itself with three-foot comic-strip lettering above the entrance: Blackrock Sports Park. He was about to lock his car when he changed his mind, checked that the glove box was empty and left the Polo unlocked.
In the lobby he showed his ID to the man behind the counter. The receptionist looked about fourteen. ‘Are you looking for someone?’
‘Could be. This is a skateboard arena, right?’
‘Skateboarding and rock climbing.’
‘Do you ever get people with motorized skateboards here?’
The kid laughed. ‘No fear. Total no-no. Anyway, they’re crap.’
Perhaps he had better talk to a grown-up. ‘I see. Who runs this place?’
‘Spike.’
‘Spike who?’
‘I don’t know, just Spike.’ His tone suggested this was an unreasonable question.
‘Is he in? Can I talk to him?’
‘Sure, he’s on the course. Through those doors and then the next. You can’t miss him, no one else wears yellow after all.’
‘Why’s that?’ McLusky suspected some arcane rule of skateboarding.
‘Do you wear yellow much, inspector?’
He thought the kid might have a point. By the next set of double doors a sign instructed him to take off his street shoes before entering the echoing hall and he complied, carrying his shoes and feeling slightly ridiculous. The arena was an artificial landscape of ramps and pipes and rails, flights of steps and curves. It was a big place. He wouldn’t have called it busy but it still surprised him how many people had time and money to skate around here on a weekday.
A spiky-haired man in what looked like a yellow romper suit made from shiny synthetics was chatting to a diminutive girl. When he spotted the unlikely-looking intruder he came rolling over, flipping up his board as he stopped in an automatic gesture. ‘Help you?’
‘McLusky, CID. I’ve already been told by your receptionist, no motorized skateboards here.’
‘Certainly not. Why d’you ask? Someone making a nuisance of themselves?’
The place echoed to the sound of rubber wheels and grinding boards and the rain drumming on the giant roof. ‘I’m looking for someone who rides one, he could be a witness. Spiked hair, skinny, same age as you perhaps, mid-to-late thirties. Wears denims, scarf, shades. He rides a skateboard with a little two-stroke engine and wire control.’
‘Yup. It’s for idiots. A gimmick. You won’t find anyone using them here, that’s for sure.’
‘What, because of the noise or the pollution?’
‘Nah, that’s not the point. It’s like bicycles and motorbikes, right? It just don’t mix. And you can’t really do a thing with ’em.’
‘So what do people do in here?’
‘Well, as you can see, we’ve got the lot. You don’t skate, I take it?’
‘You’re very astute.’
‘You’d be surprised. We get all sorts here. Well, there’s basically two types of skating, there’s street skating and ramp skating. In street skating you could for instance jump up on a bus-stop seat or suchlike and do grinds and board slides, tail grinds and stuff. In half-pipe skating you go up and down the ramp and do tricks on the ledge. Over here we’ve got a couple of half-pipes, a jump ramp …’
The man got into the swing of it and McLusky let him carry on without really taking in much. Spike seemed to talk in a different language and each sentence contained at least three words that appeared to be English but which McLusky had never heard before.
At the opposite end of the hall a skater coasted quietly towards the exit. He didn’t like the look of that man who had just come in. He had seen the suit show some kind of ID and somehow he didn’t look like a health-and-safety guy. It might have nothing to do with him but he’d make himself scarce anyway. As he slipped through the doors while the copper’s back was turned he thought that perhaps it was just as well they made you wear helmets in here. Spiky hair was too conspicuous. He’d change it, slick it back from now on. Not bothering to shower and change, he just cleared the things from the locker and went straight to his van. He stowed his gear in the back, next to his brand new motorized board, still in its box. Electric, rechargeable, much quieter and even faster than the two-stroke one. And environmentally much more sound, mustn’t forget that, of course. Apparently it had a range big enough to get you right across the city. He saw himself skating silently, magically, across town. Stealthboard. But first it needed to be charged. Then he could use it tomorrow night.
The Polo was still there. Ah well, give it time. Somehow the musty interior managed to feel colder than the outside. What McLusky had learned from Spike seemed to fit with what he himself thought of the bomber. A motorized skateboard was regarded as uncool and according to Spike you ‘couldn’t do a thing with it’. No tricks. Whoever the skater was he wouldn’t be hanging out with kids at the half-pipes in the park. Motorized skateboards were for nerds and dweebs. For loners. Spike had in fact suggested that anyone using one might be more interested in fiddling with small engines than skating. Someone with engineering skills.
While he fought his way back towards the centre through lunchtime traffic the rain began to fall more slowly and then abruptly stopped as the sun broke through the clouds. After weeks of relentless rain and monochrome dreariness the brightness of the light seemed Mediterranean in its intensity. Colour returned to the city and patches of blue sky were reflected in the long kerbside puddles. All this light made McLusky hungry.
The Albany Road canteen served a type of food specially designed to minimize the chances of police officers enjoying their pensions for too long. The chip-fat and wrinkly-sausage smells that pervaded the neon-lit basement cavern reminded him of school dinners, as did the hubbub of voices albeit an octave or two lower now. Standing in the queue behind a young constable with unusual BO he surreptitiously surveyed the room, conscious that as the new kid on the block some diners would be checking him over. He spotted DI Fairfield sitting by herself and decided to join her. Things had been so hectic there had never been time to get really acquainted.
When it was his turn there was little left to choose from in the beige-and-brown section under the heat lamps. Something called ‘cauliflower bake’ looked the least lethal. As he carried his food on a tray in the direction of Kat Fairfield the DI looked up. Spotting him she drained her glass of water and, leaving her tray on the table, made for the exit on a tortuous route specially chosen to avoid him.
Someone waving attracted his attention. It was Austin, also sitting by himself in front of a mug of stewed canteen coffee. The DS shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t take it to heart. I’m certain DI Fairfield is a great admirer of yours, she’s just shy and retiring.’
‘I’m sure.’ He drove his fork through the dried crust of industrial cheddar into the anaemic concoction beneath and faltered. ‘Is today a special occasion or is the food always crap?’
Austin waggled his head. ‘It’s a bit late, the best stuff disappears quickly. The food’s not so bad as long as you strictly avoid anything with “bake” in its name.’
‘Ah.’ McLusky put his fork down and pushed his plate aside. ‘Thanks for the warning. I take it nothing’s come up to get us any further in the Frank Dudden murder?’