‘Nowhere. Just riding my bike.’
McLusky shot Austin a questioning look. Austin’s eyebrows rose and he took over. ‘Just for fun?’
‘Yes. That’s allowed, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. Only Cotham is quite a ways from here … Chris. And your bike, if I remember rightly, is just an old boneshaker with no gears. It’s pretty dark down here too with no lights and there’s broken glass about.’
McLusky took up the baton again. ‘Okay, Chris, let’s try again. What were you doing here?’
‘Nothing illegal, I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I would like to believe that, really I would. What did you say you were studying?’
‘Political science.’
‘Not horticulture then.’
‘What?’
‘Your hands, your fingernails, you look like you’ve been gardening or something. You said you didn’t go near the body, how did your hands get that dirty?’
‘I … the chain came off my bike. Now look …’
The body had been pulled out at a spot more or less equidistant from the two bridges, where it would be darkest. ‘So how did you spot the body in the water if you were cycling and had no lights?’
‘I was pushing it at the time. As you said, there’s lots of glass around here.’
‘Okay, you were pushing your bike along this dismal bit of path in the dark for no reason whatsoever, on the wrong side of town, near a row of houses, several of which have recently been burgled.’ He had invented the burglaries but it seemed to pay dividends, Reed became visibly scared.
‘Burglary? What else are you going to accuse me of? First that I have something to do with the dead girl, then burglary. You’re completely mad.’
Behind Reed an elderly man at the cordon started heckling the police and technicians, his hard-edged face a mask of anger in the ghoulish light. ‘I could have told you that would happen. It was only a matter of time. Decent street lighting and constables on the beat is what we need. You lot only turn up when it’s all too late. You’re useless.’
A PC ambled over to have a soothing word with him. McLusky opted for a change of venue. ‘Do you have anything on you that you shouldn’t?’
Reed shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Sure? Okay. Show me your bike.’
Reed didn’t budge. ‘It’s just back there.’
‘Come on then, let’s have a quick look at it.’
‘It’s just an ordinary bicycle.’ Despite his resistance he became the reluctant filling in a CID sandwich as Austin led the way, McLusky following close behind.
‘You see, it’s just an old bike.’ Somehow Reed stood back from it, as if trying to dissociate himself from it.
‘It’s a wreck. Can you open the panniers for us, please.’
Reed’s hands fumbled with the fastener of the first pannier. He opened it and stood back.
‘Fruit. That’s a lot of fruit, Chris. And in bad condition, most of it.’ He picked up an orange, flicking a thumbnail over its mildewed rind.
‘Yeah, I forgot it was in there actually. I got it cheap from the market. I’ll probably need to chuck that away now.’
‘Okay. What’s in the other one, more fruit?’
‘The other one?’
‘Yes. The other one.’
Reed opened it with an impatient flick. Snugly fitted inside was a plastic container brimful with dark, oily mud. The hooked handle of a ladle was just visible.
McLusky impatiently wriggled his fingers. ‘The leaflets, hand them over.’
Reed shoved a hand deep into his jacket and produced a wad of his home-made pamphlets. DISABLE A CAR TODAY … McLusky handed them on to the PC. ‘Here, get Fruit ’n’ Mud and his bicycle down the station for a chat. If he gives you any grief at all, caution him. We want to chat some more and when we’re finished I know a few people from Traffic who are keen to have a word.’
Sorbie shifted on his bar stool, checked the time on his mobile and swore silently. He was on his fourth mug of stewed tea at the clapboard cafe that served the lock-up owners, delivery drivers and the workers from the nearby trading estate. From where he was sitting he had a good view of Mitchell’s lock-up, just two doors up. Entrance to the warehouses was on alternate sides to give more forecourt space, which meant that old cars, broken-down vans, stacks of wooden pallets and nests of bins proliferated on both sides.
There was no guarantee that Mitchell would turn up before the tea and sausage rolls Sorbie kept ordering at intervals gave him the heartburn from hell but it would be worth it. A bit of banter, some sleight of hand — he’d always been good at that, card tricks, shoplifting as a school kid — and soon Mr Mitchell’s emporium would lie wide open to explore. After that a bit of luck and good timing was what was needed. Quite a bit of luck, come to think of it. And here was the bastard at last, getting out of an unfashionable old Jaguar. And he was by himself which was perfect. Sorbie moved fast; he had to time this just right. His bike was parked close to the huge double doors, giving him the excuse to walk over. As far as he knew Mitchell had never set eyes on him yet it was important he would not recognize him later, so Sorbie put his helmet on and pretended to fumble with his straps just as Mitchell snapped open the enormous brass padlock that secured the doors.
Heavy in Sorbie’s jacket pocket weighed another padlock of identical make, already flipped open. ‘S’cuse me, mate. I was wonderin’ …’
Mitchell turned around suspiciously. ‘What?’
‘I was wonderin’ … me and a couple of mates was thinking of maybe renting one of these lock-ups for using as a workshop. For fixing up bikes for the bike club.’
‘And?’ Mitchell turned his back on him and opened the door just wide enough to let himself in.
‘I was wonderin’ how big they was and how much the council charged and that.’
Mitchell flicked a wall switch and high up in the ceiling two banks of neon lights blinked on. By the time he turned round to face Sorbie again the padlocks had changed places.
‘Mind if I have a quick shufti?’
‘Sorry, can’t allow you in there, security, see? But, I mean, you can get an idea of the size from here. And what you pay depends entirely on what state the place is in, whether it has leccy and water and all that. All right? Ask the council.’ Mitchell was closing the door on him.
Sorbie turned away, nodding, as though totally satisfied. ‘Yeah, cheers, mate.’ He started his bike and rode off straight away, without looking back. At the next junction he turned off, parked the bike next to a waiting Renault and got into the car on the passenger side.
DI Fairfield started the engine. ‘Okay?’
‘Piece of piss, guv. I still think you should let me go in instead.’
‘We’ve already had this talk, twice, DI Sorbie. I’ll not discuss it again. You’ve done your bit and I’m grateful, now shove off, you’re off duty. If it goes tits up then at least it’ll be my tits. Hand over the lock.’
Sorbie dropped the weighty padlock into her outstretched palm and got out, closing the door with disapproving but not insubordinate force. Fairfield waited until he had ridden off then drove fast in the opposite direction to the warehouses, turned into the potholed customer car park of the Railway Tavern and parked in a spot from where it was just possible, albeit at an extreme angle, to observe the doors of Mitchell’s lock-up. They’d been very lucky, the timing couldn’t have been better. It was cashing-up time now at the cafe. Through her lightweight binoculars she observed the girls as they took in the menu boards and closed the shutters of the squat wooden hut. At all times she kept the doors of the lock-up in view. She didn’t expect to see anything surprising. When they had first targeted Mitchell they had watched ad nauseam as nothing much happened. No one except the owner was ever seen visiting and the eventual search of the lock-up had produced nothing but more or less legitimate junk. A search of Mitchell’s garden flat had equally drawn a blank. Yet she remained convinced that Mitchell was behind the scooter muggings. Not that there wasn’t enough other street crime to keep them going, but the persistence of this gang and the arrogance of the man she suspected to run it rankled. She knew she was damaging her career in pursuit of a small-time criminal but she didn’t care. Other officers had a more sanguine attitude to criminals who got away. They consoled themselves with the thought that you could never catch them all and that if you couldn’t get them for a particular offence you were bound to get them for another one later. It was an attitude she found hard to cultivate. For her, letting a criminal carry on meant she was failing to protect the victims of his crimes. This, too, was probably not a practical stance. She knew that some of her colleagues loathed the victims of crime almost as much as those perpetrating it. It was true some people seemed to invite crime.