The two officers released their grip and swivelled McLusky around. Both were in their twenties, had shaved heads and weighed fifteen stone plus. ‘Who are you, what are you doing here?’
‘Detective Inspector McLusky.’ He showed his ID.
‘Ah. Sorry, sir. Bad timing. Drug squad raid. What were you doing here?’
‘Is it Daws you’re hoping to find in there?’
‘That’s who we should be finding there. And quite possibly a cannabis factory. Helicopter chased some kids around here a few days back, using infrared. Apart from the kids the infra showed up a huge heat signature for the roof of this house. Now unless he’s converted his entire loft into a sauna that usually means it’s full of heat lamps for growing pot.’ A message over the radio soon confirmed it. ‘Two in custody. Tropical gardens upstairs, wall to wall cannabis plants.’
McLusky nodded grimly. No wonder the kid had been nervous. ‘Ask him if one of his prisoners answers to the name of Daws and if he has a bandaged hand.’
The answer came back instantly. ‘Affirmative.’
‘Gentlemen, I need to ask Daws a few questions and I need to ask them quickly.’
‘Whatever he tells you he remains our prisoner.’
‘First come first served, naturally.’
Daws was still in the kitchen cuffed by his left hand to a huge officer. Innis Cole, his young apprentice, sat bewildered and close to tears on a kitchen chair. The place was busy with officers. The front door had been knocked at the same time as the officers had entered the garden. McLusky showed his ID to Daws who tried to look bored, though fear had widened his eyes. ‘Timothy Daws, I presume. That’s entirely the wrong type of gardening you’ve been doing up there.’
Daws didn’t meet his eyes but looked out through the window at the shed which was being searched. ‘Just a few plants for private consumption.’
‘I doubt the judge will see it like that. Even what’s in that shed will be enough for a custodial sentence. But then I’m not really interested in your shed or your attic. Or your driving offences or your benefit fraud for that matter, though it all makes a tidy bundle for the CPS. I’m interested in this.’ McLusky grabbed the prisoner’s free arm and lifted his bandaged hand chest high. ‘Where did you hurt yourself?’
Daws tried unsuccessfully to pull from the grasp. ‘Burnt myself on the car engine.’
‘I thought it was a barbecue. Try again, Mr Daws.’ He turned to the officer in charge. ‘Has he been arrested yet?’
‘For drugs offences, intent to supply etc.’
‘Marvellous.’ He turned back to Daws. ‘You got that injury when something unexpectedly blew up in or near your hand. I think you’re involved with the spate of bombings in the city. I think we can safely add murder to the list.’
Daws met his eyes with an unbelieving stare. ‘Nah, rubbish, that’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘Who has it to do with?’
‘How the fuck would I know, I had nothing to do with that shit.’
‘Who has, Daws?’
‘I don’t know his name, do I?’
‘But you know where? Because you, Mr Daws, during your recent spree of burglaries, got a painful surprise somewhere.’
Daws clamped his mouth shut and stared out of the window.
‘Daws, if you think it would incriminate you then I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll be nothing compared to withholding evidence in a terrorism case. If one more person dies because you didn’t tell us, we’re going to add manslaughter to your charge sheet. I’ll see to it personally.’
Daws appeared to be thinking it over but his shoulders had already sagged. ‘Nelson Close, one of the old prefabs.’
‘Which one?’
‘At the end. The last one before the field. But it was an empty one, boarded up, no one lives there, so it wasn’t even really breaking in or anything. Only I’d seen someone go in and out the back the day before so I thought I’d check it out. It had some kind of workshop in there. There was an MP3 player on the workbench. It blew up in my fucking hand. I got the hell out of there and down to A amp;E.’
‘It didn’t occur to you to let us know what you had stumbled upon there?’
Daws shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly my style, is it?’
The incident room was empty. DC Dearlove had enlarged the photograph of the old boy with the bicycle to A4 size and printed several copies, one of which he now pinned up on the board opposite the row of photos of the bomb victims, all thankfully taken before the explosions. The girl was the most upsetting, he thought, although the gym woman had been quite a looker too. It wasn’t really fair, of course. The better looking you were the more sympathy you got. He had noticed that long ago. If you were ugly and covered in spots and had thin hair nobody really cared.
Where was everybody? Further down the corridor in the CID room he found only DC French listening to someone on the phone while demolishing a packet of Jaffa Cakes and ignoring him, both as per usual. Through the open door he spotted DS Sorbie in the corridor, moving past in a curious slow motion. When he called after him he only got a feeble wave in return. He drew level with him by the stairs. ‘Are you okay, sir?’ The DS certainly didn’t look it. His skin was glistening and he seemed to have shrunk into his suit.
‘No, I’m not, thanks for asking. I’ve been throwing up merrily and worse and I feel shite. Drank too much river water the other day. I’m out of here.’ Or it could have been the celebrations of course. Should have taken a couple of days off like Fairfield.
‘It’s only that DI McLusky asked me to disseminate this picture.’ He held out a copy to him. ‘He thinks this might be him. The bomber.’
‘Oh yeah? About time. Hang on. I’ve seen him before, I’m sure of it.’ And he hadn’t been feeling too clever that day either. ‘He’s that grumpy bastard at Nelson Close, in those prefabs.’ A new wave of nausea was gathering just above his navel. You’d have thought all that alcohol would have killed any bugs he might have swallowed with the river water but apparently not.
‘You wouldn’t have a name, would you?’
‘For him? No. Last but one of the bungalows before the demolished brickworks.’ He was feeling hot, sweat pricked his skin. ‘Go get him, Deedee. Cover yourself in glory. Before I cover you in puke.’
Dearlove watched the DS turn away and shuffle back down the corridor towards the toilets like a very old man. ‘Right. Okay.’ Well, he would certainly have a look at him. One old dear he could deal with. And then if he found anything suspicious he would call it in, of course.
DS Austin was in the process of dialling the inspector’s number when McLusky stuck his head into the incident room. ‘Jane, what have you got?’
Austin consulted a sheet of notes. ‘Well, there was a flood of calls as you’d expect on a day like that, most of them what you’d call nuisance calls, about being stuck in traffic and when the hell were they going to do something about it. But there were some serious calls. Two women in labour, for a start. They got attended by local midwives and a doctor legging it round there. But I just found this. The name is Cooke. The wife took an overdose and her husband found her and called for an ambulance. He called six times. When they eventually got her to the Royal Infirmary it was too late. She died later of liver failure.’
‘And he lives in a prefab?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because he’s our man, Jane. Let’s go, let’s go.’
A thin, half-hearted rain began to fall as McLusky drove across town in his usual style, though he did refrain from using the pavements. Austin found he had to give fewer directions now; the inspector was getting to know the city.
‘I think he always tried to watch, that was his mistake. He was certainly there when the bombs in the park went off. And I do think he was at the docks that morning looking at the aftermath of the firebomb on the Eleni. He enjoys the fruits of his work a bit too much.’