Four Below

by Peter Helton

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Snow falls on the innocent and guilty alike... Heavy weather, and it's still only November. D I McLusky has settled into his new job in Bristol but the severe freeze shows an unfamiliar side to the city. After the conviction of a drug baron earlier in the year a new kingpin secures the hub of drug crime in Bristol. But how secure does he feel? A series of seemingly unconnected murders, accidents and dying drug users, investigated by McLusky and his team, slowly reveal the web of violence that spreads across the city. Narrow strips of a cut-up photograph arriving piecemeal at the Bristol Herald's offices may hold vital clues but will the completed puzzle reach McLusky in time to prevent more deaths? The private lives of both McLusky and his rival D I Kat Fairfield take unexpected turns too, making the atmosphere at Albany Road station, already considerably cooled by the failed heating system, icier still... Praise for Peter Helton's : 'Skilful plotting, wry humour and deftly drawn characters mark this debut' Library Journal 'Helton provides breezy prose and a lively cast' Kirkus Reviews 'Lively prose and a vivid picture of the city of Bath' Publishers Weekly 'Helton has created a wonderfully caustic main character who careens through this action-packed debut' Booklist

Release date: October 20, 2011

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 10

Sample

Chapter One

McLusky knew he should get back to the station, but he wasn’t entirely convinced he could move. It had been a tedious morning of meetings and paperwork and his eyes just
wanted to stay fixed on this painting of snow-capped mountains. Certainly an improvement on the canteen walls at Albany Road. They should get whoever painted this to do a mural at the station. The
painting reminded him of the Swiss Alps – not that he had been to the Swiss Alps – though this being an Indian place, it was probably a scene from Kashmir. He hadn’t been there
either, but if this was what it looked like, he wouldn’t mind going. There were several of these mountain scenes hanging around the walls, and all were pleasingly, luxuriously empty of human
life. It looked clean and sane. Restful. Unlike the place itself. If the owner was being nostalgic about the wilds of Kashmir, then a noisy fast-food restaurant in the shadow of a railway bridge
had to make him feel a long way from home.

McLusky tried to burp but couldn’t. Shouldn’t have had the enigmatically named ‘meat curry’. He never dared ask what kind of meat went into it, but it sat in your stomach
like a hot rock. He pushed his cleared plate away from him with too much emphasis and had to make a grab for it before it shot off the Formica table. He got to his feet with a groan. As he walked
to the door, one of the men behind the counter gave him a nod of acknowledgement. He nodded back. McLusky was on nodding terms with the city now, but this was his first Bristol winter. A fierce
blast of it swept down the Cheltenham Road as he stepped outside, threatening to freeze-dry the film of curry sweat on his forehead. And it was only November. Two in the afternoon, and already
everything felt grimy and grey. It had never properly got light in the first place, with the sky hanging over the city like a dirty tarpaulin. Which reminded him: he’d have to buy a few light
bulbs on the way home; two of the bulbs in his flat had blown this morning. This morning already seemed a long time ago.

Traffic didn’t look too bad today. By which he meant it was actually moving. As he vainly looked for a gap to cross the street, a man in a white T-shirt ran right-to-left on the other
side, behind traffic and parked cars. He was running fast. McLusky didn’t like the look of it. The man was running too fast. And what was it he was carrying? Shouts followed him up the road.
Now he took a sudden rabbit-hook right into the street, angry horns blaring as cars braked sharply to avoid him. McLusky could see it now: the man was carrying a samurai sword, sheath in his left,
naked blade in his right, stabbing the air as his arms pumped to the rhythm of his feet. McLusky thought he saw blood on the blade. Damn. He reached for the radio in his leather jacket just as a
harsh and familiar voice approached. PC Hanham came running across lanes of traffic, shouting breathlessly into the radio clipped to his vest. McLusky left his own where it was; Hanham would
already be calling for armed response. If he had enough breath to get the words out, of course. The constable jogged heavily past him, giving no sign that he had noticed DI McLusky standing there
with his much-needed unlit cigarette between his lips. Leave it. Hanham was the man to catch the swordsman, McLusky thought. He was the one wearing a stab vest, after all.

Rapid response. In this traffic? Oh, what the hell. At least it would warm him up. He started after the burly constable. Hanham was running fast. McLusky speeded up, then found he needed to
speed up again. He only caught up as Hanham followed the suspect into Zetland Road. By then, a jabbing stitch in his side was making it hard going.

‘He … attacked a man … at the bus stop near the girls’ school … a leg wound. Ambulance en route,’ Hanham got out.

‘By the school? That’s miles back.’

‘I know … miles … I don’t think … I can run … much further …’

One look at Hanham confirmed it: his face was slack with exhaustion, his eyes were rolling like those of a panicked horse. He slowed, stopped, sank to his knees. ‘All yours
…’

McLusky kept going. He could still see the suspect ahead. Just then the man turned to check behind him and spotted his new pursuer. Civilians shrieked and shouted, jumping out of the way of the
dancing sword.

Running in the street now, sweat was pricking McLusky’s skin, despite the cold. He realized why he had so easily caught up with Hanham: the constable must have already been slowing from
exhaustion. The swordsman was pulling away from him, fuelled by adrenalin, madness and drugs no doubt. And probably unencumbered by a mystery curry.

McLusky ran on. The pain in his side got worse. He’d go vegetarian. Perhaps even give up smoking. Again. Now all he could do was keep running, without the foggiest idea what he was going
to do should he ever catch up with the suspect. Without stab vest, baton or pepper spray, he’d have little chance of disarming him. As a last resort, he could always threaten to throw up on
him, which he’d do anyway if this went on much longer. The rattle of a diesel engine behind him made him glance over his shoulder. Never had a scruffy cab for hire looked more welcome.
Suicidally he ran into its path, scrabbling in his pocket for his warrant card.

‘Follow that man!’ He threw himself into the passenger seat.

‘What man would that be?’ The cabby spoke and moved with agonizing slowness, setting the meter. He filled every available inch behind the wheel and looked like he hadn’t left
his cab for years. Far ahead of them, the swordsman had now sheathed his weapon and was crossing Zetland Road, trotting into a side street.

‘Just drive! There, the young man …’ McLusky was still struggling for breath. ‘With the light jacket, jeans and … trainers.’

‘Righty-ho.’ The driver pulled away at last. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Never mind that, just catch up with him.’

‘Only asking. Taking an interest.’ He turned the cab into the side street. They could both see the suspect a hundred yards or so ahead. The man was either out of puff or thought he
had lost his pursuers. He stepped off the pavement and stood at the edge of the road as if waiting to cross once the taxi had passed.

‘Keep closer to the left. I’ll tell you when to stop.’

Half a second before drawing level with the swordsman, McLusky popped his seat belt and threw the door wide open. The man had no chance to react before the door caught him a thudding blow on the
side, breaking his elbow and flinging him hard on to the tarmac. McLusky could hear him scream as they passed.

The cab driver braked indignantly. ‘You never told me to stop!’

McLusky jumped out and ran back the few yards to where the young man was still on the ground, groaning. He had dropped the sword. The DI kicked it under the nearest car, then thumped a heavy
knee into the suspect’s back and twisted his unbroken arm back.

This wasn’t popular. ‘Ah! Get off me! You broke my arm! You broke my fucking arm! You fucking arsehole broke my arm! Get off me! I need an ambulance!’

‘You need to shut up. Of course it may harm your defence …’ McLusky rattled off half the caution, but stopped when he felt a wave of nausea travel up from his stomach. He
thumbed the orange button on his airwave radio. ‘Alpha Nine, can I come in please …?’ He gave his position and asked for backup, while the suspect kept up a rich mixture of
pleading, insults and threats. Feeling in danger of losing his supper and with no handcuffs to secure the suspect, McLusky was extremely grateful when he saw PC Hanham, who had got his breath back,
come marching up the road.

‘You can’t cuff the other wrist; I think he broke his arm in the fall,’ McLusky explained.

The swordsman twisted his head back and yelled his protest at Hanham. ‘He ran me down with the fucking taxi, that’s what broke my arm, you wankers!’

‘Good effort, sir. Did you see what he did with the sword?’ the constable asked.

‘Under that car. You’d better arrest him properly; I may have burped a few times during the caution. Better make sure.’

‘Will you take him in?’

‘Me? I got a taxi waiting with the meter running. No, he’s your man, Constable.’

Hanham loudly cautioned his blaspheming prisoner while watching the DI get into the cab. Half-arresting suspects, then swanning off in a taxi all casual. McLusky. Where on earth did they
find him?

McLusky made the driver stop at a convenience store so he could stock up on light bulbs, mineral water and indigestion tablets before letting himself be driven back to Albany
Road. By the time he was carrying his purchases along the corridor towards his office, he no longer felt sick, but the curry still sat acidly right under his solar plexus. Definitely the vegetable
biryani next time.

DS Sorbie watched McLusky come past the CID room. He checked his watch. If he himself were to take lunch breaks this long, he’d soon get an earful from DI Fairfield. The man had been
shopping too, by the looks of it. Unbelievable. And that could so easily have been, should have been, him. If Avon & Somerset hadn’t seen fit to import the DI from Southampton, there
might have been room round here for long-overdue promotion.

McLusky firmly closed the door of his office behind him and let himself fall into his chair. He didn’t have far to fall. The office they had found for him at the very end of the corridor
was minute. At first he had suspected it to be a converted cupboard, but he had been assured that it was DI Pearce’s old office. Sometimes McLusky thought it had probably been responsible for
driving Pearce to retire early. With a large haul of drugs money. Not that ‘renegade cop Pearce, 46’ (Bristol Herald) had enjoyed it for long. The Spanish police, with the help
of DCI Gaunt, had scooped him up before he had a chance to spend much of it.

The only good thing about the office was that the enormous radiator under the window, obviously designed for a much larger room, heated the place to tropical temperatures. Not quite the only
thing, he reminded himself now. The fact that his window opened on to the back of the station, away from the prying eyes of colleagues and punters, meant he could afford to smoke the odd cigarette
without attracting attention. Albany Road, along with every other police station, of course, was a no-smoking area. A recent decree issued by Superintendent Denkhaus had also strictly outlawed the
‘abhorrent practice’ of smoking near the entrance or in the staff car park.

McLusky opened the window. It looked out over roofs and the neglected backs of nearby buildings. McLusky preferred the backs of houses. He invariably found them more revealing than their
better-kept fronts. The rear was not just where illicit cigarettes were smoked. It was where suspects tried to leave when the heavy knock came at the front. The rear of a house was the natural
hiding place for drugs, money, weapons and the occasional body.

An illicit cigarette was exactly what he needed now. Last one in the packet, how annoying, and he’d been in the shop not ten minutes ago. Smoking was said to aid digestion, and he could do
with all the help he could get. The scarcity of tobacco made the first drag even more luxurious.

It had been a quiet week, apart from the endless paperwork, of course: report-writing, form-filling, box-ticking, assessments and memos. Earlier in the year, Atrium, the anti-drugs operation,
had taken Ray Fenton out of circulation, a major drugs baron who would never again see his naff sports car, ostentatious penthouse or tasteless motor yacht. But even in the midst of the
celebrations, they all knew what it meant, what the next few months would bring: a vicious little war fought in the resulting power vacuum. In supply-and-demand economics there would always be
drugs barons as long as there were customers for his wares, and Bristol was the hub that supplied drugs to much of the West Country. The business was so ridiculously lucrative that new dealers
constantly tried to move in, at the risk of all-out war with Yardie and Asian gangs and established dealer networks. Over three hot summer months there had been stabbings and shootings; one
drive-by shooting had injured two innocent bystanders while completely missing the target. Yet there was nothing concrete; there had been plenty of hints and rumours, but all had failed to
solidify. By autumn, everything had gone quiet. A new kingpin was securing the hub now, only so far McLusky had no idea who he was. There were rumours, of course, and the rumours weren’t
good. Give it time. He knew that the quiet was deceptive, the short lull before business as usual resumed. Like a quick illicit cigarette break before the return to work.

He flicked the fag end out of the window towards the wheelie bins below. The phone on his desk rang and he answered it. On the other end was DS Austin. McLusky had been right.

They were back in business.

On the night shift, planning was important. Without a plan, you ended up like an opportunist junkie thief, climbing into houses and then staggering along the road carrying some
crap that was enough to get you put back inside but not enough to buy you a kebab. Tricky, of course. All the good stuff sat where there was tons of security. Neighbourhood Watch, those were the
days. Now it was all high-tech; no one needed to twitch their curtains, they all got security cameras, CCTV, SmartWater, alarms. If you strayed into the wrong neighbourhood, they would have you
taped before you’d got your tools out. Taped? What an old-fashioned expression. It was all electronic now. At least in the old days they’d record over the same cassette a million times
so when something worth seeing happened the quality was so crap it could have been anyone ghosting through the frame. Either that or they’d already taped over it. Morons. Now it was hard
drives and crisp images and as much recording time as you liked.

Not in your league, that, anyway. Not on your own, either, not with one eye and one ball and an old motor that stuck out like a sore thumb. Mind you, he always made sure he looked after the van,
and there was nothing the rozzers could pull him over for. Tax, MOT, insurance, all the paperwork. No point in drawing attention to yourself. Clean driver’s licence, too. As for
housebreaking, it was the lower-middle ground you wanted, the up-and-coming, upwardly mobile, what they used to call yuppies. Thirty-something couples just starting out together, twenty-five grand
a year each, first house. Lots of money for stuff and gadgets to plonk on every surface but not enough for a five ninety-nine window lock. Lava lamps. Digital photo frames. They’re the ones.
Hard-working morons. Not a care. Pick one. Clean them out. All insured. Come back three months later and lift all the brand-new replacements. Nine out of ten still hadn’t fitted any security,
even then. Idiots. He was the lightning that struck twice. Of course most of the junk people had in their houses was worth next to nothing. All the usual stuff was now so cheap to buy in the first
place that it wasn’t really worth pinching. You hardly got a thing for it, especially if you used a fence. After all, why spend a hundred and fifty on a netbook you know is probably stolen
when you can get a new one for two-twenty? With a year’s guarantee?

But at last he had struck it lucky; not a bad haul, this. In fact it was so good he had made two trips to the van, breaking his iron rule not to get Aladdined. Getting greedy and hanging around
too long gave people time to notice you, to get on the blower and arrange nasty surprises. But it had been worth it. Not a load of catalogue showroom rubbish this time. Top-of-the-range equipment,
this. Professional gear, all photography stuff. Two digital SLR cameras, long lenses, two printers – he’d lifted the bigger one – all the chargers and a laptop. State-of-the-art
laptop. Top spec, latest model. Must have cost a fortune. He flicked on the ultraviolet bulb. Not one item was security-marked.

He used to quite enjoy taking pictures. Never had a decent camera, though, just happy-snappy things. Send the pics off to Prontoprint and get them back a week later. Most of them went straight
in the bin, but some were good. Some were priceless. No idea where they’d got to. Lost in one of the endless moves or disappeared when his last girlfriend ran off. Took a few good ones of
her. He had quite an eye for taking photographs. Let’s hope it wasn’t the eye he’d lost. Ha. First eye joke that made him smile, good one. Might take a bit longer for the
first ball joke, of course. He was tempted to keep one of the cameras. And the printer. But perhaps not the laptop. Too expensive, he could never explain that away. Flog it, then buy a cheap one
and keep the receipt. That’d unnerve the rozzers if they came calling. A receipt.

Of course, before you could sell a knocked-off computer you had to wipe everything on it or whoever bought it in a pub car park wouldn’t be able to pretend that he didn’t know it was
nicked. A shame with this one, because the pictures on it were fantastic. Really good. You could tell the last owner knew what they were doing. Folder after folder. This lot, for instance, the
pictures in the woods in autumn. Taken at the crack of dawn or else just as it got dark. Some of the shots were amazing. Mind you, some of the pics had a weird mob in them; the bunch this
photographer hung out with didn’t half look nerdy. All with little cameras. One of them in a wheelchair, even. How did they get him into the woods? But the pics without people in them,
the atmospheric ones, he’d keep some of them. These ones with the lights in the trees looked spooky, like from a fantasy movie. And the pictures had so many pixels you could probably have
them blown up big as posters. And you could zoom right in on the spooky lights … and keep zooming in … and …

It was difficult to believe what he was seeing. His mouth had gone dry and his heart was hammering. His palms were sweaty. And this was just a picture of the bastards. It must have been taken
with a long lens. Or did he mean long exposure? The big man must have stood still, because he wasn’t blurred at all. Neither was the car. The very Merc he sometimes used to drive him around
in when he was drunk, he was certain. But the figure with the bag over his head was a bit out of focus, and so was Ilkin. Though you’d recognize him if you knew it was him. He was hard to
forget. However much you’d like to.

He got up and started pacing the room, leaving the image on the screen. How was it possible that he had found this very picture? Or was it the other way around? Had the picture found him?
Whoever took this picture couldn’t have known what they were photographing. The big man couldn’t have known, or this photographer would already be six foot under. What he needed now was
a drink. And time to think. This could be it, his one chance of revenge. This picture could be his ticket. He would have to move house first, of course, no question about it. The big man would pay
a lot to keep this picture out of the papers. Of course he would also happily have him killed – slowly – by Ilkin while he watched from the comfort of his car.

Chapter Two

‘This could turn out to be complete nonsense, of course. Bound to, in fact.’ McLusky was possessed of a profound cynicism where the observational skills of the
public were concerned. ‘Once we’re across the bridge, you’ll have to give me directions.’

DS Austin made himself taller in the passenger seat and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the river below. ‘Okay, will do. It’s a great view from up here.’

McLusky, who didn’t like heights much, gave an all-purpose grunt and kept his eyes to the front as they crossed the Clifton suspension bridge going west. ‘Someone moves their
dustbins out of alignment and we get a detailed description of the perpetrator, but you can carry a headless corpse through town and no one sees a thing. I can guarantee it.’

‘The woman was quite adamant. A fox with half a human face in his jaws. Or words to that effect.’

‘Half a cheese sandwich, more like.’

‘She was walking her dog early this morning. Turn right when you’re past the sports club.’

‘Where would we be without dog-walkers?’

‘Back at the nick in a warm office? No offence, it’s a stylish car and all that, but the heating is pathetic.’

McLusky knew Austin was right. The old Mazda had been an impulse buy, and the longer he drove it, the more faults showed up. Terrible suspension was one of them. A feeble heater another. But he
liked it and felt defensive about it. ‘It gets warm eventually.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

McLusky turned on to what looked like a forester’s track into the bleak woods they had been skirting for a while. ‘What is this place, anyway?’

‘Leigh Woods. Have you not been here before?’

‘I’m not the outdoorsy type. And look at it, why would anyone?’

‘Because, it’s great in summer, lots of people come here. It’s quite big, runs all the way back to the gorge. Streams, ponds …’

The afternoon seemed set to become even gloomier. ‘Ponds, Jane?’ DS James Austin was broad, darkly hairy, with an Edinburgh accent, so naturally everyone called him Jane. If
the DS minded, he never let on. ‘Not bleedin’ ponds in November, Jane.’

‘Yes, okay, it’ll be a bloody nightmare place to search.’ For someone. It wasn’t as if they were personally required to dive into ponds and lakes. Ahead, two vehicles,
one a patrol car, came into view, parked across and beside the track. ‘This should be it.’

McLusky pulled on to the soft verge beside the patrol car. The woman who had made the call stood by her silver hatchback. She was in her fifties and sensibly dressed in thick boots, padded
jacket, hat and gloves. Very sensibly, thought McLusky, whose leather jacket wasn’t putting up much of a fight against the cold. Further along, among the stark and practically leafless trees,
two police constables in high-vis jackets used sticks to poke half-heartedly at the wet leaf litter. Winter mist hung in the woods, cutting visibility to less than a hundred yards. All around them
the place dripped with icy moisture. McLusky acknowledged the civilian with a nod, turned up his collar and waited for one of the constables, who was making his way towards him.

DS Austin approached the woman. ‘Are you the lady who called us?’

‘I am. You must be Inspector McLusky, I was told to expect you.’

‘Erm, no. I’m Detective Sergeant Austin; that’s DI McLusky over there.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I heard the Scottish accent and just assumed …’

‘The inspector will be with you shortly. I think he first wants a word with the constable.’

McLusky did. It was PC Pym. He was a slim six foot four and had a habit of folding himself at the hip so as not to tower over superior officers. ‘What have we got, Pym?’

‘Well, erm …’ The PC looked across to the woman. McLusky walked them away from the cars to get completely out of earshot. ‘The lady reported seeing a fox carrying what
she believed to be human remains, sir.’

‘Part of a face, is that right?’

‘Imagination may play a part here, no disrespect to the lady. Yes, what she is quite sure about, she says, is flesh, hair and what looked to her like a human ear.’

‘Bits of rabbit?’

‘That may account for the hair, but what about the ear? Rabbit ears don’t look much like ours.’

McLusky shrugged heavily. Cold air crept under his jacket as he did so. ‘I don’t know. Rabbit and mushroom, then.’

‘Rabbit marengo,’ Pym said helpfully.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, sir. A rabbit dish. My mother used to cook it. It’s got mushrooms in it.’

‘Please don’t mention food, Pym. Whatever it was they put in my lunch refuses to go quietly. Right, let’s have a quick chat with that woman. I don’t suppose you saw any
foxes’ lairs, if that’s what they have?’

‘Holes, I think, is what they have. Not a one. Aren’t they nocturnal, though?’

McLusky waved his hand as he walked away. ‘Carry on here for a bit, anyway.’

Back at the cars, he introduced himself to the woman. On the other side, Austin was walking between the trees, eyes down.

‘I did tell your colleague the fox went that way.’ She pointed irritably in the opposite direction.

‘How long ago did you see the fox?’

‘This morning, as I said. About nine thirty. I was walking my dog when I saw it running. Ziggy must have startled him. He ran after him but lost him, predictably. It took me half an hour
to get Ziggy to come back to me, he was so excited.’

‘And the fox was carrying human remains?’

An impatient intake of breath. ‘How often do I have to repeat it? Yes. I clearly saw a human ear. There were bits of hair and flesh. It was quite … well, I shouldn’t
say disgusting; quite shocking, I suppose.’

‘And naturally you reported it straight away?’

‘Well, no, I didn’t. I went home. I reported it later.’

McLusky nodded. ‘You waited till the afternoon.’

‘I only saw it for the briefest of moments. And it was such a strange thing to have seen. I wanted to be clear in my mind that I really had seen it. And then I decided. Not many things
look like human ears. Do they, Inspector?’

McLusky squinted into the mist. Not many things a fox would show an interest in. ‘We’ll look into it. We have your details, in case we need to speak to you again.’

‘I can go, then?’

‘Mm? Yes. Yes, thanks, you did the right thing.’

‘I know, Inspector.’

McLusky was already walking away. ‘We’ll let you know if we find anything.’

Sitting in the driver’s seat, the woman wiped condensation from the windscreen with the back of her glove. She wouldn’t be holding her breath on hearing from them again. And she
wouldn’t be surprised if they got themselves lost in there; they all looked like they’d never actually seen a tree before, the way they were behaving. You reported a murder and they
sent four bobbies up to search Leigh Woods. And they didn’t even have the sense to bring a dog.

McLusky hurried to join PC Pym before he disappeared completely into the mist. His colleague was already barely visible between the slick boles of ash trees to the north.

‘What was your impression of the witness, sir?’

‘Not easily flustered. If she says she saw an ear, then perhaps that’s what she did see.’ He kicked at the leaf litter. It had to be centuries deep. Things had lived and died
in this place since the last ice age. It felt like the next one was on its way. Not a bad place to die, probably. If it was your time, of course. Not if some other bastard decided it was. And as
long as it wasn’t November.

Austin crossed the track and came over to join them. ‘I thought there were two of you,’ he said to Pym.

Pym looked around. The mist was turning to fog; there was no sign of his colleague. He cupped his gloved hands round his mouth. . .