Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (11 page)

‘OK.’ Harland nodded to himself, the pen squeaking across the board. ‘Jack, how are we doing with the CCTV footage?’

‘Well, we’ve lifted everything we can from the club and the surrounding streets,’ Linwood replied. ‘I took a quick look through the interior stuff, and it just shows Durand going from the door, straight down to his little office in the Gents. There’s a couple of nods and greetings on the way, but he doesn’t stop for a proper chat with anyone.’

‘OK. Let’s prioritise getting an ID for everyone he said
bonjour
to.’

‘Already on it.’

‘No cameras in the Gents, are there?’ Pope asked.

‘Nah.’ Linwood leaned back in his chair. ‘And the one that’s nearest the toilet door isn’t well placed for a good view of people’s faces. We’re having to cross-reference with the one upstairs by the main entrance, so we can figure out who’s who.’

‘Let’s get a couple more people on it,’ Harland told him. ‘We need to get a line on everyone who went in or out of there. What time was he found again?’

Linwood consulted his notes.

‘Half eleven, maybe a little after?’ He shrugged. ‘Emergency call was logged at eleven forty.’

‘All right, so we work backwards from eleven forty. Hopefully we’ll get lucky and find someone who comes out of that door and leaves in a hurry.’

‘Smart people don’t hang around after wasting someone,’ Linwood agreed.

‘Smart people don’t kill their local drug dealer with superglue,’ Harland sighed, leaning back against the whiteboard. ‘What are you frowning at, Russell?’

‘I was just wondering,’ Pope said slowly. ‘If Durand’s a dealer … then where was his protection?’

Harland stared for a second, then waved the pen at him.

‘Good question. A drug dealer, on his own in the stalls with a load of gear …’ He wrote
Protection?
on the board and underlined it. ‘Did he have somebody watching his back? Did he know all his customers?’

‘I’m guessing he knew his killer at least.’ Linwood looked at them both. ‘I mean, there’s faster ways of doing someone in, right? What happened to Durand was … well …
personal
, you know?’

‘Most likely,’ Harland agreed. He added
Personal? Knew his killer?
to the board. ‘Could have been one of his customers …’

‘… or a robbery?’ Pope suggested.

Linwood shook his head.

‘Durand had …’ He flipped forward through the pages of his notebook. ‘… here we are, he had over a hundred quid in his wallet and another three hundred in his socks, plus about two hundred quid’s worth of gear in his pockets.’

‘Then it’s a hit by a rival dealer?’ Pope asked.

‘That makes more sense.’ Harland nodded, staring at the board. He turned to Pope. ‘Who’s your friend in the drug squad? The one with the accent?’

‘Barclay?’

‘Yeah. Speak to him, see if Durand was the subject of a hostile takeover. Even if there’s nothing definite, do some digging, see if he might have been treading on any toes.’ He scrawled
Rival dealer hit?
in the middle of the whiteboard, hesitated, then circled it. ‘Jack, you carry on working up a list of names from the club.’

He replaced the marker pen on the shelf at the bottom of the board, then turned to face them. Some victims attracted less sympathy than others, and he could read in their eyes how they felt about Durand.

‘I
know
we’re talking about the murder of a drug dealer …’ he began.

‘Yeah, I suppose it was almost a public service,’ Linwood grinned at Pope.

‘Hey!’ Harland snapped. ‘I don’t care who he was. Understand?’

The others fell silent, Linwood’s face reddening slightly as he nodded in contrition.

Harland shook his head and turned back to the board, staring through the scrawl of words to that struggling figure in the cubicle … the awful, voiceless panic.

‘There are simpler ways to kill someone,’ he said. ‘
This
… this one bothers me.’

It was a cool May evening and the sun was low in the sky, throwing long shadows across the narrow incline of Stackpool Road, with its tightly huddled houses. Harland managed to squeeze the car into a cramped space, and got out balancing the pizza box carefully, enjoying the warmth of the cardboard against his palm. He tried not to resort to takeaway food too often – cooking helped pass the time in the evenings – but tonight he couldn’t be bothered with the thought of preparing a meal.

Walking back down the hill, his gaze flickered from one window to another, affording him glimpses of the stories that played out in his neighbours’ front rooms. A new drum kit for the Christian couple who lived three doors up from him – they seemed nice enough people, and the music was never loud enough to bother him. Next door to them, he could see the hunched form of Mrs Denby, bathed in the blue glow of the TV screen as she ate from a tray table propped up in front of the sofa. Another day spent in her dressing gown, not leaving the house – he wondered whether she was ill or whether she’d lost her job? Then the watchful face of the Wentworths’ large tabby cat, its unblinking stare following him as he passed – it always sat there when they were out.

And then he was at his own house – a tidy two-bedroom semi, with a square of gravel where the front garden used to be. Unlocking the door, he stepped into the gloom of the hallway, scuffing a couple of pieces of junk mail aside with his foot, the sound uncomfortably loud against the heavy silence.

He stood for a moment, listening. The place seemed to have grown steadily quieter in the months since Kim had moved out – that same awful stillness that had smothered the house after Alice’s death, rolling back in like fog on the evening tide.

He pushed the door closed with some reluctance, sealing himself in with the memories once more, and trudged through to the kitchen. Placing the pizza box on the table, he grabbed the pepper mill from the counter and a beer from the fridge. Then, pulling up a chair at the table, he opened the box and leaned forward to inhale the aroma – ham and pineapple. He
was
extremely hungry. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be so bad, and at least there would be no washing up.

Later, when he was full and beginning to feel tired, he pushed his chair back and got to his feet, closing the lid on the last slices of pizza and putting the box in the fridge for breakfast. Then, glancing at the clock, he washed his hands at the sink, and went to the back door. The bolt was stiff, but he drew it across and stepped outside into the back garden – a narrow strip of city sky, sandwiched between the neighbours’ high brick walls. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against the door frame and looked out over the tangle of bushes and unchecked weeds, then lifted his eyes to the shadowy clouds of evening.

He wondered where Kim was now. Back in Taunton at her sister’s place, maybe? Or had she moved on, found somewhere new, somewhere without memories? He hoped so.

It would never have worked out for them – not with the way they’d been thrown together. She’d been the first woman since Alice, and everything had happened in the wrong order – a relationship in reverse.

He took a final drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out against the brick wall, grinding the glowing ember until the last sparks were extinguished.

It was only after she’d gone that he realised they’d never had a proper first date, never just sat there enjoying a drink and a laugh, getting to know each other …

But he still missed her, especially late at night, when the house was at its emptiest. Sighing, he turned around, stepped back inside and pulled the door quietly closed behind him.

This part of the CID building always seemed to have a quiet calm about it. The AV suite was at the far end of a long first-floor corridor, away from the bustle of the operations area. Slatted blue blinds kept the daylight out, while a bank of monitor screens lit the rooms with a cool, electric glow. Harland stared at the different images – frozen moments captured on the nightclub’s CCTV – then leaned forward in his chair and lifted his mug from the long, curved desktop.

‘So you’ve been through all of this?’ he asked.

Linwood nodded quickly.

‘All the interior stuff anyway,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some officers who normally work Central or Stokes Croft putting names to faces.’

Harland sipped his coffee.

‘And there’s nobody here with form?’

‘Nothing significant so far.’ Linwood shrugged. ‘A couple with possession charges but no real villains.’

Harland put the mug down, then slumped irritably into his chair. He’d been sure they’d turn up
someone
in the place with a record of violence – the sort of character you’d want to keep close if you were carrying gear or cash.

‘It doesn’t stack up,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t help thinking Pope was right about Durand having someone to watch his back.’ He frowned then shot his colleague a meaningful look. ‘And you
know
how much it pains me to say that.’

Linwood’s face split into a broad grin. ‘I know.’

Harland shook his head and sighed.

‘He must have had
someone
keeping an eye on him.’

They sat in uneasy silence for a moment.

‘Did you want to take another look?’ Linwood asked, reaching across and pulling the keyboard towards him. ‘These are the different camera views.’

‘This is all of them?’

‘All the interior ones from the lower level, yes.’

‘Go on, then.’

Linwood hit the Play button and the images on the monitors suddenly jerked into life – blurred monochrome figures weaving between one another as they drifted silently through the frame, clusters of people moving together, dancing to an absent beat.

Harland leaned forward, elbows on the desktop, watching the muted action unfold. He’d been sure that a dealer – even a small-time dealer like Durand – would have some back-up to make sure he wasn’t robbed. On the screen in front of him, he watched people going in and out of the Gents, but nothing caught his eye.

‘How long do you think it took?’ he mused. ‘To subdue Durand, do all that to him, and stay with him till he stopped struggling?’

‘How do we know our man didn’t just glue him up and leave him?’ Linwood asked, then shook his head as realisation dawned. ‘Ah yes, of course – cause of death was suffocation, so the gluing, struggling and death must have happened in the space of a few moments. Still, I reckon the killer could have been in and out of the Gents in … what, five minutes?’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Harland said, then straightened, frowning as he glanced between the images before him. Something wasn’t right. ‘Jack?’

‘What?’

‘These are
all
the camera views from the downstairs area of the club?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

Harland leaned over the desktop, pointing an accusing finger at the upper corner of the screen, indicating a grainy shape in the gloom above the dance floor.

‘So where’s the footage from
this
camera, then?’

Just a few grey pixels, but there could be no doubt about what it was. And none of the views on the other screens came from that angle.

‘Sir?’ Linwood was suddenly at a loss. Blinking at the image on the screen, he shook his head, then looked round. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’

Harland held his gaze, letting him suffer for a moment.

‘You’re sure they didn’t give it to us?’

‘They said that this was everything they had and I didn’t … shit, sorry sir.’

Harland sighed. It was an easy mistake to make. On another occasion it might have warranted a rebuke but, to his credit, Linwood looked suitably mortified by his oversight. There was nothing to be gained by punishing him further.

‘You’re very
trusting
,’ he observed, pausing until Linwood lowered his gaze, then quietly adding, ‘That’s not a good quality for people like us.’

‘No, sir.’

Harland turned back to the screens, peering at the missing camera for a moment, then pushed his chair back from the desk. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere to start.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re going to take another look at that club.’

The place looked different in daylight. Beneath the grey of the overcast sky, the old warehouse seemed smaller, and the writhing mural creatures were now only paint. There was no muffled music, no clamour of voices in the street, just the dull rumble of traffic from the nearby main road.

Parking opposite the front of the building, they walked across the smooth cobbles and stepped in under the awning. Harland pushed the intercom button beside the closed doors and turned to Linwood.

‘What did you say the manager’s name was?’

‘Jones.’

‘OK.’

They stood in silence for a moment. Harland turned back to scowl at the intercom, then jabbed the button again. Eventually, it crackled into life and a voice said, ‘Yeah?’

‘Detective Inspector Harland and Detective Sergeant Linwood, Avon and Somerset police.’

A pause, then, ‘Yeah?’

Harland bent closer to the intercom, annoyed.

‘So are you going to let us in or what?’

‘Sorry, yeah.’

There was a metallic click and a buzzer rattled noisily. Linwood grabbed the handle and pulled one side of the double doors open, then followed Harland inside.

The man who met them in the entrance foyer had a vacant expression and a mouth that seemed to hang open. He was young – early twenties probably – but darkness around the eyes and several days’ stubble made him appear older. His faded T-shirt might never have been ironed and there was paint on his jeans and trainers.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You here about that dead guy in the toilet, are you?’

His mouth seemed barely to move, as though he only had the energy to speak with his tongue.

‘You must be the brains of the operation,’ Harland told him, keeping a straight face.

‘Dunno about that.’ Seemingly unaware of any sarcasm, the man pushed a hand through his hair, which looked as though he’d just got out of bed. ‘I only do maintenance an’ stuff.’

‘Well, we’re here to see Jones.’

‘Manager’s not here, not till tonight. Just me at the moment.’