Patrick Spain was the one in a hundred, after all. He had done everything right. He had married his childhood sweetheart, they had made two healthy kids, he had bought a nice house and worked his arse off paying for it and packing it full and sparkling with all the stuff that would make it into the perfect home. He had done every single fucking thing he was supposed to do. Then this little piece of shit had strolled up with his cheap binoculars and nuked every atom of that to ashes, and left Patrick with nothing but the blame.
Marlboro Man was eyeing me anxiously, worried he had screwed up again. “Well well well,” I said coolly. “Looks like some of the heat’s off Patrick.”
Richie said, “It’s like a sniper’s nest.”
“It’s exactly like a sniper’s nest. All right: everybody out. Detective, ring your mates and tell them to pull back to the crime scene. Tell them to go casually, not like anything big’s happened, but go
Richie raised his eyebrows; Marlboro Man opened his mouth, but something in my face made him shut it again. I said, “This guy could be watching us right now. That’s the one thing we know about him, isn’t it? He likes watching. I guarantee you he’s been hanging around all morning, waiting to see how we liked his handiwork.”
Rows of half-formed houses, right and left and straight ahead, crowding to gawp at us. The beach at our backs, all sand dunes and great clumps of hissing grass; the hills at either end, with the jagged lines of rocks at their feet. He could have gone to ground anywhere. Every way I turned felt like crosshairs on my forehead.
I said, “All the activity may have scared him into backing off for a while-if we’re lucky, he’s missed us finding this. But he’ll be back. And when he shows, we want him thinking his little hidey-hole is still safe. Because the first chance he gets, he’ll need to come up here. For that.” I nodded downwards at Larry and his team, moving around the bright kitchen. “I’d bet every cent I’ve got: he won’t be able to stay away.”
6
In every way there is, murder is chaos. Our job is simple, when you get down to it: we stand against that, for order.
I remember this country back when I was growing up. We went to church, we ate family suppers around the table, and it would never even have crossed a kid’s mind to tell an adult to fuck off. There was plenty of bad there, I don’t forget that, but we all knew exactly where we stood and we didn’t break the rules lightly. If that sounds like small stuff to you, if it sounds boring or old-fashioned or uncool, think about this: people smiled at strangers, people said hello to neighbors, people left their doors unlocked and helped old women with their shopping bags, and the murder rate was scraping zero.
Sometime since then, we started turning feral. Wild got into the air like a virus, and it’s spreading. Watch the packs of kids roaming inner-city estates, mindless and brakeless as baboons, looking for something or someone to wreck. Watch the businessmen shoving past pregnant women for a seat on the train, using their 4x4s to force smaller cars out of their way, purple-faced and outraged when the world dares to contradict them. Watch the teenagers throw screaming stamping tantrums when, for once, they can’t have it the second they want it. Everything that stops us being animals is eroding, washing away like sand, going and gone.
The final step into feral is murder. We stand between that and you. We say, when no one else will,
I’m the least fanciful guy around, but on nights when I wonder whether there was any point to my day, I think about this: the first thing we ever did, when we started turning into humans, was draw a line across the cave door and say:
I got everyone together in the Spains’ sitting room-it was much too small, but there was no way we were having this chat in the fishbowl kitchen. The floaters clustered up shoulder to shoulder, trying not to stand on the rug or brush against the telly, like the Spains still needed their guests to have good manners. I told them what was behind the garden wall. One of the techs whistled, a long soft sound.
“Here, Scorcher,” Larry said. He had settled himself comfortably on the sofa. “Now I’m not doubting you, we both know better than that, but is there no chance this is just some homeless guy who found himself a nice cozy place to doss down for a while?”
“With binoculars and an expensive sleeping bag, and bugger-all else? Not a chance, Lar. That nest was set up for one reason: so someone could spy on the Spains.”
“And he’s not homeless,” Richie said. “Or if he is, he’s got somewhere he can have a wash, himself and the sleeping bag. No smell.”
I said to the nearest floater, “Get onto the Dog Unit and have them send a general purpose dog out here ASAP. Tell them we’re after a murder suspect and we need the best trailing dog they’ve got.” He nodded and backed into the hall, already pulling out his phone. “Until that dog gets a chance at the scent, no one else goes into that house. All of you”-I nodded to the floaters-“can pick up the search for the weapon, but this time keep well away from that hide-head out the front, around to both sides, and cut down to the beach. When the dog handler arrives, I’ll text you all, and you’ll come back here at a run. I’m going to need chaos outside the front of this place: people running, shouting, driving up on full lights and sirens, crowding around to look at something-give it as much drama as you can. Then pick a saint, or whatever you’re into, and say a prayer that if our man’s watching, the chaos lures him round to the front to see what’s going on.”
Richie was leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He said, “At least he’s after leaving his binoculars behind. If he wants to see what’s up, he can’t just stay somewhere out the back and check it out long- distance; he’ll have to come around the front, get in close.”
“There’s no guarantee he hasn’t got a second pair, but we’ll hope. If he comes close enough, we might even get our hands on him, although that’s probably too much to ask; this whole estate is a warren, he’s got enough hiding places to keep him going for months. Meanwhile, the dog goes around to that nest, scents off the sleeping bag-the handler can bring the bag down to the ground, if he can’t get the dog up there-and gets to work.
“Gerry,” Larry said, pointing at a gangly young guy, who nodded. “Fastest print tape in the West.”
“Good man, Gerry. If you get prints, you head straight back to the lab and do what you do. The rest of us will keep up the action out front for as long as you need it, and then we’ll go back to what we were doing. We’ve got until six o’clock sharp. Then we clear the area. Anyone who’s still working inside the house can keep going, but the outside needs to look like we’ve packed up and gone home for the night. I want the coast clear-literally-for our man.”
Larry’s eyebrows were practically in his bald patch. It was a gamble, staking the whole evening’s work on this one chance-witnesses’ memories can change even overnight, rain showers can wash away blood and scent, tides can pull dumped weapons or bloody clothes out to sea forever-and gambling isn’t like me, but this case wasn’t like most cases. “Once it gets dark,” I said, “we re-deploy.”
“You’re assuming the dog won’t get him,” Larry pointed out. “You think this fella knows what he’s at?”
I saw the floaters shift as the thought sent a ripple of alertness through them. “That’s what we’re aiming to find out,” I said. “Probably not, or he’d have cleaned up after himself, but I’m not taking any chances. Sunset’s around half past seven, maybe a little later. About eight or half past, as soon as we can’t be seen, Detective Curran and I will head up to that nest, where we’ll spend the night.” I caught Richie’s eye; he nodded. “Meanwhile, two detectives will be patrolling the estate-again, inconspicuously-keeping an eye out for any action, in particular any action heading this way. Any takers?”
All of the floaters’ hands shot up. I picked Marlboro Man-he had earned it-and a kid who looked young enough that one night with no sleep wouldn’t wipe him out for the rest of the week. “Keep in mind that he could come from outside the estate or from inside-he could be hiding out in a derelict house, or he could live here and that’s how he targeted the Spains. If you spot anything interesting, ring me straightaway. Still no radios: we have to assume that this guy is into his surveillance gear, deep enough that he owns a scanner. If someone looks promising, tail him if you can, but your top priority is making sure he doesn’t spot you. If you get even the faintest sense that he’s onto you, back right off and report to me. Got it?”
