Decay Inevitable

THE PHONE CALL came at a little before six on Saturday morning. Sean was jolted from his chair, pain shooting through his back and legs as he listed towards the kitchen to answer it. Rubbing feeling into his thighs, he listened as Rapler told him to not bother going into work on Monday.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because there’s no work to go to,” he said. “There was a fire this morning. Around two o’clock. The fire brigade have only just got it under control.”

“Arson?”

“It’s too early to tell really, but if you were to ask me, I’d say that it was.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because de Fleche Cheshire South, down in Chester, went up too. At the same time, would you believe?”

“What about work?”

Rapler put on an avuncular tone. “Sit tight, mate. We’ll have something else come up soon. Build ’em up, knock ’em down, there’s always something going on. I’ll be in touch. The work you did for us did not go unnoticed.”

Sean replaced the receiver, wondering which work Rapler was referring to.

He breakfasted on toast and coffee, trying to rid himself of the vodka that had turned his head sticky. He briefly considered a run to purge himself further, but quickly rejected the idea. He had seen people vomiting in the streets: it wasn’t impressive. A cold shower and more coffee helped, as did sticking his head out of the window for a few seconds to let the wind strip it raw.

He didn’t know what to do.

There were various options available to him. He could take a trip out to the de Fleche building anyway, as he had promised himself the previous night, in case something turned up. He could find Tim and quiz him about his wall molestation. Really quiz him. Or he could follow Vernon, see what was so important for him and Salty to discuss.

It was then that he found the envelope upon which he had scribbled the previous night. He reached for the phone.

“SO, BONNY RONNIE,” Vernon Lord said. “What makest thou of events thus far?”

Ronnie Salt hated Vernon. He hated the way he dressed, the way he slicked back his hair in that ridiculous pony tail. He hated the way he talked. And more than that, Ronnie hated the way he talked to him.

“I don’t trust him,” Ronnie said. “The fucker stinks of cop.”

“What’s not to trust, Ronnie? The guy spilled blood for me.”

Ronnie hated this place too, with its high-backed stools and its lunchtime menu. He hated pubs that smelled of vinegar when you walked into them, instead of beer. Pubs were for drinking in, not eating, for Christ’s sake.

“So you and Redman are nicely loved up, eh? Well that’s nice. All I’m saying is that I don’t trust him. He’s not us. He’s not with us.”

Vernon steepled his fingers above his lager. “I think he should be.”

Ronnie bristled. “You want to bring in new faces when we’re this close? This fucking close?”

“Who was it, you think, who started those fires this morning, hmmm? Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? There’s movement. London say so. Inserts on the prowl. There’s been a collision, son. You know, like has met like. Maybe it won’t be too long before they work out what’s what where they’re concerned.”

“London sorting it, are they?”

“One dead. Two left. They’ve got someone on the case, yeah. Someone shit-hot, from the way they went on about her.”

“Her? Her? Fuck me. We might as well pack up.”

“Ronnie. Become enlightened. Transcend this pig-headed stick-in-the-mud that you’ve become over the years. You don’t want people calling you Ronnie Sour, do you? Ronnie Bitter? Women... I tell you, women are the new men.”

“Fucking fuck-up, top to bottom,” Ronnie said. “Used to be security was an important matter. This tit Redman. What do you know about him?”

Vernon tapped his head and waggled his finger, then he put his hand to his gut and nodded. “Most of us think with the wrong organ, Salty. I don’t care for checking up on people. You can cover up. Everyone wears a different face when it suits them. I go by my gut. Always have. I went with my gut when you came on the scene, and I was right. I think I’m right with Sean too. If you saw the way he took punches for me, for us, Salty, you’d change your tune.”

“I hope you’re right, Vernon,” Ronnie warned. “We’ll break through before long and end it all. We could do without any interference.”

“If there’s any interference to be done, Ronnie, this woman from London will be doing it. For us. She... according to those in the know... is special.”

“So you say. So they say. Whoever. Whatever. I just want to be sure, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that.”

Vernon patted his arm and went to the bar. When he came back with more drinks, Ronnie said, “So the fires mean we’ve got two doors sealed. Any news on the third?”

SALLY CAME THROUGH with the information for him after just half an hour.

“Are you not busy enough?” Sean asked, when she called.

“Do you want this or not?”

“Go ahead.”

Sean made notes in a pad as Sally told him about de Fleche. He seemed to have been an interesting man, if completely insane. When she had finished, Sean made smalltalk and she answered him non-committally. When he asked her what was wrong, she told him she was feeling a little poorly. Her period was due, Rostron was being a wanker, and her new partner, a wet-nosed pup called Firmstone, was more interested in chatting her up than nailing villains.

“I wish I was still there, in a way,” Sean said, only half-joking.

“From what I gather, you’re busier than when you were in uniform. What are you up to?”

“Can’t say,” Sean whispered. “Phone might be bugged.”

Sally cut through him with a clipped, serious tone. “If there’s something going on up there, something serious, I want to know, Sean. I can help you.”

Sean said, “I know.”

“Why can’t you talk to me?” Sally asked. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I’m just going over Naomi’s past. That’s all. Seeing what I can dig up.”

“These men you were telling me about. At her funeral. Who are they?”

“Not sure. Not sure about anything really. I’m just mooching about. I’m being careful.”

Sally’s sigh, 200 miles away, made him feel good to have her as his friend. He could picture her expression: tired, kind of happy, kind of sad. “You’d better,” she said, finally. “Call me. If things get rough. I can be there in two hours.”

“I’ll do that. I will.”

Sally said, “There’s more on this guy. Stuff about what he was into. Designs, you know. Too much to tell you over the phone. It’s in the post.”

Sean read through his notes as he made his way outside to the car. Peter de Fleche had been born in Helsinki in 1934. He studied at Helsinki Polytechnic and ended up lecturing there in the 1960s when he taught a student, Adrienne Fox, who would later become his wife. Nothing that Sally had told him pointed to any suicidal tendencies. Successful man who had modest tastes. No children. He had moved to the Northwest of England when he was commissioned to design a cluster of intelligent buildings for the Warrington-Runcorn axis during the boom years of