Bad Press (2 page)

“Say again?” Tired and tetchy, the crime correspondent of the Birmingham
Evening News
regretted last night’s Balti but not as much as the beer. And the brandy. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but when the phone rang two hours down the line, Matt Snow was barely awake, let alone fully alert. The reporter tried sitting up but his head felt surgically attached to his sweaty pillow. A voice he couldn’t place right now was banging on about a tip just phoned in to the news desk: man’s body, major incident, Ladywood. Could be an exclusive. And there was a hole the size of Canada on the front page.

Ordinarily Snowie would have been well up for it. He loved his work: the kudos more than the cash. Which was lucky. And he was good at what he did. Strike that. He was ace. Just not right now...

“Look, mate. Give it The Bishop. He’ll do you a good job.” Matt didn’t rate Toby Priest. The young reporter wasn’t in the same league. If the story had legs it would soon come running back to papa Snow.

“Your call, dude. But I reckon it’s got biggie written all over it.”

Snow frowned, didn’t care for the tone. Was it the new guy? Skippy? He raked fingers through a short straw-coloured fringe. Its normal tufted appearance was one of the reasons fellow hacks called him Tintin. Generally behind his back. The reporter swallowed a curry-laced burp. He was definitely torn between a warm duvet and a shit hot story. His weekly column and the occasional motormouth gig on local telly put Snowie in the big-fish-small-bowl class, but he lusted for Great White category. One lucky break and the pigmies he had to work with would be calling him Jaws. Even so, a guy had to get his zeds in. He drawled through a badly stifled yawn, “If you can’t reach The Bishop, give us a call back.”

“Forget it. I’m not your freaking secretary. I’ll find someone who gives a shit.”

Aussie dork was hanging up. “OK, OK. Hold on.” He reached for the pad and pen he kept by the bed. “Sling us the address again.” Details scrawled, he gave a muted, “Thanks, mate.”

“Pleasure’s mine.” Pause. “Tintin.”

He gunned the gleaming black Ferrari along slick city streets. Slick? Or mean? Matt Snow couldn’t make up his mind. He was forever killing time by mentally drafting lines for his first blockbuster. It was all in his head, not a word on paper yet, but Dan Brown, eat your heart. Snow reckoned his opus would make
The Da Vinci Code
look like kiddie Cluedo.

In the real world, the reporter was on the pavement outside his flat just off the Hagley Road in Edgbaston, freezing his balls off and failing to flag down a black cab. First week in October – whatever happened to an Indian summer? He stomped his feet to try and keep warm. Where were all the taxis? Jeez! It was only half one in the morning, and this was a main drag into town.

Snowie sighed, ruffled his fringe. The car keys in his pocket rubbed temptingly against his leg, but he suspected he was still over the limit; last thing he wanted was to lose his licence. A hack without a carriage was like tonic without gin. The locus (he liked that word; might use it) was only a stone’s throw. The Churchill estate was well walkable. Then again...

The Fiesta started first time, which was good going. Recently he’d been calling it the Fiasco, and was trading it in next week. He wanted something with a bit more poke, bit more street cred. He fancied a Midget but Bev Morriss would rip the piss something rotten if he went for a Morriss-mobile. Like he was bothered. He’d be more worried if she didn’t give him a hard time. He and the spiky DS had crossed more swords than Lancelot. But Morriss was a good cop – even if she did have a gob on her.

Snow wasn’t drunk or he’d never have got behind the wheel, but he drove like a snail on Mogadon to compensate. Even so it took less than five minutes to reach the less than salubrious location. The Churchill lay – lolled – cheek by jowl with the city’s richest quarters. The five-star-first-class-top-banana-notch likes of the National Indoor Arena, the International Convention Centre, the Hyatt, the Rep were all in spitting distance. Which was most Churchill residents’ speciality sport.

The reporter parked the car on a scrubby grass verge, killed the engine, re-acquainted himself with his surroundings. Every reporter in the city knew the housing estate; every police officer knew it better. Its grotty council semis and solitary tower block had been slung up in the sixties and slunk down inexorably since. Its streets were neither mean nor slick. They were dustbins and dog shit, gang culture and graffiti.

Most residents thought it was named after the dog that flogged insurance on the telly ads. Challenge Churchill? Yeah right. Given the crime tsunami round here, they’d be lucky to get third party on a pushbike.

And Matt was staring at the biggest wave: ASBO Tower. Nineteen floors pocked with pushers and pimps, felons and fuckwits. High-rise lowlifes who made it home-shit-home for the few decent folk who hadn’t moved out: families clinging like hairs round a bath. Steel-railed balconies broke up the grim grey fascia, limp washing still hung on makeshift clotheslines, kids’ toys and pot plants added the odd daub of colour, but even that was muted in the jaundiced glow of streetlights. Matt counted a dozen or so windows that showed signs of life: insomniacs. Or inmates up to no good.

He frowned. Something was missing. Cops cars were like lampposts on the Churchill: permanent fixtures. He reckoned residents could charge the Bill parking fees. But then they’d have to speak English. And talk to a pig. He doubted there’d be many who’d do both.

But there wasn’t a copper in sight. And that made Matt uneasy. There should be shed-loads. The news desk had talked major incident. He glanced at the address he’d scribbled. Yep. One of the tatty little shops opposite ASBO, sorry, Asquith Tower. He checked out the row: launderette, butcher’s, chippie, Spar, offie.

So where was the party? He tapped a seriously browned-off finger on the gear stick. Not so much as a solitary uniform. Should be a full crime scene: CID, SOCOs, meat wagon, the works. Unless? He scratched a nascent pimple on his cheek. What if the cops didn’t even know about it? What if the informant hadn’t called them? Or called the paper first? People round here had more faith in the tooth fairy than the law. They’d rather give a steer to Bin Laden than a boy in blue. Matt felt a tingle. Not an adrenalin rush, but a definite trickle. If he’d read it right, he wasn’t just ahead of the pack, he was a nose in front of the police.

Best take a peep. His hand stilled en route to open the door. Anxious eyes scanned the street in front, took in the rear view via the mirror. The reporter wasn’t a wimp, but he and Clark Kent had only one thing in common, and it wasn’t being Superman. There’d been a shooting and six stabbings on the Churchill this year, two fatals.

When Snow’s column wasn’t taking a pop at paedos and perverts, it was full of rants against gang war and street violence. And it often carried Snowie’s pic. He got more hate mail than Captain Hook. What if this was a wind-up? Or a set-up?

He sniffed. Best check with the desk; see if anything else had come in since he spoke to Skippy. He reached for his phone, cursed under his breath; knew he should’ve put the damn thing on charge.

Mind, if the battery was dead, so was this place. Ten minutes he’d been sitting here and the only sign of street life had been a feral tom picking at a road-kill pigeon. He sighed, knew he’d not sleep if he went home without at least taking a gander.

And these days he carried his own insurance.

His hand fumbled under the driver’s seat, fingers sought out a Maglite, then closed round the handle of the knife.

Police officers hunt in pairs on the Churchill. PC Ken Gibson riding shotgun spotted it first: a flash of light, in a shop doorway. He nudged the driver, Constable Steve Hawkins, who glanced across. A youngish blond-ish bloke with a torch was hunkered down ferreting in what looked like a fit-to-burst bin-liner. The officers exchanged a weary glance. It spoke volumes: the amount of paperwork they’d be looking at if the bugger was about to take a pop at Booze Brothers. The off-licence attracted more visitors after hours than when it was open. None had calling cards. Torchie was staggering about now.

“Looks like he’s had a skinful already,” Hawkins drawled. The constable had twenty-odd years under a belt that strained against his girth. He’d been there, done that, didn’t wear t-shirts. Bald and broken-nosed, when he was out of uniform he looked more baddie than sheriff.

“Could just drive on, Hawkeye?” Gibbo suggested hopefully. The younger officer could see the admin stretching over and above the call of duty, ie shift end at six.

Sorely tempted, it was with a resigned reluctance that Hawkins pulled the Vauxhall over a few doors down. On the upside, they’d faced far worse incidents on the patch. It would be two against one, and the bloke was no Incredible Hulk. “Nah. Let’s sort it.”

Softly-softly didn’t work. The guy must have heard their approach. He spun round, eyes wild, hair all over the place. “Thank God you’re here.”

“Definitely pissed then,” Gibbo muttered. Hawkins masked a smile, which wasn’t difficult now he had a better idea what they were dealing with. The blond guy looked as if he was about to puke. Sweating, shaking, grey-skinned, he was probably a user, in need of a fix.

Gibson saw the knife first. Hawkins caught a stifled moan from his partner. Gibbo’s wife had just given birth. The baby hadn’t even been christened. And though officers wore protective clothing as a matter of course these days, anti-stab vests weren’t proof against smackheads.

Furtively, Gibbons reached for his cosh, Hawkins took a tentative step forward. Calm. Casual. Play it by the book. “Best give that to me, sir. Don’t want any troub...”

They had it. Hawkins froze. The druggie wasn’t alone, and he had more than one knife. Behind the blond, in a doorway that stank of cat pee and human faeces, lay an old man’s body curled in the foetal position: foetal and fatal. Hawkins mentally crossed himself. The vicious beating probably wasn’t the cause of death. That would almost certainly be the blade embedded up to its glistening hilt in the victim’s scrawny neck.

Shocked and scared, Matt Snow wasn’t so far out of it that he couldn’t decipher the look on the bigger officer’s face. “You can’t be serious? I didn’t kill him!”

The cop looked as if he had difficulty swallowing. “Course not, sir.”

“I don’t even know him,” Matt blurted. But did he? He needed time to think. The reporter had an inkling the victim was Wally Marsden, a paedophile who’d been on the sex offenders’ register for years. He’d never seen the old lag in the flesh, only in a mug shot. But his hack’s nose was twitching: the story could be a goer, big-time. And until Matt stood it up, he didn’t want another reporter getting a sniff.

“Course not, sir.” The officer reached out a hand. “So why not let me have the...”

“Get real,” Snow snarled, jabbed the knife at the body. “I found him like this.” He was sure of one thing: if it did turn out to be Marsden, there’d be no shortage of suspects. Right now though, Snow reckoned he was top of the list.

“Course you did, sir,” Hawkins said.

Snow flapped an impatient hand. Starsky and Hutch were getting up his nostrils. They clearly had no idea who the victim was, and even less who they were talking to. Shame that. The personal touch might have oiled the professional wheels. Snow came across a lot of cops on the job, but he’d not clocked either of these clowns.

“Look, Mr er...?”

The one who looked like a boxer gone to fat gave a thin smile. “I’m PC Hawkins. Steve Hawkins?”

“What’s with the voice?” Snow snapped. “I’m not a retard.” The reporter watched as they exchanged glances. Christ. They really did think he was a homicidal fruitcake. Sooner this was sorted, sooner he could chase the story, but it was a waste of time talking to plods. “I want to talk to a senior officer.”

Gibson held up his radio. “I’ll get on to it, sir.”

Snow gave a satisfied nod. In the distance a dog barked, a car backfired. Hawkins’s gaze never left the reporter’s face. Maybe the guy was trying to place him? Could be he’d seen Matt’s photo in the paper.

“Know me now?” Snow gave an encouraging smile.

“David Beckham?” Hawkins muttered.

Matt bristled. The body behind him was cooling, as was the killer’s trail, and Clouseau was cracking one-liners. The reporter laid down the knife and the torch. “Matt Snow. Crime correspondent? Evening News?” He reached into a breast pocket. “The desk got a tip. I was checking it out.” The cop didn’t even glance at the proffered NUJ card. He was too busy snapping cuffs round Matt’s skinny wrists.

“This is a crime scene,” the reporter shrieked. “You should be calling it in, pal.”

“I have.” Gibson showed Matt the radio. “And you’re in it. Up to your neck. Pal.”

The zip wouldn’t budge over Bev’s bump. Red-faced, blue eyes brimming with tears, she breathed in so hard it was a miracle her rib cage didn’t snap. Frankie tugged from behind. “Breathe in, my friend. It’s stuck like a stuck thing from stuck land.”

They were in Bev’s bedroom at Baldwin Street. Frankie’s face in the cheval glass was cool and unruffled as ever. But something wasn’t right. And it wasn’t just the wedding dress – that was an unmitigated disaster. Puffy mutton sleeves and myriad layers of ivory flounce, it resembled one of Bo Peep’s cast-offs. Or a meringue on legs. And it didn’t even fit.

“Shoulda got a bigger size, Bevy.” Frankie smirked at Bev’s V-sign. “OK. Two sizes.”

Bev clenched teeth, then fists. Frankie had been her best mate since God was an embryo, but right now the girl was looking at a slap.

“Mum!” Bev wailed, wrung her hands. Emmy Morriss lolled on the bed, in a pastel blue two-piece and a hat the size and shape of a satellite dish. When she wasn’t swigging Bristol Cream she was slurring,
Get Me to the Church on Time
.

“Mum!” The wail’s volume increased. “You’re not helping.”

Emmy emitted a discreet belch. “No one’s holding a gun to your head, sweetheart.”

No. Just a Kalashnikov. The church was packed. A zillion prawn vol-au-vents were on standby at the reception. Not to mention the bun in the oven. Well, a chapatti.

“Bollocks.” Slinky in a scarlet sheath, Frankie clapped a hand to ruby lips. “Got a safety pin, Mrs M?”

Bev peeked through fingers wet with tears. Her mascara was doing a runner, lippie bled all over the place. Her face looked like Jackson Pollock’s palette. And now the freaking frock was history. Everyone was waiting. The Chief Constable would be there. Highgate CID was forming a guard of honour. This could not be happening. Bev groaned from the soles of her pink satin pumps, jumped a mile when the doorbell rang. Frankie sashayed to the window, peeped through the curtain. “Who booked the hearse?”

And that was it. Bev screamed, shot up. The dream panned out the same every time. And this was its fifth or sixth screening. Now wide awake, she hugged her knees, shivered as cold sweat trickled down her spine. She’d shared the nightmare with Frankie, tried making light of it, but impending motherhood obviously weighed heavily on her mind.

And elsewhere. Mouth turned down, she stroked her bump with trembling fingers. She was only three months gone, but her stomach had always been more pannini than pancake. No one had noticed, or at least commented. Yet. She sighed, shook her head. It was impossible to imagine Oz Khan’s baby swimming around in there. Impossible to imagine anyone’s. Christ almighty. Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss? Kick-ass cop? Maternal instincts of a sterilised cuckoo? Up the duff?

So why not terminate it? She lay back with her hands behind her head, stared at a lace doily cobweb on the cornice. Why had she kept it quiet? Why were her mum, Frankie and the guv the only people in the know? Was she in denial and talking about it would make it real? And what did that mean? That she didn’t want it? Or did? And how many more stupid questions couldn’t she answer? Ah, but she could. Trouble was the answers changed every time.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Oz had a right to know. But did she want that complication? Would he? They’d been a good team while it lasted, partners on and off the job, carnal knowledge and criminal. But her erstwhile DC was now a sergeant in the Met. Oz had moved on. And she’d been happy to let him go. Hadn’t she? So why dream about getting hitched? And what was with the hearse?

Eyes open, ears pricked, she breathed, “Yes! Thank you, God.” Then banished every thorny thought for the thousandth time, as she reached for the landline. A ringing phone was one thing she could always answer.

A call-out to the Churchill estate was as welcome as bird flu on a turkey farm in advent. So how come DC Mac Tyler was chirpier than a sparrow? Slumped in the passenger seat, Bev cast a grumpy glance at her partner. Surely that level of perkiness was abnormal at this time in the morning? Not that it would last. Still a relative newbie, Mac was about to experience his first slice of life on the Churchill. That should bring him down to earth with a bump. Or maybe not. Bev cut him another glance. Mac’s glass was never half-empty; he was a man with a perpetually full magnum. She reckoned it was down to his stand-up comedy. In the little spare time the job left, he was a regular on the amateur circuit. Not that he was joking as they exited the inner ring road.

“Caught some guy red-handed, apparently, boss. Uniform played a blinder. Gibbo kept him talking. Hawkeye disarmed him. Perp put up a hell of a fight, according to control.” Mac’s warm brown eyes checked the mirror as he indicated a right.

“Great.” Distracted, Bev shifted her bum, subtly loosened the belt on her denim boot-cuts. Given her entire working wardrobe was blue, she could and often did dress in the dark. Shouldn’t have grabbed this pair though, they were beginning to pinch.

“You OK?” Mac’s bemused glance flicked back to the road.

“Hunky. This perp then? Got a name? Any form?” She scanned the nightlife, or lack of. The streets were dead, roads deserted. Not that they were in a hurry, or she’d be driving. But the body wasn’t going anywhere, and the case looked cut and dried: the suspect was cooling his heels back at the nick, uniform had secured the scene, the SOCO guys were on the way, ditto the pathologist. She and Mac would be on site to ensure procedures were carried out, the gathering and handling of evidence, organising door-to-door, usual plod work. Yawn.

Mac shrugged a
dunno
to both Bev’s queries, his speech now temporarily restricted by a mouthful of sausage roll. She sniffed. God, it smelt good. Having reluctantly downed a virtuous banana before Mac picked her up, she now flapped a half-share away and shot him a Morriss look. This one was from the mad-fool shop. Oblivious, Mac scarfed another bite. Bev puckered her lips. Guy was a fool to himself, really. With all the extra weight, he could body double for Danny de Vito. Not the legs – Mac’s were too long. She watched a couple more inches of cholesterol disappear down her DC’s neck. Couldn’t be doing a bunch of good at his age. He’d not see fifty again; way he was going he’d be lucky to see sixty at all. And that’d be a shame, cause she had a soft spot for Tyler, even though he dressed like a lumberjack in a Lovejoy wig.

Her fingers tapped a beat on her knee. “Shouldn’t eat when you’re driving anyway. Cops should set an example.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Very Uriah Heep. Pity it didn’t match the facial inflexion.

She sniffed. “Stick like that if the wind changes, mate.”

Mac muttered something about rattled cages, but didn’t finish the food. Bev saw him slip it back into a Gregg’s bag. She felt a tad mean; shouldn’t really take it out on him. It was Mike Powell’s call they were here. The DI couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed. He’d told her on the phone the experience would look good on her CV. Yeah right. If she cocked up again any time soon it’d be a P45 she’d be eyeing, not a naffing curriculum vitae.

The last big case she’d worked on had ended in a disciplinary: insubordination, contaminating a crime scene, failure to communicate. Guilty as charged, m’lud. Mitigating circumstances and mega-grovelling were the only reason she’d clung on to her rank. But the brass had made it clear: one toe out of line from now on in and it’d be more than her footing she’d lose.

“That the doc’s?” Matt nodded at an elderly Land Rover straddling the kerb opposite a row of rundown shops. The entire block was cordoned off, though the action was centred on Booze Brothers. A police lighting rig had turned the offie into a down-market gin palace, every illuminated inch being recorded on still and movie cameras by a police lens-man.

“Looks like it,” Bev said. Confirmation came when a round-faced, middle-aged woman in a tweed cape clambered from the driver’s door inadvertently flashing a thigh. Home Office pathologist Gillian Overdale could be dour and monosyllabic. Not flush with people skills, she was red-hot with stiffs.

“I’ll grab a word with Overs,” Bev said. “See what else you can get out of Steve and Ken.” Hawkins and Gibson were standing round chatting to the SOCO team who were already geared up and waiting for a green from the pathologist. “Leave the keys, Mac.” She was ferreting around in her bag. “I’ll lock up in a min.”

She watched as Tyler waddled off, hitching baggy denims over bum crack. Then reached for the remains of the sausage roll. It was tough but someone had to force it down. She checked the mirror for crumbs. Someone had to keep Mac on the straight and narrow.

As Bev headed for the off-licence, the sausage roll very nearly gave a repeat performance. The pathologist was turning the body, and though crime scenes often stink, this one reeked. Bev retched as waves of rancid body odour wafted from layers of filthy dishevelled clothing, and merged with human waste. Eyes watering, she mumbled, “Shee-ite.”

Overdale was hunched over the victim, creased hazel eyes scrutinising every inch of visible flesh. She didn’t need to look up. “Sergeant, if you’re about to puke, back off. The last thing the crime scene needs is a contribution of vomit.”

Bev curled a lip. The phrases sucking eggs and teaching granny were on the tip of her tongue. She had the nous not to let them fall. Fumbling in a shoulder bag the size of Surrey, she located her crime scene wet wipes, gave her nose a liberal dab of eau de lemon, then shoved the rest of the pack in her pocket.

Overdale’s latex-gloved fingers were probing places Bev wouldn’t venture with a tour guide. Not to mention a rectal thermometer. Even as an observer, she was keeping a greater distance than usual from this murder victim. Her initial glance had registered an old dosser, probably a wino. The stink of booze, matted unwashed hair, black nails gave away the guy’s story. And the livid purple bruising and split lips didn’t help a face already ravaged by rough living.

Bev had seen enough, turned her back, kicked a stone desultorily into the gutter where it joined yesterday’s crumpled
Sun.
She couldn’t see this making the headlines. An old alkie battered half to death then stuck like a pig? Prob’ly in a tiff over a can of Strong Brew? Yeah right. That’d double the print run. Not that the press had got wind of it: there were no neighbourhood ghouls around to tip the wink.

She tapped a Doc Marten and waited for the familiar emotions to dig in. And waited...

This indifference, this lack of empathy was a first for Bev, and it unnerved her. A good cop needs to feel for the victim. Every victim. Not cherry pick. She knew a small number of cops who didn’t give a toss, many more who cared but hid it; she was one of the few who wore their heart on both sleeves. She hoped to God this was a one-off and not compassion fatigue. Because without that...

“You still look as if you’re about to throw up.” Overdale stood at Bev’s side, running what appeared a professional gaze over Bev’s face. “I thought you were inured to this sort of thing?”

Bev’s unease grew as the unwelcome scrutiny continued. “Tickety, me, doc.” She lifted a finger to a sallow moon. “Must be the lighting.”

Overdale gave a brisk if-you-say-so sniff, then snapped off the gloves, dropped them in a steel case at her feet. Bev wasn’t big on patience, but there was no point prompting. If the pathologist had anything useful to contribute she’d come out with it. Push and she could turn prickly. Pricklier. The hoot of an owl, the distant wail of a police car, a muted guffaw from Mac and the boys, then Overdale said, “He’s been dead several hours.”

Bev’s heart hit the asphalt. The time of death meant there had to be another crime scene. Even Churchill residents wouldn’t have ignored the lengthy presence of a stiff on their communal doorstep. So when and how was he dumped?

“I’d say he’s been moved at least twice.” Overdale blew her nose, stuffed the hankie in her pocket. She talked temperatures, gravity, pooling blood, primary and secondary lividity. Bev listened, groaned inwardly. Could it get any worse? An image of mottled purple flesh flashed before her eyes. Oh, yes. She shook her head to banish the vision. “Doc, when you say
several
hours...?”

“What do you want?” Overdale joshed. “Jam on it?” Perish the bleeding thought. Unlike Bev, the pathologist was smiling. “I may be able to narrow it down after the PM, sergeant. Let’s say midday?”

As early as that? “Can’t wait,” Bev muttered.

Overdale looked set to leave, then turned back, thrust a hand in her pocket and looked down on the victim. “It was a vicious beating, sergeant. Sadistic, almost. And almost certainly inflicted before the fatal stab wound.” She made eye contact with Bev. “And God forgive me, I can’t get worked up about it. I’ve no time for scum.”

“Beg pardon?” Bev’s mouth gaped. Even though she’d had a hard time feeling sympathy, she bristled at the woman’s callous throwaway remarks. It was effing rich, a pathologist dissing a dosser. Who knew what circumstances had driven the poor old sod on to the streets? He didn’t deserve to die like that. No one did.

Overdale flapped a dismissive hand. “I know what you’re thinking... There but for the grace of God...” She pointed a scuffed brogue at the body. “But I don’t like paedophiles.” Bev’s face said it all. “Don’t you know who it is, sergeant?”

No. She moved nearer the corpse, took the closer look she’d baulked at earlier. “Jesus!”

“That’s not what the media called him.”

The tart observation went over Bev’s head. Her brain was rapidly retrieving data from the memory bank. Walter Marsden, employed as caretaker, primary school. Wolverhampton? West Bromwich? Warley? As for taking care, the only thing Marsden had taken was three little girls’ innocence. Seven years he got. Vile monster was how the tabloids described him.

“I was a consultant at Wolverhampton when the story broke,” Overdale said.

Bev nodded. Thought it began with a W. “I didn’t even know he was out.”

“No.” Overdale arched an eyebrow. “But somebody did.”

Bev waved vaguely at the pathologist’s departing back, acutely aware of her initial failure to identify Marsden. It wasn’t that long since his predatory features had been plastered all over the front pages. She studied the raddled face, so engrossed this time she barely registered Mac’s lumbering arrival.