Highbridge (19 page)

After fifteen minutes or so of going over and over the fact that there was no one else in the shop, no one else in the street except for those stupid girls looking for Husani, and no other damage anywhere, they had all concluded that perhaps it was just a bottle exploding. Especially as they had retrieved one of the soggy labels to discover it was from the fake batch they had bought in from India.

Any further investigation was abandoned when the bearded one came through from the house with one of the young girls who was obviously wondering what Mercedes was doing. Immediately he lost interest in Fatchops's sensory powers or where the drinks came from, and went back to the real reason he had turned up tonight, but not before he reached over and picked up a few special forks that had avoided being deep-fat fried. He then waved for the bearded one to help Fatchops clear up, as he led the young girl back inside. Maybe she could help him out of his sticky Pradas.

All this was still being watched by Matt through a small night-spotting monocular as Luke finally gathered everything together.

‘Looks like they bought it,' Matt said as he set up a huge commercial firework rocket and tube. ‘We could have done with a few of these when we got caught in that goat market ambush.'

‘They're probably banned under some goat protection convention,' Luke responded as he started off down the hill. After a moment or two to allow him to get a safe distance away, Matt did one last 360 with the night scope. All seemed clear so he lit the long fuse of the rocket and a couple of other ground-based fireworks before, as the instructions said, retreating to a safe distance, going the opposite way to Luke. Up the hill. By the time the rocket roared and soared skyward to explode with a sonic boom and brilliant starburst that would be heard and seen all over Highbridge, Luke was on his way down the hill, silhouetted against the Golden Rain that was spewing out behind him.

Now, if anyone had seen the Barrett's muzzle flash and bothered to climb up to investigate they would leave thinking it was ‘just kids' messing about with fireworks. Like the initial reaction in the chippy. They would assume what they were already expecting. Job done. Get gone.

‘Quiet, Roscoe,' Natasha soothed as she stroked his head, stepping out once again on to the patio. ‘It's only a firework.'

She waited, as did Roscoe, head up, ears primed, but after a few minutes both assumed that was it. They then turned and looked back into the kitchen, now a scene of typical teenage occupation. Natasha had managed to talk Tanya's friends into staying put, so Tanya was handing out the hot chocolate. Carol was fighting someone in a distant multi-room, probably Ross, for control of the Sky EPG while Becky was thumbing her way through her phone menus. Natasha and Roscoe exchanged looks. Neither really wanted to go back but both thought they should.

‘So, excitement over for the night then, boy?' Natasha asked as she stepped back inside and went to make herself a cup of tea, while Roscoe headed for the treats cupboard. He had, after all, warned them of the firework. However, as no one was paying attention he went and flopped back into his basket. Natasha realised she was unlikely to get much more out of her daughter as she was now preoccupied, reconnected to her digital universe, so she turned her attention to Carol, still trying to get control of the Sky Box. She stepped across, took the remote and pressed 204. There was no counter entry. ‘If they see that, they know I am looking for something to watch.'

‘I can't wait to be a mother,' Carol said as she went across to the table to join the others.

Natasha smiled as she collected her tea, not sure control of the Sky Box was worth going through childbirth for but it could be classed as an unforeseen benefit. She decided to try again, quickly, as she saw Carol picking up her phone, heading for the digital exit. ‘So what do you think was going on down at the chippy, Carol?'

‘Dunno. They were really freaked out by something, though.'

‘Fridge exploded,' Tanya announced without looking up from her phone. ‘According to Henry.'

‘And Nisha's just tweeted: Dad's got me behind counter. Big Bingo rush. Chippy closed. He owes me,' Becky chipped in.

Carol had by now also gone digital. ‘Holly's saying: Fatman Flops on Fridge.' She scrolled down the thread. ‘Mia reckons Fatty fell over and smashed into the fridge and shattered all the bottles.'

‘Wouldn't want him falling on me,' Tanya added. ‘And that firework came off the hill, according to Zolly. Reckons it'll be someone off the Riverbeck estate.'

Natasha looked at the Sky remote and then back at the digital news service around her kitchen table. Who needed the TV news? She passed the control over to Carol and headed for the door with her tea. ‘Wait about five minutes as I'll tell him he should be asleep.' Then, to Tanya, ‘You all OK now?'

Tanya stood up and hugged her mother, then sat down, without taking her eyes off her phone. Natasha smiled again. And was that worth going through childbirth for? But seeing they were now all relaxed. And safe. Yeah, she thought, it was. And she'd get the full story from Tanya in the morning.

‘But that's not the full story, Rupert and you know it.' Sean was on his way out of the public consultation, pleased with the number of nodding heads he had noticed while repeating almost word for word the speech he had given at lunchtime. He was now speaking to Rupert Bronks, local Golf Club owner, part-time scrap merchant and full-time cleavage gazer.

‘It was a good speech, though. Really. And I liked that answer you gave about “if politicians can't find jobs for people they should find something else to keep them occupied”. That makes sense.'

‘And I believe it. Redefine our values so that what we consider “work” is also about what we do with our time, rather than just working for money.'

‘That's where you lost me,' Rupert replied, nearly losing Sean as his gaze wandered towards the ladies' toilet where another cleavage had just appeared, but he didn't lose his thread.

‘Seems to me,' he continued, as he turned to watch the cleavage head back to the function room. ‘That the trouble is too many of them do that already. They want someone else to give them the money so they can have a good time without working for it. But no doubt that's too simplistic again, is it?'

‘No. Not really,' Sean responded, waiting for Rupert to turn back. Which didn't look like happening. So he prompted. ‘It's about balance, Rupert.'

This seemed to do the trick. ‘Ah, balance,' Rupert commented as he turned with a smile on his face. ‘Must be some sort of politically incorrect joke about balance and breasts, eh?'

‘Or perhaps not?' Sean offered, wanting to neither agree nor subscribe to this male-bonding line.

Rupert just snorted. ‘Being PC, are you?' But he didn't wait for a response. ‘That's like balance. I hate that almost as much as I do “impartiality”. I don't want to be impartial. I don't want to be balanced. And I don't want to be a reconstructed metrosexual, whatever that is. I want to do and think what I believe in. And that's not buying someone a new suit to go for an interview who could get a job digging ditches and save up for a suit. And they're only a few quid down the charity shop. Plenty of my old things in there, I can tell you.'

‘I'm not really asking you to buy them a suit, Rupert.'

‘I know, Sean. I know you're not that daft. Just as I'm not as daft as I make myself sound. You want me to look at the reasons they're like they are. Why they take to drugs? Why they become homeless? Become unemployable?' Sean nodded. Rupert leaned forward and prodded him on the shoulder. ‘Then you'll have to adopt them all at birth. Think Sandra would go for that?'

‘I know, I know.' Sean accepted this, but started to guide Rupert towards the door as he saw another group of women heading for the Ladies. ‘But I'm trying to talk about what we do right now.' He continued: ‘about helping the ones already caught up in it all. Give them a hand to try and do something else with their lives. Give them an option other than the street corner dealer.'

‘And how many addicts do you have working your tills down at the garden centre?'

Sean gave a nod of defeat. He knew that simplistic truth was the killer point. If he didn't want to take the risk, why should others.

‘Exactly. The approximate number I have at the Golf Club. Might have them among the membership, mind, but I'm after their cash, not letting them get at mine. Sorry, Sean. I never had anything when I was growing up. And I never turned to drugs.'

Rupert headed off for his car but stopped to shout back, ‘Probably because I was too pissed to find them. But, er, not tonight of course.' He nodded over Sean's shoulder to where Hilary Jardine was heading towards them. Out of uniform but appropriately dressed by John Lewis. No cleavage. ‘And give my regards to Mrs Nolan. Tell her I missed her. 'Night, Inspector.'

Hilary smiled a goodnight as Rupert headed off and she crossed to Sean. ‘We'll have to stop meeting like this, or something like that?' She continued walking towards the car park.

Sean followed. ‘Do you think you can get addicted to anti-drug get-togethers?'

‘I get paid for it. Although,' she hesitated, before saying, ‘And don't fly off the handle at me …'

‘You're still wondering why I bother?' Sean finished the question for her. ‘You and Sandra,' he added, waving to Rupert as he drove away in his old Jaguar XJR. ‘Someone's got to try and do something. And if only it was as easy as getting a job digging ditches. Been there and done that. It's got to be how we think about work, hasn't it. In an area like this. Where so many people work for the state in some form or other.'

‘Like me?'

‘Yeah. And most of them at lunch. And here tonight. All getting cash from the state, just like people on benefit. I mean, you're a job creation scheme really, aren't you?'

‘Never saw myself as that, I have to admit.' Hilary started fishing for her keys as they had reached her very sensible Skoda Fabia.

‘No, because your job was created a hundred years or so back. When “we”, society, decided we'd rather pay other people to keep the law than have to worry about it ourselves. But, if you think about it, you lot, and nurses, doctors, teachers, the fire service, are all there because we, society, or communities, decided to create those jobs. We didn't decide to create the job of shoemaker or baker or banker or blacksmith. Or people like me selling plants. They all came because individuals saw a demand and wanted to make a living out of it.'

‘You're going to end up in politics if you're not careful,' she replied, but now with a real smile on her face.

‘You are sounding like Sandra now.'

‘Bet she's not encouraging you.'

‘And you are?'

‘Well,' Hilary hesitated, before adding, ‘We could do worse. We probably are doing. And although you'd probably make our life a bit more difficult, we could do with a few more like you.'

‘That sounds like some form of backhanded compliment.'

‘You care, Sean. And that could get us all into trouble.'

Sean smiled. ‘Think you're mistaking me for my son. Or my brother?' He saw the smile stiffen again. ‘You don't seriously think Joe's up to something, do you?'

He was relieved to see the smile relax again.

‘No. He's not trouble. Never was, really. Thinks he's Jack the Lad, but he's only a statistic. I get paid to sort out the likes of your Joe every now and then. But …' she let it hang, not sure whether to go on or whether she was adding two and two to get five.

‘But?' Sean prompted. Then took a guess. ‘Luke is from a different set of statistics?'

Hilary nodded. ‘I know his history. Even before. And although Joe has told me he has been a calming influence …' She let that thought hang with a shrug as she changed tack. ‘Just ask Joey to make sure neither of them becomes another statistic I have to deal with. Which also applies to Noah. Goodnight. Love to Sandra.'

With that she drove off. Leaving Sean to ponder the female hive question. How did all the women in his life seem to say the same things? Was it that intuition thing – or did they really converse telepathically?

By the time Luke arrived back at the cottage, Matt had showered, changed and was taking the clothes he had been wearing earlier out of the washing machine. As the clothes were the only real chance of anyone tying them to the vicinity of the hide, they were now destined for the charity shop. If they burnt the clothes and the cops did happen to come knocking, then they would find that suspicious, but it was highly unlikely they would go rummaging through the charity shop just on the off-chance of finding a particular colour of jumper that matched a witness description.

Luke immediately started stripping off and loading the washing machine as Matt was searching the fridge.

‘You should have popped in the chippy on the way back,' Luke said with a grin.

‘Funny that,' Matt replied. ‘It was closed for some reason. Get the Barrett stowed?'

Luke nodded. ‘I'll have scrambled.'

‘You'll get, as my old mum used to say, what you are given.'

That would be one of the one-pan meals Matt had mastered on their global excursions. Whether Palau or Risotto. Or Paella or Ragù. Or Scouse or Cawl. Matt started to slice and dice. ‘You reckon it's safe under that bridge?'

Luke nodded and reached over for a bottle of water, then nicked a tomato from Matt's ingredients pile, just dodging a flick from his Blackhawk folding and barely legal Hornet knife. Another souvenir from his time as a US contractor.

‘There's a local gun club not far down the track. If anything gets found the cops'll waste a day or two making two and two equal six and harass the law-abiding membership while they hunt for some imaginary gun freak.' He bit into the tomato. ‘But they'd have to know where to look. We used to hang out up there. It's a small gap where the bridge supports meet the bridge itself. Some kind of bearing or shock absorber that cushions the load. You'd only know it was there if you worked on building the bridge. Or were bored out of your teenage brain and looking for things to do.'