Authors: Peter Helton
Four Below
FOUR BELOW
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2011
First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2011
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Copyright © Peter Helton, 2011
The right of Peter Helton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-78033-143-0
US ISBN: 978-1-61695-082-8
eISBN: 978-1-78033-157-7
US Library of Congress number: 2011030236
Printed and bound in UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Thou strong seducer, opportunity!
John Dryden
If you think dope is for kicks and for thrills, you’re out of your mind. There are more kicks to be had in a good case of paralytic polio.
Billie Holiday
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Juliet Burton, and to Krystyna at Constable for all the chocolate. Thanks also to Mike and Martin for the excellent music, keep it coming. No thanks at all to
Asbo the cat for sitting on the remote and recording
Antiques Roadshow
over my
Rebus
. What were you thinking?
CONTENTS
He couldn’t believe it was back to this. Back on the bloody night shift by himself. Constantly looking over his shoulder. It wasn’t as easy as
it had been either, especially being half-blind now. In the dark, having just one eye really made a difference. It stood to reason: only half the light went into your brain. And his left hand still
hurt when he put pressure on anything. Lifting things the wrong way made his shoulder scream. He’d nearly dropped a whole bunch of stuff off a roof the other night. He’d get
compensation eventually, they’d said. As a victim of crime. Quite ironic, if you thought about it. Of course he hadn’t said that to them, about the irony and that. He hadn’t said
anything worth mentioning to them. You just didn’t. Assailants unknown. If he’d said anything else, anything more, and the big man had got wind of it, he’d have sent Ilkin to
finish the job. He was lucky to be alive as it was, they had said so at the hospital. He knew they were right, too. Got away with losing one ball and one eye. The pain of it, just the memory, could
still make him sweat, even on a freezing night like this one. They’d done it on purpose, too. The testicle, not the eye. They’d taken great care to punch his balls in. As a warning to
others. Ilkin threw the half-brick that took his eye. Good at throwing stuff. When they tied him up, he was sure they were going to kill him this time.
Should leave Bristol, really. Much safer, in case the big man changed his mind. Lying low now, back on the night shift. The cushy life was over. But kind of relieved, too. Okay, it was easy
money working for the big man, but he was a scary fucker. His cold, trembling rages were enough to turn your hair grey. Better off out of there. Better off on your own, working. While all the
idiots slept.
Chapter One
McLusky knew he should get back to the station, but he wasn’t entirely convinced he could move. It had been a tedious morning of meetings and paperwork and his eyes just
wanted to stay fixed on this painting of snow-capped mountains. Certainly an improvement on the canteen walls at Albany Road. They should get whoever painted this to do a mural at the station. The
painting reminded him of the Swiss Alps – not that he had been to the Swiss Alps – though this being an Indian place, it was probably a scene from Kashmir. He hadn’t been there
either, but if this was what it looked like, he wouldn’t mind going. There were several of these mountain scenes hanging around the walls, and all were pleasingly, luxuriously empty of human
life. It looked clean and sane. Restful. Unlike the place itself. If the owner was being nostalgic about the wilds of Kashmir, then a noisy fast-food restaurant in the shadow of a railway bridge
had to make him feel a long way from home.
McLusky tried to burp but couldn’t. Shouldn’t have had the enigmatically named ‘meat curry’. He never dared ask what kind of meat went into it, but it sat in your stomach
like a hot rock. He pushed his cleared plate away from him with too much emphasis and had to make a grab for it before it shot off the Formica table. He got to his feet with a groan. As he walked
to the door, one of the men behind the counter gave him a nod of acknowledgement. He nodded back. McLusky was on nodding terms with the city now, but this was his first Bristol winter. A fierce
blast of it swept down the Cheltenham Road as he stepped outside, threatening to freeze-dry the film of curry sweat on his forehead. And it was only November. Two in the afternoon, and already
everything felt grimy and grey. It had never properly got light in the first place, with the sky hanging over the city like a dirty tarpaulin. Which reminded him: he’d have to buy a few light
bulbs on the way home; two of the bulbs in his flat had blown this morning. This morning already seemed a long time ago.
Traffic didn’t look too bad today. By which he meant it was actually moving. As he vainly looked for a gap to cross the street, a man in a white T-shirt ran right-to-left on the other
side, behind traffic and parked cars. He was running fast. McLusky didn’t like the look of it. The man was running too fast. And what was it he was carrying? Shouts followed him up the road.
Now he took a sudden rabbit-hook right into the street, angry horns blaring as cars braked sharply to avoid him. McLusky could see it now: the man was carrying a samurai sword, sheath in his left,
naked blade in his right, stabbing the air as his arms pumped to the rhythm of his feet. McLusky thought he saw blood on the blade. Damn. He reached for the radio in his leather jacket just as a
harsh and familiar voice approached. PC Hanham came running across lanes of traffic, shouting breathlessly into the radio clipped to his vest. McLusky left his own where it was; Hanham would
already be calling for armed response. If he had enough breath to get the words out, of course. The constable jogged heavily past him, giving no sign that he had noticed DI McLusky standing there
with his much-needed unlit cigarette between his lips. Leave it. Hanham was the man to catch the swordsman, McLusky thought. He was the one wearing a stab vest, after all.
Rapid response. In this traffic? Oh, what the hell. At least it would warm him up. He started after the burly constable. Hanham was running fast. McLusky speeded up, then found he needed to
speed up again. He only caught up as Hanham followed the suspect into Zetland Road. By then, a jabbing stitch in his side was making it hard going.
‘He … attacked a man … at the bus stop near the girls’ school … a leg wound. Ambulance en route,’ Hanham got out.
‘By the school? That’s miles back.’
‘I know … miles … I don’t think … I can run … much further …’
One look at Hanham confirmed it: his face was slack with exhaustion, his eyes were rolling like those of a panicked horse. He slowed, stopped, sank to his knees. ‘All yours
…’
McLusky kept going. He could still see the suspect ahead. Just then the man turned to check behind him and spotted his new pursuer. Civilians shrieked and shouted, jumping out of the way of the
dancing sword.
Running in the street now, sweat was pricking McLusky’s skin, despite the cold. He realized why he had so easily caught up with Hanham: the constable must have already been slowing from
exhaustion. The swordsman was pulling away from him, fuelled by adrenalin, madness and drugs no doubt. And probably unencumbered by a mystery curry.
McLusky ran on. The pain in his side got worse. He’d go vegetarian. Perhaps even give up smoking. Again. Now all he could do was keep running, without the foggiest idea what he was going
to do should he ever catch up with the suspect. Without stab vest, baton or pepper spray, he’d have little chance of disarming him. As a last resort, he could always threaten to throw up on
him, which he’d do anyway if this went on much longer. The rattle of a diesel engine behind him made him glance over his shoulder. Never had a scruffy cab for hire looked more welcome.
Suicidally he ran into its path, scrabbling in his pocket for his warrant card.
‘Follow that man!’ He threw himself into the passenger seat.
‘What man would that be?’ The cabby spoke and moved with agonizing slowness, setting the meter. He filled every available inch behind the wheel and looked like he hadn’t left
his cab for years. Far ahead of them, the swordsman had now sheathed his weapon and was crossing Zetland Road, trotting into a side street.
‘Just drive! There, the young man …’ McLusky was still struggling for breath. ‘With the light jacket, jeans and … trainers.’
‘Righty-ho.’ The driver pulled away at last. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Never mind that, just catch up with him.’
‘Only asking. Taking an interest.’ He turned the cab into the side street. They could both see the suspect a hundred yards or so ahead. The man was either out of puff or thought he
had lost his pursuers. He stepped off the pavement and stood at the edge of the road as if waiting to cross once the taxi had passed.
‘Keep closer to the left. I’ll tell you when to stop.’
Half a second before drawing level with the swordsman, McLusky popped his seat belt and threw the door wide open. The man had no chance to react before the door caught him a thudding blow on the
side, breaking his elbow and flinging him hard on to the tarmac. McLusky could hear him scream as they passed.
The cab driver braked indignantly. ‘You never told me to stop!’
