Four Below by Peter Helton Page B

preliminary ID from the body. He has distinctive tattoos on both upper arms, dragons of some sort. It’s on file.’
    ‘So who have we got?’
    ‘Wayne Deeming. Career criminal and first-class moron. We thought he might have had links to Ray Fenton, but we couldn’t find any at the time.’
    ‘Perhaps someone else had better luck,’ McLusky said.
    Austin brought up the results on his computer screen. ‘Born May ’83, convictions for theft, blah blah, taking without consent, burglary, ABH, GBH, assaulting police and possession of
cannabis with intent to supply.’
    ‘Good riddance,’ DC Dearlove ventured from behind the safety of his monitor.
    ‘Less of that,’ McLusky said. ‘You’re allowed to think it, though perhaps you’re in the wrong seat if you’re thinking it too often. Do we have an address for
him?’
    ‘Yup, place he was last arrested, eight months ago.’
    McLusky scooped up his car keys. ‘Worth having a look, then.’
    The address turned out to be an anonymous rented property in a terrace of narrow houses in Bedminster. The front-room window had dark blue curtains drawn, the front door was
locked. There was no answer to Austin’s knock, and no one appeared to be at home on either side.
    ‘We can always ask the chaps from the drug squad to come and charge the door for us,’ Austin suggested.
    ‘And find the place is now occupied by an old lady who’s hard of hearing? Try two doors down.’
    Austin was in luck. The slightly crumpled, quiet man who opened the door didn’t recognize Deeming from the picture he showed him but was happy to allow them into his back garden. McLusky
was hoping to jump the fences into the back of Deeming’s place and get a look through a window.
    ‘I pretty much keep to myself here,’ was how the man explained his failure to recognize his neighbour from the picture. ‘I don’t get involved in what goes on in the
street. There’s a lot of students.’
    In the tiny, dispiriting garden, McLusky dragged an empty concrete planter to the fence and, standing on it, vaulted into the garden next door. This was equally bleak but also contained the
trashed remains of a kitchen. Some of it looked more modern than his own. He used an upturned black bucket in which plaster had thickly set to get himself over the next fence into what he hoped was
Deeming’s garden. The kitchen window at the back was obscured with net curtains, but an uncovered chink of glass afforded him a glance at the interior. ‘Bingo.’ Everything he saw
spelled drug-fuelled chaos.
    ‘Do you want me to come across?’ called Austin, who had stayed behind.
    McLusky waved him off. ‘Front door, DS Austin.’ He looked around for something with which to smash in the kitchen door. A large mossy rock at the edge of the muddy lawn looked good.
Then he changed his mind. He fished out a pair of fresh latex gloves from his jacket, put them on and tried the door. It was unlocked. ‘More taxpayers’ money saved.’
    The kitchen was small and in a mess. He had seen some of it through the window, but what he was looking at now went beyond the usual slobbery. Apart from unwashed dishes, empty cans and pizza
cartons, there was disturbance here – the two chairs had been overturned, an ashtray spilled and a mug broken on the floor. It was warm in the house, the heating obviously running. The place
smelled stale, slightly mouldy. As he passed an encrusted pedal bin, the smell got stronger. He flipped the lid open and lowered it again. Festering rubbish. He’d leave that to forensics;
they always loved a nice mouldy bin. He gingerly made his way from the kitchen into the hall, where he let Austin in. ‘Gloves,’ he said automatically. Austin wriggled his fingers in
mad-strangler mode: he was already wearing them.
    ‘This door wasn’t locked or bolted, just pulled shut. Back door was unlocked. I think he left through the front door but not necessarily of his own accord. Drops of blood on the