The Trail Killer

Twenty-one

 Bridcutt had spent his morning in an area of Branstead known locally as 'The Bronx'. Though of course a far stretch from the darkest criminal excesses of New York, it was true that the tight huddle of terraced streets which surrounded the Recreation Ground represented a significant proportion of all petty crime committed in the jurisdiction: joyriding, vandalism, ABH, cannabis dealing and countless other legal indiscretions aside. Recent rumours that someone was peddling the new in-vogue drug called ecstasy to kids as young as 12 though - no, this went well beyond any reasonable definition of 'petty', veered into the blackness of pure and untrammelled evil. Only the previous week a 14-year-old up in Manchester had died of a heart attack after taking one of those damn pills. It had to be stopped. Whichever lowlife of a dealer it was rattling his wares before the eyes of pre-pubescents like a bag of sweets needed to be cuffed up and banged inside the county prison for as long as legal precedent allowed.

And thus Bridcutt had remained in a sedentary position for the entire morning, a zoom lens camera on the passenger seat beside him ready at any moment to be swept into action. As he'd pretended to flick through the previous evening's copy of the Echo, the rollers of the tape deck had been in constant motion: The Smiths' eponymous first album, then Meat is Murder, then a bit of Echo and the Bunnymen, then The Smiths again. Every 20 minutes or so he'd stirred the Capri into life, swung round a couple of streets and tucked back onto the curb-side of the Recreation Ground in a different position. His centre of attention remained the same: the play area at one end of the park featuring swings, a slide, a see-saw and various other rusted, rickety rides. It was here where the local kids gathered, teenagers principally. Bored, restless, still on their Easter holidays. Some swaying on the swings, others lazing around in a group under the slide. A few boys had idly kicked an empty beer can around for a while. Over on one of the park benches a young couple had attempted to enter the Guinness Book of Records for the world's longest and most vomit-inducing snog. Elsewhere an occasional spliff had done the rounds, a couple of bottles of Strongbow too.

Bridcutt had found it difficult to concentrate, however. Remain focused, primed for action. Shields' visit the previous evening had been chastening, the weight of guilt which was now pressing down onto his shoulders quite unbearable. All those things he'd told the Echo reporter at the entrance steps of the station the previous Friday morning, the pair of them huddled there under the drizzle, Redfern struggling to keep his umbrella above him with one hand and scribble down the details into his notebook with the other. At the time it had felt liberating, like clearing a wardrobe of threadbare jumpers and never-worn shopping mistakes and jeans which just didn't fit any more. Only, it was his own conscience he'd been attempting to scour and unfetter.

Had it been the tipping point, he wondered? For Chief Constable Grayson and whoever had been alongside him in the commission at Shields' hearing. Had their belief that it had been her who'd ratted to the press outweighed her screeching confrontation with Gooch? Had she effectively been thrown off the force for an indiscretion that belonged entirely to he himself?

It was a question which continued to heavy his mind as he jerked the ignition key, set off back towards the station. It had gone midday by this point, the horde of teenagers over by the swings much reduced in number as they began slouch off home for lunch. With such a reduced potential market, it was unlikely that the ecstasy dealer would slither onto view any time soon.

As he was pulling back into the station car park a couple of minutes later, he noticed a sleek Alfa Romeo heading out the other way which seemed vaguely familiar. He squinted his eyes at the figure behind the wheel as they passed in close proximity...

Jesus! Was that him? Was that really him?

Within seconds, Bridcutt had screeched the Capri into a vacant parking space, was scampering up the entrance steps. Behind the front desk awaited the smiling, rotund face of PC Walsh.