The Trail Killer

Twenty-two

After trying Shields' home number without success for a second time, Bridcutt rose disappointedly from his desk, slouched off outside to the Capri. He really, really needed to talk to her; if only she had one of those fancy new-fangled cell phone things like some strutting London yuppie.

There was a cafe' in one of the side streets near the station which served filled baguettes to order. The middle-aged woman behind the counter that particular lunchtime was new however, seemed unable to comprehend his desire for lettuce and tomato only.

"Sure you don't want some ham in it?"

"No thanks. I'm vegan actually."

She smiled. "Oh, okay. How about a bit of tuna then?"

"As I said, I'm vegan."

A frown of utter perplexity clouded her face. "Some cheese then? Got some nice slices of cheddar right here..."

After finally tingling himself back through entrance door with an American coffee and a baguette devoid of any hint of animal product, he sped off to the Rec once more.

Meat is Murder, then The Smiths' first album, then a bit of Cocteau Twins, then for the fourth time already that day Meat is Murder again.

He found it even more difficult to stay sharp and alert than he had earlier. Given the morning's events and the information WPC Rushworth had scavenged for him from the Archives, his head was a raging swirl of thoughts. The frantic, whirring drum of a cerebral washing machine. Loud, distracting, ceaseless.

Over by the swings, the number of recalcitrant teenagers who'd meanwhile reappeared post-lunch was steadily growing; by late-afternoon, was three dozen or so. At one point he was sorely tempted to explode out of the Capri and remonstrate with a couple of males who'd begun tippexing something onto the back rest of one of the park benches - vulgarities no doubt, base-level sexual imagery - but managed to pull himself back just in time. Blowing his cover like that would have been an act of gross foolishness.

By the time the tape deck rollers had spun both sides of Meat is Murder for fifth occasion already that day, it was approaching five o'clock. Knocking off time. It looked like one of the uniforms on the six to two shift would be called to put their civvies on.

He was just about to pull off when he noticed the figure over near the slide about forty metres away, his back to Bridcutt. Green bomber jacket, closely cropped hair beneath a baseball cap. A little older looking than most of the gathering - nineteen or twenty perhaps. His inner radar emitting a beep of warning, Bridcutt pressed pause on the tape deck. Sweeping up the zoom lens from the passenger seat, he dragged the guy into sharp, enlarged focus as if now only five metres away.

And yes, his hand reached into the pocket of his jacket as he chatted to a couple of youngsters. Just a second, that was all, but it looked like a plastic bag he pulled out, the weight of its contents forming a ball.

With his free hand, Bridcutt reached for the radio com.

"Need a patrol car over to the Rec, Blackford Road side. Urgent. Repeat, urgent."

Over by the slide, some sort of exchange was meanwhile taking place. Hoping he might catch an image incriminating enough to be used in court, Bridcutt rammed his index finger successively to the shoot button.

"Turn you bastard, turn. Let's see your face."

But one of the two youngsters had by this point spotted Bridcutt directing his lens through the driver's window, was pointing in his direction. A warning immediately heeded, the three of them peeling away in the opposite direction.

"Oh Christ!"

Bridcutt was out of the car door in a flash, his work shoes slippery and grip-less as he bounded across the grass. Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet, blaze past the obscenities screeched in his direction by the onlooking crowd of teenagers. Within seconds was just a well-timed rugby tackle from bringing dealer guy down. With a grunt, he extended his arms, flew through the air...