Bright Spark by Gavin Smith

with no offences disclosed.
Suzanne made half a dozen formal complaints of assault, but the suspect left
before police arrival, no arrests were made and the complaints were withdrawn
the next morning. A dozen computer generated reports were added to the mountain
of paper given to the solitary domestic violence officer to climb.
    Marjorie
Jennings made occasional reports of excessive noise from next door, not
violence but music and drunken arguments; the noise was therefore a civil
matter, she was advised, and should be referred to her local authority.
Anonymous and vague reports of child abuse were referred to social services
with no further police action.
    Dale
Murphy’s was the only name to appear on the crime system, linked to two
complaints that had been discontinued before they could cost him his job.  Both
were made by guests at Her Majesty’s pleasure, one claiming ABH, the other
false imprisonment. With an involuntary shiver, he noted the complainants’
names; one was new to him, while the other was as familiar as a lover’s
    On
both occasions, Murphy had obligingly turned up at Beaumont Fee with his
solicitor and federation representative and made full and frank denials. The
incidents had not been witnessed and the victims lacked credibility. Nothing
had stuck to him. He was innocent or covered in Teflon. Harkness added these
records to the torrent of paper flowing from the printer, taking care to
include conviction and nominal prints for the gaoled assault victims and daub a
fluorescent marker all over references to them. It might all be relevant. He
might get to read it all.     
    The
phone rang with the monotone of an internal call. He glanced at his watch,
amazed to find he’d been lost in the database for half an hour. The call was
bound to be Brennan. He unclamped his teeth from the mutilated cap of his biro
and picked up the receiver, idly wondering how Slowey was getting on.
     
     
     
    A
cherubic friar lay against a barrel, legs splayed before him, winking at Slowey
as he quaffed from a stone jug. The artist’s use of perspective was so adept
that Slowey feared he might get an unwelcome glimpse under the friar’s cassock
if he stood any closer to the sign. The sign for the Friars Vaults was by far
its most distinguished feature. A rusting satellite dish and a hanging basket
of dead stalks and desiccated soil nearly obscured the friar’s view of his
neighbourhood.
    Slowey
parked his car in the one space at the side of the pub not littered with shards
of glass, next to an ancient caravan with disintegrating tyres and traceries of
mould on its sills. Not much bigger than the terraces surrounding it, the pub
had been daubed in cream paint to mark it out. A steel bin had been pushed up
against the caravan’s tow-bar to make room for a smoker’s terrace; four plastic
chairs and a folding umbrella.  The frosted windows of the ground floor were
dark, but net curtains and open windows upstairs suggested the landlord lived
on the premises.
    The
sky was brightening but this street smelled no cleaner; stale beer and ancient
urinals coloured the air. Slowey slammed the car door, drawing a cascade of
barking from someone’s back yard as if some cur had been waiting wide-eyed all
night for just such a provocation.
    He
looked in vain for a way to rouse the landlord without waking the street.
Nowhere could he see an intercom or doorbell, and hammering on the stout double
doors at the front would make him sound like Marley’s ghost. If there was a
back door, it was beyond the tangle of barbed wire and nettles that were busy
claiming the caravan. A fire door at the side had no external handle, but was,
he noticed, ajar by an inch or two.
    Hands
in pockets, he ambled towards the door, peering into the line of darkness. The
dull embers of dawn at his back showed little but the glimmer of optics and
horse brasses. He patted his inside pocket and discovered he’d left his torch
and phone in the car. Then he