Born in a Burial Gown by Mike Craven Page B

nervous.
    ‘Right, let’s try here,’ Towler said, walking up the first path and hammering on the door. There was no answer. He kept banging, looking round to see if anything else was stirring.
    The occupants of the next house along opened their door a fraction to see where the noise was coming from. Towler was there in an instant, jumping over the neglected fence without touching it.
    ‘You McNab?’ he shouted through the door, jamming his foot in the crack to stop it closing.
    Fluke, having not moved from the pavement, watched on amused. Towler was in his element. While he had finesse when needed, this was what he liked doing. Getting down and dirty. Fluke didn’t hear what the person behind the door replied, but Towler didn’t like it.
    ‘Wrong answer, dickhead,’ he said, forcing the door wide open and walking in.
    Thirty seconds later he was back out.
    ‘McNab’s at thirty-three, boss. Lives there with some local lass, has done for a couple of months,’ Towler said. ‘This house here is seven, so it should be twelve doors up if the evens are on the other side.’
    ‘Wanker,’ came the shout from the door behind him.
    Towler ignored it.
    They left the car where it was and walked up the street, counting the houses as they went. After a short discussion about whether they’d counted correctly, they arrived at a dilapidated semi-detached. The front lawn was overrun with weeds, dog faeces and empty cans. An old sofa sat on the grass underneath the window. There was a headless child’s doll on the path. Towler kicked it into the garden and they walked up to the front door together.
    Towler knocked and they heard movement inside, and some whispered talking.
    The door opened, and a man of about thirty stood before them, shaven-headed and topless. Heavy muscles competed for space over his squat frame. He was covered in prison tattoos. His small eyes were dull and malevolent. Coarse black hair crept to the top of his shoulders. His body language was shouting ‘I’m dangerous, don’t mess with me’. He was holding a can of beer and it was obvious to Fluke that he was deliberately sucking his stomach in and tensing his muscles hoping to give the impression that it was how he always looked.
    Towler smiled at him, but not in a good way.
    Failing to get the fearful reaction he wanted, his stance changed from intimidation to confusion. ‘What the fuck do want?’ he said.
    Ignoring the insult, Fluke asked, ‘Are you McNab?’
    Some of the tension seemed to leave his body. He gestured to his right with the can. ‘Next door mate,’ he said, closing the door.
    ‘I think that’s him, sir,’ Douglass whispered.
    Fluke nodded at Towler and gestured towards the back of the house. Fluke waited until Towler had enough time to get round the back and knocked again.
    ‘Mr McNab, can we have a word, please?’ There was no whispering but the sound of running, a door opening and then a loud crash. Someone shouted. A child’s scream rose, wild and piercing, above the sound of whatever was happening at the back. The noise rose as a woman started crying. Fluke and Douglass ran down the side alley.
    Douglass looked shocked and a little worried. Fluke saw exactly what he’d expected to see.
    McNab was on his knees in front of Towler, who had him in some sort of wristlock. He was clearly in a certain amount of discomfort and was keeping as still as possible to avoid more pain. Towler was exerting minimal pressure on his wrists, which were nearly at right angles.
    A woman, no more than eighteen or nineteen, was yelling at Towler and tugging at his suit. He ignored her. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and fresh and old bruises were visible on her pale, thin arms.
    Inside the house, the baby’s cries grew louder and more urgent.
    ‘Get her out of here,’ Fluke told Douglass.
    Douglass tried to calm down the woman and persuaded her to go and see to the child. With one last look at everyone, the girl went back inside.
    Fluke