Nick's Blues by John Harvey Page B

people used the cut-through now, not after the hoo-hah about muggings in the local press, but there were still a few. Suits late back from the City, men who’d stopped off for a drink or two or spent an hour in the gym, working out. Women too.
    â€œHere,” Casper hissed. “How ’bout this one now?”
    The click of heels fast along the paving slabs. Someone hurrying home after a busy day, looking forward to a gin and tonic and a warm bath.
    â€œYeah,” Rawlings said. “Tasty. She’ll do.”
    He waited until she was almost level before stepping clear.
    â€œExcuse me, miss.”
    The woman gasped, startled. Brown hair, expensively cut; pale grey suit, leather bag over one shoulder, laptop in its case in her left hand.
    â€œSorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”
    â€œNo, it’s not that.”
    â€œYou haven’t got a light?”
    â€œYes, I think so…”
    Hearing a movement behind her, she turned, and darting forward Josh seized the strap of her shoulder bag and pulled it from her arm; a moment later, Harry barged into her back and Casper grabbed the laptop and wrenched it free.
    Still in front of her, Rawlings reached towards the gold chain at her neck and she seized his arm with both hands.
    â€œLeggo, you stupid bitch!”
    Digging her nails into the flesh of his arm, bare above the wrist, she kicked him hard in the shins.
    â€œSteve! Come on, come on!”
    While Steve hesitated, Josh and Casper had already broken into a run.
    The woman started to scream and the knife came out of Rawlings’ pocket as if with a will of its own, thumb flicking the blade free as it swung past her face and sank into her arm. As the metal sliced through wool and silk and skin the scream changed pitch, accelerating with fear and pain.
    Rawlings tore himself away, pushing her as she stumbled back, fingers fastening round the chain and pulling it hard enough to break the clasp.
    â€œBitch!” he said once more and spat down into her face, before legging it away. Stupid bitch, grabbing at him like that, serve her right.

seventeen
    Jackie Ferris had been anticipating a relatively easy day: a meeting with representatives of the local traders’ group at ten, lunch with an old colleague who’d retired to the Isle of Wight, a session with the planning committee at three. Relax and leave the hard policing to the troops.
    No way.
    Before nine she was standing in the superintendent’s office, smarting as he outlined the extent of her inadequacies. Arrest rates were a joke. Home Office targets relating to street crime were in jeopardy. There was talk about no-go areas in the press and on the local news. Public confidence was in danger of being irrevocably lost.
    The superintendent’s tirade was a colourful mixture of foul language and management jargon which left little room for doubt: if things didn’t improve and fast, if arrests weren’t made and the current spate of robberies stopped — if, in short, the detective inspector and her team didn’t get some results and fast — she would spend the rest of her career sharpening pencils and helping old biddies across the road.
    â€œAm I clear?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œBecause I’ve already had the Deputy Assistant Commissioner on the phone this morning, offering to hang my balls out to dry.”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir.”
    â€œAnd before that happens to me, I’ll make good and sure something similar happens to you, by means of whatever appendage is convenient. Understood?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œRight. Now get out of here and get it sorted.”
    ***
    The name of the woman who had been attacked and robbed was Victoria Coleman. Despite her injuries, she had managed to get back on to the main road and wave down a passing car; the driver had called 999 on his mobile and instead of driving her to Accident and Emergency himself, he’d elected to