‘Oh, great. Now you decide to talk.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s hard to get a word in when you’re around.’
‘It’s over there,’ said Lockland, quickly, before the quarrel could develop.
‘How do you know?’ demanded Parrish.
‘Um . . . because it’s the only exit from this space?’
Parrish sighed. ‘Great. I’m with a dummy and a smart arse.’
‘And we’re with a dickhead,’ said Farrell.
Parrish rounded on him. ‘Is that why you don’t talk? Because you never have anything useful to say?’
‘Dear God,’ said North, back in the pod. ‘Permission to nip out and bang their stupid heads together?’
‘They have to sort these things out,’ said Ellis, calmly. ‘It’s all perfectly normal.’
‘There is nothing normal about this team, sir.’
The not-normal team emerged from the garage area into a street stretching away to left and right. The sign opposite said, ‘Beaver Avenue.’
‘Don’t forget to tell him you told him so,’ said Farrell to Lockland.
Parrish gritted his teeth. ‘Can you just shut up, please.’
Farrell nodded in satisfaction. ‘They all say that sooner or later.’
‘Look at all these cars,’ said Lockland, staring around. ‘They’re everywhere.’
There were indeed cars everywhere. Parked at the side of the road. Parked on the pavement. Parked higgledy-piggledy in what had once been people’s front gardens. Cars roared up and down the road, music thumping from the open windows, hooting at each other or the occasional small child running out into the road.
Jane peered. ‘What are those hump things in the road?’
‘Sleeping policemen,’ said Farrell.
‘They bury policemen under the road? What for?’
‘To slow down the traffic, I think.’
‘Can we get on?’ said Parrish impatiently. ‘I have a date tonight with that blonde in Logistics.’
Farrell stared. ‘What, the big one with the scar?’
‘No – that’s a bloke.’
‘Turned you down, did he?’
‘Just because the two of you never have any sort of sex life that’s no reason for me to fall to your level.’
‘Number Seventeen’s this way,’ said Lockland pointing. ‘Bit of a rough area,’ she said, as they picked their way along the cracked pavement.
‘Well, yeah,’ said Parrish. ‘They bury policemen under the road. Watch your backs, people.’
‘All these cars,’ said Lockland, as they squeezed between two parked on the pavement. ‘I’ve never seen a car up close.’
‘You’ve never seen a car?’
She flushed at his patronising tone. ‘Well, there aren’t many of them around these days. You have to have money to own a car.’
‘And no social conscience,’ said Farrell.
‘I had two. Cars, I mean.’
‘Why?’ enquired Farrell with great interest.
‘Why, what?’
‘Why did you have two cars? Did you drive them simultaneously? Did you straddle the roofs like a Roman rider?’
‘What? Of course not. I had a sports car and a 4x4.’
Farrell grinned. ‘I suspect you didn’t have them for very long.’
Parrish scowled and made no response.
‘There were no cars where we lived,’ said Lockland, still looking around. ‘They were really scarce.’
‘With Parrish here making them scarcer by the moment.’
They continued down the street.
‘It’s quite noisy, isn’t it?’ said Lockland, and it was. People shouted to each other over the noise of passing traffic. Their children shouted over the noise of their parents shouting over passing traffic. Dogs barked just to make themselves heard. Thumping music dopplered past them.
Lockland bent over something on the pavement. ‘Oh my goodness, is that a piece of poo?’
Parrish and Farrell leaned over to inspect it. ‘It’s a turd, yes,’ said Parrish. ‘Have you never seen one of those up close, either?’
She was horrified. ‘But . . . it’s on the pavement.’
‘It’s the late 20th century, Lockland. Society was breaking down. People probably crapped on the pavements all the time.’
‘It’s only a dog turd,’ said Farrell, taking pity on her. ‘No one’s squatting in the street.’
Luke sighed and shifted his weight. ‘Can we just get this over with, please. Blonde. Sure thing. Tonight.’
‘It’s all very pungent,’ said Lockland, walking wide around the alleged dog poo and sniffing the cocktail of exhaust fumes, wet pavements and burning rubber.
They stopped outside Number Seventeen and peered up at the sad house. The curtains drooped. The paintwork was peeling. At one point, someone had tried to tame the small front garden by hurling a ton of gravel on it. Weeds and coarse grass had found the strength to overcome this attack and flourished triumphantly. The front gate hung from only one hinge. The hedge was old and straggly. More unrecognisable loud music pounded from the open bedroom window.
Lockland suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for Henry Plimpton. Who wouldn’t want to escape this?
‘Number Seventeen,’ she said, bringing up the information on her scratchpad. ‘The pod says this is the residence of Henry Plimpton. One wife. One son. One daughter. All resident.’
‘Listen up, everyone,’ said Parrish, as they negotiated the wonky gate. ‘I’ll do the talking.’
‘No,’ said Farrell, in disbelief. ‘Will you?’ Jane stepped smartly between them.
Luke led them up the path. ‘Stay behind me, team, and be ready for anything.’ He rapped sharply on the front door.
They might have thought themselves ready for anything, but all three were completely unprepared for the great blast of noise as the front door opened.
The enormous woman in front of them appeared to be singing. ‘. . . But don’t look back in anger . . .’
‘What?’ said Parrish in disbelief, but whether he hadn’t heard or simply did not comprehend was not clear.
Two ratty mongrels raced down the stairs, hell-bent on defending their property to the death. In the way of small, irritating dogs everywhere, they bounced into the air, yapping furiously. In the way of small, irritating dogs everywhere, they also wagged their stumpy tails, presumably in case the visitors had biscuits in their pockets and were feeling generous.