Page 32 of A Box of Wishes
Ben’s shift had been uneventful. He’d monitored crowds in Northampton town centre and around the most popular nightspots and had attended a couple of pick-pocketing calls.
Both were washouts.
On the first shout, the victim’s wife had taken possession of her husband’s car keys after the third round of drinks. And on the second call, the missing mobile phone appeared from the depths of a capacious handbag after Ben had prompted the lady to empty it onto the bonnet of his car.
Ben had continued on his way, praying for a night without major traffic accidents. People being what they were, it was a waste of time to pray for a night without fights, but Ben hoped the fights wouldn’t start until after the clock had chimed midnight. By then, he’d be back in Rothcote, which wasn’t as much of a trouble hotspot. And he would have seen Ryan.
He was about to pull into the thin stream of traffic when he noticed a man slumped in a doorway. He didn’t seem to be moving.
Ben switched off the engine and got out of the car. The man was too well-dressed to be homeless. His shoes alone would fetch enough to buy a decent meal or several, which pushedpassed out drunkandmuggingto the top of his list. When he drew closer, he saw that what he’d taken for a doorway was an alley leading between rows of houses to the retail park at the bottom of the hill. It was narrow and shadowed, the streetlights along its length vandalised or broken. If the man hadn’t lain right in the entrance, Ben wouldn’t have spotted him.
With half an eye on the people behind him, Ben crouched and placed his fingertips under the man’s jaw. The skin was chilled, but the pulse beat slow and strong against Ben’s fingers.
“Can you hear me, sir? I’m a police officer. Open your eyes if you can hear me.”
The man’s eyelids fluttered, and Ben heaved another sigh of relief. The third one came immediately on the heels of the second when the man groaned, and alcohol fumes hit Ben’s face.
Drunk.
Ben grabbed the man by the coat and heaved him upright. He wasn’t much shorter than Ben’s own six-feet-two, but he was lighter than Ben had expected. A broad palm braced him, just as Ben feared he might go over backwards and land on his arse.
“Whoa, there. You need a hand, mate?”
Ben turned his head and found a uniformed officer at his shoulder. “DS Hobart from Rothcote nick,” he said. “Saw him slouched in the doorway and went to check.”
“PC Hendrick. Is he hurt?”
“Doesn’t look like. Pretty out of it, though. Could you check for ID while I keep him upright?” Ben held the man at arm’s length to give Hendrick room to work. Their charge was clean-shaven, with sensual lips and strawberry blond hair. He would have been handsome if he hadn’t been out for the count. There were lean muscles under the expensive wool coat, too, as if he didn’t spend his days behind a desk.
A close-up inspection confirmed that Ben had been right about the pricey clothes. Handmade shoes and the heavy charcoal wool coat would run to at least four figures. The man’s wrists were bare, but he wore a gold chain around his neck and a signet ring on his little finger. Muggers wouldn’t have left him those.
“Here we are.” Hendrick held up a wallet. “Alastair Brendan Cedric Donohue,” he read out. “With an address in Rothcote. 17 Foxglove Gardens.”
“Someone’s got a sense of humour.” Ben shook his head. “I’m headed back to Rothcote. I’ll drop him off at home. He doesn’t look as if he’s up for a taxi ride.”
Hendrick nodded assent. “Where are you parked?”
“Over there. The blue Renault. Did you find door keys?” Ben asked as they manhandled their charge across the pavement.
“Yes. Bunch in his coat pocket.”
“Excellent.”
Hendrick pulled them out. “Here. Easier if you have to heave him up the stairs.”
Ben took the keys. “Thanks for the assist. Add him to your report? He’ll be in mine once I’ve dropped him off.”
“Will do. Have a quiet one.”
Ben checked that the man’s seatbelt was secure before he settled in the driver’s seat. He hadn’t expected to play taxi, but he was glad for the chance to get back to Rothcote a little earlier than planned.
Alastair Brendan Cedric Donohue was a loose, uncoordinated drunk. He flopped like a rag doll when Ben pulled him out of the car and was too sozzled to keep his eyes open for long. Ben preferred sleepy drunks to the belligerent variety, for purely selfish reasons. Even when they’d started the fight and had done most of the damage, angry drunks complained the next morning and spread blame far and wide.
Ben had roused his charge several times on the drive to Rothcote, getting little more than grunts in return. Handing him his keys and expecting him to make his way up to his flat under his own steam was out of the question. He’d have to take him inside and make sure he slept safely.
Ben called in his plans, then left his car at the kerb.
Donohue lived on the first floor. No lights showed in the windows, and when Ben rang the bell, nobody answered. So he either lived alone, or the people he shared the flat with were still out celebrating.
