Free Acid Row by Minette Walters

It's supposed to be a march, you spastic." He felt brave because he was drunk, never mind the thicko was hyped to the eyeballs on every bit of crap the dealers were selling. Even on a good day, Wesley was crazy as a dog with rabies, and most times Colin steered clear. But today was different. Today, like Kev said, they needed a psycho to do the business for Melanie.
    Wesley tried to jerk them off their feet to break their grip. "You said we wos gonna do war on vampire perverts," he roared like a child in a tantrum, 'teach the motherfuckers a lesson. Wos you lying?"
    “Jeez, his head's shot to pieces this time,” said Colin. "Look at his eyes. They're like a fucking zombie's."
    Kevin, the only one of his friends who had any control over Wesley hooked an arm round the boy's neck and wrenched his wrist up behind his back. “Are you gonna keep your mouth shut, you stupid moron?” he hissed into his ear. "Cos if you don't, you won't get nowhere near the per vs None of us will. Col's right. If his mum gets a sniff of trouble there won't be no march and no fucking war. Geddit? The fun'll be over .. .“n' you'll get wasted for ruining everyone's day.”
    The madness died in Wesley's eyes as suddenly as it had flared. A slow, peaceable grin spread across his face. “I'm OK,” he said. "Youse don't have to call me a moron, Kev. I got it. It's just a march."
    His face fell into the sweet lines that had already fooled a number of magistrates. "We just gonna let the vampires know we've sussed 'em right?"
    “Right,” said Kevin, letting Wesley go and gripping his hand in a raised salute. “Go on, Col, give him a high-five,” he ordered the younger boy. “We're mates, ain't we?”
    “I guess,” said Colin, taking a stinging slap on the palm. But he wasn't so drunk that he didn't notice the flick knife that Wesley was twirling in his other hand.
    Flat 506, Glebe Tower, Bassindale Estate “I have to go now,” said WPC Hanson to the senile old man in the dingy fifth-floor flat in one of Bassindale's tower blocks. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to help." Depression weighed upon her like Sisyphus's stone. It had been a wasted visit, just like the others she'd made that day. Nothing she did was valuable. She was a cipher ... an officer without authority.
    The air in the flat was claustrophobically stale, as if the windows and doors were never opened. Mr. Deny sat in permanent gloom, with the curtains closed to keep out the sun, his eyes fixed on the flickering images of the muted television in the corner as if soap-opera characters were his only point of reality in a confusing world. Talking to him had made her depression worse, because whatever spark of lucidity had encouraged him to phone the police that morning had died the minute he hung up.
    He fiddled with his hearing aid. “What's that?”
    She raised her voice. “I have to go now.”
    “Did you find the boys?”
    She'd answered the same question patiently for thirty minutes, but this time she ignored it. It was pointless talking to him. He had reported the theft of 200 in cash from the tea caddy in his kitchen, but he had no idea when it was taken or who was responsible. All he could tell her was that three boys had rung his doorbell one day but, as he hadn't liked the look of them, he hadn't let them in. She pointed out the discrepancy if they weren't allowed in they couldn't have stolen the money but the old man was insistent. He could spot a wrong 'un a mile off.
    She made a pretence of investigating by poking around the filth in his kitchen. But there was no tea caddy just a cardboard box of Tetley bags that had passed their sell-by date months ago and no evidence there had been any money or that anyone other than she had disturbed the dust in this place for months. He might have been talking about something that happened yesterday ... or fifty years ago .. . because his brain was shot and his memory locked in a tiresome dementia that made him replay his obsessions