by Chris Simms
‘Yeah. A crappy burger.’
‘With cheese?’
‘Of course with cheese.’
He felt her hand move and, next thing, she was prodding the folds of flesh at his stomach. ‘Fatso.’
‘Only because I’m leaning over the sink.’
Her fingers continued to probe at the folds of flesh. ‘Salad-dodging fatso.’
He checked his fingers were clean before straightening up and twisting round. ‘You calling me fat?’
‘Big fat-fatty-fat-pig.’
‘I have to warn you, here. That sort of language isn’t called for.’
‘Fatzilla.’
Now smiling, he dipped a shoulder and hooked a forearm behind her knees.
‘Go on, say that again.’
‘Fatzilla. Human fatberg.’
Now her feet were off the floor as he carried her towards their bedroom. ‘You’re really giving me no other option, here.’
‘Good.’
Chapter 16
There was a note on his desk from Peter Collier. When you have time, give me a shout.
Jon turned his head and saw the civilian support worker was looking over. An office day, then. He picked up the note and headed across. ‘Morning, Peter, what’s up?’
‘I got pulled from your stuff, I’m afraid.’ He flicked his eyes ceiling-ward in explanation. ‘But not before finding another.’ From beneath an open file, he slid out a sheet of paper. ‘See what you think. For what it’s worth, I had time to go back another three months before that one, but didn’t find any others that matched.’
‘Cheers, Peter. I appreciate it.’
‘No problem.’
Jon read the top sheet as he returned to his desk. This one dated from six months ago. Body found at the base of what had been a block of student flats on Granby Row, near Piccadilly Station. Jon made another dot on his mental map. Another death in that part of town. The flats were earmarked for demolition and empty at the time. Jon could picture the building: it had come the previous month and the new building was already almost built.
The person was called Frank Kilby. Aged forty-six. My age, Jon thought. Had served in the Royal Artillery for twenty-seven years. Originally from Bury. Peter had highlighted a few things: no witnesses, was known to social services, already signed off as an open verdict by the coroner.
Jon sat down heavily at his desk.
‘That was a long sigh,’ Iona announced from her side of the workstation.
He looked up. ‘Five homeless ex-soldiers in the last half-a-year have suffered fatal falls.’
‘Statistically, is that unusual?’
Typical Iona, he thought. Straight to the numbers. ‘Not significantly. People who sleep rough are more likely to die. If they’re ex-forces, they’re more likely to die than anyone.’
Her eyes seemed drift off for a second before she blinked. ‘So what’s bugging you?’
‘How they all died. Times of deaths: all of them during the dead of night. None of them left suicide notes. Plus, there are a couple of people who claim they saw someone else right at the time two of them died.’
‘Which people?’
‘That’s part of the problem. Fellow rough sleepers who, at the time, were heavily under the influence of drugs. One of them was found this morning at the base of a fire escape. Somehow, he’d fallen from the top of it.’
‘Really?’
Jon gave a nod.
‘So you think suicide’s unlikely?’
‘Well ... it could be, that’s the thing. Maybe. They’ve not ended up on the streets because life’s dealt them a lucky hand. But still ...’
‘You need to see what might connect them, surely?’
Suppressing a yawn, he pulled his top drawer open.
‘Sorry if I’m keeping you up.’
He gave a rueful smile as he lifted out the files. ‘No – I’m just a bit knackered. I’ve been looking. Nothing obvious, other than they all served in the army.’
‘Do you know if they knew each other?’
‘When?’
‘While they were serving? I mean, there’s a good chance they crossed paths while sleeping rough, wouldn’t you say? But how about before?’
‘Good point.’ He checked his watch. Twenty minutes before he and Kieran needed to set off for The Lowry. Not enough time. Never enough time. ‘I could try and track down some relatives. See what they say.’
‘You still on this armed escort thing?’
‘Yup. Another four days. You?’
‘Those damned transcripts. Leave the files somewhere I can find them. If I have time, I’ll pitch in.’
‘You don’t need to, Iona. Honestly.’
She gave him her school teacher’s look. ‘Have you looked in the mirror lately? You need a hand, Jon.’
‘Back to the damn airport, then,’ Kieran said, easing out and following the two Jaguars.
‘Another action-packed morning watching bastard planes take off,’ Jon replied, fiddling about for the seat’s controls. Not enough room in these cars, he thought.
‘What’s that?’ Kieran asked, nodding at something.
The instant Jon turned his head, he felt a tweak of pain followed by an impact on his right arm.
‘Pinch-punch, first day of the month!’ Kieran called out triumphantly. ‘And no returns to me.’
Jon looked back at his colleague. ‘You are such a kid, Saunders.’
They spent the first part of the morning parked outside a sleek looking building on the edge of the airport complex. Jon did a tally of the vehicles in the car park. Audi. Lexus. Audi. Porsche. Range Rover. Porsche. Audi. Aston Martin. Obviously where the big earners had their offices.
Shortly before noon, Kieran shifted in his seat and announced: ‘You can have that.’
Jon turned his head, wondering what he’d meant. The putrid smell hit him an instant later. ‘You rank dog. Jesus!’ He reached for the window button, changed his mind and opened the entire door. ‘That is evil. What the hell did you eat?’
‘Not sure,’ Kieran murmured, a faraway look on his face. ‘But the turtle’s wanting to poke his head out.’ He shot Jon a look. ‘I mean really wanting to poke his head out.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Jon groaned, waving a hand at the building. ‘Go in there and find a toilet, then.’
‘I’m not marching through the doors and asking to use their shitter!’
He’s got a point, Jon thought. Probably stink the whole building out. He looked over to the main airport. ‘You’d better hot-foot it to the terminal building. Plenty of public bogs in there.’
‘We can’t leave the principle.’ Kieran shifted again. ‘Oh God, it’ll be touching cloth at this rate.’
Jon consulted the schedule. ‘She doesn’t finish here until lunch. You’ve got plenty of time. I’ll stay.’
‘You’re sure?’ Kieran was already starting the engine.
‘Let the OFC know. And don’t be long, OK?’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over pretty damn quick, I promise.’
Aware he’d be in sight of those in the office building, Jon grabbed an overcoat with the word ‘Police’ emblazoned across its back: it would hang low enough to conceal his weapons belt. The vehicle roared away and, after putting on a police baseball cap, Jon looked about. Alone among the parked cars, he felt horribly exposed. Apart from a short section of wall either side of the main doors, the exterior of the building consisted entirely of sheets of smoked glass. No way of knowing how many people are bloody watching me, he thought, levels of discomfort rising even further.
Your best option, he said to himself, is beside the entrance. So what if you’ll look like a bouncer? Anything’s better than being stood out here. Trying to look like this was a perfectly normal turn of events – and he hadn’t been dumped out of his armed response vehicle because his driver was about to crap in his own pants – Jon casually set off across the asphalt.
The doors were controlled by a security pad a
nd had a large camera above them. Jon positioned himself with his back to the wall and crossed his hands in front of him. Definitely look like a doorman now, he thought. He surveyed the terminal building, hoping Kieran would have found somewhere to park.
A minute later he heard a shooshing sound as the doors slid open. He glanced to the side and saw Alicia Lloyd step out. He waited for the close protection officer to appear behind her. She was on her own.
‘You know,’ she announced, looking straight ahead as she stretched her arms out and rotated her wrists. ‘These meetings can get so boring.’
Is she speaking into an earpiece? Does she even know I’m here? He wasn’t sure whether to say anything. Her coat was beige. That material which looks almost like felt. Cashmere? Expensive, anyway. Her long hair cascaded over the upturned collar.
Flexing her fingers, she turned to look at him. ‘I mean, you’re in that vehicle for hours on end, but at least you can chat. Listen to music. Can you listen to music?’
So she is talking to me, he thought. She’d seen me out here. He nodded. ‘If the volume’s on low.’
‘Where’s your buddy? He took off pretty quick.’
Jon cut his eyes towards the main part of the airport. ‘Something came up. He’ll be back soon.’
‘You know, I didn’t know much about Manchester before this trip.’ She was staring in the direction of the city’s skyline. ‘I like it. What’s your opinion on all the new developments?’
‘My opinion?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking of making an investment. An apartment in one of the towers that’s being built. They say, if I buy now, the prices are much lower. Do you think the demand is there?’
‘I don’t know how these things are decided. But smarter people than me obviously think it’s a good bet; I’ve never seen so many developments happening around the city.’
‘My thoughts, too. Cranes are always the best sign. It rains a lot here, though, doesn’t it?’
‘You know, a man once visited Manchester. After three days of getting soaked, he passes this kid on the street. Says to him, “Hey, does it ever stop raining in this bloody city?” The kid looks at him and says, “How should I know? I’m only ten.”’ He broke into a grin.
She took a moment, then a giggle came from deep in her throat. ‘That’s excellent. I’ll use that for when I’m next in Seattle.’
‘Help yourself,’ he said, looking towards the airport. After a second, he sensed she was still looking at him. No, he thought. More than that. Examining me.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she asked.
‘Don’t see why not.’
‘How did you lose the top of your ear?’
He glanced at her. Other than her immaculate eyebrows being fractionally raised, her face was blank. ‘Er ...’
‘Sorry. Too direct. It’s an American thing.’
‘No, you’re all right. It was an incident.’
‘Well, duuuuh! A work incident?’
He thought about the windswept car park in County Galway. How his face had been pressed into freezing tarmac that was peppered with horseshit and hay. The cold grip of the pliers as his flesh was pulled until it finally tore. It would be easier to lie. ‘Yes, work incident.’
‘So you’re trained in hand-to-hand stuff as well as weapons?’
‘The full shebang, that’s us.’
He could now feel her eyes travelling slowly down him. ‘Sounds dangerous.’
Not much I can say to that.
‘All that training, it must be frustrating to be sitting in that car for hours on end babysitting someone like me. I mean, I realise this is tedious. You’re having to do this because someone up the chain decided it would look good.’
He met her eyes for a second. Thought, she’s smarter than I realised. ‘Nature of the job, ma’am. We’re used to it.’
‘Ma’am.’ She laughed. ‘What is it with this ma’am business? I’m not the Queen.’
‘That’s just how we address any female senior to us.’
‘Am I senior to you?’
Most people are, Jon thought.
‘Well, Jon Spicer, I’d better get back to this meeting.’ But, rather than step towards the doors, she moved closer to him. ‘Here.’
He looked to his side. Oh Jesus. There was a business card in her hand. She was holding it out.
‘Take it.’
‘Sorry, ma’am. I’m – I’m not sure that’s appropriate.’
‘Why?’
‘There are ... you know ... already communication channels.’
‘So?’
‘You’ve been assigned a close protection—’
‘Him?’ She made a scoffing sound as she slipped the card into the pocket of his trousers. ‘I’ll feel safer knowing you have my number.’
She walked away without another word. At the doors, she signalled with her hand and they immediately parted. Only when she’d vanished inside did he feel able to breathe again. Did that just happen? He felt like he should check the pocket to see if a card was really in it. But he didn’t want to move. The ARV appeared on the feeder road for the car park. Kieran was back. Jon set off for where they’d been parked. One thing I know, he thought, I’m definitely not mentioning this to him. The piss-takes would never end.
Chapter 17
‘Got some things to show you,’ Iona announced as he neared his desk.
‘Yeah? What things?’
‘I went through the files. Tried to organise stuff into a spreadsheet.’
He saw a message alert was flashing on the phone beside his computer. ‘You did? When?’
‘I had some time in my lunch break,’ she replied breezily. ‘Anyway, want to go through it?’
‘Of course, thanks. Let me just see what this is.’ He sat down and reached for the phone. The message had been left at three forty-three that afternoon. Robin Newton in the forensics department located on the building’s upper floor began to speak.
‘Hi Jon. Right, this feather you left with me. You thought it was a crow’s or raven’s. I’ve taken a look. Turns out it doesn’t belong to any member of the Corvus family. Not unless that bird was an albino. It’s been spray-painted black, Jon. Originally, it was white. So I think it’s highly unlikely it came from a pigeon, either. My guess? Probably a seagull. Maybe, a swan. It’s quite large. There are also traces of glue at the base of the shaft, so I imagine it was once stuck to something larger. Maybe formed part of a display. Or a decoration? That’s pretty much it. There isn’t any chance of fingerprints. I got it under the microscope, but couldn’t see anything we could lift for DNA, either, even if you had approval for testing. Which you hadn’t. So, I popped it in the internal post. Let me know if there’s anything else, thanks.’
Jon replaced the receiver. Not a pigeon feather. Which scuppers Weir’s theory. ‘Interesting.’
‘What’s that?’
He sat back and crossed his arms. ‘You know, earlier, I mentioned a couple of people were claiming someone else was in the vicinity – when two of the deaths occurred.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This is where it gets a bit bizarre. One of those people said the figure he saw had wings on his back.’ He saw the look on Iona’s face and lifted a hand. ‘Not big ones for flying. Little things. Like for – I don’t know – a kid’s fancy-dress costume.’
‘OK. Carry on.’
‘Not much else, really. The figure walked to the top of the stairwell and disappeared down them.’
‘But he had wings sticking out of his back?’
‘Yup. Head-to-foot in black, including a pair of wings.’
‘Hang on: the person who claims he saw this is the same one who went off the top of a fire escape last night?’
‘It is. And he’s now in the intensive care at the MRI. Broken back, massive head injuries. Still unconscious.’
‘I see what you mean about bizarre.’
‘I haven’t finished. Yesterday morning, I
went to the fire escape where it happened. It’s behind this derelict pub near Piccadilly. Stuck in the splintered frame of the door at the top of the fire escape stairs was a black feather. Weir said it wasn’t significant – probably just a pigeon’s. Birds had been using the upper floor as a roosting area. But that phone message was from Robin up in forensics. The feather had been spray-painted black; originally, it was white. He thinks it came from a seagull or swan.’
‘Someone had sprayed it with black paint?’
‘Correct.’
Iona carried on staring at him. ‘Almost like this person – who may or may not actually be real – is wearing some kind of outfit. Black everything.’
Jon checked no other detectives were listening in. ‘Freaky, isn’t it?’
‘Just a bit.’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘Anyway, this spreadsheet. Have a look.’
Jon went round to her side of the desk and pulled a nearby chair across. ‘Christ. You sure this only took your lunch break?’
Each person’s name was written down the left-hand-side of a large grid. Jim Barlow. Ryan Gardner. Luke McClennan. Roy Jarratt. Frank Kilby. ‘We should probably add the details for the guy in the ICU as well,’ Iona said. ‘So, you see the columns? Each one is for an aspect of their lives. First is which part of the armed forces they served in.’
‘Got it,’ Jon answered, scanning down the column. Jim Barlow: Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Ryan Gardner: The Yorkshire Regiment. Luke McClennan: The Royal Welsh Infantry. Roy Jarratt: Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment. Frank Kilby: The Royal Artillery. Wayne Newton: The Tank Regiment.
‘Next column is their place of birth – and you can see there’s no common thread there. Then it’s each person’s age: these vary from Roy Jarratt, twenty-six, right through to Frank Kilby, practically twenty years older.’
Jon’s eyes had already gone to the following column: next of kin. Not a lot in that one, so far. ‘That could be interesting. For background on each one.’
‘I agree. As you can see, I also went into prior convictions. That’s a mixed bag. A couple of them had records before joining up; all but Frank Kilby had come to the attention of the police after coming out.’
