by Chris Simms
Jon scanned the offences. All minor stuff: vagrancy, begging, shoplifting. Hardly, in Jon’s opinion, worthy of police action He went to the final column. ‘And I see you’ve had a go at when they arrived in Manchester.’
‘Seemed to make sense. Roy Jarratt was from Wigan and Frank Kilby from Bury, so they were probably based here from when they came out of the army. For the others, it’s only a rough guess. For instance, Ryan Gardner. He’s from Wakefield, near Leeds: his date is based on an arrest for shoplifting in the Arndale. But that doesn’t mean he hadn’t been around for weeks before that point.’
‘Something each next of kin might be able to help with.’
‘True.’
Jon rubbed his fingers across his chin. ‘Sticking with the military thing, we’ll need to access the army’s records to find out if they all were deployed at the same time on a foreign posting. That might be where they all came across each other.’
‘Won’t be hard. Not if the request is coming from the Counter Terrorism Unit.’
Jon glanced towards the doors. ‘By the way, is Weir still around?’
Iona consulted her watch. ‘It’s only just after six. Probably.’
‘I’ll pop up.’ He glanced at the next of kin column again. ‘And another thing: I hate dealing with relatives. What’ll we say? Your dead family member, things are looking a bit murky. You might have been thinking suicide, but we’re thinking ...’ He shook his head. ‘It could open a right can of shit.’
‘You’re right. That needs to be approached very carefully.’
Jon tapped his forefinger against the sheet as he stood. ‘I’ll see if Weir is about. Top stuff, Iona. Really helpful.’
‘Well, it’s only a start. I’m sure there’ll more columns to add before we make any progress.’
He was about to stand when his desk phone started to ring. The number showing on the display was zero: reception. ‘Spicer here.’
‘Hello. We’ve just had the front desk from the police station on Bootle Street call. A message was left for you there.’
He leaned forward. ‘Who by?’
‘Someone called Greg?’
‘Go on.’
‘He asked that you meet him in town later. Regarding, he said, Wayne.’
Jon nodded. ‘OK. Did he give a time?’
‘Six thirty, Stevenson Square.’
‘Got it, thanks.’
The traffic passing above her caused the underside of the bridge to hum. If she got to her knees, she could reach up and touch the metal girders. Feel the metal shiver. But she’d stopped doing that: it only sent the perching pigeons into a mass of flapping wings. And they’d found this place first. It was their home, not hers.
She’d discovered it by squeezing through a gap in the roadside fencing. Then she’d picked her way down the top of a grassy slope that was littered by items that had been lobbed over the fence. Traffic cones and shopping baskets and entire bin liners of rubbish. Where the bridge connected with the slope was a ledge. Compacted earth that was perfectly dry. Beneath it, trains regularly rumbled by. But she was too high up for any passenger to spot her.
Sometimes, she heard people on the road as they walked past. Snatches of conversation. Who said this, who was doing that, what could be going on with him, what did she think she was doing. The usual.
She liked it under here. It was out of the wind and rain. There was the pile of sleeping bags she’d lifted from doorways around the city centre. More than enough to keep warm. And she had the sound of the pigeons. Their gentle cooing was like a chorus. She looked up at them looking down at her with half-closed eyes. Smooth heads resting on curved chests. Content. They didn’t need much. Why couldn’t people be more like them? Just take what they needed. The planet wouldn’t be collapsing if people were more like pigeons. The thought made her smile.
She became aware of a damp feeling. Her breasts were rock hard with milk. So full, they’d begun to leak. She hated the feeling. Raising herself onto an elbow, she folded back the edge of the blanket to look at the tiny form beside her. How could anything sleep so much? Her puffy little face, swollen eyelids and light fuzz of hair. No interest in the world. She remembered seeing what the midwife had jotted down in her red book. ‘Failure to thrive.’ The woman had talked about a specially enriched formula milk. Olivia wasn’t keen: if the stuff her body was producing wasn’t good enough, that was what nature had decided. This constant reaching for artificial, man-made alternatives. Shrink-wrapped powders, blister-packs of pills, vaccines and injections and hormone therapy treatments. Pumping alien substances into your body. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t what was meant to be. The world was spiralling out of control and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be part of it anymore.
Chapter 18
No sign of Greg in the doorway. Jon checked his watch. Almost quarter to seven. He wondered what to do. A large Aldi bag full of clothing was balanced on a stack of bedding in the corner. Flattened cardboard boxes beneath it. For a moment, he contemplated sitting down. No. He couldn’t face the prospect of looking like someone bedding down for the night.
Instead, he walked the few steps to where Lever Street cut across the square. On the other side of the road was some type of cafe bar. The old Soviet logo featured heavily in the signage. On the pavement before it was a cluster of tables and chairs. It was cold, but not too cold for sitting out. He took a seat, ordered a coffee and waited.
His drink was long finished and the bars surrounding the square were getting busy before he spotted a flat cap bobbing its way towards the building’s doorway.
Right, let’s hear what you’ve got to say, he thought, ambling across. ‘Evening.’
Greg was shaking out the top sleeping bag. He looked over his shoulder. ‘There you are. I was worried you’d given up.’
Well, Jon thought, you are over an hour later than you said you’d be. ‘You’ve got some news about Wayne?’
‘Yeah – the night he fell. Someone saw something.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s fucked off for now. But I asked him to swing by here when he’s ready.’
Jon suppressed a sigh. ‘When will that be?’
‘Thing is, he’s got a good pitch – so he wants to sit tight for the time being. Do a bit of grafting.’
‘Why don’t I go to him?’
Greg’s head shook. ‘He wasn’t keen on that. Not keen, at all.’
Jon looked about. Shit. It was getting late. ‘How long will he be?’
‘He’s by an entrance to the Arndale. That shuts at eight, so he said he’d come across then.’
Great, thought Jon. That’s in half-an-hour. Another evening of not being home to see Alice and the kids.
Greg had slid out some sections of cardboard. He tossed a sleeping bag in Jon’s direction. ‘May as well get snug, hey?’
Jon hesitated. But Greg was already settling down. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, lowering himself on to the cardboard and zipping up his coat.
‘Here, put that across your legs,’ Greg instructed, draping the sleeping bag over Jon’s knees. ‘Need a blanket? I got some nice blankets. They were only dropped off last night. Clean.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ Jon said, gingerly tucking the sleeping bag in around his waist, relieved that moving the fabric didn’t release the aroma of piss.
‘Hat? Got a spare one of them, too.’ He waved what looked like a tea cosy. ‘Proper wool.’
Jon shook his head. ‘This stuff gets given to you?’
‘Yeah. The charities, but often from people, as well. I had this one woman give me a twin pack of thermal socks. Put both pairs on straight away. Cushy as.’
The nearby sound of voices picked up. Women, laughing about something. They came into view. A group of six, chattering away, all done up for a night out. Shimmery dresses, heels, little handbags. Jon realised that, down here, you were knee height. It felt weird. He realised he’d have to lift his chin to see their faces, but he didn’t
want to make eye contact.
‘Any spare change, ladies?’ Greg called.
Neither the speed of their footsteps or the cadence of their talk altered as they passed by. It really is like being invisible, Jon thought.
‘Have a nice night. Be safe,’ Greg cheerfully added just as they passed from view. ‘Yeah, you get some treats,’ he continued. ‘Then, other times, you think, really? Tins of soup. Can’t even get the bastards open, let alone cook them.’
Jon realised he hadn’t eaten. ‘Actually, do you want some food? There’s a pizza place across the way.’
Greg was rummaging in the Aldi bag. ‘No need.’ He produced two packs of sandwiches. ‘Got ploughman’s or beef and tomato. Which one?’
Jon didn’t know what to say. To refuse would be plain rude. ‘You choose.’
‘I don’t know. Two of my favourites. Go halves?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Jon took a surreptitious look at the use by date as he opened the pack Greg handed him. Two days’ time. That’s a relief. ‘You mentioned before food’s not a problem.’
‘No one starves on the street.’
‘But it’s all convenience stuff like this?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Like being on the job. The amount of crap we end up eating. It’s terrible.’
‘Sometimes, I just wish someone would hand me one of those ready-made salad things. Or a bit of nice fruit. Still,’ he took a hefty bite of his sandwich, ‘I’m not really complaining.’
Jon finished his first sandwich in a couple of bites. They swopped packets and, as he leaned back against the door, Greg said: ‘I told him you’re Wayne’s brother, by the way.’
‘This bloke we’re waiting for?’
Greg gave a nod. ‘It’s easier that way. People will be more prepared to talk if they think you’re his brother.’
‘Rather than if I’m police,’ Jon said.
Greg nodded again. ‘Of course.’
Jon thought about the fact his younger brother, Dave, had also lived on the streets around Manchester for a while. Every now and again, he’d reach out to Jon, ask for cash – just a bit so he could sort his life out. Get straight. Jon got to realise it was all a ruse. Should he have refused? Just cut him off? It was something he wondered about all the time. Might that have saved him?
‘It’s weird. I keep expecting Wayne to walk round the corner,’ Greg suddenly announced.
Jon floated a look at the other man. ‘How are you finding it without him?’
‘You know – there are other options.’
Really? Jon thought. Is that why you’re back in this doorway on your own?
‘But I got on with the lad,’ Greg added. ‘No more news?’
‘Afraid not. I suppose you boys who’ve been in the army have an advantage when it comes to sleeping rough.’
Greg chewed away for a while. ‘You’d think. But it often works the other way.’
Jon looked at him questioningly.
‘What gets to most ex-servicemen is the loneliness,’ Greg stated, his voice more serious. ‘When you’re in the army, you’re part of a bigger thing. You might be sleeping under hedges, but you’re being paid for it. And you’re with your mates. Once you’re homeless, it’s a totally different world. A lot of ex-servicemen think they’ll cope, but I reckon it’s harder for us. The loneliness of it is what really hits you.’
‘Was Wayne lonely?’
‘Of course. We all are. I think he was scared, too. He’d lost control of his life and that’s not a nice thing. Then he started using drugs.’
Jon thought about punching the shit out of the dealer the night before. That had felt good. ‘What do you think happened on the fire escape?’
‘I don’t know. But wait for Colin. Hear what he has to say.’
It was another hour before a gaunt-faced man with a shaved head sidled into the doorway. Immediately, Jon felt his hackles rise. He had the look of a junky, for a start. And the way he’d slid round the corner. There’d been a slyness about the movement.
Avoiding Jon’s eyes, he nodded at Greg.
‘Colin, this is the person I mentioned. Wayne’s older brother.’
Only then did his eyes shift across. ‘All right?’
Jon wasn’t sure whether to reach out a hand so they could shake. It didn’t seem appropriate. ‘Yeah. I’m called Jon.’
He sank down into a crouch, back against the wall. ‘Getting colder,’ he said to Greg. ‘This your pad for the night?’
‘No. You know where Jamie’s Italian used to be? I’ve got a space in the porch bit there.’
The man thought about this for a second. ‘Who with?’
‘Baz? Him and his mate, Turbo. Maybe a couple of others.’
Jon could see Colin filing the information away. ‘Top of King Street? Posh. I’m off to the Printworks after this. Prime time.’
Greg turned to Jon. ‘When the pubs start to close. It’s the time people are most generous.’
‘Or violent,’ Colin added. He looked at Jon again. ‘You join the army, too? Like Wayne?’
‘No.’ Jon could see the other man was waiting for more. He picked the job he used to do before joining the police. ‘Construction.’
The other man seemed happy with that. ‘Good money in construction, hey? What are we talking about here? I thought a twenty.’
Realisation caused Jon’s hopes to plummet. He’s after payment. ‘What did you see?’ He watched the man weighing things up. You’re wondering whether to insist on the money first, aren’t you? Dream on.
Colin looked away for a second, still making a decision. He sniffed. ‘It was about two in the morning. I was walking through Ardwick, back towards town.’
Normally, Jon would have hauled him up on that. Asked what he’d been doing there at such a strange time. But this wasn’t a police interview. He stayed quiet.
‘I was on the far side of the road, passing the Garter. Was just wondering whether to duck in, see if anyone was about. That’s when I saw them both.’
‘Both?’
‘Wayne and this other guy, who was all in black. He was stood behind Wayne, whispering stuff in his ear.’
‘You could hear him whispering?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you just said you were on the far side of the road.’
The man wiped at the tip of his nose. ‘It was the way his head was tilted towards Wayne’s ear. I couldn’t hear what was being said, just murmurs.’
‘He was taller than Wayne, then?’
‘You what?’
‘You said his head was tilted. So he was a bit taller than Wayne?’
‘Yeah. A bit.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was wearing black. Couldn’t see a thing.’
‘Not even skin colour?’
‘He had a balaclava covering his face and head.’
Balaclava, Jon thought. That’s a new detail. ‘OK. Carry on.’
‘That went on for a bit then Wayne climbed up on the hand railing. It’s like he was hypnotised. In a trance. Then he jumped.’
‘The bloke in black: he didn’t push him or anything?’
‘No. He’d got Wayne in a spell. Didn’t need to.’
Jon thought about Wayne’s injuries. Most were to his spine. ‘Like someone going off a diving board?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Face first, arms out. That kind of jump?’
Colin hesitated. ‘It was dark, yeah? But, I suppose so.’
He’s bullshitting, Jon thought. ‘What happened next?’
‘That’s when I see he’s got wings. Once he’s on his own up there, I could see them. It was the Dark Angel: he got Wayne like he got the rest.’
Dark Angel, Jon thought. He has a nickname now. That meant the gossip mill had really started turning. Not good. ‘I heard something about wings. How big were they?’
Colin stretched his arms fully out and wafted his fingertips. ‘Like this.’
&nb
sp; You lying twat, Jon thought, suppressing a sigh. ‘What he did he do once Wayne had fallen?’
‘He ... he just stood there. Looking up at the sky.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Fucking did one, didn’t I? I’ve got the Dark Angel a few flaps of his wings away? I was off, pal.’ He cut the air with his hand. ‘Gone.’ He turned to Greg. ‘You stay safe, bro. Stick close to Baz and his mate. Don’t be sleeping anywhere on your own. This fucker is picking us off man. Serious.’
Greg nodded in agreement. ‘I will.’
Colin’s head turned expectantly in the direction of Jon.
He dug into his coat and removed a twenty from his wallet. ‘Cheers for that.’
The money was whipped from his fingers and Colin was on his feet. ‘Safe,’ he said with a nod then vanished back round the corner.
Greg was blushing slightly. ‘Sorry. That was a waste, wasn’t it?’
Jon pretended to think for a second. ‘Probably.’
‘So why did you pay him?’
To not create any shit for you, Jon thought. ‘If I’d refused, word would soon get round. Then no one’s going to say a thing.’
Greg was looking concerned. ‘Yeah – but plenty round here will be happy to spin you a yarn if they know you’ve got cash.’
‘It’s OK – I’ll claim the money back. He used the words Dark Angel. Is that the name doing the rounds?’
‘It is.’
‘So word’s spreading, then? Among rough sleepers. People are talking about this?’
‘They are starting to now.’
The thought made Jon feel uncomfortable. How soon before it spread further? Before it reached a journalist ...
‘Oh, I didn’t mention. You know last night? Someone took that little scrote Jay by surprise. Robbed all his merchandise and left him quite badly hurt, apparently.’
Robbed all his merchandise, Jon thought as he checked his watch. No surprise Jay had claimed that. It was almost eleven. Bloody hell. ‘I’d better be off. Early start tomorrow.’
‘It happened pretty soon after I pointed him out to you,’ Greg added, looking at Jon with one eyebrow slightly lifted.
He folded the sleeping bag off his legs and, as he climbed to his feet, thought about the previous night. After leaving Jay he’d gone in the direction of Anders Street, dropping the keys and knuckleduster into separate bins en route. New Dawn’s premises looked like they’d once been a retail unit. The roller blinds had been spray-painted with the oranges and yellows of a sunrise. He’d found the hinged flap of the letter box, lifted it up and stuffed all of Jay’s cash through.
