by Chris Simms
She was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Silently screaming, fingers like hooks, aiming for his eyes. Instinctively, he stepped back, lashing out with his free arm. His fist went straight between her outstretched hands and connected with the bridge of her nose. Her knees buckled and she started to topple into him, arms loose and ineffectual. He stepped away, turning his hips so she slid off him and down to the floor. Her eyes were barely open and she was groaning quietly as he stepped over her and made for the door.
Chapter 40
‘Is she OK?’ Iona asked, spotting Jon making a beeline towards her desk.
‘Yeah. Cold and hungry when I found her, but – bless her – more worried about us being cross.’
She smiled. ‘Thank God for that. And Alice?’
‘A lot calmer now, that’s for sure.’
‘You didn’t need to come in, Jon. I thought you’d take the opportunity to get some sleep; you look like you need it.’
‘I’ll be OK. So, what the hell’s happening? I didn’t really take in the message you left me.’
‘Bring your chair round and I’ll tell you.’
He wheeled it to her side of the workstation. Sheets of paper were lined up across her desk. Among them, he spotted a printout of a newspaper article.
‘The phone number we’d obtained from Wayne Newton’s records had recently been reassigned to a new volunteer,’ Iona said, tapping the end of her biro against the list James Pearson had given them.
Jon closed his eyes for a second. ‘Shit. They raided the wrong address?’
‘Afraid so. Dragged a wheelchair-bound veteran of forty-six to the floor in the process.’
‘Jesus. I bet the MIT bloody love us.’ He could imagine the confusion and anger among the crash team. Nothing worse than shit intelligence. ‘What did they say?’
‘Well, they rang here pretty damn quick wanting an explanation. I called James Pearson and was able to work out what had happened.’ She moved the phone list aside to reveal a personnel record from The Manchester Veterans’ Helpline. ‘This is who we really want.’
Jon scanned the fields of information. Gavin Conway, age thirty-three. Address: Flat 9, Pear Mill, Hawthorne Street, Failsworth. He continued down to a lower panel. ‘Served in the army, then.’
‘Yup. He came out in late September.’
‘Pretty much a year ago.’
‘Hold that thought,’ she said, lifting up the printout of the news article and handing it to him. The headline at the top had been circled with red pen.
Gas heater tragedy of wife and daughter
‘They died on the way to meet him on his return from his second tour. He was flying in to RAF Coningsby. They were in a mobile home he’d renovated. The plan was, according to Pearson, for them to go on a little tour of Britain before ending up back in Manchester.’
Jon put the report back on her desk. ‘Are we talking carbon monoxide poisoning?’
Iona nodded. ‘His wife had parked up overnight at a place near Skegness. Their bodies were found the next day. They’d died in their sleep, both cuddled up in bed.’
‘How old was his daughter?’
‘Six.’
‘And they were on their way to meet him?’
‘Yes. He touched down and nobody was there waiting.’
Jon was still feeling the residual panic of Holly running away. The thought of losing not only your child, but your whole family. His field of vision began to waver and he had to bow his head. He tried to wipe the tears away with the back of a forefinger before glancing up.
‘You OK, Jon?’ Iona asked gently.
He nodded. ‘Fucking parenthood. It does something to your brain.’
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘Hey: your daughter’s safe, remember?’
‘Yeah.’ He sniffed. ‘Just hearing about this stuff. Never used to bother me.’
‘Shall I carry on?’
‘Of course. I’ll stop snivelling soon.’
‘Snivel all you want. Conway had to identify their bodies and then deal with the funeral arrangements. Within three months, he approached the veterans’ helpline asking to volunteer.’
Jon cocked his head. ‘Pearson was aware of all this?’
‘Yes. He vets anyone who applies to work there. Said he had his doubts about the bloke. As the anniversary of their deaths approached, he’d been trying to encourage Conway to take time off. Conway said he needed the work for a sense of purpose and routine. Pearson wasn’t happy, but let things continue – but then he realised Conway was breaking their guidelines and contacting people who’d rung the number asking for help.’
‘That broke the guidelines?’
‘He said volunteers are only permitted to ring someone back if they believe that person is at imminent risk of suicide. Pearson had noticed Conway had made several calls to external numbers.’
‘The other victim,’ Jon strained his mind for the name, ‘the one whose family knew something was wrong because he stopped phoning them.’
‘McClennan,’ Iona said. ‘Conway rang him on the first of June. Pretty much his estimated time of death. I’ve checked Conway’s call history on the nights other veterans died. Calls to a couple of numbers in the early hours. Got to be to phones owned by them.’
‘So that’s how he was selecting them.’
‘Looks it.’
‘I wonder what happened to their phones. You reckon Conway took them?’
She nodded. ‘They’re all probably at the bottom of a canal.’
‘And now? What’s the state of play?’
‘There’s an MIT team on the way to his house as we speak.’
Gavin swept his eyes over a sea of partially covered faces; only the eyes of the other bus passengers visible above their masks. He still found it so weird. He made his way past them towards the empty rows at the back and gently lowered the holdall to the floor. The zip was partly open to let in air, but he didn’t think the infant would particularly care. She’d hardly stirred as he’d carried her from Miriam’s flat, slept soundly as he’d run down the stairs, didn’t even open an eye as he’d laid her down in the space between the wings and drawn the zip closed above her upturned face.
He pulled gently at his tabard. It was slightly too small for him and, whenever he sat on the bus, it seemed to constrict his breathing. The vehicle started moving again. Not long until he was back in his special place, looking down at the streets far below, hearing the sounds and savouring the smells that carried up to him.
Now the end was so close, he’d started thinking about the final moment. In his mind, he always imagined he’d look out across the city towards the far horizon. Then it would just be case of leaning forward, arms out at either side, wings spread behind him. He’d close his eyes. Definitely. The sensation of falling could be that of ascending, too. If you couldn’t see the ground.
But now he had something else to consider. He glanced down at the holdall and pictured the little thing fast asleep inside. He couldn’t just drop her and then follow on a moment or two after. They had to go together.
Perhaps it would be better to let himself fall backwards with the baby clutched to his chest? It meant not having his arms outstretched. And the air would be rushing past the back of his head, not his face. But he wanted to be holding her as they emerged into that radiant world where everyone they loved was waiting. He wanted to hand her across to the mother, who would be crying with happiness. And then, once the baby was safely reunited, he would turn to Claire and Sophie, who would be smiling as they lifted their arms, and he’d step forward and bring them both close and press their faces against his and they would—
A little splutter of a cough from near his feet. He checked the rows in front; no one else had heard it. The bus was slowing down. He peered through the window beside him to see where they were: approaching the junction with the A6010. To the right, lights along the top of Manchester City’s immense stadium dotted the dark sky. A few hundred metres ahead was the edge of the ci
ty centre. The vehicle came to a halt and he watched with dismay as a throng of noisy people started climbing onboard, several with face masks hanging below their chins. If the stadium wasn’t closed, he’d have said they were football supporters just emerged from a match.
A few clumped their way to the back and fell into the seats directly behind him. He heard the sharp hiss of cans being opened. Should he just grab the holdall and get off? But people had now filled the aisle in front. Better to just sit tight: another few minutes and they’d be in the city centre.
The bus started forward again as excited chatter about the match washed all around him. He tried to pick up where he’d left off. Falling backwards, that was right. Turning to face the clock tower, maybe looking up to the tip of the spire. Even though the traffic lights in front were on green, the bus started to brake once more. Conversations paused as the other passengers tried to see what was causing the delay. A siren, rapidly increasing in volume. Seconds later, a police car cut across the junction. It sped off along the A6010 and the bus began to edge forward just as the lights turned red. The vehicle lurched to another stop.
In the second between people sighing with frustration and their conversations resuming, a wavering cry rose up from the floor. He kept his eyes on the window. The people on the row in front looked round.
‘Weird fucking ring tone,’ someone commented light-heartedly.
People’s eyebrows were buckling as they glanced about, unsure where the noise had come from. If it was a joke.
Another cry. Longer, more frustrated. He felt about for the bottle. Where the hell did I put it? The side pockets of his tabard were empty. Was it in the bag itself? Bloody hell, the little thing never woke up. It always slept.
He heard a voice directly behind him. ‘Come on, own up. Who’s smuggling a baby in their coat?’
He tried to join in the laughter while surreptitiously reaching down to check the holdall’s side pocket. Another cry. This one lingered. It reminded him of Sophie when she woke up in the night needing to be fed. Knowing things were only going to get worse, he grabbed the holdall and got to his feet. The cry sounded again, wavering off into a pathetic sob. ‘Mind your backs, please.’
Now the bag was at shoulder level for the people sitting down. They could tell where the noise was coming from. A woman with a pale blue bobble leaned across her boyfriend. ‘Tell me that isn’t a baby in your bag.’
He ignored her. ‘Coming through. Move, please!’
People in front were looking over their shoulders, eyes immediately dropping to the holdall. Confusion. Concern. Suspicion. The bus started forward and he repeatedly stabbed at the red ‘stop’ button set into the vertical pole by his side. Then, using his shoulder, he started to barge his way forward.
Someone called out from behind him. ‘Whose is the baby, pal? Why is there a baby in your bag?’
‘Out my way, I need to get off!’ He got to the driver’s cab and banged a hand against the Perspex screen. ‘Let me off, please!’
The driver looked uneasily to the side. ‘At the next stop.’
He cradled the holdall in his arms. Tried to rock it back and forth. The cries were starting again so he forced his fingers through the gap in the zip. He felt the down of her fine hair, the curve of her little warm head. He traced his forefinger across a miniscule nose to the mouth. He didn’t need to encourage her; wet little lips latched onto his dirty fingertip and the crying stopped. Behind him, people were discussing what was going on. Some were insisting the baby wasn’t real. It was a prank. Others were less sure. No one, yet, had challenged him.
The bus eased to a stop and the doors folded in with a rush of cold air. He jumped down to the pavement and fled for the nearest side street.
Chapter 41
‘Who’ve you been speaking to in the MIT?’ Jon asked.
Iona checked her notebook. ‘A bloke called DI Saville?’
Jon was grinning to himself as he took out his phone.
‘Why’s that funny?’
‘Oh – I used to work with him,’ he replied, keying in Rick’s number. ‘Hey, long time no speak.’
‘Jon, bloody hell. How are you?’
‘Good. And you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You been liaising with a colleague of mine over here in the CTU. DC Iona Khan?’
‘Yes. It did cross my mind you might know her. Don’t tell me you work together?’
‘On and off.’
‘Poor woman. What did she do in a past life?’
‘Hang on, just give me a moment to stop laughing.’ He paused for a split second. ‘There, all done. You cheeky git.’
‘So, what’s the score, my friend?’
‘That’s what I was wanting to ask you. We did all the early groundwork on this. Just wondering if there’s any way we can offer a hand.’
‘Appreciated. But I think after that wrong address from before, folk over here aren’t keen. Besides, your boss has already requested that we keep him up-to-date on any development.’
‘DCI Pinner?’
‘Yeah, that was him.’
‘Who’s handling it your end?’
‘DCI Parks.’
Jon nodded. She was good. Really good. In fact, of all the DCIs he’d pissed off in the MIT, she was the one he felt most guilty about.
‘I told your partner there’s a team on the way to his place in Failsworth. They’re due to go in any minute.’
‘Where are you? Back at base?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what if he’s not there?’
‘We’ve spoken at length to the person who runs the charity helpline: he informed us Conway works as a nightwatchman. The art deco cinema on Upper Brook Street that’s being restored? His shift is due to start there at half six. Another team’s heading there. We’ve got the desk jockeys working the usual stuff: tracking his bank card and all that.’
‘ANPR cameras been given his car’s regis—’ He stopped himself. Of course they would have done that. It was the most basic of measures. ‘Sorry.’
‘As it happens, there is no car registered to him. Don’t worry, Jon: Parks has committed enough manpower to bring this to a swift conclusion.’
‘She better have. He’s got that baby with him.’
‘You think she doesn’t realise that?’ There’d been an edge of impatience in Rick’s voice.
‘Yeah – but the bloke is totally cracked.’
‘Jon, your offer is appreciated – you know that. But I’d better go. Things are going to kick off. I’ll let you know how it plays out; I appreciate it’s a bastard to be closed out of things like this.’
‘Too right it is. Speak to you soon.’
The line went dead. Jon lowered his phone and found himself contemplating the blank screen. It felt weird to have someone he’d helped train give him a very polite flick-off.
‘What did he say?’ Iona asked.
‘In a nutshell: don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ He let out a frustrated sigh. ‘What a pile of bollocks.’
‘That’s the way it works.’
She was right, he had to admit. No point holding it against Rick. ‘He said that Conway works as a nightwatchman on a construction site. Suppose he would have to be a night owl, the way he operated.’
‘Which company?’ Iona asked.
Jon shot her a questioning look.
‘Which company does he work as a nightwatchman for?’
‘He didn’t say. That old cinema on Upper Brook Street. Cool-looking building: big arched roof.’ He sent a glum look around the room. ‘Should be a nice place to go and see a film once it’s all done.’
Iona had started tapping away on her keyboard.
He reached for the little round tin beside her monitor. Vaseline lip balm. Apple flavour. ‘Used to smear this over my eyebrows when I played rugby,’ he stated. ‘Not apple flavour, just the regular stuff.’
‘Why?’
‘Reduced the chances of needing stitches if
you clashed heads with someone.’
‘Except it didn’t, did it?’ Her eyes went to the scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
‘Fair point.’ He turned the tin on its side and started to roll it back and forth.
After a few seconds, Iona glanced impatiently in his direction. ‘Jon?’
‘Mmm?’
‘That’s really annoying. Why don’t you sit at your own desk? In fact, why don’t you head back home? This case is closed – to us, anyway.’
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. ‘Not necessarily.’
‘Come on. It’s out of our hands. And I’m sure Alice would appreciate you finally being in the house.’
He pictured his wife. As he’d left, she’d been on the phone to her mum Reliving the ordeal, letting it all out. Holly was fast asleep in bed, totally exhausted. He looked at his phone, wondering if Rick would ring. Who are you trying to fool? It wouldn’t be at the top of his priorities. Christ, he thought, this is shit. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘You know I’m right.’
Reluctantly, he got to his feet. The thought of Conway somewhere out there with the baby; the jittery feeling inside him wouldn’t subside. He contemplated heading to the gym in the basement and smashing the crap out of a punchbag. Was there really nothing they could do? ‘It’ll probably be on the bloody news before we get a heads up.’
‘Here it is.’ She nodded at her screen. ‘Acorn Construction. They’re the contractor Conway works for.’
‘Acorn?’ The name seemed familiar and Jon turned back to look at her screen. The company logo was shaped like an oak leaf. He’d seen that somewhere before.
Iona started tidying the paper that was strewn across her desk. ‘God, I hope they find that little girl before he does anything stupid.’
Jon was still staring at the logo. Where the hell had he seen it? Somewhere recently. But he hadn’t driven past the cinema for ages. He wheeled his chair back round to his side of the desk then logged on to the system. He spotted Iona’s questioning glance. ‘Just checking for any emails,’ he said. ‘You never know.’
