by Chris Simms
Jon nodded. ‘Probably. What was its name, anyway?’
‘The Lesya Ukrayinka.’
‘OK, let’s go with the Baden Star to begin with. It seems to fit best.’
‘DI Spicer.’
Jon looked round at his senior officer’s bark. Buchanon remained in the doorway of his office for a moment then stepped back inside without another word.
‘He was not happy,’ Rick whispered, throwing Jon a questioning look.
‘Nope.’ Jon walked across the incident room, catching a few ominous glances as he went. ‘Sir?’ He leaned his head and shoulders across the threshold of Buchanon’s office.
‘Come in and close the door.’
Once it clicked shut, Jon turned round. I have a horrible feeling what this will be about, he thought.
Buchanon was studying a sheet of paper. ‘Arkville Road, Heaton Moor. An incident was reported there at ten thirty last night.’
Jon stood where he was, arms hanging at his sides.
‘A dark blue Mondeo with a registration I don’t need to remind you of. One male occupant got out and threatened the female driver of a Nissan Micra. The Mondeo had been parked opposite number thirty-seven, but attempted to drive off when the female occupant of that house came out.’ He drilled Jon with a hostile look. ‘The driver of the Mondeo then appeared to verbally threaten the male occupant of the house. Oh sit down, for God’s sake.’
Jon took a seat. ‘Who rang this in?’
‘The driver of the black cab. I told you, DI Spicer, to leave it. Do you ever bloody listen?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘What happens when your wife – I assume it was her you were having a slanging match with?’
Slanging match? Jon thought. I didn’t say a bloody word. He nodded.
‘What happens if your wife files an official complaint?’
Jon shrugged. ‘You suspend me?’
Buchanon looked at the printout once again and shook his head. ‘Sometimes, I think you actually try and fuck things up for yourself. What a mess.’ He put the piece of paper to the side and the anger seemed to go out of him. ‘What’s going on with Alice? She’s not prepared to allow you back?’
There was a weariness in his voice, as if this was a conversation he’d grown tired of long ago. Jon thought about the officers in the incident room outside. He knew of at least ten others struggling to keep their marriage afloat. ‘No.’
‘And how’s your daughter doing?’
‘She’s taken to wetting the bed again. Her behaviour at school has gone downhill. She’s quiet. Far too quiet.’
‘I’m sorry, Jon. I really am. At least the psychiatrist, Braithwaite, hasn’t called in a complaint, yet. I assume it was him you were having words with?’
Give him time, Jon thought. ‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Carry on. But promise me, you’ll keep away from your old house.’
‘I promise.’
Buchanon sighed, doubt on his face. ‘What’s been happening with the cannabis farm murder?’
Jon glanced down. ‘Well – we started a search for stolen Nissan Navaras on the PNC. But I found that stolen Metro instead.’
‘The one from Runcorn?’
‘Yes. It had been dumped outside Piccadilly station. We’ve got Yashin boarding the early-morning train to London. There’s a SOCO taking samples from the car. I reckon we’ll get a DNA sample from one of the bottles he’d been—’
‘Pull him.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m not authorising any more resources for that investigation. Pull the scene of crime officer, seal the car and get it impounded. Write a report on Yashin’s movements for me and I’ll send it down to MI5.’
‘But, sir - we’ll . . .’ He caught the look in his boss’s eye. ‘OK.’
‘Have you taken a full statement from the man living opposite the cannabis farm?’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Door-to-doors on the surrounding houses?’
‘No.’
Buchanon sat back. ‘Well, there’s your schedule for the rest of the day. Leave the case with this Russian character alone.’ He turned to his computer screen and began to type.
‘What was that about?’ Rick asked, looking across the desks as Jon sat down.
‘Me and my career.’ He made a swirling motion with a fore-finger. ‘Going down the pan.’
Rick’s eyes moved to Buchanon’s office then returned to Jon. ‘Come on. He was almost shouting in there. What’s up?’
Jon looked at his partner, suddenly tired of the subterfuge. He dropped his voice. ‘Late last night I was parked outside Alice’s. The nosy old cow who lives opposite saw me sitting there and rang the house.’
Rick pressed his forehead against the heel of his hand. ‘What the hell were you doing there?’
‘Waiting for that shifty bastard Braithwaite to show his face. He’s been leaving the house in the evenings and driving over to Fairfield Street.’
Rick raised his head. ‘You’ve been following him around?’
‘Too right I have.’
‘Christ.’ He frowned. ‘Fairfield Street near Piccadilly?’
‘Exactly. Where the working girls tout for business,’ Jon replied, suddenly realising his way to alert Alice was sitting opposite him.
‘What’s he been doing there?’
‘So far, just sitting in his car and watching them.’
Rick turned away, tapping his fingers for a couple of seconds.
Jon watched him. I can almost hear what’s going through your head, he thought. ‘I don’t reckon Alice has any idea of what he’s up to. She probably believes he’s driving straight home.’
Rick inserted the tip of a thumbnail between his lips and started working his lower teeth against it.
‘She won’t believe it if I tell her,’ Jon continued. ‘All I could do was keep following the bastard and hope to catch him in the act. But now he’s on to me, he’ll be more careful. Rick, the arsehole is sleeping in the same house as my wife and daughter.’
‘All right!’ Rick banged his palm down on the table. ‘I’ll let her know what you’ve just said. How many times has he driven over there?’
‘I’ve followed him three times, so far. Plus I saw him once when I was picking up a curry for me and Carmel.’
‘And he’s definitely scouting for girls? Not just . . . going for a drive?’
Jon cocked his head to the side.
‘OK, OK, I’ll speak to her. There’s probably a perfectly normal reason, though.’
‘When?’
‘When, what?’
‘When will you speak to her?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Cheers, mate. If I could deal with it myself, you know I would.’
Jon splashed more of Carmel’s rum into the tumbler and let himself sink down in the armchair. His feet ached and he kicked off his shoes. Immediately the air began to cool his socks. Feels good, he thought. Even better with a sip of this stuff.
To his side, The Pogues CD got to Dirty Old Town and he pointed Carmel’s remote, inching the volume up a notch. He reached for his thin briefcase and slid the folder of photos and scrawled notes out. Vladimir Yashin. Jon sipped again, holding the liquid in his mouth, letting the warmth spread deep into his gums as he stared at the man’s face. Where, he wondered, were you born? What were you like as a child? Images of a windswept Russian town appeared in his head. A young boy skulking in the ruins of a derelict building, hurling broken bricks at a cat trapped in the corner. Trudging home to a drab apartment and a father who sat immobile with a bottle of vodka. Did he beat you? Did he hammer your love of killing into you?
He placed the images from the CCTV to one side and looked at the copy of the photo taken at the screening unit. He held the photo nearer then reached down to the floor lamp and switched it on. The printout was slightly grainy and Jon held it so close to his face he could see the very pixels making up the man’s pupils. He examined the g
aps in between them. What, he thought, are you?
An oblong of light appeared in the dark window before him. He turned to see Carmel, wearing a vest top and knickers, in the doorway of the bedroom.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll turn it down.’
She waved a hand, padding barefoot across the room before perching on the armrest. ‘What are you up to?’
He angled his head back, taking in her slightly puffy eyes and twisted strands of hair. ‘Just work stuff.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A suspect. Nasty piece of work.’ He slid the photos back into the cover and looked at her reflection. ‘Want a sip?’
She looked down at the glass he was raising. ‘No. Is he connected to that case from the other day? The asylum seeker?’
‘Yes. But I can’t discuss it, Carmel. You know that.’
Her head turned. ‘You’ve always got this CD on the go.’
‘Have I?’
‘Always.’ She half stood and reached across him to pick up the case, her hair tickling the top of his head.
He raised his face so it played across his eyes and nose. The strands smelled faintly of coconuts and he suddenly wondered how many days it was since they’d shared a proper conversation. He cursed himself. I’ve been treating you like shit.
‘Rum, Sodomy and the Lash,’ she murmured, sitting back on the armrest and scrutinising the cover image. ‘It’s such a disturbing painting.’
Jon slid his hand against the small of her back. He began a gentle rubbing motion, eyes closing as he did so. ‘The music’s not, though. I don’t know why they went for that cover.’ He heard her opening the CD case and, a moment later, he felt the muscles beneath his palm harden.
‘You still love her, don’t you?’
He kept his eyes closed, the memories swirling in his head.
‘Who?’
‘“To Alice, the girl I kissed on a factory wall. I’ll love you always.”’
Oh no. He remembered the inscription he’d written to her on the CD's inner sleeve. The song started winding down and he felt the CD case land in his lap.
‘You sit here night after night playing that bloody album.’
He opened his eyes as a drum started its lively beat. Turning the music off, he looked up at her. ‘Carmel—’
‘No, don’t.’ Arms crossed tight against her breasts, she stood up. ‘It’s all you ever listen to, sitting here late at night.’
‘It happened to be at the top of my box when I opened it up. That’s all.’
‘Obviously.’
He heard a sniff and saw her fingers picking at the seam of her vest top. When he reached forward to place a hand against her hip, she stepped away.
‘What are you actually doing here?’
Jon looked around. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Why are you living here, with me?’
He realised, with dismay, that she was about to start a dissection of their relationship. ‘Come on, Carmel. What sort of question is that?’
She stared back at him, lips set tight.
Knowing he was going to have to give a proper answer, he raised himself up. ‘Carmel, work’s a nightmare at the moment. But it won’t be for ever. We’ll go for that meal, start enjoying ourselves again.’
‘You still love her, don’t you?’
He slumped back and looked at the CD. ‘I don’t know. My life’s been turned upside down. I don’t know what I feel.’
‘Yes or no. Do you love her?’
‘Of course I do. She’s the mother of my daughter.’
‘No, not in that sense. Do you still love her? Is that where you’d rather be? With her?’
He kept his head bowed. I can’t summon the energy, he thought. Denying, pretending, lying. ‘Sometimes, yes.’
She took a sharp breath in. ‘You shit.’
The anger in her voice made him look up. Tears had filled her eyes and an inkling of how badly he’d judged the situation began to dawn.
‘I did everything I could to make this work. I tried to make your daughter feel at home – show you how good I am with kids. I was even stupid enough to think that, one day . . .’ She raised a hand and wiped furiously at her eyes.
Guilt, likes waves of nausea, washing out from his belly. ‘I didn’t think you were . . . we’ve never talked about having kids.’
‘I’m thirty years old! You think all I want from life is to swan about around Manchester? Did you?’
Half-heartedly, Jon held out a hand towards her. Have I made a mess of this. He wondered what he could say to make her feel better. No, he decided. No more pissing around. She deserves the truth: nothing less than that. ‘I’m so sorry, Carmel, but I’ve got a family already.’
‘A wife that doesn’t want you,’ she spat. ‘And I now see why.’
‘It’s my family,’ he asserted quietly, hand dropping back down, eyes lowering with it. The silence stretched out then he heard her footsteps walking away.
‘Just leave. Take that CD out of my machine. Pack your stuff and get out.’
He said nothing, staying perfectly still until the bedroom door shut. Do I go over? Knock? Try to apologise? He took another sip. What’s the point? You don’t really want to be here. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at the ghost in the glass. Nice one, mate. You really fucked that up. They stared at one another for a while longer then he fished his phone from his pocket and selected a number. A groggy voice eventually came on the line.
‘What?’
‘Rick,’ Jon whispered. ‘Any chance I can crash on your sofa?’
‘When?’
‘Now?’
‘Now?
‘Yeah.’
‘Carmel?’
‘Finished.’
His partner sighed. ‘Come on. I can let you know why Braithwaite’s been driving over to Fairfield Street as well.’
Twenty-Two
Jon walked down the steps of the renovated warehouse where Rick’s apartment was located. It had rained heavily in the night and the dark asphalt of Whitworth Street glinted in the morning sun. Curls of steam rose from the kerbs and the city felt like it had been given a new lease of life.
‘Just nipping into Olive, they’ll have this morning’s Express,’ Rick announced at his side. ‘The next five letters are in it – numbers nine to thirteen.’
‘You and those letters,’ Jon replied. ‘You’re obsessed.’
‘And proud to admit it,’ Rick called over his shoulder, heading to the delicatessen at the corner of the building. ‘And, of course, you’re not at all interested in hearing what they’ve got to say.’
Jon shrugged. ‘I’m parked at the back.’ He wandered round to the rear of the warehouse. The far side of the little car park was bordered by the Rochdale canal. Follow that far enough, he thought, and you’ll get to Pomona Docks where Dad used to work. He pictured Alan unloading cargo from ships that had travelled to Manchester from around the world.
His mind went back to the conversation he’d had after getting to Rick’s, a box balanced across his forearms, a bag hanging from each shoulder. His colleague had spoken to Alice and raised the subject of Braithwaite. Alice had promptly let rip, accusing Jon of stalking the man. It was Jon’s fault, she’d asserted, that Braithwaite had decided to cool things off.
‘He’s leaving her?’ Jon had asked, trying to damp down his delight.
‘Just taking a step back, by the sound of it. And don’t look so pleased, mate,’ Rick had replied. ‘Alice is furious with you. She said Braithwaite had only been searching for a patient. She’s trying to decide whether to let her solicitor know what happened.’
‘Her solicitor?’ he’d asked. I was hoping she hadn’t actually got herself one. Christ, she really is going to end our marriage. Divorce. That word, he thought, it's like the sound of a bloody funeral bell. ‘What do you mean, a patient?’
‘Some rich kid. The daughter of one of his patients who left home and ended up on the game.’
‘Lyi
ng prick,’ Jon had replied.
As he stepped on to the cobbles, he became aware of a slight grittiness beneath his shoes. He looked at his car: it was covered in a light, reddish, sheen. Frowning, he extended a finger and ran it down the rear windscreen. Powdery sand. He looked at the other cars and realised they all had a similar coating. Footsteps approached.
‘This is going to be good,’ Rick said, paper in one hand. ‘Is it unlocked?’
Jon pointed the key fob and the locks pipped. ‘Seen this sand?’
Rick regarded the vehicle. ‘Oh, yeah. They mentioned that on the radio.’
‘Mentioned what?’
‘It’s from the Sahara. Storms down there launched it up into the atmosphere. Then winds carried the clouds north. It’s to do with all this hot weather we’ve been having.’ He dabbed a finger on the roof and then circled it against his thumb. ‘Like red talcum.’
‘More like a five-quid car wash,’ Jon grunted. ‘I should send the bill to wherever the stuff came from.’ He opened the driver’s door, slung his briefcase onto the back seat and got in.
‘You do that,’ Rick said, climbing in the passenger door. ‘Just address it to “The owner of the Sahara Desert, Africa”. I’m sure he’ll pop a cheque in the post.’
Jon shot him a look as he started the engine.
Rick opened up the paper as the vehicle rumbled backwards across the cobbles. ‘Right, here we go. Letter nine, the one found in Lyme Regis that ends with the crewman seeing a boat.’
‘Shall we skip it?' Jon asked 'We know what it says.’
‘No – I want to go over it again.’ Rick smoothed the page and started to read.
Last night was free of storms. The old lady moaning and her husband talking to himself disturbed us all. In the blackness, the boy saw balls of fire floating above the sea. He believed they were witches. To calm him, I said they were ships, searching for us. I heard Parviz praying.
