Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  'About nine. I needed a couple of things from the corner shop.'

  'Pass anyone on the street you've not seen before?'

  She gave the question a moment's consideration. 'No.'

  'OK, thanks for your time.' He stood up. 'Oh, one last thing. Who was that leaving when I arrived just now?'

  Her face became even more guarded. 'Why?' 'Just squaring off our records.'

  'Liam's dad. He'd just popped round.'

  'He doesn't live here?'

  'Not with Liam up half the night he doesn't.'

  Jon imagined the shrill cries of a baby cutting into his sleep in the early hours of the morning. As if on cue a bawling started upstairs.

  'Shit!' She looked at the mound of unfinished ironing.

  'Right, I'll be out of your hair then,' replied Jon, wanting to get away before she fetched the screaming baby. Once out of the door, he scooted round to his car, retrieved a flask from the boot and went over to the crime scene caravan now parked on the kerb outside Polly's side of the house.

  Jon grimaced. 'I've seen more artistic shots in the Readers' Wives section of a bog mag.'

  'Bog mag?' asked Nikki.

  Jon let out a self-conscious cough. 'Well, that's where they get read a lot: in toilets.'

  'You blokes,' said Nikki, half amused and half disapproving. 'This was at the back of the album.'

  She held up another bag inside which was a page from a contacts magazine. Printed on cheap paper-stock, the page was divided into a load of boxes, the text and photo inside each one slightly blurred. Looking more closely, Jon saw adverts for amateur glamour models, charges ranging from £60 to £120 per private photo session. Turning to Polly's details in his notebook, he checked her mobile number against the ones in the adverts. He quickly found a match.

  'So what do you reckon? Was she in debt? Trying to pay it off by doing this sort of stuff?' asked Nikki.

  'More like saving up, I think,' answered Jon. 'She was planning to bugger off on a backpacking trip round the world for a year. Shall I take them back to the incident room?'

  'So long as you sign for them.' Nikki held out her log book. 'And no stopping off in the bogs en route,' she added, with a quick glance at his crotch.

  He wasn't sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed, but that was what he liked about Nikki: such foul things from such a sweet face.

  Back at the incident room he handed in the evidence bags to the exhibits officer and sat down. 'Anything in yet?' he called over to the office manager.

  The other man walked over, several pieces of paper in his hand. 'Nothing significant from the drains or the dustbins in the immediate area. Her bank records are due any time now and these are her mobile phone records – incoming and outgoing calls. Most caller numbers are registered, with the exception of three pay-as-you-go mobiles. Who they belong to is, as you know, anybody's guess.'

  'Could belong to some very interesting characters,' remarked Jon.

  Just before lunch the forensics lab in Chepstow called with the initial report on Polly's blood sample. 'What's showing up?' said Jon, grabbing a pen and hunching over his desk.

  'It might be easier to approach this from the stance of what isn't,' replied the man at the other end of the line. 'Gas chromatography gave me a graph with enough peaks in it to put the Himalayas to shame. We've got all the usual suspects in there – cannabis, heroin, speed, alcohol and ecstasy.'

  'In what sort of amounts? Enough to render her unconscious?'

  'Could be. It depends on her tolerance. Was she a frequent user?'

  'Seems like she was no stranger to it.'

  'Well, I'd say the levels weren't enough to prove fatal. But I got an interesting blip on the graph, just above the background reading. It doesn't match any profile for the types of drugs we routinely test for, so I'll need to separate the ions in the mass spectrometer if you want to know what it is. The pH reading is acidic, so it could be some type of tricyclic antidepressant or something derived from ecstasy. Whatever it is, your run of the mill narcotic it is not. Want me to go ahead?'

  Jon thought about the budget he had to play around with. Delaying a decision he said, 'How about the sample from her throat?'

  'Haven't had a chance to look yet. It's set in the test tube, though.'

  'How do you mean?'

  'Become firmer, like jelly does in the fridge. 'There was a pause. 'Come to think of it, perhaps her residual body temperature was keeping it gel at the time of collection. Odd stuff, whatever it is.'

  Jon came to a decision. The nude photos had given him a very promising line of enquiry. 'OK, hold off on the mass spectrometer test for the moment, cheers. And please—'

  The man interrupted him. 'Call you as soon as I know anything more. Don't worry.'

  The Outside Enquiry Team began to filter back after four. By half past the briefing area of the incident room was full as the process began of entering completed actions on to HOLMES and trawling over the day's findings. No residents on the street had noticed anyone unusual hanging around and no one had observed anyone leaving number fifteen that morning. The other two members of the band had been interviewed but, because they were both single, neither had any bed-partner to vouch for the fact they didn't return to Polly's flat later that night. The same applied to Phil Wainwright.

  'Right,' Jon announced. 'We've had the toxicology report back. Like we thought, she was pumped full of all sorts, heroin and ecstasy included. The neighbour tells me that she would hold impromptu parties after the nightclubs had shut. She said that she used to see all sorts coming and going. I want to know where she was getting her drugs from. Someone go back to Phil Wainwright and lean on him. He's got priors for possession and he was obviously close to her.'

  Next Jon retrieved the evidence bags from the exhibits room and showed them to the team. 'Any possible significance?' he asked the room in general.

  'Could her ex – this Phil Wainwright – have found out and lost it?' someone asked.

  'Possibly,' nodded Jon. 'Of course, she'll have had some pretty freaky people calling after she placed an ad in one of those magazines. And there are three unregistered numbers from her phone records.' He looked at his watch. 'People will be getting back from work soon. Let's get back over to Berrybridge Road and press on with the door to doors. We'll start working the contacts magazine angle tomorrow.'

  At 8.15 Jon phoned home. 'Hi Al, it's me.'

  'Hello to the SIO. How's it going?'

  Jon sighed. 'Coming along, I think. There's some promising stuff to follow up so I'll be a while longer.'

  He hated being trapped in the office for too many nights on the trot, not least because it forced him into eating grease-laden takeaway food.

  'I've bunged a stew together. It's in the slow cooker. There's enough for a couple of nights...' She left the comment open-ended.

  'That sounds great, but I'll have to save it for tomorrow. The team is phoning out for some pizza.'

  'That's fine,' said Alice. 'It'll keep.'

  With the issue of food sorted, Jon sat back. 'How was your day?' Alice gave a two-note hum. 'OK. Not too busy. Melvyn's “Backs, Cracks and Sacks” is going a storm. Word's out by the looks of it.'

  'I'll try and put that image out of my mind.'

  'Oh yeah, Ellie rang, 'Alice said. 'She wanted to know if we're on for going to Edale this Sunday. We could walk up to Kinder Scout and then head back down to the Nag's Head Inn for a late lunch.'

  Jon remembered that his little sister had just been dumped by her boyfriend. 'How is she?'

  'Putting on a brave face, I think. She's started to make an effort to get out of her flat more often, starting salsa lessons at Havana's in Manchester. I recommended that; you get some really fit men turning up.'

  'Why not bring her down to the rugby club?'

  'What, and have that crowd of grunts you play with crowding round her, pints of bitter drooling down their chins?'

  Jon pictured the club after most matches: a couple of dozen bl
okes milling around on a beer-soaked floor, each one recounting his version of how the match had turned out. He loved it, but not many women seemed to. 'Yeah, you're right. But salsa? Won't it be full of sweaty Latino types?'

  'Exactly,' said Alice. 'In fact, I might go along too.'

  Jon smiled. 'That sounds like a good idea – Edale, I mean.'

  'Good, 'Alice replied. 'I already said we'd go.'

  'I'm briefing the team in at eight thirty tomorrow and not due to see McCloughlin until eleven thirty. We could meet in town just after nine. You're not doing the morning at the salon, are you?'

  Alice sounded surprised. 'No, I'm due in after lunch.'

  'How about it then?'

  'Yeah, sounds lovely. Jon,' she said suddenly, 'have you spoken to Tom yet?'

  'Oh shit, I meant to visit his office today. I totally forgot.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll drive round on my way home. There's a guy there who usually works late at night. He should be able to fill me in.'

  The traffic was almost nonexistent by the time he got away. Ten minutes later he hit the junction with Great Ancoats Street, then cut right into Ardwick. As he drove slowly along Ardwick Crescent the narrow strip of park was in darkness to his left. The glow of the petrol station across the road revealed the forms of two men as they lurked in the shadows beneath the trees. But unless they started mugging someone, he couldn't be bothered.

  Instead he looked to his right, getting a glimpse through the open doors of The Church and seeing it packed with drinkers. Thursday night. In these parts the weekend kicked off tonight and kept going until Monday.

  Getting to number seven he looked across the street, then climbed out of the car, confused. The office door was blocked up with a sheet of heavy-duty chipboard that had already been covered in a mishmash of graffiti. He walked over, eyes on the most legible line of writing.

  There's nothing smart to dying, read the fat felt tip.

  Below it a thinner scrawl replied, Piss off and do it then.

  Looking between the bars in front of the windows, Jon could see a mound of post on the reception floor. He walked to the glass panels screening off the alleyway between the two houses: the pair of rubber plants stood tall and brittle, their leaves yellow and curled to parchment. Glancing up he saw the remains of an estate agent's sign hanging by a couple of nails, most of it torn off.

  As Jon walked slowly back to his car, he thought back to the summer, analysing his last encounters with Tom, probing for any clues in what he'd said and how he'd appeared. There was no doubt he was sick of Manchester when he got back from the Seychelles.

  Chapter 6

  June 2002

  'Hi, Jon Spicer here.'

  'Jon, it's Tom.'

  'Hello mate, nice end to your holiday?'

  'Not really. I spent the whole time bathing my brain in low-level radiation from my mobile phone.'

  Jon held his own mobile a little further from his ear. 'So when did you get in?'

  'Yesterday, just after lunch. Listen, what's the score with my car?'

  His friend's abruptness put Jon on edge. 'It's at a secure compound just outside Stockport. You'll need to sign some forms and they'll release it. You've got some ID on you?'

  'Yeah, and a spare key. Is it driveable?'

  'No,' said Jon, wincing with guilt. 'But various towing companies hang around the place like vultures. Tick the boxes on the forms and it'll get taken back to the Audi garage your company hired it from. Let the insurance company take care of it from there.'

  'OK, what's the address? I'll get a cab over.'

  Jon couldn't help feeling responsible for the situation. 'I'll pick you up. Where are you?'

  'On the train, just getting into Manchester.'

  'All right, I'll be there in ten. Meet outside the Bull's Head?'

  Tom had picked up a slight suntan during his time away, but the strain on his face cancelled out any healthy appearance. He settled into Jon's passenger seat with a preoccupied look.

  'So where were you staying out there?' asked Jon, trying to find something about the holiday that might raise a smile.

  'Some sort of hut on the beach,' said Tom. 'It was meant to have an internet connection, but that was bullshit. I spent most days shut away in the manager's office, hunched over my laptop.' It was obvious the holiday wasn't a good choice of conversation. Seeing how wound up Tom seemed, Jon hoped he wouldn't ask to see the state of his car.

  'So, the wrap that's just gone up on the big building on Great Ancoats Street: one of yours?'

  'Yeah.' He seemed to get a bit of satisfaction from that.

  'You must be creaming in the cash.'

  Tom grinned. 'Should be the mother of all bonuses when it comes through.'

  When they reached the side street leading to the car compound Jon said, 'Right, this place is a bit grim. Let's do the paperwork and get out as fast as possible.'

  Tom regarded the poles at each corner of the yard. At the top of each were CCTV cameras and arc lamps in wire mesh cages. The front gates were made from twelve-foot-high sheets of grey metal. At the top of each was a spiked fence entwined with razor wire.

  'Jesus, it's like Fort Knox.'

  'We use it for storing a lot of vehicles recovered from crime scenes. Joyriders, ramraiders, that sort of thing. Obviously we don't want the bad guys getting in to destroy any evidence they might have left behind.'

  They walked up a concrete ramp and into a featureless waiting room with a security hatch in the opposite wall. On the counter was a buzzer with a sign taped in front of it: Ring ONCE and wait.

  Jon pressed the button as Tom looked round the room. Car crime prevention posters and insurance notices provided the only reading. A bald man eventually peered through the small window.

  'Hello there, Ernie. I've got the owner of the Audi TT from a few nights ago. Can we get the release forms signed?'

  He vanished and reappeared a few moments later. A few sheets of paper were slid underneath the protective glass.

  Jon picked them up and turned straight to the last page. 'Here, here and here.'

  Tom got a pen from his pocket. 'Can I have a look at it?'

  Jon's heart sank. 'The Audi? I should think so. Ernie, can we have a quick look?'

  'Sure. 'The man shrugged, buzzing them through the inner door. He led them into the courtyard, blue boiler suit rasping with each step. Dotted around the place was a sad collection of wrecks, some burnt out, some with signs slapped on the windscreens that read, 'Please do not touch. Police aware of this vehicle.'

  'In the corner.' Ernie pointed matter of factly and walked away.

  As they made their way over Jon began to provide a nervous explanation. 'As I said, the little bastard was going too fast. He went full into a gatepost, then jumped out and legged it... I'm sorry.'

  Tom crossed his arms and looked at the car's stoved-in front end. 'Well, I see what you mean about not driving it.' He stepped closer. 'What's all the sooty stuff around the doors?'

  'Ninhydrin powder – for fingerprinting. We've lifted plenty from inside. Same as the prints on quite a few people's letterboxes. When we get this little shit in court he's going to cop some grief.'

  Tom was leaning forwards and looking through the passenger window. 'Hey, I can see my Café del Mar CDs in the glove compartment.'

  As he reached for the door handle, Jon grabbed his wrist. 'Wait a second. I don't know if the guys have checked underneath.'

  'Checked for what?'

  'Razor blades. Some joyriders glue them there for a joke. I don't think this guy has because he's probably selling the cars on. But better safe than sorry.' He ran a key under the metal flap, then eased the door open. 'Also needles. They jab them into the seats from underneath. So when you sit down...' He poked a forefinger at the back of his leg.

  Tom was looking shocked. 'Seriously?'

  'Yup. I said, these people are from a different world. Sometimes I think it would be easier just to herd them up and fire them into outer space
.' Carefully he reached in and took Tom's CDs out. 'Anything else?'

  Tom looked in. 'No. That's it.'

  Jon pushed the door shut with his foot. 'Hopefully your insurance company won't take long getting you a replacement.'

  Tom shook his head. 'It's sorted already. My boss left and I got his Porsche Boxter as part of the promotion.'

  'What, you're the MD now?'

  Tom nodded.

  'Congratulations, mate. How does it feel to be in charge?' Tom shook hands unenthusiastically. 'Like a ton of shit is on my shoulders.'

  As the waiting room door banged shut behind them Jon said, 'I'll drive you back to the office.'

  'Are you sure? Don't you have a load of work on yourself?'

  Jon shrugged. 'Nothing urgent.' He unlocked the car and they got in. 'Besides, it's the least I can do.'

  The anger in Tom's voice caught him by surprise. 'For fuck's sake Jon, will you stop being so apologetic about all this? You've been hovering around, fretting like an old woman. It wasn't your fault and it wasn't even my car.'

  'The person who nicked your car got away from me. It pisses me off.'

  Tom sighed as he pulled the seat belt across his chest. 'You can't approach your job like you approach rugby matches, making it your mission to hunt down and take out the playmaker in the opposite team.'

  Jon was silent as they headed back towards Manchester, his grip tight on the steering wheel. Finally he spoke. 'Cheers for reducing my rugby skills down to those of a hatchet man.'

  'Well, like it or not, that was your primary role at Stockport. And you were the best at it by a long way. But this isn't the same. There are no touchlines to confine this gang. Unless you count the whole of Manchester as your playing area.'

  'I do,' answered Jon. 'And there's no full-time whistle either.'

  Tom laughed. 'God, I'm glad you work for the police. Just remember though, this gang are breaking the law by nicking cars. They're not trying to get at you personally.'

  Jon's grip on the steering wheel hadn't relaxed. 'When you spend so long after them, only to be flailing at shadows half the time, it gets pretty fucking annoying.' He started bringing his fingertips down on the steering wheel, making a sound like a horse galloping. 'Work. What a pain in the arse it can be.'