by Chris Simms
En route he explained to them that, because of a mix-up, he hadn't received a permit to distribute goods. If any officials approached them, he said, be prepared to pack up fast.
By 2.50 p. m. he had wheeled the cart on to the end of the concourse leading up to Piccadilly station. Two of the students – now wearing the ice-blue tracksuits with bags full of gum packets over their shoulders – positioned themselves on the pavement. The girl manned the cart to supervise the filling-in of the competition entry forms. Tom watched as clusters of shoppers approached from the city centre, hauling their purchases towards the trains, heading back to houses already crowded with junk.
He watched them ambling closer, many idly chewing gum, arms pulled straight by the weight of the bags hanging from their hands. Boots, River Island, Next, Sainsbury's, JJB Sports, Primark, HMV, Tesco.
The Masters' voices pointed out how similar they were to cows, chewing the cud and plodding back to their sheds, shopping bags swaying like swollen udders. And looking at them Tom realized the voices were right: they were nothing more than beasts.
'Hello there,' he said brightly as two women approached the cart. 'I see you like gum. Care for a free promotional pack?'
'Citrus flavour? Sounds interesting,' one said, plucking the gum from her mouth and dropping it on the pavement.
Tom's stomach turned over. Swallowing hard, he said, 'How about the chance for a luxury holiday to Malaysia? Just fill out this form – it only takes two seconds.'
Tom knelt in front of the coffee table in his front room as if he was at an altar. After selecting the Swiss army knife's most slender blade, he lifted the first pack of X-treme chewing gum. He stood it upright and pushed the thin point of the blade under the triangular shaped flap of foil at its end. By wiggling the blade from side to side, he got its point underneath, then prised the flap upwards with a tiny crackling sound. The smell of lemons entered his nostrils. He turned the pack around and prised the other triangle of foil up as well. Now he was able to fold open the end wrapping, pushing it back with the blade until the ends of the seven sticks inside were exposed to view. Pushing the sealed end of the packet with his thumb, he eased the sticks upwards until the top of one stood clear. Grasping it with the penknife's tweezer attachment, he dragged the stick out of the pack and laid it on the table.
Good, the voices coaxed, good.
Gently he slid the foil-coated stick clear of the paper jacket it was encased in. Next he turned the fold of foil at each end of the stick backwards and used the blade of the knife to ease apart the serrated edge of the wrapper, revealing the stick of gum itself. Picking it up with the tweezers, he dusted each side of it with the special powder then relaid it in its foil wrapping. After that he followed the process in reverse – refolding the foil wrapping, sliding it back into the paper jacket, easing it into the pack alongside the other six sticks. Once they were all pushed properly back into the foil outer packaging, he folded the triangular flaps back down and sealed them with a spot of glue.
Turning it over in his hands, he noted with satisfaction that there was no way anyone could tell that the pack had been tampered with.
Pausing at the end of Berrybridge Road, Tom placed the briefcase at his feet, took the bag of powder from his pocket and allowed himself a pinch. As he continued along the street, he looked at the dozens of other commuters walking with bowed heads for work that morning. He smoothed the arm of his suit, glad he looked exactly the same.
He turned up the driveway of number fifteen, stopped at the front door and knocked twice. A few moments later, the door was opened by a young woman with spiky blonde hair, wearing a dressing gown. She looked at him and placed her hand back on the door in readiness to close it again. 'I'm sorry, I'm not interested in whatever you're selling.'
Tom held up the competition entry form she had completed several weeks before. 'Miss Polly Mather?'
She peered at the piece of paper, recognizing her handwriting and signature, still unsure of what she'd filled in.
'You recently entered our prize draw for a year's supply of Xtreme chewing gum and a luxury holiday for two in Malaysia.'
Her eyes widened as the memory came back. 'Don't tell me I've won.'
Tom gave her his widest smile. 'You most certainly have.'
'Oh my God, I'm going to Malaysia? I always thought no one actually won those things. I can't believe this!'
'Well, we're legally obliged to check you have a valid passport before the prize can be officially awarded... '
She stepped aside and waved him inside the house.
'I don't want to stop you from going anywhere.'
'No, that's fine, I have Wednesdays off.' She clapped her hands in excitement. 'I can't believe this,' she repeated, directing him into the front room, one hand fluttering at her throat.
'OK,' said Tom, sitting down and placing the briefcase on the floor to the side of the armchair.
Polly sat down on the sofa, elbows on her knees, leaning forwards expectantly. Without saying anything, Tom removed a pack of Xtreme gum from his jacket, grasped the little tab on its side and opened it up. He slid out the uppermost stick of the seven inside the pack and said to her with an official note in his voice, 'On behalf of X-treme Incorporated, may I offer our congratulations?'
Leaning forward on the sofa, she gratefully accepted the stick of gum, unwrapped it and then folded it into her mouth. 'Thanks,' she said breathlessly, looking expectantly at her visitor and eagerly chewing.
'My pleasure, 'Tom replied. They continued looking at each other for a moment longer. 'Now, if you could just get...'
'Oh God, yes, sorry! It's upstairs. 'She jumped to her feet. 'I'm all excited. Sorry.'
He smiled. 'No problem.'
She almost skipped across the room, then ran up the stairs. While she was gone Tom stood up, walked over to her living room window and checked the street outside. By the time she returned he was sitting down once again.
'Here,' she said, handing him her passport.
'Great,' he replied. Although her neck was beginning to show up slight patches of red, Tom knew he needed more time before the drug took full control. As he reached for his pen he paused, then looked up with a slightly embarrassed expression. Coughing as if his throat was dry, he said, 'Do you mind if I have a cup of tea before we get started?'
'Oh!' She jumped up again, pale pink dressing gown falling slightly open to reveal a flash of upper thigh. 'I'm so rude. Sorry. Milk? Sugar?'
'Milk and two sugars, thanks.'
Flustered, she paced quickly down the short corridor to the kitchen. He listened to the sound of her bare feet slapping against the lino then heard crockery being shifted around in a sink. A tap was turned on followed by the sound of a kettle heating up.
He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. The voices whispered reassuring encouragement. He felt so proud – for himself and Polly. Of course she didn't know it, but her life had been given a far higher purpose. She was helping to usher in the Golden Age. It was a sacrifice anyone should be glad to make.
When she walked back into the room a few minutes later a red flush covered her throat and cheeks.
'Here you go.' She placed a mug decorated with a cartoon style snail on the coffee table before him.
Tom could see she was now chewing furiously on the gum. She went to sit down again but, on impulse, veered towards the hi-fi system in the corner and turned up the music.
'God, I feel like I could dance,' she said urgently, blowing her breath out and running her fingers through her hair. 'Is it hot in here? Are you hot?' He could hear a mixture of euphoria and confusion in her voice.
Tom looked around the room as if heat was a visible thing. 'No,' he replied with a little shake of his head.
'I feel hot,' she said, placing her mug on the table. She started waving one hand a little too energetically at her cheek and pulling distractedly at the neck of her dressing gown. Tom kept his head lowered, pretending to search for a pen in his jacket poc
ket.
She went to sit down, stumbling against the leg of the coffee table. 'Whoops!' she said with a strange giggle, though panic was beginning to show in her eyes. 'I... I'm dizzy.'
Now visibly distressed, she attempted a half turn to sit down, but her coordination was going and she missed the sofa, crashing onto the carpet. As she lay on her back, her eyes rolled up into her head and then closed completely.
Tom lifted up the briefcase and placed it on the coffee table. He dialled the combination for the lock and opened it up. From inside he took out the large stainless steel pincers and a plastic bag. He opened the bag up on the floor in case he was sick, then pulled Polly's lower jaw down. There at the back of her mouth was the lump of chewing gum. Seeing the little bubbles of saliva clinging to it, Tom experienced his first retch.
Carefully, he inserted the pincers into her mouth and picked the lump out. Keeping his head turned away, he dropped it into the bag, twisted the neck and knotted it. As he replaced the pincers, the voices began to speak. Put her in position so she can welcome in the Golden Age.
Dutifully, Tom stretched her arms out at her sides, then tilted her head back to ensure her airways were fully open.
Turning round, he then lifted the silicon gun out of his briefcase. Seeing the workmen applying the white gel round the edges of his bath those months before had made him retreat back down the corridor in disgust. The stuff had dried into something rubbery, and though it hadn't actually been in anyone's mouth, its presence in the corner of the bathroom was a continual source of discomfort to him.
Now he lifted the gun up, the tube of silicon gel mounted in the heavy metal frame. The thought of the tube's contents sent waves of nausea through him but, knowing how important his actions were, he inserted the tapered end of the tube deep into her open mouth. Grasping the solid metal plunger piece in one hand, he then pushed half a pint of thick white gel down the back of her throat.
Even though she was heavily sedated, her chest heaved and the tendons at the side of her throat flexed as she started to choke. But he pressed the plunger harder, sending a snake of it coiling into her windpipe where it quickly formed an immovable plug.
Her torso jerked and rocked as her lungs fought to drag in air. But the substance was too stubborn to be shifted and after a few more seconds her movements slowed and then stopped.
Tom got up and dropped the gun back into his briefcase. He looked around him and picked her passport off the table. After locking up his briefcase he carried their cups through to the kitchen and tipped the tea down the sink. Once he had sluiced them out with water, he placed them on the draining board and walked out of the flat.
Chapter 26
5 November 2002
The incident room was silent as everyone waited for the two search teams to report back. Jon sat at his desk, furious that McCloughlin had excluded him from both.
The leader of the team sent to the house of Sly's grandma phoned at ten past eleven. The call was quickly patched through to McCloughlin and people tried not to watch as he listened to the message.
'Fuck!' The phone was slammed down and McCloughlin stepped out of his office. 'They've been through the whole house. Nothing that links him to any of the victims.'
'How about the attic? Did they search the roof cavity?' someone asked.
'Of course they fucking searched the roof cavity! They ripped her whole house apart!' His door slammed shut.
Half an hour later the team sent to the house of Sly's mum called. Again McCloughlin's face darkened with every second he was on the phone. This time he carefully replaced the handset and opened his office door with a bowed head. 'Nothing again.' He looked up and searched out Jon with an accusatory stare. 'Not a fucking scrap.'
In the silence a phone started to ring. Eventually someone picked it up. 'Yes. When?'
Something in the officer's voice set off an alarm in Jon's head. He glanced across as the officer cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to McCloughlin, 'Boss? Another body's turned up. Emily Sanderson. Looks like she's been dead for more than a day.'
Tom paced around his front room. The wall above the fireplace was covered with seven rows of seven competition entry forms. He stepped closer to the uppermost row. The entry forms of Polly Mather, Heather Rayne and Mary Walters all had red lines drawn through them. The fourth – Liz Wilson – didn't. He would have to go back to claim her when the old man wasn't there. The next two forms – those of Gabrielle Harnett and Emily Sanderson – were both scored through. Emily's name had been crossed out only yesterday. Tom reached up and removed the seventh form from the wall.
Now was time to call, the voices whispered. Now was the time for her sacrifice.
Two minutes after receiving the call, McCloughlin and three other senior officers set off for the crime scene.
As soon as their cars left the station's car park, the smokers in the incident room poured down the stairs, heading for the rear of the building. In the murmur of voices, Jon heard someone say, 'If she was killed yesterday, Sly couldn't have done it.'
Jon watched them go, resisting the urge to follow. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth. Balling up the wrapper, he trotted down the stairs and asked the custody officer to let him into Sly's cell.
'No need.' He nodded to a side room with an officer standing outside. 'He's in there with his solicitor.'
Jon knocked on the door and stepped into the room. 'Can I have a word?'
Sly just stared back, but his solicitor nodded.
'We've found another body, same circumstances as all the others.' He paused to let the information sink in, then took his gamble. 'Now this isn't the viewpoint of my senior officers but, as far as I'm concerned, this puts you clear of the murders.'
'Too fucking right.' Sly sat forward and jabbed a finger at Jon. 'I said you're not fitting me up.'
The solicitor held up a hand. 'So what exactly will you be charging my client with?'
Jon looked at him. 'He's still up to his neck in other shit, but that's open to negotiation. I believe he's somehow linked to the murders. So he can help us now and save himself a load of hassle.' He looked Sly directly in the eyes. 'Where did you get that chewing gum from?'
Sly looked at his solicitor, who nodded at him. 'Some bloke's garage over in Didsbury.'
'Address?'
'I don't know. I could drive to it, but I don't know what the name of the road is.'
'So if I took you in a car, you could point it out?'
Sly nodded.
Jon left the room and went over to the custody officer's desk. As he phoned the top floor, he placed a pair of handcuffs in his pocket. 'Can you put me through to Sergeant Darcourt? It's Jon Spicer. I'm down in the cells.'
The phone clicked. 'Jon, what's up?'
'Nobby, I need a hand driving a suspect over to a property in Didsbury. Are you up for it?'
'If it gets me out of this miserable room, yes.'
George watched as Tom, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase, left the house and walked off down the road. Where was he going each day? As he reached the end of the street and disappeared round the corner, the door of a car parked further along opened and Charlotte got out. George's breath caught in his throat as she hurried up the driveway.
She had unlocked the front door and almost closed it behind her when he began to knock. Looking terrified, she peeped through the crack. Seeing him, her features relaxed slightly. 'Not today, thanks.'
'Charlotte Benwell?' he asked almost apologetically.
'Yes.'
'Could I come in, please? I really need to discuss something with you.'
'Who are you?'
'My name is Austen Rogers,' George replied. 'I work for Xtreme chewing gum. We're a client of It's A Wrap.'
'You just missed my husband. He's gone out.'
'I need to speak with you.'
'I'm sorry, but now really isn't a good time. I've only popped in to get a few things—'
Interrupting her, George said,
'I've been trying to get hold of you. I believe your husband is defrauding our company.'
'You mean all that chewing gum? It's in the garage. Take it.' 'No, no,' George answered, hiding his surprise. 'There's more to it than that. I think he's preparing to defraud you, too.' George looked down. 'It's to do with your separation.'
'Defraud me? How? You mean over the house, don't you?'
'This is really very awkward. Could I at least explain inside?'
Nervously, Charlotte glanced down the street. 'It's got to be quick, all right?' She opened the door and turned round. 'We can talk in the kitchen.'
She stepped past the living room without looking in. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him the blood surged in George's head and he found himself lunging at her, mouth open in an ugly, silent grimace.
His thick arms began to close around her head and she ducked instinctively. Twisting free of his grip, she ran into the kitchen and raced around the other side of the table, heading for the rack of knives in the corner.
The worktop was bare. No kettle, no toaster, nothing. She whirled around; only the kitchen table was between them. A glistening sheen was breaking out over his face and he was breathing hard. Placing something on the table, he whispered, 'Now be a good girl and take one of these.'
As soon as her eyes flicked down to the strip of pills he hurled the table aside with a roar. She screamed with terror, dodged around him and sprinted for the front door.
He was right behind her, too close for her to get it open. At the last instant she jumped to the side and ran in to the dining room. His body slammed against the door and he steadied himself, knowing she was trapped.
He could hear her sobbing, then a drawer being pulled out and clattering to the floor. He stepped through the door, saw her crouching down, scrabbling for something among the napkins strewn on the floor. She started raising her arms up, a gun gripped in both hands.
As he landed on top of her, the pistol went off with a muffled crack.
Sly and the solicitor sat in the back seat of the unmarked police car. Jon drove onto the long, straight Kingsway Road and they followed it for a mile or so before turning right towards Didsbury. When they reached the junction with Wilmslow Road, Sly got his bearings.' You need to turn right here,' he said.
