Loose Tongues

by Chris Simms

Being the principal might have meant a constant struggle – with students, with staff and with bureaucracy – but at least she got a decent parking space. Less than ten feet from the glass canopy of the walkway that led to the college’s main entrance.

  She reflected on her days as a newly qualified Sociology teacher. Trekking in from the outer reaches of the car park, trying to protect whatever she was carrying from the wind and rain. Yes, it was nice to think those days were gone. Especially considering the amount of stuff she had to ferry about nowadays.

  She examined the assorted objects spread across the back seat. When she carried this lot in, no one could possibly suspect she’d spent the previous day catching up with her sister.

  She wondered if all older siblings acted as Amanda did. The passive plays of power. Subtle assertions of a hierarchy established in childhood. She smiled, amused by how Amanda had tried to belittle where she lived. The alarm she’d feigned at the risks of living out in the country. Alone. Katherine knew it was all just a way to press home the fact Amanda lived in a hideously expensive house right in the middle of Wilmslow. With her very successful husband.

  And the business with that strange delivery. Yes, it was … disturbing. It would certainly be interesting to hear what the police made of it. Perhaps they’d be aware of burglaries where a bogus delivery driver first called at the house.

  She opened the driver’s door, but had to place a hand on the seat to lever herself out. Her knees didn’t like it and she told herself, yet again, that she really needed to lose a little weight. A brisk stroll to the police station at lunchtime would be good. Fresh air, too. She opened the rear door and a snapshot image appeared in her head. The suspicious package, each piece of scrunched-up newspaper back in, flaps folded down, neatly packed away in a plastic shopping bag on the floor by the back door.

  She’d left the bloody thing at home.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The van drew to a stop at the end of her street. Yesterday’s preparation had worked perfectly. He’d stood for less than half an hour outside Belle Vue station before a train arrived from the direction of Ryder Brow. He spotted her dyed yellow hair through the railings as she stepped down from the carriage, the toddler and buggy both gone.

  She bowled along like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, which – he supposed – it had. Halfway along the platform, she paused to light a cigarette, even though signs clearly stated it was a no-smoking area.

  She didn’t care. Only one thing mattered to her at that moment: herself. When she emerged onto the street, he was twenty metres away, loitering by a parked car, waiting to see which way she turned. Left or right. Come on, he thought. We haven’t got all day.

  The phone was in her hand and she made a call before starting to walk. That was good. Jabbering on the thing only made her less aware of what was around her. She’d never notice someone following her.

  Her voice carried back to him as she strode happily along.

  ‘Sorry about earlier: I was well stressed. I love the little man, ’course I do. But, you know, he can be a pain in the arse. No, fuck knows where the money went. A fiver. Let me off when I acted like the tears were coming. Anyway, how long since us two went out? Jesus, it must be. Too right, loads of lost time.’Course there are. Castlefield Locks is always busy. Yeah, yeah. Easily. Before then. Yeah, eight o’clock. Nearly home already.’

  The cigarette was tossed to the side. It was still burning brightly when he reached it. With only a slight shortening of his stride, he was able to bring his foot down on it. A quick twist of his ankle as his foot left the pavement. He glanced back. There it was, crushed and lifeless. He fixed his stare on the cheap shade of her hair.

  She opened her eyes but before her vision could focus, a slow pounding filled her head. Drumbeat ominous. Her eyes reclosed. When had she got in? No idea. Not a clue. They’d been in Sahara, then Piccolo’s. Danielle caught a bloke’s interest, as per. Drinks off him, easy. They left when he went to the toilet. She remembered tottering along Deansgate, their arms interlinked. Laughing.

  She got them in at the Sky Bar! That was Danielle: outrageous. Up in the lift, giggling like mad. Looking down at the city, she’d said they could have been in LA. So many twinkling lights, some moving, some fixed, distant ones seeming to shimmer.

  He lifted the package and checked the label. Leanne Kessler, 17 Crossfield Court, Taylor Road. He didn’t know why he felt so calm. It was like a higher force was in control, shepherding him along a predetermined course.

  Calling on Katherine Harpham had been wrong. That had been him – arrogant and presumptuous – trying to exert control. He now realized how mistaken he had been: the ones who would die had been chosen for him. He had no influence in what happened. Calling on Katherine Harpham hadn’t just been foolish: it had been futile. Like a hot-air balloonist thinking it possible to navigate a stormy sky. All he could do was ride the currents and be ready for when another was presented to him.

  Now he understood that, surely he could be forgiven his error? It made no sense if Katherine was allowed to ruin everything. Perhaps the whole thing had been merely intended as a warning. A way of making him realize how things should be done. That was it! The incident had been a test. Now was his chance to demonstrate he had learned. And he would keep learning. Keep getting better for as long as he possibly could. The van door thudded shut. Baseball cap pulled low, he set off for her house.

  But the Sky Bar hadn’t been buzzing. They’d plonked themselves down on high stools at the bar. Quick look about as they waited for their wines. Monday night and just a few business types sipping drinks. She’d wanted to move on, but Danielle shook her head. These were the best types. These were the types where you could really cash in. Men away from home, with expense accounts. She’d turned to face her, shifted forward on her seat so their legs were touching. ‘Remember our old trick? Flies around shit?’

  ‘No! In here? No.’ But Leanne hadn’t been able to keep the smile off her face.

  ‘Trust me, Leanne. It will so work. Come on! Us two, again. Are you up for it?’

  She looked down at their knees. An interlocking expanse of denim. ‘We’re not even wearing dresses.’

  Danielle was already leaning in. Provocatively, she slid the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, leaving it shiny. ‘Pucker up, babe, I’m coming in.’

  Leanne swallowed. They were really doing this. They were really bloody doing this. Holy shit. And then Danielle’s lips brushed hers. Her tongue started to probe. Gentle. Sensuous. Just like lesbians were meant to be.

  Leanne had one eye on the mirrors that lined the shelves behind the bar. Reflections of men’s faces were turning in their direction. Three, four. Now five. The barman did a double take then quickly looked away.

  ‘Any of them biting yet?’ Danielle murmured.

  Leanne place a hand delicately on Danielle’s upper thigh. ‘Oh yes.’

  The scrape of a front gate. A postal worker appeared on the pavement, directly ahead. Mailbag’s shoulder straps digging into the fleecy surface of her red gilet. Head bowed, she was busy making a fan of the letters in her hands.

  There was time to dart across the road. They didn’t need to pass. But he carried on. Why shouldn’t he? The woman was, in a loose sort of way, a colleague. Less than ten feet apart, she looked up, but only long enough to ensure they weren’t on a collision course.

  ‘Morning,’ he announced cheerfully.

  She didn’t reply.

  He felt a pang of irritation. Had she slighted him? Did she regard herself as superior, somehow? Her, part of the respected Royal Mail. Him, a mere delivery man for God-knew-who. Was that how she saw things? He almost stopped and called after her. Fucking bitch.

  Then he remembered why he was there. What his purpose was. He walked on.

  The line of properties beside him changed from a decrepit terrace to modern-looking flats. It screamed social housing. With that kid, she would have gone straight to the top of the waiting l
ist. He knew how it worked: he’d had to try and teach enough of the little tarts. Disinterested, haughty little cows. Once they realized the course took some effort – that life itself took some effort – they spread their legs and got themselves pregnant.

  He reached a side path and cut down it, not slowing. Number seventeen was on the left. To one side of her door was a brick bay that contained a row of wheelie bins. To the other was the side wall of the adjoining flat’s kitchen. Only one window: long, thin and set high. Unless the occupant was in the room and standing on a chair, he couldn’t be seen.

  Everything was going so smoothly. Like clockwork.

  Two flutes of champagne had been placed on the bar before them. They’d acted surprised. Taken aback.

  ‘From who?’ Danielle asked.

  The barman had tipped his head. Looking behind them, they saw a giant of a man. He lifted a paw-like hand. Charcoal grey suit and dark purple tie. Thick curls of black hair. He was, Leanne thought, bloody gorgeous.

  His hand turned palm up. A speculative wave to the empty seats beside him.

  As she slipped off her stool, Danielle spoke through her smile. ‘We’re in.’

  Leanne half-opened her eyes. The skull-thudding pain wasn’t going away. She tried to dredge up what had happened after they’d joined him. The rest of the champagne was in a silver bucket beside him: that lasted about two minutes.

  Her mind lurched with a new memory. Dancing on a circular window set into the floor. Toy people walking the thin band of pavement far, far below.

  ‘Jeez, I better get myself together.’

  Her eyes snapped fully open. The voice had come from behind her. That accent. His accent. Canadian, not American. What the fuck?

  He rang the bell and transferred the console back to his right hand. An answer, he guessed, would be some time coming, judging by what she’d been saying on the phone. Nothing to worry about until the school pick-up is what she’d said.

  He rang again, keeping his finger pressed down for much longer. You need to get yourself out of that bed. I have something for you.

  ‘Can I bring you a glass of water? I have some ibuprofen somewhere.’

  Leanne lifted her head from the pillow.

  She tried to focus, not sure if she was seeing right. Before her was a massive cloud-filled sky. Below that, tweed-coloured hills, then the crowded roofs of Manchester. There was no wall, just a huge sheet of glass. The bottom of it connected with plush carpet.

  Looking over her shoulder made her wince. He was sitting up in a huge bed. Thick hair covered the twin slabs of muscle that formed his chest. ‘Where’s Danielle?’

  ‘Your friend?’ He rolled his eyes. Bloodshot whites. ‘She did the sensible thing: bailed just after midnight. You had your heart set on ordering some brandy.’

  Christ, she thought. That explains this bastard of a headache.

  ‘Listen,’ he continued. ‘Stay as long as you want, but I really need to hit the shower …’

  ‘Cheers,’ Leanne said, head falling back against the pillow. She couldn’t face going home. Not yet.

  He didn’t dare ring for a fourth time. If any neighbour had noticed him, they’d be wondering why he hadn’t posted a note through her door. Worse, they might come out and offer to take the package on her behalf. He took a reluctant step back. How dare she not come to the door? He wanted to swing a foot, kick the thing off its hinges, barge into her room and shake her by the throat. And when her mouth opened for air, he’d jam the stylus into her mouth and start shocking her. Keep her flipping about for a while, like a fish on the end of a line. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched back towards the main road.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Sean looked through the front window of the shoe shop where Pamela Flood had worked. Poorly lit, with crowded racks and tired carpets. Definitely a bottom-of-the-price-range sort of place. Three staff were gathered by the till chatting, while a few pensioners browsed.

  He knew the employees who’d been in on Pamela’s last day had all been questioned. None had noticed anything unusual. Pamela had said her goodbyes and left work at five forty-one.

  Sean traced a finger down the timeline. She’d popped into the Spar, which was a couple of shops further along, at a quarter to six, where she’d purchased a tin of oxtail soup and a packet of white pitta breads. That was tea sorted. The shop’s CCTV had been looked over; footage of Pamela paying for the items had been copied. The staff member who’d been behind the till didn’t recall Pamela speaking to anyone else.

  There was only one place that he hadn’t received a reply from. A travel agent’s called Crystal Tours. He could see the sign a little further up the road, almost next to the bus stop. As he got closer, he could also make out the camera mounted above its entrance. Window posters of sun-drenched locations obscured the view inside. A notice on the door said to press the buzzer for entry.

  The door clicked and he stepped into a room that, apart from a few shelves of brochures, was completely bare of decor. Built into the corner was a glass booth. Foreign currency exchange, Sean thought. Hence the door lock.

  For a brief moment, he wondered if the premises were a front for something else. It didn’t seem quite right, that was for sure. A man was in the booth, patiently waiting. He was completely bald, apart from an impressively bushy, jet black moustache.

  Sean produced his badge and laid it on the counter. ‘Morning. How are you today?’

  His eyes were the colour of horse chestnuts, lashes surprisingly long. ‘I’m very well. And you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. You have CCTV coverage of the pavement outside.’

  ‘And also in here.’ The man directed a thumb over his shoulder. A small camera was attached to the ceiling.

  ‘Could I ask if you have the recordings for the Saturday before last?’

  ‘Ten days back? Sorry. One week only.’

  Sean suspected as much: the places he’d got through to on the phone had been the same. Too much time had elapsed since Pamela’s death. ‘OK, thanks anyway.’

  As he continued towards where she caught the bus, Sean had to step aside as a group of teenagers swept by. All had book bags slung over their shoulders, but none was wearing a uniform. More voices. Another two walked past, laughing about something on the screen of one of their phones. Then the tinny hiss of music. A single lad this time, ears clamped by wireless headphones.

  Where were they all going?

  He looked at the large building that now flanked the road. The downstairs windows let him see into what appeared to be science labs. A class was going on, a single teacher at the front. Sole performer to a disinterested crowd. Sean could see CCTV cameras mounted on the building’s exterior. Must be the Lightwater Academy. It was much bigger than he’d expected. The sheet showed its CCTV footage had all been recovered.

  Sean approached the bus stop. Alongside it was the main entrance into the college. A large sign dominated the turning in. Principal: Katherine Harpham.

  A ticket recovered from Pamela Flood’s purse showed she had caught the seven five-seven towards her home in Gorton.

  As he retraced his steps back to his car, he thought about the call she’d received from Cahill at one minute to six. Sean had studied the transcript as, no doubt, half the investigating team had. The gist of it had been that Cahill wasn’t supposed to be calling her number and no, she wasn’t interested in taking him back and, no, she certainly wasn’t interested in making any money: it was too much hassle and only a matter of time before the insurance company sniffed something was up. The exchange had steadily got more heated. Cahill had tried to say she owed it to him. She’d responded along the lines of not owing him a thing: he’d lived rent-free in her flat for months.

  Sean slowly drove the route the bus had taken. When he saw a fried chicken place called Dixie’s, he pulled over to consult the sheet again. CCTV from the shop had showed Pamela walking past it at six minutes past six.

  Her phone had still been held to her face. Sean
knew the call with Cahill was connected for another few minutes. In that time, Cahill’s level of aggression had quickly escalated. The threats to slice her throat open had followed. Pamela had finally had enough; after telling the bloke to piss off, the call had cut.

  Sean pulled out and drove to the turn off for Hurst Walk, where Pamela lived. He parked in the first space he could find and walked the last hundred metres to her house. She’d probably ended the call right here, while taking her key out. Getting a good look at her front door was tricky: ugly panels of plastic fencing formed a screen from the road. Sean paused at the narrow gate. Her door was still sealed over with police tape.

  He glanced to his left and right. Similar houses stretched away in either direction. The killer would have stood on this very spot. Why, Sean asked himself, did he go for this particular house? What had Pamela Flood done to become his first victim?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Assistant Chief Constable Tony Shipton drummed the fingers of his right hand up and down. DCI Ransford and Tina Small looked on in nervous silence, waiting for his verdict.

  Finally, he sat back and regarded them both. ‘I agree,’ he sighed. ‘We have no other option.’

  It was Tina Small’s idea to call another press conference. Not only was the deadline for charging Cahill rapidly approaching, she’d got wind of the fact the Manchester Evening Chronicle knew about Julie Roe’s death. Now, it was a case of acting first. Damage limitation.

  As a result, DCI Ransford would confirm to reporters that another victim had been found. The total was now five. Cahill would be charged with a variety of offences, including threatening to kill Pamela and breaking the conditions of a restraining order that banned him from going within a kilometre of her house and workplace and from contacting her in any way, electronically or otherwise.

  However, for the time being, the charges against him would not include the murders of Pamela Flood, Francesca Pinto, Victoria Walker, Heather Knight or Julie Roe.