by Chris Simms
Jon raised his eyes to the dark sky. Why didn’t I do more to try and find you? How was I too busy to look out for my little brother? And where did you end up as a result? In three fucking bin bags. ‘I’m sorry. God, I am so sorry.’
Suzy’s head was down as he stepped up to the doors. They parted and she looked up, eyes widening just a fraction as he stepped through with the bottle in his hand. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi there.’ He felt light-headed and realised his face was probably flushed. ‘You know the restaurant place next door – they do room service, don’t they?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘If you order right now.’
‘Great.’ He pretended to think. ‘The curry will do fine.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’ll be about ten minutes.’
He went to his room, opened it up and grabbed the glass off the shelf above the bathroom sink. The seal on the Famous Grouse crackled as he sharply twisted the cap. Whisky sloshed into his glass. A mouthful, straight down. His throat burned, swiftly followed by his stomach. The thoughts were multiplying, quickly growing in strength. He dipped his head and rubbed the top of it with the heel of one hand. Ah shit, Dave. Why? Why did you have to come out to this place and get yourself fucking killed? Another gulp of whisky and the spotlight of his anger began to swing round. And what did you do, he asked himself. What did you do to help your little brother? Sod all, except berate him for being a loser. He screwed his eyes shut, remembering his heavy-handed tactics. Idiot, stupid bloody idiot.
Another glass was almost gone when the knock sounded at his door. ‘Room service.’
He opened up and kept a hand on the door frame for balance. A lanky teenager stood there, tray held out before him. ‘You ordered a curry?’
‘Thanks.’ Jon pulled out a ten pound note and they did an awkward swap. Waving the offer of change away, he shut the door with his foot, sat at the little corner table and hunched over the plate. Breathing in the pungent aroma, he shut his eyes and pretended to be his brother. Lifting the naan, he ripped off a chunk and tested its sponginess, imagining Dave doing the same. He placed it in his mouth, chewed as Dave would have chewed. You ate this meal, just across there. Thirty feet away. He took another bite of the soft bread. Then you went out. Did someone pick you up from here? Or did you walk to a rendezvous point?
He’d half finished the curry when his phone started to ring. Jon reached round and slid it from his jacket draped on the back of the chair. Alice. He felt a sense of relief. ‘Hi, babe. I meant to call you. Sorry.’
‘How are you?’
His throat clenched up and it took an effort to get the mouthful of bread down. ‘OK, I think.’
‘You don’t sound it, Jon.’
‘Well, you know, I’ve had better days.’
‘What’s happening out there? What have they got you doing?’
He rubbed above his eyebrows, glad she couldn’t see his face.
‘This and that, working out the last twenty-four hours. Finding out who he associated with in Haverdale. Routine stuff.’
‘Jon, you’re going to have to tell your parents the truth.’
His finger stopped moving. Does she know I’m not really helping with the investigation? ‘What do you mean?’
‘About your brother, how he died. What was done to him. I only got back from your parents’ an hour or so ago. Mary’s a wreck, Jon. But she wants to know what happened.’
‘And Dad?’
‘He’s not saying much. Just sitting in the corner behind his paper. They need the truth, Jon. You can’t hide it from them.’ He thought about the hotel receptionist telling him how the local paper had been sniffing about. Bollocks, as usual Alice was right. As soon as he signed the identification forms, his brother’s name would make the papers. Thank God he hadn’t completed them earlier at the station. ‘I can’t tell them, Ali. I just can’t.’
‘Someone’s got to.’
‘I’ll speak to the people here. They’ve got family liaison officers who are trained for that sort of thing.’ He pushed the plate away, the smell suddenly cloying and unwelcome. ‘Alice, I’m sat across the corridor from where Dave stayed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m sat across the corridor from where Dave stayed.’
‘Oh God, you’ve booked yourself into the same hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m trying to eat what he ate. His very last meal and all it’s making me feel is fucking well sick.’
‘Are you drinking?’
‘Yeah, I’m drinking.’ He shoved his feet out and took a breath in. ‘You know what, Ali? I don’t feel sad. I just feel so pissed off. But who can I be pissed off with?’ He glanced round the room.
‘There’s no one else here.’
‘Jon, you’re grieving. You’re literally in grief. Come home.’
‘I’ll come home soon, Ali. But there’s some more things I need to know.’
She sighed. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow then.’
‘OK. But I need to know more, Ali. People are lying to me out here. Left, right and fucking centre, they’re lying.’ Anger surged and he poured another glug into his glass.
‘It’s the scan on Tuesday, Jon.’
‘The scan?’ Oh shit, at the hospital. First glimpse of their unborn child, little more than a yolk inside Alice. ‘The scan, yeah.’
‘At one o’clock.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
No reply. It’s your decision Jon, the silence said. I won’t force you to come, but think very carefully before you decide.
‘Let me work some stuff out, Ali. I’ll speak to a few people. You know, see if there’s any way I can—’
‘Jon?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Stop drinking, please? Try to get some sleep.’
‘OK. I love you, Alice. You know that?’
‘I love you, too. Night.’
‘Night.’
The line died and he stared at his mobile for a few seconds, then placed it next to the whisky. Sleep. She was right. Lifting the tray, he staggered slightly as he rose to his feet. The fork slid off one side and bounced on the carpet. Holding the tray with one hand, he bent his knees and scooped the piece of cutlery up. The plate of food started edging to the side of the tray and he managed to right it just in time. In slow motion, he straightened up and walked over to the door. Careful to not look at Dave’s old room, he left the remains of the meal out in the corridor. Shutting the door behind him, he unplugged the kettle and filled it up at the bathroom sink. He stared at the little sachets of coffee. Bollocks, I can’t be arsed making a drink now. The kettle’s lid refused to close properly and he put it down, fell back on the bed and closed his eyes.
Dave’s voice, coming from far away. The words were muffled, but Jon could tell he was happy. He was talking fast, explaining something. Jon’s mind struggled to come awake. Dave? He tried to say his brother’s name, but sleep had turned his tongue into a slug in his mouth. Frustrated, he redoubled his efforts to wake up. Dave, is that really you? I can hear you! Just hang on.
The voice was getting fainter, words becoming more foggy. Jon felt his head beginning to turn. Greyness was around him. Where am I? He didn’t know if his eyes were open or not. Dave was sitting in a chair at the end of the bed. It was really him. This whole thing was a mistake, a grotesque misunderstanding. Again, he tried to speak and this time felt his tongue begin to stir. He heard himself groan and another layer of sleep slipped away. Dave’s words began to coalesce, forming into actual syllables.
‘So I said to him, if that’s your idea of efficient time management, you’ve got another thing coming. Exactly. What else could he say? I had the spreadsheets right there. OK, yes, OK, I’ll see you just after nine.’
It wasn’t Dave’s voice any longer, but someone outside the room. The doors at the end of the corridor banged shut and the voice was gone. I’m in a hotel, Jon thought. In Haverdale. But Dave was there, sitting right th
ere. His eyes opened fully and he found himself looking again towards the end of the bed. His jacket was draped on the back of the chair, and above it, the last vestiges of his brother’s face faded into the feeble morning light filling the room.
Jon sat up, temples pounding. An aching filled his gut, making him wonder if he was about to puke. The sensation passed, immediately replaced by a raging thirst. He stepped over to the kettle, raised it to his face and started gulping, water spilling over each cheek, running down his top and soaking the waistband of his trousers.
Twelve
The morning had a brittleness about it – the air was cold and the damp tarmac shone under the bright morning sun. As Jon trudged across the car park, he squinted against the glare reflecting up at him. He felt like a fissure was opening up behind his eyes, as if his brain was slowly tearing free from the membrane mooring it in place, allowing it to bump painfully against his skull with every step. Pushing the door to the restaurant open, he stepped into the dim interior and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Morning, sir. Table for one?’
Jon blinked at the young man standing behind the waist-high wooden lectern. It was the same bloke who’d brought his curry over last night. ‘Hey.’ The word came out as more of a growl and Jon had to clear his throat before carrying on. ‘Cramming in the shifts, aren’t you?’
‘Sundays and bank holidays. Overtime’s great.’
‘I bet.’ He vaguely remembered tipping the bloke the night before. Good move, he thought, knowing it would now bring him more favourable treatment. ‘Can I have somewhere away from the windows?’
‘Follow me.’ He turned on his heel and led Jon to a table lit only by a soft wall light above it. ‘This OK?’
‘Perfect. And can I have a jug of water?’ Jon slid into the seat and reached for the laminated menu.
‘No problem.’
‘And a pot of coffee, cheers.’
He stared at the menu for a while, trying to gauge the state of his stomach. The smell of bacon registered and he realised he was famished. That accounts for the stabbing viciousness of this hangover, he thought.
The young man returned with a small tray in his hands.
‘Water.’
Ice clinked in the jug as he placed it on the table. You beauty, Jon thought, picking up a glass.
‘Coffee and a copy of this morning’s paper.’ He placed it all on the table and took a step back. ‘Anything to eat?’
‘Yeah. Full English with extra toast, sausage, black pudding and bacon.’
‘OK.’
Jon sank a glass of water in one and an icy feeling wormed its way into him. His stomach felt like a sponge, greedily sucking up the liquid to ship it out to his parched system. Life looked up a fraction. He finished off another glass then spooned two sugars into a cup and poured himself a coffee. The Haverdale Herald caught his attention and he unfolded it to reveal the front page.
GRUESOME FIND SHOCKS RANGERS
Park rangers made a gory discovery yesterday when disposing of bin liners containing, what they first assumed, were the remains of poached deer. On examining the contents more closely, they were horrified to realise the contents were actually human.
Police were immediately called in and Superintendent Mallin, heading up the investigation, stated, ‘I can confirm that bin liners recovered by park rangers yesterday morning from Highshaw Hill, three miles north of Haverdale, contained the remains of an adult male, aged around thirty. I’m unable to elaborate at this time, but there is no reason to believe residents of Haverdale should worry for their safety and, until a formal identification of the body has been made, I cannot comment further.’
Speculation is rife as to how and why the man was killed. One source close to the investigation suggested that identification has been delayed due to extensive mutilations to the body – a theory backed up by the fact the remains
were in not one, but three separate bin liners.
Jon shut his eyes. That was it – the last sentence alone would have attracted the attention of Reuters and Associated Press. Their news release would have already gone out on the wire and the larger papers would be aware of the story. Shit. He looked at the copy once again. One source close to the investigation. Which bastard was that? Spiers, Mallin, the fat twat reading the Sunday papers in the incident room? It could have been any number of police officers, the guy at the mortuary, even the park rangers themselves. He found himself hoping that some other major incident might have occurred to keep his brother’s story out of the national press.
‘Here you go, sir.’
Jon looked up to see the waiter lowering a plate towards the table. It was almost overflowing with fried eggs, sausages, bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding and baked beans. He placed a rack of toast to the side. ‘Enjoy your meal.’ He pointed to the paper. ‘Though I’d skip that story – might put you off.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ He waited for the waiter to walk away before hurriedly folding a piece of toast around a sausage and shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Sorry, Dave, he thought, but I’m fucking starving here. His eyes moved back to the story.
Other questions cry out for answers. Why was the man killed? Our source hinted that drugs may well have been involved, raising the possibility this was a gang-land execution linked to the recent influx of narcotics plaguing the town.
Jon speared a rasher of bacon, shovelled beans into its folds and popped it in with the half-chewed sausage and toast. His jaw abruptly stopped moving. Oh Christ. Mum and Dad. They can’t find out from some breathless announcement on the local news. How far had the story already spread? Flicking his phone open, he selected the number for Carmel Todd, senior crime reporter at the Manchester Evening Chronicle. As the phone rang, he knew his name would be displayed on her screen.
‘DI Spicer, to what do I owe this pleasure so early on a bright bank holiday morning?’
Bank holiday, thank God for that, Jon thought. There was a chance the story hadn’t been picked up by the few staff that would be in the paper’s Deansgate offices. ‘Hi, Carmel, what are you working on today?’
‘The Cheetham Hill shootings, of course. Three dead and the killer a kid on a mountain bike – or was it a moped?’
Yeah, yeah, Jon thought. Typical Carmel to try and wheedle out a bit of information like that. ‘No idea, I’m on holiday. When was it?’
‘Last night, just before midnight. If you’re on holiday, why the call?’
‘I can’t get through to Rick. Nothing else on a regional basis? There was something on the radio just now, but I didn’t quite catch it.’
‘On the radio? A murder?’
A glimmer of hope. She didn’t seem to know. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Not sure, I was stepping out of the shower.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘No.’
‘Well, where are you? If you were listening to local radio, that would give me a clue as to where the incident took place.’ Bollocks, he thought. She’s closing in on me here. ‘Hang on – that’s room service. I’ll call you back, it was probably nothing.’
He cut her off, knowing her antennae would now be up. Still, it seemed like all attention was on the Cheetham Hill thing. For the moment. He continued to demolish his breakfast but, as his thoughts turned to his parents, his appetite seemed to shrivel. I’ll have to tell them. They’ve got to hear it from me. He chewed on a piece of toast, the sight of grease-laden mushrooms having now lost their allure. Putting the plate on an adjacent table, he poured himself another coffee and sat back. Oh God, how will I do it? What will I say? Dread felt like a snake curling around his waist, squeezing his stomach tight.
By the time he got to the outskirts of Manchester, his heart was racing and his face kept flushing hot and cold. I can’t do this, he thought. I can’t look my mum and dad in the eye and tell them what really happened to Dave. He lowered the windows, then pulled off the M60, taking a few br
eaths as he did so.
The slip road led up to a large roundabout, ugly industrial buildings surrounding it. He took the first turn-off and found a quiet layby to park up in. Nervously, he turned his mobile over in his hand. It’s probably best, he concluded, that I break the news from somewhere else. That way, they’ve got time to take it in without having to worry about how they react in front of me.
Feeling like a complete coward, he lifted his phone and selected their number. The line began to buzz. Please, let Dad answer. Or Ellie, if she’s still there. Anyone but Mum.
On the other side of the spiked fence was a tree. There were no leaves on it whatsoever, just partially open blossoms perched on the tip of each bare branch. Looking at the large white petals curling upwards, he had the sudden impression they were a plague of insects, descended on the tree to strip it before being frozen in the act of taking off.
‘Hello?’
‘Mum, it’s me. Jon.’
She gave a slight cough, but the quiver in her voice remained.
‘Jon, are you all right?’
‘I’m OK, Mum. And you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded distant. ‘Where are you? Are you coming home?’
He reached for the gearstick and picked at the leather trim, avoiding eye contact with someone who wasn’t even there. ‘I’m wrapped up with the investigation, Mum. They need all the help they can get. It’s not a big place, Haverdale.’
‘Yes.’
‘How are things with Dad?’
‘You know . . . we’re all finding things hard at the moment.’
‘He isn’t to blame, Mum. We all are, to an extent. It’s not fair to put all this on him.’
‘When will they let me have my boy back?’
‘Soon, Mum.’ He ran his tongue around his mouth, the urge to retch growing. ‘Mum? There are some more details about Dave you should know. The paper out here is twisting things. They’re trying to find a link between Dave and drug dealing. It’s all lies, Mum, they’re just trying to stir up a story. There’s not a single piece of evidence, OK? Despite what you might read.’
