by Chris Simms
‘Mind the baby doesn’t nick this.’
Salvio’s voice. She stood still, waiting for anything else. But the letter box clanked shut, leaving her with the sound of Jake’s labouring lungs. Placing him in his cot, she peeped out of the doorway. A small, silver square of foil was lying on the carpet. Keeping on tiptoes, she walked quickly over, picked it up with a finger and thumb and ducked back in to Jake’s room.
He moaned, little fingers reaching over the bars towards her.
‘Hang on,’ she murmured, eyes on the little package. Knowing the way Salvio’s mind worked, she could guess what would be inside. Slowly, she peeled back the diagonal folds. A teaspoon’s worth of brown powder. The sneaky shit. Before she could stop it, her mind jumped to the kitchen. She had a cigarette lighter and there was a straw attached to one of Jake’s drink cartons. She could be smoking this in no time. An ache in her stomach opened as she gazed at the tiny mound of granules. Oh, that soft, sweet feeling, she thought. It used to cradle me so beautifully.
‘Mama?’
She glanced to her side, unable to look him in the eye. A few more toys and he’d be happy sitting there for a while. Besides, it was time for his sleep soon.
‘Plenty more where that came from,’ Salvio cooed from outside her door. ‘Come on, Zoe, open up.’
She stepped towards the corridor, foil cupped protectively in her palm. The muscles in her legs tensed as urges fought in her head. Memories of how good it felt, then vague recollections of the dark days when Dave weaned her off it for the first time. His presence at her side. Always at her side. She remembered surfacing from delirious bouts of sleep, the sticky sheet wrapping her like a shroud and Dave above her, a cool flannel in his hand.
His look of shock when he sussed that she was on it again, seven months’ pregnant with Jake. It was the closest she’d seen him come to crying when she’d admitted to having been using again for weeks. Coming off it once more, this time confined to a hospital ward. But she’d done it and now Salvio was here posting the stuff through her door.
‘Mama?’
‘Shush now, Mummy’s coming back.’ Guiltily, she glanced back at her son then stepped from the room.
Fifteen
The Spread Eagle was pretty much deserted – a couple of old men were sitting in the bar area chatting to Trevor Curtis and Jon could hear they were discussing the murder, idly speculating on where the dead man might have come from and what he had done to deserve such a fate.
Next to the fireplace was a younger couple sharing a basket of chips. The large-screen TV in the side room was tuned to a sport channel, where a couple of pundits were in earnest discussion. Jon read the words running across the base of the screen:
‘Live Rugby Union, Sale Sharks v Newcastle Falcons, kick-off 5 pm.’
A few minutes’ time, Jon thought, casting a quick glance around the rest of the pub. No Ian Flynn. He rested his elbows on the bar. ‘Afternoon, pint of Timothy Taylor, please.’
Curtis reached up for a glass, revealing a sweat patch under his arm. ‘Finished work, then?’
Jon remembered that he’d mentioned getting the train into Sheffield for his job. ‘Knocked off early. Not much you can sort out on a bank holiday.’
‘What is it you do, then?’
Recalling his days in uniform when he’d chat with bouncers outside Manchester’s night spots, Jon reverted to his customary story for when his real job needed to be kept secret. ‘Helping to set up a nightclub opening in Sheffield. Security.’
‘Oh? You mean on the doors?’ He placed a full pint on the bar.
Jon straightened up, handing over a fiver. ‘Everything – overseeing the CCTV system, buying intercoms for the doormen, all that stuff.’
‘Sounds like the Wild West in some of those city centre places nowadays.’ Curtis rang the drink in and fished change out from the till’s drawer.
A voice called out. ‘Get in there! Billy fucking Whizz, my man! Trev, can you turn the sound up?’
Jon glanced towards the side room. The two teams were now running out onto the pitch and, tucked away in the corner with his eyes glued to the screen, was a man. Angular features, shaved head and the glint of metal in his ear.
‘Right you are, Ian.’ Trevor pointed a remote and the volume increased.
‘Think I’ll watch that, too.’ Jon took his drink and stepped into the side room. If Flynn had noticed his entry, he didn’t show it. Jon chose the table in the other corner and sat down.
‘Should be a good match, this.’
Flynn’s eyes didn’t move from the television. ‘Yeah.’
‘Sale are in cracking form.’
‘Play, do you?’
‘Did.’ He took a sip. ‘Body can’t take it now. You?’
Flynn’s head shook, eyes yet to actually connect with Jon’s.
‘Just like watching it. You get good fights in rugby.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
The match kicked off and they sat in silence, Jon biding his time, sizing the other man up. After a few minutes Flynn lit a cigarette, holding it where his fingers joined, so when he took a drag, his hand wrapped around his mouth like it was a gag.
The fly-half kicked deep into Sale’s territory and Jason
Robinson caught the ball.
Flynn jabbed his cigarette at the screen. ‘Fucking go, Billy! Run at them.’
From his own try-line with less than ten minutes gone? Jon thought. Flynn obviously didn’t have a bloody clue. Robinson cleared the ball out of his half and the two sets of forwards gathered for the line-out.
‘Trev, another pint in here, mate.’ Flynn waved his empty glass.
The landlord appeared a few moments later, placed a fresh pint on Flynn’s table and took the empty one.
‘Put it on the tab, cheers,’ Flynn said, hardly looking at the man.
‘Another for you?’ Trevor nodded at Jon’s glass. He tilted his half-finished drink. ‘Table service?’
‘Only when it’s quiet.’
‘Go on, then. A Landlord, please.’ Jon’s phone beeped and Flynn’s head cocked slightly to the side. ‘Bloody work,’ Jon apologised. ‘I’ll turn it off in a minute.’ He glanced at the screen and saw it was a text from Rick: ‘Buchanon’s after you, big time. No luck with finding Zoe. Sorry.’
Jon cursed to himself. She had to be somewhere. Quickly he keyed in a reply.
‘Please keep looking.’
‘What do you do?’ Flynn’s eyes were on Jon for a split second before he turned away.
‘Nightclub security.’
‘Yeah? Whereabouts?’
‘North-east, mainly. But my boss is opening a place in
Sheffield, so I’m based down here for a bit.’
Flynn spoke from the side of his mouth, unwilling to miss any of the match. ‘Staying in Haverdale?’
‘When you’re stuck in clubs all night, you appreciate open space.’
Curtis returned with Jon’s drink. ‘That’s two thirty.’
Jon handed him thirty pence too much. ‘And one for yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
He was just taking another sip when Flynn spoke again.
‘What’s it like dealing with those Geordie nutters?’
Jon smiled. ‘They’re all right. Still settle things with their fists most of the time, up there.’
Light from the screen played on Flynn’s face. ‘Never been. Heard it’s mayhem, though.’
‘You’re probably thinking of the Bigg Market on a weekend. That place can get interesting.’
The two teams locked together for a scrum on Newcastle’s twenty-two. Jon saw the props grappling with each other’s arms on the side away from the referee. Next instant the scrum collapsed and the referee blew for a reset.
‘Bollocks,’ Jon said quietly. ‘That was a penalty to Sale.’ Flynn was frowning. ‘What happened?’
Jon sat back. ‘Roberts, the Sale prop, is turning his opposite man inside out. So the Newcastle
player collapsed the scrum.’
Flynn took a proper glance over and Jon knew the other man would have noticed the scar running through his eyebrow and the lump where the bridge of his nose had been broken. ‘That right?’
‘Watch,’ Jon replied. ‘If he brings it down again, there might be some punching.’
Flynn sat forward as the two sets of forwards came together once more. Jon saw the Newcastle player trying to slip his binding again and next thing the two players’ heads went up and fists started to fly.
‘Fucking do him!’ Flynn shouted delightedly, shadow-punching the air. The referee got between them, cheeks puffing on his whistle.
Flynn swivelled his chair towards Jon. ‘Good call, mate, you were right.’
‘It’ll probably kick off again before full time.’
‘Yeah? Better get another drink, then. You want one?’
Less than a quarter of Jon’s pint was gone, but he wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. ‘Yeah, cheers.’
‘Trev!’ Flynn yelled. ‘Two more over here, mate.’
By the second half of the match, they were chatting during any break in play, Flynn pumping Jon for stories about rugby fights. By the end of the match, Jon had moved over to join Flynn at his table and they were four pints up. The pub was now getting busier and, as Jon headed to the bar to get another round, the lads from the night before trooped in.
One peeled away from the group, ducked his head into the side bar and said something. Flynn gave a nod and the lad headed straight for the toilets. A few seconds later Flynn followed him through the door.
Jon returned to their table and sat down. After a minute, Flynn returned, rubbing his hands. He slid back into his chair beside Jon’s. ‘What’s next?’
‘Highlights of the other pool matches,’ Jon replied, tapping his trousers for change. ‘I need some smokes.’ He stepped back into the main part of the bar, one eye on the doors to the toilets. The lad emerged, and as he approached his mates, raised a thumb at waist height.
Their shoulders relaxed and the group broke into grins. Jon fished the packet of cigarettes from the tray and rejoined Flynn.
‘So, what do people do for a living in Haverdale?’ he asked, ripping the cellophane off the cigarettes, cracking the lid and partially sliding two out. He held the packet towards Flynn.
‘Cheers.’ He took one and picked up his lighter. ‘A bit of farming, tourist stuff. More and more incomers who catch the train into Sheffield or Manchester. Yuppy types.’
Yuppy, Jon thought. Last time I heard that word used in seriousness was back in the eighties. ‘Farming’s not an easy game nowadays.’
‘Wouldn’t know.’ Flynn smiled, taking the hook Jon had dangled.
He feigned surprise. ‘That’s not what you do then?’
‘Nah. Get up at the crack of dawn every day? Fuck that.’
Jon gave a knowing grin. ‘Easier ways to make a living than that.’
Their eyes touched for a moment.
‘So this security business.’ Flynn lit their cigarettes. ‘Who gives you the nod, for the doormen?’
Jon regarded Flynn for a second, letting his eyes narrow just a fraction. ‘What do you mean, mate?’
Flynn leaned forward. ‘Come on. In Manchester, no one gets employed without the say-so of the gangs. Longsight Crew, Pit Bull Crew, Salford Mob, that lot. The Noonan family, ever heard of them?’
Jon sat back. The guy had been watching too much bloody television. ‘You know Newcastle, then?’
‘No. But I know how things work. Is the city divided up between gangs, like Manchester?’
Jon shrugged. ‘I don’t know. When we employ door staff, we go through the proper channels. Everything’s done by the book.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Flynn grinned, taking a drag. ‘And that’s how you’re doing it in Sheffield, too?’
‘So, how do you earn a crust?’
Flynn bobbed his chin from side to side. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. Whatever comes my way.’
As Jon gave a knowing nod, Flynn’s mobile started to ring. He pulled it from the side pocket of his combat trousers. ‘Yeah?’
Jon sat back, pretending to be interested in the television. Flynn turned away. ‘The Spread. Where are you? Now?
Yeah, could do.’ He cut the call and stood.
‘You’re off ?’ Jon asked, glancing up at him.
Flynn shook his head. ‘Night’s only just getting started. I need to see someone out front.’
Once Ian Flynn had hurried from the room, Jon shifted his chair to the side and craned his neck to peer through the mullioned window set deep in the pub’s thick wall. An Aston Martin pulled up on the road outside.
Flynn appeared, circled the car with his hands in his pockets and leaned down to the driver’s window. After a few words there followed a quick exchange, Flynn ramming whatever he’d been given deep into the pocket of his trousers before straightening up. He lifted a hand to his brow and doffed an imaginary cap as the car pulled away.
Jon leaned back, eyes on the TV screen as he replayed what he’d just seen. An exchange had just taken place, but he couldn’t say who was doing the buying and who the selling.
Sixteen
Alice opened the front door to see Rick outside, holding up a bottle of white wine. ‘Hello, my darling.’ She smiled, waving him inside. They embraced, planting a kiss on each other’s cheek as they did so.
‘You’re looking great, Alice,’ Rick said, pulling back. ‘Started your kick-boxing classes again?’
‘I don’t think my doctor would recommend it in my state,’ she sighed.
‘Well, it looks like you’ve been doing something.’
She ran her hands down her slim waist. ‘Wheeling Holly around in that buggy. She weighs a ton, that girl.’
Rick glanced up the stairs. ‘All tucked up, is she?’
‘Yeah. Look in on her, if you want. She’s fast asleep.’
‘Can I?’ Rick beamed, handing over the bottle of wine and swiftly climbing the stairs.
Alice walked down the short corridor and into the kitchen. A plastic knocking sound was coming from the corner, where Punch was trying to remove every speck of food from his dog bowl. After popping some rice in the microwave, she checked the curry was simmering nicely, the aroma of galangal and lemon grass rising up as she peeked under the lid of the pan.
The wine was open and two glasses poured when Rick walked into the kitchen. ‘She is so adorable. Does she always sleep on her stomach like that?’
‘Bum in the air?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ever since she went into her junior bed. God knows why.’
‘So sweet.’
Punch crossed the room, avoiding Rick’s outstretched fingers and sloping off towards the front door.
‘Suit yourself,’ Rick shrugged.
‘It’s because you’re a man,’ Alice explained.
‘It’s because I’m not Jon,’ Rick replied with an awkward smile. He glanced at the chair where Jon usually sat. ‘God, I hope he’s all right.’
Alice’s eyes were on the empty chair, too. ‘I know. I think he’s still in a state of shock, to be honest. Though what is beginning to sink in is the guilt. That’s what’s driving him on. Feeling like he failed his little brother.’
Rick rubbed at an eyebrow. ‘I can’t believe it’s well over a year since Jon and I saw him that time outside the cathedral.’
‘Neither can Jon. He’s kept a lookout since then, scanned the arrest logs – always meaning to make a proper effort to find him.’
‘Dave didn’t want to be found. That was the problem. He probably wasn’t even in Manchester during that time.’
‘I know, but try telling Jon that. So now, typically, he’s thrown himself into the investigation. Can you believe they’ve asked him to help find his brother’s killer?’
Rick reached for his glass and took a long sip. ‘It does seem odd.’
‘Odd? It’s bloody out-of-order. Of cours
e, Jon’s leapt at the chance, but they should never have given him it in the first place.’ She paused. ‘What do you reckon Dave was up to out in Haverdale?’
Rick looked down at the table. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Could it have been to do with drugs?’ He sighed. ‘This doesn’t ever get to Jon?’
‘Of course not.’
‘It doesn’t look good. Loyal to the last, Jon’s fighting his corner. But it doesn’t look good.’
‘That’s pretty much what I thought,’ she stated sadly. ‘But once he decides on something, that’s it. I just hope it’s another officer – and not Jon – who finds Dave’s killer.’
‘Me, too. Isn’t anger another early stage of grief ?’
Their gazes touched, and Rick saw the unease in Alice’s eyes. He thought back to the case with the church arsonist, doubt about Jon’s explanation of how the man actually died still plaguing him.
Alice sat down. ‘Come on then,’ she patted the table. ‘What do you know?’
Glad to shelve his suspicions, Rick hung his jacket on the back of his chair and sat down. ‘Plenty. But first, how’s things with you, Mrs Spicer? Another baby. How bloody exciting is that?’
‘I know.’ She placed a hand across her lower stomach. ‘It’s the first scan tomorrow.’
‘You’ll get a print-out?’
‘Of course.’
‘I can’t wait to see it. Another little Spicer, God help us all. Still want it to be a boy?’
Alice reached for her wine glass, running a forefinger round its base. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘it would be nice to have a boy. I think it would be good for Jon, too.’
‘He couldn’t dote on Holly any more.’
‘Exactly. She’s got him round her little finger. He’d be different with a boy, less of a lump of jelly.’
‘He’ll have the poor thing out on the rugby pitch before he can walk. I can see it now. In an England shirt, if they make them small enough.’
Alice laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, they do. He’s already checked the RFU website.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘How’s things with you and Andy?’
Rick thought about his boyfriend. Andy was an events manager who seemed to have half the phone numbers for Manchester United’s and Manchester City’s football teams in his mobile phone. ‘It’s his fortieth this November. Can you believe it? Me hitched up with a forty-year-old.’
