by Chris Simms
Thirty
Jon was twenty metres from his car when his phone began to ring. Please, he thought, immediately flipping it open, let that be Alice. ‘Hey . . .’
‘Hey, yourself.’ Nikki Kingston’s voice. ‘I’ve got some news that’ll give you such a hard-on.’
Jon felt his pace slow, disappointment and excitement mixing in his head. ‘What is it?’
‘The tyre for the motorbike. You were right! It’s a Bridgestone TW 0 . I spoke to a specialist supplier and, I quote, it’s good for smaller capacity trail bikes. And, get this: decent handling, despite a knobbly pattern.’ She paused. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well don’t overdo it, Jon. I bust a bloody gut getting you this.’
‘Sorry, I appreciate it, I really do. Did they say which makes of bike it goes with?’
‘Yeah, though the names mean nothing to me. Mainly CRM 250s, DR 350s and KDX 250s, if that’s any help.’
KDX 250. The make of Kawasaki that Flynn owned. ‘Yup. It confirms what I thought.’
‘What about the Timberlands?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The Timberland hiking boots I took a cast of. Does your suspect own a pair?’
‘I’ll find out soon.’
‘Are you OK, Jon? You sound – I don’t know – distracted?’ He placed a hand on the roof of his car and let the coldness seep into his palm. ‘I’m OK. Just absolutely bloody exhausted.
Thanks, Nikki. I owe you, as usual.’
‘Where are you, by the way? I hear Buchanon’s called the proverbial search party out on you.’
‘Yeah. I’ll be checking in soon.’
‘Well, good luck. Don’t leave it too long.’
‘Cheers.’
He snapped his phone shut, got into his car, and after plugging his phone into the charger on the dashboard, swung the vehicle round. The road led him back down the hill and into Holyhead. He accelerated through the drab port, just able to keep his speed down until he reached the dual carriageway where he could really open the engine up.
As he raced along, lines of headlights slid smoothly towards him. Tightly clustered and silent at first, the space separating each pair from the ones behind slowly widened until, with a succession of whooshes, the convoys flashed past his car. Oblivious to the play of lights and sound, his mind was fixed on everything that had happened. And what was about to occur. Flynn, he thought. The vermin who’d so needlessly snuffed out his brother’s life.
He reached Conwy and dropped his speed to swerve across the series of roundabouts lining the seafront. More cars approached. From a distance the windscreens reflected the street lights and it was only at the point of actually passing that he could see through the glass to the driver behind. Faces, glimpsed for an instant before his stare skipped to the next car. Expressions slack, eyes on the rear lights of the vehicle in front. He thought of their lives and imagined the families they were heading home to.
Prestatyn and memories of a childhood holiday at the top of his mind. Dave on the beach, high-kneeing it through the shallows, gasping with laughter as he tried to catch the falling Frisbee. The sun-lit water that had sprayed out with each step. The dim room to the side of the campsite cafe, monotonous beeps of the Space Invader machines growing steadily quicker. The pair of them waiting their turn, warm ten-pence pieces in their sweaty palms.
Flynn had destroyed all that, fractured those memories and ensured no fresh ones could ever take their place. Flynn. He conjured the man’s features from the dark and held them in his mind’s eye. An orange flicker off to his left. The massed towers and chimneys of the oil refinery and a solitary burn-off flame, lighting the night like a beacon to the dead.
The man standing at Zoe’s front door remained where he was.
‘Come on,’ she beckoned. ‘You’re letting in the fucking cold.’
He reached into his pocket and removed a thin leather wallet.
She shook her head. ‘You pay Salvio, not me.’
He frowned, holding a badge up. ‘My name’s Rick Saville, Greater Manchester Police.’
Zoe leaned a shoulder against the door frame.
‘Are you Zoe Croxton?’ She shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you know someone called Dave Spicer?’ She took another drag, eyes closing completely.
‘You do?’
Keeping the cigarette against her lips, she cupped her elbow with her free hand and shivered. ‘So what?’
‘Zoe, can I come in? We need to talk.’
She moved back down the corridor without replying, walking past a closed door with the little plaque reading, ‘Jake’s Den’.
Trailing behind, Rick thought he heard something as he passed it. A faint moan or gasp. Zoe carried on into the front room and slumped on the sofa. Rick followed, taking in the TV, scattering of kids’ toys and general lack of furniture. ‘Mind if I sit?’
‘Whatever you want. Just don’t take all night about it.’
He eased himself onto the other end of the sofa and turned to face her. ‘When did you last hear from David?’
‘Dave.’
‘Sorry?’
She leaned her head back, thinking of the newspaper she’d dropped down the tower block’s rubbish chute. Dave’s face falling away into the blackness. Gone, for ever. ‘He was called Dave.’
‘You know what’s happened?’ She closed her eyes again. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Zoe. We’re trying to find who did it. I’m hoping you might be able to tell me what he was doing out in Haverdale.’
While he spoke, she’d settled lower and now her head was completely supported by the back of the sofa. ‘Zoe?’
‘Mmm?’ She looked up. ‘Pass us that ashtray, would you?’ She waved her cigarette towards the television.
Rick got up and walked over. The dirty ashtray on top of it had a Stella Artois logo emblazoned across the bottom. Stolen from some pub. ‘Here you go.’
She balanced it on her knee and tapped ash. ‘It was our way out.’
‘What was?’
‘The pot.’
Oh no, Rick thought. So he was dealing. ‘You mean marijuana?’
‘No,’ she sighed, dragging so deeply the cigarette crackled.
‘Pot. With stuff in it. Gold and that – from caveman times.’ Rick perched on the sofa’s edge. ‘Dave was out there looking for a pot with gold in it. Like buried treasure?’
‘The prof. It was him who sold Dave the map.’
Rick stared at the ill-looking woman. ‘Who’s the prof ?’
‘The prof. Brainy bastard who knows all about that stuff. He mentioned it to Dave one time, when he was off his head.’
Rick was looking down at his feet. ‘Go on.’
She sounded like she was trying to stifle a yawn. ‘Dave got him to draw a map, but he wanted money for it first. So Dave borrows cash from Salvio. Only it was wrong, surprise fucking surprise. He said it was buried on this one hill, but it wasn’t.’
Rick waited for her to carry on. When nothing more was said, he looked to his side. Zoe’s eyes were half closed. ‘You were saying?’
Her chin lifted. ‘What?’
‘You were saying that it wasn’t the hill marked on the map.’
‘Yeah.’ She took another drag. ‘So Dave has to keep going back, digging around on all the other bloody hills. And Salvio wants his money back.’
‘What did the prof have to say?’
‘He fucked off, once Dave handed over the cash.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘How did Dave meet him?’
‘Knocking around. He went to the Booth Centre and that.’
‘So he’s homeless, this prof ?’
‘Yes.’ There was a bored note to her voice, like the answer should have been obvious.
‘OK. So Dave bought a map that should have shown the location of some treasure buried out near Haverdale. But it wasn’t accura
te. And that’s why he was digging around on the surrounding hills?’
No reply. He looked to his side and saw her head had now tipped forward. A trail of smoke was flattening out across her forehead before curling over her right ear and seeping up into her hair. He plucked the butt from her fingers and stubbed it out. ‘Zoe!’
Her eyes flickered.
‘Are you using, Zoe?’
‘What do you think?’ she sighed.
‘Heroin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Dave using, too?’
‘He was clean. A bit of weed, that’s all.’
‘Was he dealing?’
‘No. Just the odd bit here and there, to mates. We don’t have cash – that’s why he borrowed off of Salvio.’ She shook her head. ‘Borrowed off of Salvio.’
‘How much?’
‘Hundreds.’
‘Who is Salvio?’
‘Salvio?’ She looked for her cigarette, frowning when she realised it was no longer in her fingers. She raised her hand to nibble at a thumbnail instead. ‘You don’t want to meet Salvio.’
‘Jesus, what a mess. Can I use your toilet?’
She waved a hand towards the door. ‘Back there.’
Rick got to his feet and headed for the corridor. Zoe had indicated which room was hers, so he went past that door. That left two others, one with ‘Jake’s Den’ on it.
He opened the one opposite. A bath, with a few plastic toys gathered at the plughole. He positioned himself before the toilet in the corner. The water seemed discoloured, but when he bent forward he saw it was the ceramic sides beneath the surface that were stained brown. When was that last cleaned? After washing his hands, he looked about for a towel. None. Once he’d dabbed his hands dry with toilet paper, he rotated his shoulders, readying himself to drive the questioning forward and find out who this Redino character was.
Back in the corridor, his eyes settled on the letter’s spelling
‘Jake’s Den’ once more. What a tragedy. He’d been looking forward to seeing Jon’s jaw drop when he told him he was going to be a dad, but it wouldn’t be right with all this going on. He stepped across to listen. Not a sound inside. Just as he was about to walk back to the front room, he thought he heard a rattling intake of breath. That, he thought, remembering a spell in hospital when he was younger, sounded like the old man in the next bed who had pneumonia. He angled his head to the side, and after another second, the noise came again. Someone fighting to drag in oxygen.
Slowly, he opened the door to peer inside. Light from the corridor spilled across the floor and onto the cot in the corner. Inside was a crumpled blanket and little more than a pale manikin, head too big for its body. The shuddering, sucking noise came again and Rick flicked on the light. Oh my God. The infant was on his back, lips blue and eyes rolled up. Pinpricks of sweat covered his face.
He whirled round and ran back to the front room. ‘Zoe! Your son . . .’
The room was empty. As he looked around, the click of a lighter came from the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, foil below her face, straw above the bubbling brown lump. ‘For fuck’s sake! Zoe!’
She continued sucking at the smoke.
‘Zoe! What’s wrong with your son? He’s hardly breathing!’ Pupils swollen, her eyes drifted up, straw still in her mouth.
‘Jake?’ she slurred. ‘Is he OK?’
‘No! Does he need medicine, an inhaler or something?’
‘Salvio,’ she mumbled, tears now filling her eyes. The straw fell from her mouth and she prodded a forefinger weakly at the door. ‘He’s gone to get it . . . he’s . . .’ The words died away.
‘Salvio.’
‘What’s wrong with Jake? What do I tell them in A & E?’ She half curled her fingers and banged them lightly against her chest. ‘Lungs are clogged up. RS Virus or something.’
Rick ran back down the corridor, wrapped Jake in his blanket and raced from the flat.
Jon’s phone rang again and his chin lifted from his chest. Jesus, he thought. I was almost asleep there. This time he checked the screen before answering. When he saw the name, he wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, heart suddenly racing.
‘Alice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God you rang. Did you get my note?’
‘Yes.’
‘And my message on the phone? I was gabbing on, I’m not sure if it recorded everything I said.’
‘Are you coming home?’
He looked at the motorway lights stretching away before him.
‘Soon as I can, Ali.’
‘Not now?’
‘I know who did it. I’ve got the identity of who killed Dave.’ Nothing.
‘He’ll know I’m on to him by now. I’ve got to find him, before he disappears.’
‘You won’t come home?’
‘Yes, I will. I’ll be there.’
‘But not now. Not when I ask you.’
He shut his eyes for a second. Shit, please don’t do this. ‘I can’t come home this minute, Ali, I owe it to Dave. Can’t you see that? This whole fucking disaster, what’s happening to Mum and Dad, it’s my chance to sort it all out. Just a few hours, Ali, and I’ll be there.’
Her sigh reminded him of the wind about his ears on the hilltop where Dave had died.
‘Are you in the car at the moment?’
‘Yeah, on my way back from Anglesey. I have to get to
Haverdale.’
‘You’re on the motorway?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whereabouts?’
He looked at the approaching gantry. A sign on it said junction two was up ahead. He could be home in fifteen minutes.
‘Near Manchester.’
‘You’re on the M60 right now? You’re passing me by, aren’t you?’
Now it was his turn to say nothing.
‘Jon.’ Her voice was now barely more than a whisper. ‘I don’t think I can do this any more.’
He winced. ‘Ali, you know how it is with an investigation. I can’t break off just like that.’
‘You’re not on any investigation. Buchanon called me. You’re doing this all on your own.’
Oh God, he thought. ‘Buchanon called you?’
‘If things weren’t bad enough, you lied to me. And you got
Rick to lie to me, too. Didn’t you?’
He thought about the conversation on the patio with his Dad.
‘It wasn’t a—’
‘You’re lying again! Can you not hear yourself ? Christ, I am so sick of this.’
‘I was stuck, Ali. Stuck.’
‘You lied.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘There’s just no change of direction with you. You’re like a freight train, hurtling along the rails. Nothing can alter your course.’
He glanced at the dashboard. Ninety-seven miles an hour. The exit for junction two was floating past.
‘I’m not sure if I can live with it any more.’
‘Ali, please. Just give me until daybreak, can you do that? I’ll be back before morning, I promise.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m so tired, Jon. Tired of everything. I’m hanging up now.’
‘No! Don’t. Alice? Alice! Are you there?’ He removed the handset from his shoulder and saw the ‘Call ended’ message filling the screen. His foot lifted from the accelerator and his speed ebbed a fraction. Junction one wasn’t far off. He could still exit there and take the A6 back round to his house. But the image of Flynn rose up in front of him. The man’s weasel eyes and bobbing head. His dirty, grasping hands. Hands that had killed his brother. He saw Dave’s head in the bag, the ragged skin where his neck had been sawn through. Jon’s jaw tightened and he roared with frustration through clenched teeth. I can’t turn back, he thought. Not now.
Thirty One
Rick rapped on the door to Zoe’s flat, his hand falling to his side as he thought about his headl
ong rush into A & E. The woman at the reception desk had hardly glanced at his warrant card; as soon as she saw Jake, she ran out from behind the counter, yelling at people crowding the reception area to get out of the way.
As they burst into the treatment area, she shouted out, ‘We need some help here!’
A doctor dropped the files he was studying, hurried over and looked down at Jake’s floppy, pale form. ‘Pre-terminal. Into the resuscitation room, now!’
‘Where’s that?’ Rick yelled back.
‘Here.’ As the doctor marched towards a pair of swing doors, he waved to a watching colleague. ‘Send a crash call to the paediatric team!’
Once in the side room, the doctor ordered Rick to lay Jake on a trolley. In seconds, an oxygen mask was over the infant’s face and little pads had been stuck to his chest. ‘Get a sats probe on his finger,’ the doctor ordered the nurse hovering at his side. He then turned to Rick and barked, ‘History?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rick had gasped in reply. ‘Just pulled him out of his cot. He was in the flat of a heroin user. The mum said something about RS Virus.’
Another doctor had placed a wide tape measure alongside Jake. Numerous dosages of drugs were listed out next to the calibration in centimetres. ‘How old is this child?’
Rick turned to her. ‘I think a year, or so.’
Sliding a stethoscope round the back of Jake’s chest, she shook her head. ‘Twelve months? He should be far bigger than this.’
‘Is he going to die?’
The female doctor looked at her colleague. ‘I’d say bronchiolitis. Possible bacterial pneumonia, too?’
He nodded. ‘Let’s hope not. Where the fuck is the paeds team?’
‘I don’t know,’ the nurse replied, attaching a thimble-like clip to one of Jake’s fingers, then glancing despairingly towards the door.
‘OK. Let’s get a bolus shot of ceftriaxone in,’ he continued.
‘And I want an X-ray of his chest.’
