by Rob Ashman
Jarrod’s supplies were lined up with regimental precision. Everything in perfect alignment.
Kray awoke and sat bolt upright, knocking her glass into the tepid water, the suds were gone. She hauled herself from the bath, wrapped a towel around her body and grabbed her phone, flicking through the photographs she had taken at the Lakeland.
‘Where is it? Where is it?’ she growled at herself. Then she found it. ‘Fuck!’
Kray hit the buttons and called a number. A sleepy Bagley picked up at the other end.
‘Roz? What is it?’
‘I know who Jarod’s next victim is going to be.’
43
The woman sitting on the floor to the right of me is called Primrose – quite an odd name for someone who smells of shit. Next to her is Bulldog and the guy on the end is Ken. I guess he’s the one with no imagination.
The three of them are in their late-twenties to early forties but look like they have a combined age of two hundred. During the day others have come and gone. It is a transient arrangement where nods and glances are exchanged for the ones who choose not to say anything. One guy turned up, sat on the floor, only to get up and walk off two hours later, and I swear no one registered he was there.
Bulldog rummages in a plastic bag and pulls out an aerosol can. He snaps off the top and puts the spray nozzle into his mouth. He bites it off and spits it onto the floor, revealing the plastic spigot at the end. He grips it between his rotting front teeth and forces the can towards him. His cheeks inflate as the gas fills his mouth and throat. His eyes roll back and he hands the can over to me.
I pretend to have a go.
‘Thanks man,’ I say in a woozy voice.
The others are so high they don’t notice I’m faking it. A metal bucket is ablaze in the centre of the room, the naked flames give the place a demonic feel and fat clouds of smoke cling to what is left of the ceiling. It’s like a bizarre campfire scene from a low-budget horror film. I half expect people in robes to burst and sacrifice a goat.
The heat radiates out in a tight circle. The other three would be cold but for the solvent. It keeps them numb. I don’t mind the chill seeping through the walls but I miss my view.
Bulldog keels over sideways and wraps himself in his piss-stained sleeping bag, bunching a roll of cardboard under his head to serve as a pillow. He turns his back and lets out a long, low fart. No one stirs.
Primrose takes another blast of solvent gas and follows suit. She struggles to pull her sleeping bag around her and ends up laying half-in, half-out. I lean over and tug it around her, she doesn’t even feel it.
Ken and I stare into the flames. He is the youngest of the group but the ravages of sleeping rough and getting high or pissed every day has left its mark on him. He has the haunted look of a man counting down time; his eyes are sunk deep into dark sockets and his cheekbones are sharp. He counts a fist-full of coins into a sock for the fifth time tonight, maybe he can’t remember how much money he’s made today, or maybe it simply gives him something to do. He wraps the sock into a ball and stuffs it into his pocket.
‘Where did you say you were from?’ he asks.
‘Kind of all over,’ I say pretending to sway.
‘Cos I’m sure I’ve seen you around. Have you been to the shopping precinct?’
‘Once or twice, I guess. I really appreciate you guys letting me join you. I will pay my way, you know?’ I change the subject.
‘Yeah man, like every fucker else pays their way. I went to the job centre today.’
‘How did you get on?’ I say, amazed at the spectacular change of topic.
‘Like fucking always, it’s a simple equation - no address plus no bank account equals no money. Anyway I only went in for a warm cos it was fucking Baltic.’
‘Yeah it was cold all right.’
I am conscious that I don’t look or smell right and I’m sure Ken is wary of me. The one thing I’m struggling to hide is my three hundred quid sleeping bag. It was the most expensive one in the shop when I bought it. Still, so far I have managed to keep it under wraps and it is gradually getting soiled from sleeping on floors. I flip my pound coin in the air and catch it. The look on Ken’s face says, ‘I’ve had a better day than you.’ I’m conscious of the five hundred pounds I have concealed in each of my boots.
Maybe not, Ken.
The fire is dying down to embers, casting a red and orange glow around the brick and breeze block walls. Ken stares into the bucket, drifting off to a better place. I stare at the bucket thinking this is exactly where I want to be; daydreaming about the woman who bottled that off-duty police officer. Two months pregnant my arse. The last time I saw her there was no hint of any pregnancy.
‘I’ve had enough,’ I say shuffling to my feet and staggering over to the wall where my belongings are lying on a sheet cardboard.
‘See you in the morning,’ Ken says, continuing to zone out.
I climb into my sleeping bag and pull it around my shoulders. I don’t zip it up in case I have to make a fast exit in the night. Turning my back to the fire I face the wall and unfold the picture stuffed into my shirt, her face stares at me out of the gloom. In my mind’s eye I see something different - she is on the steps of the courthouse with her friend, both of them puffing away on cigarettes and laughing. I reach down with my hand and wrap my fingers around the cool glass of the vodka bottle stashed away in my sleeping bag.
A gift for her, when next we meet.
44
‘Have you checked?’ Kray asked attaching a cable to her phone.
‘Yes I’ve checked,’ Bagley replied.
‘With both of them?’
‘Yes, with both of them. I spoke to both officers myself and each one confirmed that she is safe at home.’
‘Roz, what the hell is this all about? You weren’t making a lot of sense when you called at one this morning. Step through it again.’
Tavener scurried into the incident room, looking bleary eyed. ‘I got your text, Roz. I thought we were meeting at the hotel at seven.’
‘We were but I need you to see this.’ She plugged the other end into her laptop to access her photographs. The large flat screen TV behind her blinked into life. ‘There was something bugging me about where Jarrod was hiding.’ A picture of the penthouse came up on the screen. ‘What do you see when you look at this picture?’
‘The result of somebody carefully stocking up on supplies.’ Bagley jumped in.
‘What else?’
‘I see someone who was intending to stay for a few weeks, judging by the quantity that’s stashed away,’ said Tavener. ‘Oh, and Jarrod was contemplating suicide.’
‘Don’t look at the supplies, focus on the way they have been stored. What does that tell you?’
‘He’s a tidy freak?’
‘Tidy! This guy makes me look messy. Everything is put away with precision, this is a guy who likes symmetry and clean lines. Look at the pictures on the wall.’ The image changed to show the mugshots. ‘If we went down there now I reckon we would find those sheets of paper are dead level, perfectly aligned and exactly the same distance apart. This is a man who obsesses with things looking right. Now look at this …’ The screen changed to another shot. This one showed the sachets of food, the water bottles, the vodka and the camping stove, plus a few kitchen utensils - all of them lined up perfectly. ‘What do you see?’
‘Nothing new,’ said Bagley.
‘Look at the gap,’ Kray said, pointing at the screen. ‘We have a bottle of vodka which has been opened and partly drunk, followed by a gap and then two more bottles. My guess is that gap is the width of a vodka bottle. Looking at the rest of the room I don’t believe somebody with that level of OCD could sit there and ignore that anomaly. He’s gone and he’s taken a bottle with him.’
Tavener was up close to the screen. ‘I see what you mean, it’s out of kilter with the rest of the room.’
‘That’s what I think. Now consider his potential next victi
ms.’ Kray walked over to the white board and removed a sheet of paper. ‘This one was convicted of breaking a bottle over the head of an off-duty police officer. That’s who the vodka is for. He’s going after Casey Lang.’
* * *
I wake with my nose inches from the brickwork, the place is dark and still. I check my watch and the luminous dial tells me it’s time to get up. It’s de-camp day.
I chomp on a flapjack while stuffing my sleeping bag into the cover. I’m going to need all the energy I can get today. In minutes I am ready to go. I peel three ten-pound notes from the money stashed away in my boot and drop one each beside the sleeping heads of my house mates. They don’t stir.
Outside the dank air wraps around me and the pale orange glow of the streetlights washes across the puddles in the road. I set off, heading east across town. This one was always going to prove a challenge but it will be worth it in the end.
I trudge along the side roads, occasionally the local bus service stops to pick up people on their way to work. I envy them sat in their heated environment, nodding gently with the motion of the bus. I munch on another energy bar, the temptation to buy a ticket and save myself a heap of trouble weighs heavily on me. But that would be stupid. What is the point of avoiding the CCTV on the streets only to jump up onto the platform of a bus in full view of the on-board camera? No - as painful as this is - I have to stick to my plan.
After a two hours forced march I emerge through a group of houses onto a disused trading estate. The perimeter fence has long since been dismantled and the security hut lays in ruins. There must have been something worth guarding at some point but that time has long since passed. A huge concrete and metal clad warehouse stands tall in the centre of the plot, its saw-toothed roofline cutting a bleak silhouette against the morning sky. I walk across the yard, the crumbling tarmac and rubble crunching beneath my feet.
I put my full weight behind the door and it grinds open on rusted hinges. The cavernous echo reverberates off the walls as I slip inside. The huge space opens up in front of me; black metal stanchions stand in regimented lines holding up the roof, reminding me of the underneath of the central pier. Maybe that’s why I chose this place.
The racking has gone but the tyre marks of forklifts are still visible on the floor. I weave my way through the support structure to the back and through a door into what used to be the changing room. There are no signs of tramps or homeless people living here because the building is too far out of town, making the daily ritual of begging for money almost impossible.
I flick on my torch and the outlines of low benches come into view along with banks of lockers lined up against the walls. I walk over to a pile of wood stacked in the corner, reach down and pull out a screwdriver. I push the flat edge into the lock of the nearest locker, slam the heel of my hand into the handle and twist. The metallic bang reverberates around the room. I do the same with the locker door next to it. There is a screeching noise and the door opens. I shine the torch inside the two lockers to see food packets, water and a camping stove along with a box of essentials such as cutlery, cable ties, rope and a couple of cheap mobile phones. I check off the supplies in my head, it’s not as extensive a larder as I had in the Lakeland but it will do for what I have in mind. This is my bolthole location. I was hoping not to use it but it’s better than bedding down in a solvent sniffing hovel.
I dump my sleeping bag inside, lock the doors and make my way back through the warehouse and out onto the yard. It’s a relatively short walk from here.
Forty minutes later I am stood in a bus shelter at the mouth of Craven Avenue, looking up the road. The drizzling rain patters onto the Perspex canopy above my head. I can see the police car, a uniformed officer wearing a high-vis jacket stands on the pavement outside one of the houses. He’s looking up and down the road as if he is expecting someone.
A bus turns the corner. I shake my head and wave my hand, but it stops anyway and a woman carrying a toddler gets off. The doors hiss shut and it pulls away. I look up the street to see the copper has been joined by a man and a woman, both wearing suits. I strain my eyes – that’s the woman who recognised me in CJU, DI Kray I think her name is. All three of them are chatting. Another vehicle pulls up behind them and a man jumps out.
I watch as the new guy walks towards the others. Kray breaks off to meet him.
Fucking hell, now that’s a turn up.
The new guy is waving his arms in the air and his head is moving in short jerky movements. They look like they are having an argument. Kray turns her back on him to join the others and all three of them troop into the house. The man returns to his car, sliding himself into the driver’s seat.
I expect the car to pull away, but it just sits there.
My head is reeling.
What the hell is he doing there? I have a plan but this is a game-changer.
I pull the hood forward on my coat and stride out, keeping my head down. My breathing is heavy and my heart thuds in my chest. Thirty feet, twenty feet, ten feet – I count down the distance. When I am level with the back-passenger door I yank it open and pile into the back seat.
I pull the knife from my boot and stick the blade into the side of the man’s neck.
‘Don’t turn around, Chris, just fucking drive.’
45
Millican jumps in his seat as my knife bites into his neck.
‘What the f—’
‘Shut up and drive.’ I press the blade into his flesh. He swivels a quarter turn and the knife scores a red line about an inch in length to the left side of his Adam’s apple.
‘Ah!’ he yelps and pulls away, bringing his hand up to the wound.
I grab hold of his shoulder with my free hand. ‘Drive or I will open you up right now.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Millican starts the car and pulls away from the kerb, shifting quickly through the gears. His eyes are fixed on the rear-view mirror.
‘Keep your eyes on the road, we don’t want any accidents.’
‘What the fuck are you doing, Alex?’
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘What?’
‘I said where’s your phone?’
‘In the pocket of my jeans.’
‘Keep your right hand on the wheel, lift it out between your thumb and finger of your left hand and give it to me.’
‘What the hell?’
‘Do it or so help me I will slice you up.’ The blade draws more blood as I dig it into his skin.
Millican reaches down to his hip and fiddles with the pocket, shuffling around in his seat. He draws out the mobile and holds it up, I snatch it from his grasp.
‘Where are we going?’ he says turning his head.
‘Take a left at the end.’ I push the button in the armrest and the window lowers to half-way, I toss the phone onto the road.
‘Alex, this is not what you think.’
‘Oh and what am I thinking?’
‘I am not helping the police, I was—’
‘Shut it, Chris, I’m not interested. Take the next right.’
‘Honest, I wasn’t. Me and the detective woman are seeing each other.’
‘Do you usually date her in the street surrounded by a bunch of coppers?’
‘No we had a fight and she wouldn’t talk to me, so I showed up at her place of work and saw her driving off. I followed her. That’s all. I swear to you, I’m not helping them.’
‘Fucking hell, Chis, that is a cracking cover story. Go straight over the traffic lights then turn left.’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘The Brotherhood, Chris, do you remember the Brotherhood?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘You don’t break the Brotherhood.’
‘I didn’t, I mean I haven’t. Me and Roz are seeing each other, that’s it. You got to believe me.’
‘No, Chris, I don’t.’
We drive along a dual carriage way and turn right off a roundabout into a h
ousing estate. After weaving through a tight labyrinth of streets, we eventually emerge onto a narrow road and pull through a set of gates onto the yard of the disused warehouse.
‘Around the side.’ We skirt the front of the building and into a large covered lean-to which was once used to wash the lorries. The car is not fully concealed but it will have to do. ‘Kill the engine.’
Millican turns the key and sits with his hands in his lap, blood soaking into his shirt collar. I yank at the door handle and jump from the vehicle, brandishing the knife. He had anticipated my move.
Millican launches himself across the driver’s seat and flings open the passenger door. I am on the opposite side of the vehicle, forced to watch as he claws himself across the passenger seat. His feet hit the ground and he’s away.
‘You little shit.’
Millican darts across the yard and disappears through a side door into the building. He has ten metres start on me, but I figure cutting up dead people for a living isn’t conducive to honing your fitness. I slam my hand down onto the bonnet and give chase.
The sound of his trainers slapping against the concrete floor echoes around the cavernous space. I am gaining on him as he dodges between the metal stanchions towards the back of the building. I am nearly on him but he switches direction, doubling back on himself. I can see the exertion etched into his face, his arms and legs pumping at the air.
He has his eyes fixed on the door at the front. If he makes it he will be across the yard and onto the estate. I power forward, gaining on him with every stride. His head is tilted back as he gulps air into his burning lungs like a sprinter going for the tape.
He’s tiring - I’m not.
I shove him sideways. He spirals off and collides with one of the girders holding up the roof. There is a sickening splat as his face leaves a bloody smear on the black metal surface. His body corkscrews in the air and he lands in a twisted heap on the floor. I stand over him with my hands on my knees, still clutching my knife.
