by Chris Simms
Mirroring Greg’s casual tone, he said, ‘Well, it’s a dangerous game, dealing drugs.’
Greg’s mention of the drug dealer had got Jon thinking about Wayne – and the fact he still hadn’t been to see him in the hospital. He altered his drive home to go via the Manchester Royal Infirmary.
His face mask made it feel like the air lacked oxygen as he made his way down the quiet, gleaming corridor to the Intensive Care Unit. The nurse on the front desk briskly informed him there was no change, that it wasn’t worth him looking in, that the patient would be unresponsive.
Jon lifted his ID back off the counter. ‘I’m not here to try and take a statement. I’ve just come off duty and I’m on the way home. The bloke was a teammate of mine; we played rugby together. I don’t suppose he’s had any other visitor?’
She shook her head. ‘No. He hasn’t had anyone.’
‘Well, can I be the first?’
She sighed. ‘You’ll need to wear full overalls, face visor and gloves. And don’t touch anything, OK?’
Wayne had been placed in a room with three other patients, all of whom had suffered head traumas. ‘He’s first bed on your right,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate this.’ He turned and backed through the swing doors, keeping both hands raised in a surgeon’s stance. Extractor fans in the ceiling kept up a low hum. Despite their presence, the room felt close and stifling. Beeps, that in isolation would have been reassuringly slow, even relaxing, combined with those from all the other machines to create something similar to an amusement arcade. One at the far end of the room one of them made a sudden chirruping sound and Jon tensed, worrying it was the precursor to an alarm going off.
Stands and trolleys beside each bed partially obscured the motionless figure which lay in each one. Jon wondered briefly how the other patients had sustained their injuries. Car crashes? Toppling ladders? Tumbles down stairs? Hopefully, nothing as sinister as what happened to you, he thought, turning to where Wayne was stretched out.
Bandages covered the top of his skull. His head was tipped back, a ventilator tube protruding from his partly open mouth. Little scraps of white material were pinned over his eyelids to keep them shut. In the dim light they reminded Jon of the coins people once placed over the eyes of those who’d passed away. Both arms were laid over the sheets. Jon spotted a few tattoos alongside several cuts and grazes as he moved closer to the bed.
His voice was muffled behind his mask and visor. ‘Hi Wayne, it’s Jon. Jon Spicer. Come to see how you’re doing, mate.’
He glanced at the nearest monitor, searching for something among the moving lines that might indicate Wayne knew he was here. Some coma patients were aware of sounds, weren’t they? He remembered stories of kids who’d come round when played messages from their idols: footballers, actors or singers.
‘Sorry, pal, you just got me. We talked the other day. You were remembering that rugby match we both played in. Out near Liverpool. The one where someone tried to gouge your eyes?’ He thought he detected the tiniest of tremors behind Wayne’s eyelids. Might adrenaline-fuelled memories spark something? He leaned closer. ‘The fat fucking Scouse bastard. I got my fingers round his neck, didn’t I? Dropped him to the floor like a sack of shit. Yeah?’ He checked the screen again, hoping his words may have caused the man’s pulse to pick up, even by a fraction. ‘Tough matches back then, hey? Get on the wrong side of a ruck and you got a proper shoeing. Studs down your back, arms and legs stamped all over. I bet you had a few of those playing prop?’ The lines on the monitor continued unchanged. He looked down at Wayne’s slack features. In your head is the killer’s face.
He checked the swing doors were properly shut. ‘Wayne, what happened to you?’ he asked more loudly. ‘Someone else was there when you fell, weren’t they?’ He extended a hand across the ruffled sheet, slipped an index finger beneath Wayne’s left hand. ‘Just squeeze my finger if they were. Press down, tap it, anything you can manage. Did someone throw you off that fire escape? Someone who wore black?’ He waited for some kind of reaction. A flinch, however faint. ‘Wayne, was it the same person you saw on the roof of the car park?’
Nothing happened.
Spicer, he said to himself, sliding his finger back out. That would have been way too fucking easy.
He stepped out of Holly’s room and pulled the door almost shut. She had been fast asleep, same as Dug in his room. After brushing his teeth, he stripped to his boxer shorts in the bathroom, leaving his clothes neatly folded on the washing basket in the corner. Less noise in the bedroom when he went through.
Alice was facing away from him, curled on her side. He paused for a moment, guilt washing over him at how much he left her to cope on her own. And, a little voice in his head added, you still haven’t told her what you’re up to yet. Idiot.
He turned the duvet down and climbed in, doing his best not to disturb her. The bedside clock said twelve fifty-two. In just a few hours’ time, the alarm would sound. Christ, he thought to himself, I’m so knackered.
Chapter 19
‘Oi, Spicer!’
He opened his eyes with a start, not sure where he was.
A hand was shaking his shoulder.
‘We’re here, Scouser-Land.’
He hauled himself upright and looked out the vehicle’s window. To the left was a large sign. Welcome to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. Above us only sky.
Last thing he remembered, they were queuing to join the traffic crawling along the M602 over in Manchester. He checked his watch. Quarter past nine. I’ve been asleep for over an hour.
‘You were snoring and everything,’ Kieran said. ‘Properly out for the count.’
Jon wiped a bit of moisture from the corner of his mouth. ‘And dribbling.’
‘She been keeping you up late, has she? Alicia. Likes a bit of heavy servicing, is that it?’
Jon shook his head. ‘You’re such a knob.’
The airport’s perimeter fence was suddenly close beside them as they followed a turn-off towards the main terminal. The airport was much smaller than Manchester’s. Jon thought back to when he’d last used it. A cheap flight to Barcelona with Alice, before they had kids. Two nights spent wandering from bar to cafe to bar. No worries in the world.
As far as he could remember, back then, both airports had been a similar size. Manchester’s must have more than doubled, since. And now it was pitching for another expansion.
‘What do you reckon they want to come over here for?’ Kieran asked.
‘Who knows?’
‘Maybe Liverpool are trying to offer them a cheaper deal.’
‘Might seem cheaper,’ Jon said, ‘until they factor in having all the tyres nicked off their airplanes.’
Kieran laughed. ‘So, you reckon they’re robbing little bastards, Scousers?’
Jon was looking around him with narrowed eyes. ‘Yup.’
‘You lot hate them, don’t you?’
‘Us lot?’
‘Mancs. You all hate Scousers.’
‘Can’t trust them,’ Jon replied. But he’d let more than a hint of sarcasm into his voice; in his opinion, the rivalry between the two cities was hyped to a ridiculous level. Unless you were a football fan, and then it was probably genuine. But he didn’t follow football.
‘Maybe they’re fans of the Beatles,’ Kieran said, nodding towards a sign bearing John Lennon’s name.
‘Don’t get me started on that.’ Jon sighed.
‘On what?’
‘How they try and cash in on the Beatles at every opportunity. Who else does that? Names their airport after a local famous person?’
‘Doesn’t Nottingham? Isn’t theirs the Robin Hood airport?’
‘He wasn’t a singer: he robbed from the rich and gave to the poor!’
The two Jaguars were now indicating right. A security gate was starting to roll back. Beyond it was a small parking area filled with expensive cars. Kieran pulled into
a restricted bay to the side of the main road. ‘Isn’t there a Nelson Mandela airport out in South Africa?’
‘Maybe, but my point stands. He deserves it. What did John Lennon do? Sang bloody songs.’
‘I quite like the Beatles,’ Kieran said.
Jon nodded at the radio. ‘Well, find Liverpool FM. You can be sure they’ll be bloody playing them.’
His phone rang shortly before noon: Iona’s name on the screen.
‘Hi there.’
‘Hello. Where are you?’
‘Liverpool Airport, sitting in a car, waiting. You?’
‘Well done on getting the green light from Weir.’
‘He was just setting off home; the bloke was so desperate to get going, he would have approved of anything. So, you’ve been in touch with whoever you needed to?’
‘Yup. But don’t get excited.’
‘They’ve got back to you?’
‘Yeah – to my surprise. It was the Ministry of Defence, after all.’
‘So what did they say?’
‘You want the long or short version?’
‘Short’s good.’
‘OK. All the victims had some overseas postings, but not ones where they all overlapped at the same time. There’s no common dominator with countries or specific bases, either. Frank Kilby had spent the most time abroad, but he was the oldest. Compare that to Roy Jarratt, say: he had only been to Cyprus and Germany. Neither time when Frank Kilby had been posted there.’
‘You’re saying it’s a non-starter?’
‘I’ll take another look after lunch, but I’m not crossing my fingers. Anyway, I’d better get back to my transcripts. When are you due back?’
‘Late afternoon.’
‘See you then.’
‘Cheers, Iona.’ As soon as he cut the call, he could feel Kieran’s gaze on him.
‘Sounds interesting. More on the rough sleepers?’
By the time Jon had brought him up to speed, Kieran was looking completely bemused. ‘If you’re ruling out the army connection, what does that leave? Just their time sleeping rough in Manchester?’
‘I suppose so,’ Jon replied. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘If they’re being targeted because they’re rough sleepers who served in the army, maybe you should be asking how someone found that out. Could they have declared it when signing up for benefits or applying for housing?’
Jon turned in his seat. ‘You mean someone working for the council? Like an admin clerk, for instance?’
Kieran shrugged. ‘Or do they put that on the forms at homeless hostels, maybe?’
‘Good point,’ Jon said. ‘That’s worth checking. I can try and find that out from my contact.’
‘Who’s your contact?’
‘Another rough sleeper – who was also in the army. He’s agreed to help.’
The gates beside them started to beep. Jon looked through the narrow metal bars as a group of people started to leave the building. He spotted her towards the rear, talking to a silver-haired man. She was wearing a black suit, the skirt coming down to just below her knees. Black heels, not too high. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate plait and he found himself wondering whether it was something she’d managed to do herself. A childhood skill? A routine so ingrained she could do it by touch alone? He imagined her sitting on her bed in her hotel room, listening to the morning news on CNN or Bloomberg or another of those American channels as her fingers worked nimbly away. Had her mum taught her?
Where did she grow up? Somewhere rural, like a farm in one of those dust bowl states? Or had she lived a city life? If her dad had been some big shot, he doubted it had been poor, wherever it was.
They were now saying their goodbyes, shaking hands and stepping back. The door to her Jaguar had been opened for her and, as she turned to the vehicle, her eyes moved across the car park. Had she spotted them? Had she seen him looking across? He couldn’t tell as she ducked her head and vanished from view.
The banners that stood on either side of the plate glass doors of the Bridgewater Hall fluttered slightly. Block letters printed on the upper part of the taut nylon material spelled two words: Northern Powerhouse. Below them was, effectively, a subheading. Where do we go from here? The line at the bottom spoke of a symposium organised by the DBT Foundation.
Removing his face mask as he emerged from the building, Ed Farnham paused on the smooth flagstones; the two aides shadowing him had to alter step so they didn’t bump into him. Immediately behind them was an intern with a camera slung round his neck.
‘Next?’ Farnham asked.
‘So,’ the aide on his right said. ‘We’re due over at the Eye Hospital in fifty minutes.’
‘That’s to do what?’ he asked, starting to walk briskly again.
‘A new piece of scanning equipment. Part-funded by the university.’
‘Manchester?’
‘No, Salford.’
‘Ah-ha. Then?’
‘Diary’s clear until this evening.’
‘Good.’ His mind went back to the speech he’d just given to the assortment of business leaders, charity representatives and academics. They’d seemed to appreciate his positive words and upbeat attitude. As much as a crowd like that could be expected to, anyway.
‘Mr Farnham? Mr Farnham?’
A split-second glance told him all he needed to know: a young man approaching from the direction of the metallic globe sculpture to his right. Not carrying anything, on his own, no one recording anything. No threat. Probably some sort of activist. The aide on that side peeled away to deal with him. Even so, Farnham wondered if he should have slightly better security for these public events; attacks on politicians were getting worryingly common.
Only a matter of time before someone decided a mayor was worth targeting, too. And what good would either of his two aides be? They could wield a fountain pen and that was it. But having proper security would detract from his brand. He portrayed himself as a man of the people, bred and raised in the region, not some Westminster would-be. A down-to-earth type, sticking up for the city, not seduced by the allure of London.
He didn’t bother slowing down. Clive could deflect the person and then catch them up. He’d got another ten steps before the person started calling his name again. Fuck’s sake, Clive, he thought. Take the man’s sodding email address and send him on his way.
‘It’s about your daughter, Liv!’
Farnham’s step slowed. Liv. Not Olivia. She only let people who knew her use that version of her name. He glanced back. Clive was trying to prevent the man from getting any closer. The pair of them were crabbing sideways towards a shallow flight of steps that led down to a water feature.
Ed Farnham’s eyes swept the immediate area again. A few members of the public were in the vicinity. A tram was approaching from the direction of the Central Library. There was an office block close by with windows overlooking them.
The man called out once more. ‘Have you heard from her in the past few days?’
Jesus. Of course I haven’t. As far as he could tell, the man really was on his own. It didn’t seem like an incident engineered to embarrass him; a photographer hiding somewhere close, ready to start snapping away. He turned round properly. ‘Clive, it’s OK.’
The aide lowered his arms and stepped aside. Farnham got a better look at the person. Early twenties, straggly hair. Stubble. A fluorescent workman’s jacket which, nowadays, was as much of a fashion statement as a requirement of any building site. Baggy combat trousers and heavy-looking boots. He hoped the person wasn’t a boyfriend, but suspected he probably was.
‘What’s this about?’ he said, careful to keep his voice low and professionally detached.
‘Your daughter, Liv?’ He pointed briefly at his chest. ‘I’m Ben? I think she may have mentioned ...’
Farnham gave a little shake of his head. Of course he remembered the name, but he wasn’t going to reveal that. ‘Sorry.’
The man looked momentar
ily hurt and Farnham knew he had control of this. ‘How can I help you, Ben?’
‘Me and Liv, we’ve been together. Sharing a place together—’
He raised a hand. The tram was almost alongside. This encounter needed to be somewhere more private. ‘Let’s head down here a minute.’ He descended the fight of steps at a trot. The expanse of water had a fountain in its middle. Pattering droplets, which was good. Harder for anyone to overhear. At the bottom of the steps was a boarded-up bar. Usual signs of the doorway being used by a homeless person: food wrappers and flattened cardboard. Was there any disused doorway in the city centre that didn’t have stuff like that clogging it up?
He turned round, keeping his voice very quiet. ‘Carry on, please.’
The man looked back up the steps, clocked the two aides waiting at the top with tight expressions on their faces. ‘Er ... OK ... we’ve been seeing each other for the last year or so,’ he whispered. ‘She hasn’t said anything ...?’
Ed shook his head. ‘Ben, you’ll have gathered she has issues with me. There hasn’t been any contact.’
Ben broke eye contact to look at the ground. ‘Right. I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth when she said she wasn’t speaking to you. She really isn’t.’
‘She really isn’t.’
‘Well, me and Liv.’ He now glanced skyward. ‘Shit, this is awkward. She ... she got pregnant.’
Ed felt his heart thud a couple of times. Oh Christ.
‘She said she wanted it. We both wanted it. But she found it difficult, the pregnancy. I think, basically, she got depressed. Then, once she had the baby, she definitely was.’
‘She’s had a baby?’