Ox stopped in front of the desk. He knew better than to lean on it in its just-polished condition.
‘It does not have to specifically say do not do that. I mean, sweet Jesus and all the saints in heaven, some things you just know you should not do.’
Grace opened her mouth wide, anger filling her eyes. ‘Now, you listen to me …’ She looked up at Ox. ‘He hung up on me! Rude man! Whoever manufactured him needs a serious talking-to.’ Grace pulled off her headset and sat down.
Ox pointed at the flowers. ‘Where’d these come from?’
Grace’s face lit up. ‘I do not know, but the card says “from a secret admirer”! I think Hannah must have caught the eye of that policeman.’
‘The one investigating Simon’s …?’ Ox left the sentence hanging.
The smile dropped from Grace’s face as she leaned forward and looked up at him. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I am sorry. You are just back from visiting poor Simon’s mother, aren’t you?’
Ox nodded.
‘How was she?’
Ox let out a long sigh. ‘Bad. I mean … I’d expected her not to be, y’know … but …’
Grace patted him on the arm. ‘I know it is tough. I’m sure she appreciated you dropping by.’
Ox shrugged. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure she realized I was there. There were a few women with her. She just sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the floor. Poor woman.’
‘Well,’ said Grace, ‘that boy was all she had. I cannot even begin to imagine.’ She clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
‘Yeah,’ said Ox. ‘You know how you’re religious and that, Grace?’
‘Yes, Ox.’
‘Well …’ He paused, looking for the right words. ‘I mean, I’ve never been. No disrespect and that, just not my thing.’
‘You know I do not judge, Ox.’
Ox nodded. He liked Grace, but one of the things he definitely knew about her was that she loved to judge people. He’d seen her go through an entire magazine, issuing judgements on every person mentioned as she did so. He’d worried she might be weird when she found out he was gay, but, to be fair to her, she hadn’t been. The only thing that had changed was how instead of giving him pamphlets to come to services at her church and find himself ‘a nice decent woman’, she’d just swapped it to ‘a nice decent man’. Clearly the Manchester New Reformed was on the more liberal end of the spectrum.
‘I was just …’ said Ox. ‘I mean, do you really believe in heaven and hell and all that?’
Grace nodded. ‘I do. I try to keep myself right with the Lord. I know my dear departed husbands are up in heaven right now, waiting patiently for me.’
‘Right,’ said Ox, who did not want to ask further questions relating to how Grace saw that working exactly. ‘Yeah. Thing is, if you do something really bad … Is that, like, you’re out for definite? Or can you, like, make it right?’
‘Well,’ said Grace, with a dangerously enthusiastic light in her eyes that told him he was going to start getting pamphlets again, ‘the blessed Lord washes all souls who truly want it in the sweet waters of his forgiveness.’
‘Right,’ said Ox, with an unsure nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’ asked Grace, her tone shifting from evangelical to suspicious. ‘What did you do?’
‘Well,’ said Ox, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Y’know how Banecroft told me to go and, y’know, find out what happened to Simon’s camera?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, his mum, poor woman … She’s, y’know, out of it. No point asking her nothing.’
Grace’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did you do, Ox?’
He held up a hand. ‘Just give me a sec. So, I … And remember, we’re trying to find out what happened to the poor lad. I mean, he was my mate. I was the one who went down the pub with him and I gave him advice on his camera gear. Like, back-ups and all that. He was able to set it up so it backed up over wi-fi. I helped him do that. We were proper mates, like … I mean, he lent me a hundred quid!’
Ox looked at Grace’s darkening expression and realized that sharing the last bit might not have been one of his best ideas. ‘And I’m absolutely going to give it back to his ma, with interest. Once I, y’know, have it.’ Ox ran a hand across his beard. He was beginning to seriously regret trying to explain this. ‘So, all right, I go upstairs – to use the loo, like – and I nip into Simon’s room, just to see if I can spot the camera.’
‘Right.’
‘And it isn’t there. But, like I said, I helped him with his gear, and I remembered that the camera is set to back up over wi-fi. Any photos and that.’
‘What is the point you are trying to make, Ox?’
‘I’m trying to tell you. His photos backed up to the cloud, and then, because you can’t trust nothing on the net, man – the big corporations are in the pocket of—’
‘Ox,’ said Grace, trying to stop him going off on one.
‘All right, I’m just … I did a bad thing … Maybe not that bad?’
‘Ox!’
‘But I did it for a good reason. Trying to, y’know, find out what happened to the poor lad.’
‘So help me God, if you don’t get to the point this instant!’
Ox reached into his record bag and pulled out a black box about the size of a paperback. ‘I … I sorta temporarily borrowed his hard drive back-up. I’m gonna give it back.’
Grace folded her arms. ‘That was a very stupid thing to do, Ox.’
‘I know! I sorta panicked.’
‘You have to give it back.’
Ox nodded emphatically. ‘Yeah, absolutely. No doubt. No doubt. Thing is – I’ve done it now.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Might as well see what pictures he took.’
CHAPTER 29
It took about forty-five minutes in the end.
Hannah and Reggie had found a bench near a pub and watched a couple of narrowboats pass by slowly. They sat huddled together, their coats pulled tight around them. While it was at least dry, this was brisk-walk weather, not sitting-around weather. A couple of Canada geese hissed as they waddled past.
‘Geese,’ said Reggie, ‘not unlike swans, seem to get by in life exclusively on their looks.’
‘Do you think?’ said Hannah absent-mindedly. She was keeping watch on the bend in the canal around which the abandoned barge was moored.
‘Absolutely. The grace, the poise, the elegant long necks and beautiful feathers – it all rather distracts from the fact that they are utter, utter bastards.’
‘Yeah. Aren’t swans owned by the Queen?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Reggie. ‘Just like most of her grandchildren.’
‘Yes, well …’ This diverted Hannah’s attention. ‘Wait, what?’
Reggie nodded. ‘Yes, under some weird royal charter or other, she is the legal custodian of the quote-unquote “minor grandchildren”. Apparently it dates back to King George the First thinking his son, the eventual King George the Second, was an utter buffoon.’
‘Right,’ said Hannah. ‘Wow. Are you a big royal-watcher, then?’
‘Good God, no. It was in an old copy of Marie Claire. Only magazine in my GP’s office last week.’
‘Oh, right. I …’ Hannah trailed off. She had finally spotted whom she had been waiting for.
The girl came around the corner, her shoulders hunched and her hands shoved into her coat pockets, moving at a choppy near-run and glancing around her nervously. When she saw Hannah and Reggie she stopped, and for a second Hannah thought she might run the other way. Instead, she turned to her right and, with a subtle nod, headed across the lawn and out of view behind the pub.
‘She seems very nervous,’ said Hannah.
‘Yes,’ agreed Reggie, ‘she rather does.’
Hannah stood up. ‘You stay here – I’m going to go talk to her alone.’
Reggie’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘She’s our only lead – I don’t want to scare her off.’
‘Relax, she’s tiny.’
‘Yes, but her two mates aren’t. What if they’re waiting around the corner?’
Hannah had to admit she hadn’t thought of this. ‘I’ll be careful. I promise, no dark alleyways.’
‘Dear girl, spoken like someone who has never been robbed in broad daylight.’
Hannah found the girl lurking nervously in the pub’s car park. She tried to give her a reassuring smile as she approached. It was only as she got closer that she realized the ‘girl’ was probably in her late twenties. Her emaciated appearance had made her look younger from a distance, but not in a good way. She was hunched and jittery, and her chewed fingernails tugged nervously at the zip of her anorak.
‘Hello,’ said Hannah, trying to sound cheery.
The young woman shushed her and flapped her hand nervously. ‘Keep it down. I don’t want people seeing me talking to you.’
‘OK,’ said Hannah. ‘No problem. Would you like to go inside for a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘They don’t let us in there. Was that true, what you said? About your friend – the guy with the glasses?’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘He’s dead.’
The girl’s eyes became wide saucers of fear. ‘Fuck.’ She started to walk away.
Hannah held out her hand. ‘Please – wait. I just want to talk to you.’
‘No, no, no.’ She shook her head again.
‘Look, I need to find out what you talked about. That’s all. I promise I won’t tell anyone. Just two minutes.’
The girl looked around again, her left leg jiggling as she did so, scanning her surroundings like a trapped animal. ‘Fuck,’ she repeated. She nodded towards one of the pub’s fire exits and they stood inside the doorway. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Simon? He …’ Hannah flinched at having to describe it. This woman had already nearly bolted once. ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why I need your help.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Hannah.’
The girl looked at her hand but didn’t take it. Then, after a pause that Hannah reckoned was spent making up something, said, ‘Karen. I’m Karen.’
‘Right. Thanks. So when did you meet him? Simon?’
Karen sniffed and spoke while looking everywhere but at Hannah. ‘Few days ago. I didn’t know his name. He was nice, though. Gave me a cup of tea from his flask thing.’
Hannah nodded. ‘Yes, he was a good guy.’
‘He came around asking about Long John. It was the day they found him.’
‘Tuesday?’ said Hannah.
Karen shrugged. ‘I dunno. He said he’d be back the next day. Said he was going to bring his boss with him.’ She looked into Hannah’s eyes directly for the first time. ‘He said there’d be cash in it.’
‘Right,’ said Hannah, unsure what to say next. ‘Well, there might be. What did you tell him exactly?’
She shifted nervously. ‘Did he not tell you?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘It’s gonna sound mental.’
‘Try me,’ said Hannah, trying to look encouraging. ‘You’d be surprised what I’d believe. It’s been a hell of a week.’
Reggie slumped with relief when he saw Hannah re-emerge from behind the pub. He’d been on the verge of going to look for her, his desire not to spook the girl and blow their morning’s investigative endeavours outweighed by his concern to make sure that Hannah wasn’t bleeding in an alley somewhere.
Hannah gave him a nervous smile as she approached with the girl walking behind her fretfully. ‘Ehm, Reggie, could you lend me some money, please?’
Reggie looked from Hannah to the girl and back again. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah, her smile tightening. ‘I mean … I’ll explain in a minute, but could you …’
‘Oh. Right. Yes.’
He pulled out his wallet and opened it. He had two twenty-pound notes. ‘Is twenty enough?’
The girl spoke for the first time. ‘The fella said it’d be a couple of ton.’
‘OK,’ said Hannah. ‘Well, for the minute, we’ll give you forty. When we meet again, we can talk about proper payment.’
The girl scratched at her arm and then bit her lip before nodding.
Hannah looked at Reggie, who reluctantly handed her both notes. The girl reached out for them but Hannah pulled away gently. ‘Ah, first things first, Karen. Remember, you said you’d show us the spot.’
‘Right, yeah. C’mon, then.’
The girl turned and scurried back down the path at such speed that Reggie had to practically run to catch up with her and Hannah. Then she came to an abrupt halt. ‘I was standing here.’
‘OK, and where was …?’
Karen nodded across the water to the far side of the canal, at the wide-open space where Reggie and Hannah had stood earlier, watching the workmen fixing the brickwork. ‘See where that woman with the blue bag is? There. Few feet further back maybe – hard to tell.’ She looked away again quickly.
‘Sure.’
Karen turned and put out her hand. Reggie noticed it was shaking.
‘OK,’ said Hannah. ‘Remember: ring me later on. And you promised me you’d spend this money on food.’
Karen nodded again. Hannah held out the notes, which she snatched before hurrying off without another word.
‘Are you sure that was a good idea?’ said Reggie.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Hannah. ‘I mean … I’m not an idiot. I know that she’s … But I’ll tell you this, she’s also terrified.’
‘Of what?’
Hannah nodded in the direction of the bridge. Then she took a deep breath. ‘You know how our paper is full of some pretty incredible stuff?’
‘Well, yes.’
Hannah pointed. ‘See that building over there, the tall one?’
‘Yes,’ said Reggie, feeling increasingly confused.
‘Now, this will sound odd, but how far would you say it was – roughly – from the spot she pointed out to the top of that building?’
Reggie looked back and forth between the two. ‘I mean, I’m never great at this kind of thing, but I would imagine three or four hundred feet?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Hannah, ‘that’s about what I thought.’
Reggie folded his arms. ‘You realize you’re being infuriatingly vague, don’t you?’
Hannah nodded. ‘OK. Just … I know how this is going to sound, but keep an open mind. OK?’
Reggie gave a firm nod.
‘Right. Karen – although I’m pretty sure that’s not her name, but anyway – was walking past at about three o’clock on Monday night. Well, Tuesday morning, technically. She was standing about here when she saw something go flying through the air and hit that wall – the one with the damaged brickwork.’
‘Are we saying it was this Long John fellow?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s … I mean, what could do that?’
‘Well, she said it looked like a big hairy ape or something – only bigger – but she couldn’t be sure how big. It was dark. But she saw it. She watched as it put what she reckons was a second person over its shoulder and then—’
‘What?’
Part of Hannah felt ridiculous saying it out loud. ‘Then,’ she repeated, ‘it took a couple of steps and leaped from that point on the ground to the roof of that building.’
‘I see.’ He couldn’t keep the scepticism from his voice.
‘I know,’ said Hannah.
‘I mean, not to be rude, but are we sure she’s the most reliable of witnesses?’
‘No, we’re not. Thing is though, if she’s making it up she’s got a hell of an imagination. I mean, it would explain that damage to the brickwork at least, right?’
Reggie nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘And,’ said Hannah, ‘here’s the other thing. We’re here because Simon’s message said he was meeting so
meone that night, but there’s no CCTV evidence of anybody else on that roof. Or rather, there’s no CCTV evidence of anybody going up to the roof via the lift or stairs.’
Reggie put his hands to his mouth. ‘Oh my …’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘Exactly.’
CHAPTER 30
DI Sturgess would never forget the first dead body he ever saw. Nobody does – it is one of those life experiences that never leaves you, regardless of the circumstances. The circumstances of his had been quite peculiar.
His first week in uniform on the streets of Manchester had coincided with university Rag Week, which meant students trying to outdo each other in the stupid stakes – be it drunken dares, drunken pranks or just drunken drinking. Mostly, it had meant dealing with disorderly behaviour, occasional property damage and the odd fight. In all honesty, it was more of a pain in the arse for the ambulance crews than for the police, seeing as they had to stomach-pump the little nuisances.
The dead body in question had not been a student. He had been a man in his late forties. Sturgess didn’t know his name but he had been Cadaver 427X – whatever that meant. The medical students to which Cadaver 427X had been assigned for the term had nicknamed him Ralph. For Rag Week, they’d decided to dress up Ralph and take him out on the town – on a pub crawl, to be exact. Incredibly, they had proceeded to lose him.
In a panic, one of the students had made the regrettable decision of ringing the Greater Manchester Police to report Ralph as having been kidnapped. Sturgess and his training officer had escorted the three rapidly sobering-up students, who had realized belatedly that they were in all sorts of trouble, as they retraced their steps. Eventually Ralph was located in the corner of a nightclub, looking dishevelled and holding half a pint of mild. Most disturbingly, his face was smeared with lipstick.
What brought Ralph to mind was the fact that DI Sturgess was standing in the morgue at Royal Oldham Hospital. And it wasn’t the presence of the bodies that reminded him of the rogue cadaver, but rather the appearance of Dr Charlie Mason. In addition to the medical qualifications required to be a pathologist, one of the bare minimum standards you might be expected to uphold was looking healthier than your clientele. Mason looked as if he’d slept in a dumpster, only his bloodshot eyes indicated he probably hadn’t slept at all. He smelled of booze and regret.
The Stranger Times Page 20