by Steve Howell
“No worse than how everything else is looking. And it’s not as if I’m going to give them my own name. I’ll go there like any other punter looking for a workout. I’ll say I’m in Newport, on business or something.”
Mimi laughed, louder and longer than was polite. “Face it Liam, you don’t look like a bodybuilder any more. If you ever did.”
I looked down at my torso. Her comment seemed a tad harsh, but there were a few flabby folds there, and I straightened up to stretch them out.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll say I’m trying to get back in shape, and at least I won’t look like a novice...”
Mimi raised her eyebrows sceptically, but before I could respond my phone started to vibrate on the table, crawling towards the toast. I grabbed it and hit the answer button.
“Liam, she passed!” Jackie shrieked.
“Passed what?” I said.
“The test, you idiot. She passed the drugs test, at the trials. It all came back clear. I’ve just had a call from UK Athletics. They were fretting about it because of all the gossip. But she’s clear.”
I had completely forgotten about the automatic test she’d have had after the final. They were so routine now you didn’t give them a moment’s thought.
“She passed,” I said to Mimi.
Mimi was holding both hands out flat, palms down, motioning them up and down like a conductor who wants the orchestra to play more softly.
“I heard,” she whispered, raising her eyebrows towards the dozen or so people still having breakfast. “And so did most of the frigging restaurant.”
“Have you spoken to her?” I asked Jackie, making a point now of not mentioning Meg by name.
“Not a dickie-bird,” said Jackie. “I’ve tried about four times this morning. I eventually gave up and left a message about the test.”
“Hopefully some good news will help,” I said.
Mimi looked at me sceptically and leaned forward to within a few inches of the phone, close enough for Jackie to hear.
“But why wouldn’t she expect anything other than a clear test?” she said. “It’s only us that should have reason to feel relieved. Isn’t it?”
She had a point. Megan had no reason to be concerned about the test if she was clean. And maybe she wasn’t concerned – maybe this was a non-event for her. But this wasn’t a conversation I wanted to continue now.
“We’re still having breakfast,” I said to Jackie. “Best if we call you later.”
Jackie hung-up. Mimi sat back in her chair, looking out through the double doors at the trees and yellow lawn stretching towards a field beyond where two horses were munching on the dry tufts of grass.
“I guess it’s something though,” she said, ruefully, as much to herself as me.
I sensed someone at my shoulder and looked up to see first a navy zipper-jacket and then the face of a man in his forties with a pink complexion and thinning brown hair.
“Inspector Richards,” he said, putting a business card down on the table. “Sorry to interrupt your little breakfast… Liam McCarthy?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I said. “I recognise you from Celtic Manor.”
Richards smiled and sat down, uninvited, on the chair next to Mimi, facing me.
“Yes, I think we were looking for the same person. Any joy?
I shook my head. “You?”
He shook his.
“So you know we’re not journalists, right?” Mimi said, pushing her plate away and sitting upright, arms folded, like she was waiting for an apology for being thrown out of Celtic Manor at his instigation. She was being optimistic.
“Yes, Miss Jacobs,” he said. “You do the PR and he does the coaching.”
“I guess your pals told you where we were staying,” I said, but he looked puzzled. “The officers who stopped us last night…?”
“For what?”
“Apparently, Mimi was driving too slowly.”
The inspector gave another little shake of his head. “That’s news to me, I’m afraid,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. “Must have been routine.”
Mimi almost laughed out loud and shot him a ‘don’t-give-me-that-bullshit’ look.
“Let’s find somewhere to talk,” he said.
I sensed Mimi was ready to object, but this was a conversation with a police officer I wanted to have. We might learn something. I stood up, leaving my cereal half-eaten.
“I’d really like to see the Roman amphitheatre while I’m here,” I suggested.
We walked without speaking along the hotel drive, the gravel crunching noisily under our feet, and turned left onto a road that led to the amphitheatre. It was a proper arena, big enough for a tennis match. The centuries had reduced the stands to six grassy mounds held in place by the original stone walls, but you could easily imagine it crowded with spectators watching some gory Roman spectacle.
We stopped for a moment to read the potted history; how six thousand legionnaires had gathered there two thousand years earlier for their sport.
“Not quite the Olympic stadium in Rio,” Richards said, “but I’m sure it had its moments.”
There was nothing I could say to that, and I sensed Mimi flinching next to me.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the reports,” he continued, speaking with almost theatrical intonation like he was imitating Richard Burton. “We’ve reopened the investigation into the death of Matt Davies, and I’ve been asked to lead it. And with all due respect to the Olympics, it’s a very serious matter. I need Megan to help me with my inquiries.”
Mimi was still prickly. “Why?” she said. “What’s it got to do with her?”
“To be fair, I don’t actually know. You might say that’s the whole point. I need to find out, because I owe it to the family to leave no stone unturned. I’m revisiting everything. The family wasn’t satisfied with the first inquiry, and my chief constable wants it all looked at again.”
He stared intently at each of us in turn as if wanting to emphasise how serious this was, and how determined he was to get to the bottom of what happened.
“Megan was one of the boy’s friends,” he continued. “She may know something that could help. I don’t know until I speak to her.”
Mimi and I exchanged looks, not sure what to say. The truth seemed simplest.
“We appear to be in the same boat, inspector,” I confessed. “We’d also like know what this is all about. But Meg seems determined to deal with it herself.”
“So it seems,” he said.
“How come you didn’t see her at Celtic Manor?”
“She checked-out… well, to be honest, she didn’t even check-out. She just disappeared. We understand she was with Driscoll, who we also want to interview again. And you don’t need me to point out they are not doing themselves any favours by avoiding me.”
He was right: I didn’t need him to point that out.
“Mr McCarthy, Miss Jacobs,” he said sternly. “A word to the wise. If you see Megan before I do, tell her to give me a call. You have my number now. The sooner I speak to her, the sooner we can clear this up and she can get back to winning a gold medal. I’m sure we’d all like to see her do that.”
9
No Frills Gym
Grange Road gym looked out of place in a residential backwater of well-kept, bay-windowed houses. It was based in a tatty converted warehouse, garishly decorated with banners advertising monthly weight lifting competitions and special offers for students. I pushed through a heavy plate-glass entrance door into a dark hallway leading to a reception area that was definitely at the no-frills end of the spectrum. There were no plush carpets, armchairs, marble fountains or beauty products. A small counter stood in front of makeshift shelves piled high with just-about legal products I’d seen many times before - protein powders, energy supplements and ‘anabolic’ muscle fuel – sold on overblown claims about the ‘serious mass’ they build.
A door next to the shelves opened and a man of about my age appeared. He
looked like he was fresh from an army boot camp, with shaved head, a ring in his nostril and tattooed biceps bulging out of a sleeveless grey T-shirt.
It was a far cry from the gym I’d been using for years on campus, but that was as expected. What I was less certain about was what I was trying to achieve. Mimi had been insisting all morning that no good would come of my curiosity. She had even refused to offer me a lift, staying back at the hotel to catch up on emails. But I couldn’t sit around waiting for Meg to phone any longer. I needed to do something.
“Alright buddy?” the boot-camp man said.
I took that as a question. “I’d like to do a work-out, if that’s okay?” I said, self-consciously, the words echoing around the room. “I’m a visitor – only in town for a few days. How much is it?”
The man looked me up and down, like he was suspicious. Or maybe that was my paranoia. Why would he be suspicious?
“A friend recommended this place.” I added, unnecessarily, inviting a question I didn’t want to answer.
“A friend? Who was that then?”
This wasn’t going well. “Oh, just a guy who lives in Newport. He isn’t one of your members.”
He squinted at me sideways for a moment, and I held his look, throwing in an ingratiating smile.
“Three quid mate,” he said finally, pulling a clipboard from under the counter. “Sign this. Used this type of equipment before?”
I nodded, signed his form and gave him the cash, trying not to look surprised at how cheap it was.
“Changing rooms are over there,” he said, pointing towards double doors on the far side of the gym.
I walked across, trying to take everything in without looking too obviously like a snoop. The only other customers were two thick-set boys bench-pressing weights so heavy the bar was buckling above them. They looked like clones of the receptionist, but twenty years younger.
The gym was a vast windowless space, much bigger than it appeared from the outside. Dotted around were machines, old but well-polished, with exposed levers and chords connected to chunky tablets of iron. Free weights were piled high on racks. Where there weren’t mirrors, the walls were covered with life-sized posters of men and women with freakish muscles. I stopped to admire a picture of someone called Eve, whose head seemed to be sinking into the mountainous tanned flesh of her shoulders. It was like something out of a freak show and not a look I could imagine Megan ever aspiring to. Not that she doesn’t have to do some heavy lifting of course, but it’s for building speed and not bulk for its own sake. And for the last two years, she’s been working out in the elite surroundings of the Lee Valley Centre of Excellence, with fellow athletes classed as having ‘podium’ potential. Somehow I couldn’t see her here – or could I?
I pushed through the double doors and found myself in a gloomy square space with four doors leading off it. The two to my right went into the male and female changing rooms. To my left were doors marked ‘Staff Only’ and ‘Treatment’.
No one was around. I listened at the door marked Staff and heard someone on the phone. I took a chance and tried the Treatment room, ready to plead poor eye sight. It was locked. As I turned to go into the changing room, I heard steps in the Staff room. I darted for the changing room door and was through it before anyone saw me.
What was I doing? Did I think they’d leave a stash of steroids on display in an unlocked room?
I was breathing heavily. Beads of sweat were forming on my face. I threw my kit bag down, pulled out a towel, wiped my face and looked around. The changing room was as minimalist as everything else: metal lockers down one side, showers with plastic curtains along the other and benches in between. I changed as quickly as I could and went back into the gym, my pulse still racing. I didn’t feel much like working-out, but bailing-out would only draw attention to myself. I needed to spin the session out, look like a genuine punter.
I walked around, trying to be casual, checking out the equipment. The treadmills faced the wall mirrors. That would give me a good view of the whole room. I decided to run for twenty minutes, and then pump a few free weights. I could do those facing in any direction.
Once I got going on the treadmill, my pulse steadied and I began to feel calmer. I used the rhythm of the music from the local radio station to keep an easy pace.
On the far side, the two boys had started doing squats but were struggling with too much weight and sinking too low. I could hear their knees clicking and grinding above the music. But I wouldn’t like to argue with them about it. One was six foot or more and lean but very athletic. The other was smaller but thicker set, his head sinking into his shoulders like Eve.
***
By the time I’d finished on the treadmill, the gym was filling up, mainly with young lads who looked like they’d come straight from school or college. In no time it was heaving with punters wearing Lycra vests, bulging with muscle-bound torsos.
The noise level rose with each new arrival, drowning the radio in shouts, laughter and banter. You couldn’t fault how hard they were working-out. But what did I expect? Of course they had to work hard. The steroids only boost the bodybuilding. They don’t do it for you.
I found a spare mat near a rack of weights and started doing a mini circuit of curls, sit-ups, squats and lunges, just for appearances. Once I’d done enough to work-up a sweat and look credible to anyone watching, I decided it was time to call it quits and confess the pointlessness of my snooping to Mimi.
As I bent down to pick-up my towel to head for the changing room, a voice behind me said slowly, “Well, well, well.”
I straightened, a chill shooting up my spine.
“Just happened to be passing, did you?” It was the ginger police officer, still wearing the black jacket.
I nodded, struggling to recover some composure.
“Well, it’s good to see someone of your stature supporting one of our local gyms. I hope they made you welcome.”
“Very welcome,” I said inanely.
He lingered for a moment like he had something else to say. Or maybe he was just toying with me, enjoying my discomfort. I didn’t think saying, “What’s your problem?” would help.
“Great place isn’t it?” he said finally, with a theatrical swing of his arm.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Very impressive. You work out here do you?”
He pumped his chest out. “I like to keep in shape.”
That was undeniable. His eyes lingered again, this time narrowing, his mouth stretching into a smirk.
“I’d better get changed,” I said feebly.
“Yes, you better had,” he said “Mustn’t leave that lovely lady-friend of yours on her own.”
I nodded and started towards the changing room, feeling his sleazy tone had more than a hint of menace.
“Oh, and by the way, Liam, or should I say Jim?” he began.
I stopped and turned, struggling to hear him above the hubbub.
“It was Jim, wasn’t it? The name you used, on the form you signed? Very original.” He nodded across to the reception desk where boot-camp-man was giving me a chilling grin.
I was done, busted. I felt flustered and foolish like a child caught climbing into someone’s garden.
“Anyway,” he continued, like he was dismissing me. “When you do eventually find Megan, say ‘hello’ from Gary.”
***
I was walking wearily towards the taxi rank at Newport railway station and somewhere deep in my kit bag my phone was ringing. I stopped and rummaged for it, squatting on the pavement. It was Megan. I hit ‘Answer’, fumbling so much I nearly dropped the thing.
“Meg!” I said, desperate to hear her voice again, but pathetically out of breath from jogging the mile or so from the gym after being spooked by Gary.
“Meg?” I repeated.
The silence was agonising, but the phone said we were still connected.
“Speak to me, Meg.”
“Liam, it’s me,” she said.
“You okay
?” I asked.
“What do you think.” No question mark on that one. I needed to tread carefully. She sounded fragile. I waited for her to get to whatever it was she wanted to say.
“I don’t want to talk now,” she said almost in a whisper. “Can I see you later?”
“Sure, of course… where?”
“The Roman Barracks. You know it?
“Yes.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“But…”
She was gone. The phone now said ‘Disconnected’, and I felt like rolling-over and giving-up – then and there – on the pavement. I was exasperated and exhausted. These days my body was accustomed to a largely sedentary, stress-free lifestyle. The gym session; the stand-off with Gary; a draining two days of growing panic about Megan – all of it was taking its toll. And the oppressive heat wasn’t helping. Every pore seemed to be leaking; rivulets of sweat were running down my forehead and chest, soaking my T-shirt.
I threw the phone back in the bag and pushed up from the squatting position I was in. My knees clicked in protest.
The taxis were only a few yards away. A train was roaring and clattering into the station. I looked around, wondering if anyone had been watching me. As I started walking towards the rank, I sensed a familiar face, larger than life, rising above the taxi rank. It was Megan, smiling radiantly at me from a billboard, trying to sell me car insurance.
***
The taxi dropped me on the gravel drive leading to The Priory. I tipped the driver, feeling guilty I’d snubbed his small talk about the freakishly hot weather, and headed towards Mimi’s room.
She opened the door blinking at the sudden rush of sunlight.
“Liam, what the hell…?” she said.
I didn’t know where to begin. Was it Gary giving me the creeps or Megan sounding lost and upset? Or was I just hot, tired and badly dehydrated?
Mimi stepped back as I stumbled into the room, dropped my bag and slumped into an armchair.
She was wearing a thin cotton dressing-gown and apparently nothing else. Her hair was damp and matted as if she had just stepped out of the shower.