by Simms, Chris
He took the stairs two at a time, careful to put his feet down at the edge of each step to reduce the chances of causing a creak. How many houses had he burgled in his younger years? Creeping about as the owners slept. Once on the landing he stood motionless. The first door had a Liverpool FC banner nailed across it. You’ll never walk alone. Probably a bloke’s, he reasoned. Opposite was the bathroom, a white toilet roll trailing across the lino floor. Next door was closed, as was the one at the far end of the short corridor. There was no attic to a third floor. A voice murmured.
Stepping lightly, the man made his way to the furthermost door. He listened. From inside, another voice said something. A male voice. Low giggling. Two male voices. Bedsprings squeaked rhythmically for a while.
The man moved back to the other closed door. He sniffed at the crack. A faint smell of perfume. It must be where she was. The handle made no sound as he turned it and waited. No sound of movement from within. He looked through the gap.
Street light shone in through the half-drawn curtains. She was sprawled across the double bed, still in all her clothes. Locks of red hair curled out from her head like streams of party ribbon. He stepped inside and eased the door shut. There was a key in the lock.
His eyes searched the room. A laptop was on the desk in the corner, next to a low pile of books. The carry case was on the floor next to it. He picked his way across the carpet and took a closer look: a Dell. Immediately, he started pulling the leads out of the sockets. Once it was free, he slid it into the carry case before checking the side pocket. No fucking profiles of the girls down in the basement. Damn it! He leafed through the loose sheets of paper by the books. Dense text interspersed with the odd chart or graph. It meant nothing to him. Would Nina want him to take all the cables, too? Probably. She’d said nothing – absolutely nothing – could be left that might link back to them. Cables could carry finger prints.
He’d unplugged the power lead when she began to stir, raising her head and looking away from him towards the door.
‘’S there?’ she slurred.
He kept still, wondering whether her head might collapse back against the pillow. It would make things easier if it did. But she began to rub at the side of her face with one hand. The movement abruptly stopped. He knew that she’d sensed him standing on the other side of her bed.
As her head started to slowly turn in his direction, he jumped across, one knee landing in the small of her back. The beginnings of her scream were cut off as electrical cable looped about her throat.
He crossed his forearms over and pulled outwards with all his might. Coughing dryly, fingers scrabbling at the thin length of plastic, she thrashed from side to side. It was like walking Macy and Mavis, he thought, remembering his two lurchers when they caught the scent of a rabbit on the golf course near Brinnington. She arched her spine backwards at one point and he forced her flat once more by leaning on her shoulders with his chest, face pressed into her hair. More coughs emptied her lungs of the last of their air.
He kept her pinned to the bed, waiting patiently until her twitching had stopped. When he let the cable slacken no sound came from her mouth. He didn’t want to take his nose out from her hair. It had a nice smell. After a few more seconds of breathing it in, he got to his knees and looked down at her. She could have been asleep, except for the bulging eyes and protruding tongue.
There was a time, he realized, when he might have peeled the bed covers back. She may have been dead, but she was still warm. Her body would be loose, her legs could be moved. It would be almost like she was alive.
But that was before Nina. Everything had changed since Nina. She was … he didn’t have the words. She was a goddess. That was the best he could do. Something that didn’t belong on earth. Yes, he knew she had been down with the dregs once. Forced to work in houses where the men filed in one after the other, mornings, afternoons, nights. A queue that never died. But she’d risen up, fought her way out. It was proof of how amazing she was. She should be dead, but she wasn’t. She was a miracle. And, for reasons he could not fathom, she loved him. Why? How could that be? He didn’t know. It was just another part of her mystery. But she said she did. She’d even said that, one day – when enough money had been put aside – they’d leave everything behind. It would be just the two of them. Together.
But first, this shit had to be sorted. He laid tresses of hair over the girl’s face and zipped the cable inside the carry case. At her bedroom door, he removed the key, locked the door behind him and padded quickly down the stairs.
EIGHT
Iona leaned back and examined the poster design on her screen. ‘What do you reckon?’ she asked Euan, the civilian support worker she got on well with.
He leaned his head to the side. ‘You won’t be getting any awards for design,’ he sniffed. ‘There’s no colour, for a start.’
She smiled. ‘Does it get the message across? Quickly and clearly?’
He read the wording out under his breath. ‘Important police notice. Have you recently bought a laptop? Was it from PCs To Go on Oxford Road (next to Musharaff Newsagent’s). If so, call blah-de-blah-de-blah.’ He paused. ‘How about some drop shadow for the important police notice bit? Or at least some sparkles.’
‘Euan, stop arsing around! Does it make sense?’
He nodded. ‘’Course it does. It’s spot on. Where’s it going?’
‘All round the University of Manchester’s union building. Rest of the campus, too. I’m having three hundred of them printed as A4 notices. Uniforms will hand out another few thousand as flyers. That’s why I wanted to make sure it’s fine before I put the order in.’
‘Well, the phone number’s correct.’
‘Yeah. I’ve briefed the switchboard on what to ask before transferring the call through.’
‘And what will they ask?’
‘Was the laptop bought for cash, what was the make and model, when was it purchased.’
‘Then I reckon you’ve got it covered. What about students who aren’t on the Oxford Road campus for their lectures? Ones on placements or studying from home or just skipping lectures because they’re … they’re,’ he let his voice go dreamy and distant, ‘work-shy layabouts who spend all their time watching telly or going to the pub.’
‘Touch jealous there, Euan?’
‘Moi? How could you tell?’
‘Every student has an email address on the university’s system. I’m trying to arrange for a blanket message to go out today and follow-ups tomorrow and Monday. There’s also the student newspaper – the notice will be carried on the front page.’
‘As part of a story?’
‘No, just the notice.’
‘They didn’t want to know what it was about?’
‘Of course they did. But I wasn’t saying.’
‘Looks like you’ve thought of everything. Talking of emails, I’ve got about a million to sort through. Quick drink this evening?’
‘Hopefully. I’ll see how I go with this.’
‘OK.’
As he returned to his corner desk, Iona minimised the poster PDF and clicked on the CCTV clip of the girl’s suicide once again. I need to stop watching this, she said to herself. It’s getting obsessive. But there was something about the fifty seconds of footage. It started with the girl climbing over the railing. It was that action that had drawn the attention of the control-room camera operator. From that point on everything had been recorded. The passer-by appeared about ten seconds later, her step slowing as she spotted the girl clinging to the post.
What, Iona wondered, had she said? What could anyone say or do to stop such a thing? Look, I don’t know you. We’ve never met. I’ve no idea of the harrowing sequence of events that have led you to this. Maybe you’re homeless. Perhaps everyone in your life that was meant to care for you has done exactly the opposite. School failed you as well? So, you’ll be lucky to get even a non-permanent, minimum wage job. Even less chance of a contented, happy life. But don’t
kill yourself! It’s not that bad, surely? Come on, cheer up, climb back over that railing. We could go to a café and have a chat. Well, actually, I’m in kind of a hurry. My husband’s at home, you see. Where it’s warm. He’s cooked me a nice dinner. It’s ready now. I’ve got some spare change, though. I think. Yeah, I have – nearly a quid. That’s almost enough to get you a cup of tea. Someone else will walk by soon. Beg twenty pence off them and you’re in business. That is, until your drink’s finished and you’re back out on the cold pavement. All your problems waiting with their arms outstretched …
Iona watched the girl vanish from view. Gone. Silent as a raindrop, down she went. The woman in the parka-style coat lowered her outstretched hand. The noise, Iona thought. She’d be hearing what was happening below. The woman jammed her hands into her pockets and turned away, shoulders going up. Her pace increased and she passed out of the frame. The bridge stood deserted. A few seconds later, the footage cut.
Iona continued to stare at the screen. Why did the woman just walk away? OK, she could understand her not wanting to peer over the edge. Who would? The first reaction of many witnesses to serious accidents was to just get away from the scene as fast as they could. Some kind of survival thing. But they normally rang the emergency services once they’d started thinking straight. They did that much, at least. This woman, though. She hadn’t.
A tab appeared in the corner. Play again? No thanks, Iona thought.
She was about to make a note of the woman’s odd behaviour when her mind bounced back to the previous evening. It had left her feeling cheapened, parking at the top of the side road opposite Bargain Booze and waiting for Jim to arrive. As the minutes ticked by it had got too much for Moira.
‘Come on, hen,’ she’d said. ‘This isn’t right. Let’s head home before he goes past. What if he sees us here?’
Iona had kept her hands in her lap, eyes on the shop. ‘No. He won’t go past. He’ll stop. You need to see for yourself.’
‘But … it’s not fair. Even if he does stop, how do you know he’s buying alcohol in there?’
She’d glanced at her mum for a second. ‘It’s a Bargain Booze. Come on, Mum, you’re hiding your head in the sand.’
‘I’m not hiding my –’
Jim appeared. He jumped from his bike and D-locked it to the railings at the pavement’s edge. Moira had sunk down in her seat, one hand forming a visor over her eyes. ‘Oh, bloody bollocks, he’s only to look up.’
But Jim’s head only lifted as he turned round and checked for pedestrians before darting through the door, rucksack on his back.
‘He might see us when he comes back out. He’ll be facing our way.’ Moira sounded like a claustrophobic, desperation fraying her voice.
‘We can’t be seen, Mum. Trust me, I’ve been on enough surveillance courses to know the windscreen of an unlit car like this only reflects back exterior light. It’ll be vodka. A quick fix.’
‘All right! I believe you. Please.’
‘Do you understand, Mum? Why must it be my job to try and save him? I couldn’t, anyway. Even if I had the … necessary feelings for him.’
Moira tipped her head. ‘The poor man. What did it do to him, those months in Iraq?’
‘There are whispers at work – a sergeant who works down the corridor from Jim at Booth Street mentioned it to me.’
‘Whispers?’
‘His timekeeping. The state of him some mornings.’
Moira spoke from behind clenched teeth. ‘Can we just go? Before he …’
Iona turned the ignition and had pulled back out on to the main road before her sentence was finished.
Something was happening on the other side of the room. An officer had got to his feet, phone still pressed to his ear. He was making short movements with his free arm and people at surrounding desks were turning in his direction.
The man replaced the phone and clapped his hands together. ‘The lab just established the previous owner of that student’s laptop!’
Iona was on her feet, mouth opening with the question.
Someone beat her to it. ‘They broke the encryption?’
‘Not yet. The inner surface of the battery compartment had been security tagged. Someone shone a UV pen in. The words jumped out.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘CityPads. An estate agent’s. The office is in the Northern Quarter, opposite the Tiki Bar.’
Iona had a vague idea of the location. The Northern Quarter was full of old textile warehouses and disused mills: testimony to Manchester’s once-proud role of cotton producer to the world. With the area’s recent renaissance, there’d been a rush of developers converting the empty buildings into trendy offices, galleries, bars and apartments for young professionals.
Someone else raised a piece of paper. ‘Did you say CityPads?’
‘Yeah,’ the officer who’d taken the call from the lab responded. ‘Why?’
Roebuck was now at the door of his private office, looking on with interest.
‘I was just about to action this. The owner reported a theft of four Dell laptops last Monday.’
The DCI strode out into the main office. ‘Details, please.’
The officer studied the print-out in his hand. ‘Four laptops and the contents of the petty cash box – seven hundred and forty-three quid.’
‘A break-in?’ Roebuck demanded.
He shook his head. ‘No. Keys were used. It says the assistant office manager hasn’t turned up for work since the thefts. Unauthorized leave.’
‘The theft was reported when?’
‘First thing Monday morning.’
‘Day after Jade Cummings exploded at the checkpoint on the Israeli border.’
Roebuck paced closer to the officer. ‘This assistant manager: he took them, then?’
‘That’s the current focus.’
‘City centre uniforms dealing with it?’
‘So far. Sergeant Ritter, Bootle Street nick.’
Bill, thought Iona. The guy I worked briefly with on the investigation last year. The one who told me about Jim turning up for work vacant and lethargic.
‘Got a name for this missing assistant manager?’
‘Khaldoon Khan.’
Iona blinked. Same surname as me. Which could well mean he’s from Pakistan. A few glances flashed in her direction.
NINE
Philip Young had just begun to open his front door when a voice spoke behind him.
‘Not the ground-floor flat, are you?’
He turned to see a shaven-headed man standing at the bottom of the steps. Thirty or thereabouts. Angular face, slightly beady eyes. Over the top of his navy fleece was an orange tabard with the words Npower emblazoned across the left breast. He looked like he was having a really bad day.
‘No, sorry. I live up the stairs. First-floor flat.’
The man rubbed the top of his head with the palm of one hand before glaring at the windows to his right. ‘I’m booked in. Saturday morning, eleven fifteen. She knew I were coming.’
‘The lady who lives there?’ Philip struggled to recall her name even though he often saw letters and catalogues addressed to her in the shared hallway. Debra, was it? Maybe Diane. Something with a D in it. He assumed she was a nurse or something to do with a hospital, coming and going at all sorts of unusual times. ‘Have you tried her bell?’
‘Yeah,’ he sighed, detaching a pen from the clipboard in his hand. ‘I’ll leave a card. She’ll have to book again.’ He started up the steps, almost barging Philip aside to enter the building. ‘Waste of my fucking time.’
Philip was shocked. Courier drivers, gas meter people: did the companies they work for deliberately pick types who, if you saw them in a pub, would tempt you to find somewhere else to drink? Now he was in a quandary. Did he delay going up to his own flat or did he just ask the guy to shut the front door behind him when he was done? He hesitated. Derek, his flatmate, would be back from playing squash in around an hour. There wa
s no time to lose. Not if he was going to watch the new film he’d bought on the widescreen TV in the front room. Anouska. That was the name of the babe on the download’s Jpeg. Her eyes slanted ever so slightly. He guessed she was from somewhere east of Russia. Mongolia or one of those other obscure countries going out towards China. Late teens at most. As he’d purchased the film, he’d vaguely wondered what circumstances led to a girl like that doing the films she did. Not that he was complaining: her body was flawless. He thought of her going at it hammer and tongs with some bloke. The scenarios in the films were always so ridiculous. A TV repairman knocking on her door. Maybe a pizza delivery boy. He looked to his side. Perhaps a boiler technician, or whatever the man next to him writing a note was meant to be. ‘Can you pull the front door behind you on the way out?’
‘No worries.’
‘Cheers.’
He selected the key for his flat door and was just about to go up the stairs when bright lights blossomed in his head. Their appearance coincided with a piercingly loud ringing noise. He wondered if the two things were somehow connected as he felt his shoulder jar against the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man was now beside him, one arm lifting up. He was holding something. Did he …? He did! He just hit me.
Philip raised both arms, wanting to shout.
The man’s empty hand lashed out, sweeping Philip’s forearms aside. The one holding the hammer swung down once more. Philip shied away and the metal ball of the hammer glanced off his temple and smashed on to the bony part of his shoulder. A horrible stabbing pain surged down his left arm.
His voice returned. ‘No!’ He sank down and spread the fingers of his good hand over his head, unable to see where the next blow was coming from.
The man took more care this time, swinging the hammer at a slight angle so, when it connected, it was with the part of the skull just above Philip’s ear. The young man pitched face-first on to the hallway floor, arms loose at his sides. One leg started jumping about as if he was trying to kick his shoe off.