by Chris Simms
An ashen-faced man was sitting by the head of the bed, holding a plastic mask over her face. When he saw the camera was on them he tried to arrange the sheet across her breasts. As soon as they were covered she yanked it off again, eagerly gasping away behind the mask. He tried to take it off her face after a few more seconds and her hand clamped instantly over his, fingernails biting deep into his flesh.
‘Karen here opted for a natural birth. At first. By the time she changed her mind, it was too late for an epidural,’ Marjorie intoned.
Alice angled her head towards Jon. ‘I want every drug they’ve got. Understand?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ the woman on the screen started repeating.
Jon saw the muscles in her thighs snap tight. ‘Oh Jesus, this is worse than that scene in Alien,’ he whispered, making Alice choke on her sip of tea.
On the screen a pair of hands reached out and grasped the top of the baby’s skull. ‘OK, push Karen. This is it. Push!’
There was no way the head could fit through, Jon thought. A nerve-shredding shriek erupted and suddenly the head popped out. A glistening blue body laced with a waxy substance quickly followed, releasing a gush of bloody fluid behind. Unable to watch any more, Jon shut his eyes and heard the health visitor say, ‘Now, as you can see, Karen is bleeding quite heavily from a tear here, but the hospital staff are waiting for the afterbirth to emerge before giving her some internal stitches.’
Jon thought of the cold can of beer on his living-room table. The film ended a few minutes later and he was able to open his eyes again.
‘So,’ said Marjorie, pulling back the curtains, ‘you’ve now seen one of the most incredible things Mother Nature has to offer. And soon you’ll be witnessing it for yourselves.’
She smiled at a room full of grey faces.
Jon took Alice’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘I’ll be there for you, Ali,’ he whispered.
She looked up at him and murmured, ‘You might want to wear gardening gloves to the delivery.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sank her nails into the soft skin on the back of his injured hand. ‘If my birthing’s any where near as horrendous as that, I fully intend you to share in the pain.’
Jon tried to extricate his hand, but she dug a little deeper, the sweetest of smiles on her face.
Chapter 22
Jon was buttoning up his shirt in front of the bathroom mirror when the doorbell rang.
‘Ali! That’ll be Rick. Can you let him in?’ he called down. He heard the front door open and a man with a foreign accent started speaking.
‘Cheap videos! Latest Hollywood blockbusters! Three quid each.’
He peered down the stairs to see Rick standing on the front door step, a stack of cassettes in his arms.
‘You must be Rick.’ With a smile, Alice stepped back to let him in.
‘Hi, there,’ he said in a normal voice, adjusting the videos so he could shake her hand. ‘And you’re Alice?’ His eyes dropped momentarily to her stomach. ‘How long before the baby’s due?’
Self-consciously, Alice placed a hand over her bump. ‘Around six weeks.’
‘Well, you look great. You’ve got that lovely glow no amount of make-up and sunbeds can achieve.’
Alice’s smile widened and she glanced up at Jon. ‘Thanks. Could you give my partner a few tips about paying compliments?’
‘Yeah, mate, very smooth,’ said Jon, sounding like a stampeding elephant as he came down the stairs.
Alice rolled her eyes. ‘Right, I’ve got a train to catch. Enjoy the blockbusters,’ she said to Rick, before turning to Jon and giving him a kiss. ‘See you later.’
The door shut and Jon showed Rick towards the front room. Punch stood in the doorway, an inquisitive look on his face. Rick hesitated.
‘That’s Punch, my stupid mutt. Don’t worry, he’s soft as shite.’
Rick stepped forward and Jon watched as he gave the dog a cursory stroke with just the tips of his fingers. He moved into the front room.
‘Want a brew before we get started?’ asked Jon.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Rick said, looking at the photos of Jon, Alice and Punch in various outdoor settings. ‘Who’s she?’ Rick asked, pointing to a younger girl who shared Jon’s bright blue eyes.
‘My little sister, Ellie,’ Jon answered, watching him from the doorway.
Rick stepped across to the CD collection. The mix was fairly eclectic, including Miles Davis, Paul Weller, Radiohead and the Smiths. He searched in vain for anything more lively. ‘Don’t you have anything you can dance to?’
‘Like what?’
Rick ran a finger along the collection. ‘I don’t know. Diana
Ross, Kylie, Madonna?’
‘Oh, you mean gay stuff?’ Jon replied with an innocent smile. ‘I think Alice has got a copy of Saturday Night Fever somewhere.’ Grinning, Rick held up two fingers as he placed the videos by the machine.
When Alice got in at six they were still sitting there, dirty cups, plates and the remains of a packet of digestives on the table. Punch was stretched out next to an untidy scattering of videos on the floor.
‘Mind if I let some air in, you stinky boys?’ Alice asked, her nose wrinkling.
Rick looked mortified.
Jon hit the Stop button and stretched his legs out. ‘What a nightmare.’
Alice undid the window latch and Punch’s head was suddenly jerked up by the shift in scents as outside air blew in. ‘Any luck?’ she asked.
‘Not a glimpse,’ Jon yawned. He looked at the heap of videos beside the machine. ‘We’ve been over seven platforms. Only another six to go. If we find nothing there, we start on the recordings taken from inside the main part of the station.’
‘How about some tea? Rick, would you like to stay for some food?’
Rick glanced uncertainly at Jon, who was still staring mournfully at the pile of untouched videos. ‘Er, thanks, but I’ve got something else already arranged.’
‘No problem. How about tomorrow if you’re carrying on with this?’
‘Yeah, thanks, that would be great.’
‘Good,’ said Alice, heading off to the kitchen.
Rick turned to Jon. ‘We’re narrowing it down at least. Only platforms eight to thirteen to go.’
Jon nodded. ‘Trains for Manchester Airport leave from platform eight upwards.’
‘Yeah, but there’s no record of him on any flights from that day.’
‘And the trains out to Liverpool and up to the Lake District usually go from platform thirteen.’
‘Which would fit with your theory of him being holed up in some remote beauty spot.’
‘True,’ Jon replied. ‘But something doesn’t feel quite right.’ An image of Pete Gray popped up in his head. He’d still be on the daytime shift, due to finish at eight in the evening.
He was wondering whether to mention his visit to Stepping Hill hospital when Rick began clearing up the mess on the table.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jon, only just noticing it. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Rick straightened up. ‘Same time tomorrow, then?’
‘Same time tomorrow,’ Jon replied grimly.
Once Rick had left, Jon called down the corridor. ‘Alice, have I got time for a quick you-know-what?’ he said, knowing that if he uttered the word ‘run’, Punch would start leaping all over the place.
‘Whatever,’ Alice called back.
Her offhand tone of voice set off a small alarm at the back of his head as he poked his head into the front room. ‘Punch, fancy going for a run?’
The dog arched its back and seemed to bounce on to its feet in a single movement. Jon climbed the stairs, the mess on the table forgotten behind him.
They ate in silence, Jon faintly aware of the pile of plates and cups Alice had carried through from the front room and left by the sink.
He wolfed his food down, then mopped up the remains
of sauce with a hunk of white bread. ‘So what did you think of Rick?’
‘Nice,’ Alice replied, sounding distracted.
Jon stopped chewing for a moment to study her. ‘Just nice? Doesn’t sound like you, Ali.’
She sighed and turned slightly in her seat. ‘How old is he?’
‘Almost thirty, I think.’
‘He’s doing well, then.’
‘Accelerated promotion scheme. Graduate and all that. This is just a stint with us at FMIT. He’ll be moved to another rotation in a few months, in between taking tests.’
He cleared their plates and carried them over to the others at the sink, noticing the time as he did so. ‘Oh shit, babe, there’s something I need to check out quickly.’
‘You what?’
But he was already heading down the corridor to the front door. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’
He only just made it to the car park at Stepping Hill before Pete Gray emerged through the doors. Again he went straight home and Jon watched his hazy form as it moved around behind the frosted glass of the bathroom window. He was shaving, getting ready to go out. Thirty minutes later he emerged through the front door, wearing brothel creepers, black jeans, a white shirt with metal collar tips and with his hair arranged in a glistening Elvis quiff.
Jon eased his car out behind the minivan as it set off towards the centre of town. They parked on a side road near Piccadilly station, and Gray hurried across the road and into a pub with faded curtains hanging behind its dirty windows.
Jon waited a couple of minutes, then jogged over the road. The poster behind one of the grimy panes of glass announced, Karaoke Night. Singles Welcome. Dotted round the poster were little stars with names written inside: the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, the Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis.
Obviously aiming for an older crowd, thought Jon, slipping through a side door and making straight for the end of the bar. He kept his head down, aware of several glances in his direction. Safely in the shadows he looked around, assessing the atmosphere. A veneer of jolliness just succeeded in holding a feeling of nervous desperation at bay. More alcohol was required for things to improve. Luckily, doubles with mixers were half-price all night.
Pete Gray was sitting on his own at a table near the karaoke machine. A middle-aged woman was up on stage, ruining something by Alicia Keys. She reached the last line, flabby skin swaying slightly as she flourished her arm. A wave of applause washed weakly across the bar and her semi-embarrassed bow revealed a deep and doughy cleavage. As she stepped off stage Pete stood up. His body language was enthusiastic, short hand movements indicating how impressed he was. The gesture merged into a wave towards the bar, and the woman accepted with a smile that etched the crow’s feet deeper into the skin round her eyes.
Jon hunched lower on his stool, eyes on the cocktail menu in front. Two drinks were ordered and Pete led her back to his table. After twenty minutes he returned for two more, but Jon noticed the barman only put vodka in hers.
The compère announced an Elvis song and Pete duly took the stage. It was a rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’, complete with wavering end notes achieved with a slight curl of his upper lip. Most of the song was directed at the woman. He even braced his legs and gave it a couple of pitiful hip shimmies. Jon wanted to gag but, from the size of her smile, the woman seemed mightily impressed.
Warding off the applause, Pete sat down again and quickly made his move. He put a business card on the table, then his hand slid across to hers and their fingers entwined. He leaned his head closer and said something to make the woman instantly stiffen. She leaned back, putting distance between them, and her eyes started cutting around the room. Somehow Pete had blown it. A minute later she got up and made her way to the ladies’. Clearly irritated, Pete picked up a straw and stabbed at the ice cubes in his drink. When it became obvious she wasn’t coming back, he pushed both glasses away, retrieved his card and left. With Jon trailing along behind, he drove straight home. Seconds after going inside, the glow of a TV showed from behind the bedroom curtains.
Checking his watch, Jon saw it was just after ten at night. It was past the reasonable time for a phone call, but he couldn’t resist. He opened his notebook and looked at the phone numbers at the front. Deciding that it wasn’t fair to rouse Mrs Miller, the elderly mother of the second victim, he called the mobile of the first victim’s daughter instead.
It was answered after a few rings, the sounds of a bar loud in the background.
‘Lucy here. Who’s this?’
‘Lucy, it’s Detective Inspector Spicer. I’m working on the investigation into—’
‘I remember you.’
‘Good. Sorry to call this late, but I needed to ask you something. Do you have a minute?’
‘OK.’ The two syllables were heavy with caution.
‘You mentioned that you took your mother to a few singles’ nights in town.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you ever take her to a place near Piccadilly station called the Coach and Horses?’
‘Yes – it was pretty much a disaster.’
‘Pretty much? Did anyone make a pass at her?’
‘No. Well, no one nice. There was this one guy who gave her his card. But he was such a creep I made her promise to never ring him.’
‘What makes you say he was a creep?’
‘Just his general attitude. I didn’t want my mum being added to his list of cheap one-night stands.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I called him the Fat Elvis.’
Jon looked across at Pete Gray’s bedroom curtains and the blue light that flickered there.
It was almost eleven by the time he let himself back in through the front door. To his surprise Alice was still up, sitting reading a magazine in the front room, with the telly on low.
‘Hiya, babe. Just getting a glass of water.’
Ruffling Punch’s ears, he walked down the short corridor into the kitchen, noticing that the vacuum was back in the cupboard under the stairs. The carpet was spotless. In the kitchen he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and had half filled it before realising all the plates and cups had been washed up and put away.
He went into the front room and sat down in his armchair.
‘You’ve done all the clearing up. I was going to do that.’
Alice sighed. ‘When?’ Her voice was flat and she didn’t look at him.
‘Tonight. Now.’
‘I got tired of waiting.’ She looked up and he saw her lips were pale and thin. The alarm bell that had started ringing earlier on returned, much louder now. ‘You’d have started vacuuming at this time of night? I’m usually in bed by now.’
‘Maybe tomorrow morning, then.’
‘Or maybe fucking never!’ She slammed the magazine on to the table.
‘Where’s that come from?’ Jon said, surprised by her anger. From the corner of his eye he saw Punch slinking out of the room and he wished he could do the same.
She struggled to get off the sofa. ‘Where’s that come from? God, you’re a prat at times, Jon Spicer.’
He stared at her thinking about how the investigation was floundering. McCloughlin was getting more wound up by the day, and his prowling round the incident room was making everyone tense. ‘Ali, I’m not a bloody mind reader. I didn’t do the washing up. Is that what this is about?’
She glared at him for a moment longer. When it became obvious that was the best he could come up with a cry of frustration escaped her. She swung her stomach round and waddled out into the corridor.
Jon remained seated for a few seconds, irritation washing over him. ‘We’re trying to catch someone before he strips the skin off another victim, Ali,’ he said, getting up and crossing the room to the door. ‘You know the score with my job. Murderers don’t tend to work office hours.’
She’d managed to get halfway up the stairs, one hand clutching the banister. He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she tried to get her breat
h.
‘You’re also about to become a dad. I’m struggling here. Struggling with this pregnancy, struggling with my job, struggling to keep this place clean for when the baby arrives.’ She turned around and pointed down at him. ‘I won’t have you messing it up. And another thing. That bloody nursery isn’t finished yet, Jon, and you promised – you bloody promised!’
A tear broke and she wiped it away furiously. Jon suddenly saw how vulnerable she was, saw how hard she was fighting to keep it together. The knowledge that he was responsible for her distress tore a hole in him.
‘And don’t ever bring details of your work into this house. That’s a rule you made with me, remember? So don’t fucking break it to try and justify your shit behaviour.’
Jon opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. She turned and laboriously climbed the rest of the stairs. The bathroom taps came on.
He walked slowly into the kitchen, mind going back over the last few days. He tried to remember when he’d last cooked, cleaned, tidied or thanked Alice for covering for him. He looked down at Punch, who stared up at him with sad eyes. ‘I’ve fucked up big time, haven’t I, Punch?’
The dog looked back at him in silence.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, knocked on the half-open bathroom door and looked in. She was brushing her teeth hard enough to remove their outer layer.
‘Sorry, Ali.’
Still scrubbing, she looked in the mirror and he saw her eyes were wet. Guilt mushroomed in his chest. He stepped across to the sink, curled a forearm around her stomach and gently gripped her wrist in his other hand, stopping the toothbrush moving.
Leaning his forehead on her shoulder, he whispered, ‘I’ve been a complete prick. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’
The hand gripping her toothbrush lowered. ‘I want this pregnancy to be a good experience. I don’t want to be stressed and crying with our baby inside me.’
‘I know,’ he murmured, eyes shut. ‘I’m going to make sure it is.’ Gently, he began to kiss her neck, feeling her posture slowly soften.
After a few more moments she whispered his name.
‘Yeah?’ he said, head still bowed.