by Chris Simms
The silence began to stretch out as Phil examined the tip of his cigarette, so Jon said, 'She was due to be going out today with her mum to do a bit of shopping.'
'Yeah, she was looking forward to it. In fact, she hoofed us all out before midnight so she wouldn't be too rough this morning.'
'Did she mention that she was expecting any visitors before her mum?'
'No.'
'OK, what are Ade's and Deggs' full names?'
'Adrian Reeves and Simon Deggerton.'
'Telephone numbers and address?'
Phil pulled out a mobile and started pressing buttons. As he did so Jon suddenly dropped in, 'Why did you and Polly split up?' watching closely for the reaction.
Phil's finger hovered for a moment over a button as he lost his train of thought. 'Erm, we'd just drifted apart. God, that sounds a cliché, but we had. She was saving up to go backpacking round the world. I wasn't into it.'
'That's bad news I presume – to lose your lead vocalist?'
He looked up, a slightly wounded expression on his face. 'Yeah, but what could we do? It was her decision. You want those numbers?'
Jon noted them down and then drove back to Ashton police station. He removed his box from the car boot and headed up to the incident room on the top floor of the building – the usual soulless set-up of empty desks, blank monitors and silent phones. Putting the box on a corner desk, he got out his paper management system, desk tidy, stapler, hole punch and calculator then sat back in his chair and blew out a long breath.
The place would be a hive of activity first thing the next morning: office manager, receiver, allocator, indexer, typist, all arranging their stuff on the desks; plants and other personal effects appearing, the outside enquiry team milling around, waiting to be briefed. And him, in charge of it all.
He booted up the computer, entered his name and password, then went on to HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. The computer package was based on strictly designated roles and procedures in order that every large enquiry progressed in an ordered manner. It was established directly in the wake of the chaotic hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper, when it was discovered that he had been questioned on various occasions, but the paper reports had never been cross-matched.
Jon studied the search indexes, deciding whether to concentrate on any to steer the investigation in a particular direction. With the information he had at this stage, he decided the usual ones would suffice – family, friends, house by house enquiries and victim profile. He then created an additional one marked 'Narcotics/ sedatives'.
On impulse he went on to the Police National Computer's database and typed in all three band members' names.
Nothing showed up for Adrian Reeves or Simon Deggerton, but after he typed in Phil Wainwright the computer pinged up a result: two cautions for possession of cannabis, the second one accompanied by an order to attend a drugs rehabilitation course.
It was almost nine thirty by the time he got home. The front door clicked shut behind him, provoking the usual Pavlovian reaction from the kitchen. Paws scrabbled excitedly on the lino floor and an instant later the crumpled face of his boxer dog appeared round the corner, eyebrows hopefully raised.
Jon slapped his hands against his thighs and crouched down. 'Come here, you stupid boy!'
The dog let out a snort of delight through its squashed nose and bounded towards the front door. Jon caught it by its front legs and twisted it onto the faded carpet. Grabbing it by its jowls, he planted a big kiss on its grinning mouth, then released the animal and stood up. Instantly it regained its feet, stumpy tail wagging so violently its entire back half shook.
By now Alice was standing in the doorway to the telly room, arms folded and a smile on her face. 'Nice to see you getting your priorities right,' she said, nodding down at the dog. 'You're late back - you've missed rugby training again.' Jon let his shoulders drop. 'New case,' he said, walking towards his partner and bending forward to kiss her. 'Not after you've just snogged that ugly hound,' she said, raising her arms and shying away from his puckered lips. 'Go and wash your mouth out first.' 'Did you hear that, Punch?' he asked the dog, feigning outrage. 'You're ugly and Daddy gets no kiss!'
From the corner of his eye he saw that she had lowered her arms. Suddenly he dipped to the side, then straightened his legs so his face burrowed upward to her throat.
Instinctively she pressed her chin down to her sternum to protect her windpipe. Giggling through clenched teeth, she said in a contracted voice, 'Get off!' A foot snaked round the back of his right ankle.
Not fully aware whether it was a playfight or not, Punch had started up a half-anxious, half-delighted barking. Jon felt Alice's forearm forcing its way across his chest, and realized she was manoeuvring towards one of her tae kwon do throws. He broke the embrace, stepping away from her and laughing breathlessly. 'I'll have none of your martial arts high jinks in my house.'
Her feet now planted firmly apart, Alice flexed her knees and held up the back of one hand to Jon. The tips of her fingers flexed inwards once and she whispered with Hollywood menace, 'Come and try it, motherfucker.'
His eyes flicked over her combat stance and he took another step back, realizing that he'd think twice about taking on someone like that in a real life situation. 'Later,' he smiled, then looked towards the kitchen door and sniffed, signalling that the fooling around was over. 'Something smells good.'
'Shepherd's pie, 'Alice answered, relaxing her posture. 'With salad in the fridge.'
'Ah, nice one, Ali, 'Jon answered with genuine appreciation. 'Do you mind if I go for a quick r-u-n first?' Having missed rugby training, he was twitching for some exercise.
'Course not; I ate mine hours ago.'
Jon looked down at the dog. 'Fancy a run?'
At the word 'run' the dog let out a moan of delight and padded towards the front door, eyes fixed on his lead hanging from the coat peg.
'How was your day?' he asked as he began climbing the stairs. 'Tell me as I'm getting changed.'
'I was late for work again. The stupid train into Piccadilly was cancelled.' She followed him up to the spare room, stepping over the weights stacked on the floor and sitting down on the gym bench in the corner. Jon was standing at an open wicker unit, pulling his running gear from the assorted items of sports kit piled up on its shelves. Quickly he removed his shoes and socks, hung up his suit and returned his tie to a coat hanger that had another half dozen threaded through it.
As he began unbuttoning his shirt, Alice said, while innocently examining the nails on one hand, 'Actually Melvyn introduced a new beauty regime to the salon today.'
Clocking her tone, Jon replied guardedly, 'Go on, what's he up to now?'
He dropped his boxer shorts to the floor and bent forward to pick up the neoprene cycling shorts he wore under his cut-off tracksuit bottoms when running. He glanced up and caught her looking meaningfully at his arse.
'It's waxing for men. “Backs, cracks and sacks”, Melvyn's calling it.'
Jon digested the information for a second, then looked at her. 'You're not ripping the hair off other men's bollocks?'
She gave him a provocative little grin.
'Oh, sweet mother of God, tell me it isn't true,' he groaned, holding his head in his hands and pretending to cry. 'If this gets out I'm a dead man.' He looked at her again for confirmation that she was having him on.
Alice held his glance for a second longer, then suddenly smiled. 'Why, got a problem with that?'
'Backs I can understand. Cracks maybe at a push – but sacks? Oh, Jesus.'
'Don't worry. It's going to be Melvyn's special treatment; he's already drooling at the prospect.' She grimaced. 'Can you imagine it? First booking on a Monday morning, pulling some bloke's knackers to the side and...' She yanked sharply at the air while making a ripping noise at the back of her throat.
'Don't,' Jon winced. 'It's making me feel ill. What is the world coming to? Backs, cracks and bloody sacks.' He shook his head
in disbelief.
'You'd be surprised at the demand for it. And not just gay guys, as you're probably imagining. Besides, you've never objected to me doing other women's bikini lines.'
'Well, that's different, isn't it?' answered Jon, voice suddenly brighter. 'Why, any recent ones to tell me about?'
'Sad,' she replied, as Jon pulled on a running top with reflective panels at the front and back. Downstairs he clicked the lead on his dog's collar.
'Punch, if you ever catch her creeping up behind you with a waxy strip in her hands, run for the bloody hills.'
He could still hear her laughing as he slammed the door shut.
The cold night air hit him as he ran along Shawbrook Road to Heaton Moor Golf Course. After cutting on to the grass, he kept to the perimeter, making his way round to the playing fields of Heaton School where he could do some sprints up and down the dark and empty football pitches. Rounding the corner of the school buildings, he saw a group of young lads sitting on a low brick wall, the scent of spliff hanging in the air. Having chosen to ignore them, Jon was jogging past when one of them let out a low wolf whistle. A burst of raucous laughter broke out. Jon carried on and another cocky voice said, 'I hate fucking boxer dogs.'
Jon slowed up, turned round and jogged back, Punch's claws tick-tacking on the concrete as they approached. Jon surveyed them for a second, then narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a whisper. 'My dog don't like people laughing. He gets the crazy idea you're laughing at him. Now, if you apologise like I know you're going to, I might convince him that you really didn't mean it.'
From the blank silence he knew they didn't have a clue what he was on about – and certainly no idea which film he was quoting from. 'I thought you lot looked too thick to be anywhere near a school.'
Now aware he was having a go at them, they looked uncertainly at each other, wondering who would be first to speak. Jon switched to bullshit mode. 'I'm doing two circuits of these fields. Next time I pass this point I'll have my warrant card on me. If you're still here, I'll lift you.'
'You a policeman?' one asked, eyes now wide.
'That's right. And I've got better things to be doing with my free time than nicking little twats like you. But I will, if you make me.'
They started getting to their feet, joint now hidden up a coat sleeve. Without another word Jon turned away and resumed his run.
Back home, he showered and pulled on an old rugby shirt and tracksuit bottoms. After retrieving his supper from the oven, he sat down on the sofa. Punch was already stretched out in front of the gas fire, one brown eye tracking Jon's every move.
'What's this?' he asked, looking at the telly.
'I don't know,' Alice answered sleepily, moving across the sofa to rest her head on his leg. Holding the plate below his chin to stop any bits falling into her hair, he began shovelling great forkfuls of food into his mouth.
After a few seconds he felt her jaw moving as she began to chew. He glanced at the table. Next to a jar of folic acid pills was an open packet of nicotine gum. 'You fighting an urge?' he asked quietly.
'Mmmmm,' she replied without moving. 'It came on just after you went out. First one since lunch, though.'
'That's great; well done babe,' he answered, thinking how close he'd come to sneaking a cigarette earlier that day. 'By the way, this new case I'm on... it's a murder investigation and McCloughlin's made me SIO.'
Alice sat up. 'That's brilliant! Why didn't you tell me before?'
Jon scratched his head. 'I was mulling it over, I suppose.'
'Why? Surely you think it's good news?'
He gave a half smile. 'It is and it isn't. It means I'm being taken off the car thief case.'
'Jon!' said Alice, holding both palms up as if weighing two objects. 'A gang of scrotes nicking cars.' She lowered one hand a couple of inches. 'And SIO on a murder case.' She dropped her other hand so it banged against the sofa. 'Come on.'
Jon nodded. 'I know.'
She settled back into the crook of his arm, head against his chest. 'That's the problem with you. You get your teeth into something and you can't let it go. What's this new case, then?'
Jon leaned over the arm of the sofa and placed the empty plate on the floor. He noticed a strand of saliva set off on a vertical journey from Punch's lower lip and make it to the carpet without breaking. 'A young woman, twenty-two, lived over in Hyde. Someone choked her to death.'
'That's so sad,' Alice murmured. Jon knew she'd be curious to learn more, but she understood that he hated bringing the details of his cases into their home. 'By the way, I heard a bit of gossip in the salon today. That guy you used to play rugby with for Stockport. Married a blonde girl called Charlotte.'
'Tom Benwell?'
'That's him. Have you seen him recently?'
'No. I had two tickets for us to see the rugby sevens at the Commonwealth Games. But he didn't show up. I ended up giving it to a Kiwi then had to sit next to him and watch as his team demolished everyone.'
'That was three months ago, Jon,' said Alice, cutting in as he was about to start giving a blow-by-blow account of each match.
'Yeah, you're right.' He realized how time had flown by. 'But I tried ringing his mobile a few times. There was never any answer and eventually the line went dead. He must have changed networks.'
'Well, one of the ladies who comes in to get her legs waxed trains at the same gym as that little bimbo he married. She thought Charlotte had walked out on him. Something about him losing his job.'
'Really?'
'Apparently he turned up at the gym searching for her one time. She said he looked a complete wreck.'
'Fuck,' said Jon, feeling guilty. 'We went for a beer once and he told me how he was getting out of the rat race. Said he was selling up and moving to Cornwall, starting a beach cafe or something. I just assumed he'd done it and would ring me when he got the chance.'
'I think you should at least go round and see him, especially after what happened a few years ago.'
'What?' said Jon.
'What,' repeated Alice, rolling her eyes. 'When he got ill, remember? Missed half the season at Stockport?'
Jon frowned. 'That was just some stress thing, wasn't it?'
Alice shook her head. 'Men. What is it with your inability to discuss health problems? According to the gossiping girlfriends at the rugby club, he had a complete breakdown – ended up on the psychiatric wing at Stepping Hill Hospital for two months.'
'Really? He never told me it was that bad.'
'Did you ever ask him?'
'No.'
'Exactly,' said Alice, point made. Jon sat staring at the TV screen, but uneasiness was now nagging at the back of his mind. He unwrapped his arm from Alice's shoulders.
'What are you doing?' she asked.
'Calling him.'
He got up and retrieved his mobile from the hall. He dialled Tom's mobile but got the same continuous tone as the last time he'd tried. Scrolling to his phonebook's next entry, he rang Tom's home number. The line was also dead. 'Sounds like both numbers have been disconnected. When did that customer say she'd seen him?'
'About a month ago, I think.'
Worried now, Jon shoved the mobile into his trouser pocket and began pacing back and forth. Punch raised his eyebrows to watch him. 'I'll pop round to his house. It's only five minutes in the car,' Jon announced, looking at Alice for confirmation.
She glanced at the clock on the video. 'At ten forty?'
'I won't start hammering at his door. Just check the house over, see if it's up for sale or if any lights are on.'
Jon pulled out of his side street. Soon he crossed Kingsway, a main road leading into the city centre, and headed towards Didsbury. A few turns later and he was on Moorfield Road. He pulled up outside number sixteen and looked at the house. It was dark and deserted, every light turned off.
He got out of the car and glanced around for an estate agent's sign telling him the property was up for sale. Nothing. Walking up the drivew
ay, he noted the absence of any vehicle, then crouched down at the front door. As he lifted the flap of the letterbox up, he prepared himself for the buzz of flies and stench of rotting flesh. Pitch blackness greeted him, the temperature inside the house no warmer than the night air outside.
He walked across the lawn to the front window. The main curtains weren't drawn and a chink in the net curtains allowed a strip of light from the street into the room beyond. He saw bare floorboards and no sign of any furniture.
After plunging his hands into his pockets, he walked back down the drive. With each step the sense of being watched grew stronger. At the end of the drive he swivelled round, eyes going straight to the first-floor windows. For an instant he thought something pale shifted behind a dark pane of glass. But focusing on the window, all he could see was dim light from the street lamps reflected there.
Turning the mobile over and over in his pocket, Jon's mind went back to the start of the summer.
Chapter 2
May 2002
Jon's mobile began to vibrate on the hard surface of his desk, angrily buzzing as if a giant wasp was trapped inside.
He dragged his eyes away from the latest statement. It was the usual story. The owner of the Porsche had gone to bed, enjoyed a good night's sleep, got up, had breakfast, gone to pick up the car keys from their customary place on the hallway table and discovered they weren't there. After searching his coat, briefcase and the kitchen, he presumed he had somehow left them in the car. He unlocked the front door and found his driveway was empty.
That was the sixteenth this month in the south Manchester area. Somewhere a load of thieving little scumbags were getting very wealthy.
He picked up his phone. 'Jon Spicer here.'
'Jon, it's Tom Benwell. Are you OK to talk?'
'Tom! Yeah, I'm just finishing off some paperwork. As usual. How are you?'
'Good. A bit busy preparing for the Games, but can't complain. How's things? Caught any bad guys lately?'
'Oh, you know. As fast as we catch them the courts let them out. Still, it keeps me busy.'