The Edge

by Chris Simms

  The Edge

  by Chris Simms

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Orion

  Copyright © 2009 Chris Simms

  The right of Chris Simms to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head!

  William Blake, 1757-1827

  One

  Jon Spicer felt himself slowly emerging from the depths. He kept his eyes shut and let the urge to stretch take him. Cool sheets brushed against his knuckles as his arms straightened out.

  The sound of giggling froze his movement – the noise was too far away for his daughter to be in her room. It was only a few weeks ago that Holly had progressed to a junior bed and the freedom it gave her meant she frequently rose early to explore the house with no adult watching over her. His wife laughed back and he realised they were both downstairs. He patted the other side of the bed to confirm it was empty.

  Hand lingering where Alice usually lay, he registered the smell of coffee and opened his eyes to a room bathed in a warm glow. Turning to the curtains, he saw cracks of sunlight forcing their way in, refusing to be denied their spell of dominance over the dark. His mind turned to the previous night. Thank God, he thought, no nightmares disturbed me. That must be getting on for two months now. Maybe, he hoped, time has finally worn the memories down so they are no longer able to sour my sleep.

  He blinked, savouring the sense of relief. Sunday morning and not back on duty for three days. The thought released a burst of energy into his limbs and he climbed swiftly out of bed to draw the curtains. The sun had just cleared the tops of the houses opposite and the street was totally quiet. Come on, the day seemed to beckon. You’ve missed part of me already.

  Alice was sitting at the kitchen table, Holly in her high seat opposite. His wife’s lips were pressed against the top of an egg, and as her cheeks puffed out, a long drool of slime began to emerge from a hole in its base.

  ‘Morning.’ He smiled, tying the waistband of a frayed bath-robe as he entered the room.

  ‘Daddy!’ Holly cried, waving her plastic spoon with delight. A clump of soggy cereal flew off and Punch, the family dog, snaffled it up the instant it made contact with the floor. The Boxer raised his head, stump of a tail wagging, brown eyes glued to his master.

  Jon looked back at Alice. ‘What are you doing?’

  She lifted her face from the egg and a burst of air shot out from her collapsing cheeks. ‘Blowing it, of course.’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively and she batted a hand in his direction.

  ‘Not unless you do a heck of a lot more housework.’ He grinned. ‘And why are you doing that?’

  ‘Because you can’t decorate an egg while it’s still full of yolk, anyone knows that.’

  Of course, Jon thought, suddenly remembering their arrangements. It was Easter Sunday and they were heading over to Lyme Park, the enormous National Trust estate south of Manchester. Apart from an egg-painting competition, there was an egg hunt and an egg-rolling competition down a slope in the landscaped grounds. After that, it was over to his mum and dad’s for a Sunday roast.

  She pushed a cup of coffee towards him. ‘I was about to bring it up to you.’

  He regarded his family, wishing his arms were long enough to stretch around everyone at once. Instead, he placed a hand on Punch’s head, tickling behind the dog’s ears as he stooped to kiss his daughter’s cheek. He stepped behind her and crouched before his wife, lifting a strand of blonde hair from her face before letting his fingers trail down her arm and on to her stomach. ‘How’s you and the sprout?’

  ‘We’re fine.’ She smiled, cupping a hand over his. ‘Both of us slept well.’

  He pressed his palm lightly against her stomach. Three months pregnant and Alice thought she could just feel the flutter of their next child’s kicks within her. He kept his hand there, feeling the usual sense of wonder and delight. Centimetres from his palm were the beginnings of another little person. Not much as yet, but in around six months’ time, a fully formed baby would emerge. There isn’t much else in the world, he thought, that genuinely deserves to be called a miracle.

  ‘Good,’ he replied, straightening up to look at the saucepan on the hob. ‘Boiled eggs for breakfast?’

  ‘No,’ Alice said, lifting Holly out of her seat. ‘They’re for the egg-rolling competition.’

  As he watched the spherical objects bumping around in the boiling water, his mobile phone started to ring. Holly ran across the room, plucked it from the shelf above the radiator and flipped it open. ‘Hello? Hello? Me Holly. Who you? Who you?’

  Grinning, Jon reached down and coaxed it from her grip. Some number on the screen with a weird area code: 01297. Where the hell was that? ‘Jon here.’

  ‘Hello, who is this please?’

  ‘DI Spicer,’ he replied, his voice lowering as he sensed the call was work related.

  ‘DI? You’re a policeman?’ A note of relief was in the stranger’s voice.

  ‘I am.’ A faint feeling of unease caused him to turn away from his daughter’s upturned face. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ From the edge of his vision he could see Alice was motionless, eyes on him, too.

  ‘This is Superintendent Mallin, Derbyshire police. And you’re with?’

  ‘Greater Manchester Police. Major Incident Team. What’s this about?’

  There was a pause. ‘We’ve just recovered a phone. I don’t want to alarm you but . . . erm . . . this is very awkward.’

  Jon felt a pang of irritation. His Sunday off and here was some uniform from Derbyshire being all vague with him. ‘I’m not following you here. You’ve recovered a phone and it had this number in it?’

  ‘That’s correct. You are down in the address book as Big Bro.’

  Trepidation welled up. Our kid. What the hell has he done now? ‘I have a younger brother called Dave. Sounds like you’ve got his phone. Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Haverdale.’

  Haverdale. One of the towns in the Peak District National Park. Jon remembered driving out to play their rugby team a few years back. Big meaty farmers who kept it in the pack, trying to maul their way slowly up the pitch. What was Dave up to out there? ‘You say you’ve recovered the phone. What do you mean?’

  The other officer coughed needlessly. A delaying tactic to precede bad news. Jon looked down at the eggs jostling among the bubbles. The shell of one had cracked and a nodule of white bulged out.

  ‘As I said, there’s been an incident. I think we may need you to come out here.’

  ‘What sort of an incident?’

  ‘We’ve recovered a body.’

  Oh Jesus. The sound of boiling water seemed to be getting louder. ‘Description?’

  ‘An adult male. Thirty or thereabouts. Of thin build, signs of intravenous drug use, but not recent.’

  Following repeated clashes with their dad, Dave had been thrown out of the family home in his late teens. He’d ended up living in squats, sliding into a life of petty crime and drug use. The last time Jon had seen him, he suspected his brother may have started dealing. ‘Long hair?’

  ‘No. Shaved very short. Dark brown.’

  The crack in the egg had widened, releasing a white strand that flicked around like a tendril of some aquatic plant untouched by any sun. He turned the gas ring off and the water suddenly became calm. As the eggs settled onto the base of the pan he heard the clicks through the water. ‘How tall?’

  ‘That’s hard to say.’

  ‘Sorry?’
>
  ‘We can’t . . . we can’t quite tell at this stage. We’re waiting for the patholog—’

  Jon cut in. ‘Superintentent, just take a guess.’

  That cough again. ‘I think it would be better if you came out here.’

  Jon turned his back to the room. ‘Will you stop pissing me about here?’ he hissed. ‘How tall is the man you’ve found?’

  ‘We can’t tell. I’m sorry to say this, but the body has been dismembered.’

  He felt a tug on his bathrobe belt and looked down to see Holly peeping round the curve of his leg. She looked frightened. Jon forced himself to smile and, in an absurdly casual voice said,

  ‘OK, I’ll be on my way.’

  Two

  After miles of deserted countryside, Jon saw the Haven Inn at the side of the road and knew Haverdale must be close. He took the next turn, crossed a small bridge and then a set of railway tracks. Seconds later he was on the high street, eyes roving for any sign with a large red H. A right turn led him down a quieter side road, bed and breakfast notices in the front windows of many of the houses that lined the street. Another minute and the hospital came into view.

  As he drew closer, he felt like an actor in a performance. Here’s the main entrance, he thought, pulling into it. Now I slow up and check the sign for where the mortuary is. Probably they’ve placed it near the bottom, so I have to read through a load of other departments first. Orthopaedics. Cardiology. Children’s Unit. Maternity. An image of Alice flashed in his mind. Wasn’t it their thirteen-week scan day after tomorrow? Pharmacy. Mortuary. Turn right.

  He glanced at the main building as he did so. Like most of the town, the hospital looked like it had been constructed during the Georgian period. Heavy blocks of sand-coloured stone whose upper edges were now tinged with black. He took in the regimented rows of windows and square lines before his eyes were drawn to the large glass dome that curved above the main building’s roof. He guessed it was some kind of place for recuperating, a light-filled space to coax a previous era’s sick and infirm back to health. No doubt with the assistance of the town’s famous spring water.

  His car glided round the corner and a second, smaller sign directed him off to the left. This side road was narrower, more private. It led to the rear of an annex, dayglo markings of a police car contrasting with the building’s sombre stone. Two uniformed officers waited for him at the entrance. He manoeuvred his car into a space, the feeling of detachment still there. Turning the engine off, he flexed his fingers. Pins and needles surged up his forearms. A sharp intake of breath sent them scurrying back the other way, right to the ends of his fingers. Come on, Jon, let’s get this done. He climbed out of the car and the tarmac seemed slightly mushy under foot. Walking towards the waiting officers, he hoped they didn’t notice the unsteadiness of his step.

  ‘DI Spicer?’ the one on the left asked, a slightly nervous-looking man in his mid-twenties.

  Jon felt his lips peel apart and he realised his mouth was dry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Super told us to look out for a big bloke; he’d seen your photo after that case with the church arsonist a while back.’

  ‘My fame spreads before me.’ Jon tried to smile.

  ‘They feed you on some kind of protein mix in Manchester?’

  Jon appreciated his attempt at lightening the tone of their meeting. At six foot four and just over fifteen stone, he was used to his size dominating most people’s first impression of him.

  ‘Got to keep up with our steroid-abusing criminals.’

  The officer’s grin widened. ‘I’m Constable Spiers. And this is my colleague, Constable Batyra.’

  Jon held out a hand. ‘Have you got first names?’ He relaxed slightly. ‘Chris.’

  ‘I’m Jon.’ He shook, then turned to the female colleague.

  ‘Shazia,’ she announced. An Asian woman of a similar age to Chris, black hair tied back, a slightly pudgy face that normally would have looked kind. Now Jon saw only concern in her brown eyes. They shook, her grip light but firm. ‘The Super sends his apologies for not being here in person. With the way things stand . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ Jon replied. ‘He’s got a murder investigation to run. I understand.’

  She pointed weakly towards the heavy wooden doors, then turned back to Jon. ‘Are you absolutely sure, sir? About doing this? We’ve got photos back at the station. You could make an ID from them.’

  Jon flicked his eyes at the building. A narrow window high up in the wall, cardboard boxes pressed against the other side of the frosted glass. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ve been in one or two mortuaries before.’ The comment had popped out and he realised it must have sounded patronising. ‘If it’s Dave, I’d prefer to see him in person.’

  She glanced uncertainly at her colleague. ‘What was the code again?’

  ‘Three three eight four.’

  The panel was directly below the door handle. Curved little buttons that clicked as she pressed each one. She turned the handle and pushed the door open. ‘After you, sir.’

  Jon stepped into a familiar smell of antiseptic. Behind him he heard Spiers mumble, ‘Just need to check something out with Mallin. I’ll be through in a minute.’

  The door swung shut and he and the female constable were now alone in a small, silent room. It had an austere, functional feel – bare walls and a few formal notices. One was entitled:

  ‘Moving and handling of the deceased.’ Below were four dense paragraphs of instructions. Across the room was a double set of doors.

  ‘They’re expecting us, the Super rang ahead,’ Batyra sighed. She moved to the doors and rapped on a glass panel, half opening it as she did so. ‘Hello? Constable Batyra here.’

  Jon heard a male voice from further inside. ‘Come on in.’ Shazia beckoned and he followed her into the next room.

  This was just as drab, a row of tall grey lockers lining one side. Lurking in a corner was a heavy-looking metal gurney. Like much of the hospital, it looked like a relic from an earlier age. A padded layer of red leather covered the top, straps with thick buckles lying across it. Directly ahead was a single door, a notice screwed squarely into its middle: ‘Please put on yellow overshoes before crossing the red line.’

  A white metal cabinet was positioned to its side and Shazia opened a drawer to fish out two pairs from inside.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jon, taking his and slipping them over his shoes, one palm against the cold concrete wall to steady him.

  The inner door was swung open, revealing a red line across the floor. A member of the mortuary staff was standing there, head to toe in white overalls. The smell of cleaning fluids picked up in strength.

  ‘Is Dr Henderley here? We rang about an hour ago,’ Shazia asked.

  The man’s head shook. ‘He had to nip home.’

  Jon caught her look of irritation. ‘We’re here to view the body brought in earlier.’ She turned towards Jon. ‘This is . . .’

  ‘DI Spicer. Major Incident Team, Manchester Police.’ The man nodded. ‘He’s here.’

  Jon took a quick breath, then stepped across the red line and into the mortuary itself. Christ, this can’t have changed in over a century, either, he thought. The end wall housed a double row of square metallic doors, brass handles giving them the appearance of opening hatches from a submarine. A high ceiling and, low over the three autopsy tables, strips of light hanging by chains that must have been over twelve feet long. One table was empty, one held a shrouded body and one was being used for what appeared to be the mortician’s equipment bag. To his side, water dripped from the nozzle of a hose mounted at waist height on the tiled wall.

  Jon’s eyes went back to the middle table. Oh God, don’t let it be him. It’s only his phone they’ve recovered. It could have been stolen off him by one of the scrotes he got caught up with. Maybe he sold the thing for a bit of cash. To buy what? Drugs? He pushed the thought aside. Oh God, it’s going to be him.

  The mortician moved towards
the table and Jon shadowed him, plastic overshoes scraping on the damp stone floor.

  But the mortician reached for the green case, unzipping it and throwing the lid back in one swift motion. Dave’s decapitated head was still in the perspex bag used to prevent any forensic evidence from being lost. Jon could see his face through the layer of clear plastic, mouth half open, eyes rolled up in his head. For a moment it looked like he was suffocating and Jon wanted to reach out and tear the bag open. My brother. My, my . . .

  Time lurched to a sickening halt as memories flashed by like an out-of-control slide show. His mother’s yelp as a three-year-old Dave ran in from the garden, a live worm dangling from his mouth. The beach on some holiday, hours spent constructing a knee-high fortress, then watching the creeping waves take it. Hiding in the bushes at the local park, lighting up a cigar they’d stolen from their father’s pocket and coughing until they retched.

  ‘The rest’s in the freezer if you want to see it.’

  Jon strained his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. Fragments of mud were caught in the stubble covering his brother’s head, caked blood darkened his chin.

  ‘I’d say it was a saw from the serrations to the bones. We haven’t pieced him together yet. Dr Henderley’s the fan of jigsaws.’

  Slowly Jon’s eyes began creeping down towards the ragged neck itself.

  Batyra’s voice from far away: ‘It’s his brother! For God’s sake, it’s his brother!’

  The mortician’s movement broke the spell and Jon lifted his eyes, registering the man’s look of horror. ‘You said you were police . . .’ He was fumbling for the nylon lid, trying to fold it back over.

  Jon turned away, feeling the floor starting to tilt.

  Shazia’s eyes were wide, a hand half raised. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s Dave.’ He felt himself moving towards the door, the voices continuing as he stumbled into the locker room.

  ‘He said he was with Manchester Police. No one told me—’

  ‘He’d come to ID the body, for Christ’s sake.’