by Chris Simms
‘If I knew that I’d have prepared the viewing area . . .’
The doors shut behind him and he continued across the foyer, shouldering open the outermost door and sucking in clean air. Christ, oh Jesus fucking Christ. That was Dave. That was Dave’s head in that . . . He wrenched his eyes to the side, trying to prevent the image from taking hold.
Spiers was half sitting on the bonnet of the police car, one foot extended as he hurriedly ground out a cigarette.
Suck it back, Jon. Suck it back. He used every trick he’d ever learned on the rugby pitch for hiding pain; for squashing it down and appearing unaffected. Punches, stamps, head-butts, hands grabbing his bollocks and twisting hard. Nothing, he insisted to himself. You cannot feel a fucking thing. He drew in breath. ‘Can I have one?’
‘Course, mate, help yourself.’ He held the pack of B&H out, lighter pinned to the top by his thumb.
Jon lit up, leaned against the wall and dragged heavily.
‘It’s him then,’ Spiers murmured.
Jon tilted his chin. ‘Yup.’ He released a pale cloud at the blueness above.
The outer door opened and Shazia appeared. ‘DI Spicer, I can’t say how angry I am. We rang ahead and clearly explained the visit – its circumstances. That man should have been—’
‘Breakdown in communication.’ Jon took another drag. ‘It happens.’ He looked at her. ‘Not much they could have done to make him presentable, let’s face it.’
Her look of acute embarrassment didn’t alter. ‘There’s no excuse. The whole thing . . .’ She paused. ‘Are you OK?’
He sucked again, noticing half the cigarette had vanished.
‘Better for this.’ He looked at the thing in his hand, cursing yet loving it. ‘To be honest, we’d lost contact long ago. I’ve barely spoken to him in years.’ The ball of sickness in his stomach wouldn’t budge. ‘First time I’ve seen a mortician mortified.’
She didn’t smile at his attempt at a joke.
‘Come on,’ Jon said, pushing himself from the wall and flicking the butt at a nearby drain. It bounced once and vanished between the bars. ‘Tell me what you know.’
‘What, here?’ Shazia glanced around.
‘Good a place as any.’
‘Shall we at least get a cup of tea? There’s a canteen in the main building.’
Jon shrugged, beginning to feel like he was regaining control, managing a front of normality. ‘OK, let’s get a brew.’
He’d started walking nonchalantly across the car park when he heard Shazia speak behind him. ‘DI Spicer, you’ve still got your overshoes on.’
Three
Brightly coloured paintings by local school children lent the canteen a cheerful air.
‘What are you having?’ Jon asked, pulling a five pound note from his pocket.
Shazia glanced at Spiers, whose hands remained in his pockets.
‘Let me get them,’ she said, unbuttoning the side pocket of her tunic.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jon answered, turning to the lady behind the counter. ‘A coffee for me. Black, no sugar. And whatever these two would like.’
Once he’d paid for the drinks they took a corner table, far away from the few other customers. ‘So, how long have you been in the job?’ Jon asked, pressing the pads of his fingers against the hot mug, using the pain to keep his focus.
‘Four years,’ Spiers replied.
‘Same,’ added Shazia.
‘What about you?’ Spiers lifted a cup of tea to his lips.
‘Almost eleven.’
‘What’s it like in the MIT?’
Jon recognised the note in the younger man’s voice. The Major Incident Team was Manchester Police’s modern-day equivalent of the Flying Squad. The ones who got all the big robberies, along with murders, rapes and any other serious crime. Some officers aspired to it, some despised them as glory boys who swooped in to snatch all the really interesting stuff from the city’s divisions. Spiers, he suspected, dreamed of getting in one day. ‘It’s full on.’
The younger officer nodded. ‘I bet.’
Jon looked to the side. ‘Well, you’ve got yourselves a big case here. When was he found?’
Spiers leaned forward, licking his lips in preparation.
Shazia cut in first, sympathy showing through her matter-of-fact tone. ‘It was a horse rider, out at first light. She was riding over Highshaw Hill when she spotted three bin liners. Once home, she rang the park rangers’ office to let them know.’
Jon frowned but kept silent.
‘Two rangers drove up there once they’d got the phone message – their office doesn’t open until eight. They drove the bin liners over to the fox-hound kennels for incineration.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ Jon interrupted. ‘Is this some sort of arrangement?’
‘Sorry, I should have explained,’ Shazia replied. ‘It’s a sort of informal agreement.’
‘Involving who?’
‘The poachers and the rangers.’
‘Poachers?’
‘They kill the deer. The animals are very destructive, you see. Stripping saplings, damaging older trees, eating moorland plants. Officially, it’s the park rangers’ job to keep their numbers in check. Unofficially, poachers do the job for them. They go on to the moors at night, on foot, and pick a few off.’
‘With rifles?’
‘Crossbows, I believe. Quieter. The deer are butchered where they fall and the best cuts of meat removed. So long as what’s left is neatly bagged up for the rangers to dispose of, everyone’s happy.’
‘That’s what the rangers thought was in the bags,’ Spiers added. ‘The remains of a deer or two.’
My God, Jon thought, trying not to picture the clumps of meat filling the bin-liners. Sections of my brother’s arms, legs. . . he pressed the knuckles of his fingers against the mug, searing the image from his mind. ‘And they take the bags to an incinerator?’
‘Yes,’ Shazia replied. ‘At the High Peak Hunt’s kennels. Their incinerator is used for disposing of all the animals the hunt catches.’
‘Or caught before that idiot of a Prime Minister banned it,’ Spiers added, sitting back, arms crossed. ‘The rangers threw in one bag and were just about to throw in a second when a mobile phone went off inside. So they opened it up and found . . .’
‘That’s when they called us,’ Shazia concluded. ‘The phone was in the leg pocket of a pair of cargo trousers.’
The comment conjured more unwelcome images in Jon’s mind. A shudder took him and he picked up his coffee to mask it. Lowering his head to take a sip, he used the movement to momentarily close his eyes. Fucking hell, I can’t handle this. He swallowed, then sniffed.
Shazia’s eyebrows had tilted and she looked like she was about to reach across and squeeze his hand. ‘I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how to make telling you any easier.’
Jon was feeling queasy again. Breathing deeply, he said, ‘Just give me the details straight, I’ll deal with it.’
‘You’re sure?’ He nodded.
‘Well,’ she continued. ‘The rangers had the presence of mind to turn the incinerator off. The pathologist was able to recover, you know, most of what was inside.’
‘You mean parts of my brother’s body?’
Her eyes dropped towards her drink. ‘The bag had obviously melted, there were the remains of a sweatshirt and some of the smaller . . . the smaller pieces were badly damaged.’
Jon slid his cup aside. This was too much. ‘Look,’ he worked his lips. ‘I’d better get going. There’s a lot of stuff to sort out. Has a doctor signed a medical certificate? I’ll need to register the death and start arranging for the funeral. Christ, I don’t even know if he had a will.’ He glanced at the two officers as if they might know. ‘He probably didn’t. God knows. Is there a medical certificate?’
‘DI Spicer,’ Shazia said in a whisper. ‘We’ve only just informed the coroner. There’ll have to be a post-mortem and after that, an inquest. He w
on’t be able to issue a certificate for the time being.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Jon blinked. That’s basic bloody stuff. Jesus, get a grip. He coughed with embarrassment. ‘But my family need to know. I should be off.’
Shazia glanced at Spiers, then turned back to Jon. ‘Could you pop back to the station with us? There’s the identification form to complete and we really could do with asking you a few—’
‘I’ll call you later, if that’s all right.’ The urge to be in his car and driving far away from this place was overwhelming. He stood.
Shazia was shifting in her seat, about to get up. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Can we drive you back to Manchester?’
He moved away from the table, gesturing for her to stay sitting down. ‘I’m fine. Seriously. You finish your drinks. I’ll speak to you later.’
He was on the road back to Manchester before he registered where he was. Autopilot had got him out of the hospital grounds and along Haverdale’s high street. His younger sister, Ellie, would be at Mum and Dad’s by now, Sunday lunch in the oven. Oh shit, Holly can’t be there when I break the news. He pulled into a lay-by, staring over jagged hills as he readied himself to call Alice and ask that she stay away.
The reception for Key 0 was almost non-existent, so he hit the retune button on the car’s radio. It settled on ‘Waterloo’ by Abba. Dave, skipping round the front room, maybe seven years old? Breathlessly announcing that he was going to write to Jim’ll Fix It, asking to meet the band in Sweden and get their autographs. Jon remembered the pang of jealous fear as he ridiculed his brother’s idea. What if the letter worked and Dave got on the telly? What if the blonde-haired one they both adored kissed him in front of the camera?
The song played on and Jon stared out of the windscreen. Oh Dave, you stupid bastard. What the bloody hell happened? He breathed deeply, remembering his younger brother leaving home, his dad’s shouted dismissal as the door slammed shut. His mum had been sobbing and Ellie was silent as Dave walked down the garden path and headed off up the street. Jon squeezed his eyes shut. I should have been there for you during your years on the streets, living in squats, slipping further and further from us all.
Part of his mind started up its usual refrain: You can sort it out soon. Make the effort to find him when things are a bit less hectic in your own life. He stopped the train of thought in its tracks. He’s dead, you fool. There’s never going to be a chance to sort things out.
A terrible sense of being too late bore down on him. I’ve missed him, he thought. So much that I wanted to say. The man who abused you, who sent you spinning off into oblivion. I found him, Dave. I found the bastard for you. I found him and then I killed him.
He straightened his fingers, then curled them back around the steering wheel, repeating the action rhythmically, encouraging the waves of tears to come. But his eyes stayed dry and when he studied his face in the rear-view mirror, it looked like he’d been drugged.
Four
The front door to his parents’ house was unlocked and he let himself into the front hall. The smell of roast lamb was all around him as he looked fearfully at the framed photos that covered the walls. The three of them in school uniforms, Jon’s hair a frizzy mop on his head, Ellie with gaps for front teeth, Dave looking off to the side. Later ones of Jon newly qualified in his policeman’s uniform. Ellie on her graduation day, black gown draped over her shoulders. None of Dave as an adult, nothing past his teenage years.
Jon looked towards the archway into the lounge, the ball of sickness swelling in his stomach. He’d rung ahead to announce that Alice and Holly couldn’t make it. Ellie’s voice was audible in the background as he’d told his dad he’d be there in twenty minutes.
‘It’s me,’ he called out, removing his jacket and hanging it on the banister.
‘Hello, Jon.’ His mum’s voice, full of cheer. Sunday lunch and all her family around her.
He stepped into the front room, noticing the dining table was already laid. Alan was in his armchair to the side of the patio doors, the sports section of the Observer in his hands. ‘All right, Dad?’ Jon asked, catching the questioning look on his father’s face.
Something clanged in the kitchen and his mum spoke through the open door. ‘What were you saying on the phone? Holly’s ill?’
‘Just a bit of sickness, Mum. We thought it best she stayed at home.’
‘That’s a shame. Maybe you could take a plate of food back for Alice.’
He broke away from his dad’s stare, moving so he could see into the kitchen. Ellie was draining a saucepan of potatoes at the sink, steam ballooning around her. It rose up and then vanished to leave the window coated in a foggy layer. His mum had just placed a ceramic tray on the work surface. Inside was a roast leg of lamb, the severed bone jutting off to the side. Jon’s eyes shied away. Anything but the sight of a hunk of butchered meat. His mum removed her oven gloves. ‘And where were you ringing from? Haverdale? What were you doing out there?’
‘I’ve got some news, Mum. News for you all.’
A flicker of wariness in her sideways glance. She smoothed her apron, cheerfulness now sounding slightly forced. ‘Why don’t I serve up first? You can tell us when we’re all sitting down.’
Ellie stepped round her, holding a corkscrew and bottle of red towards him. ‘You can open this, too.’
He took the wine, wanting to puke. ‘Look, ah . . . just sit down at the table, will you?’ The bottle was dragging his arm down and he placed it on the dining table. ‘It’s about Dave.’
He saw their expressions change. Real concern now on his mother’s and sister’s faces. Behind him, the newspaper rustled and he knew his dad had lowered it. Not taking her eyes off Jon, Mary stepped out of the kitchen. She took a seat, Ellie next to her.
Jon pulled a chair out for himself, angling it so he could also see his father. His mind had frozen. How many times, he asked himself, have I broken this news to other people? Be simple and direct, don’t make them suffer by beating about the bush. ‘It’s bad news.’ He registered his mum’s slack-jawed look of dismay and cut his eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Dave’s no longer . . . he’s no longer with us.’
Silence.
He looked back down. Mary was raising a palm towards her mouth, leaving Ellie scrabbling for where her mother’s hand had just been. He saw it in their eyes. Doubt, confusion, fear. Shit, they don’t know for certain what I mean. ‘He . . . Dave’s been. . . he’s dead. Mum, Dave’s dead.’
She spoke from behind her hand, eyes beginning to shimmer.
‘No.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ellie asked, voice rising upwards and starting to break as she latched on to Mary’s forearm.
Jon fought back the tears. ‘Ellie, he’s been killed.’
‘Who’s told you that?’
‘The police called me earlier this morning.’
‘Well, they could have made a mistake.’
I wish. I so bloody wish. He shook his head once. ‘I’ve just identified his body.’
In the corner of his vision, he saw his dad raise the paper back up. The pages started to tremble. Mary leaned towards her daughter and Ellie wrapped an arm around her. ‘How?’
The air shuddered in his throat as he tried to breathe in. ‘He was found on top of a hill just outside the town. The local police are involved. It looks like someone killed him.’
A moan. He looked towards his mum and sister, unsure at first who’d made the noise. Mary was trying to gulp. ‘No, no, no, no.’
Jon reached across the table and took her hand. No words would come.
‘And you’re sure?’ Ellie’s face was white. ‘You’re certain . . .’ He looked into her eyes and the rest of her sentence dried up. She tilted her head to the side, resting a cheek on top of her mother’s head. A tear fell from her eye. He looked at it, a glistening bead that slowly melted into his mother’s silvery hair. The paper crumpled as his father suddenly stood. He removed his pack of Hamlets from the uppermost
shelf of the Welsh dresser then moved stiffly to the patio doors, fumbling at the handles for a few seconds before sliding them open.
‘You!’
The sudden shriek made Jon jump. He looked round at his mum. Both hands were clutching Ellie and her mouth was open, jaw jutting out, lower teeth exposed.
‘This is your fault,’ she snarled at her husband’s back.
The room seemed to shrink as Jon turned back to Alan. His father stood there for a second, then stepped silently outside. Mary’s head dropped and the moaning started again.
Jon ducked his head slightly to catch Ellie’s eye. We’ve got to tell them, his look said. We’ve got to let them know what happened to you and Dave when you were both younger. She stared back at him and slowly shook her head. Keeping his eyes on Ellie, he spoke. ‘Mum, I’ll take care of everything. We’ll get him back and give him a proper burial. Ellie’s going to stay with you.’
Her moaning subsided into silence.
‘Stay with her,’ Jon whispered to his sister, then crossed the room and stepped out onto the patio. His dad was trying to light one of the small cigars. Shoulders hunched, neck craned forward. Suddenly Jon saw him for the sixty-three-year-old man he was. He’d never noticed his frailty before.
‘Can’t light the bloody thing.’
Shock, Jon thought. Robs you of your coordination. He slid the pack and lighter from his father’s fingers and extracted a cigar for himself. After lighting both up, he handed the slim box back. His father cradled it as he stared across the small garden, legs apart as if bracing himself for the roll of a ship.
Jon took a drag, circling his tongue inside his mouth, lips open to let in air. He inhaled and his throat and chest briefly burned.
Alan’s voice was flat. ‘What happened?’
Jon glanced to the side, but his father’s eyes were still fixed on the garden. I can’t tell him. I just can’t. ‘Not sure. The police are investigating.’
‘He was killed. Someone killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Drugs?’
Jon shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How did he die?’