by Chris Simms
‘Something tells me we’re not driving back to Manchester in tandem.’
He turned towards the town’s modest centre, studying the huddled rows of houses, trails of smoke rising from the odd chimney. ‘I’m staying here.’
‘Who with?’
‘Hotel,’ Jon answered, an image of the Haven Inn his brother used in his mind’s eye.
He could see the information sinking in and was careful not to make eye contact. When she spoke, there was a cautionary note in her voice. ‘You think that’s a good idea? The welcome here was hardly the warmest I’ve ever had.’
Jon thought about Mallin’s blinkered and defensive attitude, Spiers’ and Batyra’s caginess and Salt’s lacklustre skills. This is my brother they’re writing off as some worthless drug dealer. My little brother. His glance bounced off the lit windows on the station’s first floor. ‘Fuck them. There’s a shed-load of questions I want answering before I leave this dismal little shithole.’
‘Here you go.’ She tightened the cap on the stubby bottle, then bent down and handed it to him.
His little face beamed, eyes sparkling in their sunken holes as he raised it to his lips. After a few gulps, he had to release the teat to take a quick succession of breaths. The crackling in his chest had grown stronger and, for a crazy moment, she pictured a nest of spiders, weaving an ever-thickening web inside his lungs.
To her relief, he began drinking again, and when he paused for air, his breathing didn’t sound quite as laboured. Maybe I’m being paranoid, she thought, pointing towards the front room.
‘Teletubbies?’
Slowly, he crawled off in the direction of the telly, bottle gripped in one hand. With a sigh, she held the milk carton up. Half a litre. That would barely see them through the morning. She opened a cupboard, searching for an alternative to cereals. Something that didn’t need to be mixed with milk.
A packet of Cup-a-Soups, a tin of tuna, some pasta. A can of spaghetti. Half a bag of sugar. Bottles of ketchup and brown sauce. Dave’s brown sauce. Her shoulders sagged. Shit, where are you? The next cupboard held a box of honey nut loops and a tin of tomatoes. Beside them was a sachet of instant custard powder. She took it out, wondering if Jake would be happy with a watered down version of that on his cereal. Christ, this was ridiculous.
Footsteps across the ceiling and some music came on. Country stuff – a woman with a twang to her voice. Did they have a phone up there? I’ve got to speak to Dave, get him to come back right now. They must have a phone.
Jake was on his cushion, eyes fixed to the TV screen as Po raced between psychedelic flowers on her scooter. She tiptoed through to the hallway, stopping at the front door.
No noises outside. Slowly, she undid the bolts, then turned the Yale lock back. With some effort, she began to pull the door open, the steel panels Dave had reinforced it with considerably adding to its weight. The crack opened, revealing the concrete walkway and balcony outside. A pigeon was perched on the handrail, head bobbing up and down, a beady eye turned in her direction. She opened the door fully and it hopped back into the void, wings slapping together. It struggled to gain height before disappearing in the direction of the tower block roof.
She poked her head out, looking quickly in both directions. As usual, her floor was deserted – the front door to every other flat covered by thick metal mesh. Refurbishments later that year. She wanted to laugh. And in the meantime I’m stuck up here alone, Billy bloody no mates.
She could hear an engine revving in the courtyard far below. Lads were laughing and an empty can clattered off a wall. They’d be there, hanging about, doing a bit of business. A wrap of speed here, a bag of powder there. The muscles in her stomach clenched with desire and she edged across the walkway to peer down.
They were grouped in the toddlers’ play area, some perched on the backs of the benches, feet dirtying the area for sitting on. Another two were on the see-saw, taking it in turns to thrust up with both feet and return to the ground with as big a bump as possible. Off to the side a miniature football match was underway, a battered drinks can the target of their kicks.
Her eyes settled on the only grown man among them: Salvio, surrounded by the rest of the estate’s gang. Memories of Siobhain came back. Sweet, lovely Siobhain, with her deliciously soft way of speaking. Salvio had found her hanging around outside the Burger King in Piccadilly Gardens, joking later that she was so fresh from the Emerald Isle, he could smell the clover on her. Luck of the Irish, he’d told the girl, setting her up in his own flat, booze and everything else on offer.
But when Siobhain realised what the payback involved doing, she had screamed and fought. Said she would go to the police. Zoe remembered the day in the terraced house Salvio had moved the poor girl out to. She remembered sitting in the corner, too scared to move as Salvio had ordered Siobhain to be pinned down, someone holding her head in position while he boiled the kettle. Siobhain’s shrieks when water was splashed on her forearm. A whisper, Salvio had hissed, holding the steaming spout inches from her face, so much as a whisper and you’ll get this whole thing poured down your throat.
But Siobhain had never really given in. Always finding ways to kick against him, however bad the beatings got. Someone said he’d eventually shipped her on to some men in Gorton. That or sent her across to Nottingham. Whatever it was, one day she simply vanished.
She often wondered what became of Siobhain. Did she ever make it back to that village in Ireland she’d come from? Somewhere near a city called Cork. There was something about her, something Zoe could tell was good. We could have been best mates, she thought bitterly.
The engine of the car they were looking at revved again, noise building to a whine before the driver released the clutch. The wheels span furiously before gripping the tarmac and the vehicle flew forward, leaving a cloud of blackness hanging in the air.
Salvio threw his head back, but his roar of laughter abruptly stopped. Shit! She ducked back below the level of the barrier, realising the door to her flat was ajar. Light spilled out from the naked bulb hanging in the hall.
On all fours, she reached across and tried to pull it shut. A loud whistle echoed up from below. Salvio’s voice. ‘Yo! Riggers – Dave’s bitch is out. Three decks above you!’
She cocked her head towards the stairwell and listened. Seconds later she heard the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching. She scrambled to her feet and shouldered the door open. It banged against something and Jake flew back, bottle of milk landing beyond his head. A moment of open mouthed silence before the screaming started.
‘Oh, kidder.’ She stepped inside, scooped him up, then turned round, pushed it shut and started sliding the bolts across. ‘I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.’ The footsteps came to a stop outside and there followed a series of bangs as they started kicking her door. Jake screamed louder and she pressed him to her chest. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, Mummy’s got you.’
She ran down the corridor and into the front room, pushing the door shut behind her. ‘Shush now, kidder. We’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.’ Eventually his crying petered out, replaced by rattling little sobs. She rested her palm across his back, listening to the wheeze of his congested lungs. Oh God, he’s getting worse. He is definitely getting worse.
Suddenly she thought of the bathroom. Maybe there was a bit of the stuff left that Dr Griffiths had given them. She pictured the little canister, how pressing on it had released a fine mist into the cone Dave would hold in place over Jake’s nose and mouth. Christ, Dave, I need you here. I can’t look after him on my own. Never bloody could.
The kicking outside had stopped, and with him clinging to her neck like a drowning monkey, she tiptoed down the corridor and into the bathroom. Rummaging with one hand among empty bottles and discarded blister packs of pills, she eventually found a little canister in the cabinet’s top drawer.
She picked it up and shook it. A bit of the stuff was still inside. After wiping the dust off, she peered at Dr Griffiths’ label: ‘Verasone.
Use every three or four hours. Once seal is broken, discard after two weeks.’ She looked at the date on the label. Bollocks, it was over four months old.
Ten
The car park of the Haven Inn held a smattering of cars. Some drivers had chosen to park their vehicles as close to the wing of rooms as possible, others had crowded the area directly before the front entrance, seeking safety there. Jon parked away from them all at the outer edge.
Adjoining the motel was the obligatory pub restaurant, mock traditional decor on the outside and a menu of ready-made meals that could be microwaved in seconds. As he walked across the smooth asphalt, he examined the motel. Windows glowed on both floors. A token effort had been made to clad it in stone that was sympathetic to its surroundings, but the chunky blocks were too uniform, their sandy-coloured shade almost without variation. Aggregate, Jon guessed, pressed together in some grotesque industrial unit.
The front doors slid apart and the receptionist looked up.
‘Good evening.’
‘Hi there,’ Jon smiled, placing his holdall down and fishing his ID from his jacket. ‘DI Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. I’m here to help with the murder investigation.’
Her eyes yo-yoed between his photocard and face. Young girl, probably earning money to fund her studies. He glanced at her name badge. Suzy.
‘The one they found stuffed in the bin bags?’ she asked.
Jon maintained his friendly expression. The one they found stuffed in the bin bags. Whoever earned my brother that epithet is going to fucking well regret it. Why? A voice in his head, immediately replied. Exactly what will you do to make him reg— Jon cleared his throat to drown out the question. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Do they know his real name, yet? The local paper called in earlier and everything. I mean, he was signed in as Dave Smith, but they reckon that was made up.’
‘No, still unidentified. Now, the officers at your police station inform me he’d been staying here.’
Her eyes moved towards the doors leading to the inner part of the motel. ‘That’s right.’
‘And the room he was in for his last visit was . . .’
She completed the sentence for him. ‘Number eight.’
‘That’s it, number eight. Superintendent Mallin rang earlier about me borrowing the service key?’
Her forehead wrinkled and she looked below the counter.
‘I’ve only just come on shift. Dianne hasn’t left anything.’
‘You work nights, then?’
‘Yes. Well, three times a week.’
‘Studying for something?’
‘I am.’ A hand went to the horse-shaped pendant about her neck. ‘Equestrian Studies, with the Open University.’
Remembering one of the first chats he’d ever had with Rick, Jon raised a forefinger. ‘Wise move. Less to pay for the course and tuition fees, right?’
‘Right.’
He allowed a slight frown. ‘It was about mid-afternoon when he rang. The room key recovered from the crime scene has gone for fingerprint analysis. The lady he spoke to said there is a service key I could borrow.’
‘Yes.’ She stood up, went over to the pigeon holes mounted on the rear wall and removed a key card from the end compartment. ‘This will work.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and I’ll need to check in myself. Murder investigations are notoriously slow.’
‘Here? You want to stay here?’
He grinned. ‘Police expenses don’t stretch to much. Though, to be honest, I prefer this kind of place. Quieter than the town centre.’
She reached for the computer keyboard, adopting her work mode. After entering his details and swiping his card, she looked up. ‘Would you prefer a ground or first-floor room?’
‘Ground please. Anything left next to number eight?’
‘To the side or opposite?’
‘Opposite please.’
‘OK, so that’s room seven.’ She handed him another key.
‘Through the doors and to your left.’
‘Cheers.’ He slid the service key into the breast pocket of his jacket, picked up his bag and headed for the corridor. He immediately spotted Dave’s room because a blue sticker covered the lock mechanism. White words announced: ‘Police – Do Not Enter’.
He clicked his own door, slung his bag inside then turned back to Dave’s. Muffled TV commentary from further down the corridor. A crowd burst into laughter. He peeled back the blue sticker just enough to allow the card into the slot. Down, hold, up. The light changed to green and he lowered the door handle with the tip of a knuckle. Light from the corridor illuminated the row of switches just inside the door. No haze of aluminium dust sprayed out by the zephyr brush. Batyra and Spiers must have bagged whatever they thought relevant, leaving Salt to dust for prints at a later date. Using the tip of a biro, Jon flicked on the lights.
God, the anonymity of these places. A watercolour print of flowers in a field, pastel shades beneath a weak blue sky. All the substance of a marshmallow. The TV on the side unit with an A card on the top, no doubt tipping off visiting businessmen about the pay-to-view porn channels.
He looked at the kettle and tea-making tray. Ripped sachets of sugar, empty miniature cartons of UHT milk, crumpled tea bags with edges that had dried a lighter shade of brown. One cup used, residue of Dave’s last brew clinging to the bottom. The bed was unmade, duvet peeled halfway back, the mattress wrinkled only on the left-hand side. Sticking to protocol, Dave? At home, did Zoe prefer the right?
Memories of him, Dave and Ellie staying at their grandparents’ house popped up. Dave and him getting to share the double bed in the spare room. One time they’d sneaked a torch and some comics along in their bag and created a den by piling up their pillows under the covers. Waking up hot and sweaty at some unknown hour, the torch batteries long dead and crumpled copies of 2000 AD beneath them.
Jon saw the bedside table’s drawer was fully open, just a bible lying inside. Down on all fours, he peered beneath the bed. Nothing.
He stood up, turned to the wardrobe and hooked the biro under the curved handle. The door swung open to reveal a vertical row of empty shelves. He bent down, spotting fragments of soil at the bottom. What happened to your shoes, mate? What has the bastard who killed you done with them?
He stepped into the bathroom. Apart from a spare towel still folded on the corner shelf, absolutely nothing. He crouched to examine the screws on the base panel of the bath. Pristine, with no damage to the surrounding paintwork. Back in the main room, he placed a chair beneath the air conditioning vent high up on the wall. A fine layer of dust clung to it and he could tell no one had tampered with it in months. He looked for telltale signs of powder on the corner table. A few strands of tobacco and that was it. No way, no bloody way, was Dave using this hotel as a base for dealing.
Back in the corridor, he smoothed the sticker back over the lock, stepped across to his room and let himself in. It was like entering into a reflection of Dave’s. The same insipid print, the same model TV on the side unit, identical type of cover on the duvet.
The shower head pressed out multiple streams of hissing water and Jon ducked his head under the cascade, nodding slowly from side to side, relishing the bombardment on his skull. Back in the main part of the room, he paused, eyes on the mirror that stretched the length of the bathroom door. A row of welts stretched round his ribs, almost touching the towel at his waist. He swivelled his arm, spotting long-forgotten evidence of other ancient gouges and stamps. The nicks in the skin of his fingers and the puckered burn marks also stood out. The fluorescent bulb in the bathroom plinked and he realised it was that causing his rugby scars to glow. Looking up, he saw that the line running through his left eyebrow was also in sharp relief. Spicer, he shook his head, you look like one ugly great plank.
Unzipping his holdall, he pulled out a pair of jeans and ribbed black sweater. Alice? His wife’s face appeared in his mind. What did you pack that for? He almost tossed it to the side, awa
re of how tight the top felt across his chest, shoulders and arms. Then he paused, thinking about the evening ahead. Physical intimidation would almost certainly feature at some point.
The receptionist glanced to her side as he came back through the doors.
‘Thanks for your help, Suzy.’ Jon handed the service key back. ‘I forgot to ask Superintendent Mallin about the room’s phone records. Is there a log of calls I could look at?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never been asked that before.’
‘It’s easy. Just bring up his room bill, it’ll probably show them there.’
‘Of course,’ she said, fingers on the keyboard once again. ‘He owed us for three nights.’
‘How did he pay on his previous visits?’
‘Cash.’ Her eyes moved down the screen. ‘No. Just a meal on room service, ordered last night.’
‘From that place next door?’ He craned his neck.
‘Yes.’ She turned the screen so he could see. ‘Chicken korma, rice and naan. Eight pounds ninety-five.’
Jon could see the entry. ‘Right. No calls, just like you said. Thanks.’
The walk into Haverdale took him back over the small bridge. He looked down, unable to see the water in the inky shadows below. Somewhere behind him an owl hooted, urgently repeating its call before receiving a distant reply.
Up ahead, the lights of the railway station provided a row of beacons in the night and soon he was striding over the level crossing, a deserted platform on his right, silent track stretching off to his left.
The high street opened up before him, dark shop windows on either side. Two cars were parked at the top of a side street, and spotting the beads of glass scattered across the pavement, Jon paused for a closer look. The side windows of both had been smashed in and wires hung from gaping holes in the dashboards. Two people’s days would get off to a shitty start tomorrow, he thought.
The fourth shop he passed was a butcher’s and he looked at the empty display stand at the front. Spotless steel trays dully reflected the street lights behind him. His attention turned to the row of stickers in the window’s bottom corner.