by Liz Mistry
Firing off a snowball which hit his friend in the chest, Taffy began running down Hollings Road past Jasmin Terrace with Compo in hot pursuit whooping and laughing. Another snowball hit Taffy in the back of his head making him shake his head like a friendly dog after a dip in the River Aire. Spinning round, he grabbed some snow and all the while running backwards sang, “Catch me if you can! Catch me if you can!”.
Compo, snowball at the ready, gained on his adversary, grinning like a child visiting Santa. Taffy inadvertently veered towards a deep drift of snow and was taken unawares when Compo let loose an icy missile. Failing to catch it, Taffy stepped back. His feet went from under him and he pedalled the air briefly, before ending up in the middle of the drift. Taking full advantage Compo grabbed some snow, moulded it and fired it, before repeating the action twice more in quick succession. ‘Submit, Taff,’ he yelled, ‘Submit.’
Raising his arms up over his face, Taffy laughed. ‘Okay, Okay. I give up – stop it.’
Compo did a quick victory circle on the spot then reached down to pull Taffy from the pile of snow. As soon as Taffy gripped his hand, Compo realised his mistake and seconds later he was lying beside Taffy in the snow, the pair of them laughing uncontrollably.
By the time they arrived at Thornton Road five minutes later, the snow had become a blizzard and the wind had sped up. Storm Emma had arrived in Bradford.
Wet and shivering, yet laughing, Compo took a left into Holmfield Court with Taffy following. As they climbed the stairs to Compo’s flat Taffy said, ‘Hey Comp’s I didn’t know you lived—’
‘Yeah, yeah’ said Compo, trying to find his keys – his tone flat. ‘I know I’m right in the heart of the red-light district. Dun’t mean I use the facilities does it?’
Taffy frowned, ‘Hell Comps. Wasn’t gonna say that, I was going to say that the Crossbow Cannibal live in these flats, didn’t he?’
‘Don’t call him that – that’s what he gets off on.’
Taffy blushed and shuffled his feet. Modifying his tone, Compo continued, ‘Gus hates it when the press gives them a title. Says it glorifies them when all they deserve is to rot quietly in prison with their boring old name.’
Taffy, head on one side, seemed to think for a minute, then nodded. ‘Stephen Griffiths that was his name wasn’t it. Did you meet him?’
Compo shook his head. ‘He was arrested before I moved in. That’s how I can afford the rent. They were desperate to get folk in.’
‘So – this flat of yours it’s…?’
Realising what Taffy thought, Compo laughed and shook his head. ‘Don’t be daft. I might have wanted a cheap flat, didn’t want it that cheap though! Griffiths’ was upstairs. Nobody lives in it for long.’ He rubbed his chin with his fingers, ‘Nobody stays in any of these flats for long – except me that is. I don’t mind it here. It does me.’
He slotted his key in the lock and faced Taffy. ‘I’ve never had a visitor here before, Taff.’ He turned the key and pushed the door open a fraction. ‘Actually, I’ve never had anybody visit me in any of the places I lived in before either. Reckon it’s because folk think I’m weird. Never really had a friend ‘till I joined Gus’ team.’ He stepped through the door and stopped. ‘Now I’ve lost two of them in the space of a few months. We’ve got to get Alice back. Can’t bear to lose her as well as Sampson.’
Taffy wasn’t sure what to expect when he stepped through the door after Compo. It wasn’t so much Compo’s words that made Taffy realise just how lonely he was – how badly he’d been affected by Sampson’s death and Alice’s subsequent arrest. It was the haunted look in his eyes. His nervous, almost pleading tone as he avoided Taffy’s gaze. The slump of his shoulders and, worse than any of those other things, the momentary blankness in his eyes that echoed his words. In that instant, Taffy realised that all of Compo’s life was invested in the team. He could have kicked himself for never asking him about his family, his life outside The Fort. He suspected that Compo had a story that would be completely different to his own happy home life with devoted, supportive parents.
Taffy had an almost uncontrollable urge to wrap his arms round Compo and tell him everything would be alright. But he stopped himself – he couldn’t be the one to give Compo hope that could so easily be stripped away again. He’d much rather be honest with his friend – prepare him for the worst and hope for the best. ‘We can only do our best, Comps. But, no matter what happens with Alice, I’ll still be here. I’ll still be your friend and so will Gus. We’re a team – family, yeah?’
Compo shuffled his feet and gesturing with his head, invited Taffy to move into the cramped hallway. It was dark and Compo – seemingly comfortable with the dim light – took his coat off and hung it on one of three hooks next to a radiator by the door before untying his sodden shoelaces and kicking off his boots by the radiator. He gestured to his friend to do the same and as Taffy shrugging his coat off, took a step closer to the radiator, its heat rose to his face and with the light shining through the door pane, he could already see steam rising from Compo’s coat. Compo might not be at home much, but he certainly kept his flat warm.
Compo moved down the narrow hallway, flicked on a light switch. There were four doors leading off the corridor and Compo headed for the one facing them at the end. As Taffy walked behind Comps, he was aware of his damp socks leaving footprints on the brown carpet, so he tried to step on the existing ones left by Compo. Curious, he looked at the posters that lined the walls. Each one was framed in a simple black frame. The Doors at Winterland, featuring a long-haired bare-chested dude. No idea who they are. A psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix dated 1968 – vague idea who he was. Another psychedelic poster of a woman, this time Janis Joplin at Avalon Ballroom dated 1967. A poster with an effeminate lad in a purple shirt open to the navel with ‘Born To Boogie’ emblazoned across the top – again no idea. Until, at last, one that Taffy recognised – a poster of John Lennon with the quote ‘Possession isn’t nine tenths of the law. It’s nine tenths of the problem.’
‘I know him – John Lennon. He’s dead in’t he?’
Compo moved to stand beside Taffy, looking up at the poster. He reached out his hand and touched the glass. ‘They’re all dead’ His tone was flat. ‘They all died young. John Lennon in ’80, shot aged forty.’
Taffy looked back at the row of frames and back to Compo. There was something about his friend that worried him. The sadness in his eyes as he too looked at the row of dead rock stars. Compo walked back along the corridor, stopping at each frame in turn and touching the face of the artist. ‘Marc Bolan – car crash September ’77 – age twenty-nine. Janis Joplin, ’70, heroin overdose, age twenty-seven. Jimi Hendrix, ’70, choked on his own vomit – age twenty-seven. Jim Morrison, ’71, possible heart attack, suspected drug overdose – also aged twenty-seven.’
Every one of the artists was one of Compo’s heroes. Taffy had seen him wearing t-shirts with their faces or names on them. Presumably the music he listened to on his headphones was that of his dead heroes.
Compo turned and walked back along the corridor. ‘The seventies was a bad time. Seems like this decade is too.’ He thrust open the door that opened into a living room. What first drew Taffy’s eyes were the framed posters that lined these walls too. These people he recognised: Amy Winehouse, Prince, David Bowie, George Michael, Dolores O’Riordan – and the one thing they all had in common was that, they too, were dead.
Speechless, Taffy allowed his eyes to drift over each of the posters. Squirming maggots of unease turned his stomach. Compo’s flat was like a photo mausoleum – a shrine to the dead artists Compo worshipped. He was sure this wasn’t healthy, but he had no idea what to say.
Fortunately, he was distracted by the expanse of equipment that stretched along the back wall of Compo’s living room. Holy shit! This was impressive. Taffy hesitated in the doorway, taking in the rest of the space in a stunned silence.
Whilst Compo’s work area back at The Fort was at best ‘l
ived in’ and at worst ‘downright unhygienic’, this was the complete opposite. The entire living room was almost spartan apart from the pictures on the walls and the elongated workstation on which sat an impressive amount of PC screens, docks and towers with wires erupting like spaghettis from a series of sockets attached to the back wall. The only other furniture in the room was a single chair that looked like it had barely been used, two computer chairs and a massive TV that hung from the opposite wall and appeared to be linked to the sea of PC equipment.
Taffy started when a sudden burst of music erupted from the TV. He recognised it as a George Michael track, but wasn’t sure of the title. Compo lowered the volume and stood, biting his lip in the middle of the room. Before Taffy could speak, he raised one finger in the air. ‘Oops nearly forgot.’ And he skirted the armchair and went over to a small table nestled in the corner of the room that Taffy hadn’t noticed. He picked up a box of matches, struck one and lit the large green pine Yankee Candle that stood in the centre. ‘Mrs McGuire gave me this,’ he said blowing out the match.
Taffy grinned, ‘Bloody hell Comps, how do you manage to keep your flat so bloody tidy?’
Blushing, Compo shrugged, ‘Never here, Taff. Prefer it at The Fort. Got everything I need there.’
Taffy moved over and flung himself onto one of the computer chairs. ‘Looks like you’ve got all you need here too, Comps.’
Compo shrugged and sat down, shaking the mouse which activated four of the five screens. ‘Not quite. I don’t usually have the team here.’ And he began to check the programmes he had running.
38
14:50 Keighley, A58 to Stalybridge
‘The Beast from the East has paid some unexpected dividends for West Yorkshire Police. In the midst of the storm, police detected unusual heat sources in a property in Keighley causing the snow to melt as soon as it landed on the roof. On closer inspection, West Yorkshire Police were able to seize and disband one of the largest cannabis farms in the district, preventing tens of thousands of pounds worth of cannabis from hitting the streets. Meanwhile in other news, across the region emergency services are being stretched to breaking point with burst pipes and electrical faults playing havoc. This is Capital Radio News…’
Gus and Lewis Gore had spent the last hour following a snow plough along Keighley Road and still had to hike the last mile through Keighley town centre to the cenotaph where the bodies had been found. Gus had taken the call from Hissing Sid, saying that some of the wounds were similar to those found on Izzie Dimou’s body and had elected to face the weather to see for himself. Keighley town centre was usually alive with a bustling community making full use of its quaint shops and cafes. Today – apart from the two lads who’d had the misfortune to uncover one of the two bodies whilst enjoying a snowball fight and the crime scene teams – the square was deserted.
A large tent had been erected over the corpses and Gus could see a uniformed officer with two young lads over the road, no doubt escorting them home. Gus was happy to let the lads go home. The officer would have taken their details and Gus could catch up with him later. He doubted the lads had much to offer and they’d be better off at home playing video games and drinking hot chocolate. Gus and Gore signed themselves into the inner cordon and approached the tent, walking on the slabs that had been set out for this purpose. Hissing Sid turned to greet them. ‘Bloody hate this sort of crime scene. Most of what we get is ruined.’ He sighed and released a fart that sounded like a gunshot which ricocheted off every building on the square, exhaling its noxious fumes over Gus and Gore.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Gus spoke under his breath. Experience had told him that the less fuss he made about Sid’s unsociable behaviour, the less Sid did it.
With an angelic smile, Sid swept open the tent flap and ushered them in, ‘Least I did it outside, Gus.’
Yeah, very sociably conscious of you, I’m sure. Gus stepped through and saw that two male bodies lay side by side, their clothes slashed and covered in bloody knife wounds.
‘Once we’d swept the snow off, we saw that they’d been left like this. Bar their shoes, they’re still dressed – unlike Izzie – but even so, you can see the cuts are different sizes. And..,’ Sid pointed to their bare feet, ‘their soles have been slashed.’
Gus bent over. Sid was right, there were definite similarities to Izzie Dimou’s wounds, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. He pointed to the smaller of the two men, ‘That’s the guy who broke into Izzie’s house last night and kneed me in the balls.’
Gore looked at the dead man, ‘I’m assuming that not all of the damage to his face is down to you, Gus.’
‘Nope, you got that right. I managed a couple of punches, but whoever did this really let go.’
‘Looks like they thought he’d got something important from Izzie’s house doesn’t it?’
Gus turned and walked towards the exit. ‘Yep, which means we really need Compo to get to the bottom of what’s on that USB stick pronto.’
What was going on? How many men were implicated in Izzie Dimou’s death? These two were very similar to the thugs who’d followed Izzie on leaving Rubeus Pharmaceuticals. When they got the CCTV footage cleaned up, he was sure their faces would match. So who had killed them? This didn’t lead him very much closer to finding Daniel either, which clearly wasn’t going to please Gabriella. Right on cue, The Bitch is Back resonated from his phone. With an exaggerated sigh, Gus sent it straight to voicemail. Seeing Gore’s questioning look he shrugged, ‘Gabriella. Can’t just let me do my job, got to keep micromanaging.’ He was slipping his phone back into his pocket when it rang again, this time just a normal ring tone. ‘McGuire here.’
‘Oh, so you are able to answer?’
Gus cursed under his breath and turned away from Gore who was grinning like he’d won the damn lottery. ‘Hi Gabriella, phone went to voicemail before I could answer,’ Straightening his shoulders, he added, ‘I am at a crime scene right now, you know. Can’t be speaking to you on the phone every five minutes.’
There was silence on the end of the phone and a muffled sniff followed by Katie’s voice, ‘Is it Daniel?’
Fuck! ‘No, no it’s not Daniel. We’re still trying to locate him.’
Katie said something to Gabriella and then she was back talking to him, ‘Look Gus, all she needs is to be kept in the loop – that’s all. It’s hard for her not being there.’
Gus’ momentary pang of guilt was replaced by relief. Gabriella, in person, was infinitely worse than Gabriella with the buffer of a phone between them. ‘Look Katie, I can’t be dealing with her all the time. You need to stop her phoning. It’s distracting. I need to focus. Tell her she’ll be the first to know when we find him.’ And before Katie could agree or disagree, he hung up only to have the phone burst back into life in his hand straight away. This time he checked the number before answering.
Mickey’s voice came across the line loud and clear. ‘Bloody carnage at Jordan Beaumont’s house. Manchester CID’s just been on the phone. Cleaner found the wife’s body and the daughter near dead and Beaumont nowhere to be seen. You need to get there, they’re expecting you.’
Gus glanced up at the sky, heavy with snow clouds, and grimaced. ‘Got a helicopter for us, have you Mickey?’ Her answering snort told him all he needed to know. Bloody typical. She couldn’t get from Oxenhope to Bradford, but he was expected to drive to damn Stalybridge. Looked like he and Gore were on their own for this one.
An hour later, Gus and Gore were still in Gore’s car. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ Gus leaned forward in the front passenger seat of Lewis Gore’s Volvo XC90, peering out the windscreen at the blizzard outside. He was being unreasonable, but the intel they’d just received from Mickey was the first clear lead or hint of a lead they’d had since finding Izzie Dimou’s body – other than the USB stick that Compo was working on, of course. When he’d taken the call about Jordan Beaumont’s family from Mickey, he’d thanked God that the constable in Mancheste
r Met had had his wits about him and had linked the CCTV footage of Izzie going into his offices with the house in Stalybridge which was now a crime scene.
‘The current red alert in the face of Storm Emma looks to be staying in place for the foreseeable future. Drivers are advised to avoid driving where possible.’
The radio crackled and went dead before bursting into a crackly Ed Sheeran number and finally going silent again. Thank God for that. Gus wasn’t an Ed Sheeran fan and right now the last thing he wanted to listen to was the ginger pop prince droning on about perfect love or whatever.
Having judged Gore’s car to be the best chance they had of getting to Stalybridge in the current conditions, Gus was on the edge of his seat. The M62 was closed so they’d decided to take the A58. Gus was beginning to wonder if they’d make it; the snow was blinding and what would normally take an hour and a half from Bradford, promised to take a hell of a lot longer.
Ignoring Gore’s muttered curses, Gus mulled over what had happened. He suspected that the chap he’d had his encounter with the previous night had something to do with the goings on at Beaumont’s house. He’d spent hours poring over the database. The guy had been foreign, but Gus wasn’t much of a linguist so had been unable to identify his accent with any certainty. He’d spent a bit of time with the e-fit guy and was desperate to get the image he’d generated out to as many forces as he could. Now that he’d turned up dead in Keighley, Gus was even more determined to get an ID on him and his friend. Maybe that way they’d get a clue to who’d done this to them and to Beaumont’s family. It seemed too coincidental for the two incidents not to be linked. The only trouble was, in the current weather conditions, most police work was being done at local levels with the emphasis on making sure the rough sleepers and the vulnerable were taken care of and that drivers weren’t stranded in their cars. He doubted many officers were keeping up with BOLOs right now.