Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

Tom held up a fist in silent triumph — at last the worst of their disaster was over. He put the phone down and wandered out into the reception. The area was lit by a small lamp behind the desk and another in the corner. A couple of moths were buzzing lazily around them, watched hungrily by a smattering of geckos on the walls. The elderly night porter was sitting behind the desk, a book open on his lap. Looking at the clock, Tom was surprised to see it was the early hours of the morning. He stepped round to the customer's side of the desk, a smile on his face. Lifting an imaginary bottle to his lips, Tom said, 'A beer, please?'

'Biere?' the man replied. 'Oui.' He unlocked the fridge to his right and took out a bottle of Seybrew then prised off the lid with the opener mounted on the wall.

'Merci,' answered Tom, before giving his bungalow number and walking through the open doors and into a night lit so brightly by the moon that he cast a dark shadow across the silvery lawn. He sat down on the grass, rotating his shoulders to ease the ache in his neck. Then, almost reverently, he shut his eyes and raised the chilled bottle to his lips. As he tilted his head back, he wished every sip could taste as magical as the first.

Opening his eyes, he saw the night sky above him shimmering with an immense spray of stars. They twinkled with such intensity it seemed strange to Tom they weren't making any noise. Instead the canopy just hung there, incredibly vibrant yet utterly quiet.

He lay back and stared upwards, making out layer upon layer of stars, misty washes of faint ones lying behind brighter clusters, mind-numbing distances between them. He had never, apart from a few vague memories of childhood camping holidays, seen a sky like it. A sense of profoundness filled him and he felt on the verge of some revelation: as if the heavens themselves were about to speak. But the sky just carried on sparkling, as it had done since the dawn of time and as it would do for long after he was reduced to mere particles of dust.

After a while he began to try and spot which clusters of stars might form signs of the zodiac or other constellations he had heard about. Thinking back to those camping holidays he recalled that the only thing he could ever spot was the saucepan-shaped grouping of seven stars known as The Plough.

After shuffling round through three hundred and sixty degrees he eventually located it. The constellation was much lower in the sky than he expected and standing on its end. Of course, thought Tom, reasoning that being far nearer to the equator must have a bearing on the constellation's relative position in the sky. He began walking across the lawn, taking a shortcut through the palm trees for his bungalow. As he stepped between the first two trunks a web enveloped his head. It felt strong enough to trap a large bird. He stopped in his tracks, realizing that the owner of the structure couldn't be far away. Carefully he stepped backwards, relieved to feel the sticky strands slowly springing away from his face. Only when he was fully clear did he dare to look up, slowly making out the spider's black silhouette hanging like a bad omen against the glittering sky.

Sucking his teeth, Sly leaned forward in the chair in front of his widescreen TV. 'Seriously, they were trying to ram me off the fucking road. One of those big Range Rovers you see on the motorways. Souped to fuck because it caught me in no time.'

Dan nodded away.

'So this pig is trying to slam me into the wall all the way along Wilmslow Road. We get to a sharp bend and I see that they've only got a stinger set up ahead. Two vans, filth everywhere. I take the gap between these two traffic islands at sixty, car nearly flips, just get it under control and shoot down the side of this pub. Now I'm on a little narrow road, dark as fuck. It's only a dead fucking end. This Range Rover is still coming at me, so I smash the Audi into a post, jump out, flick him a V and sprint off down the path. End up on the banks of this river, lungs bursting, this pig still after me. Like being chased by the fucking Terminator. I run halfway over the bridge, climb up and shout at him, “Fuck you and fuck your mum.” Then I jumped.' He sat back and crossed his arms.

'Nah,' said Dan. 'That's how you got away? You jumped in the river?'

Sly nodded. 'I knew he didn't have the bottle to go after me. And I had my Helly Hansen on. It trapped the air like a life jacket. I just bobbed off down the river.'

'Where the fuck to?'

'Dunno. I floated for a while watching the cop-copter flying around with its searchlight on in totally the wrong place. Climbed out after a bit, walked over a few fields to this estate, wired a shitty old Astra and drove home.'

Dan held up a fist and they pressed their knuckles together. 'Safe, man. They're gonna love hearing that one in the Athenaeum.'

The prospect of making an impression with Manchester City's firm thrilled Sly. 'So what's on the list tonight?'

'Mercs,' Dan answered, getting up.

They had got out on to the Mancunian Way when Sly said, 'Let's go back to Didsbury. I want to check on that Audi address again. If his insurance company are any good he might already have a replacement one.'

Dan kept looking at the road in front. 'You sure after last time?'

Sly nodded, enjoying the feeling of recklessness. 'The pigs won't still be there. Besides which, the Audi guy owes me.'

'How?'

'I had to chuck my Rockports away after that swim. That guy is going to pay for them with his car.'

'You developing a vendetta against this guy? Remember Sly, this is business.'

Sly just chuckled.

As the car passed in front of Tom Benwell's house both men saw the driveway was empty.

'No one home,' Dan stated, starting to accelerate away.

Sly held up a hand. 'Pull in. It could be in his garage.'

'Since when did we start breaking into garages?'

'Since tonight. Now fucking pull in.'

Sly walked up the driveway and round the side of the garage. Cupping a hand over the end of the torch, he turned it on and held it against the window, but a tarpaulin or something similar was shoved up against the glass, obstructing his view in. Sly's eyes narrowed with irritation as he went round to the front of the garage and examined the lock. Nothing a decent screwdriver wouldn't take care of, he thought.

31 October 2002

Jon's mind drifted back to the previous night, when he had stood on Tom's empty driveway. He still couldn't believe that several months had passed since Tom's Audi had reversed out of the same driveway and he'd chased it through Didsbury. The fact that the little shit had escaped him still caused an angry throbbing in Jon's head. He knew that he shouldn't dwell on his failure, but he had been so close to catching the thief. So close.

He sighed, thinking about the Sunday evening when they'd called in at Tom's office and disturbed the shifty-looking bloke with the thick glasses. Creepy George. He decided to drive back to the office later and see if the man knew what was going on.

A sudden gust whipped raindrops against the incident room's window and Jon blinked at the noise, his reverie broken. It was his least favourite time of year — the remnants of autumn still littered the city and the clean, hard cold of winter hadn't yet set in.

Turning round, he stepped out from behind his desk and said, 'Outside Enquiry Team. Door to door enquiries for the street. Anyone unusual seen entering or leaving the victim's house that morning, any strange cars parked on the road. You know the score. I'll take the neighbour — the one who shares a driveway with the victim's house. She mentioned some stuff to me yesterday, so I'll follow it up.'

He glanced at a notebook before continuing. 'We also need to statement her friends and associates. With the exception of the three other band members, we'll hold off taking fingerprints and DNA swabs, unless forensics come up with something specific. First thing is to interview and eliminate the other three band members. Probable scenario here is that the victim willingly let her killer into the house, so it seems she knew him. All the band members were at her house that evening — in fact they were the last people to see her alive. According to Phil Wainwright, they all left together. What we need to ascertain is this: did any of them return to her house later? Either Phil, her ex, or maybe one of the other two if she had something going on the side with them. One other thing Phil Wainwright mentioned was that Polly had been receiving the occasional call on her mobile which she was being very secretive about.' He turned to the office manager. 'Have we got her phone records yet?'