Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Arriving today, Boss.'

It was going to take a while to get used to being called that. 'Right, any thoughts or questions so far?'

There were plenty of frowns from members of the Outside Enquiry Team as everyone looked at their notes. Finally a young officer spoke up. 'Who was she going to go travelling with? A woman in her early twenties — she probably wasn't setting off on her own.'

'Good point. Everyone put that question down on the list. Right, back here for four thirty.'

He shut his notebook so the pages slapped together and everyone jumped to their feet.

Heather Rayne tied back her hair in a loose ponytail and began wiping down the beech worktops in her kitchen. The IT training sessions she ran for Kellogg's in Manchester didn't start until late morning on a Thursday so she liked to use the couple of free hours to give her house a quick clean.

As she opened the microwave up and began scrubbing away at the spatters of dried baked bean sauce on its sides, she considered her next Cancer Relief marathon. It wasn't due for another two months and her training regime was going very well. Now the evenings were darker she had to rely on the treadmills at the gym; but when there weren't any other people waiting for the machine, she could happily notch up twenty kilometres.

Mopping the kitchen floor, a thought suddenly occurred to her. She could use her Thursday mornings to get in a decent road run. But that, she reflected, would mean doing all her cleaning in the evenings. Heather didn't like upsets in her weekly routine. When they had moved the meetings in her local Conservative club to a Thursday it had really irritated her; not least because it meant recording ER and watching it on a Sunday instead.

Now in her bedroom she gathered up the assortment of shoes scattered in the corner. All but her knee-high leather boots went on the rack under the window. The boots were carried over to the wardrobe and placed inside, beneath the black PVC costume hanging there. She wiped a smear of dried saliva from its hem, smiling at the memories of when she had last worn it and looking forward to the next time it would make an appearance.

She glanced at her watch as if the wait shouldn't be a long one, and the chimes of her front door bell rang out.

Opening up, she looked at the suited man standing there. He moved the briefcase to his other hand and said, 'Miss Rayne?'

At Berrybridge Road, Jon parked in the space nearest to number fifteen. Avoiding the puddles of rain dotting the driveway, he noticed the crime scene tape had been repositioned so that the neighbour had full access to her front door. Parked across the driveway with its front bumper pressed up against the tape was a Subaru Impreza.

Jon knocked on the front door and a man with a shaved head and shiny black leather jacket answered. He took one glance at Jon and shouted back into the house, 'Sue, it's for you.'

The man stepped past without a word and Jon could smell his furtiveness. The woman appeared in the doorway, arms folded.

Jon opened with a smile. 'I hope it wasn't too much trouble yesterday.'

'No,' she conceded reluctantly.

'Could I ask you a few questions about your neighbour — Polly Mather?'

'I knew this would happen,' she complained, stepping backwards to let him in.

The layout of the house was the mirror image of Polly's. In the kitchen piles of baby clothes were stacked on the table and an ironing board was set up in the corner. She motioned for him to sit.

Getting out his notebook, Jon looked at a pair of pixie-sized socks. 'How old's little Liam?'

Guessing correctly that his interest was feigned, she answered abruptly. 'Year and a bit. Can we get this done? He's due awake in another half hour. I haven't even started this bastard pile.' She placed a T-shirt on the ironing board, picked up the iron and pressed it with a hiss into the material.

Jon dropped his grin, knowing she would see that as fake too. 'OK, how was Polly as a neighbour?'

'Bloody noisy. Too much music. Late at night, in the mornings — didn't matter when. But I suppose it doesn't, when you're on stuff.'

'Stuff?'

'I don't know. Pills and that, I should think.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, look at her for a start. No one arrives home in the early hours and keeps going through 'til morning if they're not.'

'She'd do this on her own?'

'I wish. She'd bring back all sorts. Those band members, clubber types like her. All sorts. She must have bloody handed out invites round town.'

Jon groaned inwardly. The investigation looked like it might run and run after all. 'How about the day before yesterday? It appears she'd had a few round that evening.'

'That wasn't too bad. They kept the music down. I heard the front door shut at around midnight. The ones she was in the band with.'

'You saw them leave?'

'No — heard them. Liam woke up wanting a bottle. His room overlooks the street.' Another hiss as she ran the iron over a tiny sweatshirt.

'How many voices did you hear?'

'Three, maybe four. More than two, anyway.'

'How about the next morning? Did you see or hear anyone leave her house?'

'No.'

'When I was here, you were just getting back from somewhere. What time had you gone out?'

'About nine. I needed a couple of things from the corner shop.'

'Pass anyone on the street you've not seen before?'

She gave the question a moment's consideration. 'No.'

'OK, thanks for your time.' He stood up. 'Oh, one last thing. Who was that leaving when I arrived just now?'

Her face became even more guarded. 'Why?' 'Just squaring off our records.'

'Liam's dad. He'd just popped round.'

'He doesn't live here?'

'Not with Liam up half the night he doesn't.'

Jon imagined the shrill cries of a baby cutting into his sleep in the early hours of the morning. As if on cue a bawling started upstairs.

'Shit!' She looked at the mound of unfinished ironing.

'Right, I'll be out of your hair then,' replied Jon, wanting to get away before she fetched the screaming baby. Once out of the door, he scooted round to his car, retrieved a flask from the boot and went over to the crime scene caravan now parked on the kerb outside Polly's side of the house.

Jon grimaced. 'I've seen more artistic shots in the Readers' Wives section of a bog mag.'

'Bog mag?' asked Nikki.

Jon let out a self-conscious cough. 'Well, that's where they get read a lot: in toilets.'

'You blokes,' said Nikki, half amused and half disapproving. 'This was at the back of the album.'

She held up another bag inside which was a page from a contacts magazine. Printed on cheap paper-stock, the page was divided into a load of boxes, the text and photo inside each one slightly blurred. Looking more closely, Jon saw adverts for amateur glamour models, charges ranging from £60 to £120 per private photo session. Turning to Polly's details in his notebook, he checked her mobile number against the ones in the adverts. He quickly found a match.

'So what do you reckon? Was she in debt? Trying to pay it off by doing this sort of stuff?' asked Nikki.

'More like saving up, I think,' answered Jon. 'She was planning to bugger off on a backpacking trip round the world for a year. Shall I take them back to the incident room?'

'So long as you sign for them.' Nikki held out her log book. 'And no stopping off in the bogs en route,' she added, with a quick glance at his crotch.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed, but that was what he liked about Nikki: such foul things from such a sweet face.

Back at the incident room he handed in the evidence bags to the exhibits officer and sat down. 'Anything in yet?' he called over to the office manager.

The other man walked over, several pieces of paper in his hand. 'Nothing significant from the drains or the dustbins in the immediate area. Her bank records are due any time now and these are her mobile phone records — incoming and outgoing calls. Most caller numbers are registered, with the exception of three pay-as-you-go mobiles. Who they belong to is, as you know, anybody's guess.'