Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

Emotion made the last syllable wobble and Jon thought, he knows already. 'Yes.' 'I thought it would be. Her mum rang me an hour or so ago. You're going to question me, aren't you?'

'Not formally, no. But I need to talk with everyone who was at her house last night. Where are you now, Phil?'

'Peveril of the Peak. I'm a barman here.'

'Nice boozer. Any chance of chatting to you?'

'Well, the evening rush hasn't started yet, if you can get over here.'

'I'll see you in a bit.'

It was dusk as he crossed over the junction for the M60 ring road, a steady stream of cars gliding by beneath him. Following the signs for Aldwinian's Rugby Club, he entered Droylsden. The perfectly straight road stretched far off into the distance, regularly interspersed by traffic lights shining red, amber or green. Flanking each side of the road was an endless terrace of the chunky redbricked houses with grey lintels that made up so much of Manchester's Victorian estates.

Abruptly the built-up area came to an end and he emerged into the open space of Sportscity, Manchester City Football Club's new stadium dominating the facilities around it. Then he was past and the road dipped, only to start rising upwards to dark mills that loomed forlorn and empty, brickwork crumbling and broken windows gaping in silent howls. Reaching the crest of the slope he could see beyond them to where the lights of the city centre twinkled, Portland Tower and the CIS building clearly visible. Jon felt an itch of adrenaline as he looked at the city and contemplated all that was happening in its depths.

Dating from the mid 1800s and one of Manchester city centre's proper pubs, Peveril of the Peak was a strangely shaped wedge of a building. Clad in green glazed bricks and tucked away on a little triangular concrete island, it was closed in on all sides by towering office buildings and apartment blocks. Jon parked by some recently completed flats and slipped through the side door of the pub. The bar was in the centre, various rooms leading off to the sides. He looked round the smoke-filled interior, surprised by the lack of people: his mobile phone had made it sound like the place was packed. Instead just a few students and real-ale types were dotted about. Jon glanced over the three bar staff, eyes settling on a youngish man with about four days' stubble. He was dragging nervously on a cigarette and wearing a T-shirt from a Radiohead concert.

'Phil Wainwright?'

'Yeah,' he replied, grinding the cigarette out with a bit too much urgency. 'Fancy a drink? The Summer Lightning is a great pint.' His finger pointed to the tap marked 'Guest Beer'.

'Tempting, but no thanks,' said Jon. 'Is there a quiet room we could …?'

Phil lifted up a section of the wooden counter and stepped into the customers' side of the pub. 'This room's empty.'

They sat down on some ancient and battered chairs, the upholstery rubbed smooth through years of use. He pulled another cigarette out of a packet of Silk Cut and offered one to Jon.

Another show of hospitality. Another attempt to break down the occasion's formality. Slightly irritated, Jon waved it away and took out his notebook.

'So, how are you feeling?'

Flicking a lighter, Phil dragged hard on the cigarette. 'Pretty numb, actually.' Smoke crept from his lips by the second word.

Jon's eyes strayed to the tip of the lit cigarette and he reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum. 'Giving up,' he explained, unwrapping it and regretting the fact he had allowed Phil an angle into him as a person, not a police officer. Before the insight could be seized upon Jon continued, 'Now, you were round at Polly's last night? What time did everyone leave?'

'Just before midnight.'

Noting this down, Jon continued, 'And was anyone else there apart from the members of your band?'

'No, just us.'

'Did anyone stay the night?'

'No, we all left together. Ade walked back with Deggs — they share a flat. I went about halfway and turned off to go to my own place.'

'How did Polly seem to you last night?'

'Fine.' He paused and frowned. 'Although she's been up to something lately. She's had the odd call on her mobile that she's been really shifty about.'

Jon kept quiet to tease another comment out of him.

'Walking off to have conversations — it was really annoying. I assumed she had started seeing someone else.'

The silence began to stretch out as Phil examined the tip of his cigarette, so Jon said, 'She was due to be going out today with her mum to do a bit of shopping.'

'Yeah, she was looking forward to it. In fact, she hoofed us all out before midnight so she wouldn't be too rough this morning.'

'Did she mention that she was expecting any visitors before her mum?'

'No.'

'OK, what are Ade's and Deggs' full names?'

'Adrian Reeves and Simon Deggerton.'

'Telephone numbers and address?'

Phil pulled out a mobile and started pressing buttons. As he did so Jon suddenly dropped in, 'Why did you and Polly split up?' watching closely for the reaction.

Phil's finger hovered for a moment over a button as he lost his train of thought. 'Erm, we'd just drifted apart. God, that sounds a cliché, but we had. She was saving up to go backpacking round the world. I wasn't into it.'

'That's bad news I presume — to lose your lead vocalist?'

He looked up, a slightly wounded expression on his face. 'Yeah, but what could we do? It was her decision. You want those numbers?'

Jon noted them down and then drove back to Ashton police station. He removed his box from the car boot and headed up to the incident room on the top floor of the building — the usual soulless set-up of empty desks, blank monitors and silent phones. Putting the box on a corner desk, he got out his paper management system, desk tidy, stapler, hole punch and calculator then sat back in his chair and blew out a long breath.

The place would be a hive of activity first thing the next morning: office manager, receiver, allocator, indexer, typist, all arranging their stuff on the desks; plants and other personal effects appearing, the outside enquiry team milling around, waiting to be briefed. And him, in charge of it all.

He booted up the computer, entered his name and password, then went on to HOLMES — the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. The computer package was based on strictly designated roles and procedures in order that every large enquiry progressed in an ordered manner. It was established directly in the wake of the chaotic hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper, when it was discovered that he had been questioned on various occasions, but the paper reports had never been cross-matched.

Jon studied the search indexes, deciding whether to concentrate on any to steer the investigation in a particular direction. With the information he had at this stage, he decided the usual ones would suffice — family, friends, house by house enquiries and victim profile. He then created an additional one marked 'Narcotics/ sedatives'.

On impulse he went on to the Police National Computer's database and typed in all three band members' names.

Nothing showed up for Adrian Reeves or Simon Deggerton, but after he typed in Phil Wainwright the computer pinged up a result: two cautions for possession of cannabis, the second one accompanied by an order to attend a drugs rehabilitation course.

It was almost nine thirty by the time he got home. The front door clicked shut behind him, provoking the usual Pavlovian reaction from the kitchen. Paws scrabbled excitedly on the lino floor and an instant later the crumpled face of his boxer dog appeared round the corner, eyebrows hopefully raised.

Jon slapped his hands against his thighs and crouched down. 'Come here, you stupid boy!'

The dog let out a snort of delight through its squashed nose and bounded towards the front door. Jon caught it by its front legs and twisted it onto the faded carpet. Grabbing it by its jowls, he planted a big kiss on its grinning mouth, then released the animal and stood up. Instantly it regained its feet, stumpy tail wagging so violently its entire back half shook.