Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Well…' He knew then that his wife wasn't with them. 'As a matter of fact, we've had a bit of a bust up — a few days ago now. She wanted some space, so we're spending some time apart. I was kind of hoping she may have gone to you.'

Sheila didn't seem at all concerned that her daughter had apparently vanished. 'No, she hasn't rung us. How odd. I hope it turns out to be nothing you can't resolve.'

'I'm sure we will.' He paused and when he carried on, there were tears running down his cheeks. 'I was silly, Sheila. Made plans about moving house and jobs without telling her. I think it all took her by surprise. Listen, if she calls can you tell her to please phone me?'

'Of course.'

'Thank you. And I was wondering, do you have the numbers for any school friends she might have gone to at a time like this?'

'Tom,' she said, 'you struck me as a very nice man, if a touch naïve. I'll be honest with you, though it seems very strange to be telling my daughter's husband this. Charlotte has always been very single-minded, to the point of not really having any close friends. She always preferred the company of men. Wealthy men, to be frank. 'A wistful note had crept into her voice. 'I don't know why.'

'The numbers of any friends, male or female, will do.'

'That's what I'm trying to get to. I don't have any numbers. I'm ashamed to say that her life isn't that familiar to us.'

Tom was only half taking it in. 'OK, well thanks Mrs Davenport.'

'Hang on!'she suddenly exclaimed. 'She got a postcard the other day. It was redirected from our old address to here. Sent from Olivia, her old flat mate.'

Tom had no idea who she was.

'Anyway, Olivia gives her new address; she's still near Manchester. A place called Disley, I think. Hang on, I'll just get it.' She came back on the line a minute later and read out the address. 'Oh and Tom? Please ring me when she does turn up. She's done this sort of disappearing act before, but it's always nice to know that she's safe and sound.'

Tom felt his guts tightening and anxiety beginning to build at the back of his head. It was time. He reached for the new bag he'd got from Brain, so plump and soft and comforting.

The video had finished long ago, rewound itself and was waiting for something else to happen. Tom was slumped in his seat, a bottle of brandy, the powder and the gun on the coffee table before him. He drifted in and out of sleep, stirring every now and again to take another sip or pinch.

Where had she gone? What about their baby? He'd tried everything he could think of. The staff at the David Lloyd Club wouldn't help. Details of their members' training classes were confidential. When he had lost his temper two assistants from the gym had almost carried him out the door. That was another thing: his temper. It would flare up so easily, then die down to be replaced with stifling despair. The swings in emotion were exhausting him, making it hard to sleep. The only thing that seemed able to straighten out his emotions and make him feel better was the powder.

The sole evidence that Charlotte still existed was the withdrawals from their joint bank account. A few hundred here, a few hundred there. But always from cashpoints — never transactions at a hotel or somewhere that would give him a clue as to where she was staying.

Staring at the blank screen in the darkness, he was vaguely aware of a car driving slowly past. A couple of minutes later he heard a tiny creaking noise. Groggily he looked towards the doorway.

A shaft of light shone in the hall, flickering around, catching on the mirror at the end of the corridor. He got to his feet, having to grab the back of the sofa before he fell over. He picked the gun off the table and staggered to the door. Peering round, he could see a thin ray of light shining through the letterbox. Caught in the bright beam was a piece of wood with a hook on the end. Raising up the gun, he stepped out of the front room. The torch beam jumped to his legs and started travelling upwards as he tried to squeeze the trigger. The thing wouldn't budge and he realized the safety was on.

The light suddenly cut as the letterbox snapped shut.

Tom lurched down the corridor. As he snatched the keys off the hook he could hear someone scrabbling to their feet beyond the door. Pushing the key in the lock, he flung his front door open. A dark figure was running from the end of his driveway.

'You fucker!' Tom screamed, trying to go after him but tripping on the doormat. He fell down the steps, the gun clattering across the tarmac and under the Porsche.

A car started up further down the street but, by the time he'd got back to his feet, the vehicle had accelerated away.

He paced to the end of his drive and watched the red lights as the vehicle sped round the corner and out of sight. Hyperventilating, he marched back to his car, reached underneath and retrieved the gun.

Back inside he turned the hallway light on and examined the weapon. A couple of new scratches had been added to the scarred black metal, merging with the file marks that obliterated where some writing and numbers used to be.

He flicked the safety catch off, stepped into the dining room and placed it in the second drawer of the sideboard under some napkins.

He decided that Charlotte would see sense once she had accepted the fact they were starting a family. Every parent yearned for a safe environment to bring their children up in. She would too; she just needed time to come around to the fact she was going to be a mother.

What he had to do, he decided, was have everything ready for when she came home. He went on to the businesses for sale section of the Cornwall Tourist Board web site, then scrolled through to the cafe.

A red band across the screen read 'under offer'.

Tom stared at the screen, heart suddenly thumping. It couldn't be right. He'd wanted that cafe for so long, it had to be his. Switching to directory enquiries he typed the name into the box and a number sprang up a nanosecond later.

The phone cut straight to an answer phone message. 'Hi, Meg's Cafe is now closed, but we're open again at seven tomorrow morning doing hot drinks and bacon rolls for you early-morning surfers. If you need to leave a message, speak now.'

He left his message and mobile number, knowing there was no time to lose. He had to find Charlotte and let her know everything was all right, make her see that he had worked out a happy and safe future for all of them. He slipped the Porsche's keys off the hook and drove out of Didsbury, taking the M60 for a couple of junctions then cutting across to the A6 and following it away from Manchester, through Stockport and out towards the Peak District National Park. At the crossroads in Disley he turned up the hill, keeping an eye out for the lane on his right-hand side that would take him out on to the moors and the farm where Charlotte's old friend, Olivia, had moved to.

Soon the countryside around him was almost black, lit only by the dim glow from an occasional cottage or farm and the unnaturally bright road markings in front. After several minutes of slowly following the narrow road as it veered left and right, dipping down and rising up with the contours of the National Park, he saw the tiny sign for Higgleswade Farm. The drive was potholed and bumpy, the bottom of the Porsche scraping several times as he drove up to a farmhouse whose porch was suddenly illuminated by a small security light. The white beam shone down over the roughhewn chunks of stone forming the farmhouse walls, emphasizing the dark shadows filling the deeply recessed windows. Parking next to a Toyota Land Cruiser, he walked across to the sturdy-looking wooden door and shook a bell mounted on the wall. Immediately several dogs started to bark and whine in the low-roofed buildings to his left. Soon after, footsteps approached the other side of the door. It opened to reveal a woman in her mid-twenties, blonde hair carefully tousled.