Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

The sense of calm that had descended on the room was suddenly shattered by Jon slamming his fist on to the table. The solicitor nearly fell off his chair in fright and Sly flinched away.

'Do you think,' Jon roared, 'that saying “no comment” will get you out of this? We haven't even started on the fact we've recovered the same type of chewing gum from your flat and the flats of three murder victims. All had nice flashy cars parked right outside their properties. The type of car, in fact, you like to steal.'

Finally the look of boredom was wiped from Sly's face. Sitting up, he began to say, 'No, no, no, no man. You're not pinning that on me.'

'We'll not be doing any pinning, my friend,' answered Jon. 'I noticed there were some expensive suits in your flat. One was an Armani. Pure wool, pale green colour? Just like some fibres we've lifted from the victims' properties.'

Sly looked at his solicitor again, who just stared back at him like a frightened rabbit.

A knock sounded on the door and an officer poked his head into the room. 'Boss, the lady from Altrincham is here.'

McCloughlin nodded. 'OK, interview suspended at,' he glanced at the clock on the wall, 'seventeen forty-eight. 'He turned the cassette recorder off.

Jon stood up, leaned across the table and brought his face to within butting distance of Sly's nose. Quietly, he said, 'All it takes is for the threads we've picked up from those crime scenes to match your suit and you're going down. High profile case like this? Someone always goes down, and you're our best bet. By a long way.' He then looked at the wide-eyed solicitor. 'Maybe you should explain to your buck-toothed scum of a client here how plenty of people are currently serving life sentences for far less evidence than we've got on him already.'

Anxious to catch up with McCloughlin, Jon stepped quickly out of the interview room. His senior officer was waiting for him, face bright with anger.

'In here,' he said, opening a spare interview room.

Surprised, Jon stepped through the door and heard it shut behind him. 'I can't believe the state of that guy's face,' McCloughlin spat.

'Sir?'

'You started smacking him around in front of members of the public. Half a bloody tooth was left on the steps in the Arndale. What the fuck were you playing at?'

Jon was caught completely by surprise. 'He was resisting arrest, sir, like you said.'

'He was struggling a bit,' McCloughlin corrected him. 'I've got more members of the public complaining about your rough methods than I have agreeing that he was resisting arrest. I just hope that solicitor is as incompetent as he looks.'

McCloughlin rubbed the palms of his hands up and down his cheeks, the skin around his eyes bunching up and stretching out as he did so. He let out a big breath. 'Jon, when I recommended you for promotion, I did so with one reservation in mind. And that's your propensity for getting so obsessed with a case you lose control. It's one thing to dish it out a bit in the cells or the back of a police van, but you never do it in front of the public. They'll start up about human rights quick as a flash, no matter what sort of a pondlife it is. Your aggression must be controlled. And what do you do next? Nearly smash the interview table in half with your fist.'

Jon was silent as McCloughlin looked at his watch. 'Nearly six o'clock. Why don't you call it a day? Go to the gym and blow off some steam. I'll finish the interview in a bit.'

Jon stood, but he couldn't go without saying something. 'I caught him, sir. You can't cut me out of the investigation like this.'

McCloughlin kept his eyes on the wall to Jon's side. 'You'll be back on the case tomorrow, once you've cooled down. In your present state, you're of no use to me.'

Jon slammed the door shut, marched from the building and kept going straight down the road. He walked without purpose, anger blinkering his view. He needed a pub, somewhere dimly lit and deserted where he could sit and drink.

Looking around, he saw a soulless-looking place on the opposite side of the road. He crossed over and went inside. As he started to ask for a pint of bitter, he stopped and said instead, 'A pint of Stella, and a double Talisker, cheers.'

No one else was at the bar, so he took a corner stool, hung his jacket over his knee and rolled up his sleeves. The whisky came first and he rolled the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing it in a single gulp. Immediately he breathed in through his lips, the fiery fumes in his mouth mixing with the air and causing his gums to contract. The barman placed a pint of Stella before him and Jon pushed the whisky tumbler across the bar in return. 'Another double in there. Can you run me a tab?'

'Bad day at the office?'

'You guessed it.' He loosened his tie and picked up the lager, studying the streams of tiny bubbles as they spiralled magically from the bottom of the glass. The first gulp washed away the heat of the Talisker, seeming to return his throat to normal. The second gulp was uncomfortably cold, and by the third and fourth his throat was completely numb.

Later he jammed a cigarette out in the ashtray before him, coins spread across the bar from when he'd changed a tenner for the vending machine. His head was thick with alcohol, his chest tight from smoking. Slowly he rotated his pint through quarter turns, brushing off the condensation clinging to the glass as he did so. He replayed McCloughlin's words in his head again and again:'… your propensity for getting so obsessed with a case you lose control.'

He thought back to their earlier conversation. 'You're not a Mountie, always getting your man.'

Then he thought of the comment Tom had made after they had visited the compound for stolen cars. Something about his role on the rugby pitch being to hunt down and take out members from the opposite team.

Even as he tried to dismiss the comment, the words of the old guy in the blazer at the Cheshire Sevens rang in his mind. 'Saw this man taking apart more than a few players when he ran out for Stockport.'

Spicer the Slicer. That was what they called him at the rugby club.

Jon stared at his knuckles, reasoning that he always played within the rules. And in his role as a police officer, he only used the required level of force. He lit another cigarette and wondered how true that was. Did he get away with using violence in his job just because he was a police officer? What if he had failed the entry exam? Would he still be dealing out his form of justice to whoever crossed his path?

The air in the pub was making his eyes sore. After draining his pint, he tried to catch the barman's attention by waving a finger and watched with confusion as his entire hand flapped to and fro. He settled his bill and stood up, feet wide apart as he shrugged his jacket back on. Out on the street, car lights floated past, leaving trails in the air before him. He started walking, hand out at his side, hoping for a cab. But the thrill of catching Sly couldn't be ignored, and neither could the burst of sheer pleasure he felt when his fist connected with the man's head.

Finally he faced up to the thought he'd been hiding from all night. He'd wanted to carry on at that point. The man's hair was grasped in both of his hands and it was only Nikki crying out that had stopped him from…

He stumbled into a doorway and fumbled for his phone, needing contact with someone not connected with violence.

'Hi there,' he said, confident he'd got the words out clearly.

'Bloody hell, how many have you had?' Alice replied.

'A few. I mean, a few too many,' he corrected himself.

'Where are you?'

Unsure, Jon looked around. 'Near the nick.'

'You sound tired as well as pissed.'

'I feel like shit, but I think we're close to cracking it.'