Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

In the silence a phone started to ring. Eventually someone picked it up. 'Yes. When?'

Something in the officer's voice set off an alarm in Jon's head. He glanced across as the officer cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to McCloughlin, 'Boss? Another body's turned up. Emily Sanderson. Looks like she's been dead for more than a day.'

Tom paced around his front room. The wall above the fireplace was covered with seven rows of seven competition entry forms. He stepped closer to the uppermost row. The entry forms of Polly Mather, Heather Rayne and Mary Walters all had red lines drawn through them. The fourth — Liz Wilson — didn't. He would have to go back to claim her when the old man wasn't there. The next two forms — those of Gabrielle Harnett and Emily Sanderson — were both scored through. Emily's name had been crossed out only yesterday. Tom reached up and removed the seventh form from the wall.

Now was time to call, the voices whispered. Now was the time for her sacrifice.

Two minutes after receiving the call, McCloughlin and three other senior officers set off for the crime scene.

As soon as their cars left the station's car park, the smokers in the incident room poured down the stairs, heading for the rear of the building. In the murmur of voices, Jon heard someone say, 'If she was killed yesterday, Sly couldn't have done it.'

Jon watched them go, resisting the urge to follow. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth. Balling up the wrapper, he trotted down the stairs and asked the custody officer to let him into Sly's cell.

'No need.' He nodded to a side room with an officer standing outside. 'He's in there with his solicitor.'

Jon knocked on the door and stepped into the room. 'Can I have a word?'

Sly just stared back, but his solicitor nodded.

'We've found another body, same circumstances as all the others.' He paused to let the information sink in, then took his gamble. 'Now this isn't the viewpoint of my senior officers but, as far as I'm concerned, this puts you clear of the murders.'

'Too fucking right.' Sly sat forward and jabbed a finger at Jon. 'I said you're not fitting me up.'

The solicitor held up a hand. 'So what exactly will you be charging my client with?'

Jon looked at him. 'He's still up to his neck in other shit, but that's open to negotiation. I believe he's somehow linked to the murders. So he can help us now and save himself a load of hassle.' He looked Sly directly in the eyes. 'Where did you get that chewing gum from?'

Sly looked at his solicitor, who nodded at him. 'Some bloke's garage over in Didsbury.'

'Address?'

'I don't know. I could drive to it, but I don't know what the name of the road is.'

'So if I took you in a car, you could point it out?'

Sly nodded.

Jon left the room and went over to the custody officer's desk. As he phoned the top floor, he placed a pair of handcuffs in his pocket. 'Can you put me through to Sergeant Darcourt? It's Jon Spicer. I'm down in the cells.'

The phone clicked. 'Jon, what's up?'

'Nobby, I need a hand driving a suspect over to a property in Didsbury. Are you up for it?'

'If it gets me out of this miserable room, yes.'

George watched as Tom, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase, left the house and walked off down the road. Where was he going each day? As he reached the end of the street and disappeared round the corner, the door of a car parked further along opened and Charlotte got out. George's breath caught in his throat as she hurried up the driveway.

She had unlocked the front door and almost closed it behind her when he began to knock. Looking terrified, she peeped through the crack. Seeing him, her features relaxed slightly. 'Not today, thanks.'

'Charlotte Benwell?' he asked almost apologetically.

'Yes.'

'Could I come in, please? I really need to discuss something with you.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Austen Rogers,' George replied. 'I work for Xtreme chewing gum. We're a client of It's A Wrap.'

'You just missed my husband. He's gone out.'

'I need to speak with you.'

'I'm sorry, but now really isn't a good time. I've only popped in to get a few things-'

Interrupting her, George said, 'I've been trying to get hold of you. I believe your husband is defrauding our company.'

'You mean all that chewing gum? It's in the garage. Take it.' 'No, no,' George answered, hiding his surprise. 'There's more to it than that. I think he's preparing to defraud you, too.' George looked down. 'It's to do with your separation.'

'Defraud me? How? You mean over the house, don't you?'

'This is really very awkward. Could I at least explain inside?'

Nervously, Charlotte glanced down the street. 'It's got to be quick, all right?' She opened the door and turned round. 'We can talk in the kitchen.'

She stepped past the living room without looking in. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him the blood surged in George's head and he found himself lunging at her, mouth open in an ugly, silent grimace.

His thick arms began to close around her head and she ducked instinctively. Twisting free of his grip, she ran into the kitchen and raced around the other side of the table, heading for the rack of knives in the corner.

The worktop was bare. No kettle, no toaster, nothing. She whirled around; only the kitchen table was between them. A glistening sheen was breaking out over his face and he was breathing hard. Placing something on the table, he whispered, 'Now be a good girl and take one of these.'

As soon as her eyes flicked down to the strip of pills he hurled the table aside with a roar. She screamed with terror, dodged around him and sprinted for the front door.

He was right behind her, too close for her to get it open. At the last instant she jumped to the side and ran in to the dining room. His body slammed against the door and he steadied himself, knowing she was trapped.

He could hear her sobbing, then a drawer being pulled out and clattering to the floor. He stepped through the door, saw her crouching down, scrabbling for something among the napkins strewn on the floor. She started raising her arms up, a gun gripped in both hands.

As he landed on top of her, the pistol went off with a muffled crack.

Sly and the solicitor sat in the back seat of the unmarked police car. Jon drove onto the long, straight Kingsway Road and they followed it for a mile or so before turning right towards Didsbury. When they reached the junction with Wilmslow Road, Sly got his bearings.' You need to turn right here,' he said.

Jon took the turning and Sly directed him through the rows of residential streets. When they reached Moorfield Road, Sly said, 'Down this one.'

They had driven another fifty metres when Sly said, 'That one on the left. Number sixteen.'

Jon stopped the car. It couldn't be. 'Are you sure?' He swivelled round.

Sly rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, I'm sure. He had a Porsche Boxter. I got into his garage a couple of times. Nothing inside except for a pile of that chewing gum. I took three or four boxes, to get something for my trouble, you know?'

Jon turned to Sergeant Darcourt. 'I know this guy. Used to play rugby with him for Stockport. Tom Benwell? Played fly half.'

Darcourt frowned. 'Name rings a bell. Can't picture him, though.'

'I'll give him a knock. You stay here, OK?'

Darcourt nodded. Jon climbed out of the car and walked up Tom's drive, not holding out much hope that he was going to answer his door. He waited for a few seconds after ringing the bell, then walked across the lawn and tried to peer through the net curtains into the living room. It still appeared to be stripped bare.

He walked round the house for a look through the French windows. In the back garden he saw piles of charred furniture and electrical equipment. He began to get a bad feeling about his old team mate. The French doors were slightly ajar. Easing them open with the toe of a shoe, he looked into the room. Sheets of paper were pinned to all the walls. Jon started reading the first.