Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

Alice sat up. 'That's brilliant! Why didn't you tell me before?'

Jon scratched his head. 'I was mulling it over, I suppose.'

'Why? Surely you think it's good news?'

He gave a half smile. 'It is and it isn't. It means I'm being taken off the car thief case.'

'Jon!' said Alice, holding both palms up as if weighing two objects. 'A gang of scrotes nicking cars.' She lowered one hand a couple of inches. 'And SIO on a murder case.' She dropped her other hand so it banged against the sofa. 'Come on.'

Jon nodded. 'I know.'

She settled back into the crook of his arm, head against his chest. 'That's the problem with you. You get your teeth into something and you can't let it go. What's this new case, then?'

Jon leaned over the arm of the sofa and placed the empty plate on the floor. He noticed a strand of saliva set off on a vertical journey from Punch's lower lip and make it to the carpet without breaking. 'A young woman, twenty-two, lived over in Hyde. Someone choked her to death.'

'That's so sad,' Alice murmured. Jon knew she'd be curious to learn more, but she understood that he hated bringing the details of his cases into their home. 'By the way, I heard a bit of gossip in the salon today. That guy you used to play rugby with for Stockport. Married a blonde girl called Charlotte.'

'Tom Benwell?'

'That's him. Have you seen him recently?'

'No. I had two tickets for us to see the rugby sevens at the Commonwealth Games. But he didn't show up. I ended up giving it to a Kiwi then had to sit next to him and watch as his team demolished everyone.'

'That was three months ago, Jon,' said Alice, cutting in as he was about to start giving a blow-by-blow account of each match.

'Yeah, you're right.' He realized how time had flown by. 'But I tried ringing his mobile a few times. There was never any answer and eventually the line went dead. He must have changed networks.'

'Well, one of the ladies who comes in to get her legs waxed trains at the same gym as that little bimbo he married. She thought Charlotte had walked out on him. Something about him losing his job.'

'Really?'

'Apparently he turned up at the gym searching for her one time. She said he looked a complete wreck.'

'Fuck,' said Jon, feeling guilty. 'We went for a beer once and he told me how he was getting out of the rat race. Said he was selling up and moving to Cornwall, starting a beach cafe or something. I just assumed he'd done it and would ring me when he got the chance.'

'I think you should at least go round and see him, especially after what happened a few years ago.'

'What?' said Jon.

'What,' repeated Alice, rolling her eyes. 'When he got ill, remember? Missed half the season at Stockport?'

Jon frowned. 'That was just some stress thing, wasn't it?'

Alice shook her head. 'Men. What is it with your inability to discuss health problems? According to the gossiping girlfriends at the rugby club, he had a complete breakdown — ended up on the psychiatric wing at Stepping Hill Hospital for two months.'

'Really? He never told me it was that bad.'

'Did you ever ask him?'

'No.'

'Exactly,' said Alice, point made. Jon sat staring at the TV screen, but uneasiness was now nagging at the back of his mind. He unwrapped his arm from Alice's shoulders.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

'Calling him.'

He got up and retrieved his mobile from the hall. He dialled Tom's mobile but got the same continuous tone as the last time he'd tried. Scrolling to his phonebook's next entry, he rang Tom's home number. The line was also dead. 'Sounds like both numbers have been disconnected. When did that customer say she'd seen him?'

'About a month ago, I think.'

Worried now, Jon shoved the mobile into his trouser pocket and began pacing back and forth. Punch raised his eyebrows to watch him. 'I'll pop round to his house. It's only five minutes in the car,' Jon announced, looking at Alice for confirmation.

She glanced at the clock on the video. 'At ten forty?'

'I won't start hammering at his door. Just check the house over, see if it's up for sale or if any lights are on.'

Jon pulled out of his side street. Soon he crossed Kingsway, a main road leading into the city centre, and headed towards Didsbury. A few turns later and he was on Moorfield Road. He pulled up outside number sixteen and looked at the house. It was dark and deserted, every light turned off.

He got out of the car and glanced around for an estate agent's sign telling him the property was up for sale. Nothing. Walking up the driveway, he noted the absence of any vehicle, then crouched down at the front door. As he lifted the flap of the letterbox up, he prepared himself for the buzz of flies and stench of rotting flesh. Pitch blackness greeted him, the temperature inside the house no warmer than the night air outside.

He walked across the lawn to the front window. The main curtains weren't drawn and a chink in the net curtains allowed a strip of light from the street into the room beyond. He saw bare floorboards and no sign of any furniture.

After plunging his hands into his pockets, he walked back down the drive. With each step the sense of being watched grew stronger. At the end of the drive he swivelled round, eyes going straight to the first-floor windows. For an instant he thought something pale shifted behind a dark pane of glass. But focusing on the window, all he could see was dim light from the street lamps reflected there.

Turning the mobile over and over in his pocket, Jon's mind went back to the start of the summer.

May 2002

Jon's mobile began to vibrate on the hard surface of his desk, angrily buzzing as if a giant wasp was trapped inside.

He dragged his eyes away from the latest statement. It was the usual story. The owner of the Porsche had gone to bed, enjoyed a good night's sleep, got up, had breakfast, gone to pick up the car keys from their customary place on the hallway table and discovered they weren't there. After searching his coat, briefcase and the kitchen, he presumed he had somehow left them in the car. He unlocked the front door and found his driveway was empty.

That was the sixteenth this month in the south Manchester area. Somewhere a load of thieving little scumbags were getting very wealthy.

He picked up his phone. 'Jon Spicer here.'

'Jon, it's Tom Benwell. Are you OK to talk?'

'Tom! Yeah, I'm just finishing off some paperwork. As usual. How are you?'

'Good. A bit busy preparing for the Games, but can't complain. How's things? Caught any bad guys lately?'

'Oh, you know. As fast as we catch them the courts let them out. Still, it keeps me busy.'

Tom chuckled. 'Listen, I've got tickets for the Cheshire Sevens this Sunday at Sale. Seats in the corporate box, free beer and sandwiches. You up for it?'

'Mate, you've just made typing out this witness statement far more enjoyable. What time?'

'Eleven fifteen at the main gates, if you like.'

'OK, I'll see you there. Thanks for the offer.'

*

Sunday morning and Jon joined a throng of people moving through the narrow residential roads towards Sale Rugby Club's ground. He caught snatches of the conversations going on around him, mostly about whether Sale would move into Manchester City's old stadium when the football club took over the Commonwealth Games stadium once the competition ended.

As the flow of people carried him towards the entrance, his eyes were drawn to the man casually leaning against one of the gateposts. Stepping across to him, Jon smiled. 'Thanks for the invite, mate. How are you?'

He looked down a good five inches into the other man's face and noticed the dark smudges under his friend's eyes.

Tom Benwell smiled crookedly and said, 'Hey — you know. Surviving. You're looking horribly fit as usual. Do you coppers do anything else but work out in the gym?'