Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'That and the odd crossword sat at our desks. How about you? Still having to take clients out to all the best restaurants round town?'

Tom accepted the riposte with a grin. 'Yeah, that and swanning around in my company car.'

'What are you driving nowadays?'

'Audi TT.'

Jon shook his head. 'Nice. 'Then the thought struck him. 'Don't leave the keys on that table in your front hall. I'm working on a case at the moment where some little scrotes are hooking them through letterboxes and nicking the car.'

'Seriously? What with? A fishing rod?'

'Lengths of garden cane with a hook on the end. A couple have been left in people's front gardens. Thing is, some insurers are claiming that, because the car has been opened up and driven off with the keys, they don't have to pay out. And high-performance vehicles like yours are what they're going for.'

'So there are even more luxury cars on housing estates round Liverpool then?' said Tom in a Scouse accent.

Jon laughed. 'No, we reckon these are being shipped straight out of the country. Probably ending up in Eastern Europe.'

'Cheers for the advice. 'Tom showed his company's season ticket to an attendant and led the way to the corporate hospitality suite. 'When was the last time we saw each other? Was it that European cup match back in February?' 'God, you're right. How crap is that? Alice still hasn't met…' John faltered,'. . your wife.'

'Charlotte, you dim twat, 'Tom answered for him.

Jon rolled his eyes in agreement. 'How's married life going, then?'

'Fine. Expensive, but fine,' answered Tom.

'Expensive? You haven't got a kid on the way, have you?'

Tom glanced over his shoulder, a strange expression on his face. 'Not that I know of. I'm talking about Charlotte. She blows money like nobody's business. 'He patted his Timberland jacket. 'You don't think I'd pick something like this, do you?'

Jon eyed the expensive-looking item, then glanced at the sleeve of his own battered leather jacket, which he'd found in a stall that smelt of joss sticks in Affleck's Palace years ago.

Tom had met Charlotte only the previous year and, much to everyone's surprise, they had flown out to Barbados and got married within weeks. Jon decided to put the subject on hold, at least until they'd had a few beers.

By now they were at the door to the hospitality suite. Tom showed their pass to another attendant and then stepped back. 'After you, mate.'

Jon bounded up the stairs two at a time. He looked back at the top only to see Tom halfway up. By the time he caught up, he was puffing slightly.

'Jesus, are you trying to make me feel unfit? This is the most exercise I've done for months.'

Playfully Jon cuffed him on the back of the head. 'You should never have given up playing. Fly halves like you don't need to make tackles — us flankers do all that kind of stuff for you.'

'You're saying you used to do all my tackling?' said Tom. 'As far as I can remember, you were too busy trying to get the opposition's fly half stretchered off to be doing any of my tackling.'

Jon grinned. 'Well, you fly halves. Serves you right for prancing round the pitch doing your poncey little side steps and shimmies.'

There was an awkward pause and Jon cursed himself. He should have remembered how sensitive Tom could be.

Regret hung on Tom's face. 'Not with the hours I work,' he murmured. 'Don't tell me — you're carrying on playing for Cheadle Ironsides next season?' 'Hope so,' answered Jon, now anxious not to make his friend feel bad. 'It's nowhere near the standard we used to play at for Stockport, but I turn out when I can.'

'For which team, you old bastard?' Voice now brighter. 'The veterans? When do you get to wear those purple “don't tackle me” shorts?' Tom shoved his mate aside with a smile.

Relieved Tom hadn't taken the comment to heart, Jon hissed, 'Piss off,' and kicked at Tom's heels as they headed for the bar.

The sevens tournament was played in the spirit of the season's final event. Looking down at the teams warming up on the touchlines, it was obvious plenty of players were still nursing hangovers from the previous night. When one threw up before running on to the pitch the crowd cheered with delight. During the matches themselves, all the teams avoided playing safe and kicking — instead the ball was run from everywhere with outrageously long passes and overly complicated moves being attempted. The play was great to watch, but the teams soon tired, even with each match only lasting fifteen minutes.

At one point a slimly built back tried to sell an unconvincing dummy to a forward running on a defensive angle across the pitch. The forward didn't buy it, aiming his charge at the ball carrier and not the man he was apparently passing to. The forward's shoulder caught the back full in the kidneys, doubling him over before sending him crashing to the turf.

A collective 'Oooohhhh' rose up from the crowd and Tom swivelled in his seat to punch Jon delightedly on the shoulder. 'Straight out of “Spicer the Slicer's” tackling manual!' he said. 'What a hit!'

Aware of several other spectators glancing over at Tom's comment, Jon modestly kept looking down at the match below. But the mention of his nickname when playing for Stockport hadn't gone unnoticed. Sure enough an elderly man wearing a tie approached.

'Jon Spicer? Rupert Horsely.'

Jon looked up, taking in the posh accent and Manchester Rugby Football Club badge on the man's blazer. With the faintest reluctance, he stood up to shake hands. 'Good to meet you.'

'Still playing, Jon?' the man asked in a blustery sort of way, a pint of bitter held against his paunch.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. 'Yeah, but just socially nowadays. Cheadle Ironsides.' 'Open side flanker?'

Jon nodded.

'First team?'

'Yup.'

The man stroked his moustache for a moment, then looked down at Tom. 'Saw this man taking apart more than a few players when he ran out for Stockport. Finest number seven outside the professional code I've ever seen play.'

Jon cringed as Tom raised his eyebrows to indicate he was impressed.

As the man turned away to rejoin his friends, he placed a hand on Jon's shoulder and murmured, 'You could have gone all the way in my opinion.'

He walked off without waiting for a reply and Jon sat back down awkwardly. Once the man was safely out of earshot, Tom leaned to one side and whispered from the corner of his mouth. 'I like that! Doesn't even bloody remember seeing me play. The old fart.'

As the afternoon wore on they kept up a disjointed conversation between bursts of action on the pitch. Once the final had been battled out by a pair of very weary teams, several pints had gone down and Jon could feel Tom relaxing.

'How's life in… what's the bit you're in again?' asked Tom.

'MISU. Major Incident Support Unit. Hard work and the hours can be shocking when we get a new case, but it couldn't be better, cheers.'

'When did you switch to them? Two months ago?'

'Nearly four.'

'God, that's gone fast. But you still count as a CID officer?'

'Yeah, it's a bit of a nightmare set-up. Basically, I work for Trafford division CID, but when a major incident occurs — usually a murder — I can be seconded into MISU to investigate it. All the CID divisions round Manchester contribute officers into MISU as and when they're needed. It's decided by some sort of extraction formula, but all the divisions moan about its fairness.' 'Don't tell me — they're paying a firm of consultants to come up with a better system?' 'No, we're just ripping off how they do it down in London.' 'Which is?' 'AMIT. Stands for Area Major Incident Unit, I think. A permanent collection of officers who are there solely to investigate big crimes. Except we won't call ours AMIT. Probably be FMIT — Force Major Incident Unit.'