Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

Tom laughed. 'And I thought Manchester's advertising agencies' names were bad. JWT, BDH, MKP, MAP — I always get them mixed up. So you'll apply for this FMIT when it starts up?'

'Definitely. All the top people and all the best cases. It'll be tough getting in, though.'

'Not like MISU, where you get dumped with looking for car thieves?'

'Hey,' Jon answered, holding a forefinger up. 'Don't knock that case; they're stealing dozens of vehicles each month. Whoever is in that gang is making a lot of money. But that's just a single investigation. We have more than one to work on at a time.'

'So what else?'

Jon searched his mind for a case that he could talk about. 'Remember that woman who was found under the viaduct near Stockport last year?'

Tom nodded. 'Some barmaid who'd taken a battering?'

'That's the one. Her killer's just gone down for life and the team I was on caught him. Well, us and forensics.'

Tom stayed silent, looking expectantly at his friend.

'She had a particular type of gravel embedded in her face. Turned out to be part of a very small batch used to landscape a park in north Manchester. We searched the bushes around it and retrieved the brick she'd been bludgeoned with. Forensics got a DNA sample from some skin caught on a jagged bit at the unbloodied end. It matched a sample already on the national database. We lifted him — the landlord — from his pub about three hours later. His car had fibres and blood in the boot. He'd battered her in the park, then driven her across town and dumped her.'

'Nice one,' said Tom, visibly impressed.

'So how's work for you?'

Tom grimaced slightly and looked out of the window. 'It's all right. Pays a shedload but, to be honest, I'm getting a bit sick of it.'

'Why's that?' asked Jon, leaning forward.

Tom glanced at him before looking back out of the window. 'I don't know. Arse-kissing clients the whole time doesn't get any easier. Trying to get enthusiastic about their posters and promotions. You work in the industry a while and you begin to realize that all advertising campaigns are based on the same things.'

'Such as?'

Tom let out his breath as if bored. 'Yeah. Greed, sloth, envy, pride … I forget the rest.'

Jon was surprised. 'Those are the motives for most crimes. I hadn't realized they're the basis for most advertising too.'

'Not most — all. Take credit cards; that's greed. The ads are always along the lines of “Why wait? Get what you want right now with this card.” No mention about how you'll pay for it further down the line. Cars? That depends on the angle they work. Usually it's pride:“Drive this and people will admire you.” It's all about achieving the same at the end of the day — feeding the machine.'

Jon continued looking at him, unsure of what he meant.

'The economy,' Tom explained. 'People have to keep buying products. That's how it works. You can't have people keeping stuff or getting it repaired. You use it for a bit, then chuck it away and buy something new. That's what advertising is there to do: create demand, encourage you to keep on buying. Otherwise the whole capitalist machine would grind to a halt.'

'You think too deeply to be working in that industry.'

Suddenly Tom's eyes lit up. 'Want to know what I'm really thinking about?'

'Go on.'

'Getting out of it. It's all just a bit of a daydream at the moment, but I'm looking at buying a little business down in Cornwall. A cafe or some kind of shop.'

'Could you afford it?'

'Almost. If we sold my place in Didsbury and then added the company bonus I'm due, we could just about afford to buy a smaller place to live in and use the leftovers to purchase the business.'

'Bloody hell,' said Jon. 'I thought you loved city life.'

Tom tapped his fingers against his pint glass. 'More and more I'm happy just staying in. The odd meal out, yeah. But the clubs and bars…' He smiled briefly and leaned forward as if divulging a secret. 'I'm just feeling past it, mate. How old are you now?'

'Thirty-three.'

'A year older than me — you do nearly qualify for the veterans!' Jon laughed. 'I know what you mean. Apart from our local pub, me and Alice hardly go out. The last time we stumbled into a club it was full of teenagers. Or at least it seemed like it to me. But what about Charlotte? I thought she was a nightclubbing fiend.'

Tom nodded. 'She's full into it, just like I was at twenty-two. I daren't tell her that I'd prefer to stay in most nights and watch telly.'

Jon had hardly met his friend's wife, so he decided to ask a little more. 'Is she working at the moment?'

From the slight pursing of Tom's lips before he spoke, Jon guessed this was a bone of contention between them.

'She sometimes talks about going on a course at college, but I think she just likes floating around, doing her tennis and keep-fit stuff at the leisure centre. She certainly never wants to work as a receptionist again.'

Jon turned the information over in his head. Tom's choice in women always seemed based purely on looks, but there was no doubt Charlotte possessed a very shrewd side. The first time he'd met her, Jon had walked away from the occasion with one expression lodged firmly in his head: gold digger. He had given it about two months before Tom dumped her for someone else. So when Tom had rung to say they had got married on the spur of the moment in Barbados, Jon was amazed. There was no doubt in his mind that she had engineered it: there hadn't even been a stag night.

'Is it all right with you that she doesn't work?' Jon asked.

From countless police interviews, Jon could sense when someone wasn't being honest. Now he couldn't help applying this ability to his old team mate.

'Yeah, of course it is,' said Tom, brushing a knuckle across the tip of his nose. 'It's quite nice being the main earner, having her waiting for me when I get in from work. 'Then, changing the subject, he said, 'What about you and Alice? How long have you been together now? It must be time for marriage and a sprog soon.'

'Eleven years. And yes, it looks like that's on the cards.'

'Shit! You mean you're getting married? Or is she pregnant? Or both?' Tom pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Jon.

'No thanks — that's part of the deal. No marriage yet, but we're giving up smoking and starting to try for a kid. A general cleanliving caper.' He looked down at his pint and tilted it reflectively to the side. 'Apart from the odd ale, of course.'

'Jesus,' said Tom, lighting up. 'Feel ready for all that stuff, then?'

Jon took a long sip from his pint. He would have given a totally honest answer if he hadn't felt that Tom was holding back on his own description of married life. He would have admitted the whole prospect terrified him, admitted that he feared his entire life was about to be ruined. He might even have admitted that now he couldn't help looking at Nikki Kingston, the crime scene manager he casually flirted with, as a potential escape route if he turned out to be as big a failure at fatherhood as he feared. Instead he said, 'Ready as you can ever be, I suppose. It's about time. Alice is thirty two now and you know women — they start getting very aware of their biological clocks after thirty. You've got eight years to go with Charlotte.'

'Yeah, 'Tom faintly replied. Jon got the feeling it was a source of regret for his friend.

'Anyway,' said Jon, draining the last of his pint. 'What are we doing? Staying here for another or calling it a day?'

Tom looked down at the pitch. Most of the crowd had now gone and a group of kids tussled over a rugby ball beneath one set of posts while a couple of groundsmen trod back dislodged lumps of turf at the halfway line, their shadows stretching far out across the grass. 'Come on. Let's get a cab into town.'