Chris Simms - Savage Moon

Jon looked towards the corridor. 'Let's assume someone locked Danny Gordon into this flat on their way out. Could it be the same person who wrote that word?'

'You're saying someone helped him kill himself?' Rick replied.

'Not necessarily. They could have sat with him while he did it. Or maybe just found him after the event.'

'You mean a mate of some kind?'

'It's the sort of thing a mate might do.'

'The only mate he seemed to have was this Jammer.'

'Exactly. Any black guys with dreadlocks downstairs?'

'Let's take a look.'

The screens covering the main doors had been removed and the doors themselves opened. Despite this, the smell of unwashed bodies and musty clothes filled the air. All the squatters had retreated from the patch of daylight shining in, preferring to sit or lie in the shadows beyond. There were about twenty of them, all waiting in silence as several clipboard-wielding officers worked their way around.

Jon started at the right-hand corner. His eyes had only passed over three faces before they connected with his younger brother's. He was staring back at him through a haze of cigarette smoke. Jon's immediate reaction was to move his gaze on, but his mind was suddenly racing. Jesus Christ, that was our kid. What's he doing here? Please God, don't let him be connected to this mess. His eyes slowly moved back. Dave's hair was longer, and though the face was thinner it only seemed to emphasise the square features of the Spicer family.

'No black guys,' Rick said at his side.

Without replying, Jon walked across the foyer. 'Has this man been statemented?'

The nearest officer glanced back. 'Yeah. Andrew Adams, no fixed abode. Fake name if I ever heard one.'

Jon motioned with his fingers. 'A word outside please.' With a lazy grin, his younger brother got to his feet. As they headed for the doors, Rick started uncertainly over. Jon warded him off with a raised palm.

Once outside, Jon moved a good ten metres from the doors before turning round. His younger brother was dragging on a roll up, the smirk still on his face. Jon looked him up and down. Dirty jeans and battered trainers. Beneath a shapeless top the bones of his shoulders stuck out too sharply. He seemed to have regressed back to his teenage weight. 'What are you doing here?'

'Sorry officer?'

Jon realised he'd snapped the question out. He started again.

'All right, Dave?'

'Yeah, Jon. Fine. Just been rudely awoken by your colleagues, but other than that, I'm good. You?'

Jon nodded. 'You living here?'

His brother turned to the building, took a last drag on his roll up and dropped it into the grass. 'Only recently. I've been up in the Lakes over the summer. Enjoying the country life.'

Enjoying some poor bastard's empty holiday house, Jon thought. 'Why haven't you rung Mum? She's worried sick about you.'

Dave shrugged. 'The old man still alive?'

'Course he is.'

'There you go then.'

'Why punish Mum because you fell out with Dad?'

'Fell out? He threw me out.'

'You-' Jon stopped. This was heading in the usual direction. Who said that, who did what. He took out his pack of cigarettes, flipped the top open and held it out.

'Naughty, naughty,' Dave smirked, taking one. 'You never kicked the habit?'

Jon slid one out for himself and lit both up. 'I did for a bit. Listen, just call her will you? Tell her you're OK.'

'You've seen me, you can let her know.'

'But that's not the same. You know that.'

'And you know she won't let me leave it at that.' He adopted a whining voice. 'What are you doing? Where are you living? Why don't you come home?'

Jon felt his shoulders tensing up. You're close to a fucking slap. 'What are you doing?'

Dave paused to drag on his cigarette. 'Meaning?'

Jon held a hand towards the tower block. 'This, for fuck's sake. Kipping in derelict buildings with a load of addicts. I don't suppose you're working.'

His brother laughed scornfully and Jon felt his resentment of him increase. 'Nice going, our kid. Some fucking life you've got here.'

His brother's lips curled, the prelude to countless childhood fights. 'Unlike yours? Look at you, the system's sucking you dry, pal. You look fifty, slaving to pay off your mortgage, putting aside a few hundred each year for your tedious week in Spain. No fucking thanks.'

Jon drew the fingers of one hand along his jaw and imagined how exhausted he must look. 'We've got a kid.'

His brother blinked. 'No shit! You're a dad?'

Jon nodded. 'Holly. She's three months old.' He saw the half smile appear on his brother's face. So family did matter, at least a little. Jon seized the opportunity. 'Will you call Mum?'

'OK, I'll try. Holly? That's cool. What does she look like?' Jon smiled back. 'Babies all look the same to me. Most people reckon she's got Alice's eyes in a Spicer face.' Dave laughed. 'Poor bitch.'

They remained silent for a few seconds. Jon glanced again at the empty building. 'Did you know the guy who died, Danny Gordon?'

Dave crossed his arms. 'Only to chat to. He was pretty fucked up.'

'Did he ever show up with a black guy?'

'Jammer? Yeah, they were good mates.'

'Who is this Jammer? What's his real name?'

'Just know him as Jammer. He'd look out for Danny when he got aggressive. Saved him from getting a kicking.'

'Why'd he get aggressive?'

'Who knows. The guy was a head case. He'd flip out sometimes, especially after drinking.'

'When did you last see Jammer?'

'A few days back. Maybe five. He was looking for Danny.'

'Where was Danny?'

'I don't know. No one had seen him for a bit. How long has he been dead up in that flat?'

'Around five days.'

'That explains why no one had seen him.'

'Where'll you go now?'

'There are other places near here.'

'So you'll call Mum?'

His brother put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. 'Can you lend me some cash?'

I understand, thought Jon. You'll call Mum if I pay you to. He felt dismay at how cheaply his younger brother must value their family. Jon reached for his wallet, glancing at his brother's sleeves as if he could see through them for signs of drug use. How far was Dave from Danny Gordon's fate? He had a glimpse of being called out to some boarded-up house to identify his brother's body, lying in a back room surrounded by a puddle of its own fluids. Reluctantly he removed two twenties and held them out. Dave's hands stayed in his pockets, eyes still on the wallet. Jon slid out the final twenty and extended the notes at waist level as if paying for something illicit.

The money disappeared into Dave's pocket. 'Cheers bro.'

A minute ago it was pal, Jon thought bitterly. Wallet still out, he removed a business card and held it up. 'My mobile's on this. Keep in touch, yeah?'

Dave winked in reply, turned on his heel and slunk off towards the gap in the hoardings. The uniformed officer blocked his exit and Jon was forced to call over that it was OK. Dave held up a thumb and then was gone.

Jon took a last drag of his cigarette and let it fall from his fingers. As he crushed it angrily underfoot he heard Rick's voice.

'Who was that scuzz-bucket? A snitch or something?'

'Yeah, something like that,' Jon sighed.

'Well, no one in there has seen Jammer for a few days. We'd better head back to Longsight I suppose. Summerby's called a briefing for five-thirty.'

They were crossing the road when Rick's mobile rang. 'DS Saville. Ah, excellent. Really? OK, thanks for letting me know. See you back at the station.' He rung off and looked at Jon.

'That was Joe Adlon. The word at the bottom of the suicide note means, “remember”.'

'Remember?' Jon mused. 'Why write the word remember?'

'You remember something that's been done in the past. Peterson's abuse of Danny Gordon?'