Peter James - Dead Like You

He needed to keep calm, did not want to risk attracting the attention of the police, not with Molly Winifred Glossop lying in the boot of his car. He switched on the radio and heard the sound of the Beatles: ‘We Can Work It Out’.

He thumped the steering wheel, almost elated with relief. Yes! Yes! Yes! We can work it out!

Oh yes!

Stage one had gone to plan. Now he just had stage two to worry about. It was a big worry; there were unknown factors. But it was the best of his limited options. And, in his view, quite cunning.

Sunday 11 January

St Patrick’s night shelter relaxed the rules on Sundays that it applied for the rest of the week. Although the residents still had to vacate the premises by 8.30 a.m., they could return at 5 p.m.

Even so, Darren Spicer thought that was a bit harsh, since it was a church and all that, and wasn’t a church supposed to give you sanctuary at any time? Especially when the weather was crap. But he wasn’t going to argue, as he didn’t want to blot his copybook here. He wanted one of the MiPods. Ten weeks of personal space and you could come and go as you pleased. Yeah, that would be good. That would enable him to get his life together – though not in the kind of way the people who ran this place had in mind.

It was pissing down outside. And sodding freezing. But he did not want to stay in all day. He’d showered and eaten a bowl of cereal and some toast. The television was on and a couple of the residents were watching a replay of a football match on its slightly fuzzy screen.

Football, yeah. Brighton and Hove Albion was his home team. He remembered that magical day, when he was a teenager, they’d played at Wembley in the FA Cup Final and drawn. Half the homeowners of Brighton and Hove had gone up there to watch the game, while the other half were in their sitting rooms, glued to their tellies. It had been one of the best day’s burgling of his whole career.

Yesterday he’d actually been along to the Withdean Sports Stadium for a game. He liked football, not that he was much of an Albion supporter. He preferred Manchester United and Chelsea, but he had his reasons yesterday. He needed to score some charlie – as cocaine was known on the street – and the best way was to show his face. His dealer was there, in his usual seat. Nothing had changed there, apart from the price, which had gone up, and the quality, which had gone down.

After the game he’d acquired himself an eight ball for £140, dipping deep into his meagre savings. He’d washed down two of the three and a half grams with a couple of pints and a few whisky chasers almost straight away. The last gram and a half he’d saved to see himself through the tedium of today.

He pulled his donkey jacket on and his baseball cap. Most of the rest of his fellow residents were lazing around, talking in groups or lost in their thoughts or watching the TV. Like himself, none of them had anywhere to go, particularly on a Sunday, when the libraries were shut – the only warm places where they could hang out for hours for free without being hassled. But he had plans.

The round clock on the wall above the now closed food hatch said 8.23. Seven minutes to go.

It was at times like this that he missed being in prison. Life was easy in there. You were warm and dry. You had routine and companionship. You had no worries. But you had dreams.

He reminded himself of that now. His dreams. The promise he had made himself. To make himself some kind of a future. Get a stash and then go straight.

Lingering in the dry for those last few minutes, Spicer read some of the posters stuck to the walls:

MOVING ON?

FREE CONFIDENCE BUILDING COURSE FOR MEN

FREE FOOD SAFETY COURSE

FREE NEW COURSE -

FEELING SAFER AT HOME AND IN THE COMMUNITY

INJECTING INTO MUSCLE? PLEASE BE AWARE

DO YOU THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE A PROBLEM WITH COCAINE OR OTHER DRUGS?

He sniffed. Yeah, he did have a problem with cocaine. Not enough of it, that was the problem right now. He didn’t have cash spare for any more and that was going to be a real problem. That’s what he needed, he realized. Yeah. The coke he’d scored yesterday had made him fly, had put him in a great mood, made him horny, dangerously so. But what the hell?

Now he was down with a bang this morning. A deep trough. He’d get himself a few drinks, take the rest of his charlie and then he wouldn’t care about the crap weather – he’d set off around a few parts of the city he’d decided to target.

Sunday was a dangerous day to break into houses. Too many people were at home. Even if someone was out, their neighbours might not be. He would spend today on research, casing. He had a list of properties from contacts in insurance companies that he’d been steadily building up while in prison so as not to squander his precious time there. A whole list of houses and flats where the owners had quality jewellery and silverware. In some cases, he had the complete list of their valuables. Some very rich pickings to be had. If he was careful, enough to set him up for his new life.

‘Darren?’

He turned, startled to hear his name. It was one of the volunteer workers here, a man of about thirty in a blue shirt and jeans, with short hair and long sideburns. His name was Simon.

Spicer looked at him, wondering what was wrong. Had someone reported him last night? Seen his enlarged pupils? If they caught you taking drugs or you were even just high on them in here, you could be thrown straight out.

‘There are two gentlemen to see you outside.’

The words were like a sudden sideways pull of gravity deep inside him. As if all his innards had turned to jelly. It was the same feeling he always had when he realized the game was up and he was being arrested.

‘Oh, right,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant and uninterested.

Two gentlemen could only mean one thing.

He followed the young man out into the corridor, his stomach really churning now. His brain was racing. Wondering which of the things he had done in the past few days they had come to get him for.

It felt more like a church out here. A long corridor with a pointed arch at the end. The reception office was next to it, glassed in. Outside it stood two men. From the way they were suited and booted, they could only be coppers.

One of them was thin and tall as a beanpole, with short, spiky hair that was a mess; he looked like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in many months. The other was black, with his head shaven as bald as a meteorite. Spicer vaguely recognized him.

‘Darren Spicer?’ the black one said.

‘Yeah.’

The man held up a warrant card, which Spicer barely bothered to glance at.

‘DS Branson, Sussex CID, and this is my colleague, DC Nicholl. Wonder if we could have a chat.’

‘I got a pretty busy schedule,’ Spicer said. ‘But s’pose I could fit you in.’

‘Very accommodating of you.’

‘Yeah, well, I like to be accommodating, with the police and all that.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He sniffed.

The volunteer worker opened a door and indicated for them to walk through.

Spicer entered a small meeting room containing a table and six chairs, with a large stained-glass window on the far wall. He sat down and the two detectives sat opposite him.

‘We’ve met before, haven’t we, Darren?’ DS Branson said.

Spicer frowned. ‘Yeah, maybe. You look familiar. Trying to think where.’

‘I interviewed you about three years ago, when you were in custody – about some house break-ins. You’d just been arrested for burglary and indecent assault. Remember now?’

‘Oh yeah, rings a bell.’

He grinned at each of the detectives, but neither of them smiled back. The mobile phone of the one with ragged hair rang suddenly. He checked the number, then answered it quietly.