Authors: Chris Simms
Jon eased his car out behind the minivan as it set off towards the centre of town. They parked on a side road near Piccadilly station, and Gray hurried across the road and into a pub with faded curtains hanging behind its dirty windows.
Jon waited a couple of minutes, then jogged over the road. The poster behind one of the grimy panes of glass announced,
Karaoke Night. Singles Welcome
. Dotted round the poster were little stars with names written inside: the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, the Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis.
Obviously aiming for an older crowd, thought Jon, slipping through a side door and making straight for the end of the bar. He kept his head down, aware of several glances in his direction. Safely in the shadows he looked around, assessing the atmosphere. A veneer of jolliness just succeeded in holding a feeling of nervous desperation at bay. More alcohol was required for things to improve. Luckily, doubles with mixers were half-price all night.
Pete Gray was sitting on his own at a table near the karaoke machine. A middle-aged woman was up on stage, ruining something by Alicia Keys. She reached the last line, flabby skin swaying slightly as she flourished her arm. A wave of applause washed weakly across the bar and her semi-embarrassed bow revealed a deep and doughy cleavage. As she stepped off stage Pete stood up. His body language was enthusiastic, short hand movements indicating how impressed he was. The gesture merged into a wave towards the bar, and the woman accepted with a smile that etched the crow’s feet deeper into the skin round her eyes.
Jon hunched lower on his stool, eyes on the cocktail menu in front. Two drinks were ordered and Pete led her back to his table. After twenty minutes he returned for two more, but Jon noticed the barman only put vodka in hers.
The compère announced an Elvis song and Pete duly took the stage. It was a rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’, complete with wavering end notes achieved with a slight curl of his upper lip. Most of the song was directed at the woman. He even braced his legs and gave it a couple of pitiful hip shimmies. Jon wanted to gag but, from the size of her smile, the woman seemed mightily impressed.
Warding off the applause, Pete sat down again and quickly made his move. He put a business card on the table, then his hand slid across to hers and their fingers entwined. He leaned his head closer and said something to make the woman instantly stiffen. She leaned back, putting distance between them, and her eyes started cutting around the room. Somehow Pete had blown it. A minute later she got up and made her way to the ladies’. Clearly irritated, Pete picked up a straw and stabbed at the ice cubes in his drink. When it became obvious she wasn’t coming back, he pushed both glasses away, retrieved his card and left. With Jon trailing along behind, he drove straight home. Seconds after going inside, the glow of a TV showed from behind the bedroom curtains.
Checking his watch, Jon saw it was just after ten at night. It was past the reasonable time for a phone call, but he couldn’t resist. He opened his notebook and looked at the phone numbers at the front. Deciding that it wasn’t fair to rouse Mrs Miller, the elderly mother of the second victim, he called the mobile of the first victim’s daughter instead.
It was answered after a few rings, the sounds of a bar loud in the background.
‘Lucy here. Who’s this?’
‘Lucy, it’s Detective Inspector Spicer. I’m working on the investigation into—’
‘I remember you.’
‘Good. Sorry to call this late, but I needed to ask you something. Do you have a minute?’
‘OK.’ The two syllables were heavy with caution.
‘You mentioned that you took your mother to a few singles’ nights in town.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you ever take her to a place near Piccadilly station called the Coach and Horses?’
‘Yes – it was pretty much a disaster.’
‘Pretty much? Did anyone make a pass at her?’
‘No. Well, no one nice. There was this one guy who gave her his card. But he was such a creep I made her promise to never ring him.’
‘What makes you say he was a creep?’
‘Just his general attitude. I didn’t want my mum being added to his list of cheap one-night stands.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I called him the Fat Elvis.’
Jon looked across at Pete Gray’s bedroom curtains and the blue light that flickered there.
It was almost eleven by the time he let himself back in through the front door. To his surprise Alice was still up, sitting reading a magazine in the front room, with the telly on low.
‘Hiya, babe. Just getting a glass of water.’
Ruffling Punch’s ears, he walked down the short corridor into the kitchen, noticing that the vacuum was back in the cupboard under the stairs. The carpet was spotless. In the kitchen he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and had half filled it before realising all the plates and cups had been washed up and put away.
He went into the front room and sat down in his armchair.
‘You’ve done all the clearing up. I was going to do that.’
Alice sighed. ‘When?’ Her voice was flat and she didn’t look at him.
‘Tonight. Now.’
‘I got tired of waiting.’ She looked up and he saw her lips were pale and thin. The alarm bell that had started ringing earlier on returned, much louder now. ‘You’d have started vacuuming at this time of night? I’m usually in bed by now.’
‘Maybe tomorrow morning, then.’
‘Or maybe fucking never!’ She slammed the magazine on to the table.
‘Where’s that come from?’ Jon said, surprised by her anger. From the corner of his eye he saw Punch slinking out of the room and he wished he could do the same.
She struggled to get off the sofa. ‘Where’s that come from? God, you’re a prat at times, Jon Spicer.’
He stared at her thinking about how the investigation was floundering. McCloughlin was getting more wound up by the day, and his prowling round the incident room was making everyone tense. ‘Ali, I’m not a bloody mind reader. I didn’t do the washing up. Is that what this is about?’
She glared at him for a moment longer. When it became obvious that was the best he could come up with a cry of frustration escaped her. She swung her stomach round and waddled out into the corridor.
Jon remained seated for a few seconds, irritation washing over him. ‘We’re trying to catch someone before he strips the skin off another victim, Ali,’ he said, getting up and crossing the room to the door. ‘You know the score with my job. Murderers don’t tend to work office hours.’
She’d managed to get halfway up the stairs, one hand clutching the banister. He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she tried to get her breath.
‘You’re also about to become a dad. I’m struggling here. Struggling with this pregnancy, struggling with my job, struggling to keep this place clean for when the baby arrives.’ She turned around and pointed down at him. ‘I won’t have you messing it up. And another thing. That bloody nursery isn’t finished yet, Jon, and you promised – you bloody promised!’
A tear broke and she wiped it away furiously. Jon suddenly saw how vulnerable she was, saw how hard she was fighting to keep it together. The knowledge that he was responsible for her distress tore a hole in him.
‘And don’t ever bring details of your work into this house. That’s a rule you made with me, remember? So don’t fucking break it to try and justify your shit behaviour.’
Jon opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. She turned and laboriously climbed the rest of the stairs. The bathroom taps came on.
He walked slowly into the kitchen, mind going back over the last few days. He tried to remember when he’d last cooked, cleaned, tidied or thanked Alice for covering for him. He looked down at Punch, who stared up at him with sad eyes. ‘I’ve fucked up big time, haven’t I, Punch?’
The dog looked back at him in silence.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, knocked on the half-open bathroom door and looked in. She was brushing her teeth hard enough to remove their outer layer.
‘Sorry, Ali.’
Still scrubbing, she looked in the mirror and he saw her eyes were wet. Guilt mushroomed in his chest. He stepped across to the sink, curled a forearm around her stomach and gently gripped her wrist in his other hand, stopping the toothbrush moving.
Leaning his forehead on her shoulder, he whispered, ‘I’ve been a complete prick. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’
The hand gripping her toothbrush lowered. ‘I want this pregnancy to be a good experience. I don’t want to be stressed and crying with our baby inside me.’
‘I know,’ he murmured, eyes shut. ‘I’m going to make sure it is.’ Gently, he began to kiss her neck, feeling her posture slowly soften.
After a few more moments she whispered his name.
‘Yeah?’ he said, head still bowed.
‘I think I’ve got rabies.’
‘What?’ His eyes snapped open and he saw the white foam at the corners of her mouth.
‘Grrrrr,’ she smiled and, seeing her playful look, he felt his heart actually leap in his chest.
He turned her round. ‘I promise, Ali, I’m going to—’
She cut him off by pressing her lips against his. He kissed her back, using his tongue to lick the minty mess away.
He felt one of her hands settle on his thigh and he leaned forwards, tracing his fingers hopefully towards her swollen breasts. His hand was lightly gripped and he opened his eyes to see her looking at him with her eyebrows raised. ‘Right now, I’d rather scrub the toilet than do what’s on your mind.’
Jon sighed. ‘Not even a—’
‘No way,’ she replied with a grin, extricating herself from his arms and leaving the room.
Jon leaned his hands on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, trying to remember the last time they’d had sex.
Chapter 23
Dawn Poole leaned forward and gently applied a finishing touch of mascara to the patient’s eyelashes. ‘There, you look wonderful.’
‘Really? How bloodshot are my eyes?’
The bedside mirror had been moved, so Dawn didn’t lie.
‘They’re not clear yet, but compared to a few days ago, they’re so much better.’
The patient’s head fell to the side, face bandages rasping lightly against the pillow. The front doorbell went.
‘That’ll be him!’ Dawn jumped to her feet and hurried from the room.
As soon as the bedroom door shut a whir of wings came from the window. The robin sat there, head cocked, expectantly looking in.
The patient reached slowly for the biscuit on the bedside table, broke off a piece and crumbled it on the bedcover. With a hop and a flutter, the bird alighted centimetres from the red fingernails. It pecked a fragment, looked up and around, then pecked another.
Apart from the occasional blink, the patient could have been a statue. Or a corpse.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs and the bird stopped feeding to listen. As soon as the door began to open, it darted back out of the window.
Dawn stood aside, allowing Dr Eamon O’Connor to step into the room. The patient tried to smile.
Dr O’Connor walked slowly round the bed, brushed the crumbs off the cover and sat down. ‘OK. Let’s get these bandages off and see how your face is mending.’
‘Will it hurt?’ the patient said, fingers fluttering at the collar of the nightie.
‘Not at all,’ O’Connor said, opening his briefcase. After methodically cleaning his hands with an antiseptic wipe, he took out a pair of stainless-steel scissors. ‘Now, hold that pretty head still and I’ll just snip your bandages.’
The blades of the scissors came together and the outer layer of gauze fell away.
‘Good,’ O’Connor said, laying the scissors down. He took a loose end and slowly unwound the layers obscuring the patient’s lower face.
As he reached the final lengths watery brown liquid had stained the material. ‘You still have some discharge from the wound, but that’s to be expected. Keep taking the antibiotics I prescribed.’
Carefully he eased away the final strip, revealing an oval face marred by a thin laceration running along the entire length of the jaw. More bandages held a couple of splints in place down each side of the patient’s nose. The wounds on the jaw were held together by a thicket of incredibly fine stitches.
Dawn stared with affection at his face. The masculine edges had been almost totally smoothed away. She thought the feminine look suited him far better.
O’Connor leaned forwards to survey his handiwork. ‘Excellent, if I say so myself.’
The patient’s eyes were wide. ‘Will there be any scarring?’ O’Connor shook his head. ‘With sutures applied this well?
Keep out of direct sunlight and use the cream I give you, and no one will be able to see a thing. Now, my dear, let’s take a look at your nose.’
He took a pair of tweezers from his briefcase and used them to prise away the gauze. Then he slid the lower blade of the scissors beneath and carefully snipped upwards. The patient sat rigid in the bed, eyes tightly shut.
Gently, the doctor pulled the covering away, easing out the little splints and eventually revealing a swollen nose, the skin stretched so tight it shone. Ugly bruising spread away from it, staining the skin beneath the patient’s eyes a purplish yellow.