Killing the Beasts

Chapter 21

3 November 2002

The investigation was going nowhere. More than fifty officers were now assigned to the case. Despite dozens of statements from anyone who had been in contact with the three victims, an obvious thread linking them together refused to emerge.

In desperation they had begun to retread old ground, including raking through the contents of each victim's home again.

Jon was en route to the facility at Trafford Park police station to help go through the refuse recovered from Polly Mather's flat when the call came through on his mobile.

'Bad news, Jon. Another body has just been discovered. A Gabrielle Harnett, same MO as all the rest,' said the officer back at Longsight.

Jaw set tight, he speeded up, anxious to get to Trafford Park and start making phone calls. He pulled into the car park about a quarter of an hour later. Without bothering to get out of the car, he called back the incident room at Longsight.

'DI Spicer here. The victim who's just been discovered — what type of property did she live in?'

'Some sort of flat complex.'

'Can you give me the phone number of any officer attending the scene?'

He jotted the number down and immediately called it. 'DS Moffatt? DI Spicer here. Where are you exactly?'

'Outside the victim's flat.'

'What's the parking situation like?'

'Bloody nightmare. Half of Manchester's newspaper reporters are already here. I don't know who's got more vehicles in the vicinity

— us or them.' 'I mean for the residents. Is there private parking for them?' 'Oh, hang on. 'There was a pause. 'Yeah, I'm standing in a kind of courtyard. It's all little one or two bedroom flats, residents-only parking. Each slot is allocated to a flat.'

'And what's parked in the slot for the victim's flat?'

'Hang on,' he said again. 'Flat six, here you go. It's a Mini — one of those new BMW ones.'

'Registration?'

Jon noted it down, then called the incident room at Longsight again. 'Hi, DI Spicer. Can you run me a vehicle check?' He read out the registration and waited with his crossed fingers resting on the steering wheel. 'Please don't let it be Gabrielle Harnett's,' he whispered to himself.

'Here we go,' said the operator, 'Gabrielle Harnett, flat six, Richmond Court…'

'Fuck!' He thumped the back of his skull against the headrest.

'You just crashed?' came the alarmed voice.

'No. My fucking theory has, though.' He hung up, got out and walked over to the prefabricated hut in which the rubbish had been laid out on long trestle tables. Standing outside the doors were a couple of uniformed officers getting a last cigarette in before having to don rubber gloves and start sifting.

'Morning,' said one, seeing Jon approaching.

'Morning,' Jon grunted. A couple of seconds' silence followed before the officer produced a packet of cigarettes and held one out.

Jon realized his eyes had been fixed hungrily on the man's lit cigarette. He hesitated for a second, then sagged a little and took it. 'Cheers. This case is doing my head in.' He leaned forward to take a light as Nikki Kingston stepped out of the hut. Her face had brightened on seeing Jon but, on spotting the cigarette in his mouth, her smile died. Their eyes met and with a sigh Jon pulled the cigarette from his lips. 'Bad day, all right?'

'Here,' she said and gestured him inside. They walked along the side of a table scattered with a layer of mouldering food scraps, old tea bags and crumpled packaging. 'What's up?'

'Another body has just been found.'

'Oh, Jesus.' She picked up her handbag and took out a pack of chewing gum. 'Try one of these. I'm not sure about the flavour, but it's got to be better than going back to smoking.'

He conceded with a half smile and slid a stick from the pack. After popping it into his mouth, he said, 'What is it? Lemon flavour?'

Nikki looked at the pack and with a lofty tone said, 'Actually, it's citrus flavour with extracts of energy-giving guarana. Limited edition too, so count yourself lucky.'

Jon was shaking his head. 'What is it with these limited edition sweets? They were doing mint-flavoured Kit Kats the other day. Meddling with a classic. Go on, let's have a look.'

She handed him the pack and he looked at it with a cynical expression. Alongside the spiky yellow lettering spelling 'X-treme' was a yellow lightning bolt that zig-zagged down the ice-blue wrapper, its point entering a cartoon-style lemon sitting on a bed of what he guessed were guarana leaves. His eyes narrowed and he looked at the rubbish on the trestle tables.

'What?' said Nikki, watching him closely.

'I've seen a pack of this stuff before. Where did you get it from?'

'Some freebie handout,' she said, putting her handbag back on the chair.

'No, I've seen it somewhere else. Not in a shop, either.' He searched for the memory and started seeing all sorts of images. A white-painted room, crushed packets of cigarettes, cups stacked up in a dirty sink, rows of tins in a cupboard, empty beer cans piled high in a waste-paper basket, a drawer slightly open with the contents neatly arranged inside.

He knew that he had two strands of memory twisted together: one suggested cleanliness and carefully controlled behaviour, the other disorder and abandonment. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed against them with a forefinger and thumb, trying to make sense of the opposing images. Polly Mather's kitchen? No, her place was a tip. Must have been Mary Walters' kitchen. Then the memory of the discarded chewing gum wrapper sprang up in his mind and he saw the distinctive diamond pattern of the carpet surrounding it. 'Polly Mather's floor. In her front room,' he said, certainty filling his voice. With that strand of memory established, he was able to concentrate on the one suggesting a well-ordered living space. He clicked his fingers and opened his eyes. 'And in Mary Walters' kitchen drawer.'

Nikki looked at him in silence with her eyebrows raised.

'Have you got any gloves?' She handed him a pair.

Jon walked round the tables, stopping at the one marked 'front room'. The waste-paper basket was lying on its side and next to it crumpled beer cans, cigarette butts and torn-up packets of Rizla covered the surface. With a forefinger, he poked around, suddenly stopping and holding up a loosely folded rectangle of paper. Straightening it out, he said, 'Bingo.' It was the outer wrapping from a stick of X-treme gum.

Nikki was standing next to him. 'Yes?'

'I'm sure there's also an unopened pack of this stuff in Mary Walters' kitchen drawer.'

She turned her hands outwards. 'So? There's probably tins of baked beans in both their flats, too.'

'Yes, but this is unusual isn't it? A limited edition — part of a relatively small batch.'

Picking up on Jon's line of thought, she clapped her hands together in excitement. 'I saw it for sale just the other day!'

'Where?'

'One of those dodgy stalls in the Arndale Market that sells end-of-line and out-of-date stuff.'

He put the gum wrapper in an evidence bag, then yanked his gloves off. 'Come on. I'd like to know how the stallholder came by it.'

He parked next to the incident van outside forty-six Lea Road and got out. Nikki stayed where she was. 'You coming or what?' he asked, leaning in through the open door.

'I can't enter another crime scene that's part of an investigation I'm involved with — it's regulations.'

Jon nodded. 'OK. I won't be long.'

The crime scene manager was inside the vehicle drinking a cup of tea. Jon signed his name in the log book and slipped on a crime scene suit. Squeezing past a couple of forensics guys in the hallway, he followed the footplates into the kitchen, going straight over to the second drawer down. There amongst the other odds and ends was the pack of X-treme chewing gum.

He dropped it into an evidence bag and returned to the incident van. Placing it on the table in front of the crime scene manager, he peeled off his suit. 'Could you catalogue that, please? Recovered from the second drawer down in her kitchen.'

Back in his car he said with a grin, 'Next stop, the Arndale.'

The shopping centre was crowded with the usual array of people. Young mums wheeled their pushchairs aimlessly around. Clusters of teenagers shuffled into the computer games shops, their nylon shell suits swishing as they went. Jon and Nikki headed straight for the escalator, taking it down to the lower level and walking past rows of shop fronts. At the end of the corridor they turned left, the tiled floor sloping down into a tunnel, cramped shopping units on each side. The air was coppery with the aroma from a butcher's stall selling cleaved-up chunks of meat, slabs of tripe and anaemic-looking sausages. They had entered the centre's economy shopping zone.

Emerging into the main hall, Nikki led Jon past a stall piled high with baby clothes and another almost buried under rolls of material. Next they passed one selling jokes and adult novelty toys. 'Fake dog turd?' asked Nikki with a grin, before stopping at a stall crammed with assorted items of food — bags of slightly damaged jaffa cakes for ninety-nine pence, dented cans of fizzy drinks for twenty pence, bottles of ketchup with German labels for seventy-five pence.

Nikki scanned the front of the stall. 'There,' she said, pointing to a tray of X-treme gum.

Jon nodded then looked at the stallholder. 'Excuse me?'

The man looked up from his newspaper to find a warrant card inches from his face.

'DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. This chewing gum you're selling — where did you get it?'

The man closed one eye, as if trying to recall. 'Probably from the cash'n'carry on the Oldham Road. That or a wholesaler's.' He waved a hand to signal that was the best he could do.

Jon knew the man was being deliberately vague. 'Listen mate, I'm investigating a murder. Do you think it will jog your memory if you close up for the day and come down to the cop shop with me? Bring all your books as well. We'll go through everything and make sure all your accounts tally up.'

The man folded his paper. 'OK. It was a one-off. This guy, he's always coming round with stuff.'

'So if it was a one-off, what's he usually selling?' The man looked uneasy. 'This and that.'

Jon leaned forward, 'Fuck me around any more and you're coming to the station. What does he usually sell?'

The man raised a hand to run it along his top lip as if in thought. From behind his fingers he mumbled, 'Car stereos.'

'Selling to you?'

'No! What would I want with them?' He gave the slightest of nods in the direction of the stall behind. 'Ed's Electrical Emporium. Behind you. Just this one time though, he had a few boxes of that chewing gum. I took the lot off him, ten quid cash I think.'

'What does this person look like?'

'I don't know. Always kitted out in designer stuff. Wiry ginger hair, top teeth stick out a bit. Thin.' His eyes shifted to the side of Jon's head and his words dried up.

Jon glanced over his shoulder, saw the Ferret sauntering across the hall. He looked back at the stallholder. 'That's him, isn't it?'

Reluctantly, the man nodded. Nikki started to turn around but Jon hissed at her to keep looking at the stallholder.

'He's coming in this direction?' asked Jon.

The stallholder watched from the corner of his eye. 'Yes… no… he's going over to Ed's. Looks like he's got some more stuff to sell.'

Jon took another glance over his shoulder. The Ferret was approaching the electrical stall, a sports bag in one hand.

'Who is it? Do you know him?' asked Nikki.

Jon nodded his head in reply, slipping his mobile out of his pocket, but the market was below ground and his mobile was flashing red. 'No bloody reception.' He thought for a moment. 'Right Nikki, I'm going to lift him. I want you to stand behind him and put on your stern face.'

Nikki took a deep breath. 'Oh, Jesus.'

'Don't worry,' Jon whispered. 'I'll do everything.'

Jon walked over to Ed's Electrical Emporium. The Ferret was talking to the stallholder with quick snatches of speech, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Jon stepped up behind him and raised his warrant card. 'Excuse me.'

The stallholder's eyes went wide, his expression saying it all. Without even turning his head, the Ferret dropped the bag and bolted to his right, slamming directly into Nikki. Their bodies were in contact for an instant before she flew backwards to the tiled floor, head cracking against it. He stumbled into the corner of the stall, toppling a couple of CD players to the floor before regaining his balance and starting to run.

Jon took some stuttering steps after him, looking down at Nikki and shouting, 'You OK?'

Keeping her eyes closed, she yelled, 'Go!'

Jon was off. The Ferret had about twenty metres on him as he ran towards the steps leading up to Cannon Street. Jon kept his head bowed and pumped his legs, taking smaller steps to get his momentum going, only lengthening his stride and looking up when he hit sprinting speed.

By the time the Ferret reached the bottom step Jon was less than ten metres behind him. Halfway up, the man's toe caught and he half fell, scrabbling up to the top. But Jon had closed the distance and, after taking the first four steps in one bound, he dived upwards, shoulder connecting with the back of his quarry's knees. Jon's arms then wrapped around his legs, bringing him crashing down in a classic rugby tackle.

Keeping his arms locked, Jon yanked him halfway back down the steps. As soon as he released his legs and reached for his collar, the Ferret whipped an elbow up at Jon's face. He saw it coming and, rather than lean back and expose the underside of his chin, Jon dipped his head into the blow so it glanced harmlessly off his forehead. He replied with a powerful jab to the man's right temple that sent his molars clacking together and the side of his head bouncing off the edge of a step.

Jon's vision had narrowed right down: his sight was completely filled by the man beneath him, the man he had been chasing for so long. He was so pumped, everything happened a fraction slower than normal. His right hand shot out and closed around the Ferret's elbow as it rose up again, fingers crushing the soft flesh on the inside of the joint. As he let out a howl of pain, Jon's left fist cracked into the back of his head. The man's mouth was wide open as it connected with the top of the step and a fragment of tooth flew out followed by a spray of blood. Jon let go of his elbow, grabbed two handfuls of lank gingery hair and got ready to smash his face back down again. 'Jon, stop!'

The scream brought him out of his rage and he looked down the steps, eyes blazing.

Nikki shrank backwards and said more quietly, 'You've got him.'

Suddenly Jon became aware of other shoppers. They hovered behind Nikki, looking shocked.

'He was resisting arrest,' Jon growled. Yanking the Ferret to his feet, he whispered in his ear, 'That was for knocking my friend over back there.'

'I've done nothing,' the man gasped, blood dribbling down his chin. 'I'll fucking sue you for this. It's assault. 'He began to struggle again.

'And this,' said Jon, putting him in a thumb lock, 'is for nicking my girlfriend's handbag.' The Ferret cried out as his knuckle was bent back.

'Shut it,' said Jon, forcing his arm upwards so he had to bend double to avoid more pain.

Marching him back to the main hall he said, 'Let's see what's in your sports bag. My guess is that, by the end of today, I'll be charging you with a fuck of a lot more than petty theft.'

As soon as the Ferret was safely locked up in a cell at Longsight, Jon raced upstairs to the incident room. He'd phoned ahead from the Arndale centre, requesting that the third and fourth victims' houses and bins be searched for any evidence of X-treme chewing gum.

Walking into the incident room, he was immediately waved over by the office manager.

'I hear you've got someone in the traps downstairs.'

'Yeah,' replied Jon, suddenly loving every second of his job. 'Could be significant; we'll know more once his house has been turned over.'

'Well, I've just received a call from the crime scene manager at Gabrielle Harnett's place. A wrapper of something called X-treme chewing gum with energy-giving guarana has been recovered from the waste-paper bin in her front room.'

Jon raised a clenched fist and shut his eyes for a second. 'Fucking win! Can I take that?' he asked, looking at the memo.

'Be my guest. The gum wrapper is being driven over now.' Jon walked into McCloughlin's office, gathering quizzical looks from everyone in the room as he went.

'Come in and close the door,' said McCloughlin as soon as Jon appeared in his doorway. 'Who've you got downstairs?'

'A nasty little shit,' replied Jon, taking a seat. 'He's a general scrote

— snatching handbags, taxing the city beggars for their pitches. He's also peddling car stereos and other bits and bobs, including a few boxes of a particular brand of chewing gum. X-treme citrus flavour with guarana.' 'Never heard of it,' said McCloughlin.

'It's one of those limited editions they do. However, wrappers and packs of it have now turned up in three of the victims' properties.'

McCloughlin blew out a thin stream of breath. 'Carry on.'

'I arrested him in the Arndale Centre, where he was trying to sell on a couple of car stereos. The serial numbers are being checked as we speak, but I'd bet a month's salary they're stolen.'

'Very interesting,' said McCloughlin. He got up and reached for his coat. 'Have you got his name and address?'

'Right here, along with his front door key,' said Jon, holding up a plastic bag with a smile. 'His name's Ashley Charlton, but he goes by the name of Sly.'

McCloughlin looked up at the Urban Living flats and said, 'A bit upmarket for our little toe-rag don't you think?'

They buzzed the manager of the complex to be let in and less than thirty seconds later eight plain-clothes officers were standing in Ashley Charlton's flat.

Surveying the room, McCloughlin's eyes settled on the tarantula's vivarium. 'Never mind bringing in national ID cards, if we could keep tabs on every misfit who keeps snakes and spiders, there'd be a lot less crime committed. Right, specifically, we're looking for packs of X-treme chewing gum, but shout if you see anything else.'

Seven of them began rummaging through the flat while the last officer started sweeping all the electrical items and ornaments with a UV light. At the same instant he announced, 'Boss', another officer in the kitchen said, 'Got something here.'

McCloughlin called towards the kitchen, 'What's in there?' 'One box of X-treme chewing gum. Limited edition citrus with energy-giving guarana. Thirty-six packs originally inside, now about a dozen left.'

'Bag it,' said McCloughlin, turning to the officer with the UV torch. 'You?'

He turned the art deco lamp to the side so McCloughlin could see its base. Shining purple in the invisible glow of the torch was a series of numbers and letters. 'Postcode. Looks like Altrincham, sir.'

'Excellent. Get the address so we can phone the house owner immediately.'

As the officer got his mobile phone out to make the call, another officer standing at the coat pegs by the door spoke up. 'Boss, take a look at this.' He was holding up a garden cane with a hook on the end.

McCloughlin rubbed his hands. 'This guy is so screwed. Anything else, people?'

Jon turned round. 'Interesting stash here.'

McCloughlin looked down into the wooden box Jon had opened up.

Inside was a couple of packets of cigarette papers, a lump of cannabis resin and a small plastic bag containing a couple of teaspoons of white powder.

'What do you reckon that is? Speed?' asked McCloughlin.

Jon turned it over with the end of a gloved finger. 'Probably, but I'm not volunteering to taste it.'

McCloughlin laughed. 'You know what, Jon? When you blurted out your theory that these killings were being carried out by some rogue member of a car-theft gang, I had serious doubts. Now I think you might be right.'

Jon smiled, but he didn't feel the same certainty as his senior officer.

An hour later they were all back at Longsight station and Sly had been hauled out of his cell and into an interview room. Having been told which investigation his client was a suspect in, a very nervous member from the local twenty-four-hour solicitor's was sitting next to Sly.

'So, you've been a very busy man,' opened McCloughlin.

'That bastard chipped my tooth,' said Sly, jabbing a finger at Jon. Across the table McCloughlin shrugged. 'You were resisting arrest. We have several witnesses who will attest to that.'

Sly lit a cigarette and stared back with narrowed eyes. Wisps of smoke carried across the table into Jon's face.

'The car stereos. Where did you get them?' McCloughlin continued.

Sly looked away. 'No comment.'

McCloughlin nodded, like he'd been expecting that response. 'Your bad-boy mates been telling you how to play it in an interview? Well, I'll tell you something. They came from two Mercedes, both reported as stolen last week. One from a house in Alderley Edge, one from a house in Altrincham. The owners believe the keys were hooked out of their house through the letterbox. Probably by an implement very similar to the one we found in your flat. Nice pad, by the way. Were you left an inheritance? It's just that I can't work out how you could afford it. You being out of work at the moment.'

Sly shot a glance to his solicitor, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 'No comment,' came the answer again.

'We'll move on,' said McCloughlin with a smile. 'We also found a rather nice art deco lamp in your flat.'

The same uninterested look remained on Sly's face and he blew out a stream of smoke. Jon breathed some of it in, noting that it was weaker after being filtered by the other man's lungs.

'Where did you find that? A car boot sale?' McCloughlin asked.

'No comment.'

McCloughlin nodded. 'Of course. However, the lamp had a postcode written on it with a special pen that fluoresces under UV light. The owner of the lamp is en route to this police station as we speak. But before setting off, she informed us that the person who took it also took her BMW A5, stating that he would kill her if she didn't provide him with the keys.'

The room was silent as McCloughlin and Jon stared at Sly who, apart from jiggling one knee up and down, remained slouched in his seat.

McCloughlin whispered, 'Do you think, Ashley — or should we call you Sly? It suits you — when she hears your voice on this interview tape, she'll remember it as the one from her hallway that night?' Sly kept his eyes on the floor. 'No comment,' he mumbled again.

The sense of calm that had descended on the room was suddenly shattered by Jon slamming his fist on to the table. The solicitor nearly fell off his chair in fright and Sly flinched away.

'Do you think,' Jon roared, 'that saying “no comment” will get you out of this? We haven't even started on the fact we've recovered the same type of chewing gum from your flat and the flats of three murder victims. All had nice flashy cars parked right outside their properties. The type of car, in fact, you like to steal.'

Finally the look of boredom was wiped from Sly's face. Sitting up, he began to say, 'No, no, no, no man. You're not pinning that on me.'

'We'll not be doing any pinning, my friend,' answered Jon. 'I noticed there were some expensive suits in your flat. One was an Armani. Pure wool, pale green colour? Just like some fibres we've lifted from the victims' properties.'

Sly looked at his solicitor again, who just stared back at him like a frightened rabbit.

A knock sounded on the door and an officer poked his head into the room. 'Boss, the lady from Altrincham is here.'

McCloughlin nodded. 'OK, interview suspended at,' he glanced at the clock on the wall, 'seventeen forty-eight. 'He turned the cassette recorder off.

Jon stood up, leaned across the table and brought his face to within butting distance of Sly's nose. Quietly, he said, 'All it takes is for the threads we've picked up from those crime scenes to match your suit and you're going down. High profile case like this? Someone always goes down, and you're our best bet. By a long way.' He then looked at the wide-eyed solicitor. 'Maybe you should explain to your buck-toothed scum of a client here how plenty of people are currently serving life sentences for far less evidence than we've got on him already.'

Anxious to catch up with McCloughlin, Jon stepped quickly out of the interview room. His senior officer was waiting for him, face bright with anger.

'In here,' he said, opening a spare interview room.

Surprised, Jon stepped through the door and heard it shut behind him. 'I can't believe the state of that guy's face,' McCloughlin spat.

'Sir?'

'You started smacking him around in front of members of the public. Half a bloody tooth was left on the steps in the Arndale. What the fuck were you playing at?'

Jon was caught completely by surprise. 'He was resisting arrest, sir, like you said.'

'He was struggling a bit,' McCloughlin corrected him. 'I've got more members of the public complaining about your rough methods than I have agreeing that he was resisting arrest. I just hope that solicitor is as incompetent as he looks.'

McCloughlin rubbed the palms of his hands up and down his cheeks, the skin around his eyes bunching up and stretching out as he did so. He let out a big breath. 'Jon, when I recommended you for promotion, I did so with one reservation in mind. And that's your propensity for getting so obsessed with a case you lose control. It's one thing to dish it out a bit in the cells or the back of a police van, but you never do it in front of the public. They'll start up about human rights quick as a flash, no matter what sort of a pondlife it is. Your aggression must be controlled. And what do you do next? Nearly smash the interview table in half with your fist.'

Jon was silent as McCloughlin looked at his watch. 'Nearly six o'clock. Why don't you call it a day? Go to the gym and blow off some steam. I'll finish the interview in a bit.'

Jon stood, but he couldn't go without saying something. 'I caught him, sir. You can't cut me out of the investigation like this.'

McCloughlin kept his eyes on the wall to Jon's side. 'You'll be back on the case tomorrow, once you've cooled down. In your present state, you're of no use to me.'

Jon slammed the door shut, marched from the building and kept going straight down the road. He walked without purpose, anger blinkering his view. He needed a pub, somewhere dimly lit and deserted where he could sit and drink.

Looking around, he saw a soulless-looking place on the opposite side of the road. He crossed over and went inside. As he started to ask for a pint of bitter, he stopped and said instead, 'A pint of Stella, and a double Talisker, cheers.'

No one else was at the bar, so he took a corner stool, hung his jacket over his knee and rolled up his sleeves. The whisky came first and he rolled the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing it in a single gulp. Immediately he breathed in through his lips, the fiery fumes in his mouth mixing with the air and causing his gums to contract. The barman placed a pint of Stella before him and Jon pushed the whisky tumbler across the bar in return. 'Another double in there. Can you run me a tab?'

'Bad day at the office?'

'You guessed it.' He loosened his tie and picked up the lager, studying the streams of tiny bubbles as they spiralled magically from the bottom of the glass. The first gulp washed away the heat of the Talisker, seeming to return his throat to normal. The second gulp was uncomfortably cold, and by the third and fourth his throat was completely numb.

Later he jammed a cigarette out in the ashtray before him, coins spread across the bar from when he'd changed a tenner for the vending machine. His head was thick with alcohol, his chest tight from smoking. Slowly he rotated his pint through quarter turns, brushing off the condensation clinging to the glass as he did so. He replayed McCloughlin's words in his head again and again:'… your propensity for getting so obsessed with a case you lose control.'

He thought back to their earlier conversation. 'You're not a Mountie, always getting your man.'

Then he thought of the comment Tom had made after they had visited the compound for stolen cars. Something about his role on the rugby pitch being to hunt down and take out members from the opposite team.

Even as he tried to dismiss the comment, the words of the old guy in the blazer at the Cheshire Sevens rang in his mind. 'Saw this man taking apart more than a few players when he ran out for Stockport.'

Spicer the Slicer. That was what they called him at the rugby club.

Jon stared at his knuckles, reasoning that he always played within the rules. And in his role as a police officer, he only used the required level of force. He lit another cigarette and wondered how true that was. Did he get away with using violence in his job just because he was a police officer? What if he had failed the entry exam? Would he still be dealing out his form of justice to whoever crossed his path?

The air in the pub was making his eyes sore. After draining his pint, he tried to catch the barman's attention by waving a finger and watched with confusion as his entire hand flapped to and fro. He settled his bill and stood up, feet wide apart as he shrugged his jacket back on. Out on the street, car lights floated past, leaving trails in the air before him. He started walking, hand out at his side, hoping for a cab. But the thrill of catching Sly couldn't be ignored, and neither could the burst of sheer pleasure he felt when his fist connected with the man's head.

Finally he faced up to the thought he'd been hiding from all night. He'd wanted to carry on at that point. The man's hair was grasped in both of his hands and it was only Nikki crying out that had stopped him from…

He stumbled into a doorway and fumbled for his phone, needing contact with someone not connected with violence.

'Hi there,' he said, confident he'd got the words out clearly.

'Bloody hell, how many have you had?' Alice replied.

'A few. I mean, a few too many,' he corrected himself.

'Where are you?'

Unsure, Jon looked around. 'Near the nick.'

'You sound tired as well as pissed.'

'I feel like shit, but I think we're close to cracking it.'

'I hope so. It's in all the news, Jon. It sounds horrible.'

Jon's head hung a bit lower. 'Don't believe all the details, Ali. Half of it's made up.'

'Is it true they were all posing for nude photographs? The paper said one victim had got an advert in some seedy contact magazine.'

Jon couldn't believe how details like that got out; some bastard on the investigation had sold that snippet of information for the price of a family holiday. Now the families of all the victims were suffering.

'No. We think one of them was. Anyway, how are you?'

'So so,' Alice answered. 'To be honest, I can't get away from the case. It's all everyone wants to talk about — the salon, my tae kwon do class, everywhere I go.'

'Well, let's hope something more worthwhile crops up and takes the pressure off.'

'You're right,' said Alice. 'Oh, I forgot to ask. What happened at Tom's office? Did you speak to that guy who works late?'

Jon closed his eyes, 'No, it was shut. Boarded up like it had gone out of business.'

'So he has lost his job.'

He couldn't face getting in to the Tom thing again. 'Not necessarily. Who knows what happened? Listen Ali, I'm sure everything is fine with Tom. In fact, I bet I'll get a postcard from him one of these days. It'll say he's got his cafe in Cornwall and he's given up on phones, mobiles and e-mail.'