Killing the Beasts

Chapter 1

30 October 2002

Jon Spicer was driving back to the station when he heard the Community Support Officer's call for help on his police radio. The CSO said he was outside a house in which a corpse had just been discovered. He said the dead girl's mother was still inside, refusing to leave her daughter's body. He went on to explain to the operator that his patrol partner was in the kitchen, trying to comfort her. His voice was high and panicky.

When the address in Berrybridge Road was read out Jon realized he was just a few streets away. Telling the operator he would attend the scene, Jon turned off the main road, cut down a side street and pulled up outside the house.

As he got out of his car and straightened his tie, the sight of a very young and nervous-looking officer confronted him. The officer was trying to reason with an irate woman, who stood with one hand rocking a buggy, stout legs planted firmly apart. As the officer repeated that she wasn't allowed past, the red-faced toddler in the buggy leaned back, shut its eyes and started to bawl.

'You can't stop me getting in my own sodding house,' the woman said, holding another chocolate button in front of the angry infant's face. 'The kid wants his lunch — you can hear, can't you?' In an attempt to keep the cold autumnal breeze off him, she began tucking the tattered blanket around his legs, 'It's all right, Liam.'

Crafty little shit, thought Jon Spicer, noticing how he immediately stopped crying when the button appeared. If his eyes were shut in genuine distress, he wouldn't have known the button was there. Jon had accepted long ago that deviousness was as much a part of human make-up as kindness or joy. What always amazed him was how early people appeared to learn the process of manipulation.

'Sorry madam, we won't be much longer,' Jon intervened, a placatory tone in his voice. Hoping that, if he and Alice had the baby they were trying for, it didn't turn out like that one, he guided the CSO out of earshot. 'Hello. My name's Jon Spicer.'

The young officer glanced at Jon's warrant card, saw his rank, and replied, 'CSO Whyte and I'm glad to see you, sir.'

'You said on the radio that you heard wailing noises from inside the house. Then what?'

He took out his notebook as if in court. 'Yes, that was at 9.55 a. m. We proceeded up the driveway to the front door, which we found to be ajar. On receiving no response from the person in distress within the property, we proceeded inside and found a middle-aged woman sitting on the floor of the living room hugging a deceased woman of around twenty. My patrol partner, CSO Payne, entered the room and crouched down to check for a pulse. At that point she noticed thick white matter at the back of the deceased woman's mouth.' He looked up and breaking from his notes, said, 'It was hanging open you see, though I didn't catch sight of it myself. When we separated the mother from the body, the dead girl's head lay back on the carpet and I couldn't see in.'

Jon nodded. 'So you called for assistance. And no one has been in there except you and your patrol partner?'

'Yes, that's correct, sir.'

'And this woman has confirmed the deceased is her daughter and that her daughter lives in the house?'

'Yes.'

'And no one else lives there?'

'That's correct.'

'OK, good work. Well done.'

A smile broke out momentarily across the young man's face. Then, remembering the gravity of the situation, he reorganized his features into an expression of appropriate seriousness.

The toddler started its bawling once again. His mum gave in and shoved the entire packet of chocolate buttons into his hands. The crying immediately stopped and Jon thought: another victory to the little people. 'So, we've just got to keep Lucifer and his mum, Mrs Beelzebub, at bay for a bit longer,' he murmured, turning back to the woman.

'OK madam. I'm afraid, because you share a driveway with your neighbour's house — and she's died in what could be suspicious circumstances — I'm having to declare the driveway and front gardens a designated crime scene. Have you a friend you could stay with just while we search this area in front of the house?'

'Pissing hell,' said the woman, pulling a mobile from the pocket of her padded jacket and dialling a number. 'Janine? It's me, Sue. That little blonde ravehead next door won't be keeping me awake with any more loud music. She's turned up dead and the police won't let me up the driveway and into my own frigging house. Can I come round for a cuppa and to give our Liam his lunch? Cheers.'

'Thanks very much, madam,' Jon said, making a mental note of the ravehead description. 'If I can have your number we'll call as soon as access is possible.'

He jotted it down and she trundled moodily off up the road, the buggy's wheels picking up bits of sodden brown leaves littering the street.

'Right,' said Jon, looking at the house. 'Have you checked the rest of the property?'

'No,' said CSO Whyte, looking alarmed that he'd failed in his duty.

'That's fine,' said Jon. But, having been caught by surprise on a recent murder investigation when the offender had still been hiding in the upstairs of the house, Jon was taking no chances. 'What's your patrol partner's name again?'

'CSO Margaret Payne. She's comforting the girl's mother in the kitchen.'

Jon trod carefully across the patchy lawn, eyes on the driveway for any suspicious objects. When he reached the front doorstep he called over his shoulder, 'CSO Whyte, only people with direct permission from me are allowed past, understood?'

'Yes sir,' he replied, checking down the street as if there was a danger of being charged by a curious crowd.

Pushing from his mind the information he had been given by the officer, Jon turned his attention to the front door. He saw that there were no signs of a forced entry. He stepped into the hallway, keeping his feet as close to the skirting board as possible. Immediately he was struck by an odd smell — sharp and slightly fruity. For some reason he was reminded of DIY superstores. As he made his way along the hall he examined the carpet for anything unusual. Reaching the doorway to the front room he glanced in. The body of a young white female with bleached spiky hair lay partially on its side by the coffee table. Her pale pink dressing gown was crumpled up around her legs and had partly fallen open at the front, revealing her left breast. He didn't know if it was the lack of obvious injuries, but she didn't look like she was dead. Unconscious perhaps, but not dead.

He carried on into the kitchen where CSO Payne was sitting, holding the mother's hand across the table. Aware that a six-foot-four stranger with a beaten-up face suddenly stepping into the room could prove unsettling for both women, Jon gently coughed before quietly announcing, 'Hello, my name is Jon Spicer. I'm a detective with Greater Manchester Police.'

The woman lowered a damp handkerchief and looked up at him. Her face had that emptiness which shock and grief instils, but her eyes were alert. He felt them flickering over his face, settling for a second on the lump in the bridge of his nose, which had been broken in a rugby match.

'Could I ask your name, please?' he continued.

'Diane Mather,' she whispered, reaching out and taking a sip of tea from a mug with a snail on it.

'OK Diane,' said Jon, walking round the table and checking the back door. A bolt was slid across the top and a key was in the lock. 'Has anyone touched this door?' he asked them both.

CSO Payne answered no and he looked at Diane, who also shook her head.

'And have you been in any other parts of the house apart from the hallway, here and the front room?'

'No.' Now she was watching him a little more closely.

Jon walked from the kitchen. Carefully he climbed the stairs, pausing when his head was level with the landing to check where the doors were. The first led into a little bathroom: no one behind the shower curtain. The next was the spare room, only just big enough for a clothes horse that was adorned with vest tops, socks and knickers. The final room was the main bedroom, fairly tidy except for the middle drawer of the chest in the corner. It hung half open, and a few photo albums and booklets lay haphazardly on the corner of the bed, as if dumped there in a hurry. Jon checked under the bed and in the wardrobe. Satisfied no one else was in the house, he walked over to the bedside table and looked in the ashtray. Amongst the Marlboro Light cigarette butts were a few crumpled bits of foil, dried brown crusts on one side. A plastic tube lay next to the small alarm clock.

Jon shook his head. From his earliest days as a uniformed officer, he had watched as more and more drugs crept into Manchester. Now, along with the alcohol riots on Friday and Saturday nights, they were dealing with the devastating effects that crack, heroin, speed and God knew what else were having on people's lives.

At the window he looked down to the road below and saw the CSOs' supervisor had arrived. He went back down the stairs and headed outside.

'Sergeant Evans,' the older man said, shaking Jon's hand over the police tape now cordoning off the driveway and front garden.

'DI Spicer, MISU. I was just passing when I heard the radio call.'

The sergeant nodded. 'So, we have a body inside?'

'Yup,' Jon replied. 'Apparently her throat is blocked with a load of white stuff. 'Jon looked at CSO Whyte. 'Could it not have been saliva? An allergic reaction or something?'

The officer looked at him as if he had asked a rhetorical question and was about to supply the answer.

Sergeant Evans then dropped a question into the silence. 'When CSO Payne checked for a pulse, did she say how cold the body felt?'

CSO Whyte thought for a second. 'No. She was trying to get the mother away from the body when she spotted the white stuff…' Abruptly, he stopped talking.

'What?' Jon prompted.

The officer stumbled slightly with his words. 'She didn't actually check for a pulse. But the mum — she kept on saying,“She's dead. She's dead.” So we just sort of assumed-'

'Jesus Christ,' said Jon. He went to his car, grabbed a pair of latex gloves from inside and hurried back into the house. In the hallway he spotted a pile of women's magazines by the telephone. One by one he laid them across the living room floor, creating a series of stepping stones that enabled him to get to the girl without treading on the carpet.

As he got closer to her, he noticed that the strange smell was getting stronger. As he'd noted before, the dressing gown was crumpled, but he couldn't tell whether she had been assaulted, dragged there or the disturbance to her clothing was from where her mother had been hugging her.

He crouched down and checked for a pulse. The skin was cold to the touch. He let out a sigh, then examined the rest of her more closely.

No defence wounds to her forearms or hands, no obvious sign of any injury at all. He leaned in for a closer look at her fingers. Apart from being bluish in colour, the nails were fine — no debris under them or damage caused by a struggle.

Next he looked at her face. Her eyes were shut, a few small red dots around them. Mouth slightly open, lips also a faint blue. No blood, saliva or vomit on her lips. No bruising to her throat. Getting up he made his way back across the magazines and into the kitchen. 'CSO Payne,' he said, pointing to her utility belt, 'could I borrow your torch please?'

In the front room he switched it on and directed the beam into the girl's mouth. Peering in, he saw the back of her throat was completely clogged with something white and viscous. The substance had completely blocked her airways. Death by suffocation? Some sort of lung purge or bizarre vomit?

He bent forward so his head was just above the carpet. Holding the torch to one side he swept the beam backwards and forwards across the floor, looking to see if the light picked out any tiny fragments lying on the carpet. Nothing apart from fragments of cigarette ash and an old chewing gum wrapper. Standing up, he noted the bin in the corner was full of crushed cans, empty cigarette packets, bits of cigarette paper and other pieces of rubbish. Next to it were a couple of empty three-litre cider bottles.

Back in the kitchen he sat down and quietly asked the mother, 'Do you know what time it was when you discovered your daughter?'

'About quarter to ten,' she replied shakily, stubbing a cigarette out in the full ashtray.

'And you found her in the front room?'

She nodded once.

'On the floor?'

'Yes, lying on her back with her arms out by her sides.'

'How did you get into the house?' 'I have a key. We were going shopping together in town.'

'Was the door locked when you arrived?'

Another nod.

Keeping eye contact, Jon continued, 'OK, Mrs Mather, it's best you go now and let us take over. Margaret here will accompany you down to the station. We'll need to take a statement. Is that OK with you?'

'Yes.' Then she whispered beseechingly, 'What happened to my little girl?'

'We'll find out, Mrs Mather. We'll find out,' Jon said, a note of firmness now in his voice.

As they stood CSO Payne asked, 'Can we call anyone to meet you at the station?'

She shook her head and Jon wondered if it was an unwillingness to share with anyone else what had happened to her daughter.

He led the way back towards the front door, CSO Payne with her arm round the mother's shoulder. He paused in the doorway to the living room, subtly trying to discourage any further contact. 'We'll be as fast as we can, Mrs Mather. You'll have your daughter back as quickly as possible.' No mention of the coming autopsy, the gutting of her corpse, the sifting-through of her stomach contents.

At the front step he instructed CSO Payne to keep to the grass. Once the two women were back on the street he called out to the young policewoman, 'Oh, your torch. I've left it in the kitchen.'

She walked back across the grass and into the house. Jon was waiting for her. 'Did you touch anything in here?' he asked, handing it back to her.

'I don't think so. We got the mum out of the front room as quickly as we could. I brought her in here and made her a cup of tea…' She pointed to the draining board at the side of the sink.

Jon saw that she wasn't pointing at the sink full of dirty cups and glasses. 'Where did you find the mug?'

'Just there sir, washed up on the draining board. Next to that other one.'

'Washed up? You mean still wet?'

'Yes, I dried it with the tea towel.'

Jon ran his fingers through his cropped brown hair in a gesture of disappointment. 'Go on.'

Aware that she was now being questioned, the officer went on more carefully. 'She smoked three or four cigarettes. Stubbed them out in the ashtray on the table.'

'Yeah, they were Lambert amp; Butler.' Jon looked into the ashtray and said almost to himself, 'The daughter smoked Marlboro Lights, I think. There's Silk Cut and Benson amp; Hedges in there, too.' The urge to light up suddenly hit him. He turned away from the ashtray and its stale smell that should have been so unpleasant. 'OK, get her to the station; we'll need her fingerprints, a DNA swab and samples from her clothes. Her fibres will be all over the body.'

'So it's definitely suspicious then, sir?' She sounded thrilled. 'I thought she might have had a heart attack or something.'

'Don't get too excited — you're in for a bollocking from your sergeant out there. You forgot to check for a pulse. But yeah, I'd say it looks dodgy. The neighbour described her as a ravehead and there are signs of her smoking heroin in the bedroom. And whatever that stuff is blocking her throat, it doesn't look or smell like puke to me.'

As soon as he was alone, Jon went back into the kitchen. Balanced on top of the soiled glasses and cups in the sink was a bowl and spoon, fragments of bran flakes clinging to the surfaces. If the cups and glasses were left over from the night before, and the bowl was from breakfast, why were there just two freshly washed up cups on the draining board? Had someone else been here that morning? Someone she had offered to make a drink for?

He pulled his phone out and called his base. 'Detective Chief Inspector McCloughlin, please. It's Detective Inspector Spicer.'

After a few moments his senior officer came on the line. 'DI Spicer, I hear you were the first plain clothes officer at the scene of a suspicious death. What have you got?'

'Young female, appears to have choked to death on something. We'll need a post-mortem to ascertain what. My guess is that, if we have a killer, he came in and went out by the front door. It appears the person was let in, so she probably knew them. There's certainly no signs of forced entry or any kind of struggle.'

'So you don't think the case will turn into a runner?'

'I doubt it. My guess is it will be the usual — a friend or family member. I think it should be fairly clear-cut.'

'Right, how do you want to play it?'

'Well, until we've established cause of death, there's no point panicking and calling the whole circus out. We need to photograph her and get a pathologist down to pronounce her, so we can get the body to Tameside General for an autopsy. The scene is preserved here, so I'll call in a crime scene manager to make sure it stays that way. Then, if cause of death turns out to be suspicious, we can start worrying about calling in a SOCOs and the full forensics rigmarole.'

'Sounds like a good way of playing it. Which other cases are you working on?'

'My main one is the gang hooking car keys through people's letterboxes.'

'Operation Fisherman?' asked McCloughlin. 'How many officers are assigned to it?'

'Seven, including me.'

There was a pause as McCloughlin mentally divided up manpower and caseloads.

Jon knew his senior officer was deciding whether to move him to the murder investigation. Before he could decide, Jon said, 'I'd really like to remain on Operation Fisherman, if only in a minor role, while this murder investigation is ongoing.'

'Your partner's still off with his back problem, isn't he?'

'Yeah,' Jon replied.

'Listen. It's time you led a murder investigation yourself. This one seems like it should be quite straightforward. I think it'll be a good one for you to cut your teeth on.'

'You're making me Senior Investigating Officer?'

'You've got it. Just keep me up to speed on everything.'

'And Operation Fisherman?'

'They can do without you while you get this one wrapped up.'

A mixture of excitement and disappointment ran through him. The gang stealing high-performance cars had taken up so much of his time over the last few months, but now he had his own murder case. 'Will do, boss,' Jon replied.

Next he called his base. 'Hello, Detective Inspector Jon Spicer here. We need a pathologist, a photographer and a CSM at Fifteen Berrybridge Road, Hyde. Who's available for scene management?'

'Nikki Kingston is on duty,' said the duty officer.

Jon immediately smiled — the case had just become a whole lot more attractive. 'Send her down please,' said Jon, flipping his phone shut and popping a stick of chewing gum in his mouth.

The pathologist and photographer arrived less than fifteen minutes later. While they were still clambering into their white suits, Nikki's car pulled up. She climbed out and went straight round to the boot, opened it up and put on a large red and black jacket that looked like it had been designed for scaling Everest in. As she walked over, the bulky garment only emphasized how petite she was and Jon found himself wanting to scoop her up and hug her.

Looking Jon up and down she said, 'You not freezing your nuts off in that suit?'

Jon grinned. 'Good to see you, Nikki.'

She was already looking at the house. 'So come on then: scores on the doors, please.'

'OK, the two CSOs over there are passing the house on a foot patrol when they hear a commotion inside. They go in to find what turns out to be the victim's mother in the front room hugging the body. One officer retires immediately to call for supervision; the other officer manages to get the mum away from the daughter and into the kitchen. I arrive, check over the rest of the property…'

Nikki interrupted, 'So you've been round the rest of the house?'

Jon nodded.

'OK,'said Nikki. 'I'll probably need a scraping from your suit for fibre analysis at some point.'

'No problem,' Jon replied. 'On realizing the body hadn't been checked for a pulse, I re-entered the house and, using a load of magazines for footplates, got to the body. Obviously she was dead.'

Nikki raised her eyebrows. 'Magazines for footplates? Nice bit of improvisation.'

Jon smiled briefly. 'One other thing. There's a cup on the draining board next to the sink and another on the kitchen table with a kiddy-style picture of a snail on it. They're worth bagging up as potential evidence — someone was drinking out of them recently. Problem is the CSO made a brew for the mum in the one with the snail on the side.'

Nikki shook her head. 'We'll be lucky to get anything off that.'

At that moment the ambulance pulled up, so Jon moved his car to allow it to reverse into the mouth of the driveway.

The pathologist and photographer approached the house, pausing on the front doorstep to put on white overshoes, caps and face masks. Laying rubber footplates out before him, the pathologist led the way inside. Almost immediately the front room was filled by white flashes as the photographer went about his work. Ten minutes later the pathologist reappeared in the doorway and beckoned the ambulance men in with the stretcher. Stepping carefully on the footplates, they disappeared into the property.

Nikki and Jon moved round the side of the vehicle, out of sight of the small crowd of onlookers who had now gathered.

'How's giving up going then?' asked Nikki, still looking towards the house.

He thrust his hands into his pockets as if to stop them scrabbling around for a cigarette. 'Doesn't get much easier. I haven't had one since before the Commonwealth Games though.'

'That's bloody good. How long is that — three months or so?'

'Yeah, about that. Did you find it a nightmare for this long?'

'Did? Still do. Though on fewer and fewer occasions. Pubs are the place to avoid for me. That and meetings about the divorce with my solicitor.'

'Your ex is still acting the prick then?'

'Oh yes, he's really honing that skill of his nowadays.'

Jon's lips tightened in sympathy and he said, 'Well, just thank God no kids are involved I suppose.'

Nikki let out an incredulous laugh. 'There's no way that's ever going to happen. I've seen too many friends go on Prozac immediately after they give birth. Motherhood? No bloody thank you. Anyway.' She clapped her hands together softly to end that part of the conversation. 'You're still using chewing gum. Is that to fight your cigarette cravings or to make sure your breath smells sweet for me?' Impishly, she glanced up at him.

Enjoying the game, Jon caught her eye then looked skywards, only to see Alice's face in the clouds above him. Quickly he looked down and said with a smile, 'In your dreams, Nikki — you know I'm way out of your league.'

'Cheeky bastard,' she laughed, and went to jab him in the ribs.

Jon caught her fist just as the ambulance men reappeared with the body, the pathologist following along behind. Clicking instantly back into professional mode, Nikki pulled her hand free and walked back round the ambulance. Once the body was safely inside, she got the ambulance men to sign their names in the log book for people who had entered the crime scene. Meanwhile Jon had stepped over to the pathologist. 'Any ideas?' He pulled off his face mask and started removing the white shoe covers. 'Well, I'd say death occurred due to suffocation. All the signs are there: bluish lips, ears and nails, petechiae — burst capillaries around the eyes and on the eyeballs themselves.'

'And the white stuff blocking her airway?'

'It's not any sort of secretion I've seen. I'd say she's had the stuff pumped down her throat somehow, but until I've seen in her lungs and stomach, I can't say for sure.'

'Can you start the autopsy?'

'Yes, that's fine. Of course, I'll hand over to the home office pathologist as soon as I can confirm it wasn't natural causes.'

'OK — can one of you call me as soon as you know?' said Jon, handing him a card.

He turned to Nikki. 'I need to get away and interview the mum. Can we completely seal the house until the autopsy result is confirmed? If it's suspicious you can arrange for forensics to come over.'

In a voice kept low so none of the onlookers could hear, she said, 'Tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm.'

Jon winked in reply and walked over to his car.

After a bit of persuasion Mrs Mather had accepted the fact that her fingerprints, a swab from the inside of her cheek for DNA testing and combings from her clothes for fibre analysis were needed. After that, she answered Jon's questions about her daughter, Polly.

Twenty-two years old, single, keen on music and clubbing, worked in the Virgin Megastore on Market Street. As was often the case with people hovering at the edge of an industry, she had ambitions for a more central role. In Polly's case she was lead vocalist of a band, The Soup.

The beer cans and full ashtrays in Polly's front room were the result of the band having been round at her house the night before. Because he had recently been her daughter's boyfriend, Mrs Mather had a phone number for the band's bass player, Phil Wainwright. She asserted that the split had been amicable — the result of Polly wanting to travel round the world while he wanted to concentrate on gigging and trying to find a record deal.

Shortly after Jon had arranged for a patrol car to take her home, his mobile went. It was the home office pathologist. The autopsy had been handed over to him because there were only small amounts of the white substance in the oesophagus and trachea, and none in the lungs or stomach. This meant it had definitely been introduced from the outside, probably while she was still alive. What was confusing the pathologist was how it could have got there. He explained to Jon that, for the cough reflex not to function, a person would have to be in a coma or under very heavy sedation. In his opinion this was the case — the substance had formed a neat plug at the back of the girl's throat with almost no evidence of her choking and spluttering. Therefore, with the victim unconscious at the time of the substance being introduced, a third party had to be involved.

'So we'll need a toxicology report then?'

'Yes. If she was subdued with a hospital anaesthetic — propofol or maybe sodium thiopentone — it should be present in her blood in the form of metabolites, but I haven't found any marks so far to suggest she's been injected. Of course, in order to find evidence of narcotics, a full toxicology analysis will be needed. We haven't got the necessary facilities here.'

'Right — can you prepare a blood sample for me? I'll get it sent down to the forensic science lab at Chepstow.'

Next he called DCI McCloughlin. 'Boss? It looks like murder.'

'OK, open an incident room. Ring round and see which stations have any rooms available and I'll start getting a team together for you.'

'Will do.'

After finding a room at the divisional headquarters in Ashton, Jon decided to give Phil Wainwright a ring. As soon as the phone was answered Jon could hear loud talking and music in the background. A second later a gruff voice said, 'Hello?' It was spoken loudly, as if the person was anticipating not being able to hear very well.

'Is that Phil Wainwright?'

'Yeah! Who's this?'

'Detective Inspector Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.'

'Oh, hang on.' The voice disappeared and Jon could hear only background noise until a door shutting caused it to suddenly grow fainter. 'Sorry, you caught me behind the bar. This is about Polly?'

Emotion made the last syllable wobble and Jon thought, he knows already. 'Yes.' 'I thought it would be. Her mum rang me an hour or so ago. You're going to question me, aren't you?'

'Not formally, no. But I need to talk with everyone who was at her house last night. Where are you now, Phil?'

'Peveril of the Peak. I'm a barman here.'

'Nice boozer. Any chance of chatting to you?'

'Well, the evening rush hasn't started yet, if you can get over here.'

'I'll see you in a bit.'

It was dusk as he crossed over the junction for the M60 ring road, a steady stream of cars gliding by beneath him. Following the signs for Aldwinian's Rugby Club, he entered Droylsden. The perfectly straight road stretched far off into the distance, regularly interspersed by traffic lights shining red, amber or green. Flanking each side of the road was an endless terrace of the chunky redbricked houses with grey lintels that made up so much of Manchester's Victorian estates.

Abruptly the built-up area came to an end and he emerged into the open space of Sportscity, Manchester City Football Club's new stadium dominating the facilities around it. Then he was past and the road dipped, only to start rising upwards to dark mills that loomed forlorn and empty, brickwork crumbling and broken windows gaping in silent howls. Reaching the crest of the slope he could see beyond them to where the lights of the city centre twinkled, Portland Tower and the CIS building clearly visible. Jon felt an itch of adrenaline as he looked at the city and contemplated all that was happening in its depths.

Dating from the mid 1800s and one of Manchester city centre's proper pubs, Peveril of the Peak was a strangely shaped wedge of a building. Clad in green glazed bricks and tucked away on a little triangular concrete island, it was closed in on all sides by towering office buildings and apartment blocks. Jon parked by some recently completed flats and slipped through the side door of the pub. The bar was in the centre, various rooms leading off to the sides. He looked round the smoke-filled interior, surprised by the lack of people: his mobile phone had made it sound like the place was packed. Instead just a few students and real-ale types were dotted about. Jon glanced over the three bar staff, eyes settling on a youngish man with about four days' stubble. He was dragging nervously on a cigarette and wearing a T-shirt from a Radiohead concert.

'Phil Wainwright?'

'Yeah,' he replied, grinding the cigarette out with a bit too much urgency. 'Fancy a drink? The Summer Lightning is a great pint.' His finger pointed to the tap marked 'Guest Beer'.

'Tempting, but no thanks,' said Jon. 'Is there a quiet room we could …?'

Phil lifted up a section of the wooden counter and stepped into the customers' side of the pub. 'This room's empty.'

They sat down on some ancient and battered chairs, the upholstery rubbed smooth through years of use. He pulled another cigarette out of a packet of Silk Cut and offered one to Jon.

Another show of hospitality. Another attempt to break down the occasion's formality. Slightly irritated, Jon waved it away and took out his notebook.

'So, how are you feeling?'

Flicking a lighter, Phil dragged hard on the cigarette. 'Pretty numb, actually.' Smoke crept from his lips by the second word.

Jon's eyes strayed to the tip of the lit cigarette and he reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum. 'Giving up,' he explained, unwrapping it and regretting the fact he had allowed Phil an angle into him as a person, not a police officer. Before the insight could be seized upon Jon continued, 'Now, you were round at Polly's last night? What time did everyone leave?'

'Just before midnight.'

Noting this down, Jon continued, 'And was anyone else there apart from the members of your band?'

'No, just us.'

'Did anyone stay the night?'

'No, we all left together. Ade walked back with Deggs — they share a flat. I went about halfway and turned off to go to my own place.'

'How did Polly seem to you last night?'

'Fine.' He paused and frowned. 'Although she's been up to something lately. She's had the odd call on her mobile that she's been really shifty about.'

Jon kept quiet to tease another comment out of him.

'Walking off to have conversations — it was really annoying. I assumed she had started seeing someone else.'

The silence began to stretch out as Phil examined the tip of his cigarette, so Jon said, 'She was due to be going out today with her mum to do a bit of shopping.'

'Yeah, she was looking forward to it. In fact, she hoofed us all out before midnight so she wouldn't be too rough this morning.'

'Did she mention that she was expecting any visitors before her mum?'

'No.'

'OK, what are Ade's and Deggs' full names?'

'Adrian Reeves and Simon Deggerton.'

'Telephone numbers and address?'

Phil pulled out a mobile and started pressing buttons. As he did so Jon suddenly dropped in, 'Why did you and Polly split up?' watching closely for the reaction.

Phil's finger hovered for a moment over a button as he lost his train of thought. 'Erm, we'd just drifted apart. God, that sounds a cliché, but we had. She was saving up to go backpacking round the world. I wasn't into it.'

'That's bad news I presume — to lose your lead vocalist?'

He looked up, a slightly wounded expression on his face. 'Yeah, but what could we do? It was her decision. You want those numbers?'

Jon noted them down and then drove back to Ashton police station. He removed his box from the car boot and headed up to the incident room on the top floor of the building — the usual soulless set-up of empty desks, blank monitors and silent phones. Putting the box on a corner desk, he got out his paper management system, desk tidy, stapler, hole punch and calculator then sat back in his chair and blew out a long breath.

The place would be a hive of activity first thing the next morning: office manager, receiver, allocator, indexer, typist, all arranging their stuff on the desks; plants and other personal effects appearing, the outside enquiry team milling around, waiting to be briefed. And him, in charge of it all.

He booted up the computer, entered his name and password, then went on to HOLMES — the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. The computer package was based on strictly designated roles and procedures in order that every large enquiry progressed in an ordered manner. It was established directly in the wake of the chaotic hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper, when it was discovered that he had been questioned on various occasions, but the paper reports had never been cross-matched.

Jon studied the search indexes, deciding whether to concentrate on any to steer the investigation in a particular direction. With the information he had at this stage, he decided the usual ones would suffice — family, friends, house by house enquiries and victim profile. He then created an additional one marked 'Narcotics/ sedatives'.

On impulse he went on to the Police National Computer's database and typed in all three band members' names.

Nothing showed up for Adrian Reeves or Simon Deggerton, but after he typed in Phil Wainwright the computer pinged up a result: two cautions for possession of cannabis, the second one accompanied by an order to attend a drugs rehabilitation course.

It was almost nine thirty by the time he got home. The front door clicked shut behind him, provoking the usual Pavlovian reaction from the kitchen. Paws scrabbled excitedly on the lino floor and an instant later the crumpled face of his boxer dog appeared round the corner, eyebrows hopefully raised.

Jon slapped his hands against his thighs and crouched down. 'Come here, you stupid boy!'

The dog let out a snort of delight through its squashed nose and bounded towards the front door. Jon caught it by its front legs and twisted it onto the faded carpet. Grabbing it by its jowls, he planted a big kiss on its grinning mouth, then released the animal and stood up. Instantly it regained its feet, stumpy tail wagging so violently its entire back half shook.

By now Alice was standing in the doorway to the telly room, arms folded and a smile on her face. 'Nice to see you getting your priorities right,' she said, nodding down at the dog. 'You're late back — you've missed rugby training again.' Jon let his shoulders drop. 'New case,' he said, walking towards his partner and bending forward to kiss her. 'Not after you've just snogged that ugly hound,' she said, raising her arms and shying away from his puckered lips. 'Go and wash your mouth out first.' 'Did you hear that, Punch?' he asked the dog, feigning outrage. 'You're ugly and Daddy gets no kiss!'

From the corner of his eye he saw that she had lowered her arms. Suddenly he dipped to the side, then straightened his legs so his face burrowed upward to her throat.

Instinctively she pressed her chin down to her sternum to protect her windpipe. Giggling through clenched teeth, she said in a contracted voice, 'Get off!' A foot snaked round the back of his right ankle.

Not fully aware whether it was a playfight or not, Punch had started up a half-anxious, half-delighted barking. Jon felt Alice's forearm forcing its way across his chest, and realized she was manoeuvring towards one of her tae kwon do throws. He broke the embrace, stepping away from her and laughing breathlessly. 'I'll have none of your martial arts high jinks in my house.'

Her feet now planted firmly apart, Alice flexed her knees and held up the back of one hand to Jon. The tips of her fingers flexed inwards once and she whispered with Hollywood menace, 'Come and try it, motherfucker.'

His eyes flicked over her combat stance and he took another step back, realizing that he'd think twice about taking on someone like that in a real life situation. 'Later,' he smiled, then looked towards the kitchen door and sniffed, signalling that the fooling around was over. 'Something smells good.'

'Shepherd's pie, 'Alice answered, relaxing her posture. 'With salad in the fridge.'

'Ah, nice one, Ali, 'Jon answered with genuine appreciation. 'Do you mind if I go for a quick r-u-n first?' Having missed rugby training, he was twitching for some exercise.

'Course not; I ate mine hours ago.'

Jon looked down at the dog. 'Fancy a run?'

At the word 'run' the dog let out a moan of delight and padded towards the front door, eyes fixed on his lead hanging from the coat peg.

'How was your day?' he asked as he began climbing the stairs. 'Tell me as I'm getting changed.'

'I was late for work again. The stupid train into Piccadilly was cancelled.' She followed him up to the spare room, stepping over the weights stacked on the floor and sitting down on the gym bench in the corner. Jon was standing at an open wicker unit, pulling his running gear from the assorted items of sports kit piled up on its shelves. Quickly he removed his shoes and socks, hung up his suit and returned his tie to a coat hanger that had another half dozen threaded through it.

As he began unbuttoning his shirt, Alice said, while innocently examining the nails on one hand, 'Actually Melvyn introduced a new beauty regime to the salon today.'

Clocking her tone, Jon replied guardedly, 'Go on, what's he up to now?'

He dropped his boxer shorts to the floor and bent forward to pick up the neoprene cycling shorts he wore under his cut-off tracksuit bottoms when running. He glanced up and caught her looking meaningfully at his arse.

'It's waxing for men. “Backs, cracks and sacks”, Melvyn's calling it.'

Jon digested the information for a second, then looked at her. 'You're not ripping the hair off other men's bollocks?'

She gave him a provocative little grin.

'Oh, sweet mother of God, tell me it isn't true,' he groaned, holding his head in his hands and pretending to cry. 'If this gets out I'm a dead man.' He looked at her again for confirmation that she was having him on.

Alice held his glance for a second longer, then suddenly smiled. 'Why, got a problem with that?'

'Backs I can understand. Cracks maybe at a push — but sacks? Oh, Jesus.'

'Don't worry. It's going to be Melvyn's special treatment; he's already drooling at the prospect.' She grimaced. 'Can you imagine it? First booking on a Monday morning, pulling some bloke's knackers to the side and…' She yanked sharply at the air while making a ripping noise at the back of her throat.

'Don't,' Jon winced. 'It's making me feel ill. What is the world coming to? Backs, cracks and bloody sacks.' He shook his head in disbelief.

'You'd be surprised at the demand for it. And not just gay guys, as you're probably imagining. Besides, you've never objected to me doing other women's bikini lines.'

'Well, that's different, isn't it?' answered Jon, voice suddenly brighter. 'Why, any recent ones to tell me about?'

'Sad,' she replied, as Jon pulled on a running top with reflective panels at the front and back. Downstairs he clicked the lead on his dog's collar.

'Punch, if you ever catch her creeping up behind you with a waxy strip in her hands, run for the bloody hills.'

He could still hear her laughing as he slammed the door shut.

The cold night air hit him as he ran along Shawbrook Road to Heaton Moor Golf Course. After cutting on to the grass, he kept to the perimeter, making his way round to the playing fields of Heaton School where he could do some sprints up and down the dark and empty football pitches. Rounding the corner of the school buildings, he saw a group of young lads sitting on a low brick wall, the scent of spliff hanging in the air. Having chosen to ignore them, Jon was jogging past when one of them let out a low wolf whistle. A burst of raucous laughter broke out. Jon carried on and another cocky voice said, 'I hate fucking boxer dogs.'

Jon slowed up, turned round and jogged back, Punch's claws tick-tacking on the concrete as they approached. Jon surveyed them for a second, then narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a whisper. 'My dog don't like people laughing. He gets the crazy idea you're laughing at him. Now, if you apologise like I know you're going to, I might convince him that you really didn't mean it.'

From the blank silence he knew they didn't have a clue what he was on about — and certainly no idea which film he was quoting from. 'I thought you lot looked too thick to be anywhere near a school.'

Now aware he was having a go at them, they looked uncertainly at each other, wondering who would be first to speak. Jon switched to bullshit mode. 'I'm doing two circuits of these fields. Next time I pass this point I'll have my warrant card on me. If you're still here, I'll lift you.'

'You a policeman?' one asked, eyes now wide.

'That's right. And I've got better things to be doing with my free time than nicking little twats like you. But I will, if you make me.'

They started getting to their feet, joint now hidden up a coat sleeve. Without another word Jon turned away and resumed his run.

Back home, he showered and pulled on an old rugby shirt and tracksuit bottoms. After retrieving his supper from the oven, he sat down on the sofa. Punch was already stretched out in front of the gas fire, one brown eye tracking Jon's every move.

'What's this?' he asked, looking at the telly.

'I don't know,' Alice answered sleepily, moving across the sofa to rest her head on his leg. Holding the plate below his chin to stop any bits falling into her hair, he began shovelling great forkfuls of food into his mouth.

After a few seconds he felt her jaw moving as she began to chew. He glanced at the table. Next to a jar of folic acid pills was an open packet of nicotine gum. 'You fighting an urge?' he asked quietly.

'Mmmmm,' she replied without moving. 'It came on just after you went out. First one since lunch, though.'

'That's great; well done babe,' he answered, thinking how close he'd come to sneaking a cigarette earlier that day. 'By the way, this new case I'm on… it's a murder investigation and McCloughlin's made me SIO.'

Alice sat up. 'That's brilliant! Why didn't you tell me before?'

Jon scratched his head. 'I was mulling it over, I suppose.'

'Why? Surely you think it's good news?'

He gave a half smile. 'It is and it isn't. It means I'm being taken off the car thief case.'

'Jon!' said Alice, holding both palms up as if weighing two objects. 'A gang of scrotes nicking cars.' She lowered one hand a couple of inches. 'And SIO on a murder case.' She dropped her other hand so it banged against the sofa. 'Come on.'

Jon nodded. 'I know.'

She settled back into the crook of his arm, head against his chest. 'That's the problem with you. You get your teeth into something and you can't let it go. What's this new case, then?'

Jon leaned over the arm of the sofa and placed the empty plate on the floor. He noticed a strand of saliva set off on a vertical journey from Punch's lower lip and make it to the carpet without breaking. 'A young woman, twenty-two, lived over in Hyde. Someone choked her to death.'

'That's so sad,' Alice murmured. Jon knew she'd be curious to learn more, but she understood that he hated bringing the details of his cases into their home. 'By the way, I heard a bit of gossip in the salon today. That guy you used to play rugby with for Stockport. Married a blonde girl called Charlotte.'

'Tom Benwell?'

'That's him. Have you seen him recently?'

'No. I had two tickets for us to see the rugby sevens at the Commonwealth Games. But he didn't show up. I ended up giving it to a Kiwi then had to sit next to him and watch as his team demolished everyone.'

'That was three months ago, Jon,' said Alice, cutting in as he was about to start giving a blow-by-blow account of each match.

'Yeah, you're right.' He realized how time had flown by. 'But I tried ringing his mobile a few times. There was never any answer and eventually the line went dead. He must have changed networks.'

'Well, one of the ladies who comes in to get her legs waxed trains at the same gym as that little bimbo he married. She thought Charlotte had walked out on him. Something about him losing his job.'

'Really?'

'Apparently he turned up at the gym searching for her one time. She said he looked a complete wreck.'

'Fuck,' said Jon, feeling guilty. 'We went for a beer once and he told me how he was getting out of the rat race. Said he was selling up and moving to Cornwall, starting a beach cafe or something. I just assumed he'd done it and would ring me when he got the chance.'

'I think you should at least go round and see him, especially after what happened a few years ago.'

'What?' said Jon.

'What,' repeated Alice, rolling her eyes. 'When he got ill, remember? Missed half the season at Stockport?'

Jon frowned. 'That was just some stress thing, wasn't it?'

Alice shook her head. 'Men. What is it with your inability to discuss health problems? According to the gossiping girlfriends at the rugby club, he had a complete breakdown — ended up on the psychiatric wing at Stepping Hill Hospital for two months.'

'Really? He never told me it was that bad.'

'Did you ever ask him?'

'No.'

'Exactly,' said Alice, point made. Jon sat staring at the TV screen, but uneasiness was now nagging at the back of his mind. He unwrapped his arm from Alice's shoulders.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

'Calling him.'

He got up and retrieved his mobile from the hall. He dialled Tom's mobile but got the same continuous tone as the last time he'd tried. Scrolling to his phonebook's next entry, he rang Tom's home number. The line was also dead. 'Sounds like both numbers have been disconnected. When did that customer say she'd seen him?'

'About a month ago, I think.'

Worried now, Jon shoved the mobile into his trouser pocket and began pacing back and forth. Punch raised his eyebrows to watch him. 'I'll pop round to his house. It's only five minutes in the car,' Jon announced, looking at Alice for confirmation.

She glanced at the clock on the video. 'At ten forty?'

'I won't start hammering at his door. Just check the house over, see if it's up for sale or if any lights are on.'

Jon pulled out of his side street. Soon he crossed Kingsway, a main road leading into the city centre, and headed towards Didsbury. A few turns later and he was on Moorfield Road. He pulled up outside number sixteen and looked at the house. It was dark and deserted, every light turned off.

He got out of the car and glanced around for an estate agent's sign telling him the property was up for sale. Nothing. Walking up the driveway, he noted the absence of any vehicle, then crouched down at the front door. As he lifted the flap of the letterbox up, he prepared himself for the buzz of flies and stench of rotting flesh. Pitch blackness greeted him, the temperature inside the house no warmer than the night air outside.

He walked across the lawn to the front window. The main curtains weren't drawn and a chink in the net curtains allowed a strip of light from the street into the room beyond. He saw bare floorboards and no sign of any furniture.

After plunging his hands into his pockets, he walked back down the drive. With each step the sense of being watched grew stronger. At the end of the drive he swivelled round, eyes going straight to the first-floor windows. For an instant he thought something pale shifted behind a dark pane of glass. But focusing on the window, all he could see was dim light from the street lamps reflected there.

Turning the mobile over and over in his pocket, Jon's mind went back to the start of the summer.