Killing the Beasts

Chapter 2

May 2002

Jon's mobile began to vibrate on the hard surface of his desk, angrily buzzing as if a giant wasp was trapped inside.

He dragged his eyes away from the latest statement. It was the usual story. The owner of the Porsche had gone to bed, enjoyed a good night's sleep, got up, had breakfast, gone to pick up the car keys from their customary place on the hallway table and discovered they weren't there. After searching his coat, briefcase and the kitchen, he presumed he had somehow left them in the car. He unlocked the front door and found his driveway was empty.

That was the sixteenth this month in the south Manchester area. Somewhere a load of thieving little scumbags were getting very wealthy.

He picked up his phone. 'Jon Spicer here.'

'Jon, it's Tom Benwell. Are you OK to talk?'

'Tom! Yeah, I'm just finishing off some paperwork. As usual. How are you?'

'Good. A bit busy preparing for the Games, but can't complain. How's things? Caught any bad guys lately?'

'Oh, you know. As fast as we catch them the courts let them out. Still, it keeps me busy.'

Tom chuckled. 'Listen, I've got tickets for the Cheshire Sevens this Sunday at Sale. Seats in the corporate box, free beer and sandwiches. You up for it?'

'Mate, you've just made typing out this witness statement far more enjoyable. What time?'

'Eleven fifteen at the main gates, if you like.'

'OK, I'll see you there. Thanks for the offer.'

*

Sunday morning and Jon joined a throng of people moving through the narrow residential roads towards Sale Rugby Club's ground. He caught snatches of the conversations going on around him, mostly about whether Sale would move into Manchester City's old stadium when the football club took over the Commonwealth Games stadium once the competition ended.

As the flow of people carried him towards the entrance, his eyes were drawn to the man casually leaning against one of the gateposts. Stepping across to him, Jon smiled. 'Thanks for the invite, mate. How are you?'

He looked down a good five inches into the other man's face and noticed the dark smudges under his friend's eyes.

Tom Benwell smiled crookedly and said, 'Hey — you know. Surviving. You're looking horribly fit as usual. Do you coppers do anything else but work out in the gym?'

'That and the odd crossword sat at our desks. How about you? Still having to take clients out to all the best restaurants round town?'

Tom accepted the riposte with a grin. 'Yeah, that and swanning around in my company car.'

'What are you driving nowadays?'

'Audi TT.'

Jon shook his head. 'Nice. 'Then the thought struck him. 'Don't leave the keys on that table in your front hall. I'm working on a case at the moment where some little scrotes are hooking them through letterboxes and nicking the car.'

'Seriously? What with? A fishing rod?'

'Lengths of garden cane with a hook on the end. A couple have been left in people's front gardens. Thing is, some insurers are claiming that, because the car has been opened up and driven off with the keys, they don't have to pay out. And high-performance vehicles like yours are what they're going for.'

'So there are even more luxury cars on housing estates round Liverpool then?' said Tom in a Scouse accent.

Jon laughed. 'No, we reckon these are being shipped straight out of the country. Probably ending up in Eastern Europe.'

'Cheers for the advice. 'Tom showed his company's season ticket to an attendant and led the way to the corporate hospitality suite. 'When was the last time we saw each other? Was it that European cup match back in February?' 'God, you're right. How crap is that? Alice still hasn't met…' John faltered,'. . your wife.'

'Charlotte, you dim twat, 'Tom answered for him.

Jon rolled his eyes in agreement. 'How's married life going, then?'

'Fine. Expensive, but fine,' answered Tom.

'Expensive? You haven't got a kid on the way, have you?'

Tom glanced over his shoulder, a strange expression on his face. 'Not that I know of. I'm talking about Charlotte. She blows money like nobody's business. 'He patted his Timberland jacket. 'You don't think I'd pick something like this, do you?'

Jon eyed the expensive-looking item, then glanced at the sleeve of his own battered leather jacket, which he'd found in a stall that smelt of joss sticks in Affleck's Palace years ago.

Tom had met Charlotte only the previous year and, much to everyone's surprise, they had flown out to Barbados and got married within weeks. Jon decided to put the subject on hold, at least until they'd had a few beers.

By now they were at the door to the hospitality suite. Tom showed their pass to another attendant and then stepped back. 'After you, mate.'

Jon bounded up the stairs two at a time. He looked back at the top only to see Tom halfway up. By the time he caught up, he was puffing slightly.

'Jesus, are you trying to make me feel unfit? This is the most exercise I've done for months.'

Playfully Jon cuffed him on the back of the head. 'You should never have given up playing. Fly halves like you don't need to make tackles — us flankers do all that kind of stuff for you.'

'You're saying you used to do all my tackling?' said Tom. 'As far as I can remember, you were too busy trying to get the opposition's fly half stretchered off to be doing any of my tackling.'

Jon grinned. 'Well, you fly halves. Serves you right for prancing round the pitch doing your poncey little side steps and shimmies.'

There was an awkward pause and Jon cursed himself. He should have remembered how sensitive Tom could be.

Regret hung on Tom's face. 'Not with the hours I work,' he murmured. 'Don't tell me — you're carrying on playing for Cheadle Ironsides next season?' 'Hope so,' answered Jon, now anxious not to make his friend feel bad. 'It's nowhere near the standard we used to play at for Stockport, but I turn out when I can.'

'For which team, you old bastard?' Voice now brighter. 'The veterans? When do you get to wear those purple “don't tackle me” shorts?' Tom shoved his mate aside with a smile.

Relieved Tom hadn't taken the comment to heart, Jon hissed, 'Piss off,' and kicked at Tom's heels as they headed for the bar.

The sevens tournament was played in the spirit of the season's final event. Looking down at the teams warming up on the touchlines, it was obvious plenty of players were still nursing hangovers from the previous night. When one threw up before running on to the pitch the crowd cheered with delight. During the matches themselves, all the teams avoided playing safe and kicking — instead the ball was run from everywhere with outrageously long passes and overly complicated moves being attempted. The play was great to watch, but the teams soon tired, even with each match only lasting fifteen minutes.

At one point a slimly built back tried to sell an unconvincing dummy to a forward running on a defensive angle across the pitch. The forward didn't buy it, aiming his charge at the ball carrier and not the man he was apparently passing to. The forward's shoulder caught the back full in the kidneys, doubling him over before sending him crashing to the turf.

A collective 'Oooohhhh' rose up from the crowd and Tom swivelled in his seat to punch Jon delightedly on the shoulder. 'Straight out of “Spicer the Slicer's” tackling manual!' he said. 'What a hit!'

Aware of several other spectators glancing over at Tom's comment, Jon modestly kept looking down at the match below. But the mention of his nickname when playing for Stockport hadn't gone unnoticed. Sure enough an elderly man wearing a tie approached.

'Jon Spicer? Rupert Horsely.'

Jon looked up, taking in the posh accent and Manchester Rugby Football Club badge on the man's blazer. With the faintest reluctance, he stood up to shake hands. 'Good to meet you.'

'Still playing, Jon?' the man asked in a blustery sort of way, a pint of bitter held against his paunch.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. 'Yeah, but just socially nowadays. Cheadle Ironsides.' 'Open side flanker?'

Jon nodded.

'First team?'

'Yup.'

The man stroked his moustache for a moment, then looked down at Tom. 'Saw this man taking apart more than a few players when he ran out for Stockport. Finest number seven outside the professional code I've ever seen play.'

Jon cringed as Tom raised his eyebrows to indicate he was impressed.

As the man turned away to rejoin his friends, he placed a hand on Jon's shoulder and murmured, 'You could have gone all the way in my opinion.'

He walked off without waiting for a reply and Jon sat back down awkwardly. Once the man was safely out of earshot, Tom leaned to one side and whispered from the corner of his mouth. 'I like that! Doesn't even bloody remember seeing me play. The old fart.'

As the afternoon wore on they kept up a disjointed conversation between bursts of action on the pitch. Once the final had been battled out by a pair of very weary teams, several pints had gone down and Jon could feel Tom relaxing.

'How's life in… what's the bit you're in again?' asked Tom.

'MISU. Major Incident Support Unit. Hard work and the hours can be shocking when we get a new case, but it couldn't be better, cheers.'

'When did you switch to them? Two months ago?'

'Nearly four.'

'God, that's gone fast. But you still count as a CID officer?'

'Yeah, it's a bit of a nightmare set-up. Basically, I work for Trafford division CID, but when a major incident occurs — usually a murder — I can be seconded into MISU to investigate it. All the CID divisions round Manchester contribute officers into MISU as and when they're needed. It's decided by some sort of extraction formula, but all the divisions moan about its fairness.' 'Don't tell me — they're paying a firm of consultants to come up with a better system?' 'No, we're just ripping off how they do it down in London.' 'Which is?' 'AMIT. Stands for Area Major Incident Unit, I think. A permanent collection of officers who are there solely to investigate big crimes. Except we won't call ours AMIT. Probably be FMIT — Force Major Incident Unit.'

Tom laughed. 'And I thought Manchester's advertising agencies' names were bad. JWT, BDH, MKP, MAP — I always get them mixed up. So you'll apply for this FMIT when it starts up?'

'Definitely. All the top people and all the best cases. It'll be tough getting in, though.'

'Not like MISU, where you get dumped with looking for car thieves?'

'Hey,' Jon answered, holding a forefinger up. 'Don't knock that case; they're stealing dozens of vehicles each month. Whoever is in that gang is making a lot of money. But that's just a single investigation. We have more than one to work on at a time.'

'So what else?'

Jon searched his mind for a case that he could talk about. 'Remember that woman who was found under the viaduct near Stockport last year?'

Tom nodded. 'Some barmaid who'd taken a battering?'

'That's the one. Her killer's just gone down for life and the team I was on caught him. Well, us and forensics.'

Tom stayed silent, looking expectantly at his friend.

'She had a particular type of gravel embedded in her face. Turned out to be part of a very small batch used to landscape a park in north Manchester. We searched the bushes around it and retrieved the brick she'd been bludgeoned with. Forensics got a DNA sample from some skin caught on a jagged bit at the unbloodied end. It matched a sample already on the national database. We lifted him — the landlord — from his pub about three hours later. His car had fibres and blood in the boot. He'd battered her in the park, then driven her across town and dumped her.'

'Nice one,' said Tom, visibly impressed.

'So how's work for you?'

Tom grimaced slightly and looked out of the window. 'It's all right. Pays a shedload but, to be honest, I'm getting a bit sick of it.'

'Why's that?' asked Jon, leaning forward.

Tom glanced at him before looking back out of the window. 'I don't know. Arse-kissing clients the whole time doesn't get any easier. Trying to get enthusiastic about their posters and promotions. You work in the industry a while and you begin to realize that all advertising campaigns are based on the same things.'

'Such as?'

Tom let out his breath as if bored. 'Yeah. Greed, sloth, envy, pride … I forget the rest.'

Jon was surprised. 'Those are the motives for most crimes. I hadn't realized they're the basis for most advertising too.'

'Not most — all. Take credit cards; that's greed. The ads are always along the lines of “Why wait? Get what you want right now with this card.” No mention about how you'll pay for it further down the line. Cars? That depends on the angle they work. Usually it's pride:“Drive this and people will admire you.” It's all about achieving the same at the end of the day — feeding the machine.'

Jon continued looking at him, unsure of what he meant.

'The economy,' Tom explained. 'People have to keep buying products. That's how it works. You can't have people keeping stuff or getting it repaired. You use it for a bit, then chuck it away and buy something new. That's what advertising is there to do: create demand, encourage you to keep on buying. Otherwise the whole capitalist machine would grind to a halt.'

'You think too deeply to be working in that industry.'

Suddenly Tom's eyes lit up. 'Want to know what I'm really thinking about?'

'Go on.'

'Getting out of it. It's all just a bit of a daydream at the moment, but I'm looking at buying a little business down in Cornwall. A cafe or some kind of shop.'

'Could you afford it?'

'Almost. If we sold my place in Didsbury and then added the company bonus I'm due, we could just about afford to buy a smaller place to live in and use the leftovers to purchase the business.'

'Bloody hell,' said Jon. 'I thought you loved city life.'

Tom tapped his fingers against his pint glass. 'More and more I'm happy just staying in. The odd meal out, yeah. But the clubs and bars…' He smiled briefly and leaned forward as if divulging a secret. 'I'm just feeling past it, mate. How old are you now?'

'Thirty-three.'

'A year older than me — you do nearly qualify for the veterans!' Jon laughed. 'I know what you mean. Apart from our local pub, me and Alice hardly go out. The last time we stumbled into a club it was full of teenagers. Or at least it seemed like it to me. But what about Charlotte? I thought she was a nightclubbing fiend.'

Tom nodded. 'She's full into it, just like I was at twenty-two. I daren't tell her that I'd prefer to stay in most nights and watch telly.'

Jon had hardly met his friend's wife, so he decided to ask a little more. 'Is she working at the moment?'

From the slight pursing of Tom's lips before he spoke, Jon guessed this was a bone of contention between them.

'She sometimes talks about going on a course at college, but I think she just likes floating around, doing her tennis and keep-fit stuff at the leisure centre. She certainly never wants to work as a receptionist again.'

Jon turned the information over in his head. Tom's choice in women always seemed based purely on looks, but there was no doubt Charlotte possessed a very shrewd side. The first time he'd met her, Jon had walked away from the occasion with one expression lodged firmly in his head: gold digger. He had given it about two months before Tom dumped her for someone else. So when Tom had rung to say they had got married on the spur of the moment in Barbados, Jon was amazed. There was no doubt in his mind that she had engineered it: there hadn't even been a stag night.

'Is it all right with you that she doesn't work?' Jon asked.

From countless police interviews, Jon could sense when someone wasn't being honest. Now he couldn't help applying this ability to his old team mate.

'Yeah, of course it is,' said Tom, brushing a knuckle across the tip of his nose. 'It's quite nice being the main earner, having her waiting for me when I get in from work. 'Then, changing the subject, he said, 'What about you and Alice? How long have you been together now? It must be time for marriage and a sprog soon.'

'Eleven years. And yes, it looks like that's on the cards.'

'Shit! You mean you're getting married? Or is she pregnant? Or both?' Tom pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Jon.

'No thanks — that's part of the deal. No marriage yet, but we're giving up smoking and starting to try for a kid. A general cleanliving caper.' He looked down at his pint and tilted it reflectively to the side. 'Apart from the odd ale, of course.'

'Jesus,' said Tom, lighting up. 'Feel ready for all that stuff, then?'

Jon took a long sip from his pint. He would have given a totally honest answer if he hadn't felt that Tom was holding back on his own description of married life. He would have admitted the whole prospect terrified him, admitted that he feared his entire life was about to be ruined. He might even have admitted that now he couldn't help looking at Nikki Kingston, the crime scene manager he casually flirted with, as a potential escape route if he turned out to be as big a failure at fatherhood as he feared. Instead he said, 'Ready as you can ever be, I suppose. It's about time. Alice is thirty two now and you know women — they start getting very aware of their biological clocks after thirty. You've got eight years to go with Charlotte.'

'Yeah, 'Tom faintly replied. Jon got the feeling it was a source of regret for his friend.

'Anyway,' said Jon, draining the last of his pint. 'What are we doing? Staying here for another or calling it a day?'

Tom looked down at the pitch. Most of the crowd had now gone and a group of kids tussled over a rugby ball beneath one set of posts while a couple of groundsmen trod back dislodged lumps of turf at the halfway line, their shadows stretching far out across the grass. 'Come on. Let's get a cab into town.'

'Yeah, why not?' Jon felt a sudden warm surge of pleasure at the prospect of a lazy Sunday evening spent getting drunk. He caved in to it and picked up his friend's pack of Silk Cut. 'Don't bloody tell Alice,' he mumbled, a cigarette bobbing between his lips.

Tom laughed and offered him a light.

Evening sun flooded through the windscreen as they waited for the lights to change. Drumming his fingers on his knee, Jon squinted up at the twenty-two-storey office block on his right. Its entire side had been coated in a vivid yellow and almost 250 feet above, three painted figures — one red, one blue, one green — stood with arms raised in triumph. Below them classically styled, twenty-foot-high lettering proudly proclaimed, 'Manchester 2002. The XVII Commonwealth Games.'

Jon's eyes slid halfway down the building to the enormous digital readout mounted on its side. The orange number glowing from the screen had dropped again.

'Eighty-one days to go. Can you believe it?' he said, looking up the four lanes of Portland Street towards Piccadilly Gardens. Suspended from each lamppost along the length of the street were vertical banners. Orange, purple, lime or turquoise, each one had the same three triumphant figures at the top and the words, 'The XVII Commonwealth Games' stretching below. They lent the street a celebratory air, the kind Jon imagined ancient Rome enjoyed prior to an event in the Colosseum. 'So come on then, talk me through what you actually do to deserve your flash car and big house in Didsbury.'

'Loads, actually,' Tom told him pompously. 'Big, big, highpowered stuff. Very complicated for the lay person to understand.' He grinned, dropping the act. 'Just sales, really. Ringing people up and persuading them to part with some cash. Only this time round I'm usually offering people money to take my product.'

In explanation, he swivelled round and pointed to the intersection behind them, 'See that derelict martial arts centre at the corner of Princess Street? I've just persuaded the owner to take a big payment from Cusson's so they can wrap it in a giant advertisement for their soap. That site is a monster — it'll probably need eighteen drops of material stitched together to cover it. Did you know Cusson's have also just confirmed their contribution to the sponsorship pot? It's now got over forty million in it.'

By now they were parallel with the Commonwealth Games visitor centre. Located in a recently built office, its plate glass windows were blanked out with poorly arranged sheets of white paper. Through the gaps, workmen could be seen hurriedly constructing the shop's interior.

Nodding towards it, the taxi driver joined in. 'I was driving one of the guys on the council's organizing committee the other day. He told me what the sales projections are for that outlet and the one at Sportcity once the Games start. What do you reckon, mate? How much merchandise are they planning to flog?'

Tom thought for a few moments. 'I don't know, twenty grand'sworth a day?'

The driver gave a little whistle and pointed a forefinger up at the ceiling of the car. 'Fifteen grand an hour. Fifteen thousand pounds each bloody hour. I tell you, there are fortunes to be made once this thing gets going. Absolute fortunes.'

Slowly the cab eased out of the block-shaped shadow cast by the seventies-style Piccadilly Hotel. As they passed over a set of tram rails, the space on their left opened up into the newly revamped Piccadilly Gardens. Jon thought back to when the area was nothing more than a sunken collection of flowerbeds that seemed to suck in rubbish and debris like a drain attracts water. When lunch hour arrived office workers, desperate for any sort of green surroundings in the city centre, used to make do with the patchy grass slopes. He reflected on how much time he'd spent as a fresh-faced constable moving on the bickering huddles of drunks from the lacerated benches that bordered the gardens. The statues that interspersed the area had greened over with age. Pigeons would nestle on Queen Victoria's head, staining her hair white with their shit.

Now, after a ten-million-pound facelift, the area was almost ready to reopen. Behind ten-feet-high perimeter panels displaying colourful snapshots of central Manchester, the sunken gardens had been filled in, the all-day drinkers moved on and the pigeons made perchless while the statues were taken away for cleaning. Expanses of freshly laid turf and multitudes of designer benches awaited the rush. At the far end, in front of the Burger King, clusters of newly planted saplings stood in a sea of pristine pavement. Square after square of Spanish limestone and slabs of grey York stone silently waited their first footfalls.

The car had now reached the turning for London Road, which led down to Piccadilly station, gateway to Manchester's city centre. Again the workmen had been busy, altering the road layout to incorporate a raised concrete area dotted with trees down its middle.

Tom pointed to a partially converted building on their left. 'That is going to be a Rossetti hotel. The scaffolding won't be down before the Games start, so I rang them and asked if they'd be interested in a nice building wrap to hide all their builders' hairy arses. Nastro Azzurro rang last week looking for a site, so I paired them up. You know how Italians like doing business with each other — the Godfather and all that.'

'And how much money are they paying for it?' asked Jon, examining the mass of scaffolding. 'Thousands.'

'And what sort of commission do you get on the deal?'

'Thousands,' repeated Tom, unable to help smiling.

Jon sat back in his seat and blew out his cheeks.

At the junction to the half-built station concourse Tom asked, 'You really want to drink in the Bull's Head?' He looked down the road to the pub.

'Yeah,' answered Jon. 'Why?'

Tom laughed. 'Nothing. It's just that we come all the way into town — Castlefield, Deansgate Locks, the Northern Quarter — and you choose an old boozer behind the station.'

Jon shrugged. 'I told you. Give me somewhere with decent beer, music that lets you talk and enough seats. It's not like we're out trying to pull, are we?'

Tom nodded. 'Tell you what, let's have a look at my office first. It's only round the corner in Ardwick.' He leaned forward to address the driver. 'That all right, mate?'

'You're the boss,' he replied. 'What's the address?'

'Seven, Ardwick Crescent.'

The car carried on through the lights, past the redeveloped rear of the station with its new taxi rank. Within seconds, they'd pulled up outside what had once been a cramped terrace of residential housing.

Above the front door of the house before them was a sign reading,' It's A Wrap'. The office was two old houses turned into one, the narrow alley between them sealed off with plated glass which arched backwards to form a curved atrium between the two buildings.

'This is where it all happens,' said Tom, looking up at the building and seeing the windows lit up on the first floor. 'I don't believe it; Creepy George is in.'

They flicked the driver a fiver each and climbed out.

'Who's Creepy George?'

Tom shook his head. 'Don't ask. Hopefully someone's just left the lights on and he's not there at all.'

He pulled out his keys and opened up the heavily reinforced front door. When the alarm didn't start up with its warning beeps Tom said over his shoulder, 'He's here.'

Jon followed him into a foyer that continued the theme of a modern office carved from an industrial town house. The walls were stripped back to the brickwork and an old mangle stood in the corner. Hessian sacks with the word 'cotton' were piled to the side of the brushed stainless steel desk.

Tom opened a side door that led into the main boardroom. He pulled open the pale yellow Smeg fridge in the corner, took out two bottles of Becks, popped the caps on the wall-mounted opener and handed one to Jon.

'You can just help yourself?' said Jon, surprised.

'As long as you don't take the piss.'

Jon stepped into the room, opened up the fridge and saw it was stacked full of bottles. 'Bloody hell! Why am I in the public sector? We even have to pay for our coffee and tea.'

Tom laughed. 'Come on, I'll show you my office.'

They proceeded through an archway that led into the flagstone alley. Beneath the protective glass panels, two giant rubber plants thrived. Stepping through into the adjoining building, Tom pointed towards a door marked 'Head Honcho'. He raised his hand to his forehead and made a dickhead gesture, then began climbing up the circular iron staircase that curled up to the first floor where former bedrooms had been knocked through to form a single, open-plan office. Inside five workstations had been crammed in for the account handlers. The corner alcove was entirely taken up by a fortress of monitors and computer equipment.

Tom stepped through the doorway and was about to wave a hand at his desk when a flurry of activity started up. Visible behind the barricade of equipment in the corner was a mass of black hair. Creepy George. Their sudden appearance had obviously taken him by surprise and he was scrabbling to close down whatever he had been viewing on his monitor.

'Evening, George. Keeping busy?' Tom asked, not stepping any closer to his colleague's work area.

'Mmm, yes. I…' Slowly Creepy George rose to his feet, the bushy hair connecting with an equally dense pair of sideburns. Framed in it all was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with particularly thick lenses. His eyes flashed darkly. 'Just tidying up some old files on the main server.' He reached for the front pocket of his thick khaki shirt and pulled out a Phillips screwdriver. Pointing it at the semi-disembowelled hard drive on his desk, wires and circuit boards exposed for everyone to see, he added, 'I need to fix Tris's

machine before Monday, too.'

He still hadn't looked at Jon.

'Oh right,' said Tom. 'Well, we're only popping in so my friend here can have a look round. Jon, this is George.'

'Hi,' said Jon, stepping forwards and holding a hand out over the monitors separating George from the rest of the room. A pair of magnified eyes blinked once, almost black irises giving him the stare of a corpse. Then a clammy palm was pressed briefly against Jon's hand, fingers barely flexing before contact was broken.

To Jon's surprise, a feeling that bordered on revulsion suddenly reared up inside him, instinctive and instantaneous.

Ten minutes later they were settling into two leather chairs in the snug surroundings of the Bull's Head. An early Van Morrison track was playing quietly from invisible speakers as Jon gulped a mouthful of beer and said, 'What's the score with that bloke in your office?'

'Creepy George?' said Tom, shrugging his shoulders. 'He was at the company long before I joined. One of those people who melt into the background whenever the occasional job has to be cut. I'm not really sure what his exact role is — I've heard him described as office manager; he's responsible for the computer system and in charge of getting the photocopiers and colour printers up and running again when they get jammed or run out of toner. Aside from that, he backs up all the files at the end of the day, orders new pieces of kit and upgrades equipment when it's needed. He chooses to work really strange hours — comes in late morning then works through far into the evenings, totally alone. If he's ever at his desk first thing in the morning, he's been there all night. Doing exactly what, I've no idea. No one has ever seen him eat anything other than family-size bags of Minstrels and he only drinks some type of purple squash from a bottle he brings in with him each day.'

'Well,' said Jon. 'He wasn't tidying up old computer files when we walked in on him. He couldn't get rid of whatever was on his computer screen fast enough.'

'That's the copper in you,' said Tom. 'I hadn't noticed. He was probably about to beat off to some teenage sex site.'

Or worse, Jon almost replied. Another pint later and Jon felt he could ask Tom about Charlotte again. 'So come on, mate. Cards on the table. How are you really finding married life?'

'What do you mean?' Tom answered, a tiny note of defensiveness in his voice.

Jon decided to lay out an admission of his own and see what it prompted. 'To be honest, the whole marriage thing makes me shit my pants.'

'What? But you're as good as married already! You've been with Alice for donkey's years.'

'Yeah, I know.' He looked at Tom's wedding band. 'But it's the formality of it all. I don't know, it makes me feel claustrophobic.'

'It doesn't change a thing, mate. I tell you what should make you feel really trapped — your shared mortgage with her. That's harder to get out of than any marriage.'

Jon smiled wryly in agreement. 'Until you have kids. Then you're really tied down.'

Again Tom sounded surprised. 'You're not a hundred per cent, then?'

Jon looked up at the ceiling and kicked his legs straight under the table. 'I don't know. It's the biggest step you can take. I just reckon I'll be crap at family stuff. I avoid holding babies like the plague.' He raised a large hand and stared at it, the knuckles peppered with scars and cuts from rugby studs. 'Tiny little things, just keeping you awake for months on end. I'd probably hate it. And there's my job — the hours I work. Nights and all that. It would really screw things up.'

'I'd love to start a family.'

Now Jon was stunned. 'You're serious?'

Tom's eyes dropped to his drink and when he spoke there was a melancholy note in his voice. 'Absolutely. Something's kind of shifted in me lately. It's all part of this plan to get out of the city and move to Cornwall.'

'You're getting broody.'

Tom smiled regretfully. 'I am. I admit it. But it's the last thing that Charlotte wants.'

Jon plucked a cigarette from Tom's pack and leaned forward a fraction. 'You've discussed it?' He touched a flame to its tip, listening to the tiny crackles as he took a deep drag. Tom shook his head. 'There's no need to. It couldn't be more obvious.'

'You know, when you two got married, it took me totally by surprise.'

Tom looked up. 'I know what you're thinking. Tom the shag monster.'

Jon laughed.

'But I tell you, the first time I saw her in the ad agency where she was the receptionist… fuck, my mouth filled up with saliva. I couldn't get my eyes off her body.' He stared into space. 'I went through the entire meeting on autopilot. As soon as it ended I was at the reception desk making up some bollocks reason to use their fax machine. Honestly Jon, if you gave me nude photos of every female film star and said put together your perfect woman, I couldn't do better than Charlotte.'

'And had you actually spoken to her by the time you'd decided that?'

Tom didn't even register the joke, and Jon groaned inwardly at how precarious the basis of their relationship must be. But then Nikki Kingston's face appeared in his mind. 'I know what you mean when the sight of someone just makes you go…' he snapped his fingers. 'There's this woman I work with sometimes. A crime scene manager. We flirt around a bit, but more and more I'm…' He shook his head.

Tom tapped a finger on the table. 'Don't even go there, Jon. What you've got with Alice — don't risk that for a quick shove.' He swept up their empties and returned a minute later with two fresh pints. 'You know what I really miss about rugby?' he announced, sitting down.

Jon acknowledged the switch in conversation by sitting up and grinding out his cigarette.

'The pain.'

Jon took a long sip and placed his pint on the table. 'Go on,' he said.

Tom slid a cigarette from the pack, picked up the lighter and put both elbows on the table. 'Thing is, the way the world has got today, it's too easy to forget what it's really like to be alive. You get up, go to work, sit at a desk, go home, sit down and watch TV, go to bed. Maybe you visit a gym once or twice a week. Our lives are so cocooned and predictable. I look at people and think we've become so safe, we're all half asleep. Trudging around our daily business, living in our artificial environment. Know what I mean?' he concluded, lighting up.

Jon remained silent for a second. 'That's what I like about getting pissed with you,' he suddenly said, affection flooding his voice. 'Football? Women? Films? Yeah, they're worth covering. But you always drop in some big psychological point.'

Tom grinned at him. 'But you still play,' he said. 'When I think of the adrenaline surge I used to get on the pitch … At the time you don't realize how immune you are to the knocks, the impacts, getting stamped all over in a ruck. You get so into the match you don't feel it until afterwards. And that pain is a reminder that you've been out there, that you're actually alive. If I went out and played tomorrow, the first tackle would have me hobbling. I've gone soft. And this life I lead has made me that way.'

Jon nodded. 'But you're talking about our lives which, comparatively speaking, are very safe and comfortable. Some parts of Manchester I work in — the run-down areas, the parts where people are trying to sell stuff like curtain rails in their local newsagent's window for two quid. Cushion covers. Old plates. Knives and forks. And those are the people trying to get by honestly. Then there's the scum and what they'll do for cash. Plenty of people experience pain in their daily lives thanks to them. Plenty of people are made aware that they're alive and reminded how shit being alive can be, thanks to them. It's a different world to ours and believe me, you don't want your world coming into contact with the one those scum live in.'

Tom breathed deeply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're right.' He glanced at his empty glass. 'Anyway, get them in.'

The next morning Tom found himself looking up at the massive yellow side of Portland Tower once again. Only this time he was a passenger in his boss's car.

Despite the exhaust fumes drifting through his open window, Ian took a satisfied breath in. 'Can you smell it in the air?' he said, waiting for Tom to ask him what he meant. Dutifully Tom turned his head and raised an eyebrow in question. 'Money, my friend. Filthy fucking money!' He growled with delight and pounded the heels of his hands on the top of the wheel, making the steering column judder.

The traffic began moving forward and he casually pressed 'play' on the dashboard CD. Though the action appeared to be spontaneous, Tom suspected it was a pre-planned move. Sure enough Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' started and his boss looked to the side. 'Don't you just love the smell of money in the mornings!'

Tom knew that barking out a GI-style 'Yo!' in reply would be the appropriate answer, but it was too early in the day to start putting on an act, papering over his true emotions with a veneer of enthusiasm. Instead all he could bring himself to do was smile, then sip at the small hole in the lid of his Starbucks coffee cup.

They battled their way to the top of Portland Street, then turned left into the traffic jam leading down to Piccadilly station. As they crawled along, Ian said, 'We need to get on to the owners of that derelict building on Great Ancoats Street, the big white one with the bushes growing out of its gutters.'

'Will do,' answered Tom, taking the lid off his cup, swirling round the dregs and draining the last of his latte. Fraction by fraction he succeeded in arousing something that resembled a professional interest, and as he did so his feelings of self-loss increased. He knew by the time they reached the office, the real Tom Benwell would have been fully replaced by a serious and eager executive for yet another day.

At last the car made it onto the emptier road beyond the lights, Tom glancing wistfully at the Bull's Head as they drove past. Soon they had parked outside It's A Wrap.

The driver's door of the Porsche Boxter swung open and Ian hauled his bulk onto the pavement. Holding his empty coffee cup, Tom climbed out, raised his arms above his head and gave his far thinner frame a good stretch. Then he followed his boss through the front door.

The woman behind the stainless steel desk said chirpily, 'Good morning,' and lifted up two piles of post.

'Morning Sarah,' replied Ian. Tom greeted her with a smile and nod of his head. They took their post and crossed the flagstone alleyway into the other half of the office. Ian walked towards the door marked 'Head Honcho' while Tom, with a heavy heart, started climbing the iron staircase to his office. 'So if you find out who owns that derelict building that would be great,' called out Ian as he opened his door.

Tom leaned over the stair railing, careful to sound keen, but not sycophantic. 'No problem — it will be perfect for any one of our sponsors.'

'Good work,' answered Ian, disappearing into his office.

Tom continued up to the top of the metal steps. As he stepped into the room, Creepy George was just sinking down behind his monitors and their eyes met for an instant. Waving hello to his more friendly colleagues, Tom lobbed his empty cup into the bin by his desk and heard the empty Becks bottles from the evening before clink together. Next he dropped his post into his tray, sat down and turned his computer on in one fluid motion.

Safely out of sight behind his monitor, he dropped his cheerful expression like a piece of litter. Raising a hand to his head he gripped his temples, head still pounding from last night. He'd got in at about ten o'clock, nicely drunk from the beer session with Jon. But then Charlotte had wanted to go out. A dab of speed later and he was up for it too, joining the other clubbers desperately in denial that the weekend was over. They hadn't got in until after two.

Hung over on a Monday morning. Not good at any age, much less at thirty-two, he thought while shifting round the contents of his top drawer looking for some paracetamol. And he had to get his Audi back from the garage and put a halt to these Monday morning drive-ins with his boss. What a way to start the week! No easing into the day with some Zero7 or Cafe Del Mar album gently washing over you. Instead it was stop-start all the way along Oxford Road with a continual stream of enthusiastic business talk battering his ear. Then a quick diversion through the city centre to check on the abandoned properties and half-finished developments that needed screening off for the Commonwealth Games.

He went to 'Favourites' on his screen and scrolled down to an entry that simply read 'Cornwall'. He clicked on it and the view from the web cam overlooking Fistral Bay filled his screen. The golden sand was almost deserted. There were just a couple of people walking their dogs, waves breaking nicely about forty metres out and the bobbing heads of half a dozen surfers visible in the swell beyond. Tom's shoulders sagged a little more and he let disillusionment flood his head like a wave rushing into a rock pool. Shutting his eyes, he imagined the life he was yearning for more and more. Striding along the beach at dawn with a Border collie or perhaps a long-haired Alsatian at his side, sucking in the clean air, feeling the sea spume fleck his face with microscopic drops, skin growing tight as the salt water dried.

He let the image hang in his head, savouring it like the delicious instant before a long-awaited sneeze.

Then a phone rang from the next workstation and the reality of his surroundings returned. With an effort he pushed the listless feelings back down and opened his eyes. The view of the beach still filled his screen. He stared at it for a second longer, then closed it down and reached for his post.

After shuffling paper round for as long as he could, he turned his attention to tracking down the owner of the derelict building on Great Ancoats Street. He could remember it used to have a religious message across its front, something about miracles happening every day. Obviously not where paying the rent on the building was concerned, he thought. A phone call to the Land Registry revealed that the Christian Mission had sold it on to a businessman, a Mr K Galwi. He dialled the man's phone number but got a 'number no longer available' message.

Tom clicked on Directory Enquiries and typed in the surname and initial. Forty-eight hits came up for the Greater Manchester area. He printed the list off, grabbed three cans of full-fat Coke from the fridge in the kitchen, then returned to his desk and picked up the phone. A succession of bewildered-sounding old ladies with broken English, dead phone lines and answer machines greeted most of his calls.

By 12.30 he'd had enough. His headache had been washed away and his sugar levels restored by the Coke, but now he was starving. Standing up, he glanced round the room, noticing how flat the atmosphere was. Everyone's head was bowed as they settled down for another week on the meaningless hamster wheel that was work. Knowing that it was weak of him to keep relying on his company credit card to bolster morale, he stood up and asked the room if anyone wanted a sandwich from town — he was doing a run to First Taste. As he expected, there was a flurry of activity, Ges being the first to order. While he went through his routine of being undecided about what to choose, his free hand had crept across his desk and on to his considerable paunch. Tom scribbled down, 'Ges — Indian starter selection with chutneys, club sandwich, dessert (strawberry cheesecake).'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Ges. 'The Indian starter selection with chutneys and a club sandwich, I suppose.'

Tom pretended to write it down, then Ges added, almost as an afterthought, 'And the lemon and lime cheesecake.'

Tom crossed out 'strawberry' and scrawled 'L amp;L' above it. 'Gemma?'

A girl of about twenty-three with wiry ginger hair glanced round her screen. 'Smoked salmon with low fat cream cheese on brown, thanks.' Due to get married at the end of the summer, she had been slimming mercilessly for months.

Tom looked towards a blonde woman at the next workstation to Gemma's as she struggled over the unfamiliar menu. 'Julie, a jellied eel?' Sent up from the London office as temporary help in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games, Julie's southern accent and feisty attitude had been a welcome jolt to the office. Tom had noticed Creepy George staring at her on several occasions.

'I'll go for the Thai ginger chicken on whole grain and a bag of those salt'n'vinegar organic crisps, cheers.'

'Ed?'

When getting his Coke earlier on, Tom had seen Ed's sandwiches in the fridge. He knew his colleague would now have been thrown into confusion. Were the sandwiches going to be on the company or should he eat his own and save some money?

Tom put him out of his misery. 'Don't worry. I'll get them on expenses. We're way over target this month.'

They all smiled while Ed looked relieved and said, 'Beef with horseradish on a white roll, please.'

Even though he knew the offer would be refused, Tom called over to the corner out of politeness. 'George?'

The mass of black hair rose slowly from behind the barricade. 'No, thanks.' He lowered himself back into his seat.

'OK,' said Tom, sitting back down and pressing a speed-dial button on his phone. He read out the sandwich order and said he'd be over in about twenty minutes. Down in reception he grabbed the keys for the pool car and set off back towards the centre of town.

Three quarters of an hour later he walked back into the office, unzipped the cooler bag, put the tray on the table in the middle of the room and popped the lid. 'Lunch,' he announced, grabbing his All Day Breakfast baguette and bag of crisps.

Creepy George manoeuvred the digital camera into the small gap between two of his monitors. A cable ran from the back of the camera into the Apple Mac on his right. The monitor's screen filled with the view of his colleagues crowding round the table. George tilted the camera up slightly, then focused in on Julie's face. No one heard the faint click as he took a picture.

George disconnected the camera, placed it in his top drawer and turned his eyes to the image captured on his screen. Her mouth was open, eyes half closed in mid-blink. The tip of his tongue flicked across his upper lip — her expression was far better than he dared hope for.

Closing in, he used Photoshop to cut round the edge of her face and neck, then dropped her decapitated head on to his desktop and dragged the rest of her body into the trash bin on the corner of his screen. Next he brought up the image he'd downloaded from comatosex.com the afternoon before. The woman lay on the flowery carpet of some anonymous living room, the edge of a faux velvet settee encroaching in the top right-hand corner of the photo. Face slack, she lay with arms and legs akimbo, like a corpse photographed on the street of some war-ravaged city.

Clicking on Julie's forehead, he dragged her face over the unconscious woman's. George's expression darkened with frustration; the scale was out and the lighting and backgrounds didn't match. It would take hours of manipulation on the Apple Mac to make the image even remotely convincing. Sighing, he saved it into his special file that needed a codeword before it would open. Once everyone else had gone home he would retrieve it and begin his work.