The traffic was almost nonexistent by the time he got away. Ten minutes later he hit the junction with Great Ancoats Street, then cut right into Ardwick. As he drove slowly along Ardwick Crescent the narrow strip of park was in darkness to his left. The glow of the petrol station across the road revealed the forms of two men as they lurked in the shadows beneath the trees. But unless they started mugging someone, he couldn't be bothered.
Instead he looked to his right, getting a glimpse through the open doors of The Church and seeing it packed with drinkers. Thursday night. In these parts the weekend kicked off tonight and kept going until Monday.
Getting to number seven he looked across the street, then climbed out of the car, confused. The office door was blocked up with a sheet of heavy-duty chipboard that had already been covered in a mishmash of graffiti. He walked over, eyes on the most legible line of writing.
There's nothing smart to dying, read the fat felt tip.
Below it a thinner scrawl replied, Piss off and do it then.
Looking between the bars in front of the windows, Jon could see a mound of post on the reception floor. He walked to the glass panels screening off the alleyway between the two houses: the pair of rubber plants stood tall and brittle, their leaves yellow and curled to parchment. Glancing up he saw the remains of an estate agent's sign hanging by a couple of nails, most of it torn off.
As Jon walked slowly back to his car, he thought back to the summer, analysing his last encounters with Tom, probing for any clues in what he'd said and how he'd appeared. There was no doubt he was sick of Manchester when he got back from the Seychelles.
Chapter 6
June 2002
'Hi, Jon Spicer here.'
'Jon, it's Tom.'
'Hello mate, nice end to your holiday?'
'Not really. I spent the whole time bathing my brain in low-level radiation from my mobile phone.'
Jon held his own mobile a little further from his ear. 'So when did you get in?'
'Yesterday, just after lunch. Listen, what's the score with my car?'
His friend's abruptness put Jon on edge. 'It's at a secure compound just outside Stockport. You'll need to sign some forms and they'll release it. You've got some ID on you?'
'Yeah, and a spare key. Is it driveable?'
'No,' said Jon, wincing with guilt. 'But various towing companies hang around the place like vultures. Tick the boxes on the forms and it'll get taken back to the Audi garage your company hired it from. Let the insurance company take care of it from there.'
'OK, what's the address? I'll get a cab over.'
Jon couldn't help feeling responsible for the situation. 'I'll pick you up. Where are you?'
'On the train, just getting into Manchester.'
'All right, I'll be there in ten. Meet outside the Bull's Head?'
Tom had picked up a slight suntan during his time away, but the strain on his face cancelled out any healthy appearance. He settled into Jon's passenger seat with a preoccupied look.
'So where were you staying out there?' asked Jon, trying to find something about the holiday that might raise a smile.
'Some sort of hut on the beach,' said Tom. 'It was meant to have an internet connection, but that was bullshit. I spent most days shut away in the manager's office, hunched over my laptop.' It was obvious the holiday wasn't a good choice of conversation. Seeing how wound up Tom seemed, Jon hoped he wouldn't ask to see the state of his car.
'So, the wrap that's just gone up on the big building on Great Ancoats Street: one of yours?'
'Yeah.' He seemed to get a bit of satisfaction from that.
'You must be creaming in the cash.'
Tom grinned. 'Should be the mother of all bonuses when it comes through.'
When they reached the side street leading to the car compound Jon said, 'Right, this place is a bit grim. Let's do the paperwork and get out as fast as possible.'
Tom regarded the poles at each corner of the yard. At the top of each were CCTV cameras and arc lamps in wire mesh cages. The front gates were made from twelve-foot-high sheets of grey metal. At the top of each was a spiked fence entwined with razor wire.
'Jesus, it's like Fort Knox.'
'We use it for storing a lot of vehicles recovered from crime scenes. Joyriders, ramraiders, that sort of thing. Obviously we don't want the bad guys getting in to destroy any evidence they might have left behind.'
They walked up a concrete ramp and into a featureless waiting room with a security hatch in the opposite wall. On the counter was a buzzer with a sign taped in front of it: Ring ONCE and wait.
Jon pressed the button as Tom looked round the room. Car crime prevention posters and insurance notices provided the only reading. A bald man eventually peered through the small window.
'Hello there, Ernie. I've got the owner of the Audi TT from a few nights ago. Can we get the release forms signed?'
He vanished and reappeared a few moments later. A few sheets of paper were slid underneath the protective glass.
Jon picked them up and turned straight to the last page. 'Here, here and here.'
Tom got a pen from his pocket. 'Can I have a look at it?'
Jon's heart sank. 'The Audi? I should think so. Ernie, can we have a quick look?'
'Sure. 'The man shrugged, buzzing them through the inner door. He led them into the courtyard, blue boiler suit rasping with each step. Dotted around the place was a sad collection of wrecks, some burnt out, some with signs slapped on the windscreens that read, 'Please do not touch. Police aware of this vehicle.'
'In the corner.' Ernie pointed matter of factly and walked away.
As they made their way over Jon began to provide a nervous explanation. 'As I said, the little bastard was going too fast. He went full into a gatepost, then jumped out and legged it… I'm sorry.'
Tom crossed his arms and looked at the car's stoved-in front end. 'Well, I see what you mean about not driving it.' He stepped closer. 'What's all the sooty stuff around the doors?'
'Ninhydrin powder — for fingerprinting. We've lifted plenty from inside. Same as the prints on quite a few people's letterboxes. When we get this little shit in court he's going to cop some grief.'
Tom was leaning forwards and looking through the passenger window. 'Hey, I can see my Café del Mar CDs in the glove compartment.'
As he reached for the door handle, Jon grabbed his wrist. 'Wait a second. I don't know if the guys have checked underneath.'
'Checked for what?'
'Razor blades. Some joyriders glue them there for a joke. I don't think this guy has because he's probably selling the cars on. But better safe than sorry.' He ran a key under the metal flap, then eased the door open. 'Also needles. They jab them into the seats from underneath. So when you sit down…' He poked a forefinger at the back of his leg.
Tom was looking shocked. 'Seriously?'
'Yup. I said, these people are from a different world. Sometimes I think it would be easier just to herd them up and fire them into outer space.' Carefully he reached in and took Tom's CDs out. 'Anything else?'
Tom looked in. 'No. That's it.'
Jon pushed the door shut with his foot. 'Hopefully your insurance company won't take long getting you a replacement.'
Tom shook his head. 'It's sorted already. My boss left and I got his Porsche Boxter as part of the promotion.'
'What, you're the MD now?'
Tom nodded.
'Congratulations, mate. How does it feel to be in charge?' Tom shook hands unenthusiastically. 'Like a ton of shit is on my shoulders.'
As the waiting room door banged shut behind them Jon said, 'I'll drive you back to the office.'