Then he thought of the comment Tom had made after they had visited the compound for stolen cars. Something about his role on the rugby pitch being to hunt down and take out members from the opposite team.
Even as he tried to dismiss the comment, the words of the old guy in the blazer at the Cheshire Sevens rang in his mind. 'Saw this man taking apart more than a few players when he ran out for Stockport.'
Spicer the Slicer. That was what they called him at the rugby club.
Jon stared at his knuckles, reasoning that he always played within the rules. And in his role as a police officer, he only used the required level of force. He lit another cigarette and wondered how true that was. Did he get away with using violence in his job just because he was a police officer? What if he had failed the entry exam? Would he still be dealing out his form of justice to whoever crossed his path?
The air in the pub was making his eyes sore. After draining his pint, he tried to catch the barman's attention by waving a finger and watched with confusion as his entire hand flapped to and fro. He settled his bill and stood up, feet wide apart as he shrugged his jacket back on. Out on the street, car lights floated past, leaving trails in the air before him. He started walking, hand out at his side, hoping for a cab. But the thrill of catching Sly couldn't be ignored, and neither could the burst of sheer pleasure he felt when his fist connected with the man's head.
Finally he faced up to the thought he'd been hiding from all night. He'd wanted to carry on at that point. The man's hair was grasped in both of his hands and it was only Nikki crying out that had stopped him from…
He stumbled into a doorway and fumbled for his phone, needing contact with someone not connected with violence.
'Hi there,' he said, confident he'd got the words out clearly.
'Bloody hell, how many have you had?' Alice replied.
'A few. I mean, a few too many,' he corrected himself.
'Where are you?'
Unsure, Jon looked around. 'Near the nick.'
'You sound tired as well as pissed.'
'I feel like shit, but I think we're close to cracking it.'
'I hope so. It's in all the news, Jon. It sounds horrible.'
Jon's head hung a bit lower. 'Don't believe all the details, Ali. Half of it's made up.'
'Is it true they were all posing for nude photographs? The paper said one victim had got an advert in some seedy contact magazine.'
Jon couldn't believe how details like that got out; some bastard on the investigation had sold that snippet of information for the price of a family holiday. Now the families of all the victims were suffering.
'No. We think one of them was. Anyway, how are you?'
'So so,' Alice answered. 'To be honest, I can't get away from the case. It's all everyone wants to talk about — the salon, my tae kwon do class, everywhere I go.'
'Well, let's hope something more worthwhile crops up and takes the pressure off.'
'You're right,' said Alice. 'Oh, I forgot to ask. What happened at Tom's office? Did you speak to that guy who works late?'
Jon closed his eyes, 'No, it was shut. Boarded up like it had gone out of business.'
'So he has lost his job.'
He couldn't face getting in to the Tom thing again. 'Not necessarily. Who knows what happened? Listen Ali, I'm sure everything is fine with Tom. In fact, I bet I'll get a postcard from him one of these days. It'll say he's got his cafe in Cornwall and he's given up on phones, mobiles and e-mail.'
Chapter 22
September 2002
The mirrors in Tom's house weren't working properly. As he passed in front of them, he could only make out a blurred figure, details indistinct and hazy. He dropped the remains of the Chinese takeaway onto the other cartons filling the sink and shuffled through to his front room. Sitting in his tracksuit bottoms, he logged on to their joint internet bank account for the third time that day. Her last withdrawal was still from yesterday — another £500 counter transaction.
He brought up the account's summary for the past few weeks, going over the numerous withdrawals that she'd made. It was the only evidence he had that she still existed. His last remaining form of contact.
Then he heard a key in the lock. He fell onto all fours, crawled quickly across the floor and peeped over the windowsill. It was her! He could see her through the net curtains, struggling to get the door open, several empty boxes at her feet. She tried the door again, looking exasperated that it wouldn't open.
He remembered he'd left his key in the lock. Afraid she would give up and go away, he jumped to his feet and hurried out of the room. Eagerly he turned the key, then was hit by a sudden wave of anxiety as he yanked the door open.
'Tom,' she said, looking him up and down.
'Charlotte.' He tried to smile. She was staring at his chin. His hand went up and he scratched at the thick stubble. 'You've come back.'
'Yeah — I need some things, that's all.'
Tom chose to ignore her comment. She was back; that was all that mattered. They would be a family soon. She turned round, gave a quick wave to the large silver vehicle parked on the road outside, then picked up the empty boxes and stepped inside. He saw her looking around with a disgusted expression. He supposed the place did look a bit of a tip. As he hovered at her side, his hand repeatedly went up to his mouth, then veered nervously off to tug at an earlobe.
'I need a few bits and bobs, personal items,' she announced.
'Why? Are we going somewhere?'
'No, we're not. They are my things, for where I'm going.'
He stepped backwards, searching for what to say.
'It smells in here,' she said, not looking at him. 'Hasn't Mrs Hanson been?'
'I sent her away. I didn't want her poking around with the vacuum while I was at home.'
She nodded. Climbing the stairs, she walked briskly along to the bedroom where she began taking clothes out of the wardrobe and laying them on the bed. Tom watched from the doorway in silence. Finally he stalked back downstairs, found the little bag and took a pinch of powder. Standing in the kitchen, he waited for the drug to make him feel stronger. By the time he could feel its effects, she was coming down the stairs, a pile of dresses, shirts and skirts over one arm.
'Where are you going with those?' he called as she walked out of the house.
'A friend's,' she answered, not breaking her step.
He brooded in the kitchen, working up the courage to ask exactly what she was planning.
Next she came down the stairs with a box full of shoes and carried them out to the car.
He slid through into the front room and peered out the window. But whoever was waiting in the driving seat of what looked like a Land Cruiser was obscured by the trunk of a tree. All he could see was a pair of large hands on the steering wheel.
Back in the house she walked quickly through to the kitchen, took the keys for the garage and walked back out.
Tom lingered in the front room, listening as the garage door was unlocked and raised up. A minute later she came back into the house, her tennis rackets cradled in the crook of an arm, a pile of chewing gum packets balanced on the face of the uppermost racket. Pausing in the hallway, she called, 'Tom? Where are you? Can you hear me?' Behind the door, he stood absolutely still, watching her through the tiny crack.
'Fuck him,' she whispered nervously to herself, and walked into the front room.
He stepped out from behind her. 'What are you doing?'
Letting out a yelp of terror, she nearly jumped over the sofa, packs of gum flying everywhere.
'Jesus!' she said, one hand reaching into the pocket of her body warmer. He stood still, staring directly at her. When he made no attempt to move closer, she took her hand back out. 'You made me jump,' she said warily, backing away.