Tom leaned forward, his face now inches from the screen.
*
By the time dawn broke he knew he had to get out. To the side of the computer was a pile of printouts almost two inches thick, each sheet of paper featuring aspects of his new-found knowledge.
He thought about changing out of his tracksuit bottoms, but couldn't be bothered. Rummaging around in his room, he found a pair of white towelling socks, black work shoes and a beige jumper. Finally he put his Timberland jacket on, slipped the gun into the pocket, picked up the nearly empty bottle of tequila and set off for the city centre.
Specks of gum made walking on the pavement difficult. He stepped carefully round them, walking along the grass verges or in the road where the asphalt was newly laid and relatively clean. Cars beeped him and he ignored them.
During his walk in, Manchester had been bathed in a light shower. The rain had made the streets damp, darkening the colour of the paving stones and making the white lumps of gum stand out. He looked at the dots all around, tip-toeing into Piccadilly Gardens like he was walking through a minefield. Sitting down on a bench, he watched the people pass by; office workers walking along with phones to their ears, cups of coffee or carry-out bags from McDonald's in their spare hand.
After nine thirty the shoppers started to appear, heading at a more leisurely pace for the big department stores and expensive boutiques.
Tom crept along, ever careful to watch where he placed his feet. The colourful Commonwealth Games banners and hanging baskets of flowers had long been removed from the lampposts. The building wraps were gone too, derelict structures that had previously been hidden now plain for everyone to see. Craning his neck back, he stared up, saw tiny saplings growing in their gutters, pigeons coming and going through glassless windows.
The special litter-busting teams in their red jackets had also ceased to exist, so the sweet wrappers, discarded free newspapers, polystyrene cups and cigarette ends had begun to accumulate, forming a layer of rubbish that was pushed to and fro by the wind, shifting restlessly over the immovable spots peppering the paving slabs. Tom stalked through the debris, looking around him as the people emerged from shops, full bags hanging from their arms. Their lifestyle was, he realized, the one that had beguiled Charlotte, clouded her judgement as to what really mattered in life. He watched them as they took a break from their shopping to sit at pavement cafes and drink coffee, eat pastries or muffins and browse through glossy in-store magazines, always contemplating their next purchase.
Then they would get up, leaving dirty cups and crumb-covered saucers. A light wind blew crinkled napkins and empty sugar sachets on to the street as they strode off, credit cards ready, futilely trying to stave off their feelings of emptiness by purchasing more and more useless things.
Chapter 23
4 November 2002
Head still pounding from last night's booze, Jon watched Sly through the interview room's one-way mirror. His posture of boredom had long been replaced by one of tense agitation. He leaned forward on the plastic chair, arms wrapped tightly round his stomach, rocking backwards and forwards. Half turning to the mirrored window, he repeated yet again, 'You're not fitting me up with those murders. You're fucking not!'
'What do you think?' McCloughlin asked Jon and the other officers gathered in the shadows beyond.
Bodies shifted in the narrow room. 'Guilty as sin,' said a voice that curled with disgust. 'Look at him; he's sweating like a pig in an abattoir.'
'There's certainly enough to charge him,' observed someone else. 'Especially with the fibres at two of the murder scenes matching the suit from his flat.'
'DI Spicer?' McCloughlin demanded.
Turning the extra strong mint over in his mouth, Jon hesitated, aware that the men around him were of senior rank. Despite all the evidence, there were doubts in his head that he couldn't ignore. 'I agree that we've got enough to charge him, but I'm not totally convinced yet.'
'You bloody arrested him,' McCloughlin growled.
Jon suppressed the urge to apologise. 'I think we've got a member — possibly the leader — of the car theft gang. His prints match partials we've lifted from the letterboxes of sixteen properties where car keys have been hooked out of the hallway. But why has he suddenly started killing people?'
There was silence all around.
'OK, 'McCloughlin said. 'We've had him for almost twenty-four hours. I've already requested an extension of another twelve. Then I'll apply for a warrant of further detention — so we have him for another three and a half days if we need. In the meantime, let's keep turning things over. Something's got to give soon. DI Spicer, you can return him to the cells.'
Leaving Jon, they all filed back up the stairs. Walking into the incident room, McCloughlin called over to the office manager. 'Any progress on where our suspect got all those packs of chewing gum?'
'The manufacturers confirm it was a limited edition that was produced specifically for a Commonwealth Games promotion. However the agency that was handling the promotion — a place called It's A Wrap — closed their Manchester branch down last month. We've been on to their head office in London and they're getting back to us with more details as soon as possible.'
Chapter 24
October 2002
Tom now spent the majority of his waking hours at his computer, the bag of powder next to the mouse. Though his sense of reality was becoming increasingly blurred, one part of his mind remained clearly focused: the part concerned with researching the number seven.
The obsession was taking him throughout history, bouncing him between cultures, religions and faiths. He had noted down how the Lord's Prayer is divided into seven lines, how there were seven days of creation and seven days for Noah to load the ark. Bezalel made a lampstand with seven lamps for the tabernacle, Joshua's army marched around Jericho on seven successive days with seven priests blowing seven trumpets. In the book of Revelation he counted no less than fifty-four occurrences of the number, including seven churches, seven candlesticks, seven spirits, seven thunders, a seven-headed dragon, a seven-headed beast and seven vials of wrath.
And his scouring of the subject didn't focus solely on Christianity. He found mentions of the number in Judaism when it spoke of the seven supreme angels and seven continents; and Islam, which mentions seven heavens, seven hells and seven seas. He read about how devotees walk around Kaaba at Mecca seven times. The tantric system holds that humans have seven chakras, Buddhism analyses human life as an evolution through seven cycles. He found the number repeatedly cropped up in the Rig Veda, the first Hindu sacred book thought to be three thousand years old.
There could be no doubt the number played a huge part in man's ordering of the world. What Tom couldn't work out was why such massive importance had been attached to it. Something must have happened long ago which had led people to regard the number as so significant. What had occurred? After a fortnight of surfing, he stumbled across a document that provided an explanation. The writer of the document believed that, far back in the mists of time, seven Masters descended from the heavens and imparted their wisdom to select groups of people across the earth. Their visit explained why so many early societies boasted such an astonishingly advanced knowledge of things like astronomy and maths. He stated that structures such as Stonehenge, the pyramids and Easter Island are all lunar observatories, their construction and planning requiring levels of calculation and engineering far beyond anything else the people of those societies possessed.