‘You what?’
But he was already heading down the corridor to the front door. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’
He only just made it to the car park at Stepping Hill before Pete Gray emerged through the doors. Again he went straight home and Jon watched his hazy form as it moved around behind the frosted glass of the bathroom window. He was shaving, getting ready to go out. Thirty minutes later he emerged through the front door, wearing brothel creepers, black jeans, a white shirt with metal collar tips and with his hair arranged in a glistening Elvis quiff.
Jon eased his car out behind the minivan as it set off towards the centre of town. They parked on a side road near Piccadilly station, and Gray hurried across the road and into a pub with faded curtains hanging behind its dirty windows.
Jon waited a couple of minutes, then jogged over the road. The poster behind one of the grimy panes of glass announced, Karaoke Night. Singles Welcome. Dotted round the poster were little stars with names written inside: the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, the Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis.
Obviously aiming for an older crowd, thought Jon, slipping through a side door and making straight for the end of the bar. He kept his head down, aware of several glances in his direction. Safely in the shadows he looked around, assessing the atmosphere. A veneer of jolliness just succeeded in holding a feeling of nervous desperation at bay. More alcohol was required for things to improve. Luckily, doubles with mixers were half-price all night.
Pete Gray was sitting on his own at a table near the karaoke machine. A middle-aged woman was up on stage, ruining something by Alicia Keys. She reached the last line, flabby skin swaying slightly as she flourished her arm. A wave of applause washed weakly across the bar and her semi-embarrassed bow revealed a deep and doughy cleavage. As she stepped off stage Pete stood up. His body language was enthusiastic, short hand movements indicating how impressed he was. The gesture merged into a wave towards the bar, and the woman accepted with a smile that etched the crow’s feet deeper into the skin round her eyes.
Jon hunched lower on his stool, eyes on the cocktail menu in front. Two drinks were ordered and Pete led her back to his table. After twenty minutes he returned for two more, but Jon noticed the barman only put vodka in hers.
The compère announced an Elvis song and Pete duly took the stage. It was a rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’, complete with wavering end notes achieved with a slight curl of his upper lip. Most of the song was directed at the woman. He even braced his legs and gave it a couple of pitiful hip shimmies. Jon wanted to gag but, from the size of her smile, the woman seemed mightily impressed.
Warding off the applause, Pete sat down again and quickly made his move. He put a business card on the table, then his hand slid across to hers and their fingers entwined. He leaned his head closer and said something to make the woman instantly stiffen. She leaned back, putting distance between them, and her eyes started cutting around the room. Somehow Pete had blown it. A minute later she got up and made her way to the ladies’. Clearly irritated, Pete picked up a straw and stabbed at the ice cubes in his drink. When it became obvious she wasn’t coming back, he pushed both glasses away, retrieved his card and left. With Jon trailing along behind, he drove straight home. Seconds after going inside, the glow of a TV showed from behind the bedroom curtains.
Checking his watch, Jon saw it was just after ten at night. It was past the reasonable time for a phone call, but he couldn’t resist. He opened his notebook and looked at the phone numbers at the front. Deciding that it wasn’t fair to rouse Mrs Miller, the elderly mother of the second victim, he called the mobile of the first victim’s daughter instead.
It was answered after a few rings, the sounds of a bar loud in the background.
‘Lucy here. Who’s this?’
‘Lucy, it’s Detective Inspector Spicer. I’m working on the investigation into-’
‘I remember you.’
‘Good. Sorry to call this late, but I needed to ask you something. Do you have a minute?’
‘OK.’ The two syllables were heavy with caution.
‘You mentioned that you took your mother to a few singles’ nights in town.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you ever take her to a place near Piccadilly station called the Coach and Horses?’
‘Yes — it was pretty much a disaster.’
‘Pretty much? Did anyone make a pass at her?’
‘No. Well, no one nice. There was this one guy who gave her his card. But he was such a creep I made her promise to never ring him.’
‘What makes you say he was a creep?’
‘Just his general attitude. I didn’t want my mum being added to his list of cheap one-night stands.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I called him the Fat Elvis.’
Jon looked across at Pete Gray’s bedroom curtains and the blue light that flickered there.
It was almost eleven by the time he let himself back in through the front door. To his surprise Alice was still up, sitting reading a magazine in the front room, with the telly on low.
‘Hiya, babe. Just getting a glass of water.’
Ruffling Punch’s ears, he walked down the short corridor into the kitchen, noticing that the vacuum was back in the cupboard under the stairs. The carpet was spotless. In the kitchen he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and had half filled it before realising all the plates and cups had been washed up and put away.
He went into the front room and sat down in his armchair.
‘You’ve done all the clearing up. I was going to do that.’
Alice sighed. ‘When?’ Her voice was flat and she didn’t look at him.
‘Tonight. Now.’
‘I got tired of waiting.’ She looked up and he saw her lips were pale and thin. The alarm bell that had started ringing earlier on returned, much louder now. ‘You’d have started vacuuming at this time of night? I’m usually in bed by now.’
‘Maybe tomorrow morning, then.’
‘Or maybe fucking never!’ She slammed the magazine on to the table.
‘Where’s that come from?’ Jon said, surprised by her anger. From the corner of his eye he saw Punch slinking out of the room and he wished he could do the same.
She struggled to get off the sofa. ‘Where’s that come from? God, you’re a prat at times, Jon Spicer.’
He stared at her thinking about how the investigation was floundering. McCloughlin was getting more wound up by the day, and his prowling round the incident room was making everyone tense. ‘Ali, I’m not a bloody mind reader. I didn’t do the washing up. Is that what this is about?’
She glared at him for a moment longer. When it became obvious that was the best he could come up with a cry of frustration escaped her. She swung her stomach round and waddled out into the corridor.
Jon remained seated for a few seconds, irritation washing over him. ‘We’re trying to catch someone before he strips the skin off another victim, Ali,’ he said, getting up and crossing the room to the door. ‘You know the score with my job. Murderers don’t tend to work office hours.’
She’d managed to get halfway up the stairs, one hand clutching the banister. He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she tried to get her breath.
‘You’re also about to become a dad. I’m struggling here. Struggling with this pregnancy, struggling with my job, struggling to keep this place clean for when the baby arrives.’ She turned around and pointed down at him. ‘I won’t have you messing it up. And another thing. That bloody nursery isn’t finished yet, Jon, and you promised — you bloody promised!’
A tear broke and she wiped it away furiously. Jon suddenly saw how vulnerable she was, saw how hard she was fighting to keep it together. The knowledge that he was responsible for her distress tore a hole in him.
‘And don’t ever bring details of your work into this house. That’s a rule you made with me, remember? So don’t fucking break it to try and justify your shit behaviour.’