Killing the Beasts (30 page)

Tom stared at the screen, heart suddenly thumping. It couldn't be right. He'd wanted that cafe for so long, it had to be his. Switching to directory enquiries he typed the name into the box and a number sprang up a nanosecond later.

The phone cut straight to an answer phone message. 'Hi, Meg's Cafe is now closed, but we're open again at seven tomorrow morning doing hot drinks and bacon rolls for you early-morning surfers. If you need to leave a message, speak now.'

He left his message and mobile number, knowing there was no time to lose. He had to find Charlotte and let her know everything was all right, make her see that he had worked out a happy and safe future for all of them. He slipped the Porsche's keys off the hook and drove out of Didsbury, taking the M60 for a couple of junctions then cutting across to the A6 and following it away from Manchester, through Stockport and out towards the Peak District National Park. At the crossroads in Disley he turned up the hill, keeping an eye out for the lane on his right-hand side that would take him out on to the moors and the farm where Charlotte's old friend, Olivia, had moved to.

Soon the countryside around him was almost black, lit only by the dim glow from an occasional cottage or farm and the unnaturally bright road markings in front. After several minutes of slowly following the narrow road as it veered left and right, dipping down and rising up with the contours of the National Park, he saw the tiny sign for Higgleswade Farm. The drive was potholed and bumpy, the bottom of the Porsche scraping several times as he drove up to a farmhouse whose porch was suddenly illuminated by a small security light. The white beam shone down over the roughhewn chunks of stone forming the farmhouse walls, emphasizing the dark shadows filling the deeply recessed windows. Parking next to a Toyota Land Cruiser, he walked across to the sturdy-looking wooden door and shook a bell mounted on the wall. Immediately several dogs started to bark and whine in the low-roofed buildings to his left. Soon after, footsteps approached the other side of the door. It opened to reveal a woman in her mid-twenties, blonde hair carefully tousled.

'Hello,' she said uncertainly, keeping the door half open.

'My name's Tom Benwell and I'm looking for my wife. Is she here?'

'Tom Benwell... who Charlotte married?'

'Yes, I must speak with her.' He stepped forward, trying to see into the kitchen beyond.

She remained where she was. 'She's not here. I haven't seen Charlotte in years.'

Tom shook his head. 'It's very important. Charlotte!' he called into the house.

The dogs started barking again. More footsteps and a heavyset man appeared. A large hand with dirt ingrained around the nails was placed against the doorframe. He leaned round the woman. 'Who's this?'

'It's the husband of someone I used to share a flat with. He thinks his wife is here.'

Tom raised a hand as if to push his way into the house. The door opened fully and the man stepped out. 'She said she's not here. So she's not here.'

Tom stayed where he was, weighing up his options. He looked at the outbuildings to his left, as if she could be hiding there.

The man followed his glance and said, 'If you walk over to the sheds and get the dogs any more excited, I'll let them out on you.'

Tom faltered and he turned back to the couple. 'She's really not here?' he pleaded.

'Really,' said the man impatiently as the woman's expression softened with concern.

Tom walked slowly back to his car, looking up at the dark windows of the first floor as he did so. With one last glance at the couple in the doorway, he climbed into his car and drove back down the drive.

He had been going for less than three minutes when his mobile phone rang. Yanking the steering wheel over, he came to a stop on the grassy verge and grabbed it. The signal was weak, so he climbed out of the car and stood up in the vain hope it would help the reception.

'Hello, this is Megan here,' said a quiet female voice. Even though it wasn't a question, her inflection went up at the end of the sentence.

'Your cafe,' said Tom. 'It's under offer.'

'Yes,' she said. 'Who is this?'

'My name's Tom. I've been planning to buy it for months. You haven't signed a contract, have you?'

'No,' she replied. 'You know it's ten forty-five at night. You must be very keen.'

'I really must have it. I'll offer you more money.'

She laughed. 'The offer I have is already for the asking price. You can't say fairer than that.'

'You don't understand,' Tom cut across her. 'We're starting a family; we need somewhere nice for the kids to grow up. 'A thought suddenly occurred to him. 'There isn't any chewing gum, is there? On the pavements and roads around you?'

She laughed again, but more warily. 'Where are you calling from?'

'Manchester.'

'You've been to Newquay? Seen my posters in the windows, right?'

'No. What do you mean?'

'I've been putting petitions together for the last two years. The place is covered with the stuff and it's getting worse every summer. We're trying to get a ban put on it, but the council say they can't do a thing. Listen – you're a reporter, right? From the local paper? I've told you already – the chewing gum is why I'm moving.'

'To where?' Tom whispered.

'Back to New Zealand. We've got a bit more respect for our surroundings over there. I'm sticking with the offer I have; I don't believe in this gazumping business you have over here. If you're not a reporter, thanks for your interest.'

She hung up and Tom dropped the handset through the car window onto the driver's seat. In his mind's eye he could see the resort swarming with grey spots. Nowhere was free of it. Nowhere. Miserably, he took the sachet of powder from his pocket, licked his finger and dabbed it in. He looked around him. Just visible in the darkness was a footpath sign. He climbed over the stile and trudged across the fields, the occasional bleating of a sheep the only noise to interrupt the utter silence. The sky above was clear, a slither of moon providing just enough light to follow what was little more than a sheep trail. Scrambling to the top of a rocky outcrop, he leaned back against a smooth slab and looked up.

Out here there were no streetlights or massed homes polluting the night and turning the sky a hazy orange. His view upwards was unbroken and the stars shimmered in the heavens with almost the same intensity as in the Seychelles.

His plans for Charlotte and the baby were ruined. He could never take them to a place that had been desecrated with gum. Pulling the sachet out, he took another dab and sat back, waiting for the sense of despair to subside. The drug was just beginning to deaden his emotions when his eyes settled on The Plough. As usual, it hung in the same spot, low in the sky. He was staring directly at it, taking a strange comfort in its unchanging presence above, when the chorus of voices spoke.

They didn't just come from all around him, they filled the very air and surged up from the ground, resonating in his chest. Tom froze until they stopped, then scrabbled on to all fours, eyes blindly searching the rocks he had been sitting against.

Again they spoke, words enveloping him like a TV surround sound system. Jumping to his feet, he twirled about, but in every direction were empty fields.

Terror of the incomprehensible took over and he slid back down the rocks, ran towards the road. He got to his car, jumped in and locked the doors. There was no credible explanation – the only possible way a group of voices could suddenly sound in the middle of nowhere was if there were loudspeakers hidden all around the rocks.

Yet there could be no doubt it was him they were addressing. Because the voices he'd heard were repeating the same word over and over again. 'Tom, Tom, Tom.'

They came for the car a week later.

He found that his sleep pattern was coinciding less and less with the night. Now he tended to stay up until the small hours, watching videos, surfing the internet, waiting for the phone to ring. Always suppressing the memory of that awful collection of disembodied voices. Mornings were becoming a thing of the past; his days usually started after lunch.

So when the doorbell went at ten thirty in the morning, he struggled from a shallow and listless sleep to shuffle down the stairs in his dressing gown. Hoping it might be Charlotte, he pulled open the door to find Ges and Ed outside.

Ges spoke first, awkward and uncomfortable. 'Hello Tom.'

Tom scratched his fingers through his hair. 'Ges.'

'Late night, then?' said Ges. 'The joys of being in between jobs, hey?'

Ed simply stared at him, shock registering on his face.

Hesitantly Ges announced, 'Sorry mate, we've come for the Porsche. London office has been hassling us. You haven't been answering the phone and I couldn't put them off any longer.'

Tom thought about how he'd ignored all his calls. 'No, I understand,' he murmured. As he unclipped the Porsche key he said almost absent-mindedly, 'Seen anything of Creepy George?'

Ges looked confused. 'Erm, no. You sacked him.'

Tom was about to answer, then saw Ed standing there. He handed the key to him and beckoned Ges down the corridor.

In the front room Tom let out an exasperated sigh. 'He's evil. Keep him away from your house. Have you ever seen him hanging around? Has your wife ever seen him hanging around?'

'Sally? No, she's never met him.'

'Good, that's good. But if she does ever see him, get her to call the police. I think he has all of our addresses.' He ran a hand through his tangled curls.

'I don't understand. Is this to do with why he was sacked? What happened, Tom?'

Tapping his nose, Tom replied. 'Confidential.' His eyes shifted to the window, filling with regret as Ed circled the Porsche. He turned back to Ges. 'He's evil. Just keep him away from your house. And tell Ed too. I've taken precautions.' He gave a secretive smile.

Ges hesitated. 'You all right, Tom? I'm sorry I haven't called round before. You can imagine how it's been.'

Tom waved the comment away. 'Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. 'He looked back out of the window. The silence stretched out as he kept his eyes on Ed unlocking the Porsche and climbing in. 'Well, I'd better get back too...' Ges suggested. He walked slowly back to the front door and hovered at the top step. 'Give us a call. We could go for lunch one day. How about it?'

Tom nodded. 'Yeah.' He glanced around Ges to have one last look at the car, then shut the door in the face of one of his few remaining friends.

Chapter 21

3 November 2002

The investigation was going nowhere. More than fifty officers were now assigned to the case. Despite dozens of statements from anyone who had been in contact with the three victims, an obvious thread linking them together refused to emerge.

In desperation they had begun to retread old ground, including raking through the contents of each victim's home again.

Jon was en route to the facility at Trafford Park police station to help go through the refuse recovered from Polly Mather's flat when the call came through on his mobile.

'Bad news, Jon. Another body has just been discovered. A Gabrielle Harnett, same MO as all the rest,' said the officer back at Longsight.

Jaw set tight, he speeded up, anxious to get to Trafford Park and start making phone calls. He pulled into the car park about a quarter of an hour later. Without bothering to get out of the car, he called back the incident room at Longsight.

'DI Spicer here. The victim who's just been discovered – what type of property did she live in?'

'Some sort of flat complex.'

'Can you give me the phone number of any officer attending the scene?'

He jotted the number down and immediately called it. 'DS Moffatt? DI Spicer here. Where are you exactly?'

'Outside the victim's flat.'

'What's the parking situation like?'

'Bloody nightmare. Half of Manchester's newspaper reporters are already here. I don't know who's got more vehicles in the vicinity

– us or them.' 'I mean for the residents. Is there private parking for them?' 'Oh, hang on. 'There was a pause. 'Yeah, I'm standing in a kind of courtyard. It's all little one or two bedroom flats, residents-only parking. Each slot is allocated to a flat.'

'And what's parked in the slot for the victim's flat?'

'Hang on,' he said again. 'Flat six, here you go. It's a Mini – one of those new BMW ones.'

'Registration?'

Jon noted it down, then called the incident room at Longsight again. 'Hi, DI Spicer. Can you run me a vehicle check?' He read out the registration and waited with his crossed fingers resting on the steering wheel. 'Please don't let it be Gabrielle Harnett's,' he whispered to himself.

'Here we go,' said the operator, 'Gabrielle Harnett, flat six, Richmond Court...'

'Fuck!' He thumped the back of his skull against the headrest.

'You just crashed?' came the alarmed voice.

'No. My fucking theory has, though.' He hung up, got out and walked over to the prefabricated hut in which the rubbish had been laid out on long trestle tables. Standing outside the doors were a couple of uniformed officers getting a last cigarette in before having to don rubber gloves and start sifting.

'Morning,' said one, seeing Jon approaching.

'Morning,' Jon grunted. A couple of seconds' silence followed before the officer produced a packet of cigarettes and held one out.

Jon realized his eyes had been fixed hungrily on the man's lit cigarette. He hesitated for a second, then sagged a little and took it. 'Cheers. This case is doing my head in.' He leaned forward to take a light as Nikki Kingston stepped out of the hut. Her face had brightened on seeing Jon but, on spotting the cigarette in his mouth, her smile died. Their eyes met and with a sigh Jon pulled the cigarette from his lips. 'Bad day, all right?'

'Here,' she said and gestured him inside. They walked along the side of a table scattered with a layer of mouldering food scraps, old tea bags and crumpled packaging. 'What's up?'

'Another body has just been found.'