Killing the Beasts by Chris Simms Read Free Book Online Page A

head. Tom's choice in women always seemed based purely on looks, but there was no doubt Charlotte possessed a very shrewd side. The first time he'd met her, Jon had walked away from the occasion with one expression lodged firmly in his head: gold digger. He had given it about two months before Tom dumped her for someone else. So when Tom had rung to say they had got married on the spur of the moment in Barbados, Jon was amazed. There was no doubt in his mind that she had engineered it: there hadn't even been a stag night.
    'Is it all right with you that she doesn't work?' Jon asked.
    From countless police interviews, Jon could sense when someone wasn't being honest. Now he couldn't help applying this ability to his old team mate.
    'Yeah, of course it is,' said Tom, brushing a knuckle across the tip of his nose. 'It's quite nice being the main earner, having her waiting for me when I get in from work. 'Then, changing the subject, he said, 'What about you and Alice? How long have you been together now? It must be time for marriage and a sprog soon.'
    'Eleven years. And yes, it looks like that's on the cards.'
    'Shit! You mean you're getting married? Or is she pregnant? Or both?' Tom pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Jon.
    'No thanks – that's part of the deal. No marriage yet, but we're giving up smoking and starting to try for a kid. A general cleanliving caper.' He looked down at his pint and tilted it reflectively to the side. 'Apart from the odd ale, of course.'
    'Jesus,' said Tom, lighting up. 'Feel ready for all that stuff, then?'
    Jon took a long sip from his pint. He would have given a totally honest answer if he hadn't felt that Tom was holding back on his own description of married life. He would have admitted the whole prospect terrified him, admitted that he feared his entire life was about to be ruined. He might even have admitted that now he couldn't help looking at Nikki Kingston, the crime scene manager he casually flirted with, as a potential escape route if he turned out to be as big a failure at fatherhood as he feared. Instead he said, 'Ready as you can ever be, I suppose. It's about time. Alice is thirty two now and you know women – they start getting very aware of their biological clocks after thirty. You've got eight years to go with Charlotte.'
    'Yeah, 'Tom faintly replied. Jon got the feeling it was a source of regret for his friend.
    'Anyway,' said Jon, draining the last of his pint. 'What are we doing? Staying here for another or calling it a day?'
    Tom looked down at the pitch. Most of the crowd had now gone and a group of kids tussled over a rugby ball beneath one set of posts while a couple of groundsmen trod back dislodged lumps of turf at the halfway line, their shadows stretching far out across the grass. 'Come on. Let's get a cab into town.'
    'Yeah, why not?' Jon felt a sudden warm surge of pleasure at the prospect of a lazy Sunday evening spent getting drunk. He caved in to it and picked up his friend's pack of Silk Cut. 'Don't bloody tell Alice,' he mumbled, a cigarette bobbing between his lips.
    Tom laughed and offered him a light.
    Evening sun flooded through the windscreen as they waited for the lights to change. Drumming his fingers on his knee, Jon squinted up at the twenty-two-storey office block on his right. Its entire side had been coated in a vivid yellow and almost 250 feet above, three painted figures – one red, one blue, one green – stood with arms raised in triumph. Below them classically styled, twenty-foot-high lettering proudly proclaimed, 'Manchester 2002. The XVII Commonwealth Games.'
    Jon's eyes slid halfway down the building to the enormous digital readout mounted on its side. The orange number glowing from the screen had dropped again.
    'Eighty-one days to go. Can you believe it?' he said, looking up the four lanes of Portland Street towards Piccadilly Gardens. Suspended from each lamppost along the length of the street were vertical banners.