02-Shifting Skin (27 page)

‘Oh, yes, of course. Please.’ She lifted the counter flap and showed them through. After loading the cassette, she pressed Play and stood aside. Static swarmed the screen, before stuttering frames began cutting in. Then the picture took hold properly. The foyer was busy. Too busy for six in the morning.

Jon pointed to the time frame. ‘Six fifty-eight a.m. Where’s the first hour?’

Kristina looked crestfallen. ‘The night porter must have forgotten to change the tapes over. I’m very sorry.’

Outside the hotel he kicked the base of the wall. ‘Fucking typical.’

‘So that’s it, then. Until something else happens, the trail goes cold.’ Rick said angrily.

‘There’s always the CCTV footage from Piccadilly station,’ Jon said reluctantly. ‘If we pick them up there we may even be able to work out which train they caught.’

‘Of course!’ Rick replied.

‘Don’t look so pleased. My other half got her bag snatched in the station last summer. I’ve seen the number of monitors in the CCTV control room. Since they redid the station for the Commonwealth Games, you can’t pick your nose in that place without it being on film.’

‘Surely that’s good?’

‘Not when you’re the mug who’s going to be trawling through all the tapes. There must be twenty cameras in the main part of the station. More on each platform.’

Rick sighed. ‘When are we interested in? The car was parked at seven oh five a.m., so let’s say for the next hour.’

‘Call it thirty-five monitors.’

‘Thirty-five hours of footage. Surely it would be best to divide that out across anyone who’s not on Outside Enquiries?’

‘A job that dreary? I’ll go another ten quid McCloughlin will give the lot to me – and that means you, too.’

Rick grimaced. ‘No, I think I’ll pass on that one. If we watch seven hours a day, that’s five days in the video room.’

Jon groaned, thinking about the spartan furnishings and smell of old ashtrays. ‘Have you got a video in your flat?’

‘No, just DVD.’

‘We’ve got one at home. We’ll go through it all there.’ Rick nodded, ‘So what now?’

Jon looked at his watch. ‘We’d better check back in with McCloughlin. But I intend to make the most of the quiet spell.’

Chapter 21

Jon shouldered open the door of Cheadle Ironside’s clubhouse and plonked his kitbag down in the bar. A scattering of other players were there, some gathered round a table as one flicked through a copy of the
Sport
, semi-naked girls pouting on every page.

‘Hey, Jon! So you are playing – I thought you’d gibbed out.’ This from a gnarled old man with bushy eyebrows.

‘All right, Heardy. I got a break from work so I thought, Fuck it, it’s Saturday, I’ll go and sweat blood and tears with the boys.’

‘You mean Alice has let you out for a few hours,’ a young man with a shaved head called over, fingers curled round a bottle of Lucozade Sport. A chorus of knowing laughter broke out.

‘Just wait till your missus gets up the duff, Westy,’ Jon replied with a grin.

‘I’ll have to nip round and service her before that ever happens,’ Heardy cut in, and the laughter turned on Westy.

The door to the changing rooms burst open and the captain, already in first-team strip, came in. ‘Come on, you bunch of tossers. Kick-off’s in forty minutes. Get changed.’

The changing rooms stank of Deep Heat. Jon shrugged his jumper off, loosened his club tie enough to slip it over his head with the knot still intact, then hooked it over a peg. He sat down, opened his kitbag and took his boots out.

The captain crouched in the middle of the room, a pile of rugby shirts at his feet. As he called out a number he threw the shirt at the appropriate player with an accompanying comment.

‘Number three, Chico. We want those scrums solid as a rock today.

‘Number six, Bamby. I want you leaping like a salmon in the line-outs.

‘Number fourteen, Cookie. Have a run at your opposite man

– he shat it last time.

‘Number seven, Slicer.’ A shirt hit Jon in the chest. ‘The usual, please. Make them regret ever turning up here.’

Jon nodded, faintly amused that his nickname from when he played for Stockport had finally caught him up. The two players on the bench next to him were sniggering over a camera phone.

‘Here, Jon, check this out. Ash’s bird’s had a tit job. Look at the pair on that.’

The mobile was thrust into his hand, the screen filled with a full-colour image of a young woman. She was smiling proudly at the camera, a mammoth pair of breasts straining beneath her crop-top.

Jon held the phone closer to his face, then looked over at Ash.

‘She’s really your girlfriend?’

He nodded, beaming, then cupped his hands in the air and wriggled them from side to side. ‘B cup to a double D, just like that. The wonders of modern medicine.’

Jon took another look at the phone. ‘What do they feel like?’

‘Rock-hard mate. Don’t even move when she’s lying on her back as I’m giving her one. Marvellous, they are.’

A shirt hit him full in the face. ‘Ash! Mind on the match, not your bird’s plastic tits!’

Jon handed the phone back with a bemused shake of his head. Alice’s breasts had ballooned during her pregnancy and, although he found the novelty of it amusing, he couldn’t imagine her heaving them around on a permanent basis. To his relief, she had said exactly the same thing.

Half an hour later they trooped back in from the training pitch for the pre-match talk. Studs clattered on the concrete floor as they milled around, sheens of sweat covering their faces. Jon sat quietly in the corner. Breathing deeply with his eyes fixed on the floor, he enacted the first seconds of the match in his head. The need to immediately stamp his authority on his opposite man in order to shake his confidence and upset his desire to even play.

‘Right,’ the captain announced. ‘Get your last-minute pisses out of the way, I want you back here in one minute.’

Jon rested his hands on his thighs and jiggled his knees up and down, thinking forward to the moment the referee’s whistle would start the game.

‘I want your minds on the match. First ten minutes, boys, we hit them like a fucking steam train. Are we letting this bunch of whining scouse bastards come to our back yard and turn us over?’

A few players growled, ‘No.’

‘I said: are we letting this bunch of whining Scouse bastards come to our back yard and turn us over?’ the captain roared.

‘No!’ the team shouted back.

By now the captain was prowling up and down the middle of the narrow room, smearing Vaseline over his eyebrows. ‘Get up! In a circle!’

Everyone stood, arms going around teammates’ shoulders. The captain stood in the middle, rotating slowly. ‘Look me in the eye, every one of you. Good, I can feel it, I can see it. You want this. First tackles: make them count. I want them knocked on their arses before they even think about getting a drive on. Right boys, let’s get out there!’

As they marched towards the doors in single file, the coach, an ex-Royal Marine with no neck, stepped forward and yanked Jon to one side. Quietly, he said, ‘Slicer, you missed the match at theirs, but the open-side flanker did all the damage. He’s a dirty bastard, creeping offside, handling the ball in rucks, killing it every time he could. If he even shows a finger on our side of the ball, I want him taken care of. Understood?’

‘OK, Senior,’ Jon nodded.

The bar after the match was packed with people from both clubs, but the eyes of the Ironsides players were brighter. Standing around in small clusters, they went over the highlights of the match – the try-scoring moments, the big hits, the slick passing.

Jon stood at the end of the bar, a tubi-grip packed with ice covering his right hand. He took another gulp from his pint of orange juice and lemonade, his body still crying out for fluids after the demands of the match.

The captain stepped over to him and nodded. ‘Great game today, Jon.’

‘Cheers,’ he replied, eyes shifting to the other side of the bar where a group from the opposition team were sitting.

The captain saw the direction of his gaze. ‘I just had a word. He’s a bit groggy, but otherwise fine. That was some punch you gave him.’

Jon shrugged. ‘He was asking for it all afternoon.’ Despite the casualness of his answer, he felt relieved. He always did what he needed to win a match, but after the final whistle he knew the opposition were ordinary people like him. They also had jobs and families to feed. And they couldn’t do that if they were off work with concussion.

‘How’s the hand?’ his captain asked.

‘It’ll be OK.’

‘You ready for a beer?’

Jon glanced down at his near-empty glass. ‘No, mate, I need to be going.’

The captain nodded in unspoken understanding. ‘See you at training?’

‘I’ll try and make it. This case I’m on is a bastard, though.’ He finished off his drink and slipped out of the side door.

Punch scrabbled to his feet as Jon stepped into the kitchen. Alice and his younger sister, Ellie, were sitting with heads bowed over a magazine. He swung his kitbag so it slid across the linoleum towards the washing machine, then reached out to his dog. Punch immediately sniffed his injured hand.

Jon was marvelling at the dog’s ability to sense injuries when

Alice said, ‘Jesus Christ!’

‘What?’

‘Your hand. It’s like a bloody balloon. What happened?’

Jon held it up, as if noticing it for the first time. ‘Oh, someone stamped on it, I think.’

‘Oh, yeah, I’ve heard that one before,’ Ellie said with an impish grin. ‘Sure someone’s face didn’t run into your fist?’

Jon shot her a look.

‘Why you play that stupid game, I don’t know,’ Alice sighed.

‘There’s ice in the freezer compartment.’

Jon opened the fridge. ‘Want a beer, little sis?’

‘Oh, go on, then.’

‘Alice? Anything to drink?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

He took two cans off the top shelf, sprang the tabs a little awkwardly with his left hand and put one on the kitchen table.

‘What rubbish are you two reading?’ he asked, peering down at the glossy magazine spread out between them.

‘It’s an article called “Botox Babes”,’ Ellie replied without looking up.

The text was interspersed with photos of famous females snapped outside the premises of well-known cosmetic surgeons.

‘Ha!’ said Alice triumphantly. ‘I knew she was looking too damn good.’

‘You’re right,’ Ellie answered. ‘What was that premiere she appeared at looking dog rough?’

Jon realised he was well and truly excluded from the conversation. He emptied the ice tray into the sink, scooped up a handful of cubes and placed them in a tea towel. Twisting it into a knot, he swung it hard on to the floor. There was a sharp crack and the ice shattered. Punch immediately started to sniff tentatively at the point of impact.

Jon sat down, then reached his left hand across to Alice’s swollen stomach. ‘How’s the wee one?’

‘Sleeping at the moment. But he was kicking like a bugger earlier on.’

Jon smiled and sat back.

A page was turned and, pointing at the magazine, Ellie said,

‘Oh, I was thinking about going on this diet. It’s worked for loads of celebrities.’

Jon cocked his head to look at her. ‘You don’t need to lose any weight.’

Ellie smiled. ‘Aah, thanks.’ Her attention went straight back to the page. ‘It looks really simple. And you can still have the occasional treat.’

‘Alice,’ said Jon, ‘tell her. She doesn’t need to lose weight.’ But Alice was studying the page. ‘Yeah, it does look good.

Maybe we could go on it together, once the baby’s here. I’ll definitely need to lose a bit then.’

Jon looked despairingly at Punch. ‘Fancy watching
The

Simpsons
?’

He’d just settled into his armchair when Alice leaned through the doorway. ‘Don’t get too comfortable. We’re going out, remember?’

Jon made a show of slowly stretching out his legs, racking his brain for what had been arranged.

‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Christ, Jon, you can be crap.’

He massaged a non-existent pain in his knee, mind furiously working. ‘No, I hadn’t.’

‘So where are we off to, then?’

Just as the silence reached breaking point, he remembered.

‘The parenting class at the health centre. Is it time to go already?’

Alice kept looking at him, suspicion showing in her eyes.

‘Yeah, six thirty, just like the last three weeks. You’re driving.’ She manoeuvred her stomach back out of the doorway into the hall. Wistfully, Jon put his can of beer on the table. The atmosphere in the meetings made him cringe, something about the happy looks on the organisers’ faces as they cheerfully outlined all the trauma ahead. Or it could be the fixed smiles of the parents-to-be, happily grinning but all betrayed by the trepidation shining in their eyes.