Heated Beat 02 - Lucky Man (10 page)

A press conference? Fuck that shit. “All due respect, guv, but I won’t blend in out there if my face is all over the telly.”

It was a genuine excuse Danny had used before, but the DCI wasn’t fooled. “Bloody camera-shy youngsters. Think that lot don’t get bored with my ugly mug all the time?”

Danny shrugged and escaped the office to round up Jen Lanes. It was going to be a long day, and the sooner they got started, the better.

DC J
EN
Lanes circled the small cordoned off area for a second time, then came to a stop by Danny and looked up the embankment. “No sign of a body being dragged.”

Danny looked up from his position crouched on the ground, checking his notes against the forensic crew’s assessment. “Yep. Looks like she died right here. Question is… how?”

“You think?” Lanes shot him a withering glare, and Danny answered with a wry grin. A crime scene was no place for glib jokes, but a little dark humor was always welcome in the middle of a long day. “How much did she weigh?”

“A little over eight stone.”

Lanes whistled. “Not much, then. So she could’ve been carried here?”

“From the road?” Danny glanced over his shoulder at the busy dual carriageway. “Not without being seen, even at night. This is the main lorry route through Nottingham.”

Lanes didn’t look convinced, and that was what Danny liked about her. “A lorry could stop here for a few minutes and dump a body.”

“Or there’s a parking stop a mile north. She could’ve walked here…”

“…with whoever killed her,” Lanes finished.

“We don’t know anyone killed her yet,” Danny said, but though the investigation hadn’t produced any tangible evidence, instinct and plain old common sense told Danny there was no other reason for two vulnerable women to turn up dead in ditches, especially within a week of each other.

On cue his phone rang. The number for the pathologist’s office flashed up on the screen. Danny beckoned Lanes closer while he listened to the updated report from the first body. When the pathologist was done, Danny thanked him and hung up. Then he clambered out of the ditch with Lanes hot on his heels and surveyed the busy road.

“Dead girl number one was asphyxiated. They’re looking again at number two. Let’s go back to your lorry-driver theory. If she was smothered too, we’ll need all the hypotheses we can get.”

L
ATER
THAT
night after a long day gathering route schedules from haulage firms and canvassing dirty squats, Danny left Lanes reviewing his carefully maintained notes on local toms and drove home via the red-light district. He cruised the streets for a while, calling over girls he recognized, checking in, testing the water. He was on his second pass of Lexi’s stomping ground when a lone figure caught his attention, a tiny slip of a girl who looked like she had more business hanging around the local comprehensive than touting a street corner.

Danny checked for a pimp or a boyfriend lurking in the shadows, then pulled up and rolled his window down.

He beckoned the redhead over. She approached him with a nervous smirk that turned Danny’s stomach.

“Looking for some company?”

“Nope.” Danny flashed his warrant card. “DC Jones. Notts City CID. What are you doing out here?”

The girl scowled, adding weight to Danny’s suspicion that she was underage. “Nothing. Just walking around. Not a pissing crime, is it?”

“Depends. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Pull the other one. Try again.”

“Nineteen.”

Danny wasn’t convinced. “What’s your name?”

“Jade.”

Jade. Fuck’s sake. How many toms called themselves that? “Got any ID, Jade?”

“Left it at home.”

“Course you did. And where’s home? You live around here?”

Jade shrugged and pointed vaguely behind her. “Up the road.”

Danny considered his options—leaving her be, taking her home, busting her for soliciting—and none of them sat well. Taking her home was dubious. If she really did live in one of the dodgy bedsits up the road, rocking up with the old Bill could get her in trouble, and busting her was twattish and pretty much entrapment.

That left leaving her on the street to her fate.

Danny held out his contact card. “Go home. I’m working this beat tonight. If I see you again, I’ll nick ya. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jade squinted at the card. “You don’t look like a Jones. You look like that bloke from the telly.”

Danny put the car in gear. “If you’re gonna tell me I look like Ken Hom, you can piss off. Go on, home with you. I don’t want to see you again.”

The girl tottered away in her plastic heels. Danny watched her in the rearview mirror until she disappeared into an alleyway, and then he pulled away from the curb and resumed his task of circling the red-light district.

It was just after midnight when a panda car pulled him over for curb crawling. “I’ve been out here for three hours,” Danny said when he’d identified himself, “and you’ve only just noticed?”

“Piss off.” The uniformed PC grinned. “Don’t you think we’ve got better things to do than chase after johns all night?”

Danny rolled his eyes. DCI Brown’s press conference had gone out that afternoon, but he hadn’t identified the dead girls as prostitutes because they still didn’t know they were. “McDonald’s is that way. On a serious note, though, couldn’t hurt to make the rounds a few times now you’re here.”

The beat coppers were agreeable enough, so Danny left them to it and drove home. He was halfway there when his phone rang.

Danny clicked the hands-free function without checking the caller ID, keeping his eyes on the road. “Yeah?”

There was no response—verbally, at least. Instead the sound of an acoustic guitar layered over a funky drum track filled the car. Danny smiled and let it seep into him. The gravelly tone of the vocals were very Finn, but the deep rhythm behind it sounded more like the chill-step stuff Danny had come to know as Jack’s signature style, and the liquid beat combined with Finn’s voice was just what he needed to hear.

The thought of Jack stopped him switching off completely, though, and as he navigated his way through the city, he recalled the dark words Jack had growled at him the day before when he’d answered Danny’s knock on Finn’s front door.

Finn’s the nicest bloke in the world. Treat him right. You can’t just say you’re going to be there for him. You have to bloody do it.

Danny had stood his ground and stared Jack down. He’d seen too much shit to be intimidated by a belligerent kid, but he’d taken the warning to heart. Reconnecting with Finn had been awesome, but spending time with Finn’s friends had brought home to Danny how restricted his own life was. Was it fair to bring Finn into that? Danny didn’t think so. Crawling back in the closet had been a miserable experience he wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all a soul as bright as Finn.

A wave of hopelessness swept over Danny. Perhaps it was just fatigue, or the fact that he’d spent all day digging into the worst things human beings could do to each other and themselves, but driving through the night, surrounded by all that was Finn, Danny couldn’t help pondering what the future held for them. Secrecy, late-night phone calls, and abandoned dates. Finn deserved better than that.

Didn’t stop Danny enjoying the music, though, or quell the craving to see Finn play live again. Finn’s music, in all its forms, held a certain kind of magic, and the mish-mash track kept Danny company all the way home until it cut out and the line went dead. The abrupt silence startled Danny enough to get out of his car and haul himself up the stairs of his building. He tapped out a message as he let himself into his flat:
Very Zero 7.
U having a 90s throwback?

Finn replied:
Maybe. Think Jack’s been on the weed again, but I like it.

I like it too.

U home?

Just got in.

Tired?

Fucked.

Get some kip. Call me 2morrow.

Danny smiled.
Try and stop me.

Chapter Nine

F
INN
CROUCHED
on the stage, jiggling the lead that connected the bass amp to the power supply. The rest of the band had long since lost patience and stomped back to the dressing room, leaving the broken amp to the road crew, but Finn persevered. The task gave him something to do and distracted him from preshow jitters he’d never quite learned to control, the nerves that made every show feel like the first.

The amp whistled, low at first, then loud enough to make Finn cringe, then it crackled and hissed and his persistence paid off. He picked up Bigsy’s discarded bass guitar and ran through a few riffs, completing the sound check that had been interrupted by the amp’s demise.

He got lost for a while. He hadn’t played bass in ages, and Bigsy’s guitar was awesome, especially when he was too grumpy to stick around and stop Finn playing it. The thicker strings were harder to manipulate, but Finn enjoyed the low, soulful rhythm until the doors to the venue opened and he made his escape backstage.

He found the band lounging around. None of them cared much for preshow rituals. Ben and Bigsy played cards in the corner, and Jack was on the couch, tapping a restless beat on his thigh, engrossed in something on his phone.

Finn stepped around him and retrieved his own phone from his coat pocket. He’d been checking it all day, hoping for a message from Danny, and this time he got lucky.

Play something for me….

Finn felt a pull in his chest. He hadn’t seen Danny for more than a week, not since he’d woken alone with only a bed that smelled of Danny and sex to show Danny had ever been there at all. Danny had worked every day since, and by the time he’d had an evening free, Finn had been on his way to London for the Lamps’ last run of gigs before they took a break over Christmas.

Finn shot a text back, wishing Danny was there to hear the song Finn had in mind for him. Danny was a reserved bloke, quiet… stoic, but there was no denying music got under his skin, and there was nothing Finn loved more than reeling Danny in… watching his eyes darken and his smile turn wistful. Sometimes Finn felt desperate to know what he was thinking, but others… nah. The smile was enough.

Half his mind back in bed with Danny, Finn glanced around the room again. The band was due on stage in fifteen minutes, but no one seemed to care. Instead the room had grown quiet and every man’s gaze was trained on the TV, watching the nine o’clock news.

The news? Really?
“What the fuck are you watching?”

No one answered. Finn looked to the screen to see what had captured his usually disinterested bandmates so entirely. An image of a local motorway bridge flashed up. A body of a young woman had been found beneath it. The cause of death was unknown, but by the massive police presence, Finn guessed she’d been murdered.

“It’s the third one,” Jack said to no one in particular. “They reckon it’s a serial killer, like that bloke back in the eighties. What was his name?”

“Yorkshire Ripper,” Ben said. “Or was it Jack the Ripper?”

“Same thing, innit?”

Finn rolled his eyes and kicked Bigsy’s leg. “I don’t give a fuck what he’s called. Get your arses ready to go on stage.”

“Don’t kick me, you fucking twat. I’ll knock your block off.”

Finn bristled. Bigsy had been in a bad mood all day. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothin’.”

“Yeah? So why do you want to fight me?”

Bigsy’s growly expression softened to reveal a weariness Finn hadn’t noticed before. “Sorry, mate. Just got some family stuff pissing me off.”

“Gemma giving you gip?”

“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen her in weeks.”

Finn held out his hand and hauled Bigsy to his feet. “Anything I can do?”

“You’re doing it, mate. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay once we get out there.”

T
WO
HOURS
later Finn jumped off stage, sweaty, buzzed, ears ringing and his bones vibrating from the stamping feet of the ten-thousand-strong crowd. It had been their biggest gig of the year, selling out the Brixton venue, and it had been a banger. Finn had played an old Idlewild song for Danny alone on his acoustic guitar. One of the road crew had videoed it, a request the bloke had obviously thought odd since Finn usually avoided cameras like the plague.

Finn e-mailed the footage to Danny, then helped the roadies pack up the gear. Bigsy and the others were staying the night in London with their significant others, but Finn and Jack were driving home, both of them itching to get back to their men.

The band parted ways. The road crew took the sound equipment, leaving Finn with the instruments packed into the van. He looked around for Jack. It took him a while to find him puking his guts up in the backstage bathroom.

Finn’s heart sank. Jack had suffered from crippling migraines for as long as Finn had known him. The affliction had briefly forced him out of the dance clubs and into the production studio, but he’d been on some nuclear medication for the past year or so, and the attacks had become so sporadic Finn had almost forgotten about them.

Almost.

Finn crouched and put his arm around Jack. He knew it was little comfort when Jack felt so rough, but there wasn’t much else he could do. “Drugs will kick in soon, mate.”

“Haven’t got any. Ran out.”

Jack pushed his forehead against his drawn-up knees. Finn rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he could do more.

“Have you got any at home?”

“No. The prescription’s in my wallet. I forgot to get it filled.”

Shit. Finn didn’t know what to do. It was past midnight, too late for any pharmacies he knew of to be open. “Do you want to crash at the hotel across the road?”

It was the last thing on earth Finn wanted to do. He wanted to go home, send a dirty text to Danny, and sleep in his own bed. But he knew Jack: he needed a quiet, dark room, and the sooner, the better.