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  Praise for Chris Simms

  ‘Chris Simms has been quietly building one of the best police procedural series in this country.’

  (CATHOLIC HERALD)

  Simms has written a gritty novel that grips from start to finish. I just couldn’t put it down.’ (HORRORSCOPE)

  ‘An absolutely ace British police procedural.’

  (IRISH INDEPENDENT)

  ‘After many years of reviewing crime fiction, it’s not often my jaded nerves get actually, physically jangled.’

  (MORNING STAR)

  ‘An intricate plot is enhanced by good writing and human sympathy. Highly recommended.’ (LITERARY REVIEW)

  This Amazon reader says . . .

  ‘I’ll be downloading more of Chris Simms’ books ASAP. I feel like I’ve discovered a hidden gem.’

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  Contents

  Praise for Chris Simms

  Get your FREE book

  Tick Tock

  Killing the Beasts

  Some Amazon reader reviews for Killing the Beasts

  About the author

  Tick Tock

  Chris Simms

  The incessant sound finally forced his eyes open. There it was, sitting on the breezeblock beside the mattress. Tick tock, tick tock. Round-faced pain in the arse. He focused on its hands. Twenty to three. In the morning? he wondered. What time we did we crash out? He swivelled a blood-tinged eye.

  The small rip in the bottom corner of the blanket nailed over the window frame was glowing white. The afternoon, then. His stomach growled and he had the notion it was twisting in on itself, trying to wring out any fragment of food that might have been within it. Tick tock, tick tock. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he turned onto his back. ‘Fucking starving.’

  From under the sheets beside him came a low groan.

  ‘Elaine? I said - ’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ He propped himself on one elbow, blinked a few times and looked down at his body. He still had his t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms on. His battered trainers poked out from the other end of the grimy blanket. Letting his head fall to the side, his eyes went to the little tray on the bare floorboards. A quick hit, just to dull the hunger. Among the paraphernalia next to the little Perspex bag was a syringe, soiled teaspoon and lighter. Frowning, he collapsed forward onto both elbows, the movement taking his upper body off the mattress and his face to within inches of the tray. Empty. The fucking bag was empty. He was about to curse her when a memory fought its way through the cotton wool filling his head. I had the last hit. After she’d passed out. Bollocks.

  He raised himself onto his knees, further disturbing the sheets in the process. She yanked them back over her head without a sound. His stomach rumbled again and he got to his feet. Walking a little unsteadily, he crossed the room and stepped out into the dim corridor.

  The kitchen was opposite. Opening the door revealed a room with ruptured plaster where a cooker, dishwasher and radiator had once been. In the middle of the room was a table. On it was a bottle of ketchup and a crumpled plastic bag. He looked inside, removed the final slice of bread, squirted ketchup over it then smeared it about with his fingertip. After licking his nail clean, he folded the slice over and crammed the entire thing in his mouth. The jaw muscles of his gaunt face pulsed slowly as he chewed. The first swallow sent his guts churning, reverberations spreading straight to his lower stomach. He forced the last lumps down before stepping back out of the kitchen and into the bathroom next door. A single cardboard tube was lying on the cistern.

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured. ‘I need to shit.’

  The front door opened and his head poked out. Littering the floor of the shared hallway was the usual assortment of junk mail and flyers. Hanging from the letterbox was someone’s newspaper. Quick as a flash, he tugged it through and retreated into the little flat; a trap-door spider with its prey. The headline on the front cover announcing that day’s royal visit was torn in half as he scuttled back to the toilet.

  She heard a door bang shut followed by the plastic clatter of the toilet seat. Immediately she grubbed across the bed, head emerging above the works spread out on the tray. Bastard. The last of the gear was gone.

  ‘Bastard!’ she shouted.

  No reply.

  When she stepped off the mattress, the floor was cold underfoot. She slid her feet into her trainers, fingers running through her lank brown hair as she did so. Out in the corridor, she thumped a fist against the bathroom door. ‘Bastard.’

  But the word was delivered with less venom: last to sleep got last go with the gear. That was the unspoken rule.

  Dropping the empty packet of bread back on the table, she checked the bathroom door was still shut before crouching at the filthy cooker in the corner to open the drawer in its base. Hidden inside was a three-pack of Mars Bars. She ripped the wrapper off one and started to bite. The toilet flushed just as she swallowed the last of it down.

  ‘You finished the end of the bread,’ she announced as he stepped back into the room.

  ‘Come on,’ he replied, gently probing the sore below his left nostril.

  ‘What?’

  But the question didn’t need asking. Their supply of heroin was gone. Tick tock, tick tock. Not long until the need for more started to really kick in.

  ‘Train station,’ he said. ‘We haven’t done that for a bit.’

  She hovered at the chiller section, one ear cocked toward the till. As soon as she heard him say to the cashier, green, not red, she lifted the tube off the shelf and stuffed it up the elasticated sleeve of her faded red top. When she joined him at the counter, the cashier was turning back with a pack of red Rizlas in her hand.

  She eyed the pair of them suspiciously. ‘Anything else?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then that’s sixty pence.’

  Rummaging in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, he extracted a few coins and held his dirty palm out.

  Gingerly, the shop assistant picked out three twenty pence pieces.

  As they tottered along the pavement with stiff little steps, he spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘What did you get?’

  She produced the tube of Dairy Lea.

  He scowled. ‘That it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She unscrewed the cap, tilted her head back and squirted a worm-cast of pale yellow into her mouth. Memories came flooding back. The farm out near Oldham, sitting in the kitchen as her mum placed a mound of triangular slices on the table, each one thick with creamy cheese.

  ‘Give us it, then.’ His hand was raised, fingers outstretched.

  She passed it across while pressing the blob against the roof of her mouth, forcing it between the gaps in her teeth.

  The gently curving concourse which led up to the entrance of Piccadilly Station was heaving. His eyes darted about. Handbags were hanging off shoulders everywhere. They continued along the pavement, a row of shops on their left. Every ten metres, he noted with irritation, there seemed to be the day-glo tabard of a British Transport Police Officer.

  Behind the bus shelter to the side of the station’s main entrance was an eight metre high metal post. The CCTV camera on top of it whirred faintly as the lens angled down.

  Inside the station’s monitoring room, a man in a white shirt with the word security stitched across its left breast spoke up. ‘Darren Fletcher. You definitely don’t want him in here.’

  Next to him was a man wearing a dark blue suit, cream shirt and turquoise tie. ‘Who?’ he asked with a crisp, Home Counties accent.

  The camera operator pressed a couple of buttons, his other hand working a joystick mounted at th
e centre of the console before him. The main image on the bank of screens switched to the flow of people outside. ‘Him,’ the operator stated, zooming in. ‘Utter scrote. He’ll slip in with the crowd, looking for handbags.’

  The man in the suit checked the digital clock on the wall. Two minutes past three. ‘The cavalcade is due in twelve minutes, the royal train departs at three twenty-five. Can you radio your colleagues at the entrance to pull him to one side?’

  The operator nodded before speaking into his headset. ‘Gavin? You’ve got a bag-snatcher a little to your right, moving towards the doors. Male, mid-twenties, shaved head with a black shell suit and dirty white trainers. Tell him to hop it.’

  Fletcher saw the British Transport Police officer standing to the side of the doors raise a hand to his ear piece. Instinctively, he changed direction, putting a large man between him and the officer. The policeman gestured to his colleague and they started straight towards him, eyes sweeping the flow of people. Fletcher kept in close to the overweight man, head ducked down. The policeman went up on tip toes as Fletcher passed through the doors. Some kind of crowd control barriers were up ahead and he cut into Superdrug.

  Elaine trailed him in. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Can’t believe the amount of pigs,’ he replied, making his way to the rear of the shop. ‘Wasn’t sure if the two at the doors had spotted me.’ Moving behind a shelving unit, he unzipped his top. ‘Swop.’

  ‘You what?’

  The skin on his neck was beginning to itch and he felt sweat breaking under his arms. An hour, he thought. Even if things go well, we won’t be scoring for another hour. He jiggled from foot to foot. ‘Give us yours. Come on.’

  She peeled off her hooded top, revealing a pale green t-shirt beneath. Once they’d exchanged items, he licked his lips, thinking about the police barriers. Must be a football match or something. The sleeves of her top were too short for his arms and he checked that the track lines on both his forearms weren’t showing. ‘Right, we keep away from the main hall. That bit outside the coffee shop with all the chairs? Let’s try there first.’

  ‘OK.’

  He moved back to the shop’s entrance, aware he was about to become visible to the station’s CCTV cameras once more. Lowering his head, he rejoined the mass of people, oblivious to the enormous plasma screen high up on the far side of the terminal.

  The local news was beaming out from it; a live report about Prince William having just opened a new drug treatment centre in nearby Salford. The footage showed the next-in-line to the throne waving at a modest crowd before climbing into the rear of a black Daimler. The car took central position in a row of vehicles which was then led off down the street by two police motorbikes. The camera swung back to the reporter who announced the prince was travelling by train back to London.

  Skirting round the base of an escalator leading up to the balcony terrace, the pair made their way past a WHSmith, Boots and Yo Sushi! outlet. The shops ended at a seating area. Waist-high canvas screens bearing a coffee chain’s logo had been erected around a cluster of metal tables and chairs. People were sipping at drinks and picking at muffins.

  Fletcher sidled up to the perimeter, making a show of studying the departure screens above the entrances to the platforms. Pointing at the screen, he murmured, ‘Four tables along. Woman with her back to us. See?’

  Elaine’s eyes slid across. The lady was somewhere in her fifties. An expensive-looking beige leather handbag was hanging off the back of her chair which was within easy reaching distance of the perimeter screens. Elaine gave a quick nod.

  Fletcher thought about the little pub tucked away in the maze of streets making up the Northern Quarter nearby. ‘Meet outside The Crown and Anchor if I get it.’

  The control room operator narrowed his eyes. ‘Fletcher. Next to Café Gino. He’s scoping it out. For sure.’

  The man in the suit sighed. ‘Which screen?’

  ‘Four. He’s changed his top somehow. Might be working with that skinny lass. The one just entering the seating area now.’

  The suited man looked at the screens displaying the view of the station concourse. Officers were positioned at the barriers at the end, preventing any vehicle from turning off the main road. He raised a handset to his lips. ‘Control Point, Piccadilly. Cavalcade status, please.’

  ‘Mancunian Way, passing the University buildings. ETA, five minutes.’

  He lowered his handset. ‘I don’t need any commotion when they enter the terminal. Get that little prick lifted.’

  The camera operator flicked to another view. Four British Transport Police officers were positioned at the top of the stairs leading up from the taxi rank at the back of the station. ‘Dave. You and one other. Café Gino. There’s a male, mid-twenties, shaved head, red top. He’s standing by the side of the partitions of the seating area. Remove him from the terminal, immediately.’

  Elaine made her way between the tables, stopping before the target. ‘That chair taken?’ she asked, wiping her nose with the back of a hand.

  The woman looked up, registering the dishevelled appearance and unwashed hair. ‘Erm – sorry.’ She gestured towards the café. ‘My husband. He’s in there getting served.’

  Elaine pretended to be in two minds over whether to sit down anyway as Fletcher unhooked the handbag and stuffed it up the red top he now wore. He started making for the stairs which led down to the station’s taxi rank. Two fluorescent jackets appeared directly in front. One officer raised a hand. ‘You!’

  Fletcher span on his heel and burrowed back through the crowd, risking a glance over his shoulder as he did so. The two officers were now trying to wave people out of the way, one of them speaking rapidly into his radio. Fletcher moved past the Boots store, sensing the net was swiftly closing. But the bag had too much inside to give up yet.

  Through the plate glass doors at the entrance, he saw more officers starting to turn their heads as a colleague waved a hand. Shit. That left the far side doors, the ones leading out into the rear car park. He broke into a half run, knocking some kid over. The crowd thickened closer to the barriers and he bent forward to force his way between the press of bodies. Past a Cornish Pasty place and then out into the fresh air.

  He ran round the corner, lungs burning. Before him a deserted service road ran along the back of the shops that lined the station’s concourse. Markings on the concrete denoted bays where delivery vehicles were permitted to unload. On the other side of the road was row upon row of parked vehicles.

  Fletcher started towards the main road, but quickly realised he would never make it before the pursuing officers spotted him. After fifty metres, he veered into the car park. Gasping for breath, he crouched down beside a vehicle and peeped through its windows. A moment later, three officers rounded the corner of the terminal. They slowed to a stop and started looking to each side.

  Up on the roof of a renovated warehouse next to the railway terminal, an officer lowered his binoculars. ‘Something going off in the car park behind the station.’

  His colleague gazed downwards.

  ‘A guy just ran out. See him squatting behind that car? About a dozen rows in? I think those three officers are after him.’

  His colleague spoke into the mouthpiece of his headset. ‘Obs Point Five to Control Point Piccadilly.’

  The suited man in the train station’s monitoring room lifted his handset. ‘Go ahead Obs Point Five.’

  ‘We’ve got an adult male concealing himself in the British Rail car park behind the station. Three Transport Police appear to be trying to locate him.’

  ‘You have visual contact?’

  ‘Yes. He’s…hang on…fourteen rows down, next to a dark blue people carrier. Renault, I think. It’s six cars in.’

  The suited man turned to the camera operator. ‘Did you get that?’

  ‘I did, but we’ve got no cameras there. Gavin? There’s an apartment hotel overlooking you. Surveillance unit on its roof has spotted him. Fourteenth
row of vehicles down. Hiding by the side of a dark blue people carrier, six cars in.’

  Beside him, the suited man spoke into his handset. ‘Control Point Piccadilly. Cavalcade status?’

  ‘Turning off the Mancunian Way. ETA three minutes.’

  Fletcher could feel his heart hammering at the back of his throat. He looked down where the sleeves of Elaine’s top had ridden up. Beneath the rivulets of black dots running down each forearm, his veins strained against the skin. They’ll give up, he told himself. There must be hundreds of cars here.

  The uniform in the middle seemed to look up at a building then nod. He spoke quietly to his colleagues. One peeled off to the left, one to the right and all three started forward. Fletcher glanced in the other direction. A good hundred metres to the main road and the safety of the Northern Quarter beyond. The officers were now three rows in. They’ll give up soon, he thought. They must do. But they continued to advance, one with his eyes firmly on the vehicle Fletcher was hiding behind.

  A small white van appeared round the corner of the terminal, coming from the direction of the catering units used for supplying the inter-city trains with food. The officers were now eight rows away. Fletcher watched as the van pulled up in the loading bay behind one of the shops and turned its hazard lights on. A man of about twenty got out, hurried round the vehicle and disappeared through the rear door of the premises. Fletcher could see he’d left the engine running.

  The surveillance officer on top of the nearby building spoke. ‘Obs Point Five to Central Control. A van has just pulled up at the rear of one of the shops that faces out onto the concourse.’

  The suited man looked at the bank of screens, wishing he could see what was going on. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

  Keeping as low as possible, Fletcher ran along his aisle of cars and bounded across the narrow road. He yanked the van’s door open. Yes! Keys were hanging from the ignition. As one of the officers shouted behind, he slammed the gear into first, popped the handbrake and shot forward. In the rearview mirror, he watched the three sprinting officers rapidly fall behind.