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ONE WEEK LATER

AFTERWORD

FOR RICHER, FOR POORER

DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN

1

Adam Compton undid his top button and tugged at the collar of his shirt.

The tut came almost instantly as Jessica Daniel nudged him in the ribs. ‘Stop fidgeting – we’re supposed to be incognito, not looking shiftier than a used-car salesman taking a lie-detector test.’

‘It’s itchy.’

‘Stop moaning and keep walking with me.’

Jessica stretched out and took his hand in hers, giving him a squeeze and leading him around a set of benches.

‘I still don’t get why I had to dress up?’ Adam complained.

‘You’re only wearing black trousers and a shirt – it’s hardly a tux. Besides, it’s because you’re out with me – not slumming it around the house watching children’s cartoons in your underwear. I’ve even got heels on for the first time this year.’

Adam glanced down as if he didn’t believe her, even though he had driven because she didn’t fancy chancing her feet on the car’s pedals while wearing them. ‘We’re at a railway station – it’s hardly dinner at the Ritz,’ he said.

Before she could reply, a public address announcement boomed around Manchester’s Piccadilly Station reminding everyone to keep their bags with them. Jessica continued to scan the crowd as they ambled past the main departure board for the fourth time, before stopping close to the exit and turning to look at the times on display.

Small groups of people mooched past, clinging onto their bags and squinting at the digital display board before pointing and heading off to their platforms. Men and women in business suits, children climbing over large cases as their parents scanned for the next train to the airport, scallies with their caps pulled down and hands jammed in pockets, City fans, United fans, teenagers – Jessica searched them all but no one stood out. At least not in the way she wanted.

Adam was fidgeting again. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him in anything other than a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Even when he went to his job at Manchester Metropolitan University, he got away with it by putting a jacket over the top.

The scruffy git.

He freed his hand from hers and tugged at his hair. She knew he was wishing it was long again, having caved in to her relentless nagging and had it sliced down to ear-length.

‘You’re not looking posh enough,’ Jessica said.

‘How do posh people look?’

‘They stand straighter and don’t pull at their hair.’

Adam pushed himself up onto the tips of his toes and cricked his back. ‘Do they stand near open doorways doing nothing as the wind howls through?’

‘We’re here for a reason.’

‘What reason?’

Jessica took his hand again and started to lead him across the concourse. Her heels clip-clopped awkwardly as she had to think her way through every step. This used to be easier when she was seventeen and sneaking off with her friend Caroline trying to get into pubs. Heel-toe, heel-toe, don’t step in the cracks between the tiles. Noise echoed around the enclosed area: footsteps, chatter, a child wailing, the whoosh of an espresso machine, ding-dong: ‘For security reasons, passengers are reminded to keep their bags with them at all times.’

All right, sod off, we get the message.

Jessica continued to peer at the crowd as she led Adam to an area close to the women’s toilets and turned to face a different departure board.

‘So . . . ?’ Adam said.

Jessica replied without facing him, still people-watching. ‘There are a few blank spots in the CCTV – where we were by the doors, here, over by the far tables at the coffee shop and a few other places.’

‘Are we trying to stay out of view?’

‘We’re trying to appear enticing. You’re failing.’

‘Enticing to who?’

Jessica spotted a teenage boy, fourteen or fifteen, squeezing between two people hauling suitcases behind them. He took a phone out of his pocket and stopped in front of a rotating advertising board to make a call. His slanted spiky hair pointed high to the heavens and he looked the type to have covered himself in half a can of deodorant that morning. Earring, arse hanging out of his trousers, shiny white trainers, fake gold bracelet, swagger: not who she was looking for.

As the board clicked over to 18.16, Jessica double-checked the catch on the small handbag hanging over her shoulder. That, the heels and the long dress weren’t just beginning to feel uncomfortable, they had been since the moment she’d tarted herself up. Not that she could tell Adam that after ticking him off for complaining. In many ways, it was a shame that the first time they’d got dressed up to go out in months involved them hanging around a train station. The fact it was for work purposes pretty much summed up their relationship.

‘There’ve been a series of pickpocketings here in the past month,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ve had people going over the CCTV but there’s never anything on there. The victims are always in the camera’s blind spots and dressed like we are: people who have come in to the city to go to a show, the Opera House, or for a swanky swingers’ party. Whoever our thief is knows the layout and how to get in and out without being seen. Every time we’ve had police down here, they make it so obvious they’re our lot that nothing ever happens. The security guards and transport police are as much use as sun cream in Manchester, so I told the guv I’d try something different.’

‘And that involves me?’

‘The victims are always part of a couple, so yes. Just stand there, gaze at the board and put on that innocent look you always have when I come downstairs late at night and you’re pretending you’ve not just wiped the laptop’s Internet history.’

Adam huffed in a way he probably thought was outrage but it only made him sound guiltier. Jessica nudged him gently and they started to loop around the station again, passing the escalator and the platform exits before heading towards the main doors. Jessica found a spot close to the hot-dog stall and tried not to wince as the scent of burnt onions wafted across. Even she was a better cook than that.

A Goth couple; a lone woman in higher heels than Jessica’s running as if the laws of gravity and physics didn’t apply; an old man with a walking stick and tattered brown coat; a student type in shorts and a T-shirt even though it was dark and November; a blonde girl no older than sixteen on her mobile phone: ‘No, I only snogged him, like . . . Get lost, you cheeky bitch, I don’t care what he says, I didn’t shag him.’ A pause to tug at an oversized hoop earring. ‘Oh, that time. Well, yeah, but it was only the once and I didn’t know he was going out with her. It didn’t last long anyway.’