Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

I saw Luke looking out on Saturday night. I don’t know why. No one is standing at the window today. My phone rings. It’s Rob updating me on a potential lead on Shane Baker. We discuss tactics for a couple of minutes. Before he hangs up, I say, ‘Do me a favour, will you?’

‘Another one?’ he asks. Humour underlies his playful sarcasm.

‘A body has been found in Cambridge. Chopped about by the sounds of it. See what you can find out about the victim.’

‘Drugs related?’

‘I don’t know anything other than what I’ve heard on the news. Check it out for me. See what you can find out.’

‘Leave it with me.’

‘Oh, and, Rob,’ I say as I smile and wave at Jim who is waiting for me outside the studio. ‘Don’t listen to me in the future when I place an order for that crap food you don’t seem to be able to live without.’

I end the call and walk over to Jim. He looks so well, his sun-kissed face glowing from yesterday’s trip to the beach. A far cry from the pale pained face of yesterday morning. ‘Good session?’ I ask, bending down to kiss him.

‘Great,’ he says, ‘I feel better today than I have in a long time. Minimal pain. A day at the beach did me good.’ We continue next door to Art’s studio. Expecting a sweaty atmosphere, I’m quite surprised by the calm and airy room. It has a citrusy smell, like a glass of freshly prepared lemonade. Floor to ceiling mirrors cover two of the walls which exaggerate the size of the space, and, apart from an extensive set of free weights, there’s surprisingly very little equipment. I look around. In the corner stands a state-of-the-art treadmill. The type that appears more complicated to operate than the police national computer after an upgrade. Being another scorcher of an afternoon, and still feeling queasy, I’m relieved to find air conditioning pumping throughout.

‘Glad you could come now,’ says Art. ‘It’s a quiet time of day.’ He slides one of the mirrors attached to rails to reveal a cupboard stacked with more fitness bits and pieces. There is a row of different sized kettlebells and medicine balls, foam rollers, boxing gloves and other equipment I can’t even name, let alone describe how they could possibly be used to better the human body. Art rolls two large gym balls into the middle of the room. They hit an exercise mat, and he signals for me to take a seat and for Jim to wheel himself over. He fills two plastic cups from a giant water bottle by the door and brings them over to us. ‘I ask my clients to bring their own reusable bottles to each session. It’s important to stay hydrated, especially in this weather.’

Art fetches his bottle and a clipboard then balances himself on the other ball. ‘I’m not sure how much Sash has told you, but I work holistically by creating a bespoke programme for each of my clients.’

He looks so different from the guy I met on Saturday. There’s something rogue about him today which I can’t explain. Maybe it’s his unkempt hair, or his gym attire – black shorts and a blood-red T-shirt. It shows off his muscular physique and is such a striking contrast to the tuxedo he was wearing on Saturday night which disguised his thick, bull-like neck.

‘To do that I need to gain a comprehensive understanding of you, both present and past. This allows me to set workable targets. There’s nothing less motivating than unrealistic goals.’ He bends over and reties his laces. ‘So, to do that, I need to know everything about you.’

This isn’t an understatement.

As soon as he starts enquiring into every microscopic fact about Jim’s medical background, I know this will take more than the half-hour visit I had anticipated. Jim reluctantly spills the details about the accident. Of what he can remember anyway. I butt in to complete the sentences he can’t finish because he doesn’t know how they end. He moves on to describe the extensive surgery that followed, when optimistic surgeons tried to put his broken body back together again. It takes a while.

I peer around the room. Behind me, a fascinating poster covers the entirety of the unmirrored wall like wallpaper. It details all six hundred and fifty muscles in the intricate machine better known as the human body. No wonder it stops working properly if those muscles are not all kept in sync. I peep at my watch. Joe has to be back in his classroom by six for his school play. I wanted to get home to take him myself, but the way things are moving, that’s not going to happen. Texting Gill, I ask her to take him and meet us there.

‘This is all going to be about building up your strength and core stability,’ Art tells Jim. ‘I think I’ll include some intense massage in your programme too, to begin with, if that’s OK with you. Get the knots out of those tight muscles.’ He goes on to explain what else his plans entail. He knows his stuff. I’ve always thought having a personal trainer outrageously self-indulgent, but I’m surprisingly impressed by this well-informed man. Before this meeting, I was sceptical about whether this was the right path for Jim. Is there a better direction for him to take? Countless tests have proved there is no medical explanation for his pain. All I know is, he can’t go on suffering, so we have to try something.

‘For the first month, can you fit in three sessions a week? Two here where we will work on the physical programme, and one down at my other gym where my massage room is set up. I’ll also write up a daily plan for you to do at home.’

Jim asks for my acceptance with a glance. I nod. I don’t think we have much choice. I make a mental note to call Mick. We’re going