Darkness Falls - DS Aector McAvoy Series 0.5 (2020)

by David Mark

  We both laugh, and Tony turns his head to stare out the window. He doesn’t want to get back out of the car. The weather is too miserable. The storm isn’t angry. More suicidal.

  “Oh fuck it,” he says, and opens the door. The wind charges in and whips up a maelstrom to match the one in my mind. “I’ll call you later.”

  He stumbles out and runs back to his car, jacket over his head.

  The sky is almost black now, marbled with the grey of the storm clouds and the purple haze of the chemical plants at the estuary’s mouth.

  Pull out my phone. Trying to get ahead of the game. Scroll down and call Roper. He answers on the fourth ring, fashionably late.

  “Now then, sunbeam,” he says. “You not fancy the trip to the woods?”

  “Popped up and back again,” I say, smile in my voice. “Nothing to see. Figured you’d give me preferential treatment.”

  “You’ve got my mobile number. What more you want?”

  “The lot.”

  “You’ll be lucky. Don’t know much myself yet. Give me a bit of time and I will. You reckon this will go national?”

  “Definitely, if you give me it first. I know you’re a busy boy, but ask Simmo to give me a bell as soon as you get anything. Day or night. I don’t sleep much.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “No. Your lass keeps me up.”

  We laugh, two blokes, pretending to banter. Pretending to like each other.

  “All I can tell you is it’s almost certainly drugs-related. We’re looking at CCTV footage now, but without much success. It could be a gang-style execution, how about that? Worth a headline?”

  “Belter. Stay in touch.”

  “Do my best.”

  Click, and he’s gone.

  I’m alone, watching the last of the lights come on.

  The bridge illuminated. A pathway of yellow bulbs, beckoning me like a moth.

  Watching the water.

  17

  Tony calls as I’m on my way to my see Satan’s mum, stuck in traffic on Holderness Road. McDonalds on my right, kebab shop on my left. Grotty end of town. Stout young mothers with knocked-off pushchairs; old blokes in comfortable slacks and Dunlop trainers, pottering down the pavements, waiting for the chippies to open. Soaked through and wind-blown. Pale faces and grey eyes. Garish under the street lights. A land of people who don’t brush their hair at the back.

  The darkness is almost iridescent. Multi-coloured, like a pigeon’s neck.

  Jess’s picture, lighting up.

  Tony’s mobile number illuminating the screen.

  Me. Too busy to deal with him: “Tony, mate. This going to be good?”

  “Fucking corker, lad. Just got off the phone to my mate in CID. No formal ID until first thing, but they know ‘em both. The one that got shot is local, some shitty little dealer from Orchard Park. Real ratty fucker. Record as long as my knob. 23-year-old, called, hang on a sec… Daz Norton, that’s it. Lived on Gildane, off Danepark. Not exactly classy.”

  “Is that near the cop-shop? Where they found that lass a couple of years back?”

  “Aye, that’s the one. Anyway, doubt we’ve lost a brain surgeon there. Got shot in the face. Not much of it left. The other one, though, he’s the real deal.”

  Eager now, but trying not to sound it - waiting for the name of the man I killed, scribbling in shorthand on the back of a betting slip.

  “He’s a Leeds lad. Proper gangster by the sounds of it. Alfie Prescott. 33. Fucking head case from what my mate says. Works for some other nutjob in Leeds. Something Petrovsky. Getting it bottomed out as we speak. You know those Dutch lorry drivers got send down a few months back. The ones on the ferry? Got about 16 years apiece for all the Charlie? Well Prescott was named as the guy who set it all up. Could have connections right up to the big players in Holland. Did a stretch for GBH a few years ago. Doesn’t even try to act legit. Known as a problem-solver. Coppers were fucking terrified of him. Anyway, he got his head ventilated with a rock by the looks of things.”

  A tremble in my throat, nails eating into the palms of my hands.

  “Wonder what he was doing around here then. Your lad say?”

  “All I got was a feeling. If this little weasel was a foot-soldier, a crappy little pusher, he might have pissed off the wrong people. Maybe Prescott was here to do him, and got jumped straight after. Any luck, we’ll have a fucking gang war before the end of the week.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What’s next then? You going to knock the family? Name him?”

  “Trying to get it confirmed from another source now, but the desk are jumpy. Probably hang fire until the morning. You?”

  “Follow your lead, mate. I’ll let the desk know, make myself look good, like.”

  “You owe me one.”

  “You owe me one more.”

  “Laters, mate.”

  “Aye, cheers.”

  Switch the phone off. Stare at the scrawl on the betting slip.

  Notice I’ve drawn a tombstone.

  Look up at the sound of honking from behind. There’s a gap in the traffic ahead of me. A cyclist nips into the gap from the pavement to my left, darts behind a bus. He turns his head as he disappears out of sight, and for an instant his face is a tapestry of blood, his features twisted and obscured beneath the thick fluid. Eyes empty, teeth dropping into the black cavity of his ravaged throat and jaw.

  Then he’s gone, and I’m looking at the roadside again.

  I release the handbrake and ease forward, rubbing my eyes.

  18

  Detective Superintendent Doug Roper sits on the edge of his desk like a funky newsreader and casts his eyes over a report he’s read a dozen times. The cameras are rolling, so he makes it seem like he’s fascinated. Cocks an eyebrow, like he’s seen something everybody else has missed. Nods, gently. Hint of a smile.

  “Cut,” says whatshername. “Perfect,” she adds, as if he didn’t know.

  He asks for a moment to himself and leaves the room. In a moment he’ll have to put a warm hand on the shoulder of the ugly bastard downstairs who just identified the body with the bullet-hole in it. Have to pretend he gives a shit. That he somehow cares that the world is shy one more useless prick.

  Interesting, though, he thinks. Bit of a surprise to hear the name. Been a silly boy, ain’t you, he says to the dead. Could all work out nicely, this. Few phonecalls, little bit of pressure, delicate prod and poke. Couldn’t have asked for more.

  Time to drop the gun, he thinks?

  No, he decides. Always nice to have a trump card.

  Surprise about the other one, though. Big fucker. Hard as nails. Couldn’t have gone down easy.

  Might be worth throwing the press a bone. Let somebody in and bank the favour. Owen? Fuck that. Arrogant little shit. Never looks away. Always meets your eyes. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, would you? Wouldn’t know what he did.

  Tony H, he decides. Bring in the rat.

  So much to do and so little time.

  His mobile rings and he sees that it’s McAvoy’s number. He titters, as he imagines the poor cunt still plugging away at the computer, trying to track down every member of the national radio controlled car club. Got his moment in the spotlight, didn’t he? Found Ella’s body, Made the arrest. Promotion and a transfer. Onto Supercop’s team. But not one of the boys, yet. Doesn’t know when to leave well alone.

  The phone stops ringing, eventually.

  Roper strokes his moustache. Breathes deep as he does a round-up of things to worry about.

  Still no word on the cell-mate.

  A lesser man would get twitchy, he tells himself.

  A lesser man wouldn’t have got this far, he replies.

  19

  Twenty minutes later. Third in line in the queue for chips. Last in line, truth be told.

  The smell of fried fish. Grease. Bleach. Lights too bright. Doing to my eyes what a low buzzing would do to my ears.

&n
bsp; Me feeling peculiar. Floating above it all, looking at myself through a telescope.

  Trying to tear my eyes away from the woman behind the counter. Late-40s. Big hair. Batter blonde. Gold earrings. Maybe 4ft 10 if she’s wearing heels. Busy. Boisterous. Soft cheeks. One tooth too many in her top row. Pink tongue. Wrinkles at her eyes. Too much mascara. Smoker-pink cheeks. She’s not fat but could do with being wound tighter from the top. Breasts four inches lower than they should be. Just soft lumps, visible through her T-shirt and striped tabard.

  She moves away from the counter, tray in hand, and picks up a newly fried piece of haddock from the stack behind her. Places it on a mountain of chips. She does it right. Perfect. Probably very Feng Shui. She shakes on salt and vinegar without being asked and starts to wrap it.

  She’s wearing leggings. Black. White trainers and slouch-socks. Hasn’t even looked at me yet.

  I turn my head away, stare at the patterns in the perm of the pensioner in front. She just wants chips. Done in a moment. The woman behind the counter treats her nicely. The old dear blathers on about the weather. Tells her she’s going to her daughter’s for Sunday lunch and she’s almost got all of the shopping done. Calls the younger woman Lena as they chat. Doesn’t ask her what she has planned for the big day. Lena smiles at her as they talk, gives nods of encouragement. Knocks a few pence of the price. Won’t hear of her paying the full whack, but tells her not tell her friends. Calls her Flo. Flo grins like she’s won the Lottery and tells me Lena’s got a heart of gold. She says it almost sadly. Puts the parcel in her shopping bag and totters to the door.

  Lena watches her go. Waves. Gives a little smile. Looks up and raises her eyebrows. They need plucking.

  No recognition.

  No interest.

  “Yes love?” she says, encouragingly.

  I drink her in for a moment.

  “Mrs Cadbury?”

  She flinches at the name. Her mouth straightens into a thin line. Her hands go

  straight into the pockets of her tabard, like a cowboy going for his six-shooter, and she steps back from the counter.

  “Owen Lee,” I say quickly as she begins walking around to the open hatchway. “From the Press Association. You said you could spare me…” I fade out as she marches around the counter, disappearing for a moment as she passes the jar of pickled eggs. A foreign-looking guy peers his head over the fryer, further back in the shop. He’s young. Maybe my age. Olive-skinned and stubbly. I size him up and fancy my chances.

  She emerges on the tiled shop floor and carries on past me to the front door, pulling a bundle of keys on a curly pink cord from the pocket of her tabard. She shoves one in the lock and turns it. I see her face reflected in the glass of the rain-lashed front door. There’s anger in her eyes. Passion. Uncertainty. She looks like she’s in the middle of an argument with some offending husband and can’t decide whether to fuck him or leave him. I know the look well.

  She flips the sign on the door to “closed” and turns back to me. She wipes a

  hand on her apron and comes forward. She’s even smaller than I thought. A quarter of the size of the vast brute she gave birth to a quarter of a century ago. He must have sucked her dry.

  “You had to pick tea-time did you? Busiest time, love.”

  “Sorry,” I say, floundering. “I could come back …”

  “No you’re here now. Savio!” She shouts over her shoulder to the young man, not taking her eyes off mine. “I’m shutting for a few minutes. You go and see how much scampi we’ve got left in the freezer. Then take your break.” She raises her hands and gives a shrug, then mutters, almost to herself: “Not exactly bloody heaving anyway.”

  She points me through the hatchway and the kitchen to a side door. She puts a hand on my arm as I pass, to steer me, and I have to stop myself jolting at the contact.I’m led down a corridor. I find myself wishing she’d take my hand, and let me float behind her like a balloon on a string. I’m gazing at my feet as I walk, my boots leaving wet footprints on the blue patterned carpet, getting dizzy in the swirls.

  The carpet comes to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs. The patterns don’t match up as it starts up the single flight.

  I hold the bannister as I follow Lena. Her arse is three steps in front of my face, and I’m feeling weird, trying to think of something to say. She’s muttering about excusing the mess and hoping we can keep this brief.

  I close my eyes and bump into a wall, knocking a pencil sketch of a horse and hounds askew. Lena looks at me and I mumble an apology, and then I’m bumbling into the darkened living room, plonking down on a rocking chair too close to the electric fire. It’s the only light in the room.

  “Are you all right, love?” she asks with genuine concern. “You don’t look too good.”

  “Really?” I say, squinting up at her. “You look fantastic.” I smile as I say it to let her know I’m not a twat, but I sense it looks like a grimace, and stop. I purse my lips to fight down the nausea, and wish she’d offer me a glass of water.

  Lena looks taken aback but not offended. She unfastens her apron and pulls it over her head. She lays it down on the sofa and sits next to it, hands clasped between her knees. She doesn’t seem to mind the half gloom, but it’s too heavy for me. I can’t really make anything out. There are lumps in the darkness. I can see the shapes of pictures on the wall but not their contents. I can’t get a sense of my surroundings. There are squares of deep jet against charcoal.

  “Any chance of a light on?” I hear the whine in my voice as I say it, and give a cough. I give myself a more manly lilt as I carry on. “I look better in the light.”

  Lena gives a shrug, gets up and switches on the big light. It’s garish. There’s no shade. A single bulb hangs in the centre of the room and its glow is harsh, aggressive.

  Lena returns to her seat and gestures up at the light. “I never have it on myself.

  I like it cosy.”

  The brightness hits me like a slap. I let my face become charming, open my eyes wide and fix them on Lena, giving her a shake of the head and a gentle smile. “I can see again.”

  “It’s always so bright in the shop,” she says, by way of explanation. “I get these awful headaches. I just use the telly and the fire when I’m up here.”

  “Even for reading?”

  “I’m not much of a one for reading. I used to read the Hull Mail. But then it got too hard.”

  “Too hard?”

  “All the nasty things. All the violence. When you live alone you don’t always want to know there are psychopaths walking the streets.” I hear it as cycle-paths. I always do.

  “There’s just you, then? No man around.”

  “No, not for a while.” There’s regret in her voice. Acceptance, too. “Never had that much luck with the buggers.” She looks me up and down for the first time and I can sense her weighing me like a fish. I’m happy to play up to it, to be on display. There’s a certain quality to her gaze. Perhaps a hunger. She doesn’t seem as defensive as I’d feared. I might be done in half an hour. Maybe less. Say my goodbyes and then go and visit my sister. Work out my frustrations.

  I look around the room as I stick a hand in my pocket and retrieve my notebook. My fags are in the way and I pull them out and lay them on the arm of the chair. Lena looks at them and I offer her one. She nods furiously. I half get out of my chair to reach across to her and she does the same. We meet in the centre of the room, half-crooked. I light hers first, but the lighter dies before my own ignites. I start patting my pockets with the unlit fag in my mouth. Lena takes the end between finger and thumb and leans forward, pressing the glowing ember of her own cigarette to mine. I breathe deeply and our eyes lock, only inches apart. We both smile, and then she’s embarrassed and retreats to the chair. I do the same, feeling better.

  The room is almost bare. Neat. Simple. Brown carpet, Ikea rag-rug. Old-fashioned sideboard against one wall. Portable TV next to the fire. A frosted glass window set in one wall, nex
t to a bare white door. Floral wallpaper on the chimney breast, pale pinky colour on the others. Half a dozen Christmas cards on the mantlepiece over the fire. All of its bars glowing red. All of the pictures on the wall are classless classics. Monet’s lilies. Cezanne’s bathers. Van Gogh’s chair. Ophelia, floating in death.

  No photographs.

  “Right,” I say, suddenly businesslike. Making a start on the pre-prepared bullshit. “As I explained, what I’m wanting to do is put the other side of the story. So often with these high-profile court cases, the accused is demonised to such an extent that nobody ever stops to think that they’re still a human being, or asks themselves what tragedies in their life led them down a certain road. As you’ve no doubt seen, your Shane has already been portrayed as an out-and-out monster. What I want is to get a piece written from your point of view, looking at his childhood, his background. As I’ve promised, we won’t identify you. It took a lot of courage for you to call me and believe me, we’ll respect your wishes. Now I’ve done quite a lot of research already and I know about which schools he went to, getting expelled at 15, floating between a few jobs and apprenticeship, and then ….”

  “And then?”

  “Well, and then, erm, the problems. The convictions. We’ll come to that later though. For now, it’s his childhood that intrigues me. Do you want to talk me through it?”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Well, am I right in thinking Shane was an only child?”

  “Yes.”

  Wait for more.

  Nothing comes.

  “And his father?”

  “Not around.”

  She’s looking down, now. Seems to be chewing on something but there’s nothing in her mouth. Picking at a stubby hangnail on her right hand. Scratching a spot on her hairline. All the little twitches that seem to bring comfort in times of strife. Grieving mothers, angry fathers, broken loved ones turned inside out with emotion; they all give the same performance, and I conduct it like an orchestra. I’ve seen it all before. It’s punctuation for their pain. As much a part of the dance as my soft voice, my understanding eyes, warm palms laid on their colds hands; giving the odd choke on a syllable as I lay myself bare and share their pain; pretending to give a fuck about their little Jimmy.