by David Mark
As the words spew into the low cloud, it becomes harder and harder to look at Jess. In her, I see another life. Another person. Another Owen.
I suddenly can’t argue with any of it. McAvoy’s right.
Ella needs justice.
They all do.
And I have to pay for what I’ve done.
We climb inside the car, and sit, silently, watching the steam rise from our clothes and the rain on the windowpane.
Her: “We could run.”
Me: “I have to go back.”
Both of us, horrified at the words of the other. Then folding into a smile and another embrace.
“Will they catch you? How much money did you take?”
“I never counted it.”
I pull out the roll, and her lips move as she counts the £20 notes. “Just under £2,000,” she says.
It doesn’t seem very much.
“The gun?”
I pull it from his waist band and pass it to her. She holds it. Weighs it. She passes it back with a shudder. “I don’t like it,” she says.
I put it back where it belongs.
She reaches underneath herself and pulls out the wad of documents McAvoy had thrust at me. She starts sifting through them.
“It is important,” she says, softly, almost to herself. “Not just that somebody gets put away. But that the right person does. I suppose ordinary people just need to know that somebody has gone to prison for doing something wrong. It’s the people who are caught up in it, who are directly involved, that need something more than that. Some proof, deep down, that the world makes sense. That if you do something dreadful, it’ll catch up with you.”
All I can do is nod, and try not to look at the papers in her hand.
“This Ella,” she says, looking at a potted biography of the deceased. “She was a good person?”
“She never hurt anyone. She was a sweet girl, who died for no reason.”
“Would it make a difference if she had done something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly. “That’s my job, isn’t it? I deal with death almost every day. I see people at their most raw and exposed. You can come to convince yourself the world is chock-full of blood unless you find a way to reconcile it. So, yeah, if some hooker’s been found dead, you tell yourself she knew the risks and shouldn’t have been out. A bloke’s been kicked to death after a night out, you tell yourself he probably said the wrong thing, and what was he doing out on a weeknight when he had a baby at home? That’s what you do. You find a way to tell yourself that they would still be alive if they hadn’t been playing silly beggars. That way you can write about them and it doesn’t touch you. You can say they were fabulous people, without the burden of having an emotional connection to them. It was different with Ella. None of us knew why it had happened. None of us could find a bad word about her. Not even Tony. It was new for all of us. The whole pack. She was a good, decent person, and she was killed in such a horrible way.”
“What if she was seeing somebody else? If she was a bully at school? If she went on internet chat rooms and talked dirty with strangers? If she was a human and not a bloody angel?” Jess’s eyes flash fire. It’s as if she’s jealous of a dead girl.
“I don’t know,” I say, again, and it sounds so pitiful I want to bite it back. I try again. “It would be easier, yes. Easier for Tony, anyway. I’ve never known him so bloody respectful as on this case. Barely went near the family. Wasn’t at many of the press conferences. You know what he’s like. Can get the family to tell him their pin-number inside five minutes, most days. This one, he even gave the backgrounder to young Tom. I think it troubled him. Giving a shit.”
Jess scoffs. “Him? Care? The only way you could find that dirty sod’s heart is with a metal detector.”
I find myself smiling, because it’s a phrase I made up and she’s taken to copying. I should have known better than to mention his name. She likes me to have friends, but would rather I share a bolthole with Osama Bin Laden than a pint with Tony H.
I switch on the windscreen wipers for something to do, and a jumbled, opaque landscape appears on the glass. Wet. Desolate. Miserable. It occurs to me that all I want is in this car.
I take the sheet of paper from Jess.
Lean in and kiss her.
Pull back.
TO STOP MYSELF CRYING AGAIN, I look down at the documents, gulping hard.
The sheaf of papers is open on a report from the technology division. The history of Ella’s mobile phone. Calls in. Calls Out. Texts and pictures.
I look at the number that McAvoy has ringed in his sturdy, steady hand.
666
999.
The bat-phone.
60
Through the double doors. Past security and up the stairs.
A swirl of raindrops flying from his coat, McAvoy pushes through the throng of suits, and into the police room. He’s out of breath, but he’s keeping it controlled. He’s gulping down his panic. Stilling his heart. Knows this is important. Too important to mess up with excitement, silliness and panic.
He’s made a decision.
He’s elected to trust in the goodness of people. His belief that if you dig far enough, you will find even the worst person’s limit.
Roper’s sitting at the back of the room. He has an arm around Wendy Butterworth’s shoulders and he’s talking in a soft, hushed voice.
Two other detectives are talking gently into mobile phones in the rear of the shot, looking businesslike and efficient. On the case.
They look up as McAvoy enters, and just manage to stop themselves from groaning.
Wendy does not even raise her eyes. She is too far gone. Her existence too terrible. She has not experienced any happiness since her daughter was taken, save for the grim satisfaction that the man who did it will be locked away. Now that small glimmer of comfort is in doubt. Nothing makes any sense anymore. She would take her own life, were it not for anguish at knowing that her daughter’s killer would have claimed another victim.
Roper catches McAvoy’s eye, remembers he’s on camera, and smiles. “Yes, Sergeant? Any developments?”
“A moment of your time, sir,” he says. Calm. Even. Then nods towards the cameras, and shakes his head.
Roper looks puzzled. Angry, for a second, then accepting. He excuses himself, and steps lightly to McAvoy’s side.
“Well?” His tone is light and mocking. Smug and amused.
“Cadbury, sir. What’s happening?”
Roper rolls his eyes. “He’s in the cells. They’re probably going to call a halt to the trial. We’ll be back here in a few months doing it again, all being well.”
“And Lee?”
“Oh there’s a school of thought that he had something to do with Ella’s murder but I can’t see that coming to much. Not much need, neither. We’ll get him on all the others. No point tagging Ella on as well. Big case like that, needs its own hearing. No, we’ll get Owen for this week’s little trail of destruction and Cadbury for Ella. Job’s a good un.”
McAvoy nods. Tries not to let the anger into his face.
“Does it matter to you, sir? Whether or not they really are guilty?”
Roper snorts. “You getting holier than thou, son?”
“I am holier than thou. I’ve never met anybody less holy than thou.”
“Very good,” says Roper, smiling. Then he moves in a little closer. “What is it this time, laddo? What’s chafing at your nethers?”
“It wasn’t Cadbury,” he replies, calmly. “I never thought it was, and you know that. But I know who did it. He met her when he was judging the singing contest. He’s got a record as long as your arm. He’s a violent obsessive. Done time for it, years ago. The Mail reporter. Tony Halthwaite.”
Roper giggles. Shakes his head. “Tony H?”
McAvoy meets the other man’s gaze. “Yes.”
The moment stretches.
McAvoy waits for Roper’s mask to slip. For some hu
manity to smile out.
Roper drops his voice to little more than a whisper.
Then smiles.
“I know Tony H, son. Know him well. He’s a nasty little bastard. I know all about his fucking record. Checked him out the second he got the crime brief at the Mail. Filed it away in the old upstairs. A thing worth knowing. A trump card. But he’s got fuck all to do with this case.”
“That’s not true, sir. We know somebody was prowling around the Butterworths’ house not long before she died. That she’d had dubious messages on her phone. I checked the computer and the CCTV records and there was a Hull Mail fleet car in the area, both on the night of the sighting at her house, and the night she was killed.”
“Circumstantial,” he tuts.
“But enough to investigate. This is what I keep saying. It’s not about convictions, sir. It’s about truth.” McAvoy tries to stop his voice rising, but his angry hiss still prompts looks from the film crew and the other officers.
Roper treats them all to his best smile. Puts his mouth close to McAvoy’s ear.
“Fuck truth, son. Fuck it all. Fuck you, and Owen Lee and fuck Ella Butterworth. Silly slag probably had it coming. Maybe Tony H stabbed her. Maybe he didn’t. I don’t care. There’s enough on Cadbury to make it stick, so that’ll do. And Owen? Armed and dangerous, isn’t he? He won’t see the morning. Done me a good turn and drowned the chap who was becoming a problem. Didn’t even use the gun, which is fucking ungrateful, given what a bitch it was to get him out of the station with it in his grubby mitt. Tony’s my friendly face at the Hull Mail. He’s useful. He might have some demons, but haven’t we all? And as for you, laddo? You’re out of my department. You can go where you fucking like, but it’s not even funny watching you waste your time anymore.”
McAvoy rubs his hand across his forehead. He feels faint. Sick to his stomach. There’s blood thundering in his head.
“But he might do it again…” his voice has no strength.
“I always find the right man,” laughs Roper.
They look at one another. McAvoy, although taller, is stooped and weakened, so has to stare upwards to see into Roper’s eyes. They are black and lifeless. Nothing comes back save his own, uninspiring reflection.
McAvoy wants to say something clever. Make a threat. Make a scene.
But it will do no good.
Nothing will.
Nothing save the gun in his pocket.
The one Owen gave him, to put things right.
McAvoy closes his eyes, and mouths an apology to the pictures of the people in his head.
Tears sting his eyes and his chest is fit to burst.
His head is full of hot snakes and cold anger.
His fingers close on the gun.
Pictures the hole the bullet will make in the skull of the smirking demon who stands before him, clad in leather and the air of the untouchable.
Begins to pull the weapon free …
… the door bursts open, knocking him off guard.
A uniformed officer, his nose bloodied, calls for help. Shouts and screams emanate from the court building down the hall.
Swearing, switching off phones and pulling batons from their coats, the two officers race into the corridor and down towards the main body of the court. Roper, blowing McAvoy a kiss, follows behind them. The camera crew, mindful of the ban on filming inside the precincts of the court, shimmer with frustration as they crane their necks to see what is happening.
His breath coming in stutters, the tension draining out of him, McAvoy wills his feet to move.
Near blind with tears and frustration.
He fumbles at the door and pulls it open, the gun, hot and guilty in his pocket.
Stumbles down the corridor and into the wide, circular body of the court building.
Three officers are holding back Ella Butterworth’s father. He is struggling in their grasp, roaring like an animal, his hands and face, pattered with flecks of blood.
McAvoy pushes through the press of bodies.
Ushers.
Court clerks.
Solicitors.
The innocent and the guilty, waiting to be judged.
On the floor, like a sea-mammal beached on umber sands, Choudhury is sprawled, not moving. An island in the rich sea of his long, flowing, barrister’s robes.
Two uniformed officers tend to the wounds on his face. His turban is askew on his head. Long hair, snaking from his colossal round head, puddles on the floor. One of his polished shoes has come off. He looks like a slain sultan. A fat, rich crook, beaten bloody by a weak old man.
“He was laughing,” screams the man with blood on his hands and the toes of his shoes. “About getting paid twice! Said he’d be back next time. Nice little fucking pay-day! That’s my daughter, you bastard! My daughter! Dead! Murdered! And you’re making money from the man who did it!”
As he folds in on himself and gives in to great racking sobs, McAvoy slips away.
The emptiness inside him is dissipating. The guilt, at his own weakness, his feeble inaction, his naïve belief in the goodness of those around him, turning to smoke on the fire of his sudden sense of what must be done.
He’s filling up.
Gorging himself on righteous rage.
And visions of what must be done.
Out to find a killer.
61
The air-conditioning is on in the internet café and Tony H is shivering. The only spare terminal was directly under the blower, and the breeze on his cold clothes is making him feel snappy and irritable. He keeps sniffing, and his bones are starting to ache as if he’s coming down with something.
He wants a cigar, but there’s no chance in a place like this. It’s all nerds, geeks, students and foreigners. They don’t know who he is, or that he’s used to being an exception to the rules.
He logs on to his own website. Hull Daily Mail. The late edition hasn’t hit the streets yet but the website is usually updated first, and he’s eager to see how the silly bollocks on newsdesk have treated his copy.
Clicks on the top story and reads the words he sent through before lunch, his phone tucked under his chin as he sat, warm and dry, in the front seat of Roper’s sports car.
He smiles as he reads it. They’ve left well alone. Put the exclusive tag on it and left in the meat.
Poor fucker, thinks Tony, as he reads the hatchet job he’s done on his best pal.
The guilt has gone, as he knew it would. He tells himself that Owen would have done the same were the situation reversed. That he’ll forgive him. Let him off. Probably even send him a visiting order and invite him over for a spot of company at the nick. Not that he’ll go. He doesn’t like prisons. Never has. It’s been over a decade since he last lay on a prison-issue mattress: his nostrils full of bleach and body-odour, stewed food and the shit-bucket. He hadn’t coped well inside. The other inmates had him down as a nonce, and he took his fair share of kickings before he toughened up and started hitting back. He wonders if Owen will fare any better. If he’ll have to suck a cock before he’s allowed to get a good night’s sleep.
He reads the story again, for the sake of completeness. Wonders if Owen will ever get to see it. If he’ll mind the description of his sister as a “city prostitute”.
Tony had been surprised to learn just how many bodies his friend had been able to rack up. Even with his fucked-up history, he didn’t have Owen down as a killer. Too bloody soft. Feels sorry for people, and himself most of all. Always trying to pull somebody out of the shit. His girlfriend. His sister. Poor Kerry. Seven stone of poison: puncture wounds and crumbling bones. She’d been pretty when he’d first met her. He’d even thought about pursuing it. But the smack had grabbed her quicker and firmer than he could, and soon she wasn’t worth his time.
Vaguely, not really thinking about it, he logs onto a porn site. He keeps the sound down so as not to alert the other users, and watches one of his favourite little videos. It doesn’t get him hard, but he likes
to watch it. Nothing really gets him hard. Not when they give it up so easily. When they offer themselves so freely. When pretty things are willing to let an ugly bastard like him inside them. He can’t fuck something he doesn’t respect. For Tony, it’s about the thrill of the chase. Finding somebody perfect, angelic and beautiful. Watching over them. Becoming a part of their lives. The shadow behind them. The handprint on the window. The words in the condensation on the bathroom mirror. When they shiver, and wonder if he’s watching. That’s when he knows he’s inside. And when the knife goes in, and his image is burned into their dying eyes; that's when he knows he has mattered more to them than all the dirty bastards combined.
The air-conditioning starts making a clicking noise and Tony feels like he’s sitting in a wind-tunnel, so he logs off and stands up. Stares through the window at the half-dark street and shudders at the thought of going out in the dreadful weather. It seems to have been like this ever since he moved to Hull. He can’t remember what the sun feels like. The people seem wraith-like. Their skins pale and unhealthy. Grey-green, like a wet headstone. It had been hard to find somebody beautiful. Somebody worth getting himself in a lather about. He’s always been at his happiest when a woman’s got under his skin. Somebody worth making up fantasies about. Painting mental pictures of possibilities and perversions. Ella had been like that. Somebody with sparkle. Effervescence. Charm. A smile, that from the first moment she flashed it at him, he had wanted to split with his cock. More than that. He’d desired her more than sexually. Wanted to hold her hand and kiss her hair as she fell asleep. Wanted to embrace her, stroke her skin. Sniff her feet…
He’d got carried away, of course. Gone too far, like always. Wound himself up to breaking point. He knew she would never have looked at a man like him. That it was obscene to even hope. Got his kicks another way. Being close. Watching her sleep. Taking the little things that belonged to her and which, he fancied, still smelled of her scent. Revved his engine until he couldn’t take it anymore. Had to end it. Had to stop her from debasing herself with an obscenity like him. Had to save her from herself.
Standing in the doorway, watching the rain, he indulges himself in the memory of their association. The time he managed to nab a pair of her tights from the wash-basket and found that they were still warm. Still carried an unmistakable scent. Or the yelp of fear when she saw his shadow at the window. He half wishes he could have kept it at that. Let the thrill plateau, and stayed there. But he wasn’t that way inclined. He needed stronger hits. He climbed the ladder of adrenaline, until only violence could excite him. Until every part of his body was buzzing with a need to hurt her. To punish her for being so pretty. For being so unobtainable.