by David Mark
‘Was there something you wanted, sir?’
Colin Ray’s voice changes. Becomes aggressive. ‘Yeah, there is, son. You can tell her that me and Shaz are bringing somebody in. Neville the Racist. Drinks in Kingston. He’s agreed to a chat, so don’t be worrying about issuing a press release. Just going to let him have a look at an interview room and see if it jogs his memory.’
McAvoy’s heart is racing. He stands up, too quickly, and drags the phone off his desk. ‘What’s the link?’ he stammers.
‘He don’t like the foreigners, our Neville,’ says Ray. ‘Hates the buggers, truth be told. And he’s got a nasty temper. Your teacher lady got me thinking. I reckon our Neville wanted to teach one of them a lesson so figured he’d bump one off and pin it on another. Make it look like unfinished business from Africa or wherever. It’s a hundred yards from Kingston to Holy Trinity and Terry the barman reckons Nev was missing for a good hour on Saturday afternoon. That’s not his normal routine at all. Normally stays for the duration. Neville reckons he went to buy a present for his granddaughter, but …’
‘Granddaughter?’ Incredulity creeps into McAvoy’s tone. ‘How old is he?’
‘Late fifties. Fit as an ox, mind.’
‘Chief Inspector, I saw this man. He was in good shape. Fast. I don’t think-’
‘Just tell Pharaoh when she finishes preening.’
The line goes dead.
McAvoy rests his forehead on his hand. He hears blood rushing in his head. Could it be that easy? Could it be a simple race hate crime? An old bigot venting his frustrations? McAvoy wonders what such a result would mean. Whether his own contribution, however peremptory, would be noted. Whether Colin Ray would leapfrog Trish Pharaoh in the chain of command.
He looks up. There’s a hard breeze shaking the bare branches of the charcoal-sketch trees beyond the dusty glass. There’s a storm coming. When the snow falls, it will be a blizzard.
McAvoy’s phone rings again.
‘McAvoy,’ he says dejectedly.
‘Sergeant? Hello, this is Caroline Wills. From Wagtail Productions? I’ve just got clear. What can I do for you?’
McAvoy drags his notepad closer to himself and pulls the top off his biro with his teeth.
Focuses on Fred Stein.
‘Thanks for returning my call, Miss Wills. It’s regarding Fred Stein.’
‘Really?’ She sounds disappointed. ‘I had rather hoped it might be the Daphne Cotton case.’
McAvoy places his pen between his teeth, as some kind of physical reminder to watch what he says.
‘You’re aware of the ongoing murder investigation?’
‘Just what I’ve heard,’ she says breezily. ‘Horrible business, isn’t it? Poor girl.’
‘Indeed. Anyway, Fred Stein.’
‘Yes, yes, sad stuff. Nice old boy. We were getting on well. You’re Hull CID though, aren’t you? What’s the connection?’
‘Mr Stein’s sister lives in this part of the world. She simply has some concerns about the facts regarding his death and I said I would do what I can to fill in the gaps.’
‘Wife of the Chief Constable, is she?’ She laughs again; a high, pleasant sound. She sounds middle-class. Definitely Southern. He has her pegged as early thirties and savvy.
McAvoy decides to play along.
‘Member of the Police Authority, actually. Tipped to be chairman before he’s sixty.’
‘Ah. All makes sense now.’
‘So, what can you tell me?’
‘Well, I gave a statement to the Icelandic authorities and am due to provide one for the coroner when he opens the inquest, but I know so little about what happened it’s not going to be a killer to go over it again. Basically, I run a little TV company specialising in documentaries. We’ve been involved in some stuff for terrestrial TV but largely you’ll find our work on the documentary channels. About five years ago I did a programme on the sinking of the Dunbar. Spent some time in Hull. My goodness, what a place.’
McAvoy hears himself laughing. ‘That’s one way of describing it.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Down to earth. Proper Northern, if that doesn’t sound too silly.’
‘Oh yes. A whippet down each trouser leg and a bag of chips on their shoulder.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she giggles.
‘What was the interest in the Dunbar?’
The vessel in question was a brand-new supertrawler that sank in the late seventies during a ferocious storm off the coast of Norway. For years, the fishing community in Hull had voiced their doubts about its loss. There was talk of it being a spy ship, sailing into Russian waters to photograph enemy vessels during the Cold War. The gossip mongers reckoned the crew were all still alive, holed in some Russian gulag. Even when the local fishing industry went belly up, the rumours about the Dunbar persisted until, eventually, a city MP had to make good on a pre-election promise and lobby for a public inquiry. When it came, the results were inconclusive. The Dunbar had indeed sunk to the bottom of the Barents Sea. Bodies were indeed found on board. But were there spies among their number? Nobody could say. It was tabloid and conspiracy theorist heaven.
‘The Yanks love anything that reminds them of the Cold War. We pitched the idea to a channel in the US. You know the kind of thing; were these plucky Yorkshiremen really spies against the Soviets? Were they silenced by the Reds? I think they miss the good old days. Anyway, they went for it and I attended the last few days of the inquiry. Good crowd. One chap, Tony something-or-other, smelled like an ashtray. As it happened the programme never saw the light of day. We still got paid for it but there was no room in the schedules.
‘So. Last year I was going through some old footage. Things that never aired. I was watching the Dunbar programme and realised what an interesting little story it was. Not the Cold War nonsense. Just the people involved. Their lives. Their stories. Long story short, I did some research and realised it was coming up for forty years since the Black Winter. Four trawlers in a few days. Terrible stuff. I went through the old contacts book and tried to get in touch with some of the old hacks I met during the inquiry. Well, you know how these things are. People move on. But after a bit of graft I found Russ Chandler. More of a writer than a journalist but knows his stuff. Certainly knows the fishing industry. He told me all about Fred Stein. The one who got away. It seemed tailor-made for what we wanted. A programme about the Black Winter with a modern twist. When we heard Fred had never spoken about what happened to him, we got the chequebook out. Set Russ the job of tracking him down. Made the offer, did the deal and bish-bash-bosh — next thing we’re trying to find a container ship we can hitch a ride with to Iceland.’
McAvoy nods. He’s stopped making notes. He finds himself liking the way this lady talks.
‘So, that was that. We sent transport. Made the arrangements. Met him at the gangplank, or whatever you call them. Real nice old boy. Full of stories. Real charmer. We planned to do a series of interviews during the journey and then he was going to lay a wreath over the spot where it happened. Would have made a wonderful closing scene. But after what should have been the last interview he got really emotional. Went to get a breath of fresh air and didn’t come back. Two days later, while we were going bloody frantic, we heard over the radio his body had been found in a lifeboat. Died of exposure and injuries to his ribs …’
She pauses.
‘Emotional, you said. Emotional enough to kill himself?’
‘I wouldn’t have said so. But if he brought his own lifeboat he must have planned it from the start. I don’t remember seeing him unload it, and I’ve checked with the taxi firm that brought him to the dock and they don’t remember him having it with him, but people make mistakes and forget the silliest things. Apparently, with this style of lifeboat, before you inflate it it’s not much bigger than a medium-sized suitcase. You just flip open the switches, pull the lever and it inflates. Got a rigid mid-section, so it’s possible that the impact on that is what did his ribs in. Ha
rd to say. I’ve got to be honest, the captain was never really keen on us even being there and most of the conversation was in Icelandic, so trying to find out what happened was a nightmare.’
McAvoy nods. None of this makes sense. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘Me? I think he probably did himself in. I don’t know if it was guilt or just the fact he was getting old and it seemed like the right time. He’d had forty years that, in his head, he didn’t deserve. Maybe he didn’t think he’d used them right. Either way, it’s a shame. At least he’ll be remembered.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The documentary. The interviews are extraordinary. So moving. I can send you them if you’re interested.’
McAvoy nods, then realises she can’t see him. ‘Yes, thank you.’
They both stay silent for a moment. ‘It’s Russ you could really do with speaking to, if you want to fill in some of the gaps,’ she says lightly. ‘He’s the bloodhound who found him. Knew chapter and verse on the story. He’s a cracking writer, is Russ. I miss him.’
‘Why, where is he?’
‘He wanted to come on the tanker with us but there was no way we could get insurance for him.’
‘No?’
‘No, he’s a bit …’
‘What?’
She gives a little laugh, unsure of the best way to say it. ‘Unhinged,’ she says. ‘He drinks. In fact, no, Oliver Reed used to drink. Amy Winehouse used to drink. Russ really, really drinks. You’ve never seen anything like it. Smokes more than your sixty a day as well. Already cost him one leg and it’s probably going to cost him the other.’
‘Sounds like he knows his vices.’
‘Vices, yes. But it’s the voices that do Russ the most harm. He’s in a private clinic in Lincolnshire at the moment. Halfway between drying out and being sectioned. Real character, but he’s had one of those lives. It’s made him bitter, and everybody likes bitter with a whisky chaser. You should talk to him, though. He can tell you more about Fred than anyone. We wouldn’t have even found him if it wasn’t for Russ. It’s a shame he’s having to use his cheque to pay for treatment.’
McAvoy looks around the room. The officers have gone back to writing up telephone interviews and logging calls. There is nothing for him to do. Something inside him is screaming. That this is important. That this conversation, this information, somehow matters.
He lowers his voice. Closes his eyes. Already regretting his decision.
‘Is he accepting visitors?’
CHAPTER 11
3.22 p.m. Linwood Manor.
Deepest, darkest Lincolnshire.
Two hours from home.
Pretty swish, thinks McAvoy, as his tyres slide to an elegant halt on the shingled forecourt and he looks up at the imposing, red-brick building. He takes in the giant oak double doors, standing open to reveal a neatly tiled floor.
‘A converted Victorian manor house set in four acres of landscaped woodland’; McAvoy thought he had clicked on the wrong link and arrived at an upmarket country hotel when he first navigated his way through a maze of mental health websites and spotted the address he was looking for.
Run by an international company specialising in detox treatments, borderline personality disorders and alcohol dependence, the home page boasted a 90 per cent success rate, and made what could have been viewed as a month of agonising withdrawal seem like a vacation in paradise.
Although it’s only mid-afternoon, the sky is already darkening, and the grey cloud of ferocious snow that will soon split and engulf Hull has already been torn open here. A confetti of plump white flakes tumbles from the sky, and McAvoy is grateful for his knee-length coat as he trots up the steps and through the doors, feeling the wind tug at the hems of his trousers and almost slipping on the wet tiles.
A smiling, middle-aged woman in a white blouse and believably dyed black hair is sitting behind a mahogany reception desk. A vase of gerbera and gypsophila stands on its polished, gleaming surface. Glossy brochures and price lists stand in a rack to her left. It would be impossible to pop in for a leaflet without having to walk past her. Impossible, too, not to nod a hello in response to her wide, gleaming grin. Difficult to get out again without engaging her in conversation and being persuaded within twenty minutes that Linwood Manor is the best place to put yourself, your loved ones, and your cash.
‘Hello there. Awful day, isn’t it? Looks like you’re dressed for the conditions. Do you think it’ll lie? We might get a white Christmas after all. Haven’t had one of them in years. I think our guests will appreciate it. We had a hoot last year. Can I help you, m’duck?’
McAvoy has to make a mental effort not to recoil from the sheer force of her jolliness. Although she’s slim, she puts him in mind of a fat and happy Victorian cook, with big, floury arms and a red face. He pities the poor shambling drunks who must deal with her on their way to begin their detox programmes. Another twenty seconds in her company, McAvoy thinks, and I’ll be needing a bottle of brandy.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy. Humberside Police CID Serious and Organised Crime Unit. I was wondering …’
‘Serious crime, is it? Isn’t all crime serious? I mean, it’s not as though having your bike nicked isn’t serious to somebody. That’s what happened to my nephew and he was so upset …’
She rattles on until he wants to reach across the desk and physically press her lips together. The smile never leaves her face, although it never quite reaches her eyes, which puts him in mind of lights left on in the upstairs windows of a deserted house.
‘It’s about one of your patients,’ he says, jumping in when she pauses for breath. ‘Russell Chandler. I did call ahead, but I had difficulty getting through.’
‘Ooh, we’ve had no end of problems. It’s probably the weather. Email and internet have been playing up as well.’
McAvoy runs his tongue around his mouth and twitches his face to reveal a hint of teeth. He has had quite enough of today. Although he covered his own back by contacting ACC Everett and telling him that Barbara Stein-Collinson had requested his help in tying up some loose ends regarding her brother’s death, he’d still received an angry call from Trish Pharaoh when the message had been relayed that her office manager had been sent on an errand for the top brass. ‘Say no, you silly sod,’ she’d shouted down the line. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, for God’s sake. This is where you let yourself down, McAvoy. Trying to do too many things for too many people and ending up pissing everybody off.’
She’d only hung up when he gave her something bigger to worry about, and relayed Colin Ray’s message about bringing in a suspect.
‘Russell Chandler,’ he says firmly. ‘I understand he’s a patient here?’
The receptionist switches off her grin. ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential.’
McAvoy doesn’t speak. Just looks at her for a moment with an expression that could melt a computer screen. ‘It’s important,’ he says eventually, and although he’s not sure if the statement is true, discovers that he is starting to believe it.
‘House rules,’ she says, and there’s an air of smugness about her now. Despite the cold wind blowing in through the open doors, McAvoy feels sweat trickling down his neck. He’s pretty sure that if he made a big enough fuss, he could gain access to Chandler, but what if they were to complain? What would be his defence? Chandler is not a suspect in any investigation. Not even a witness in any real sense. It’s just a bit of background info on a case from another patch. And besides, he wonders, would it be ethical to speak to somebody in a place like this? At a time when they’re seeking help to combat their problems? Oh Christ, Aector, what have you bloody done?
He steps back from the desk, suddenly unsure of himself.
‘Excuse me, did I hear my name?’
McAvoy turns. Standing in the doorway are two men. One is dressed in athletics gear … Hooded sweatshirt, zipped up to his chin, woolly hat pulled down tight and jogging trouser
s tucked into football socks. He’s jogging on the spot and the small window of face that peeks out from between the hat and the hoodie is flushed and red. The other man is shorter and almost skeletally thin. He’s wearing baggy corduroy trousers, plimsolls, and a padded lumberjack shirt over a V-neck T-shirt. His head is shaven, but the light from the hall reveals that he would be bald on top even without the ministrations of the razor, and his dark goatee beard is flecked with grey. He wears glasses that, even from a distance of some yards, appear filthy with dust and grime.
‘Was the gatekeeper here making life difficult?’ he asks with a smile and nodding at the receptionist. McAvoy hears a trace of Liverpudlian in his accent. ‘She’s ferocious, is our Margaret,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that right, sweetie?’
McAvoy turns to look at the receptionist but she’s rolled her eyes and turned to her screen and is trying to ignore the exchange. When McAvoy turns back, Chandler has crossed the floor and is holding out his hand.
‘Russ Chandler,’ he says, and as McAvoy takes his hand in his, he feels like he’s closing his palm around a collection of dried twigs.
‘Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy.’
‘I know,’ says Chandler, grinning warmly. ‘I used to do a bit of work in your part of the world. Knew Tony Halthwaite pretty well. Doug Roper, too. All got shushed up, eh?’
McAvoy thinks, Does everybody bloody know?
‘I’d rather not …’
‘Don’t fret, mate. My lips are sealed. Unless you happen to have a bottle of whisky on you, in which case they’ll bloody open.’ He looks past McAvoy and grins at the receptionist. ‘Just kidding, sweetheart.’
In the doorway, the man in the running gear has upped the pace of his stationary sprinting. His knees are getting higher. He looks like he knows what he’s doing.
Chandler notices McAvoy staring and spins back to his companion. ‘You just get going, son. Usual route. Keep your arms up. We’ll see you by the bench.’