Taking his medication, the milk he washed it down with was out of his dad’s old Everton mug. If the old man had lived longer perhaps eventually McGinley would have been old enough to go to matches with him and get to know him. As it was he had very few memories of his dad, and over the years they had been distorted by time and interpretation. William McGinley hadn’t been much of a family man. Even when they’d come here on holiday he’d spent most of his time fishing alone on the beach, or down at the pub, coming back late at night, roaring drunk and sometimes abusive. He hadn’t deserved to die the way he had, but there was a certain irony that his twin passions of football and booze had been what combined to finish him off. He followed Everton everywhere, although Ma always reckoned the football was only an excuse for the drink. It was after a scuffle in a pub, following an away match against Aston Villa and whilst resisting arrest, that he’d had his ‘accident.’ The police officers involved were subsequently exonerated by an internal enquiry, but McGinley knew enough about the police by now to understand how far they would go to protect their own and he was far from convinced. He hated the filth with a vengeance. Ma chose to blame the drink instead, and when they made their fresh start in Kirkby, that was when she had found God — and not any old god, but one who was a firm believer in abstinence. Since then she’d managed to keep the alcohol away from their family but not the hatred, not the prejudice and not death.
Along with the milk McGinley wolfed down one of the buns he’d bought and felt a little better. There was an ancient FM radio in the caravan and after some minutes of frustration attempting to tune it, he finally managed to get a local station. He then had to wait some time until the hourly news bulletin, but when it came it was strangely gratifying. Both sets of bodies had been discovered the previous day, the first by a neighbour and the second by the domestic help. Already the police had identified McGinley as a chief suspect for the first but they weren’t committing themselves yet to the second, despite the similarities. They were however looking for the vehicle in which he was thought to have escaped.
‘Well done, lads.’ McGinley smiled quietly to himself, picturing some poor bugger hunched over hours and hours of CCTV footage.
* * *
Overnight, Tony Knox’s cold had well and truly taken root. Having run out of tissues he’d now resorted to wiping his nose on toilet paper. In other circumstances he might have taken the day off, but with Mariner away they were already short, and it was Friday, so all he had to do was get through the next few hours, though it didn’t help that it was raining again when he left the house. He was in his car, blowing his nose yet again, when he heard a door slam and in the rear-view mirror he saw Michael emerge from his front door across the road. Wearing only a blazer, the boy’s head was bowed against the weather and Knox watched him pause at the end of his drive to light up a furtive cigarette, before hoisting his school bag and slouching off down the road, shoulders hunched in an effort to minimize his presence. Knox gave him time to reach the corner, then he moved off and caught up with the lad as he was about to cross the main road. Knox signalled and drew up alongside him. ‘Want a lift to the Cartland?’ he asked, identifying a landmark close to the school. Checking first that there was no one around to observe, Michael shrugged in that ‘whatever’ way that teenagers have, and mumbled, ‘Yeah, all right.’
‘You’ll have to put that out.’ Knox indicated the roll-up gripped between his fingers. For a moment Michael weighed the pleasure of his fag against the discomfort of the rain, before tossing the former down into the gutter and climbing into the car. Amid the smell of tobacco, Knox was instantly aware of the more subtle herbal note that he’d noticed before. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Nelson,’ he said casually, pulling away from the kerb. ‘You haven’t been in for him much lately.’
From the corner of his eye Knox saw the indifferent lift of the shoulders. ‘Been busy.’
‘No problem,’ Knox said, easily. ‘I can’t pay you though.’ The shrug was becoming a tic. ‘Let me know if you’re up for it again,’ Knox said. ‘Is everything else all right?’
Shrug.
‘Got your birthday to look forward to,’ Knox pointed out. ‘I hear you’re having a party tonight.’
A huge sigh and a screwed-up face this time. ‘What did she have to tell you for? God, she’s blurting it to everyone.’
‘Hey, stop giving your mum such a hard time and show her some respect,’ Knox said, starting to lose patience. ‘It’s called being considerate to your neighbours. I’d do exactly the same in her position. Be grateful she’s letting you have a party at all; plenty of parents don’t.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be crap now though, with all the neighbours watching out for us.’
Knox slowed as they reached the drop-off point. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ he said, mildly. ‘Have a good one.’
Finally the lad mustered the effort to make eye contact. ‘Cheers for the lift,’ he said in an attempt to redeem himself.
‘Sure.’
* * *
Knox was sneezing so loudly and with such force that he didn’t hear DCI Sharp come up behind him on the stairs at Granville Lane.
‘That sounds like a potent dose of something nasty,’ she said, making a show of holding back slightly from him as they fell into step. ‘Keep it to yourself.’ A little taller than Knox, she looked as stylish as ever, dressed in one of her trademark trouser suits that even Knox could appreciate made the most of her slender frame and complemented her dark olive skin. ‘How did it go yesterday?’ she asked.
‘Pretty grim,’ Knox confessed. ‘And, as you can see, I’ve caught my death.’
‘It was a funeral,’ she said. ‘Someone always does. How was Tom holding up?’
‘Not too bad, but he couldn’t wait to get away. He kept that bit quiet. You both did.’ Knox shot her a look.
‘I know,’ she said apologetically. ‘But he thought that if you got wind of it you’d insist on going with him, and the whole point is that he wants some time on his own; really on his own. Hopefully it’ll do him good. He might even stop beating himself up about what happened.’
‘With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t think there’s much chance of that any time soon.’
‘Yeah, maybe that’s a bit much to expect,’ she conceded. ‘Meanwhile, if there’s anything you need additional support with, let me know.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Knox had barely sat down and switched on his PC when he glanced up to see Millie come in. She came straight over to him. ‘Have you heard the latest on that news story?’ she said. ‘The gunman on the rampage in Liverpool?’
‘I don’t think he’s on the rampage exactly,’ Knox answered, momentarily distracted by the daily bulletin that had appeared on the screen in front of him. ‘It looks like he might have killed a couple of people and then made himself scarce, for obvious reasons. What about it?’
‘They’re saying this morning that he could have escaped into Wales.’
Knox looked expectantly up at her, waiting for the punch line.
‘It’s where the boss has gone,’ Millie said, as if that proved something.
‘Wales is a whole country,’ Knox reminded her. ‘The boss is heading to the middle, and this McGinley is most likely in the north. There’s no reason to think they’ll be anywhere near each other. And anyway, the Merseyside plods will pick McGinley up soon enough, especially somewhere as remote as north Wales. If that’s where he’s gone.’
She set her mouth. ‘Right.’
She wasn’t buying it, Knox could tell. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, when she didn’t move.
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ he said, uncertainly. As Millie finally returned to her desk, Charlie Glover caught his bemused expression and shrugged lightly. ‘Pregnant,’ he mouthed, as an explanation, drawing a hand around his imaginary swollen belly.
* * *
Knox didn’t have time to dwell on Millie’s preoccupations. With Mari
ner away there was plenty to be getting on with; a couple of cases to prepare for the CPS and the follow-up on some bad drugs reported to be circulating the city. First of all though, he put a call through to Terry Dukes, the police community support officer with responsibility for Kingsmead High School. In the last few years it had become increasingly commonplace to base PCSOs within certain secondary schools to monitor pupils’ behaviour and to support staff as part of ‘Operation Safer Schools.’ It was an initiative that had initially horrified Knox and his contemporaries, mainly because of what it said about the changing culture in schools. But the success of the scheme since then couldn’t be denied. The mere presence of a uniformed officer had done much to improve communication and even relationships between the police and communities, and had been effective in helping them to stay one step ahead of certain troublemakers.
‘How’s it going?’ Knox asked.
‘All quiet today,’ Dukes said. ‘Though the weather doesn’t help. They’ll be climbing the walls if they can’t get outside at break time.’
‘Is a lad called Michael Purcell on your radar? He’s fourteen, coming up to fifteen, so that would make him . . .’
‘Year ten,’ said Dukes, as Knox was working it out. ‘It’s not a name I know, why?’
‘He’s a neighbour of mine. I think there’s a possibility he might have started smoking weed. Looks harmless at the moment, but can you let me know if he comes to your attention for anything?’
‘Sure. Nothing to do with Jean Purcell, is he?’ asked Dukes.
‘Yes, he’s her boy.’ Knox had forgotten that Jean had supply taught at the high school for a short time, so she would be known to him. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just interested. She always seemed a bit . . . how can I put this? Highly strung?’
It was a fair comment. ‘This isn’t coming from her,’ Knox said. ‘I’ve smelt it on him. Just keep a look out for me, will you?’
‘Of course. I’ll let you know if there’s anything to report.’
* * *
Mariner ate breakfast alone in a dim and cheerless dining room, the barmaid in absentia, which at least saved both of them further embarrassment. He’d woken early with a thumping headache, his face wet and the black dog lying heavily on his chest. As always, it had taken him a few seconds to fast forward to the present, bringing everything flooding back to him anew, and now he had a grim church service and the humiliation of the night before to add to his misery.
Fruit, cereals, tea and coffee dispensers were set out buffet-style on the dark oak dresser, along with insulated silver tureens of scrambled eggs and bacon that looked surprisingly fresh and appetizing. To make up for the lack of any human presence the regional radio station gabbled in the background what seemed to be wall-to-wall adverts for local traders. If Mariner could have seen where it was he’d have turned it off. After breakfast he packed his few belongings and checked out, letting the landlord know that he’d be leaving his car in the car park for a few days.
Outside it was cool and fresh; the rain had stopped but gunmetal clouds swept low across the sky, threatening the resumption of the downpour at any time. It could go either way, but hopefully by the time he set off it might have cleared. At his car he began sorting out what he needed to take with him as a minimum. It was a long time since he’d travelled so light, and he had to think hard before stuffing only the essentials into his rucksack: a change of clothes, soap and toothbrush, warm and waterproof clothing, a water bottle and a torch. His hand lighted on the cardboard box Gareth had given him yesterday and, unable to resist, he opened it and took out the scarf, soft cashmere in a golden brown that had perfectly complemented Anna’s eyes. He did now what he’d wanted to do yesterday: holding it to his face he breathed in her perfume, and felt his nerve endings burn with pain.
‘You sentimental dick,’ Anna said, suddenly appearing beside him, a wry smile on her face. ‘What’s the hell’s the matter with you? Last night, and now this? So I’m gone, and yes, it’s sad, but I’m not coming back and nothing’s going to change that. You’ve got to get a grip; get over it and move on. For God’s sake leave the skanky scarf in the car, or better still, take the whole lot straight to a charity shop.’ Mariner couldn’t bring himself to do that, but he tucked the scarf back inside the box and left it in the boot.
It was as he was retrieving his map-case from the glove compartment that Mariner spied something shiny lying on the floor in the passenger foot well. A coin, he thought at first, but when he picked it up, he found it was a gold locket, oval in shape and with a red stone set into the centre of it. He hadn’t seen anything like it for years, though he remembered a trend for them amongst the girls back when he was in primary school, mostly containing pictures of their pets as he recalled. It wasn’t his, and he’d never seen it before. He considered briefly whether it might belong to Millie, but he’d never seen her wear anything like it and anyway she’d been in the driver’s seat yesterday. The only other explanation was that his passenger had dropped it last night. Prying it open with a fingernail, Mariner expected to see photographs, but instead found that this one had been used for its original purpose, a lock of white hair curled around the tiny, oval compartment behind wafer-thin glass. The gold had an orangey hue and the pattern was worn, and just beneath the eyelet that a chain would have threaded through, was a series of tiny hieroglyphics — hallmarking that signified the possible value of the piece. Regardless of that, the fact that he carried it with him seemed to signify that it was of considerable sentimental worth to Bryce too. Mariner went back into the hotel, where the manager looked up the number for the Lamb and Flag at Cwm Gwyrdd and invited him to use the phone.
‘Is Mr Bryce still there?’ Mariner asked when he was connected.
‘Who?’
‘Jeremy Bryce, a backpacker. He stayed with you last night. Has he left yet?’
‘We had no one staying here last night,’ the man said. ‘We’re a pub. We don’t have any accommodation.’
‘Maybe he just had a drink then,’ Mariner said, puzzled. ‘He’s a big guy, white hair and beard, fifties, educated.’
The landlord sounded genuinely confused. ‘We only had locals in here last night, and not many of them, it was such a foul night. You sure you’ve got the right place?’
‘I dropped him off outside,’ Mariner explained. ‘Is there anywhere else in the village he might have stayed?’ Perhaps that’s what Bryce had meant. They have rooms in the village.
‘A couple of people do B&B. You want their numbers?’
‘Okay.’ It wasn’t what Mariner had intended, but he felt duty-bound to call them. However, none of them had put up a hitchhiker called Bryce last night, nor anyone matching his description. Mariner replaced the phone.
‘Track him down?’ asked the landlord, reappearing.
‘No,’ said Mariner. ‘He must have moved on. Do you know the Lamb and Flag?’
‘Of course, nice place,’ the hotelier said. ‘Owen keeps a good pint.’
‘They don’t do accommodation then,’ Mariner checked.
‘Nah. Owen usually sends people here, if he’s in the mood to.’
It was odd, Mariner thought, returning to his car. Nothing more than that; just odd. There would be a simple explanation. But why had Bryce implied that he would be staying in the pub, and where had he gone instead, on such a hostile night? Zipping the locket into one of the many pockets on his rucksack, he put it to the back of his mind.
Meanwhile, if he was going to get in the eight miles he’d planned to walk today, he needed to make a start. His first overnight was at a bothy that would, at most, give him a roof over his head and a wooden bench to lie down on, so he needed to buy food to keep him going for the next two days, maybe more in case things didn’t go to plan.
The nearest supermarket was a small Co-op that reminded Mariner of the way shopping used to be years ago. The middle-aged woman behind the counter took her time with each customer, enquiring about their heal
th, commenting on the weather, and by the time he’d filled his basket a small queue had formed in front of the checkout counter: a mother with a toddler, an elderly woman in a wool coat and headscarf, a workman with a high-visibility tabard over his donkey jacket. The older woman lingered after completing her purchase and as Mariner stepped forward to be served he caught the tail end of the conversation.
‘. . . who shot all those people,’ the woman was saying.
‘They’re after the son, aren’t they?’
‘Shockin’ that. How can someone do that to their own flesh and blood?’
‘Well, not the first time, is it? They reckon he might have come down here on the run.’
So, not only had Mariner got his shopping, he’d also learned something. That had never yet happened in his local Tesco Express.
* * *
After he’d eaten, the medication began to kick in and McGinley started to feel a renewed vigour for what lay ahead of him. This last part of his mission would also be the most physically demanding and he had no way of knowing exactly what awaited him or if he was really up to it. He couldn’t be so sure of his mark this time either and was relying on second-hand intelligence with no way of establishing how reliable it was. This last target had been much harder to locate, but he’d got there eventually by good luck and common sense. Sometimes it was simply a question of looking in the most obvious place. And now the bastard’s chickens were coming home to roost.
Chemotherapy is unpleasant and tedious. It involves a lot of waiting around. And when you’ve been clearly identified as undeserving scum you can make it time and a half. Usually it was just McGinley and a couple of screws who made the fortnightly trip to the hospital; one to drive and one to escort. But one day he had company; another prisoner with a different type of cancer, but the same fortnightly trip to hospital, co-ordinated so as to ‘maximize use of resources.’ This was when McGinley’s scheme had been conceived. It had started off as nothing more than bravado — each man listing the individuals who had wronged him over the years, and what he would do to them if he ever got out again. It was a way of passing the time. The discussion was borne mostly out of frustration and fear, but the more McGinley talked, the more his ideas began to shape themselves into a plan, taking on a life of their own. And the old git had egged him on. Clinically speaking it was obvious that they were both hopeless cases, but when McGinley suddenly got parole on the strength of it, he didn’t know how to break it to the older man. Somehow it didn’t seem fair. As it happened the old boy was quite accepting of the situation, smiled and congratulated him. But that was when he made McGinley promise to back up his big mouth. ‘Do it for me,’ he’d said. ‘I’m past it now, but you can make it right.’ And now McGinley was going to do just that if it killed him, as it probably would.
Buried Lies (Reissue) Page 6