A Bad Death: A DS McAvoy Short Story

by David Mark

  For four years they tried to get Owen to tell them where the memory card was. He refused – all the while hoping against hope that the security guard never realised the benefit of admitting what he had done. Now he doesn’t give a damn one way or another. He has heard the whispers about the men running organised crime on the inside and out. He has fitted the pieces together and he has learned that the man who has tormented him for so long has the power to make him, break him or grind his bones to powder.

  ‘I wish it had all been different,’ says McAvoy, putting his hand out to shake the small, damp fist of the man who was witness to what should have been his final breaths.

  Owen takes his hand. ‘Not everything happens the way we want it to. But we can stack the deck. I know you won’t let any of this drop, so I know this won’t be the end of it.’

  McAvoy looks puzzled, as if trying to solve a cryptic crossword. Owen gives a little shake of his head. ‘There are so many bad people,’ he says. ‘I hope you stop some of them.’

  ‘I hope you never count yourself among their number,’ says McAvoy, releasing Owen’s hand and half turning away.

  ‘I’ll send you a postcard from wherever I end up,’ says Owen, casting around for something to say that will relieve the numbness rubbing at his temples.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  They part without another word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The early evening brings with it a fine rain, almost a mist. The droplets seem to eddy, rolling with the cold breeze like birds on a choppy ocean.

  A large car, parked in a disabled bay outside a brightly lit supermarket. Big halogen lamps battle with the blue and red neon of the shop sign.

  Two men inside. One big and muscular, the other small and sickly looking, his face lit by the glow of a laptop screen.

  ‘He’s sorry as hell,’ says Michael Bee, looking at his phone. ‘Prick’s shitting his pants. Should have thought of that before he cleaned out the Ponderosa.’

  ‘He says they warned him off.’

  ‘He’s making enough money to buy some bigger balls.’

  ‘They don’t mess around.’

  ‘They haven’t done a thing to me, have they? If they think they can take my idea and make millions and give me no more than a piss-poor lump sum, they can fuck off.’

  ‘And Erskine?’

  ‘He’ll do what I tell him.’

  In the passenger seat of the 4x4, James Kinchie looks across at his companion. He gives an encouraging nod and returns his attention to the laptop on his knee. There are several different webpages open. A black memory stick pokes out of the USB slot. The stick is worth more than the car and the contents of the supermarket. So, too, is the website that is feeding it.

  Kinchie looks again at the PayPal site he has been monitoring so intently. After a moment he punches the air.

  ‘It’s through. Final space filled.’

  ‘Everybody paid?’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’

  Bee turns to the younger man. ‘Don’t get fucking smart.’

  Kinchie turns back to his computer screen and curses himself for allowing his brief moment of elation to override his good sense. He knows his companion’s temper.

  The James Kinchie who went to prison was nobody’s idea of a criminal. He enjoyed cybercrime for the buzz. His world was one of secure chatrooms. His friends were people he had never met. He started syphoning off money from strangers’ accounts simply because it was easy to do so. He never thought of himself as part of a criminal organisation. When his home was raided by officers from five different law enforcement agencies, he discovered that he had unwittingly become the administrator of a website used by some of the most lethal criminal organisations in the world. Prison did not suit Kinchie. He was small and feeble and had never had a fight in his life. He needed somebody imposing to be his protector. He found that in Michael Bee. In return, he became the larger man’s property. When Kinchie revealed why he was inside, Bee saw an opportunity. Together, they could make a lot of money. They have been doing so ever since Bee was released. Now that Kinchie is out on licence, the possibilities seem almost endless.

  The only obstacle is the fact that the business they established has been passed on to another organisation. Serious, well-dressed men with cold eyes and deep pockets contacted Bee and said they liked his style. They liked the idea and the operation. They wanted to buy it out, as if they were respectable venture capitalists instead of men with guns. They paid handsomely. Kinchie took umbrage, but he still took the money. The streaming sites were his idea. It was his expertise that allowed them to exist undetected – accessed only by prisoners with a phone and the code that would take them straight to the webpage. When Bee suggested they take their venture in a new direction, Kinchie did not argue. Sure, they had given up their rights to the business, but the reward was worth the risk. He left the morality of it to others and trusted Bee to keep them safe from repercussions.

  ‘Lottie’s got a new star,’ says Bee, his voice returning to normal. ‘Found her skipping school up on Hedon Road. Told her she could get her free hair extensions. I tell you, that lass is worth her weight in gold. If Ronnie wasn’t such an uptight cow she could have done all this for half the price but I suppose Lottie’s a professional. Did I tell you she used to be an actress? She does real tears and everything, although I don’t think I’ve met a girl who can’t.’

  Kinchie isn’t really listening. Bee sighs.

  ‘I’m getting some cigarettes,’ he says, opening the car door. ‘If you notice I’ve gone, you can make a note of it on fucking Facebook.’

  Kinchie looks up as the car door slams. They are in the car park of the Tesco store in Beverley. He can’t remember why. Bee said something about buying uniforms. He returned from a clothing store in the pretty market square with a carrier bag full of grey pleated skirts, white shirts, grey cardigans and school ties. Bee was pleased at how little the outfits had cost. It was in stark contrast to the masks, which cost hundreds of pounds at the adult store. They were hideous to look at, vaguely reminiscent of animal heads. But they were beautifully made; each of the men who had worn one while participating in the live shows had commented on how comfortable they were, how easy it was to breathe in them. Kinchie just wishes he could claim back the VAT as a business expense.

  ‘Now then,’ comes a voice as the driver’s door swings open. ‘Don’t be a silly twat.’

  Kinchie looks up, surprised at the change in tone. The man sliding into the driver’s seat is in his mid-forties and has wiry grey hair and frameless glasses. He’s holding a black gun and pointing it at Kinchie’s head.

  ‘Who are you?’ Kinchie asks, in a voice that is part outrage and part surprise.

  ‘You were told,’ says the man, and he turns the key in the ignition. ‘You were told to stop. Your friend’s going to see what happens when we’re disobeyed.’

  ‘Mike takes care of that stuff,’ blusters Kinchie. ‘I’m just the geek.’

  The man with the gun presses central locking as he eases the car forward. With a quick, deft motion, he jabs the barrel of the gun into Kinchie’s temple. Kinchie protests for a moment but then the pain engulfs him, followed by unconsciousness. He slips down the window and blood runs from the wound on his skull to drip on to the keys of the laptop.

  The man stops the car. Leans across and uses a stiletto blade to cut the ankle tag from Kinchie’s leg. He winds the window down and drops it out. The back wheels crush it into the melting snow as he heads for the motorway. It will be a long drive, but the killer reckons the young man should try and enjoy it. It will be the last he ever makes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rosehill Road in Wandsworth, South London. 11.58 p.m.

  It’s a cold, clear night. The first crushed diamonds of a hard frost are sparkling on the grass verges and well-tended pavements of this pleasant, tree-lined street. While the sodium glow emanating from the street lights is a gaudy, dirty yellow,
the light that spills from the bay windows of these town houses looks warm and inviting; throwing a soft radiance on black railings and neat gardens, expensive vehicles and terracotta pots that will be rich with flowers come spring.

  Doug Roper sits in the passenger seat of an unremarkable hatchback and wonders whether he would like living here. Whether he could buy a family home and fill it with little versions of himself. Wonders what the days would feel like, how he would resolve a boundary dispute with a neighbour in such a safe, reasonable world, whether he would lose his mind with the tedium of it all and simply shoot every single fucker he sees. He finds the whole vision almost funny.

  Roper shakes it away. The thought of such a life is unsettling. This is what life should be. This.

  ‘Like the car, boss?’

  ‘It does the job.’

  ‘Torching or crushing down?’

  ‘Sell it if you like. Give it to one of the girls.’

  ‘Fuck that. They get enough.’

  The stolen hatchback is blue but the street light overhead makes it look green, so that anybody who reports its presence will steer police in the wrong direction.

  The interior of the car is thick with cigarette smoke. It gathers in clouds beneath the cheap upholstery of the roof. To Roper the effect is strangely beautiful. He wants to scoop the smoke into his hands and shape it like snow. It turns his companion’s black-coated mass into a drawing in smudged charcoal, and if Roper were not so familiar with his associate Nestor’s appearance, based on what he can see of him right now he would struggle to pick him out of a police line-up.

  They sit in silence, enjoying the anticipation. These are the moments that Doug Roper likes best. Tonight he will be able to show himself, to work out his frustrations. Anonymity is crucial to his organisation and Roper takes pleasure in the knowledge that most of the people in his employ have no clue who he is or what he looks like. But from time to time he gets an opportunity to show his face, witnessed only by trusted underlings, and people who will soon be dead.

  Roper is not an impulsive man. He has become something exceptional by virtue of being very clever and utterly merciless. Here, now, he would like to be stamping on Aector McAvoy’s throat and setting fire to his wife, but he will resist such temptations until he’s sure that he can trust his own judgement. He knows he is upset. Two of the Flemyng brothers are dead and he has no idea who killed them, or why. Roper hates to not know. Knowledge brings power, and power makes him feel the way he should. It took a man with vision to create the Headhunters. Doug Roper was that man. He had never expected to leave the police service. He was very valuable there. But when McAvoy and Owen Swainson cost him his career, Roper took it as a sign that he was destined for something more. He had long since come to the conclusion that most criminals have fewer brain cells than fingers. He understood that people are motivated primarily by fear and reward. He looked at the potential casualties of any turf war and came to the conclusion that breaking an outfit was a poor business decision. Better, he thought, to keep profitable organisations in place and merely skim off the top. Roper recruited. Contacts made during his time as a detective ensured he knew which criminals were biddable. He quietly set up a team of men with very special skills. And under his instructions, they took over drugs, prostitution and racketeering outfits in profitable territories up and down the country. ‘Another?’ asks Nestor, offering the packet of pungent cigarettes.

  Roper takes one. Lights it with his Ronson and enjoys the recollection of watching Owen’s memory stick melt into a twist of blackness.

  ‘The other brother . . .’ begins Nestor. ‘Safe?’

  ‘They’re over. It was only Elton who was holding it together. We’ll let the rats fight it out among themselves and back the winner when it’s done.’

  ‘And the other brother?’

  Roper shrugs. ‘Fucked.’

  ‘They did pay,’ says Nestor, with a touch of reproach.

  ‘Hard to reimburse a corpse,’ says Roper.

  Despite his apparent indifference, Roper prides himself that his operation is more than a protection racket for criminal organisations. Being linked to the Headhunters brings with it not just prestige, but access to considerable influence and assistance. Those who pay can call upon Roper’s organisation for help at any time. Elton Flemyng did that last summer. He made a call and barked out his demands for immediate retribution. His teeth had been smashed in by his cellmate and he wanted the little bastard killed. He wanted it to be a bad death. Roper’s organisation has a key man at Bull Sands in its pocket and through deference to him, they decided not to have Blaylock executed within the prison grounds. Instead, their man Laurel was told to improvise, and he butchered Blaylock in a way that Roper could never have come up with. He demonstrated the benefits of being associated with the Headhunters. Roper’s influence ensured there were fewer questions asked than there should have been and Shaz Archer tidied up any loose ends. It all went as it should.

  Roper almost enjoys the fact that the men who cost him his career are trying to cause him problems in his new organisation. He finds himself thinking of the hapless bastards as if they are rabbits deliberately walking into the sights of a shotgun. Owen has been an irritant ever since that day in the woods, though Roper does admire the bastard’s tenacity. Nothing Roper did could persuade Owen to give up the memory card. Roper couldn’t kill him, in case, as he claimed, Owen had left instructions for the card to be sent to the authorities in the event of his death. And no amount of physical violence could persuade Owen to hand it over. Until now. Something has broken inside the stubborn bastard and Roper likes knowing that he has finally won. Earlier today he watched a computer screen as the memory card transformed beneath the flame of a lighter. With it went Roper’s shame. He should never have made those threats or admitted the extent of his corruption. He has no doubt that should the authorities turn their attention to him they will quickly uncover the lies about his past and in time unearth the truth about him. They will learn that Doug Roper is a fiction. And they will discover that the men who back his operation and who made him rich while he was still a detective are more terrifying and brutal than he would ever claim to be.

  ‘Here we go,’ says Nestor, the cigarette in his mouth moving as he speaks. He is looking at the screen of a military satellite phone. The symbols on the screen would be nonsense to any observer but him. He designed the code and he alone knows what the message means. He starts the car.

  Roper and Nestor drive through the quiet streets in the direction of a small row of shops in a cosy neighbourhood near the river. It’s all hipsters around here. People who recycle. Mums who don’t wear make-up but still look good and dads who work as web designers. A community of people who visit delis and where children eat olives and pesto.

  Third from the end of this little row of shops is a tea room. It’s cosy. The curtains are floral and the tea is served in cups with saucers. It specialises in bagels and is owned by a Ukrainian man who recently made some mistakes with his finances. The premises are valuable to the Headhunters because they come with a large, underground storage unit, dug out in Victorian times and roomy enough to secrete half a dozen tanks.

  Roper and Nestor enter the property from the rear and open the hatch in the floor. There are eight steps down into the cool, dark mustiness of the subterranean vault and each one is patterned with blood.

  ‘Good evening, Nigel,’ says Roper, standing away from the wall so as not to get dust on his coat. ‘And I believe this man is James Kinchie, yes? Hello, James.’

  The lad on the floor at Laurel’s feet has two broken legs. Both wrists have also been snapped. He has little strength left in him but manages to raise his head as he hears his name.

  Roper nods to Laurel, who steps back. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ says Roper. ‘There’s work for you. I’m having him released Christmas Eve. Hope that won’t be a problem.’

  ‘No problem,’ says Laurel, and retreats into the quiet dark at the rear of th
e vault, leaning against a crate of vodka.

  ‘You’re a talented boy,’ says Roper to Kinchie, taking off his coat and handing it to Nestor without a word. ‘That video streaming. Great idea. More your thinking than Michael Bee’s, I would say. I’m not bad on the old computer stuff myself, to be honest. We do a lot of business on sites that most of the law enforcement agencies don’t even know exist. A webcam for perverts in prison? That was bloody wonderful. But you’ll remember, James, that it doesn’t belong to you any more. It belongs to my organisation. We gave you money to stop it and we made it bigger and better and more profitable. All you had to do in turn was stop running the shows and the girls and using that silly bloody farm in East Yorkshire.’

  Roper pinches his nose, as though exasperated at people’s greed.

  ‘You were compensated for what happened at the farm and the attention it brought you. You were asked to go away. You took the money and carried on like before. That was rude. We had to approach Mr Erskine direct. Laurel here had to get quite intimidating. But despite my best endeavours, a policeman started asking questions and now things are much harder to control. I’m a man who tries to see the positive in every situation but today, James . . . I’m not quite sure how I should be feeling, really, and that’s quite a pisser for you. Because when I’m uncertain, I find it best to lose myself in physical exercise.’

  Nestor picks the lad up by his arms and drags him over to the wall. An old set of iron manacles has been punched deep into the brickwork and two new, shiny chains hang from the rusty rings. Nestor snaps them shut around James’s wrists, then reaches into his coat and hands Roper a curved implement with a hook at the end.