A Bad Death: A DS McAvoy Short Story

by David Mark

  The barman is pointing a gun at Owen’s chest. Owen looks into its barrel as though it were an eye. He refuses to let himself blink.

  ‘I thought that Guinness was a bit amateurish,’ says Owen. ‘Gave yourself away a bit.’

  ‘Really? I haven’t poured one in years. Thought I did OK.’

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ says Owen, raising his eyes and staring at the barman. ‘I’ve been to London.’

  ‘Aye, and I bet they charged you twice the price,’ the barman says, with a friendliness that seems incongruous in the circumstances.

  ‘You sound Northern,’ says Owen, cocking his head. ‘South Yorkshire?’

  ‘Doncaster,’ comes the reply.

  ‘Somebody has to be, eh?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘And this is Roper, I presume,’ says Owen.

  ‘Wouldn’t like to say, mate. Names are dangerous things.’

  ‘He had me released just to have me killed.’

  ‘Your freedom for the memory card. That was the deal. He’s got the card and you’re free.’

  ‘Free to die.’

  ‘Don’t get into semantics.’

  ‘Semantics? Unusual vocabulary for Doncaster.’

  ‘I heard you were from Hull, so don’t get lippy.’

  They look at one another for a moment. Both men seem to find something to admire in one another.

  ‘He’s watching, isn’t he?’ says Owen. ‘Phone? CCTV?’

  The barman shrugs. ‘He certainly seems to have been looking forward to this.’

  ‘So it’s to be a bullet?’ asks Owen, cautiously.

  ‘I wish. No, this is going to take a while. I’ve a car outside. There’s a farm building a couple of miles up the road. I’ve got a heater and a generator and there’s nobody around. I can take my time with you. He seems very keen that you cry.’

  Owen nods. He inhales. Smells spilled beer and old wood, furniture polish and damp. Wonders whether it would be best to make the man shoot him, if it would be a victory of sorts to force the man’s hand and give himself a swift, painless end.

  ‘Just like Will, eh?’ asks Owen, and his lip twists as he says it.

  ‘That was messy, I’ll grant you. They just told me to be creative. He’d hurt somebody important, apparently.’

  ‘Did he suffer?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ says the barman, sucking on his thoughts as if they’re a sweet. ‘I’m not a monster. I put a stiletto blade through his heart as soon as he turned around. It was always going to be a proper shitstorm of blood and gore and I couldn’t deal with screaming and wriggling as well. You know men, we can’t multitask.’

  Owen gives a tiny nod. He steps backwards as the barman flicks the gun and indicates that he should move.

  ‘It was just because he attacked Elton Flemyng?’

  The killer steps out from behind the bar and points Owen towards the door.

  ‘The Flemyngs were part of the organisation. A message had to be sent.’

  ‘But Elton’s dead. He had his head cut off at the dentist’s.’

  The barman smiles at that. ‘Yes. People are angry. I imagine I’ll be getting a lot more work.’

  ‘Who does Roper think did that?’ asks Owen.

  ‘We have theories.’

  As Owen takes another step back, the barman puts a finger in his ear. Somebody is talking to him through a tiny earpiece. Owen notices the pen sticking out of the pocket of the barman’s black shirt. He smiles, staring straight into the camera lens.

  ‘He’s a clever lad, is Roper,’ says Owen, chattily, and waves. ‘Hi, Doug. Still a cunt? Do you know much about him, mate? He’s got vision. Got all sorts of ideas and schemes and really knows how to play people. Only lost out the once and that was when he stopped being a copper.’ He gestures again at the camera in the barman’s lapel. ‘You in there, Doug? Bet you are. I’ve got to congratulate you. You did what you said. You got me out. I rather wish I’d believed you when you made that promise four years ago. But I still had things to lose then. I didn’t want to die. Now? I’ve got nothing left to protect.’

  ‘We’re going for a little drive now,’ says the barman, cutting in.

  ‘Is there another body in this building?’ asks Owen, ignoring him. ‘Have you had this prick kill the landlord or is he just on holiday somewhere? If some punter walks by and sees the door open, you think they’ll pop in and see what’s going on? Will you have your monkey kill them too? How much death are you responsible for?’

  ‘Move. Now.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ says Owen, coldly. He keeps his eyes on the barman’s chest. ‘Like I said, I don’t care about living any more. I’d be grateful for the peace and quiet of oblivion, truth be told. Thing is, Doug, I’m still pretty pissed off. I’m more than that, in fact. I’m fucking outraged, my friend. The man you put away is dead already. I’m somebody new. I’m all about revenge.’

  ‘I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap,’ says the barman. ‘Move it.’

  ‘Will looked up to me,’ says Owen. ‘He needed somebody to tell about the big, scary man who put the knife in his mouth and told him to attack Elton Flemyng. He asked my advice. And I said to do as he’d been told.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again . . .’

  ‘I told him to do it because I knew the consequences of disobedience. I got on with Mitchell Spear. He was a useful contact. He told me a lot about the glory days of Francis Nock and his enforcer. I liked the sound of Mahon. He seemed like somebody with a code. Somebody who understood how things were supposed to be. And Mitchell was so easy to manipulate it was like he was made of plasticine. We both knew that if Mahon was alive, he’d come for Mitchell the second he was released. He’d have questions for him, and quite possibly a bullet. So Mitchell saved his own life and told Mahon about the pretty boy with fancy tattoos keeping Elton warm at night. Will Blaylock. He told Mahon about me, too. The man Roper fucked over who’d give anything to even the score.’

  ‘Stop talking . . .’

  ‘Will did as he was told. Battered Flemyng’s teeth in to give Mahon an opportunity to get to him. Will died for his part in it all and I’m sorry for that. But I don’t feel terrible. Bad things happen to good people and I’m not even sure how good Will was. He fell in love with a hooker he met through a website, for God’s sake. Hard to shed a tear for a man like that.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again . . .’

  ‘Getting free was an unexpected bonus. I was pretty content just having fucked with your organisation. But then I took a gamble. I decided to give you the memory card and see whether you would be true to your word. Do you think I didn’t know that Ash was waiting for a chance to cash in on me? The man’s a fucking idiot. It was still touch and go whether you’d get me out but you’ve been true to your word – even if it is for your own reasons. What happens next is the interesting part. Now I’ll see if I was right to believe in the moral code of a killer.’

  The barman takes a step forward, finger in his ear, wincing at whatever abuse he’s receiving through the earpiece.

  ‘You’re still going to die,’ he hisses. ‘Slowly and painfully. I won’t enjoy it but I’ll do what I have to. My employer will give me instructions every step of the way. Some of it will turn my stomach. That’s part of the job, unfortunately. Like I said, I’m not a monster . . .’

  ‘I am,’ says Mahon, from the doorway.

  The shotgun has been sawed down to a little over a foot long and as Mahon pulls the trigger, the shot comes out more like a bomb than a bullet. The barman’s upper body is transformed into a cloud of red and grey and what is left of him hurtles backwards to slam against the bar. His torso comes apart like boiled meat.

  Owen’s ears are ringing. He can feel his balance going. He wants to slide to his knees and then forward on to his face. He watches as a rain of blood drifts down to the carpet. Unsteadily, he turns to Mahon. Examines the man in whom he put his trust. He had no reason to believe that Mahon would come to his aid. But Owen pie
ced together a person he understood from the fragments of gangland folklore that Mitchell Spear shared with him. Above all, Owen identified a man with a code. He saw a way to win Mahon’s loyalty. He told Spear that if Mahon ever came for him, he was to tell him how to get revenge on Elton Flemyng. Prisoners were allowed out for medical visits. Owen knew Mahon would not allow anybody else to kill Elton. He wanted the job for himself. Owen’s way was perfect. He could have instructed Will to attack Elton himself but he needed to look like a bystander. He had to use all of his self-control not to grin with elation when Will told him about the huge man who sliced the roof of his mouth and ordered him to knock out Elton Flemyng’s teeth. It meant that Mahon was alive; that Mitchell Spear had done what was asked of him; that Owen, perhaps, had a new and dangerous ally. Will’s death was unfortunate but not unforeseen. It did not trouble Owen unduly. What little sympathy he had left bled away on the floor of his cell. He was sure that, once he was outside, Roper would send his killers to end his life. He did not know whether Mahon would come to protect him. But it was better odds than he’d enjoyed in years.

  Mahon approaches what is left of the barman. Prods him with his boot. Turns to Owen.

  ‘I don’t think he’s getting up again.’

  Owen sees his lips moving but can barely hear a sound.

  ‘It’ll come back,’ says Mahon, gesturing at his ears. ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Owen, his ears suddenly clear. His voice sounds like a jet engine, startling him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ says Mahon. ‘And thank you in return. Brave strategy.’

  ‘There was no other way. When all avenues of diplomacy are exhausted, you sometimes have to blow a man’s head off.’

  ‘Mr Nock used to say that,’ Mahon says.

  ‘I know,’ says Owen. ‘Mitchell told me.’

  ‘Mitchell told you a lot of things. I’m not sure I like you knowing about me. I’m quite enjoying being dead.’

  ‘I’m dead too. The second you’re not there with a shotgun, somebody else will come and finish me. I can’t go to this job in North Yorkshire. I can’t go anywhere.’

  Mahon considers him. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘You already know.’

  ‘I’m not one for company.’

  ‘Neither am I. But we both want the same people dead. I could help. I can see you’re not in your prime . . .’

  ‘Not very wise words, bonny lad.’

  ‘You know the sense of what I’m saying. We could take Roper down. I know a copper who would give his fucking soul to see it through. He can be manoeuvred. I even managed to get a little bit of justice for Will. The copper’s shut down the man who was pimping the girl he liked. But we don’t want Roper in prison. We want him in pieces.’

  Mahon scratches at the tiny patch of skin visible between scarf and sunglasses. He exposes the gaping wound and Owen finds himself fascinated rather than repulsed. After a moment, Mahon reaches into his jacket and removes a large silver cleaver.

  ‘Quick test for you,’ he says, and slams the cleaver into the wood of the bar. ‘You think you can handle it?’

  Owen walks forward and tugs the blade loose. He looks at what’s left of the barman’s corpse. Identifies what he thinks of as the neck. The half-moon of teeth, bone and twisted flesh comes away from the rest of the corpse with one slice of the cleaver.

  ‘You’ll need to bleed a little,’ says Mahon, nodding.

  Owen rolls up his sleeve and makes a deal with a monster.

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  Epilogue

  ‘No word?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He may have staged the whole thing. May have had a plan . . .’

  ‘The amount of blood, boss . . .’

  Pharaoh gives an understanding nod. She reaches out and puts her hand on McAvoy’s. Hers seems unnaturally dark against his pale, freckled skin.

  ‘I don’t know if I helped him or made things worse. We still don’t know who killed Will or if it was just an accident.’

  Pharaoh snorts a laugh and withdraws her hand. She has brought him to this little tea shop on Hull’s Newland Avenue because it serves cake and scones on three-tier trays and the hot chocolate comes with enough marshmallows to build a cloud. She is sometimes accused of treating her dejected sergeant the same way as daughters when they are sad.

  ‘You just stopped some very bad men from streaming live footage to a paedophilia ring. SOCA are chanting your name with delirium for the links we’ve found to organised crime, and when I saw Ronnie she was wearing a business suit and looking a million dollars. The girl is doing OK. She’s given us names and descriptions. We can’t stop every crime but we can get justice, and you’ve done that and then some. Give yourself a break.’

  ‘But Owen started it all, boss. I wanted to get him peace. All that’s happened is he’s disappeared. Missing, presumed dead.’

  ‘You showed me the crime-scene photos, Hector. Two types of blood. Brains and bone fragments. Evidence of a cleaver and a shotgun. SOCA are convinced it’s all connected to what’s happening to the Flemyng brothers.’

  McAvoy nods. The remaining brother is missing. Forensic scientists found evidence of a large, heavy cleaver having impacted with the floor of the apartment where he was hiding out in Long Benton; a trench in the centre of a sea of dried blood.

  ‘I know there was more to it,’ says McAvoy. ‘What he said about Roper. He seemed to think he was more powerful than ever, that he was behind all the abuse he suffered in the last few years.’

  ‘All we can do is pass it up the chain. Try and relax. Eat your scone.’

  McAvoy manages a tight smile. Takes a bite of fruit scone, loaded with cream and jam. He manages to get some in his beard and on the tip of his nose. He blushes as he cleans himself up.

  ‘It’s true, is it?’ asks McAvoy. ‘Archer’s got the Drugs Squad?’

  Pharaoh nods. ‘Acting Detective Superintendent. There’s no arguing with her arrest record. I just wish she wasn’t such a fucking cow.’

  McAvoy takes another bite and a swig of tea. Sitting on the metal chair at the round, wrought-iron table, surrounded by bunting and old newsprint, he seems more of an anachronism than ever, though where he would feel at home is difficult for Pharaoh to judge.

  ‘Where are you spending New Year?’ asks McAvoy. ‘We’re going to be back in the house by tomorrow night. I’m sick of waiting. I’ve banged my head for long enough. You and the girls are very welcome.’

  Pharaoh considers him. Wonders whether she can endure seeing Roisin’s pert tits and flat belly as she plays the good little wife and shows Pharaoh’s daughters what a cool mum looks like.

  ‘Will there be roast potatoes?’ she asks, closing one eye.

  McAvoy nods. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

  Pharaoh reaches across to take the last of McAvoy’s scone.

  ‘Who will I kiss at midnight?’ she asks, through a mouthful of jam and cream.

  McAvoy starts to cough on a crumb. She rolls her eyes as she rounds the table and bangs him on the back.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ she says, affectionately, sitting down.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, and his smile is a pleasing thing to behold.

  The End

  DS Aector McAvoy will be back in

  DEAD PRETTY

  Coming January 2016

  Hannah Kelly has been missing for nine months. Ava Delaney has been dead for five days.

  One girl to find. One girl to avenge. And DS Aector McAvoy won’t let either of them go until justice can be done.

  But some people have their own ideas of what justice means . . .

  Read on for an exclusive preview.

  August bank holiday, last year

  She’s blonde, near enough. Hair the colour of an old wedding gown. Skin like stripped twigs. Wolfcub eyes behind misted glass.

  Flushed pink, she is. Pink and white and pink and white, like a mosaic of seashells. Like
a plate of posh biscuits. Like a porcelain doll.

  Sticky arms and a sweaty neck, spilling out of a neat white dress: sausagemeat forced through a veil.

  Twenty-something. A plump fly in a web of tangled trees and knotted weeds, swinging her legs, toddler-like, over the entrance to a warm, dark hole in the earth.

  Leaves in her hair and ladybirds on her skin. Ladybirds everywhere, gobbling up the last of the summer aphids: something from a fairy-tale until you look close and see the green slime on their sharp little teeth . . .

  Hannah looks at the ladybirds crawling over her knees. She’s stopped being amazed by their number. The collective noun for a group of ladybirds is a loveliness. That’s what he told her and she had been so delighted with it, and with him, that she has not sought confirmation. Everybody else is referring to the colourful creatures as a plague. Hannah cannot imagine being cross about ladybirds. Cannot imagine anything more wonderful. She likes to imagine that they are tiny faeries, flitting and bustling and delighting in the late summer sun.

  She shifts her weight on the hard ground. Watches the thick black shadow of the tree bisect her bare thigh, and apologises to the loveliness of ladybirds that takes off, pouting and petulant, as their world goes dark.

  He’ll be here soon. Here to make it better. To make everything right.

  Hannah looks at the sports bag at her feet. Wishes she had made the two-mile walk here in her trainers. She quite likes the new summer dress she bought especially for him and has been surprised at the simple pleasure of walking with her skin touching fresh air. But the new Doc Marten boots have rubbed her ankles raw. She should have worn socks, but he didn’t ask for socks. Hadn’t ever hinted at a fondness for them. And she wants to please. She wants to please him so badly that she sometimes feels like she is transforming into another person entirely. She has felt desire before, of course. She’s a young woman with the same wants and needs as anybody else. But she feels something for him that goes beyond the physical. She wants to be consumed by him. To be enveloped. She wants him to be her chrysalis; to bind and contain her as she disintegrates and reforms. Wants him to be the first thing she sees when she emerges and flaps her beautiful wings . . .