by David Mark
He shudders at the thought of how she will look when they are through.
EIGHT
MCAVOY SITS on the damp grass, feet dangling over the wall.
He watches the pea-green channel marker sit on the motionless water. Turns his head to watch the car headlights flash by on the bridge that towers up into the cloud to his left. Squints as he tries to make out the flag of the cargo ship slowly inching its way toward the docks.
There’s not much of a moon tonight. What little light it gives off forms a maze between the clouds. From below, it seems the sky is scored with scars and jagged lines: reflecting back in the still, black surface of the Humber. A low, easterly wind ruffles the leaves of the trees in the dark, shapeless forest to McAvoy’s rear. He has promised Fin they’ll go in there one night. Have themselves an adventure after dark. He has not yet found the time or the courage to make good on his word. Bad memories lurk inside the forest’s embrace. He was hurt there. Hurt badly. His blood has soaked into the mud and leaves of the forest floor. He has no desire to walk past the spot where it happened. No desire to tell Fin that it is not ghosts or shadows that he needs to fear in the darkness, but bad men of flesh and blood.
A bad man died today. A big, thuggish drug dealer. He was thrown fifty feet by a big SUV and was dead before he hit the ground. The driver didn’t stop. Was never likely to.
McAvoy thinks about Bruno Pharmacy. He hadn’t known the man’s name when they fought. Had just seen a brute attacking his family. McAvoy had put him down. Put his friends down, too. And one of those friends came back and blew up his house.
Pharaoh broke the news with a phone call around teatime. She’d sounded pensive. Had spent a couple of hours waterproofing her team’s stories and trying to cover her own back. Bruno had been under police surveillance, and yet nobody had managed to get a look at the driver or glimpse more than a couple of letters of the registration plate. Ben Neilsen needs a blood test, having tried to give unprotected mouth-to-mouth to Bruno’s battered corpse. Sharon Archer has subtly suggested to the top brass that Pharaoh had deliberately been winding Bruno up and that it was his aggravated state of mind that caused him to walk out into Holderness Road without spotting the vehicle that turned him inside out. It’s a shitstorm. But Pharaoh had still made time to call McAvoy. Still made time to tell him that one of Roisin’s abusers was dead.
McAvoy doesn’t know how to feel. He never wishes death on anybody. But Bruno put his hands on Roisin. And Roisin has been absent from his life ever since. His only hope is that Bruno’s demise will somehow remove the threat to her life and that she can be allowed to come home. He had suggested as much to Pharaoh and been rewarded with a sigh. She said she was working on it. To trust her. To carry on with the Peter Coles case and to hope for the best.
He looks down at the laptop that balances on his knees. He can get a signal here, as the landlord never switches the Wi-Fi off. Can do what he needs to do without losing sight of his room, where Fin is sleeping contentedly after polishing off a double portion of complimentary shepherd’s pie. They had a good chat tonight. Fin told him what they had learned at school. Asked him if he knew who Henry the Ace was and whether he knew he had six wives. McAvoy had gently educated the boy. Told him what had happened to some of Henry’s brides, only to find that Fin was already well aware. The conversation had taken a turn. Fin had asked his father if he had ever seen somebody have their head chopped off. Asked if Henry was arrested and sent to prison for murder. Whether a policeman was better than a king. Asked him what he would do if somebody cut Mammy’s head off. Drew a picture of a corpulent king holding a big, blood-soaked ax over the head of a stick figure with black hair. McAvoy had steered them away from the subject. Told him the names of some Scottish heroes and a few stories about his granddad. Tucked the lad up in bed not long after eight. Sat himself down on the floor and waited until the thudding waves of panic and nausea subsided. He’d known, in that instant, just how much he missed his father. Had known that the arguments between them could be remedied with a phone call. But he had known, too, that he did not have the courage to make that call. McAvoy’s father had angered his son beyond forgiveness when he refused to attend his wedding. He believed that Aector’s teenage bride could not be trusted. He’d called her a gypsy bitch who was no better than the mother who abandoned Aector and his brother when they were children and who came and bought them back when she married money. McAvoy misses his dad. Knows, too, that the old man will feel like the worst kind of bastard for being so wrong in his estimations of his daughter-in-law. But the McAvoys are stubborn men, and neither will break first.
For the last hour, McAvoy has been working. Going through the witness statements. Cross-referencing evidence logs. Double-checking dates. On the computer screen before him, the timeline is taking proper shape, but there are still peculiarities. Some of the witness statements are signed by policemen whose names appear nowhere else in the report. And worse, he is having difficulty locating the actual physical evidence. An e-mail from HQ explained that the shotgun used to wipe out the Winn family was moved from its original repository some years before, when the various police forces merged, and has since disappeared. The lack of the gun could scupper the case before it begins. Prosecutors will need to make the gun available to the defense team for independent analysis. They would also want to see the clothes worn by the victims on the day of their deaths. They, too, have not yet been unearthed by the civilian custodians who look after the evidence store.
McAvoy isn’t really sure how he feels about the assignment yet. He has enjoyed today, in a peculiar way. Liked asking questions and building up a picture. He has heard of detectives who hear the voices of the dead as they search for justice in their name. McAvoy does not. He simply feels pity for the fallen. Mourns the waste of life. What drives him is a need to know. He believes in justice, of a sort. He is finding it hard to think in the same way about the events of 1966. In this case, half a century has elapsed. Peter Coles’s loved ones are dead. Those who do remember him will not thank the home secretary for tearing open old scars. McAvoy wonders if it would not be best simply to e-mail Pharaoh’s contact and ask them exactly what they would like his report to say. He won’t do it, of course.
Did Peter Coles kill these people? It certainly seems so. Is there enough evidence to secure a conviction? He isn’t sure. There are witness statements aplenty, but in many cases, the people who gave them are no longer alive to be cross-examined in the witness box. If he were to put together a watertight case he could hand over to the Home Office it would do his reputation and prospects no harm. He should spend his time doing what he has been asked to, and simply check the facts for oddities and anomalies that would be embarrassing if put before the court. And yet, he feels a compulsion. Feels a familiar disquiet. He has a picture in his mind of the young Peter Coles. Has a vision of that place, with its bodies and its corpses between the graves. Something about the two pictures seems awry when placed together. Could Peter truly have taken the time to reload? To kill two family members and then stalk the others? Why did they not fight back? What order did they die in? And why the hell did he do it?
McAvoy blows air through his nose and rubs a hand across his face. He flicks a key on the laptop and opens up an Internet browser. He’s becoming quite familiar with the history of Holderness. Spent a good hour reading about its notable people and places. Has taken a virtual tour around the inside of St. Patrick’s Church and seen for himself why it is held in such royal regard. Has read about the RAF base in Patrington and the men who were based there. It was built during the Second World War, when the coastline was of strategic importance. For a decade, it served as a radar station and base for ground-controlled interception. In 1955 it moved to nearby Holmpton. Its former servicemen still return to Patrington for celebrations and anniversaries. To coincide with one recent get-together, the East Riding Mail published a special “Bygones” supplement about wartime in Hold
erness. It revealed just how important the area was to Churchill’s war effort. Told of the network of bunkers and hideouts that would have been used by a special local militia in the event of German invasion. McAvoy had read the story twice and been amazed at the units’ sophistication, complexity, and secrecy. They were known as Auxiliary Units and were dreamed up in 1940 by a Colonel Colin Gubbins. These highly secretive units were trained in all aspects of guerrilla warfare. They were taught to kill and disappear. To make and detonate bombs. And they were made up of local men handpicked from the Home Guard. Of farmers, butchers, and bakers. Of men too old to fight on the front line. They signed the Official Secrets Act and trained for a battle they would never fight. McAvoy wonders whether his grandfather knew about their existence. There was an Auxiliary Unit in the Western Highlands. How the hell did people manage to keep secrets like that? These days, anybody asked to dig a secret bunker for the government would be updating their Facebook status on their smartphones before their shovel even bit the dirt.
McAvoy checks the time on the corner of the laptop screen. Looks at his phone. Gives a sigh. He hates people being unpunctual, even if he always manages to make good excuses for them in his head. Starts counting backward from one hundred, just for something to do . . .
His phone rings. A foreign number, complete with a lot of zeros.
“Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy. Serious and Organized.”
“G’day, Sergeant. How you going?”
Vaughn Winn’s voice is chatty and very Australian. He’s in his late sixties now, but his words come out bright and sparky. His e-mail, too, had been amiable and light. He’d responded to McAvoy within half an hour. Promised to ring when he got out of his morning meeting and had a bit of time to himself. Apologized for the time difference and asked if it was okay.
“I’m very grateful for your returning my call, Mr. Winn. As I explained, we’re—”
“It’s just Vaughn, mate. Mr. Winn was my dad.”
McAvoy stops. Doesn’t quite know what to say.
“You there, mate? Is this line all right?”
McAvoy starts again. Outlines what he is doing. Promises to get some answers for the family. Can’t guarantee a conviction but hopes the older man realizes how seriously Humberside Police take murder, even after all these years.
When McAvoy stops talking, there is no reply at the other end of the line.
“You reckon it’s worth it?” asks Vaughn eventually. “After all these years? They’ve talked about this in the past, mate. Never came to nothing. And people’s memories get hazy after a few years. I mean, I appreciate it and all, but I reckon you’ve got the shitty end of the stick.”
McAvoy chews on his lower lip. He had been hoping Vaughn would give him some encouragement. Tell him he is doing the right thing.
“Well, as I said, we are only doing some preliminary work to gauge the likelihood of securing a conviction against Peter Coles . . .”
“But he’s locked up already, isn’t he? I mean, why move him from one cell to another? What would be the point?”
McAvoy watches the channel marker move slightly on the water. Watches a crooked smile of moonlight ripple on the surface. Wonders how to make a meaningful argument when you don’t agree with your own opinions.
“We have no idea what the outcome of these investigations will be, sir. I contacted you out of courtesy, and I personally believe it’s important for justice to be seen to be done. He killed four people, sir. Perhaps he should be sentenced for it.”
Vaughn makes a musing sound, as though mulling it over. McAvoy can almost hear him shrugging.
“You got new evidence, or something? New techniques?”
“No, sir. We believe the initial investigation was handled effectively. I’m just double-checking the case that would have been brought against Peter Coles had he not been declared insane.”
Vaughn clears his throat noisily. In the background, McAvoy can hear the squawking of some unpleasant-sounding bird. Tries to get a picture of where the other man may be sitting or standing. He knows that Vaughn owns several properties in Queensland. Has his main residence at a little place called Noosa Heads, an hour or two from Brisbane. McAvoy has found a handful of images of him online. He’s a good-looking older guy with a full head of hair that turns up at the front in a luxurious quiff. His skin is tanned and his teeth a bright white. In each of the images, he looks fit and healthy: all linen suits, deck shoes, and designer sunglasses. He’s made a respectable living since moving to Australia in the wake of his family’s death. Opened a business transforming unused or substandard grain from the area’s giant breweries into animal feed. Won some big contracts and eventually supplied half the coast. Mixed up some special batches for the equestrian community and won an endorsement from a national show-jumping star. Made a mint and put his cash into houses and good causes. Sends money home to Holderness whenever a charity needs a boost. He seems a good man. A hard worker. Single and childless, according to what McAvoy found, but seemingly happy enough.
“Daft Pete was always a nutter, mate. Long before that night. You know we were mates, don’t you? Well, near as dammit, anyways. I knew him pretty well, and he always had a screw loose.”
“Did you ever fear for your family’s safety?” asks McAvoy, sensing an opportunity to hear the words that would make him feel better.
“Nah, he was just a bit of a nuisance,” says Vaughn conversationally. “Never grew up, I suppose. Liked to play in the woods and shoot rabbits and talk about racing drivers and look at mucky books. I didn’t think there was any harm in him. My brother was a bit younger than him and a lot cleverer than me, and he’d mentioned a few times that he thought Daft Pete had what people nowadays call a personality disorder. Maybe he did. I just know that when I heard they had been killed, Daft Pete wasn’t the first name I thought of.”
“Who was?” asks McAvoy softly.
Vaughn gives a little laugh. “I thought it must be random nutters. Burglars. Somebody waking them up in the middle of the night and it all turning bad. That, at least, made some sort of sense. Dad wasn’t poor. He kept a lot of money in the house, and we had a lot of valuable things. I sold most of them when I moved and it came to a tidy sum. And with the house so out of the way it made sense that somebody would have tried to rob them. I could imagine Dad fighting back. My brother, too. Even Mum was a scrapper when her blood was up. Then I was told the full story. About where they were found. About Daft Pete. I felt like the ground was caving in, I really did.”
McAvoy takes a breath. Holds it. Tries to order his thoughts.
“How many people knew that your father kept money in the house?”
“No idea, mate,” says Vaughn. “It was a big, posh house. You’d see it and presume, y’know? And we had people in and out of there all the time. We had the tenants in the cottages. There was always people coming to see Dad. He never felt afraid in his own house, though. He was a formidable man. And he had a shotgun of his own. Ironic, really, eh?”
McAvoy cradles the phone between shoulder and neck and starts typing words into the laptop. He’s recording the call but finds that taking notes helps him put bookmarks in the swirl of his thoughts.
“How did your father feel about Peter Coles?”
“Felt sorry for him, I reckon. Like I say, Dad was formidable, but he had a kind side. He came from poor stock, you see. Made his money as a young man. Did what I did, I guess. Buying and selling. Hard work.”
“Am I right in thinking he made armaments during the war?”
“You are,” says Vaughn. “Money to be made all over during that time. I hadn’t come along yet, of course. He was still young and free. But he had an eye for a profit. Knew what he wanted. That’s what Mum said about when she caught his eye. He was down from the North East for some job or another. You know how badly Hull got a battering, don’t you? He made a fortune in scrap aft
er that. Anyways, Mum was just a normal Hessle Road girl. And he was a right flash soul. Whisked her off her feet. Fell for her in a big way. Gave her everything she wanted. And what she wanted most was a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. So he got her that. Became lord of the manor. That’s why he tried to help Daft Pete, mate. Just liked to spread the wealth.”
“Vaughn, there is a good chance I will have other questions for you as the investigation progresses. Would it be possible for us to remain in touch so I can keep you up-to-date with the investigation?”
Vaughn makes an affirmative noise that goes up at the end. He betrays few of his East Yorkshire roots in the way he speaks.
“Thank you. I think we can leave it there.” McAvoy is about to terminate the call when he remembers something. “Oh, Vaughn, just to be certain, can you confirm your own movements in the few days surrounding the date in question? I seem to have a couple of conflicting reports on what day you returned to Newcastle.”
Vaughn makes a clucking noise, flicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Was so long ago. I’d been home, I remember that. Seen Mum and Dad. I was working away, you see. Doing some office work for an old friend of the family in Newcastle. Only got home now and again. I’d brought some new shoes for Annie. Anastasia, that is. My sister. Bit of a present from her big brother. Was there a day or so, then had to get back. It was at least a day after they were killed that anybody got in touch with me. Can’t remember much other than that. It was a crazy time. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Couldn’t even face the funeral. I suppose that’s why I’ve spent so much money on the church—because I was too much of a coward to go back. The headstone’s beautiful. Have you seen the engraving I got them on the floor of the nave? I know it doesn’t make up for it, but I can’t go back, can I?”
McAvoy is nodding. He’s listening but is suddenly feeling sleepy. Can almost feel the warmth of the Australian sun on him. Tells himself off for not paying attention. Not engaging with this man’s pain. Sits up and makes the right noises.