Taking Pity

by David Mark

  McAvoy wonders how long it has been here. The registration plate at the back of the large, oblong vehicle has been ripped off and the paint job obscures both its origins and age.

  He makes his way to the far end of the container. The door is padlocked shut. There is no doubting the age of the padlock. It is shiny, new, and very solid.

  McAvoy holds the lock in his hand and presses his other to the metal door. If he pulled the door, he would perhaps be able to see through a gap in the hinges. But should he? Has a crime been committed? Is he being a policeman or just a nosy bastard? He stands, sodden and conflicted, and pulls on his lower lip as he tries to decide what to do . . .

  “Worst mistake of your fucking life, mate.”

  McAvoy spins. Loses his footing and grabs for the nearest branch.

  A middle-aged man is standing in the clearing. He’s wearing a waxed jacket and Wellington boots over an expensive shirt and trousers. He’s sporting rain-dotted spectacles and is shaking his head. He looks distinctly pissed off.

  “I’m sorry, I was just—” begins McAvoy.

  “Don’t bother” comes a voice to McAvoy’s left.

  He turns his head. A hefty young man in a flat cap and camouflage coat is standing three feet away. He’s holding a length of branch. A twig snaps and McAvoy turns to see another young man step out from the bigger man’s shadow. He is Asian. Skinny and well groomed, save the leaves in his hair and the mud up his calves.

  McAvoy feels a tightening in his chest. Reaches for his warrant card then stops as he sees the middle-aged man produce a shotgun.

  “We told you,” says the man. “We’re doing fine on our own. We don’t need you or your protection. We won’t pay. And you’re a silly bastard for coming on your own, no matter how big you are.”

  “Protection?” says McAvoy, confused. “No, you don’t understand. I’m a—”

  “You’re a dead man. That’s what you fucking are.”

  “Please, give me a moment . . .”

  McAvoy turns his head just in time to see the nearest of the two men dart forward, arm raised. He flicks his eyes upward.

  And sees the branch come crashing down upon his head.

  • • •

  “HONESTLY, I PROMISE YOU. A double espresso with a Red Bull in it. He necked it, right in front of me. You should have seen his eyes! Looked like somebody had put a piece of raw ginger up—”

  Tom Spink breaks off before the end of the sentence, switching the mobile phone to his right hand as he signals his intention to cruise past the Land Rover in the middle lane.

  “No, he sort of jiggled off after that,” he says, steering his old Vauxhall back to the inside lane and wincing as his windscreen wipers squeal another veneer of raindrops from the glass. “Jittery? I’ll say. Looked like a lorry with its engine running. I don’t know where he was going, but he won’t have needed a car. Could sprint there in ten seconds flat.”

  Tom is returning to the East Coast after a quick trip north. He’s spent a pleasant hour with a detective sergeant from Tyneside who had been a raw PC when Tom Spink had shown him the ropes three decades earlier. That young lad is close to retirement now. Got a gut and a bald patch. Got a red sheen to his skin and hair sprouting thickly in his ears. The meeting had done little to ease Tom’s sense of his own mortality, but it had proven useful in terms of pleasing Trish.

  “I’ll send it all over as soon as I pull in. The bladder will be demanding attention soon, Nefertiti. You don’t know you’re born, you young ’uns . . .”

  Tom marvels at the enthusiasm in Pharaoh’s voice. She sounds relieved. He likes being the source of that. Likes the fact she sends him a jokey card every Father’s Day. He reckons he’s done a better job raising her than her real dad ever did. Useless bastard. Sodded off when she was ten and left her to cope with a drunken mum, two younger brothers, and a senile granddad all by herself. They said it was too much for her, and it probably was. Didn’t stop her, though. She was a copper in her head and heart long before she put the uniform on. Her childhood experiences were perfect training for the job she would eventually do. She learned how to care while not taking any shit. Turned her into the person that has enriched Tom Spink’s life for twenty years.

  He’s feeling pretty good about himself today. He’d expected his little mission to be trickier. Thought he would have to travel all the way to Newcastle and buy a few pies and pints before anybody remembered what they owed him and agreed to a favor. But the call from DS Benny Pryce had come through to his mobile only twenty minutes after Tom phoned the news desk at the Newcastle Journal and introduced himself as a writer putting together a book on the time Newcastle’s crime bosses turned the twins away at the train station. He’d only had to mention a couple of names from the golden age of crime and the bloke at the other end of the line was promising that one of his reporters would be back in touch within the hour. Tom had left his number and waited for the call. He’d been surprised to hear from Benny. Hadn’t spoken to him since a funeral they both attended a few years back. He’d been friendly enough on the phone. Told him the reporters at the local paper were all kids and wouldn’t know anything useful. Asked him what he wanted to know and said he was happy to help an old friend. Agreed to spare him the drive all the way up to Newcastle and met him in the car park of the service station at Scotch Corner, two hours from Hull and an hour from Newcastle. Benny had brought with him what Tom had asked for. Slipped him a single piece of paper containing all the properties with links to one Francis Nock. Filled him in on the latest developments on Tyneside.

  “No movement on the severed arm yet,” says Tom, squinting into the cloud that seems to darken and bruise as he heads farther east. “Not much more to say than you got at Breslin’s briefing. They want to talk to Mr. Nock and his big brute of a right-hand man. They knocked on the door at his mansion half a dozen times but the only person there is a private security man and he says the old man is away convalescing. Doesn’t have an address for Mahon, though Benny reckons he lives somewhere on the grounds. None of the usual grasses in the city center have much to say and Lloyd’s family is saying nothing. Proper old-school wall of silence, but there seems no doubt what’s happened. Lloyd was considering his options. Mr. Nock showed them what his options really were. He could stay loyal or he could die. And the Headhunters are missing one of their own. Questions are being asked. Word is, Mahon got to him. Wherever he is, he’ll be having no fun.”

  Tom looks at the sheet of paper on the passenger seat of the car. It’s handwritten. A few addresses, some scribbles, and a couple of asterisks denoting that certain properties are owned by third parties and sham companies but have connections to Nock’s empire.

  “No, he’ll keep his gob shut,” says Tom in reply to Pharaoh’s query. “Benny wants the easy life. He didn’t ask many questions, really. I think he knew there was more to it than just my literary leanings, but he’s been a copper a long time and has seen Nock get away with murder time and again. Maybe he wants to see him exposed a little. Either way, it was good of him to help. Poor bugger looked knackered. Whole trip out only cost me a cappuccino in the end. Couldn’t believe that bloke though. Red Bull and a double espresso? Seriously? How tired would you have to be? Oh shit, what’s this . . . ?”

  Tom sees the blue light flash in his rearview mirror. He pulls a face and groans. He’s got three points on his license already and knows he’s about to get three more.

  “Bloody traffic police,” he says into the phone. “Fuck, I’ll have to pull over. Look, I’ll edit the list and get it to you, then you can send it on to your slimy Headhunter friend. Take care. Bye.”

  Tom terminates the call as the patrol car pulls level with him. A grim-faced young police constable in the passenger seat is pointing to the slip road that leads off the motorway and up and around into Goole. Spink frowns, knowing there is a stopping place half a mile ahead, but a sudden st
ern glare from the cop convinces him to do as he’s asked. He checks his speedometer and realizes he may have been going a tad fast. Curses, then indicates left and turns off the motorway. The patrol car follows him.

  “Can’t stop here, son. No hard shoulder, you prick . . .”

  The road leads up to a roundabout with exits for Goole and the motorway. To his left is the country road, leading to the pretty little towns and villages that dot the scenic route to York. Tom sees the police vehicle’s indicator light begin to wink so he dutifully flicks his own on.

  “You after a McDonald’s?” he mutters under his breath as he turns left and cruises toward the little estate that offers a couple of fast-food outlets and a discount hotel.

  Tom is about to pull into the estate when the patrol car draws level with him again, driving on the wrong side of the road. The policeman in the passenger seat gestures for him to keep driving.

  “What’s this, son? Where? Toward York? Why? There’s a car park back there . . .”

  Sighing, raising his hands, glancing in his mirror, Tom follows the car for another mile down the B road. The landscape begins to look more rural. The potholes in the road become deeper, as though heavier, more agricultural vehicles have eaten away the track. Finally, Tom sees the police car indicate left and pull off into a lay-by. It’s shielded from the main road by a mound of grass and earth. A red-painted wooden shack, offering bacon sandwiches and cups of tea, sits abandoned and graffiti-sprayed in front of a plowed field.

  “Really? This is the best place you could find for a telling-off?”

  Tom kills the engine and puts his head back, looking at the ceiling of his car. He’s going to have to play nicely. He’ll apologize. Won’t mention that he used to be a copper unless it comes up in conversation. He knows that, these days, telling young cops you used to be a policeman during the good old days is more likely to get you an extra fine than a new friend.

  He sits forward in his seat. Listens to the rain hit the roof and the glass.

  “Let’s get it over with, eh, boys?”

  He switches on the electrics so he can wipe the rain from the windscreen. Squints as the image clears.

  The patrol car is gone.

  “Where the bloody hell . . . ?”

  Tom is in the act of taking his seat belt off when his car gives a colossal lurch, with the sound of metal slamming into metal. He is thrown forward, smashing the bridge of his nose against something cold and biting his tongue as his chest slams into the steering wheel.

  He tastes blood.

  Sees in black and gold as his vision spins and swims.

  The door is yanked open and strong, gloved hands pull him from the vehicle. He feels a sharp pain in his knee and realizes he must have hurt himself in the initial impact. He tries to put his feet down on the pitted concrete but can’t seem to find his balance.

  He tells himself to concentrate. To think like a policeman. To stick his thumb in his attacker’s eye and knee the bastard in the bollocks. But he feels weak and confused and his heart is racing so hard that he can’t seem to hear his thoughts . . .

  A fist slams into his stomach. It’s a perfect blow. He doubles over, crippled with sickness and agony. Then a foot, clad in a simple black shoe, hoofs him beneath the jaw. His glasses fly off and his head snaps back, and he lands on his side on the wet road.

  Tom is barely conscious as the hands go through his pockets. Can manage only a groan as his phone and wallet are taken. Can’t raise his head to see the man scooping up the piece of paper from the passenger seat and the notebook from the glove box.

  Tom passes out just as the man squats over him and stares deep into his eyes.

  He is spared the terror of wondering just what his attacker is holding in his hand, or what he intends to do with it.

  He is blessedly unconscious as the man begins his work.

  But he wakes as the first nail splinters bone.

  THIRTEEN

  THE LAD IN THE FLAT CAP doesn’t expect the branch to break. He anticipates a jolting impact and a vibration up his arm. He is prepared for a grunt of pain and perhaps a spray of blood across his clothes and face. He has no other outcome in mind. Knows, just knows, that the big man in the damp clothes will fall to his knees, then onto his back. And then he can begin to really put the boot in . . .

  McAvoy shakes rotten wood and dirt from his hair and his eyes. Looks down at the thug who is in turn ogling the stump of rotten timber he holds in his right hand.

  “Will! Shift! Move!”

  McAvoy turns in the direction of the voice. The older man is raising the shotgun.

  “You’re dead! I’m gonna—”

  McAvoy reaches out and grabs the man called Will. Closes both hands around his shirtfront and lifts him clean off the ground. He plants his feet and swivels at the hips, then throws Will at the older man as if he is made of straw.

  The impact knocks the other man backward and he drops the gun to the forest floor.

  McAvoy crosses the small space between them. Will is getting to his feet and swings a right hand dazedly toward McAvoy’s head. McAvoy doesn’t want to hit him. Knows how much paperwork will be involved. He ducks back and lets the punch whistle by, then slaps him, open-handed, on both sides of the head. Ears ringing, eyes wide, the attacker drops to the ground, clutching at his temple.

  “Will?” shouts the older man. “What have you done to him? You bastard! You’re—”

  McAvoy knows Will will be unable to get his bearings for a good few seconds so he turns his back on him and kicks the shotgun out of reach. He closes his hand around the lower jaw of the older man and brings the man’s face close to his own. Smells meat, gravy, and red wine on his breath. Sees the flicker of the other youth behind him . . .

  McAvoy turns and slams his hand, open-palmed, into the skinny lad’s chest. The boy falls backward as though he has run into a tree. He turns back to the older man and exerts enough pressure on his lower jaw to show that he could break it like a dried twig.

  “I’m a policeman, you idiot,” says McAvoy into the older man’s face. “I tried to say! I tried!”

  Fear mixes with confusion in the man’s face. It morphs into an expression of relief, and then of fear once more as he replays the events of the last few seconds in his head.

  “Christ! Christ, I’m sorry, we didn’t . . . I thought . . . I mean, fuck! Fuck!”

  Breathing hard and pissed off to his bones, McAvoy lets go of the man, then takes two steps to his right and picks up the shotgun.

  “Seriously?” he asks. “I mean, who behaves like this? Who thinks this is okay!”

  He’s shouting, louder than he has in a while. Blinks a few times and pinches the bridge of his nose until the spots stop dancing in his vision. He considers the gun. “You have a license for this?”

  “Yes, yes,” mumbles the man. “Shit, honest, we didn’t mean . . .”

  McAvoy turns away from him. Bends down and checks on the man called Will.

  “Sit still for a minute. It’ll pass. And you,” he says, turning to the Asian youngster who is coughing his lungs up into the leaves and dirt. “Take deep breaths.”

  He gives the older man his attention. Follows his own advice and slows his breathing. Rubs his hand over his face and tries to pick the bark and mud from his fringe.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant McAvoy,” he says, and it feels suddenly wonderful to hear the words spoken aloud. “I’m investigating the murders in the church in 1966. I don’t know who the hell you thought I was but I know that whoever they are, they could well be dead by now. Who do you think you are? You don’t attack somebody with a branch and a shotgun for trespassing. You just bloody don’t!”

  The older man seems to have recovered a little composure. He gives a nervous twitch of his lips. “My name’s Jasper,” he says with stuttered breath. “That’s all it was, S
ergeant, we thought you were trespassing. We were just going to scare you, that’s all. Heard you coming through the woods and wasn’t sure you weren’t a villain. Honest, I’d never have fired . . .”

  McAvoy breaks open the shotgun. Looks at the cartridges.

  “It’s loaded,” he says. “You’d have taken my face off.”

  “Only cuz you were beating up the lad,” says Jasper with an air of petulance. “We’ve had bother.”

  McAvoy looks from Jasper to Will and then back again. There is some resemblance, but not much.

  “Your son?”

  “Nephew.”

  “And this gentleman?” asks McAvoy, pulling the Asian lad to his feet and gesturing that he join the other two.

  “Business associate,” says Jasper uncertainly. “Liam, we call him. Can’t say his real name. He’s Will’s friend.”

  McAvoy frowns. Watches Will pull himself unsteadily to his feet.

  “There’s something going on here,” says McAvoy. “This isn’t somewhere you go for a little walk. Not dressed like that, anyways. Is there a path through these woods?”

  “A path? Just a trail, you’d call it. Bugger to get to the trailer, though . . .”

  Jasper bites his lip as the younger men turn angry glares at him.

  McAvoy looks back at the camouflaged bulk of the horse trailer; deliberately hidden and obscured in this remote, inaccessible spot.

  “What’s in that?” he asks. “Is it yours?”

  Jasper and his nephew exchange glances.

  The Asian lad opens his mouth to speak. “Are you arresting us?” His tone is nonconfrontational. He is still wheezing and seems genuinely afraid.

  “I don’t bloody know,” says McAvoy, pushing a hand into his hair and leaving it sticking up at mad angles. He wrinkles his face and thinks back to what has been said. “You mentioned protection. Who did you think I was?”

  Jasper examines the forest floor. Will and Liam look at each other, as if communicating with just their eyes.