by David Mark
“Would you like me to call you Colesy?”
Another nod.
“Not Daft Pete?”
McAvoy feels bad for saying it. But he wants to see what reaction it causes in the other man’s eyes. If he had expected temper, he is disappointed. Peter just looks a little sad. Shakes his head and shrugs again.
“That’s what people called you at Winestead, isn’t it? You were known as Daft Pete.”
“I didn’t mind,” he mumbles. “Was just nicknames. There was Big Davey, wasn’t there. And Alf the Hat. Mick Chicken, cuz he had poultry.”
“You seem to remember those days very well, Colesy. You haven’t been there for the best part of fifty years. It’s surprising you can recall names like that.”
“I’m good with names,” he says with a glint of pleasure. As he twitches his lips, he reveals crooked white teeth. “I can pronounce yours right, I’m sure. Listen: Aector.” He giggles innocently. “That was right, wasn’t it?”
McAvoy considers the man before him. Fifty years ago he took a shotgun and blasted a family to death because they caught him taking potshots at airplanes. That’s the story the Home Office believes. That’s the story that the papers will want to print. He violated Anastasia Winn. Exposed her breasts so he had something to look at until the police arrived. He’s a psychopath who deserves every day of the five decades he has spent deprived of liberty.
But McAvoy wants to reach out and squeeze his hand; to tell him it’s okay. He feels nothing but pity for the specimen before him. He wonders how other police officers would feel. Whether Trish Pharaoh would have charmed a full confession from him by now. Whether Colin Ray would be sitting on his chest and spitting in his eye.
“That was perfect, Colesy. Now, you do understand why I’m here, yes? It wasn’t easy getting in to see you. I hear you don’t get many visitors.”
“Nana used to come,” he says, looking away. “She didn’t like it very much, but she came whenever she could get away. She was always a bit cross with me, though. Sometimes it seemed she came to visit just so she could tell me off again.”
“Tell you off for what, Peter?”
He gives a tiny laugh. “For making her life difficult, I suppose. People were mean to her. It was all right for me—that’s what she used to say. I had a roof over my head and a bed each night and three square meals a day. She was right. I never argued with her.”
“She may have struggled to express her real feelings,” says McAvoy sympathetically. “She was working very hard to help you, Colesy. She kept writing to the authorities and bothering her MP. It was her efforts that are going to maybe get you a trial at long last.”
Peter flicks his head toward Dr. Onatunde. “He told me about that. Said they wanted to dig it all up. To make me think about it. I don’t have to, do I? I don’t mind staying here. It’s okay. It’s nice enough. I don’t think I really want people looking at me and asking questions. We have a big telly here and watch programs about crimes, if we’re good. I don’t think I’d like to be in something like that.”
McAvoy doesn’t really know how to respond. He picks up one of the felt-tip pens and writes some shorthand scribbles down in the center of the page.
“What’s that?” asks Peter, suddenly interested. “Is that Egyptian? Can you write Egyptian?”
McAvoy broods across the table. “It’s called shorthand,” he says. “It’s a way of keeping up with what people say.” He turns to a fresh page and draws two lines—one horizontal and one vertical. “That says ‘Peter,’” he says. “And here”—he draws a shape a little like an unfinished cartoon of a mouse—“that says ‘Coles.’”
McAvoy rips the page from the notebook and passes it across the table. Peter takes it like an excited child and aims a nod at Dr. Onatunde. “Can I?” he asks, and looks positively gleeful as his psychiatrist nods his assent.
McAvoy rubs his eyelids. Wonders what the hell he is doing here. Peter Coles almost certainly killed the Winn family half a century ago. He has no real reason to doubt it, save a sense of disquiet and some questionable paperwork. But to try the man before him for multiple murder seems positively obscene. He has spent most of his life locked up. He has had no liberty since he was nineteen years old. What would be the point of putting him in the dock and making him answer for the crimes of a man he stopped being before McAvoy was even born?
“If there was a court case, would you plead guilty, do you think?”
McAvoy asks the question quickly, while Peter is still excited by seeing his name on the scrap of paper and before Dr. Onatunde can clear his throat and suggest that the line of inquiry goes against what the two agreed upon when McAvoy called this morning and explained the urgent need to see his patient.
Peter’s face falls. “Would I have to say? I don’t want to say anything about that. Why do people keep making me think about it? I don’t like thinking about it.”
“It was a terrible night, Colesy. Snow was coming down, wasn’t it? And the ground was frozen—”
Peter shakes his head. “Wasn’t frozen. Was boggy. I nearly lost a Welly coming up the path. Made me laugh. Made a rude noise as I pulled it out.”
“You were at the church, yes? That’s where you liked to go?”
Coles shrugs. “Was peaceful. There was an angel in the grounds. Pretty face. I liked talking to her.”
“I understand you had been in trouble for causing mischief at the church, though, Colesy. Something about shooting at the planes . . .”
Coles shakes his head aggressively, like a toddler refusing to apologize. “It wasn’t me. I’ve shot rabbits, though I always felt a bit bad about it. But I told Glass, I would never shoot the church. And shooting at the planes was just silly. We’d had a few beers, that was all. Just being silly. I said sorry . . .”
“And Clarence Winn saw you, did he? And you thought you would get in trouble?”
Another fierce shake of the head. “It’s not like that. I didn’t. I mean, erm, yeah, that’s right. He caught me. So I did the thing. Y’know. The bad thing.”
McAvoy turns to Dr. Onatunde. The psychiatrist’s face is expressionless.
“So you did kill them?” he asks cautiously. “You killed all five of them?”
Colesy looks away. Nods.
“All five?”
He turns his eyes back to McAvoy. Gives a cheeky grin. “You’re trying to trick me,” he says, wagging his finger. “There wasn’t five.”
“I’m sorry,” says McAvoy, making a great show of writing on his pad. “It was just something John Glass said to me. Said to count the bodies.”
Peter scoffs. “I wouldn’t believe anything he tells you,” he says dismissively. “He was in a right state that night. Doubt he could remember very much without getting his wires crossed. He didn’t even have handcuffs, did you know that? I quite wanted to know how handcuffs felt. Had to use his tie! Left me tied up, all by myself, while he went running off in a fit. I was cross at him for that. And he didn’t stick up for me when the spitty man started shouting at me.”
“The spitty man?”
“The detective. Duchess, he said he was called. Kept spitting when he shouted at me. I told him I didn’t like it, and he spat right in my face. It went in my mouth. He knew I hated that. So I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t speak again.”
McAvoy stops writing. Looks at the shrunken, fragile spree killer across the table.
“Which one did you kill first?” he asks. “Clarence?”
“Mr. Winn,” corrects Peter. “We didn’t call him ‘Clarence.’ The lads, I mean. He was the boss, wasn’t he? Gave me a job because he said he knew I worked hard. He was a nice man. Stern but fair, my nana used to say.”
“But you killed him, Colesy. You took a shotgun and blasted him in the stomach with it. And you killed the rest of his family, too.”
Peter looks down. �
��Not all of them. Not the way you think. I mean . . .”
He stops talking. Folds himself up and shrinks in his seat.
“What is it you want to tell me, Colesy? Please, give me something. Just tell me why you did it. Why you thought it was okay. Was it Anastasia? Everybody has told me she was a pretty girl. And we know about the drawings you used to do of her. The thoughts that went through your head. It’s okay, we all have thoughts we’re ashamed of . . .”
Peter starts tipping his chair back on its rear legs. Starts bucking back and forth, as though riding a horse. “I’d known her since she was little. She was my friend. It was just stuff in my head. I would never hurt her . . .”
“But you did hurt her. You took a shotgun and blasted her pretty face right off . . .”
Peter Coles gulps in a stuttering breath. His eyes fill up. He lets out a squawk; a squeak of dismay. Bunches his hand into a fist and digs it into his temple until the knuckle goes white and his forehead turns red.
“Easy, lad,” says the warder from by the wall. “None of that.”
“Colesy, people need to know what happened. You remember Vaughn, don’t you? He’s in Australia now. He’s got a good life and he’s happy. But there’s this hole in his life. He deserves answers. And you deserve to sleep without the weight of all this crushing down on you.”
Coles clatters backward as the chair slips out from under him. He lands with a thud, and both hands slap the cord carpet as his head comes down hard. McAvoy is out of his seat in an instant, crossing to where Peter lies, sprawled and confused.
“It’s okay, Peter. You can talk to me. Get it off your chest. For Anastasia. For Vaughn . . .”
Peter Coles reaches up and takes McAvoy’s hand in his. He stares up into his eyes, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He wants to talk. Wants to spill his guts. Wants to cough up the ball of lies that he has held like a hair ball for half a century.
“No touching, Sergeant,” says the warder, placing a hand on McAvoy’s arm and giving him a none too gentle shove. McAvoy stands his ground. Turns fierce eyes on the warder and plants his feet.
“You said ‘we,’” stutters McAvoy, suddenly remembering. “You said ‘we’ had had a few drinks. You and who, Colesy? Your friend, maybe? Vaughn?”
“Knew Vaughn,” he splutters, trying to get to his feet. “Knew Vaughn, in Australia . . .”
McAvoy turns to Dr. Onatunde again and sees that the psychiatrist is shaking his head. He has broken his promise not to upset or overexcite his patient. The interview is being terminated. An angry e-mail will no doubt be sent to Humberside Police and the Home Office. The prick of a warder will no doubt tell a few mates down at the pub what happened today and the whole fucking thing will be in the papers by Sunday. McAvoy senses it all slipping away.
He steps back, hands up. Turns away as the warder hauls Peter Coles to his feet.
Distracted, jittery, McAvoy pulls out his mobile phone. Sees he has a message from Pharaoh. A few words, followed by the instruction not to be downhearted, and a little kiss on the end.
“John Glass,” says McAvoy, relaying the information he has just absorbed. He locks eyes with Peter Coles. “A neighbor found him dead in his rocking chair this morning, Peter. I just saw him yesterday. Seemed a nice man. A good man. Carried his secrets with him to the grave . . .”
Peter’s face falls open in a noiseless twist of agony and terror.
“He’s still alive,” he splutters, backing against the wall.
“No, Peter. John’s gone . . .”
“Not John. The big man. The one who said those things to Vaughn. The one with the blood on his lips . . .”
McAvoy steps forward, face creased in confusion. “Which man?” he demands. “That night? 1966? Which man?”
“Knew Vaughn. Knew Vaughn. Knew about me . . .”
“That’ll do,” says Dr. Onatunde, opening the door and motioning for McAvoy to leave. “Truly, you can’t think you’ve done any good here.”
McAvoy opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Sees Peter Coles’s frightened eyes.
“He’s come back?” asks McAvoy, trying to understand. “The man, from that night. You think he’s come back?”
“He never left,” sobs Coles as the warder leads him from the room, piss trickling from his left trouser leg and snot bubbles bursting in his nose.
• • •
“I’M WEARING THE COAT, DAN. I’m not smoking or brushing my hair or scratching my buttocks with your best pencil. I’m behaving. And if you look at me like that again I’m going to step on your face.”
The young Technical Support officer grins, a little sheepishly. Trish Pharaoh shouldn’t be in here. She shouldn’t be putting pressure on him to fast-track the fingerprint analysis. She shouldn’t be glaring at him and looking at her watch. She shouldn’t look so bloody sexy in an off-white lab coat and biker boots.
“It’s contamination, you see,” he says, stammering. “The defense solicitor can have a field day. This stuff should all go to an outside agency. You know that. This is a favor, and I’d get in such trouble . . .”
Pharaoh cocks her head and examines the geeky twenty-something. He’s skinny, scrawny, bespectacled, and quarrelsome. He has also never made any secret of the fact that if he was granted three wishes, he would use them all up on fulfilling his fantasies with Trish.
“This business works on favors and goodwill, Dan. I’m happy to be in your debt.”
Dan makes a noise somewhere between a gulp and a cough and turns back to his computer screen. He mutters to himself. Grumbles, under his breath, about detectives thinking they can just demand things from him. Whispers something sexist and accusatory about Shaz Archer and her constant demands that he help her bend the rules in exchange for her breath on the back of his neck. Grizzles like a stroppy toddler as he gives Colin Ray’s name a good roasting. He should have been home hours ago. Instead he’s having to ping mobile phones and teach Cretaceous-era detective chief inspectors how the Internet works . . .
Behind him, Trish continues to perch on the end of one of the white, wipe-clean desks, drumming her fingers on her thighs. She’s bored and impatient. Late for home. Has important things to do and no end in sight to her day. Her youngest daughter has to go to a birthday party at the village hall. Needs to buy a present for some ghastly nine-year-old with freckles and a slimy upper lip. Her second-oldest daughter, Jasmine, has a parents’ evening that Trish will not be able to make. Her own mum will go in her stead. Nod wisely at the infallible teachers and make promises she doesn’t know how to keep. Tell Jasmine off and then buy her sweets on the walk home. More than anything else, Pharaoh needs to know that Roisin and Lilah have arrived safe. She had no right to ask such a favor of the pair’s new protector; a man she has never met. But he had said yes because it mattered, and because doing the right thing runs in the family.
“Here we go,” says Dan, turning back from the computer screen. He looks excited, and a little surprised. “Does that make sense?”
Pharaoh crosses to the monitor. Bends forward and looks at the profile on the fancy monitor. Looks into a face she knows. Swallows as if her mouth is full of somebody else’s sick.
“Makes sense, Dan. Wish it didn’t, but it does.”
“Is this what you wanted? Is it, y’know . . . good work?” He looks earnest and sweet as he asks it, like a little boy wanting a kiss for drawing a picture. Pharaoh manages a smile and squeezes him on the shoulder. Her thumb rests on the little knuckle of vertebrae at the top of his spine and she is gratified to feel him shiver slightly.
“Great work, Dan. And you’ll keep this between us, yes? This is crucial. Got a lot to digest. And you’ll hang around, yeah? For when the phone rings?”
Pharaoh doesn’t judge herself for using Dan’s attraction to her in this way. She’ll do whatever it takes. She can’t abide the female officers who
totter around in miniskirts and high heels then pull a face when somebody wolf-whistles. Would never go to the lengths that people like DI Shaz Archer are rumored to have gone in order to get people to talk. But she sees nothing wrong with a wink and a warm hand on his back as she passes him in the hall.
“Do you want me to wipe it?” asks Dan. “The search?”
Pharaoh nods. “Print me it off. And you’re sure, yeah? No room for doubt?”
“There’s always room for doubt. Like I said, the fingerprints were only a partial match and this really isn’t my area of expertise. But when I got myself into the database and cross-referenced all the possibles with that list of names you gave me, I would say that’s your man. You didn’t tell me—what did he do?”
Pharaoh is heading for the door of the tech suite, pulling off the white coat and clutching the warm sheet of paper in her hand.
“He signed his own death warrant, Dan. He hurt my friend.”
Pharaoh is dragging her phone from her pocket as she emerges back into the corridor. It’s chilly after the temperature-controlled perfection of the high-tech unit. Pharaoh shivers. Heads back down the corridor to the canteen and retrieves her biker jacket from the back of the chair. The half-eaten baked potato she had left on the table is still there, the butter and sour cream congealing and solidifying and making her stomach turn.
She looks at her mobile. Counts down to zero and watches the screen light up. Hears a voice say her name after the third ring.
“My turn,” she says before the wordy bastard can say anything else. “I’ve got a name. It’s the name of a man who is in an awful lot of trouble. And I don’t know if I should keep it, or give it to you.”
There is a pause. The tiniest suggestion of a throat being cleared.
“I think you can rest assured that the name is already known to us. The man is, after all, in our employ.”
“Are you sure about that? You’re sure he still works for you? I get the impression he and his pals are branching out.”
“You are a very astute woman, Superintendent. It’s such a shame you have risen so high. You could have been quite the opponent if you were free from the demands of high office. I could arrange that for you, if you wish. I could see to it that you were a constable once more, struggling to fit into that delightful blue uniform—”