by David Mark
“All the old river pilots got the boot a few years back, didn’t they?” asks Mahon chattily. “The Port Authority wanted to save a few quid and cut them adrift. Made life as difficult as possible for them. Was like the seventies all over again. Reckon I would have enjoyed the seventies if I’d been on the outside. Strikebreaking was a specialty of a crew I used to have some dealings with. Not sure I would have been able to bring myself to do that, personally speaking. I don’t really understand politics, but I’ve never been on the side of the rich.”
McAvoy casts a glance at his companion. Wonders if he is joking. “Mr. Nock’s not short of a bob or two,” he says cautiously.
“He’s worked hard for it,” says Mahon without malice. “Started with nothing. Had to get his hands dirty for years to get himself where he was. Where he is, I mean.”
“Dirty with what?” asks McAvoy. “Honest toil or blood and tears?”
Mahon looks at him and smiles: a ghoulish, horrifying thing. “Where did they find you, mate? Seriously?”
“What do you mean?”
Mahon shrugs. “Wouldn’t know how to buy you, mate. Wouldn’t know what to offer. Of course, I haven’t had very long to sniff around. Few rumors. Interesting CV. Lots to learn about the missus and the people you’ve upset. Don’t know what we’d have made of you, back in the good old days. Mr. Nock would have made that decision. I’d hate to have had to carry it out, though.”
Their footsteps take them past a timber yard shielded by steel bars. To their left there would be nothing to stop their fall should they slip over the edge of the footpath and down into the thick mud and standing water.
“You asked me here to talk about 1966,” says McAvoy, trying to keep his voice steady. “You said you had information.”
Beside him, Mahon takes a deep breath. Behind his colored lenses, he blinks, long and hard. He seems to be watching a snippet of film in his head. Eventually, he stops. Leans back against the steel. Lights a cigarette and pushes a plume of smoke into the gloom.
“You’ve been down there, haven’t you?” he says, nodding. “The hole.”
“The bunker?”
Mahon nods. Looks away. “Saves a bit of time, then. Would hate to have to draw you a map. Figured when I heard you talking to Glass that you were going to be the bugger to dig it up.”
“You killed him?”
Mahon grins indulgently. “Natural causes, mate. Pity, to be honest. I liked him.”
“You scared him to death, then.”
“Wasn’t me that did any of this. I paid a fucking heavy price for what you found in that hole in the ground.”
“Not as heavy as the Winn family. Not as high as Peter Coles.”
Mahon slides his sunglasses down his nose. Looks at McAvoy with his pink, ratlike eyes. Gives the slightest shake of the head.
“You put any of this together, Sergeant McAvoy? You got any fucking idea what happened or why?”
McAvoy looks down at the mud and stones below. Watches crows and seagulls fight over the same tattered scrap of nothing. Screws up his eyes and lets himself talk.
“Vaughn was one of your boys, wasn’t he?” he asks carefully. “One of Mr. Nock’s. He may be some slick businessman in Australia these days but all those investments he makes in the local community are just a way to salve his conscience. His family died because he upset somebody. His family died because he got in with the wrong crowd and ended up working as a bloody gangster’s muscle at the time the big boys from London wanted some action. How am I doing?”
Mahon sucks half an inch off his cigarette. Flicks the ash off the end and watches it fall down like black snow.
“The bodies in the bunker,” says Mahon at length. “How’re they looking? Well? Handsome? Identifiable?”
McAvoy doesn’t answer. Finds his leg jiggling as he tries to keep up. Tries to make sense of what he thinks he knows. Replays the last few days in his head. The scene of the Winn family’s murder. The conversations with Vaughn. The strange, bewildered figure of Peter Coles. The fear and paranoia of John Glass. He knows he is missing something. There are too many bodies. Too few answers. Peter Coles had said they knew Vaughn.
Knew Vaughn. Knew Vaughn, new Vaughn, new Vaughn . . .
“A new Vaughn,” he says suddenly, turning his head to Mahon. “He’s not bloody Vaughn Winn, is he? The injuries to the faces . . . the smell of gunsmoke in the house . . . what Glass smelled and saw . . .”
Mahon turns to him. He suddenly looks as old as the man he serves.
“Mr. Nock always said it would be taking pity that would cost me,” he says, turning back to the horizon. “Always said I needed more steel in me. It was pity that cost me my face. Pity that nearly cost me my life. They nearly took all my pity from me that night. Nearly made me the monster people see. Maybe they managed it, I don’t know. I still think I did right. I still think Flash Harry deserved everything he got.”
McAvoy says nothing. Just waits. Tries to keep his heart from racing and resists the urge to grab the old man by the throat and shake the truth out of him.
“Vaughn was a head case,” says Mahon softly. “His dad and Mr. Nock had history. Made some money together during the war. Clarence met some lass in Hull and sold his Newcastle business interests to Mr. Nock. Moved out to the middle of nowhere and tried to become lord of the manor. Tried to play a straight bat. Had himself a nice little family and sent Mr. Nock a Christmas card every year. Problems began when young Vaughn was a teenager. He was a bad lad. Dangerous. Liked women’s clothes. Liked to draw. Liked to hurt animals and watch his sister in the bath. Clarence kept it as quiet as he could. Even kept that bloody simpleton Peter Coles nearby so people would think it was him and not the squire’s son who was causing problems in the village. Made no difference. Vaughn needed discipline. Needed an outlet. So Clarence called Mr. Nock and the boy came to the North East to learn how to behave himself.”
“He went to work for Mr. Nock?”
“We found him a job in one of our clubs. Took to it like a duck to water. He had money, you see. And style. Liked to dress up. Big bloody pompadour and camel-hair coats. Done up like a peacock. But he was tough. Sorted out some trouble one night and Mr. Nock took a shine to him. Let him into a few of the other business interests we had at that time. Gave him a little crew to work with. Gary and George. Thick as planks, but good at taking orders. They made good money with Vaughn. Became Mr. Nock’s blue-eyed boys.”
As he speaks, Mahon’s voice betrays him for a second. There is a flash of something personal in the way he says it. A flicker of an old grudge; a long-held ember of having been overlooked.
“Vaughn never gave himself away to Mr. Nock. Never showed what was going on behind the eyes. Was just a pretty boy. But his eyes were dead. I knew what he was first time I saw him. But nobody listened to me.”
McAvoy huddles into his coat as the rain starts to come down harder. Wonders if the older man will do the same, then realizes that Mahon is too lost in memory to give a damn what the present throws at him.
“We’d made friends with the southerners,” says Mahon, and seems pained by the memory. “The twins. Come to an understanding. There was a spot of bother down in London. A shooting. Cost them dear in the end, but it took a bit of time for Nipper Read to piece it all together. When it first happened, they needed their shooter to keep his head down. To stay out of trouble in a friendly place. So they sent him to Mr. Nock. And he gave Vaughn the job of keeping the bloke safe, happy, and out of the way.”
“It went wrong?”
“Vaughn had a girl. One of our girls.”
“A prostitute.”
“If you like. She was a nice girl. Sweet. Young. Probably too young, though nobody really made a song and dance about that. Vaughn liked her. Said she reminded him of his sister.”
“Jesus.”
“And Terry took a shine
to her, too.”
“Terry?”
“The shooter. Southerner. One of the twins’ boys. Terry, his name was. Loudmouthed bastard. Vaughn had him holed up in this flat we owned. Gary and George took it in turns to bring him what he wanted. They brought him too much. Too much drink and drugs, and in the end too much of the wrong woman.”
“Vaughn’s girl?”
“Terry didn’t just want to have her for an hour or so. Kept her at that flat like she was his personal slave. Made her stay naked. Treated her like a dog. Ate his dinner off her back. Made her do things she hated and made her say she loved them. Word got back to Vaughn. And Vaughn let the other side of himself out.”
“What happened?” asks McAvoy.
“He killed Terry first. Cut him up like a side of bacon.”
“First?”
“Then he killed her. The lass. The tart he liked. Poor bitch.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a fucking evil bastard. Who knows what happened inside his head? Maybe he thought she enjoyed it. Maybe he didn’t like caring about somebody. You ask me, he killed the southerner and enjoyed it so much he wanted to do another. She meant nowt to him. Not really. He liked her but preferred himself, and in that instant all he wanted was to feel his knife go in as many warm bodies as he could find. All I know is that by the time I got there, the place was a bloodbath and they were both dead in the bedroom.”
“Why were you there?”
“It felt wrong. Mr. Nock doesn’t make many errors of judgment. He didn’t know what Vaughn was. I did. And I knew what he was going to do. I may have called him Flash Harry and made a joke of him, but I should have made it clear. He was bad. Worse than any of us. A bloody liability.”
McAvoy’s breath catches as he tries to speak. Mahon lights another cigarette. Tells him to hush. To just listen.
“Vaughn was from money. It was bloody obvious what he was going to do next. His dad kept cash at home. Mr. Nock and me both knew it. Vaughn knew it, too. He’d just killed an enforcer for the London firm. He couldn’t stick around—even if Mr. Nock offered protection. He needed cash. So did Gary and George.”
“You went after them?”
“I took a call while I was cleaning up the flat. It had all gone wrong.”
“He robbed his family? Killed them for the money?” McAvoy feels bile and temper rising.
Mahon shakes his head. “They were all wired. Drugged up. They were supposed to wait until the family went out for their walk so they could go take the cash. But they didn’t go out. Stayed in that night because of the snow that was due to fall. Late in the year for snow, but that’s fucking Yorkshire for you, eh? So Vaughn decided he couldn’t wait. Went in with a mask on and rounded up his mam and dad and brother and sister. Scared the shit out of them. Told Clarence to fill a bag with money. Then Peter Coles walked in the back door. And he saw straight through the balaclava and said hello to Vaughn like they were two best friends and this was all just a game.”
“Jesus.”
“Clarence went for his son. Needed to know. Tried to pull the balaclava off him and the gun went off. Clarence was dead before he hit the floor. Peter was first to react. Threw himself at the girl. Anastasia. Wrapped his arms around her like a shield. The shot that Gary aimed at her jammed in the cartridge. Blew up and nearly took his hand with it. George’s gun went off properly. Took Mrs. Winn in the guts. Blew her half apart.”
McAvoy can’t speak. Just listens to the water and the words.
“Vaughn knew he was in too deep,” says Mahon. “Knew whatever happened now he couldn’t fix. Daft bastard thought Mr. Nock would be able to take care of it. But it was me that answered the phone when it rang at the flat where the lad had left his two bodies. Me who said I would take care of it. Me who put the bodies in the boot and headed to Yorkshire.”
McAvoy’s ears are filled with static. He can hear his own blood.
“You set up Peter Coles,” he says carefully. “And you murdered Vaughn’s brother and sister.”
Mahon coughs: a guttural, ugly, unhealthy sound. He spits blood and mucus into the sea.
“I had them clean the place up. Had them bandage Gary’s hand. Gagged and tied the brother and sister. Was a mess in there. I couldn’t just disappear the bodies the way we could in Newcastle. People would know. There were too many loose ends. It was Vaughn who said we had to kill them. Vaughn who said his old mate Peter liked to play with guns and had been stealing his sister’s knickers off the washing line. Vaughn who suggested we butcher his whole family so nobody could pin anything on him.”
McAvoy swallows hard. His mouth is dry, his face wet with rain and sweat.
“You went along with it?”
“Tried to. But pity’s a bitch. And I took pity on Anastasia and her brother. Took pity on that bloody simpleton. We spent a day in that house, with its blood and bleach and gunsmoke. I saw the grace in Anastasia. Saw the fear in her brother’s eyes. It wasn’t the kind of job I had signed up for. And the danger wasn’t to Mr. Nock—it was just to Vaughn. It was dark when I dragged the bodies out there. No snow yet. Not much time to do what I had to do. Vaughn was excited, like a child at Christmas. Had picked out the spot in the churchyard where he wanted his sister to die. Wanted to make it look authentic, too. Stripped her, there in the church. Slapped her about, cock like a rock in his pants. Gary started slapping the lad. And I was standing there with Clarence’s blood all over me and Peter Coles looking at me like I was the devil.”
McAvoy looks at the old gangster. Imagines who he used to be, and what he became that night.
“. . . a new Vaughn . . .”
“I did what had to be done. I took George’s gun from him and blew his fucking face off. Vaughn turned like he’d been slapped. My gun jammed, just like Gary’s had. I broke it over Gary’s head. Then Vaughn raised his own shotgun. Turned those dead eyes on me. It was like looking into a shark’s soul. And Peter just flew at him. His hands were tied, and he didn’t know why his friend was doing these things, but he knew Anastasia was in danger. Vaughn dropped his gun. And I shot his fucking face off.”
Mahon leans back against the wall. He looks lighter somehow. Insubstantial. The rain is thick on his glasses and droplets run into the hole in the side of his face.
For a full minute, neither man speaks. Then McAvoy clears his throat.
“It was Peter that showed you the bunker, yes? Where he and Vaughn used to hide their secrets. You put the bodies there and stuck the lid back on.”
“It was the only way,” says Mahon. “The boy and girl would never have been safe. People had to think them dead. And whoever killed Terry was going to be the focus of all kinds of vengeance from the twins.”
McAvoy wipes rain from his face. “The girl. The prostitute.”
“We dressed her in Anastasia’s clothes,” he says flatly. “And then I shot her in the face.”
“The boy?”
Mahon frowns. “A new Vaughn.”
McAvoy squashes his hands together. Tries to push the shaking from his bones into the seawall.
“Stephen became Vaughn Winn?”
“Took his brother’s identity. Took his sister with him to Australia. Lives a good life, so I’m told.”
“And Anastasia?”
Mahon shrugs, sucking at his ruined cheek. “Lived a good life, too. Died a couple of years back. Heart failure. She’d had kids and grandkids. Worked in the equestrian world. Married a good guy, from what I hear.”
“The real Vaughn is in the bunker,” says McAvoy, half to himself. “Him, Gary, George, Terry. It’s a tomb. It was Peter’s secret place, wasn’t it? Where he and Vaughn could read mucky magazines and hide away . . .”
“I thought the stone would have been rolled away years ago,” says Mahon. “I never expected them to stay buried so long.”
McAvoy watches as
the wind raises whitecaps on the pewter sea. “And Peter Coles?”
Mahon shuts his eyes. “Somebody had to be blamed. He was already afraid of me. And when he knew Anastasia was in danger . . .”
“He took the blame.”
“He already thought he was to blame. He thought he’d killed Vaughn. Thought it was his fault Clarence was dead. Just kept saying he was sorry. I left him there, staring at the poor bitch’s tits in the moonlight. Went and found John Glass. Put in a call to a tame CID man by the name of Len Duchess and tried to keep things from unraveling.”
McAvoy looks at Mahon’s face. At the ruination and pain.
“They came for you? The twins.”
“They didn’t get all of me. And Mr. Nock wouldn’t let them try again. He’s my employer. My friend.”
“Jesus,” says McAvoy again. “Where did he find somebody like you?”
Mahon turns toward McAvoy. Pulls down his collar and smiles with teeth that look like they should be grinning from a rotten skull.
“I was nothing before he put me to work,” he says. “I’ve lived my life to keep him where he is. He deserves to see it through. Doesn’t deserve what he’s become.”
“Deserves?”
Mahon shrugs. Rubs his forehead with his gloved hand. He looks tired. Pained.
“I’m phoning the bodies in,” says McAvoy. “Peter Coles doesn’t deserve to have spent fifty years in mental hospitals. The truth is important. The truth matters.”
“The truth is whatever the cops say it is,” murmurs Mahon. “I just need a little time to keep Mr. Nock on top. Just until he slips away. Then you can pin the lot on me. Do what you like. Let Peter out if you think it will help anybody . . .”
“That isn’t how it works,” says McAvoy, scratching roughly at his forehead. “You don’t dictate. You may have had pity, but you killed people. You’re a murderer, whatever your intentions.”
“You’ve killed,” says Mahon simply. “You’ve got blood on your hands.”
“That wasn’t—”
“I’ve told you this so you’ll understand. I’ve told you because I sense you’re an intelligent man who appreciates that a few more days won’t matter to bodies that have been in the ground that long. I can be helpful to you. Give you everything. Time’s running out. Mr. Nock’s drifting away. I can give you the bloody Headhunters if you just wait . . .”