Sorrow Bound

by David Mark

  “Sorry about that. No, there’s been no Yvonne. But like I said, the phone’s barely stopped ringing. Why?”

  Pharaoh doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the mantelpiece and the picture of the woman who lies dead and bled out in the bathroom above.

  “I’ll call you back. Don’t worry.”

  Pharaoh sits down on the carpet and leans against the wall, thinking hard. Two women. Two apparent innocents. Mums. Average, likable, decent. Her mind conjures connections. Links. Bonds. She purses her lips, closes her eyes, then switches back to her own phone. Her call is answered on the second ring, and in the background, a baby is crying. It sounds like it has been for some time.

  “We’ve got another one,” says Pharaoh by way of greeting. “And they knew each other.”

  EIGHT

  Tuesday morning. 8:14 a.m.

  Sky the color of damp stone. Air fizzing with static, thick with dirty heat.

  Aector McAvoy, both hands on the steering wheel, face and neck shaved and sore.

  Buttoned up to the throat.

  Sweating through gray shirt, old school tie, navy blue waistcoat and trousers.

  He’s pressing buttons on the dashboard to try and make the air-conditioning blow out something other than this recycled warm air.

  Fifty miles per hour on Beverley Bypass. It’s a sixty-miles-per-hour zone, but nobody else in East Yorkshire seems to know that, so he has to go at the pace of the Volvo driver in front. He takes a slow left into standing traffic, crawling past roadwork and cones. Drifts around three roundabouts. The windows are open but there isn’t a breath of breeze to cool the gloss of perspiration that is already sticking his cowlick of ginger hair to his forehead.

  Finally, a left turn, into a pretty village of old-fashioned, white-painted cottages and detached five-bedroom homes: Audis in the driveways and Fiat 500s nose-to-bumper at the curbside.

  McAvoy likes Kirk Ella. It’s a dainty sort of place that looks as though it would be more at home thirty miles to the north. It feels like a suburb of York or Harrogate, but is only eight miles from the center of Hull.

  Elaine Longman lives on Hogg Lane, a tiny little street a stone’s throw from St. Andrew’s Church and the center of the village. It’s a white-painted property with chunky sash windows and a red front door—one of a row set back from the road that all share the same long picket fence. Elaine’s has a hanging basket at the front, which looks well cared for.

  McAvoy gives his policeman’s knock; brisk and efficient, a pause between the fourth and fifth beats.

  Elaine opens the door. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and a pair of linen trousers. Her eyes are so swollen and dark that it looks as though she has smeared coal dust beneath them, and the burst blood vessels and capillaries in her cheeks betray the fact she has been vomiting. McAvoy wonders if she opened a bottle or two last night, or whether grief just gnawed at her guts until she gagged on it.

  “Aector,” she says quietly. She manages a half smile. “Did I say that right?”

  McAvoy nods. “Very good, Elaine. Shall I try a Hull accent in return?”

  “Order me a dry white wine,” she says, stepping back into the house and gesturing for him to follow. “Or a vodka and coke.”

  “Drar whart wharn,” says McAvoy, his mouth forming the syllables like a goldfish. “Vodka and curk.”

  “Perfect,” says Elaine, leading him through the homely living room and into the kitchen, where a laptop and loose paperwork sit on a long pine table. “Now if you can just tell me there’s snow on Frome Road . . .”

  “That’s beyond me,” says McAvoy. “It’s harder than Gaelic.”

  He gives the kitchen a quick once-over. It’s long, with large terracotta tiles underfoot and glass doors that open onto a small patio and garden, littered with children’s toys. The fridge is covered in letters from school and a child’s many drawings, all held in place with magnets bearing place-names. London Zoo, Malta, Bridlington, Verona.

  “I’d love to go there,” says McAvoy, nodding at the fridge. “Verona.” He corrects himself. “Well, my wife would. Same thing, isn’t it?”

  Elaine follows his gaze to the fridge. “I haven’t been,” she says, giving a little shrug. “Mum brought it back.”

  McAvoy closes his eyes. Curses himself.

  “The family liaison officer said you didn’t stay at the house last night,” he says, trying to brush over his stupidity. “You didn’t want to be there?”

  Elaine shakes her head. “Too much drama. Too many tears. I came home. Phoned Dad this morning. He seems okay, I guess. He just doesn’t seem to be, well . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “He seems a bit vacant,” says Elaine, distracting herself by fiddling with her paperwork. “Suppose it will take time, won’t it? I mean, he’s not really feeling anything yet, other than shock. The Internet says there will be anger before the grief. I don’t know where I’m at yet. I don’t have the energy. I didn’t sleep much last night. Threw up half the night, though I don’t know why.”

  McAvoy sits down on one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s a purging,” he says. “You need to get out what’s inside you. You want to let the darkness out. It’s like people who self-harm and think their pain leaves with the trickle of blood. For centuries, surgeons used to drill holes in your head to let the demons out, or bleed you so the ill humors left your system. Sometimes our bodies aren’t operating in our best interests.”

  Elaine looks at him for a spell, a strange expression on her face. “You’re not like other policemen,” she says with a little smile. “You’re not like other people, now I think about it.”

  McAvoy looks away. Fights down the blush. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “No, I like how you talk. I like how you think.” She gives a firm nod. “That’s it, isn’t it. You actually think. That’s a rarity these days. People just come out with the same clichés and platitudes, don’t they? It’s all small talk and nonsense. I’ve had so many ‘thinking of you’ texts, I’m going to scream. What does ‘thinking of you’ mean? Of course they’re thinking of me. My mum’s just been killed. Something exciting has happened.” She pauses, and fresh tears prick at her eyes. “I shouldn’t obsess, should I? Not over things like that. My brain’s not helping me out at all.”

  McAvoy puts a hand on her shoulder. Gives a squeeze. “Tea?”

  “I’ve drunk liters of the stuff but I can take another.”

  He stands and begins looking in cupboards, filling the kettle, dropping tea bags in two white mugs patterned with different-color polka dots. As he looks back over at her to ask if she takes milk, he spots a Humberside Police letterhead on one of the documents on her table. She sees him looking, and gives a rueful smile.

  “Three points and sixty quid,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “Sorry?”

  “Arrived this morning. Talking on a mobile while driving. That’s me up to nine points. One more and I lose my license.”

  McAvoy doesn’t know what to say. “It arrived this morning?”

  She nods, then turns the action into a shake of the head. “Just what I need, isn’t it? I thought it was something to do with Mum . . .”

  “It will have been sent out last week,” says McAvoy, aware that he is gabbling, unsure whether to defend the police or commiserate with her for the shittiness of the situation. “They come second-class. It’s all automated. They wouldn’t have known . . .”

  Elaine shrugs and picks up her pen, filling in her details in the automatic-guilty-plea section. “We weren’t even moving. I was in a traffic jam. I phoned Mum to ask her to pick up Lucas.”

  McAvoy says nothing. Just goes back to the tea and listens as she sniffs. When he returns to the table, her eyes are red and the backs of her hands are wet. He wishes he could make a phone call and tell her he will take care of it. Wishes he had that power,
then realizes that he wouldn’t know what to do with it even if he did. Can imagine driving himself crazy trying to decide what is right and what is wrong. Here, now, he doesn’t know whether giving Elaine a fixed penalty notice for a minor driving infraction is just. But were he sitting in the kitchen of somebody who had lost a loved one in a road accident caused by somebody talking on a mobile while driving, he would be agreeing with their contention that blasé motorists should be strung up. He knows this about himself. Hates it, too.

  Elaine gestures at herself and creases her face into a damp, half-hearted smile. “Mess, aren’t I?”

  “You’re doing great.”

  “You think?”

  “You’re the one that Detective Superintendent Pharaoh and I thought we should see about this. You’re the one holding it together and best able to assist in the investigation.”

  Elaine gives him a puzzled look. “There’s been a development? Do you have someone?”

  McAvoy raises his hands to slow her. Takes a sip of tea. After yesterday’s meeting with Darren Robb he had called her and informed her that, at this stage, her ex-partner was not being treated as a suspect. She had accepted the news with some relief, though she had immediately begun to ask where that left them. McAvoy had promised to keep her informed, even before he got the call from Pharaoh in the early hours and an instruction to get his arse over to the Longman house as soon as the sun came up. A call to the FLO suggested that nobody there was in any fit state to be any use to anybody, so he had elected to speak to Elaine instead.

  “We haven’t got anybody yet, no,” he says. “But yes, there’s been a development. Can I ask you if you know somebody called Yvonne Dale?”

  Elaine squeezes her fist with her palm, thinking hard. “Rings a bell, maybe. I don’t know. Why?”

  McAvoy takes a breath. “She was murdered last night in her home in Barton. Cut with a knife. Bled to death.”

  Elaine closes her eyes and puts both hands to her mouth, steepled at the fingertips. Her voice catches as she speaks. “That’s horrible.”

  “Yvonne tried to call your mum’s house last night, Elaine. Shortly before she died.”

  There is silence in the room. Elaine simply looks at McAvoy, her bottom lip trembling, before she throws her hands up. “I don’t know! Were they friends? Why did she want Mum?”

  McAvoy puts his hand on her shoulder again, as if trying to soothe a skittish horse. “Ssh, just breathe for a second. Elaine, I need you to think hard about this. Here, I have a picture . . .”

  Elaine pushes her chair back. “I don’t want to see. I can’t let any more of this in me . . .”

  Fresh tears spill, and McAvoy finds himself putting the picture away. He forces himself not to. Insists that he does his job as a police officer before he allows himself to become a human being.

  “Please, just take a look.”

  Despite herself, Elaine examines the image on McAvoy’s mobile phone. At the large lady in the black swimsuit, floppy hat, and sarong.

  “She looks nice,” says Elaine, sniffling. “I’m sorry, though, I don’t know her. I don’t know why she’d want Mum.”

  McAvoy tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. He drains his tea. Begins to stand, then stops as he remembers the other thing that was bothering him.

  “Elaine, last time we spoke you mentioned your mum was a lifesaver. Can I ask what you meant by that?”

  Through the tears, Elaine gives a proud little grin. “Means a lot of things, I guess. Means she was always helping people when they needed it most. She would do anything for anybody.”

  “Oh.” McAvoy looks away. “I thought you meant . . .”

  Elaine opens her mouth. “You mean actual lifesaving. Oh yeah, she was trained. Part of her job, I think. She went on a course, years ago. Came in handy, too.”

  “Go on.”

  “She never really told me much about it. She gave CPR to somebody, though, on a long weekend in Bridlington. I think it was some drunk bloke bumped his head. She didn’t speak much about it, to be honest.”

  McAvoy’s lips have formed a tight line. “Do you know when this was?”

  “Maybe fifteen years ago? A bit less? I’ll have been at college, I think.”

  “Would your dad know more?”

  “Maybe.” She rubs a hand over her face. “Why, is it important?”

  McAvoy looks away, scratching at his cheek, tongue clicking at the back of his teeth. “Did she save the person?”

  “Oh yes. Apparently it took a while. That’s all she really told me about it. Broke a few ribs . . .”

  She stops herself. McAvoy sees goose pimples rise on her forearms, the color bleaching from her face and neck.

  “Is that . . . no . . . is that something . . . ?”

  She dissolves, all ghastly thoughts and half-imagined memories. McAvoy pulls her to him and holds her, her sobs trapped within his embrace. He closes his eyes, angry at himself, unsure how much he should have said, how much he should still say. He disentangles himself and tries to get her to look up. She fights like a child, one arm beneath her chin, another behind her head, face pressed into the grain of the table. He excuses himself and walks into the living room. Makes a quick call to the control room. Comes back to sit at the kitchen table. Answers his phone before it has a chance to ring.

  He listens as the civilian officer relays the information he had sought. Hangs up, eyes closed. Insides churning.

  “Elaine,” he says softly.

  She looks up, eyes full of so much pain that McAvoy feels his stomach lurch.

  “Elaine, we can’t say with absolute certainty, but it looks like your mum did know Yvonne.”

  She blinks, twice, to clear her vision. “How?”

  “If the dates are right, then your mother was an even more impressive person than we first gave her credit for. December, fourteen years ago. Bridlington seafront. Your mum saved a man’s life. She gave heart compressions while another bystander applied a tourniquet to another serious wound. That person was Yvonne Dale. They both gave witness statements. The man didn’t die so there was no inquest, but the person they saved was later charged with an incident and they were called to court to give evidence. As it happened, they didn’t have to go into the courtroom, but I can only presume that is how they got to know each other.”

  “So why was she phoning last night?”

  McAvoy looks away. “She probably heard what happened to your mum. Was ringing to offer condolences . . .”

  His phone bleeps, alerting him to an e-mail from control. The files he had requested are being electronically downloaded and will be with him inside the hour. The officer involved in the Bridlington incident is now retired, but still lives in the area. His phone number and address are included in the message.

  McAvoy looks up. Locks his jaw.

  “Your mum went to Bridlington a lot?”

  Elaine gives a little nod. “She was from West Yorkshire, wasn’t she? They love it, the Westies. Look, should I phone Dad? Ask him about this lady? This night? I mean, her chest. Mum’s chest. That’s how she died, isn’t it? And this other lady who died? You said she was cut. Did they say where she applied the tourniquet? Years ago, I mean.”

  McAvoy shakes his head. They didn’t say. But he reckons he knows anyway.

  Elaine stands up, pulling at her hair. “But somebody killed her. Hours after Mum. That can’t be . . . I mean, it’s too much of a coincidence. I don’t understand,” says Elaine, lost and tearful.

  McAvoy stares at his phone, a picture, all blurred edges and uneven patterns, swimming in his vision.

  “Nor do I.”

  • • •

  It should be a costume party,” says Mel over the top of her takeaway iced coffee. “Cops and robbers! Or tarts and vicars, maybe. No, no, Disney characters. I could make the costumes.”

/>   Roisin laughs at the thought. “Can you see Aector agreeing to that?”

  Mel blows a raspberry derisively. “He’d agree to whatever you asked. If you told him to run to bloody Land’s End and bring you back a pebble, he’d be out the door before you could tell him what type you wanted.”

  Roisin pauses before smiling. She isn’t sure if her friend is making fun of her husband. “Just because he would do it, doesn’t mean it’s fair to ask. He’d hate it.”

  “Who hates costume parties?”

  “Giant ginger policemen,” says Roisin, grinning. “He doesn’t like being the center of attention, you know that.”

  “But we’d all be in costume. Oh go on, Ro, it would be awesome.”

  Roisin shakes her head. “No, he’d hate it. We’ll have fun anyway. Just wear something nice.”

  Mel pouts. “Wouldn’t get anything to fit him anyway,” she says, trying to get a laugh.

  “Don’t,” says Roisin with a little shake of her head. “Don’t make fun.”

  Mel opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again. Sips her drink.

  They are sitting in Mel’s alterations shop on Southcoates Lane, bakingly hot in the glass-fronted, airless room. To Mel’s left is a rail of clothes in plastic covers, labels pinned to cuffs and lapels. Mel is sitting behind a sewing machine, looking pretty in a short skirt and a floaty poncho patterned with butterflies. She has her feet up on the desk, pieces of tissue paper stuck between each freshly painted toe. Roisin is sitting on the windowsill, lifting up her purple tank top to feed Lilah; the baby suckling contentedly on her left breast. Her beauty kit is open beside her: a rainbow of nail polishes and a treasure chest of files, clippers, and emery boards. She’s warm, but has not yet had to reapply her mascara or stuff any loose and frizzy hairs back into her ponytail. Still, she’s regretting her black leggings and wishes she’d gone for a skirt or a pair of denim shorts. She feels sticky and a little irritable.