Sorrow Bound

by David Mark

  “Coffee’s nice,” says Mel, to break the silence.

  Roisin smiles. “Place on Newland Avenue that does the good cakes. Took ages to get parked. You have to go in at such a funny angle.”

  “I heard they got the plans the wrong way around,” says Mel, leaning forward to check whether her toes are still tacky. “It’s madness. You have to reverse into the space, but there’s never a moment when the cars aren’t nose to tail. You go forwards, it’s . . .” She counts on her fingers. “It’s like two hundred sixty degrees. Mental.”

  Roisin nods. She’d parked on a side street because it was easier. Had thought about leaving Lilah in the car as she popped into Planet Coffee, but decided the car was too hot and there were too many odd-looking people around to risk it. Besides, if Aector found out, he would want to go crazy. He wouldn’t actually do it, but he’d want to, and Roisin hates her husband suffering as much as she loves his flickering moments of true happiness.

  Mel is about to suggest that they close for lunch and head to the pub near the fire station, but she stops herself when she sees the shape of a customer at the frosted-glass door.

  “Put it away,” hisses Mel at Roisin.

  Roisin looks puzzled. “What?”

  “Your boob.”

  Roisin laughs. “Bugger that.”

  The door opens and a good-looking lad in his early twenties steps into the shop, bringing with him the sound of the street and the whiff of liberally sprayed deodorant. He’s wearing slouchy jean shorts and a white T-shirt with a slashed neck. He’s in good shape, with a pop star look: a diamond earring in his left lobe and three stars inked on his neck. His hair is neatly tapered at the back and stylishly ruffled at the front, and the headphones that he has taken off and looped around his neck are the most expensive model Roisin knows of.

  “Hi,” he says, approaching the counter and enjoying Mel’s legs as she hurriedly removes the tissue from between her toes. “I was hoping for air-conditioning.”

  “We had a fan,” says Mel, hopping on one leg and flicking her hair out of her eyes. “It was blowing everything around.”

  “I know girls like that,” he says, turning to Roisin. He gives her a quick once-over, sticking out his lower lip in a sort of gesture of admiration when he notices the feeding child at her breast. “They do that in Amsterdam, too, y’know.”

  “What?”

  “Shopwindow. Goods on display. You know how it is.”

  Roisin stares at him, a half smile on her face. “You in here to have a few inches knocked off something?”

  He grins back, playing ball. “Nothing needs lengthening, I’ll tell you that.”

  Mel looks between the two of them, a little confused. Roisin is always better with the customers than she is. She has a way about her. She knows what to say. Mel always feels like she’s a couple of sentences behind the conversation.

  “Are you picking up or dropping off?” asks Mel, and he turns his attention back to her.

  “Picking up. I’ve got my ticket here somewhere.” He starts patting pockets. Finds a couple of receipts in his T-shirt pocket and puts his car keys, complete with BMW key ring, down on the counter.

  “When did you drop it off?” asks Mel quizzically. “What was it?”

  “Puffer jacket,” he says. “Dark blue.” He nods at the rail. “That one?”

  Mel turns. “No, that was another man. He was wearing 501s. Proper Levi’s. I remember because we talked about them. I think he was foreign. Turkish or Kosovan or something. Are you picking it up on his behalf?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Mate of mine.”

  Mel looks apologetic. “I need to see the ticket. Otherwise . . .”

  He shrugs. Checks his back pocket. “I can tell you all about him, if that helps. Can give you chapter and verse.”

  Mel looks at Roisin and receives a tiny shake of the head. “We’re a new business. Rules are rules. If he turns up tomorrow and I’ve given his coat to a stranger . . .”

  The young man’s face hardens. He pulls out a mobile phone. “I can call him.”

  “No, that wouldn’t—”

  “Look, I’m sure we can sort this out. His ticket must just be in another pair of trousers or something.”

  Mel tries her most ingratiating smile. This is becoming awkward and unpleasant. “It’s the same for everybody.”

  The man stares into her eyes, hard. Runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth and bites his lower lip. He’s getting pissed off. “Come on, love. It’s only a coat.”

  Roisin interjects, her voice empty of patience. “She said no.”

  He gives a perceptible twitch. He’s getting edgy, his gestures tense and nervous. Angrily, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a roll of notes, neatly bound. He throws the wad down on the table.

  Mel’s eyes flicker to Roisin, who is busy putting Lilah back in her stroller and tucking herself away. She looks at the pair of them, and the money on the counter.

  “Your horse come in?” she asks, her Irish accent suddenly more marked.

  “Yours has, love. Now give me the coat.” He pauses. Adds unpleasantly: “Please.”

  Roisin gently holds up her left hand, to indicate that Mel should do nothing. Her friend is looking at the money, and Roisin can see she is weighing up the offer. It’s only a coat. She could buy the real owner a new one. It doesn’t matter . . .

  “I’m sorry,” says Roisin, leaning back against the wall. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  He double-takes. “What fucking risk?”

  “Come on, fella, you want this coat that badly? Go buy yourself ten of the bastards. You could, with that much cash. Don’t be bothering us. My friend here’s trying to run a business. I don’t know what you want, but I’d go while you have the legs to carry you.”

  As she speaks, her accent becomes so thick that Mel misses a few words. The man doesn’t. He snarls.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who I am?”

  Roisin laughs softly. “I know what you are.”

  He spits on the floor. Licks his lips.

  “Out of the way.”

  Without another word, he walks behind the counter. Mel gives a little squeal and tries to block his path, but he puts one hand on her face and pushes her backward, hard, against her desk. Threads and needles and twenty-pound notes fall to the ground.

  “Silly fucking bitches,” he says, grabbing at the puffer jacket on the rail. He gives it a squeeze, as if testing fruit for freshness. Turns to Mel, who is pulling herself up. “Didn’t have to be like this,” he says. “I just forgot the ticket. Nobody else is coming for it. Why did you make a fuss?”

  He bends to her face.

  Hisses, “Bitch.”

  Punches her in the stomach so hard that her feet leave the floor.

  “You fucking bastard.”

  Roisin is standing between him and the exit, a nail file in her hand and Lilah on her hip. She doesn’t look scared. She looks like she wants to stick it in his eye.

  “What you going to do with that? File and polish?” He laughs at her. “What are you, a hundred pounds wet through? I could throw you through the fucking window.”

  “You could try.”

  Mel gasps behind him. “Her husband’s . . . he’s . . . a policeman.”

  The man laughs out loud. “Coppers don’t marry pikey slags, love. Well-known fact.”

  “You’re not leaving,” says Roisin matter-of-factly. She reaches into her waistband and pulls out her phone. “I’ve already called them. They’re on their way.”

  He peers at the screen. Can see she is connected to the emergency services. He gives a mirthless laugh and moves forward, ready to shove her bodily from the door. He does not think she will swing the nail file. Does not think for one second she will get in his way.

 
Roisin swings the nail file. The man sees it coming and instinctively raises his arms, still holding the coat. The file rips into the material of the jacket, and as he pulls away, a cloud of dust billows up from between him and Roisin.

  “You stupid, stupid bitch!”

  The man is frantically examining the coat, trying to find the patch of quilting that tore. He spins it around and a large white packet falls to the ground, spilling powder like a bag of flour.

  “Jesus, no . . .”

  He throws himself down, scooping the powder into pockets, looking up, sweat and fear on his face as he hears sirens.

  “You don’t . . . you don’t know what you’ve—”

  Roisin kicks him in the balls and he doubles over, mewling like a child, powder in his hair and on his clothes.

  Behind the counter, Mel pulls herself up. “What’s happening, Ro . . . ?”

  Through the glass, they see a patrol car pulling up beside the bread delivery van. See two officers running toward the shop, barking into radios.

  Roisin only has a second to react. She bends down and scoops up the fallen money from the floor.

  Then she kicks Adam Downey in the balls again, grabs the stroller, and heads for the back door.

  NINE

  Two days later, 10:44 a.m.

  The health center on Cottingham Road. The same airless room. The same hum of traffic and the dark shadow of the rowan tree at the window.

  The same school chair.

  The same reluctance to talk.

  Aector McAvoy, jiggling his leg like he’s playing boogie-woogie piano.

  Sabine Keane. Sweating like she’s just finished dancing a flamenco, but trying to keep professional. Her legs are sticking together as she tries to shift them. Her high heels are sweaty and slippy on her painful toes. She wants to reach into the bag beside her and pull out her flip-flops. Wants to open her liter bottle of water and pour it onto the back of her neck, then shake her head in a mountain stream like she’s advertising shampoo.

  “Aector, would you like some water, perhaps? It’s still so muggy, isn’t it? I thought there would have been a storm by now. I thought I felt rain on the way in, but no, it’s holding back. The sky’s so ominous though, isn’t it? Just really eerie.”

  McAvoy gives her a polite nod. “So psychologists are as irrational as the rest of them,” he says, trying to make his voice light. “You still see signs and symbols where there aren’t any.”

  “Human nature,” says Sabine, returning his look and tone. “We have to accept some things about ourselves, don’t we? We may want to be the best versions of ourselves and have good mental health, but you still can’t look at a sky like this without expecting a wolf to howl.”

  McAvoy considers it. Pulls his clammy pin-striped shirt from his skin and wafts it. “Last wolf in Britain was killed in 1743,” he says, studying her to see if she’s interested in the story or in what it says about him. “Shot near Inverness. Everybody was delighted. Big celebrations, and the hunter was a hero. Funny thing is that, since then, the number of deer has exploded. Half of Scotland is barren and treeless because the deer just eat through everything in their path. Scotland doesn’t look like it should and it’s because the wolves have gone. There are people who want to reintroduce them. Can you imagine? Reintroducing wolves. I guess that would mean reintroducing hunters as well. It all goes round and round, doesn’t it? Interesting idea, though.”

  Sabine taps her chin with the nib of her pen, leaving a tiny blue dot. “What do you think?”

  “Me?” McAvoy looks surprised. “I don’t know enough about it. Dad thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “People have opinions, even when they don’t know all the facts.”

  McAvoy pulls on his nose, as if it will help him articulate the thought better. “I don’t have many opinions worth listening to. Maybe if I read all the reports . . .”

  “But what does your gut say, Aector?”

  He sighs. “Why does it matter?”

  “Gut instincts are important. Do you never act upon them?”

  “I have them, yes. But I don’t have to give in to them. They’re suggestions, not impulses. A lady told me she likes how I think, the other day. What do I make of that? It’s not like I can take pride in it. I didn’t choose to be this way. It’s just how I am.”

  Sabine smiles. She’s fanning herself with her notes and her blond hair is clinging to her forehead. When she reached up to try the sash windows, she had exposed unshaved armpits and the label on a Primark bra. McAvoy had looked away. He doesn’t want to judge his psychologist any more than he wants her to judge him.

  “You seem to hold yourself in quite close control, Aector. There must be times when you have given in to those suggestions. When you’ve let go. Your file suggests—”

  A sudden buzzing interrupts the conversation. Somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, McAvoy pulls out his phone. He holds up a finger to suggest he will be quick.

  “Sergeant McAvoy? This is George Goss. You’ve been ringing me. Can I help?”

  McAvoy gives Sabine an apologetic glance. Decides to follow her advice and act on impulse. Gestures that he will call her to set up another appointment, and bolts for the door. He hears the psychologist calling his name, but tells himself that he doesn’t.

  “Mr. Goss, yes, I wondered if I could come and see you . . .”

  • • •

  An hour later, McAvoy is pulling into the driveway of a terraced property on North Road, at the center of the Gipsyville estate. It hasn’t got the greatest of reputations and the house prices are through the floor, but McAvoy has always rather liked this little network of quiet roads a stone’s throw from the old trawling hub. There’s no litter in the gutters or dog shit on the pavement, and the people who live here strike him as the sort who would take it upon themselves to scrub a neighbor’s wall if somebody had spray-painted graffiti on the brickwork.

  George Goss’s house is the neatest in the row. There are roses in the front garden, the exact genus neatly lettered in blue ink on white labels, and there are no weeds growing in the cracks between the paving slabs that lead to the front door.

  McAvoy is fumbling in a pocket for his warrant card when the door swings open.

  George Goss is in good shape. He’s mid-sixties, and though his face has the waxy jowls of a man who likes a cheese course after his dessert, he’s not overly portly and has a full head of gray-black hair. He’s wearing a pair of polyester trousers with a neat seam down the front, with a checked short-sleeved shirt. As Goss extends his hand, McAvoy notices the mottling of liver spots that starts at his knuckles and carries on halfway up his arm. He’s a man who likes his drink, but McAvoy has never met a retired copper who doesn’t.

  “I phoned Tom Spink,” says Goss brusquely, by way of greeting. “He said you’re not a dickhead.”

  McAvoy gives a laugh, pleased that Pharaoh’s old boss had vouched for his credentials. “Praise from Caesar.”

  “Spink’s not a dickhead, either.”

  “I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear it.”

  “Still writing, is he? Books and stuff? His house fallen into the sea yet?”

  McAvoy nods. “He’s writing a book on some unsolved cases, I think. Just finished doing something for the top brass. History of Humberside Police sort of thing. I’m not sure about his house. That coastline’s eroding fast . . .”

  McAvoy follows the retired inspector into a comfortable, square living room. He figures this is the family room. It’s a nice space, all sand-colored wallpaper and pictures of Whitby seafront in tasteful frames. There is a three-seater leather sofa and a matching armchair, angled to view the small flat-screen TV beneath the window. Half a dozen different pairs of spectacles lie jumbled on the VCR–DVD player on its fancy glass stand, and a picture of a boy in a school uniform grins toothlessly from the mantel
piece, above an electric fire. There is a slingshot on the windowsill, with some rolled-up pieces of sticky tack. McAvoy gives the object some thought. Considers the pretty garden, with its neatly tended roses and wall-climbing ivy. Decides that either George Goss or his wife are not big fans of cats.

  “Back in a sec,” says Goss.

  McAvoy hears cupboards opening and closing. Water pouring on tea bags. The chink-chink-chink of spoon on mug. Hears it again. Guesses he’s getting a mug of tea.

  “Here you go,” says Goss, handing him a giant cup. “Guessed you took sugar.”

  “I do.”

  Goss spreads his arms and makes fun of himself. “Once a detective, always a detective, eh? Sit down.”

  McAvoy sinks into the sofa, careful not to spill his sloshing drink. Goss gives a tiny nod of appreciation. “Missus is at the supermarket,” he says. “Her daughter takes her once a week.”

  McAvoy notes the use of the word “her.” Goss smiles.

  “Yeah, I said ‘her.’ Not mine. I’ve got two of my own from my first marriage. Any of that important?”

  There is silence in the room for a moment while McAvoy decides how to play this interview. The old boy seems to swing between welcoming and brusque with every sentence. He wonders if it was Goss’s trademark when he was still in the force. Wonders whether the retired inspector liked to play both roles in the “good cop/bad cop” game.

  “Mr. Goss, I—”

  “George, please.”

  “George, I’m attached to the Serious and Organized Crime Unit in Humberside Police. We’re investigating two murders within the space of twenty-four hours. Our inquiries have demonstrated—”

  Goss takes a loud slurp of tea and gives an exaggerated nod. “I know what it’s about, son. You said in your messages. You want to know about Sebastien Hoyer-Wood, yeah?”

  McAvoy pauses, not liking to be steered. He considers the man in the armchair opposite. Imagines his day-to-day life. Is he bored? How does he fill his days? Does he like to talk about past cases or does he hate being reminded of the things he has done and the bodies he has stood over during a thirty-year police career? McAvoy decides that Goss likes to talk, but likes to tell a story rather than answer questions. Sees him as a pub raconteur who doesn’t appreciate interruptions. He decides to just let the chat play out. He nods, sits back in the sofa.