by David Mark
Helen takes a breath and keeps her voice even.
“I’ve asked the chief warden if there were any other inmates with whom Caneva was especially close. He didn’t recognize the name Nicholas Peace, but did mention that Caneva had a very hard time fitting in at first. He was a little bloke, not much about him, with this posh London accent. Read a lot of books. Did drawings. Wrote short stories. He’s sending us the lot on the inmate you flagged up. The one who got sent down in Hull.”
“Crime?” asks Pharaoh.
“Attempted murder,” she says. “Kicked some bloke half to death in his front garden, then set the house on fire to burn up the rest of the family. Was the latest in a long line of escalating crimes. He was fourteen when he was sent down. Spent almost six years at the facility and became mates of sorts with Caneva. Chief warden remembers bits and bobs.”
Pharaoh licks her lips. Absentmindedly, she reaches into the pocket of her biker jacket and pulls out her black cigarettes. She places one to her lips and though she doesn’t light it, rolling it on her damp lips seems to help her concentrate.
“So we’re thinking Caneva went to stay with him when he was released. Got a job working for him. Used the cover to take his revenge on the people who saved his family’s tormentor. How am I doing?”
Helen nods her assent and the three fall silent. They turn to watch the storm.
“His phone’s still off, yeah?” asks Pharaoh.
Ben grunts an answer.
“And have we any bloody idea who ‘Tygerpants69’ is?”
Ben starts to laugh.
Together, the three of them watch the rain make the city into a whorl of dribbled shapes and half-formed slabs. They look, for a moment, as though they are trapped inside an unfinished painting.
“Norfolk CID,” says Pharaoh at last. “They know what we know?”
Ben shrugs. “They know our angle. They’re still treating it as a local crime. They’ve promised to call when they have an ID on the body.”
“And we’re thinking that it’s going to be his mate, aren’t we? Nick Peace, or whatever he used to be called.”
“Makes sense,” says Helen. “He must have found out what Caneva’s been doing. Confronted him, maybe. If you watch the CCTV of the doctor’s abduction, the body fell from the van. It wasn’t left there deliberately. It was a mistake.”
Helen seems about to say something more when a shout from halfway across the room interrupts them. There’s a phone call for Ben.
“Is it McAvoy?” asks Pharaoh, and is greeted with a shake of the head from the civilian officer holding out Ben’s phone.
Neilsen crosses the room. Pharaoh watches as he jots down some details and pulls a face. Then he sighs, looking angry and lost. He hangs up and comes back to where they stand.
“The ID is through on the body left at the hospital,” says Neilsen, and he seems to be struggling to keep the anger from creasing his features.
“And?”
“And if we’re looking for Angelo Caneva, we can fucking relax. He’s on a slab. Been dead for weeks, rotting away in a warm, dry space.”
Pharaoh closes her eyes.
“The name,” she says softly. “The bloke who was arrested in Hull. Angelo’s friend. The lad who might have become Nick Peace. What did he used to be called?”
Helen crosses back to her desk. She sifts through a pile of papers and finds a rain-spattered document. She brings it back to Pharaoh.
“Him,” she says, pointing.
Pharaoh looks at the name. Something in the back of her mind fizzes for an instant, like the last breath of light in the filament of a dying bulb.
And then she sees him. Sees his fillings as he laughs. Hears his voice. Hears him talking football and then handing her and McAvoy a business card. Sees McAvoy on the phone in the great hall of an abandoned stately home. A tiny stumble over two similar-sounding names, put down to the accent of a Swedish businessman and a poor phone line.
She sees the contractor.
She sees Gaz.
TWENTY-ONE
Gary Reeves watches the lightning through the gaps in the red tiles. He is soaked to the bone. His blue overalls stick to his skin. His hair hangs lank, touching the back of his collar. His eyes are open, wide and staring; the very image of the dead man in whose name he has become a killer.
He stares.
Doesn’t blink as the raindrops bounce off his face.
Watches the patterns in the sky.
The dark sky is a raven; the clouds its feathers. Each fork of brilliant white is a paper dart, thrown by some celestial hand. Reeves isn’t sure he believes in God, but he sees the shapes above him quite clearly. Sees the bird’s eye, beady and perfectly circular, fix itself upon him. It seems to approve. Seems to like the scene, far below.
He sees himself in its gaze.
Sees a fit young man, lying motionless on an old operating table.
Sees the woman at his side.
Naked.
Bound.
Sobbing and drooling into the stuffed toy wedged in her bleeding mouth.
Gary Reeves has answered to many names. He enjoyed being Nick Peace. It was the name when they let him out. He didn’t bother changing it legally but he felt that it fitted him. The “Nicholas” had honored the flamboyant Arsenal striker whom one of his foster fathers had always admired. The “Peace” was a nod to one of his psychologists. She’d told him to find the peace within himself. To find a calm, soothing place in his soul, and try and live within it.
Gary has never really managed to follow her advice. He has spent most of his life in trouble. Doesn’t remember his mother or father. Has a birthday that was given to him by Social Services. He has had more foster homes than he can remember. He has spent time in children’s homes and on the streets. The only stability he has ever experienced was when he was sent to the young offenders institute at fourteen. He’d been living in Hull at that time; a fiery ball of rage and resentment. He wanted solitude and he wanted company. He wanted silence and chaos. He interpreted every action through a filter that hung behind his eyes like a side of rotting pork. Whatever was given to him was given with spite, and the things he didn’t have were withheld because nobody loved him. His mind was a ball of wool, pulled apart by warring thoughts and desires. He spat when he talked. He twitched and swore and struggled to make himself understood. He would spend days making himself as filthy as he could before scrubbing his skin until he bled. He had headaches. He masturbated until he was sore. He stole then wept when nobody believed his denials. He took the possessions of those who were kind to him and then used them to violate himself. His education came at a variety of schools for children unable to be taught in mainstream education. He spent time at a residential school for bad lads, where he found a way to get past the Internet security restrictions and spent a few months with access to every kind of pornography he could imagine. And he could imagine a lot.
Reeves’s run-ins with the police led to cautions and community service orders. He didn’t mind the community work. Liked getting his hands dirty. Painting old ladies’ fences and sweeping streets. He’d go back later, of course. He’d go and graffiti the same fence he had spent the day painting white. He couldn’t seem to help it. Nor could he help the calling of his blood. Couldn’t help what it told him to do when he saw that perfect fucking family with their perfect house, having their perfect picnic and perfect game of badminton on their perfect front lawn.
Gary Reeves had been as much a witness to his early crimes as he had been a perpetrator. He had not really been in control of his body. He was a passenger in a vessel piloted by some other, unstoppable force. He had been as surprised as anybody to see himself walk into the front garden of the house. Had simply watched, entranced, as Gary Reeves had kicked over the barbecue, grabbed a hot coal from the glowing pile, and pressed it into the face of the po
rtly accountant who had been standing grilling sausages in his perfect fucking apron with its stupid fucking picture on the front. By then, Gary’s blood was in control of his actions. He took lighter petrol and set fire to the burning stones. His hand hadn’t hurt, despite the ugly flap of burned skin that hung from it. Then he’d begun to shovel the coals through the letter box of the perfect fucking house, where the rest of the perfect family cried and cowered while Dad writhed on the grass as a teenage boy kicked his ribs, rhythmically, purposefully, until they snapped.
Gary arrived in the young offenders institute determined not to be bullied. He had three fights on his first day. He smashed a pool cue into the face of one of the prison officers, giving him a scar that he reckons is probably still there. For the first few months he spent most of his time on lockdown in his room. He was sixteen before he began to control himself. The counseling sessions helped. It was nice to talk to somebody who was paid to listen. He didn’t think that they cared, but the fact they were paid to be there meant they had no choice but to pay attention as he told them how it felt to be him. How his blood called to him. How he sometimes saw things that weren’t there and often left his own body and watched it all from above, like an angel.
As he grew older and more physically capable, Gary began to take advantage of some of the courses offered at the center. He learned metalwork and woodwork with a retired schoolteacher who didn’t mind letting him use the more deadly looking equipment. He made a spice rack for the old bloke’s missus. Gave it to him with a grunt but was pleased to see it meant something to him. And then he met Angelo Caneva.
Angelo was a feeble little thing. He was scared and flighty and reminded Gary of a baby rabbit; shivering and ready to bolt. Gary hadn’t thought much about him at all, other than the fact he didn’t fit in. He had little to do with him. But he saw another side to Angelo when one of the older lads took the physicality too far.
The facility was short-staffed. There weren’t enough wardens to cope with so many teenagers. So there was nobody around when Byron Alexander dragged Angelo to the reading room and started smashing his face in. Gary had gone along to watch. So had some of the other lads. The show they were expecting never took place. Instead, Angelo turned into the devil. As soon as he realized what Byron was going to do he seemed to come alive. He unleashed a strength that nobody knew he possessed. He got on top of the bigger lad and punched Byron until he was unrecognizable. Instinct made Gary react. He wasn’t saving Byron when he dragged Angelo away. He was saving the kid. Saving him from a murder charge. It was a profoundly moving moment for Gary Reeves. He found himself fascinated by the younger boy. Nobody ever told the screws who had left Byron like that. Nor did anybody ever try it on with Angelo again. They left him alone. Left him to his books and his drawings. Gary wanted to know more about him. Wanted to talk to him. But he didn’t know how to. He tried making him something in his woodwork lessons, but he smashed up the toy airplane he’d made for him out of balsa wood when he imagined himself giving it to the younger lad. In the end, Angelo did the hard work for him. One day, out of nowhere, Angelo presented him with a book of short stories. Told Gary he might enjoy it. Said there was a yarn in there about a bloke in solitary confinement who tunneled his way to freedom behind a big poster of some Hollywood pinup. Said it was a classic and that the movie version was amazing. Gary was not a comfortable reader but had taken the book anyway. Gave it a go. Asked Angelo for more. Their friendship developed. They began to share stories. Secrets. Despite their different backgrounds and the age difference, they became more than friends. They each told one another about what had led them to the facility. They unburdened themselves and each found somebody who understood.
Gary had felt sick when he heard what had happened to Angelo’s father. When he’d heard about the rich prick with the double-barreled name who’d fooled everybody into thinking he was a cripple. He’d laughed when Angelo told him about firebombing the bus and the posh wanker suffering a stroke that left him shitting in his pants and unable to move. He’d held Angelo whenever he cried and Angelo had done the same for him. Angelo had told him his fantasy. Told him his dreams. Told him what he and his sister were going to do someday. Told him the people he was going to kill. Told him about the cunts who’d saved the posh prick’s life. Gary had liked the plan.
When he was older, Gary was sent to serve the remainder of his sentence in adult prison. He had never felt loneliness like it. His separation from Angelo was the most excruciating sensation he had ever endured. He tried to find a new friend. Ended up in fights. Grew frustrated and began to seek out fresh violence. Had time added to his sentence. Only the letters from Angelo kept him going. They spoke of what it would be like when they were both free. About getting a place for themselves. They would start a business, maybe. Gary would take him to the football games. They’d drink beer and watch movies on a Saturday night. They’d get girlfriends but tell them they were for the chop if they ever came between them.
Gary was released first. He headed for Hull purely because he knew the streets better than he did in any other city. Social Services had found him a flat and a job as a laborer. He stuck it out. Kept his head down. Saved his money. Even got himself a girlfriend. Mandy, she was called. Bit older than him and twice as streetwise. Gave him the eye in a McDonald’s and opened her legs for him an hour later, sitting on a pile of wooden pallets and blowing the smoke from her cigarette over his shoulder as he emptied himself inside her. He hadn’t expected her to get pregnant. She hadn’t wanted the baby, but he was delighted when she told him. He imagined being a dad. Imagined being a strong and noble influence on a child. Imagined Angelo and himself raising it together. He’d told her he would take care of her. Of the child. She’d given him a daughter, then fucked off to Spain with somebody else. Gary had written to Angelo. Told him they were parents. And Angelo had told him he was happy.
The day Angelo left prison, Gary picked him up in his new blue van. It had been a couple of years since they had seen one another and Gary was struck at the change to Angelo. He had fresh scars. His skin clung to his small, birdlike frame. He was quiet and uncommunicative. It seemed in those two years the fight had left him. Bad things had happened to him. He had not always been able to fight people off. He was tired and his voice did not sound like his own. Gary soon discovered that Angelo had started using drugs while inside. He’d started sniffing glue again. Got one of the staff in the kitchens to start bringing in LSD and ecstasy. Gary wanted his friend to be happy so he scored him some drugs. Watched him became his old self again as the high took him in its embrace. Watched Angelo cuddling their daughter, and for a time he felt anything was possible. He moved them to the house on Rufforth Garth. Angelo had to stay in a flat Social Services had got him, but after a few months he was able to slip through the cracks in the system and come home to Gary. Sometimes he’d go and visit his father for money. Once, they went to see Angelo’s sister, though the fat cow had changed and wanted nothing to do with the murderous fantasy they had both enjoyed in their teens and which had sustained Angelo through his incarceration. But Gary stuck to his word. He thought the plan was a good one. He thought revenge was important. Angelo wanted it to happen, so he said he would help him. Even drove him to the house of the slag who’d been raped by Hoyer-Wood up in Bridlington the night he should have died. Had sat in the darkness with the engine running and watched Angelo break in.
When Angelo returned, it was clear something had changed. He just didn’t have it in him. Didn’t have the strength to kill. He saw the people on his list as innocents. They hadn’t known what they were doing. They’d made a mistake but didn’t deserve to die. The fight went out of him. He began to take more drugs. He closed down. Stopped talking. Wouldn’t play with their daughter. Wouldn’t come out of his room.
A month ago, Angelo took his own life. He parked their blue van in a garage they had rented. Turned on the engine and opened the windows. Breathed in blue smoke
until his lungs gave out and his eyes closed.
He couldn’t have known, Gary told himself, when he found the bodies. Couldn’t have known their daughter was in the back. She just climbed in. Snuggled down in a place she felt comfortable. Angelo couldn’t have seen her. The fumes would have reached her first as she lay with her toys in the back. She’d have slipped away as if to sleep. Angelo would never have known, as he sat and waited to die in the front seat, that their daughter was dead.
Until then, Gary had been Nick Peace. He’d found that peaceful place, within him and without. He’d begun to imagine a future. He’d stopped listening to his blood. As he found the bodies of his friend and their child, he felt himself drifting out of himself in a way he had not done for years. And his blood told him what to do next.
Told him that Angelo was another victim of Hoyer-Wood.
Told him his daughter was, too.
Told him they needed to be avenged.
He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the bodies. Drove around with them in the van, even when the stench made him feel sick.
It hadn’t been difficult to find the do-gooders who had spoiled all of their lives. Philippa Longman. Yvonne Dale. Allan Godber. Hadn’t been hard to get to know them. He was an odd-job man, after all. A contractor. He’d fixed Philippa’s railings. Yvonne’s roof. Done some pointing work at Allan’s place. Got to know them. Became invisible. Peered into their lives as he planned their deaths.
Philippa had been the hardest. Despite what she cost him, she had seemed a nice lady. She’d given him a big smile that night as she spotted him on the street on her walk home from work. Chatted to him about the weather and her grandkids and told him he’d done a grand job on her railings. But Gary’s blood wasn’t listening, and Gary hadn’t returned to himself until Philippa was dead on the ground with her chest caved in.