Open Grave

  Or so he told himself.

  ‘I hope you are not accusing me of something, Detective.’

  Christensen leaned in. ‘Mr McGuinness...’

  ‘Dorian.’

  ‘Dorian, you knew Liam Reed, yes?’

  ‘He used to work for me,’ he replied, fishing out a Cuban cigar. ‘We’ve been over this.’

  ‘When did his employment end?’

  McGuinness paused. Not a long pause, but a pause nonetheless. ‘Well, he informed me of his intention to leave my employment in recent weeks. He was currently serving his notice when this... unfortunate event happened.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why somebody would want to hurt Mr Reed?’

  McGuinness paused once more, a steady hand coming up to light his cigar. Three puffs later, it was in full flow, a thick smog clogging up the atmosphere.

  ‘No idea. He was a nice enough man.’

  ‘With all due respect, the man was tortured, having had some of his fingers removed.’

  Jack noted the flash of fury across McGuinness’s face.

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Indeed, it is. That’s why I need to know if you have any idea as to why anybody would do that. Did he have information that was valuable to someone? Is somebody trying to get to you?’

  ‘An aquatics shop owner?’

  Christensen paused, raised an eyebrow towards Jack.

  ‘Look, Dorian,’ Jack began. ‘I’m not here to piss about. Hell, I won’t even ask to inspect those boxes out there in your corridor. But please don’t pull that bullshit on me. We both know what you’re really running here.’

  ‘Jack, Jack, Jack,’ he chuckled. ‘Let me begin by saying how much I abhor bad language. Secondly, you are free to search my premises if you can produce a warrant. Thirdly, you really do not have any idea what goes on here.’

  He steeled himself, determined not to give an inch. ‘Is somebody encroaching on your patch? I don’t want warfare on my streets.’

  ‘Your streets?’

  ‘Figure of speech.’

  ‘Look, Detective, I really have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied as Tank and Barrel entered, coffee in hand.

  ‘Well, if you think of anything,’ Jack said, leaving a card on the desk. ‘Be sure to let me know. I’ll be in touch.’

  McGuinness seemingly ignored the veiled threat and took a drink of his coffee. ‘Not enough sugar.’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Barrel said, taking the cup and leaving.

  McGuinness turned back to them. ‘Is that all? As you might imagine, I have some things to attend to.’

  Jack turned around in the car to talk to Christensen. ‘I thought it was going to kick off in there.’

  The DS shrugged. ‘I’d have fancied my chances with the goon.’

  ‘I always thought you were unflappable.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the stories?’ Christensen said. ‘Apparently I can kill a man with my little finger.’

  Jack smiled. ‘So you never lose your temper?’

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘What happens when you do?’

  ‘Armageddon.’

  Jack spent the remainder of the journey reflecting on what had just happened. McGuinness was hiding something, for sure. What that was, though, was anybody’s guess. He’d definitely not been pleased to learn of Liam Reed’s death. It was beginning to look more and more like Robson had been right. Somebody was making inroads into McGuinness’s turf.

  ‘Still,’ Jack mused, ‘we’ve moved things along somewhat.’

  ‘Have we?’ Christensen asked.

  ‘Think about it. We’ve just told one of the North East’s most notorious crime bosses that one of his employees has been brutally tortured and murdered. You can bet your last quid on McGuinness conducting his own investigation into what has happened. If somebody is encroaching on his business, he’s bound to act.’ He turned to face the Scandinavian officer. ‘All we need to do is wait.’

  And pray things didn’t spiral out of control before they had a chance to put a stop to it.

  14

  Jack had spent the majority of his day off scouring paperwork. He’d rung the station twice, both times being put through to Jane Russell, despite his protests. The DI seemed to be enjoying her newfound seniority, telling him in the most officious of terms that everything was in hand. Time off was a precious commodity in Northumbria’s force, but Edwards had forced him to stay home and, in his words, recharge the batteries. Sure, he had the day booked in anyway, but was willing to cancel it to work on the case. The DSI had other ideas, though.

  He spent some time pacing back and forth, thinking the case through, before sitting down to watch TV. Finally, in an effort to relieve the boredom, he’d rung Pritchard to come and keep him company. This was code word for ‘fetch a takeaway.’

  ‘Ah I’ve missed this, my old friend.’ Pritchard stood in the doorway soaked, but with Chinese food in hand. ‘Howay then, give me a hand.’

  Jack smiled and invited him in, taking six ice-cool cans off the old man. Pritchard always did like a good drink.

  ‘I remember when you’d sink at least double this,’ Jack quipped.

  Pritchard threw off his rain mac and patted his over-sized belly down. ‘I’ve got to keep this nice and trim, or the missus will leave me.’

  ‘How is Mary?’

  The psychologist shrugged. ‘Not too bad.’

  Jack noted the silent words that flashed across his eyes, words that suggested: ‘don’t ask.’ He didn’t.

  They settled down to their food, with Jack grabbing a few cans for himself before depositing some of the food in the fridge for later. The smell of black bean sauce permeated the room. He was grateful for the easy silences that often peppered their friendship. More often than not, the less they spoke, the more they really said.

  It was some half an hour later when Pritchard finally broke the silence; by which time the sun had begun to set, casting a warm, orange glow over the living room. ‘Anything on the case?’

  Jack shook his head and put the side lamp on. ‘Not a thing. It’s only a matter of time before we get an ID on the bodies, though. The Bulldog is running things today. I’ve already had Watkins on the phone twice practically crying.’

  ‘That Watkins is a bit soft, don’t you think?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him, he’s got the makings of a fine policeman. Besides, he’s already paid a visit to Dorian McGuinness with me so he’s passed phase one of his fear management training.’

  ‘Dorian McGuinness?’ Pritchard whistled. ‘You two still getting on well?’

  ‘Not so much these days,’ Jack said. ‘Anyway, weren’t we just talking about Watkins, not me?’

  Pritchard took another drink. ‘Touched a nerve?’

  Jack ignored him and took a swig of his own. Bringing up his past running with the McGuinness crew wasn’t something he was particularly fond of doing. ‘We have a strong team,’ he said in an attempt to swerve the conversation in a different direction.

  Pritchard made to speak, before shaking his head, and taking another drink. ‘You do. Claire Gerrard is tenacious.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Let’s just hope Watkins’ feelings for her don’t complicate matters in future.’

  ‘Wait... what?’ Jack spluttered, sending lager froth spraying on his carpet. ‘What are you talking about? Watkins is seeing that FLO.’

  Pritchard sighed, took off his glasses, and made a show of wiping them. ‘Jack, you never were much good at reading people’s emotions, including your own.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said. I could have told you about your sexuality years ago if you’d only asked. It doesn’t matter who Watkins is seeing, I’m telling you the lad is besotted with Gerrard.’

  ‘Great, that’s just what we need.’

  ‘Ah it’ll be okay,’ Pritchard said. ‘Workplace romances usually end well, don’t they?’
/>
  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the old man give a wry smile. In this light, he could be forgiven for thinking Pritchard was still ten years younger and on active duty, as opposed to semiretired and burned out.

  ‘I can see you looking at me.’ Pritchard turned to face him. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack asked. ‘Frank, the pressure I put on you isn’t fair. We should never have asked you to come out of retirement. Manchester could have sent somebody or...’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Pritchard waved him away. ‘Nobody works a case like I do.’

  Jack almost believed him.

  ‘I just don’t want to put too much on you.’

  ‘That’s a hell of a thing for you to say.’ Pritchard leaned in, tears lining his eyes. ‘After all we’ve been through.’

  He backtracked. ‘I’m sorry, Frank, I didn’t mean any offence.’

  Pritchard shrugged it off. Now it was his turn to change the subject. ‘So, do you think Edwards is testing the waters with the Bulldog, to see if she’s up to task?’

  Of course he did. Edwards might be an old friend but, when it came to saving his own backside, Jack was simply collateral damage. Still, it wasn’t something he went around saying.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Pritchard laughed. ‘And don’t lie to me.’

  It wasn’t until their fifth beer that Jack’s tongue loosened up enough to tell the full truth. Once Pritchard had started prying, he’d known it was only a matter of time before he opened up to him. He wasn’t angry about it, though. Jack knew the psychologist only ever did it as a friend. In his years on the force, he could count on one hand the people he’d truly trusted. Pritchard was one of them.

  ‘What’s the story with Rosie then?’

  Jack winced. It was like a plaster being ripped off a wound he’d thought almost healed.

  ‘She hates my guts,’ he said, honestly. ‘And, to be honest, I don’t blame her.’

  Pritchard let out a belch, eliciting a belly laugh in the process. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought I’d always known what I wanted, Frank,’ he began. ‘I’ve done some shady things in my past, but I don’t regret them.’ He met the psychologist’s gaze head on. ‘The stuff with McGuinness I... I don’t know. Anyway, becoming a policeman was the answer, you know? I thought, if I can do right by others, it’ll make up for my mistakes. I’ve hurt people, Frank, badly.’ He flexed his fists, faint scarring lining his knuckles. ‘But there came a point when I couldn’t blame it on my upbringing any more. Sure, my dad was a bully, but I had to take responsibility for my own life.’

  Jack noticed Pritchard finishing his beer, then he got up, grabbed a cold one for him, and waited until he pinged it open before continuing.

  ‘I didn’t have a criminal record, and I wasn’t known to the police, so I managed to get in. Yeah, McGuinness wasn’t happy but what could he do? Kill a policeman? I had the out I needed. Things went fine, I progressed up the ranks, eventually making DI. But those things never quite made up for the past demons. When the Newcastle Knifer case hit, it changed everything. I’d left Louise for Rosie. Nothing had particularly happened, but we both knew it was only a matter of time. I thought I was doing the right thing. Then that bastard started going around carving people up.’ He spat the words out, remembering. ‘Rosie had seen the effect the force was having on me and she wasn’t happy in her job. After the Knifer case, I was running on empty – we all were. Remember?’

  Through the dim light, Pritchard spoke. ‘I remember.’

  As the images passed between them, Jack waited a moment before continuing. ‘I’d made DCI and, after it finished, I was on the sick, recuperating,’ he said, feeling the sting of old wounds resurface. ‘We talked about packing it in, moving to New Zealand, to start over. I’d never been but she has family out there. I knew it was all a lie though. I panicked, told her I had drafted my resignation letter and was going to put it in that day. When I got home from work, she’d thrown herself at me and told me she’d done the same and that we could finally get away from all the misery and hurt.’ He paused, steadying himself before continuing. ‘That’s when I told her the truth.’

  The images of that night were still seared on his memory. The feeling of her slap across his face, the tears, the shouting, all of it. That was the moment he knew he’d blown the best thing in his life.

  ‘Then what?’ Pritchard asked, cutting through his thoughts.

  ‘I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. All she saw was the betrayal. I left the house and when I came home the next day, I found my things boxed up outside with a note. She told me she would never forgive me and that whilst we had to have some sort of professional relationship, we would never be friends.’

  He’d kept the letter for months afterwards.

  It seemed an age before Pritchard spoke again. ‘Women, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘I’ll be damned if that isn’t the saddest story I ever heard.’

  Jack nodded in agreement. ‘I did love her, Frank. I still do. I just don’t love her like that. I hate myself for what I put her through, but I couldn’t go on living a lie. It was killing me. I realise now I was holding it in because of my family. My parents would have never understood. Now my mother is dead and my dad… well let’s just say he won’t be around forever.’

  He left the part out where he’d stocked up on strong painkillers and vodka, staring at them for what seemed like hours before deciding against it.

  * * *

  It was near 9pm when Pritchard finally decided to leave. He’d mumbled something nonsensical before spending ten minutes putting his jacket on, stopping only to burp, before tipping his hat and stumbling to the taxi.

  The last hour hadn’t garnered much conversation between the two, with Jack spending the majority of his time stewing on an idea that had formed in his head. Convincing himself it was the right thing to do, he grabbed his jacket.

  The walk was a fairly short one. The wind had picked up, causing his ears to sting. He huddled against the biting winter weather on the way to Rosie Lynne’s detached house, pausing at the edge of her drive. It suddenly didn’t feel like such a good idea when it registered with him just how many beers he’d had. He looked left to right, thinking about what to do. It was now or never. Or at least that’s what he told himself. The conversation with Pritchard had brought up all manner of repressed feelings and memories. If he could just explain things to her, maybe she’d listen.

  He rang the doorbell, the familiar ting of the wind chimes blowing in the gusty weather. This had been his home too, before it had happened. He found himself wondering whether it still looked the same inside. He hadn’t been back since...

  Convincing himself it was a bad idea, he turned to leave before the sound of jangling keys caused him to wait.

  ‘Jack?’ Rosie appeared in the doorway, glass of red wine in hand.

  ‘I... erm...’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, unable to meet her gaze.

  After a pause, she said, ‘Come in.’

  He followed her into his old home; the home they’d made together but which now felt foreign to him. The warmth of being indoors was tempered with the chill of the decor having been changed. He could still recall buying the teal wallpaper with her for the hallway, arguing over who would do a better job of papering. As he stood staring at the now red wall, he felt an intense sadness eating away at his insides.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, motioning to the settee.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied, noting that she’d even seen fit to buy a new three-piece.

  She took a seat far enough away to make the boundaries clear. ‘So, what’s happened? Is it the case?’

  ‘The case?’ he said. ‘No.’

  Rosie shifted, pulling her cardigan across her chest. ‘So this is just some kind of social call?’ Her tone darkened.

  ‘It’s not like that.’ />
  She ignored him. ‘What, and you thought that by coming here you could...’ She trailed off, palms facing outward.

  ‘I don’t know what I thought,’ he shouted, before composing himself. ‘I wanted to come to tell you... to...’

  ‘To tell me what, Jack?’

  That I’m sorry. That I never meant to hurt you. That it’s my fault, not yours.

  ‘Nothing.’ He stood to leave. ‘This was a mistake.’

  ‘So you’re just going to run away again!’

  He stopped. ‘I didn’t run away, I made a mistake. I was living a lie. But you seem to take great joy in making me pay for it every day of my life.’

  She raised a hand to her cheek, as if slapped. ‘Me! What about you? It was your choice, Jack, not mine.’

  He growled. ‘It wasn’t a choice, Rosie. It’s who I am, dammit.’

  He stood to the spot, unable to move. Rosie was crying now, each sob a bitter reminder of the mistakes he’d made. He moved forward but she raised her hand. ‘Get out!’ she screeched.

  ‘Rosie, I...’

  ‘I said...’

  The sound of the doorbell brought the argument to an abrupt end. She brushed past him and answered the door; a dark-featured bloke stepped through into the hallway. The protective arm he placed around her shoulder told Jack exactly who it was. Jack searched for some trace of anger in the man’s eyes, finding himself struggling with his own, but he saw only surprise.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ the man asked. ‘I forgot my key.’

  ‘Yes, Alan,’ Rosie said, stepping forward. ‘Jack was just leaving.’

  15

  The lapse of judgement from the previous night stuck with Jack throughout the morning, like the remnants of a bad dream clinging to reality. It was more the embarrassment of having put himself out there like that, something he didn’t usually do, that seemed to hurt the most. In the cold light of day, suffering with a minor hangover, he realised how stupid an idea it had all been.