by M. R. Hall
‘Hello? Anybody home?’ an unmistakable voice – Mc-Avoy’s – called through from the outer office.
Alison flashed Jenny an accusing look. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’ She got up from her desk.
Alison stepped between her and the door. ‘Please, Mrs Cooper – let me see to this. I told you you shouldn’t have anything to do with that man.’
‘He’s come up with the only new lead we’ve got.’
‘You can’t trust him. He’s poison. I sat in on his interviews.’
There was a knock on the office door.
‘Mrs Cooper?’
Jenny said, ‘Hold on a moment.’ She turned to Alison. ‘At least let me see what he wants.’
She stepped past and out into reception. McAvoy was standing in the waiting area idly leafing through Alison’s church newsletter.
‘Mr McAvoy—’
‘Sorry to arrive unannounced,’ he said, with a mock formality imitating hers. ‘I wonder if we might have a quick word about Mrs Jamal.’
Alison came to Jenny’s shoulder. ‘I really wouldn’t advise it, Mrs Cooper. Mr McAvoy is a witness. You don’t want to run the risk of tainting your inquest.’
‘Good to see you again, Mrs Trent,’ McAvoy said, with more than a hint of irony. ‘It’s been a fair wee while.’
Alison took a step forward, squaring up like the detective she had once been. ‘You should know that Mr McAvoy was imprisoned for perverting the course of justice. He arranged a false alibi in a violent armed-robbery case – and that was just the time he got caught.’
McAvoy smiled and tossed the newsletter back on the table. ‘I’ve heard that your old boss Dave Pironi claims to have found Jesus. In my humble opinion it may be a little too late. He was one of the dirtiest, most corrupt policemen I ever met. He sent that wee lassie to me, and I think you know that.’
Alison said, ‘See what you’re dealing with?’
McAvoy said, ‘Did you ever ask yourself why my office happened to be bugged on that day? Or why, when any sane person wouldn’t touch CID with a shitty stick, that witness couldn’t do enough to help them?’
Jenny said, ‘Can we stop this now, please?’ She turned to McAvoy. ‘Should you really be here?’
McAvoy said, ‘This case has already cost me my liberty and career—’
Alison gave a dismissive grunt.
He ignored her and continued. ‘And if you remember, it was immediately I got on the trail of that Toyota eight years ago that your officer and her colleagues fingered me.’
‘That was nothing to do with it,’ Alison said.
‘With respect,’ McAvoy replied, raising his voice, ‘as a DS you wouldn’t have had a fucking clue, Mrs Trent. Pironi and whoever was working him put me away to stop that car ever being identified. And then this call the other day – the guy asking what did I know, and threatening to put me in a casket. And the call before I went down, the American with the same question: what did I know?’ He looked at Alison. ‘He makes this crap up for a living, that’s what you’re thinking. But what about Mrs Jamal? And look who’s in charge again.’
‘Her flat’s on his patch,’ Alison said.
‘And how long’s he been there? Three months I heard. Transferred about the same time she lodged her application to have her son declared dead. Now I don’t like to accuse a fellow believer of a mortal sin, but it does start to make you wonder.’
‘He had nothing to do with Mrs Jamal’s death,’ Alison snapped.
‘I’m sure you’re an intelligent woman, Mrs Trent, but even an ex-copper should have learned that evil bastards don’t always go around in black hats.’ He nodded to the newsletter he’d dropped on the table. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you and he get a mention in the church news there—’
Alison marched across the room, snatched her coat from the peg and thumped out of the office.
McAvoy picked up the newsletter, turned to an inside page and handed it to Jenny. ‘Adult baptism’s a wonderful thing, but it kind of takes the shine off . . .’
He pointed to the notices section. Mrs Alison Trent was listed as one of five new members of the Body of Christ baptized the previous Sunday. She had two sponsors – the adult equivalent of godparents – one of whom was named as Mr David Pironi.
McAvoy said, ‘It’s pretty low, even by his standards. How’d he pull that off? She hasn’t got a terminal illness or something, has she?’
‘No,’ Jenny said, ‘just some family troubles.’
They talked in Jenny’s office. McAvoy said a long-running trial he was involved with had been adjourned for the day because the judge had to conduct an all-day sentencing hearing: eight members of a paedophile ring each claiming they were tricked into it by the others. Thinking about Mrs Jamal had kept him awake most of the night. It was deep in the small hours, when he was running low on cigarettes, that he had started to put the pieces together. He’d called an old contact inside the police who’d told him about Pironi’s recent transfer to New Bridewell. The same detective had also tipped him off about Pironi’s church-going – he’d been at it since his wife died, apparently, still fitting up and whoring on weekdays like he always had, but born again afresh every Sunday. Speaking with McAvoy like this, businesslike, across a desk, Jenny’s doubts about him began to recede. He was measured, logical and always gave a self-aware smile after he’d lapsed into hyperbole. She didn’t feel he was pulling conspiracies from the air: like her, he was simply trying to arrange the pieces into an order that made sense. After she had gone with him to see Madog, Jenny had been almost convinced by Alison’s insistence that he was inventing evidence to further his own agenda and prise his way back into the solicitors’ profession. Looking him in the eye, she couldn’t believe it. How did Alison’s theory fit with Mrs Jamal’s death? Would she argue that McAvoy was involved, that he’d persecuted her with late-night phone calls? And for what – merely to discredit Pironi?
No. The man now leaning towards her open window smoking a cigarette was no monster. He was too edgy, too weathered and grooved by life, too obviously worn down by conscience to be a psychopath of the kind Alison imagined. Ruthless people had charm; McAvoy had warmth. It was of an erratic and slightly hazardous kind, a naked flame which guttered then flared, but she could feel it burning in him nonetheless. She was convinced that his passion for justice, or his brand of it at least, was real and heartfelt.
Jenny showed him the list of Toyotas Alison had produced and the ones she had circled. He ran through them with the criminal lawyer’s eye. If you were going to spirit someone away, you wouldn’t do it in a privately registered car, he said. You’d most likely hire a vehicle using false documents, a trail you could cover. On the list there were only two cars registered to hire companies. One was in Cwmbran, south Wales, the other was thirty miles to the north in the small city of Hereford on the English side of the border.
Jenny reached for the phone, intending to call them.
McAvoy said, ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? You never know who’s listening.’
Jenny said, ‘You’re right. I’ll pay them a visit.’
It was time to draw the meeting to a close. McAvoy met her gaze as she tried to find a tactful way of saying so.
Before she spoke, he said, ‘If I didn’t want to upset your officer any more I’d ask if I could come along for the ride.’
‘You think I need my hand held?’
‘Mrs Jamal could have done with it.’
Jenny tried not to let the shudder she felt pass through her show on her face.
SIXTEEN
MCAVOY SMOKED AND DOZED DURING the hour-long journey to the former coal-mining town of Cwmbran. Once or twice Jenny tried to make conversation, but he barely responded. With eyes half-closed, he stared out at the grey landscape, the ever-present drizzle turning to sleet as they headed deeper into south Wales.
She asked if there was something on his mind. He responded wi
th a moody and disconcerting ‘Mmm.’ His mood was impenetrable.
The car-rental franchise was on the edge of town, on an industrial estate in sight of evenly sloped hills which had been fashioned from the slag heaps formed when the former mines turned the earth inside out. McAvoy woke as she pulled up, and followed her inside. There were no customers, only a fleshy desk clerk chewing a sandwich. He wiped crumbs from his mouth as they came through the door. McAvoy ignored his corporate hello and fetched himself a free cup of coffee from the machine while Jenny dealt with business.
She produced one of her calling cards and told the clerk she needed to know who, if anyone, was renting the Toyota on the night of 28 June 2002. The clerk said he didn’t have access to those kind of records. It was a matter for head office in Cardiff. He searched his computer for the right number to call and said he didn’t hold out much hope – the company only kept their vehicles for a year, two at the most.
From behind her, Jenny heard McAvoy say, ‘The fuck’s that got to do with it?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘What’s how long you keep the cars got to do with your records? You keep them for the tax man. Where are they?’
Jenny saw the clerk waver as he measured McAvoy up.
‘There’s no need to swear.’
McAvoy strolled over to the counter, set down his coffee and glanced at him with red, puffy eyes. Jenny felt her stomach turn over.
‘I do apologize,’ McAvoy said. ‘The company I keep in my profession sometimes causes me to use inappropriate and intemperate language. Please ignore my earlier outburst.’
Cringing, Jenny lowered her eyes in embarrassment. The clerk turned warily back to his screen. McAvoy sipped his coffee, throwing him a malevolent glance.
‘Here’s the number, ma’am,’ the clerk said, warily. ‘Oh-one-two-nine-oh—’
McAvoy interrupted. ‘The paper records, the forms you sign when you hire a car – where do you store those?’
The clerk glanced at Jenny, who said, ‘It’s OK, I’ll call the number.’
‘What’s through there?’ McAvoy said, pointing to the door at the back of the office. ‘It’s where you keep the files, right? VAT man comes, that’s where he goes to check you’re being straight with your paperwork.’
‘I’m not authorized to release those documents, sir.’
‘What you said was, you don’t have access,’ McAvoy said quietly, but with a murderer’s menace. ‘That’s not quite true, is it, son?’
The clerk wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip, his eyes flicking to the phone on the counter.
McAvoy said to Jenny, ‘There you go. No need to go round the houses,’ picked up his coffee and strolled outside.
Jenny and the clerk looked at each other. He was waiting for her lead now.
Jenny said, ‘I think it might be easier if you just fetched me the records for those dates.’
He snatched a key from a drawer and disappeared into the back office. While he rummaged in filing cabinets she looked over her shoulder and saw McAvoy strolling over to the pond and aquatic supplies outlet opposite. He stopped to help a young woman who was struggling through the door with a baby in a buggy and unwieldy shopping bags. He said something that made her laugh, then bent down and tickled the child’s cheek.
The clerk reappeared with several sheets of paper. He said, ‘If you want I can copy them for you. It went out on the 24th for a two-week hire to the Fairleas Nursing Home – signed contract and credit-card slip. Anything else you want to see?’
Jenny flicked through the faded documents. ‘No. That’s fine.’
She swung out of the estate with a screech of tyres and headed out of town. McAvoy sat impassively in the passenger seat, taking in the view. Gaps had appeared in the clouds and beyond the rows of identical modern houses there was a pretty dusting of snow on the hilltops.
Jenny accelerated angrily out of a roundabout, pushed the Golf up to seventy in third and slammed straight across into fifth. The car lurched as she mistimed the clutch. McAvoy rocked forward in his seat but said nothing.
‘Is that how you always behave?’ Jenny said.
‘You were going to let him fob you off to some hopeless shite in customer services.’
‘How did this happen? You shouldn’t even be here.’
‘What’s more important?’ McAvoy said. ‘Getting to the truth of this thing or upsetting some guy who couldn’t care less?’
‘I’m a coroner, I can’t behave like that.’
‘You think he’s never heard the f word?’
‘For God’s sake – you were intimidating him. And undermining me.’
‘You were doing pretty well at that yourself.’
‘You’ve got no business interfering with my investigation. If you can’t understand that, you can get out of the car now.’
‘You’re going to make me walk home?’
‘You can freeze to death for all I care.’
McAvoy shrugged, then peered sideways at her as if he were arriving at a judgement.
‘What?’ she barked.
‘You need to calm down, Jenny. You’re a bag of nerves.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I saw that when you were sitting outside that hall, all huddled up like the whole thing was nothing to do with you . . . I thought, there’s someone who’s had the confidence knocked out of her.’
Jenny said, ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’
McAvoy said, ‘Why don’t you get the tears out now? Clear the air between us.’
‘Fuck you.’
Anger was one emotion that kept tears at bay. She held onto it throughout the drive across country to Hereford. McAvoy sat silent and unnervingly still, squinting out at the patchwork fields. His shifting moods frightened her. He reminded her of some of the more sinister wife-batterers she had confronted across courtrooms in her former career: men who flipped from charm to violence and back again without warning. Their hapless partners always said the same thing: when he’s in a good mood he’s the nicest man in the world. She cursed herself for ever having let him come with her.
Hereford was a city, more of a market town, that she’d visited occasionally over the years and seen degenerate from charming and unspoiled to paved-over, litter-strewn and leached of its character by chain stores in its historic centre and US-style retail barns on its margins. It was yet another casualty of the same small minds that had systematically wrecked most British towns. Only the thousand-year-old cathedral and handful of surrounding streets had maintained their character, but the philistines were slowly claiming them too: a pizza chain had taken over the Victorian post office and tacky shops with cheap plastic signs had replaced once dignified family-run businesses.
The car-hire firm was an ageing cabin and area of hard-standing in a former railway goods yard, hidden behind a row of electrical and home-improvement warehouses. It was a rare survivor in this barren landscape: St Owen’s Vehicle Hire established 1962, the sign announced. Opposite was a noisy backstreet mechanic’s cluttered with dismantled vehicles and stacks of spent tyres. To the right was a carpentry shop. A handful of workers on their break stood outside it, gathered around a fire they’d lit in an oil drum and stamping their feet against the piercing cold. It reminded Jenny of places from her own small-town childhood: the smell of damp bricks, engine grease and wood smoke.
‘I suppose you won’t be wanting me,’ McAvoy said.
‘What do you think?’ She climbed out of the car and walked over to the office.
A young man of no more than twenty, dressed in a cheap suit and tie, was tapping on a grubby computer keyboard behind the counter. The air was heavy with the smell of ageing lino and fumes from an elderly gas heater.
Jenny showed him her card and politely explained the nature of her inquiry. He wasn’t the quickest, and she doubted he’d ever heard of a coroner, but he was eager to help.
‘I’ve only been here since Christmas,’ he said, ‘so I
don’t remember that particular car. I could call the boss on his mobile.’
Jenny said, ‘Don’t you have the records here?’
‘Not the paper ones. The boss takes them home with him.’
‘What about your computer – you log everything on there, right?’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ She smiled in a way that she hoped might encourage him to cooperate. He started to hit the filthy keys. A column of data appeared on the screen of the old-fashioned monitor.
‘OK . . . here’s the Toyota. We got rid of it in ’05.’ Jenny turned and glanced apprehensively out of the window. McAvoy was no longer in the passenger seat. Feeling a stab of alarm, she glanced left and right, then saw him strolling towards the carpenters’ brazier, raising a hand in greeting to the two men still standing there.
‘It’s June ’02 you’re after, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ She turned back to the young man, who was dragging his finger down the screen making a line in the dust. ‘It was out from the 20th to the 23rd, and didn’t go out again until 6 July.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘That’s what it says. Look . . .’ He swivelled the screen towards her.
He was right. There was no record of the car being hired on that date.
‘Oh well,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Thanks for trying. Maybe you can give me your boss’s number anyway.’
McAvoy was strolling back towards her as she stepped out of the office. It was only three p.m. and already the light was fading. Sparks jumped out of the oil drum and carried past him on the sharp breeze.
‘All right?’ he said, suppressing a smile.
Jenny headed for the car. ‘It wasn’t hired out on those dates. We checked the computer records.’
‘D’you ask him if they do deals for cash?’
‘He’s just a kid. I’ve got the boss’s number.’ She climbed into the driver’s seat.
McAvoy caught hold of the door as she went to close it. ‘If you were going to hire a car to snatch someone, would you want to leave a paper trail? Look at this place. A few hundred quid in notes – are you telling me they’d say no?’