Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy)

by David Mark

  ‘This way, Fin,’ shouts Roisin.

  The boy has run off towards the park. He stops and looks back, impish, as he tries to persuade his parents to let him have five minutes on the giant spider-web of ropes that he can scale in moments. Roisin points at her watch. Shakes her head. McAvoy walks towards his son, Lilah still in his arms.

  He gets a whiff of it. That sweet, cloying odour of decay. Of rotted meat. Turned earth. It comes to him through the fog; a faint whisper of something putrid, hanging in the mist.

  ‘Fin. Fin, come back.’

  The boy thinks it’s a game. Runs into the mist. It closes around him. He becomes a charcoal blur, covered over with pencil shading.

  McAvoy sniffs. Takes a deeper breath. It’s unmistakable. He’s smelled death too many times not to be able to recognise it. Knows how the corruption of skin and tissue climbs into the mouth and throat like frost on a bitter morning. He sends Lilah trotting back to Roisin.

  ‘Fin!’

  The boy stops short as his father raises his voice. McAvoy runs into the mist and almost collides with his son. He takes him by the arms and pain crosses Fin’s face.

  ‘Go to your mother,’ says McAvoy, insistent. ‘Now!’

  McAvoy turns from his boy and pushes on into the fog. Feels the stench permeate deeper inside him.

  He hears Roisin shouting but it is all just static. His blood rushes in his ears. The stench in his nostrils is sliding greasy fingers up and down his thorax.

  McAvoy sees the shape of the farm cart. The smell may as well be painted on the grey air.

  He steps forward and looks down into the cart.

  Her features have sunk down. Her eyes are closed but they have dropped down into the canyons in her skull. Her cheeks cling to her jawbone. There is skin missing on her shoulders and knees. Tendons show through the putrid meat of her bare feet.

  Hannah Kelly.

  Hands touching at her waist, laid out on a bed of flowers, wrapped in a plain white sheet.

  Hannah Kelly.

  Skin like rancid ham. Dirt on her skin and worms slithering in her hair.

  Hannah Kelly.

  She’s been dead for months. Dead and buried.

  Now exhumed, and laid out like a fairy-tale princess.

  Before he turns away, McAvoy notices the staining between her arm and torso. Sees where the blood has pooled, after her killer lifted her arms and sliced off her skin.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 17

  Yvonne Turpin has the devil horns of a red-wine drinker emerging from her pale lips. She’s dressed for comfort in a cheap polo neck and jogging pants. Wears no rings and has bitten her nails so close that her fingers look like pink and painful tentacles.

  On the threshold of the flat above the bookies on Nottingham’s West Bridgford estate, Helen Tremberg has to stop herself from glancing at her notes to make sure she has the right woman. The lady before her bears little similarity to the straight-backed, dark-haired woman who stood on the court steps and railed against the injustice of releasing the man who had killed her sister.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says, as she leads Helen into a living room that she seems to have stopped redecorating halfway through. Some of the loud wallpaper has been painted over in cream and a large chunk of the dirty, paint-spattered wooden floor has been sanded clean. She seems to have simply given up on the project, content to live in a room that carries her own stamp as well as that of its previous owner.

  ‘Tea?’ she asks, sitting down on a chintz sofa and picking up a magazine and wine glass from the cluttered coffee table. ‘Or wine? You might have to drink the white stuff. It may be a bit vinegary but it’s okay.’

  Helen considers the frail, mousy woman before her. She has rarely seen somebody in such desperate need of a good hug. She puts Helen in mind of a beaten dog, shaking and flinching at every loud noise and looking out at the world with eyes that have seen too much sorrow.

  ‘Difficult journey?’ asks Yvonne.

  Helen puffs out a fed-up breath. ‘Fine until I got into the city. Then it was just bedlam.’

  ‘I don’t go into the city centre much,’ says Yvonne, drawing a circle on her knee with her finger and then repeating the gesture in the opposite direction. ‘Shops around here are enough.’

  ‘You’re a driver?’

  ‘I can but I haven’t got a car. Taxis are too expensive. The bus is okay if you don’t get the nutters.’

  ‘I can’t stand the bus. There are always people coughing on you.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that. I don’t like to wear a coat with a hood in case people are putting their dirty tissues in it behind me.’

  They stop. Look at each other. Helen spots the vinegary white wine and a clean-ish glass by the coffee table and pours herself a little measure.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ says Helen, as she sips the wine and tries not to demonstrate that this particular Sauvignon Blanc is now only suitable for stripping the paint from armoured cars. ‘As I said on the phone, it’s really good of you to talk to me. Your sister’s death must have been horrendous and the sentence her killer got is a joke. Feel free to shout and scream and bellow and I’ll listen to all of it.’

  ‘I don’t really understand what it is you’re after,’ says Yvonne, then looks down at her belly, as if appalled by her own rudeness. ‘And my screaming’s all been done.’

  ‘Look, I can’t say too much. But there are certain cases that have one or two similarities and we’re trying to pick our way through some of the murky bits,’ says Helen, keeping it vague. She can’t give much more in the way of specifics because she isn’t sure of them herself.

  ‘And Toni’s death is one of them? But we know who was responsible for that, even if you wouldn’t know it from the sentence he got. And they can’t exactly dig him up and try him again, can they?’

  Helen raises her hands a fraction, urging Yvonne to slow down and let her speak. She takes a breath. Settles herself.

  ‘Tell me about Bruce Corden, please, Yvonne. Tell me from the start.’

  Yvonne seems to be swilling spit around her mouth. Her eyes darken and her nostrils flare for a moment. She shakes her head, ever so slightly. Rubs at her lower lip with the index finger of her right hand. She looks like she wants to dissolve.

  ‘He killed her,’ says Yvonne. ‘My Toni. My little sister. Sweet as a chocolate button, that’s what Dad always called her. She was, too. Pretty as a Christmas card. Better looking than me.’

  Helen wonders if she should butt in or let Yvonne talk. Decides to simply smile.

  ‘We lived miles away from each other most of our adult lives but we were still close. She was always sending me pictures she’d found online. Funny stuff. Pugs in Sherlock Holmes hats. Kids falling off trampolines. She was a bit of a scamp. Loved giggling. Knew how to make me laugh. I was godmother to her daughter, you know that? I mean, I was always going to be in the kid’s life but she still went to the trouble of asking me to be godmother because she thought it was important. It meant a lot to me. She was such a good person. If she’d died for something that mattered I could deal with it, or at least find some comfort. But she just died. Died horribly, because she got in somebody’s way.’

  Helen flicks a glance at her notes. Checks there are no crime scene photos spilling out of her file. Fears that Yvonne would fall apart if confronted with such an image.

  ‘She had a flat in a place called Catford. Do you know it? South London gets a horrible time of it on the TV but it always seemed nice to me whenever I went to stay, and I went to stay a lot. I’d go down every couple of months. Help her with Stephanie. That’s her daughter. She’s six now. Living with her dad. I don’t see much of her.’

  Yvonne chews on her lip. Scratches her bare foot against the cheap cord carpet.

  ‘The bicycle was a Christmas present from me,’ says Yvonne, into her chest. The words drip with guilt and remorse; they are greasy with regret.

  ‘You couldn’t have known
,’ says Helen, aware that the words are not enough.

  Yvonne manages a weak smile, as if she has heard such asinine nonsense a thousand times before. She ignores Helen’s comment.

  ‘She was spending so much on bus fares and she kept saying that she was feeling a bit fat and flabby and needed some exercise. I got her the bike. Ordered it off the internet and had it delivered with a big bow. She was squealing when she rang me. Couldn’t believe it. She was like a kid with a shiny tricycle. I made her promise to wear a helmet. She was thirty-three and I was making her promise me! But she did and she stayed true to her word. She loved that bike. Always wore a helmet. Not that it did her any good.’

  It will be three years in May since Bruce Corden’s Ford Transit van ploughed into Antonia Turpin as she cycled home from work on Shooters Hill Road. Corden was three times over the drink-driving limit. He made his living as a removals man, though rumour had it that not all of his clients were aware he planned to remove their possessions. He was a bloated, flaky-skinned abomination of a man; a walrus in knock-off jeans and a hooded top. He’d spent the day sitting at home with a crate of beer and a carton of imported cigarettes, watching a DVD box-set with his hand in his trousers. Decided he needed a little more booze. Set off for the off-licence. Didn’t hear Antonia Turpin’s shriek as he ploughed into her. Didn’t register her presence beneath the wheels for another half a mile and even then, figured it was probably just a refuse sack. He put his foot down. Cleared the blockage. Went to the off-licence and got himself a bottle of cheap bourbon. Drove home past the growing crowd of onlookers who were standing around the mangled remains of a once bright, bubbly mum.

  ‘I didn’t really understand it when the call came through,’ says Yvonne, quietly. ‘I hadn’t heard from Antonia’s boyfriend in a couple of years. They’d split up, you see, though they were still on good terms. He was down as her next of kin. The police contacted him and he had to phone around. There weren’t many people to call. Mum and Dad both died ten years ago. They went within six months of each other. Maybe that’s why Toni and me were so close. Anyway, he told me what happened. Said she was dead. I don’t know what happened after that. I think I went blank. It was like somebody had flicked a switch and everything was suddenly dark and silent. I sleepwalked through it all. They were good to me at work but they couldn’t let me stay off forever. I was working at the university, did you know that? Quite a good job in admin. They had to let me go, of course. I wasn’t turning up and when I was there I was like a lunatic, staring out of the window or crying.’

  Helen nods, closing her eyes. ‘You did her proud when it came to court,’ she says encouragingly.

  Yvonne takes a moment’s comfort. Smiles her thanks. ‘I put what energy I had into representing her well at the trial. The police didn’t really communicate with me about where they were at with the investigation but they told me when they charged Corden. They expected him to plead guilty.’

  As Yvonne speaks, Helen glances down at her notes, stitched together from a dozen different news websites. Toni’s killer didn’t plead guilty. Claimed that the accident was the fault of the cyclist. She had ridden into him, he said. Maybe it was a suicide attempt. No, he hadn’t been drinking before the accident but he had opened his drinks as soon as he got home and that was the reason for the positive breath test. The Crown Prosecution Service felt the case slipping away from them and offered him the chance to plead guilty to a lesser charge of causing death by dangerous driving. He agreed and was sentenced to two years in prison. He had already been on remand for eleven months and it was not considered in anybody’s best interests from him to return to prison, only to be released a couple of weeks later when he had served half of his sentence. So Corden was unshackled and allowed to walk from the dock. He blew a kiss at the Turpin family as he did so. Celebrated on the court steps with a six-pack of lager that his mates had brought. Walked off to the pub and drank himself insensible. Told every reporter who questioned him that he had been set up. Said she should have been wearing high-visibility clothing. Said he wasn’t as drunk as they made out and it was probably prescription medication that had thrown the breathalyser off . . .

  ‘I’ve never felt as empty,’ says Yvonne, draining her wine and casting around for the bottle. ‘It was like a trapdoor had opened in me and everything I thought and believed about the world just fell through it. He had killed my sister and he was out on the streets. I’m not a violent person, I promise you I’m not, but I swear to you, if I’d known who to ask I’d have paid somebody to drive over his head.’

  Yvonne shivers. Pulls her knees up close. Wraps her arms around herself and whispers, ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ says Helen, and wonders how many times in her career she will have to say that. ‘I can’t make any excuses for what occurred. Sometimes the system fails.’

  Yvonne raises her head and there is a spark of challenge and defiance in her wet irises.

  ‘There are different kinds of justice. That’s what he said. That’s what he got.’

  Helen pauses a moment. Runs the sentence back.

  ‘That’s what Corden said?’

  Yvonne shakes her head, agitated. ‘No. The punter. The bloke.’

  Helen sits in the absolute silence of the living room for a moment. Orders her thoughts. Stays quiet in the hope Yvonne will keep on talking.

  ‘I’d lost my job, like I said,’ Yvonne continues, into her knees. ‘I needed work. Managed to get some bar work. The Blue Bell. Nice old pub in the city centre. It was good for me, I think. When you work in a bar and hear people’s problems you realise that you’re not the only one in pain. They knew, you see? The regulars. I’d given an interview to one of the national papers, and the local paper here and in south London both did pieces on it too. I thought it might change something. It didn’t. The job helped, though. People talk to a barmaid, don’t they? And it was nice to have so many people telling me I was doing good and that I shouldn’t reproach myself for grieving. But it was all the same stuff, you know what I mean? The same phrases. They meant well but while it might have put a little smile on my face, it didn’t change what was on the inside. He saw that. Really helped put me back together.’

  Helen wonders where this will lead. Wonders if she already has enough to start making her excuses or if there is something more to be learned by letting Yvonne carry on with her recollections of the man who helped her feel better.

  ‘This is your boyfriend we’re talking about, yes?’

  Yvonne gives her a sharp, angry look. ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend. I haven’t for years.’

  Helen lets her confusion show on her face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nobody did,’ says Yvonne, and she is talking to herself more than Helen now. ‘He was just a punter. Pint of ale and a scampi and chips. No peas. Two rounds of bread and butter, and extra lemon. He told me to get myself a drink with the change. He was nice. Watched me while I worked, but not in a creepy way. Finished his lunch. As I was getting the plates he asked me where my sadness came from. Just like that. Came out and asked. You don’t often get people asking questions like that so I tried to make light of it. Then he turned his head and looked right into me and I swear, it felt like a ghost was passing through me. Next thing I was dizzy and sick and all the grief I’d held back was bubbling up and there I was, snuffling against his chest and sobbing in his arms like a crazy person. There are a couple of booths in the Blue Bell and he took me into one of them. Sat next to me, holding my hand. Told me to talk, to share it. So I did. Told him all about Toni and Corden and how my life was just this constant battle to stay a step ahead of all the black thoughts that were pulling me in. I told him the truth. I couldn’t get Corden out of my mind. All I could see was his face; that smile as he walked out of court. I wanted to hurt him so badly I could taste it. He listened to me. I’d swear he was a bloody guardian angel if I hadn’t stopped believing in those things. But he told me it would all be okay.’
/>   Helen does not know what to say. Says nothing. Waits for more.

  ‘It worked out okay,’ says Yvonne, brightly. ‘He was right, though he won’t have known it. I don’t even know why I’m mentioning it; I just feel it’s important that a stranger helped me. He made me feel better. And then karma slapped Corden in the mouth. He fell down some steps near his house. Cracked his head like a boiled egg. I got a call from the police who investigated Toni’s death. It was just a courtesy really. They said it was an accident – just like what happened to Toni. Just one of those things. It felt bloody glorious.’

  Helen lifts her notepad. Doodles some concentric circles as she lets the possibilities swirl.

  ‘Who was the man?’ she asks, keeping her tone light.

  Yvonne gives a tiny shrug. ‘He was just there that one time. Talked to me. Made me feel better.’

  ‘You didn’t think he might have done something to Corden?’ asks Helen, as gently as she can.

  Yvonne shakes her head. Makes a face. ‘That’s typical, isn’t it? A nice man does a nice thing and the next thing he’s the bad guy. I wish I hadn’t told you now.’

  Helen changes her expression. Tries to win her back round.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. You’re right, sometimes people come along and they just make things better. I didn’t suggest anything else. Just for argument’s sake, though, do you think you would know him again? For our records . . .’

  Yvonne looks at the wine bottle. Seems to shrink a little when she realises it is empty.

  ‘I hope I was helpful,’ says Yvonne. ‘Two accidents, that’s all. Toni died and the man who killed her ended up with his brains all over the ground. Maybe there is a different kind of justice than the one you get in courts, but I tell you what, if there is, I hope you don’t do a damn thing to stop it.’