by Mark, David
“He contacted you? When was this?” McAvoy’s trying to keep his voice steady.
“I couldn’t be sure. Not long after I came to this bloody place. I was out of it for the first few days, but when I started picking up my messages, he was on there. He reckoned I’d tried to contact him again that week, but that wasn’t true. Him and the Grimsby woman. At least, I don’t think it was true. You have to remember, I was in a bad way . . .”
“Which Grimsby woman, Mr. Chandler? You mean somebody from your research?”
“Yes, yes,” he says testily, dismissively, as though only the facts that he’s already divulged could be of any interest.
“Angela something-or-other. Only one that the Bar-Room Butcher didn’t manage to bump off.”
McAvoy is pacing now, as if trying to keep up with his thoughts and fears. He knows something significant is happening. He can smell violence. Blood.
“The rapist? From years back?”
“Aye, more your neck of the woods than mine. You must remember.”
McAvoy remembers. More than a decade ago, in the Borders of Scotland, a lorry driver by the name of Ian Jarvis had got his kicks waiting in the toilets of public houses, then stabbing to death and raping any woman who happened to wander in. Liked to carve his initials on their privates, too. He bumped off four ladies before some of his DNA was found at one of the crime scenes, and he was picked up while at work on victim number five in the toilets of a downmarket public house in Dumfries, not five minutes from the neat semidetached where he lived with his wife and three young children. His last victim had survived. Given evidence against him from behind a screen. Helped put him away, and doubtless rejoiced when he was found hanging in his cell less than three weeks into the first of his many life sentences. By that time, she had put herself down for a council housing exchange and taken the first offer she’d received: three rooms with no view on the seventh floor of a Grimsby tower block.
“And you’ve been in touch with her? You’ve spoken to this woman recently?”
“No,” he says impatiently. “It was just a voicemail. She said she was returning my call. But I don’t remember making any bloody call.”
McAvoy is shaking his head frantically. His face has gone the same steel gray as the estate beyond the glass.
And knows, knows without question, that Angela Martindale is next.
15.
The glass is empty, but she raises it to her mouth, anyway. Sips at nothing. Wets her lips on the last trickle of froth and works a yellow-stained tongue around the rim.
Whispers under her breath, into the glass, misting it with her slurred prayer: “Come on, lads.”
Puts the pint glass back down on the varnished counter with a thud. Hopes somebody will notice she’s out of drink and offer to fill the void. Become one of her gentlemen and buy some of her precious time.
“Another, Angie?”
It’s Porthole Bob this time. Window-cleaner famed across town for never bothering to work his shammy into the corners.
“You’re a smasher, Bob,” she says, and nods at the Bass pump. “Pint, if you don’t mind.”
Bob raises his own glass at Dean the barman, busy loading bottles of alcopops into the empty fridge down at the far end of the bar. “When you get a moment, Deano.”
It’s a proper pub, this. One of the last boozers on this busy shopping street on the outskirts of Grimsby town center not to have been bought out by one of the chains. There are only half a dozen punters in today, and none are drinking together. Three old boys that Angie vaguely remembers nodding hellos to in the past are sitting in a loose triangle, each at different tables. They’re talking about a boxer she’s never heard of, and each has his day’s budget laid out on the cracked varnish of the circular tabletops. All are on their last pint of the day and are making it last: delaying the indignity of wrestling themselves into overcoats and scarves and tottering through the wind and snow to the bus stop.
The other customer is a muscular man in a black jacket and scarf. He’d tapped on the cider pump when he walked in, and handed over his money without a word. He’s barely touched the drink. Has barely looked up from the Daily Mirror. Angie has him pegged as a gambler, probably up to his neck in horses and debt, and decides he’s not worth one of her smiles.
“Bloody freezing. I’ve packed it in for the day.”
Porthole Bob. He’s rubbing himself warm, ever since he walked in through the blue-paint and frosted-glass front door, bringing with him the sound of traffic and a cold flurry of snow and wind. There would have been traffic noises, too, not so long ago. This was Grimsby’s premier shopping street—a bustling community of independent traders made prosperous by their nearness to the fish market and docks. No longer. It’s a dead street, all plywood and graffiti, TO LET signs, and metal shutters. Were she a Grimsby girl, it would upset Angie to see a once proud highway reduced to such penury, but she has called this town her home for only a handful of years, and gives the area’s disrepair and ignominy as much consideration as her own.
“Today, son.”
Dean reaches under the counter and pulls out two glasses. They’re still warm from the dishwasher, so he runs them under the cold tap for a moment. He’s only young but is learning quickly.
“Come on, son. There’s a lady dying of thirst here.”
Satisfied the glasses are cold enough to spare him any abuse, Dean turns to the pump and fills both pints. Places both on the counter. Takes the four pound coins from Bob’s outstretched hand.
“Cheers, Bob.”
“No bother, lad. You showing the game tonight?”
“Nah, it’s on satellite. Price of the license is a joke.”
“They showing it in Wetherspoon’s?”
“No clue. Probably.”
“Hard to compete, son.”
“We’ve got better beer.”
“You have that.”
Angie raises her glass in a hand that hasn’t shaken since her second pint of the morning and takes a long swallow of beer. Feels the familiar trickle down her gullet, the pleasant sensation of cool liquid turning to comforting, meaty warmth in her sloshing belly. She takes another swallow. Relaxes, knowing that for the next few minutes at least, her problems are solved. That she’s just another customer in a quiet old-school pub, sipping a pint and listening to a bloke talk bollocks.
Takes another drink, then makes a mental note to slow down. She doesn’t know where her next drink is coming from. Doesn’t know about her next meal, either, but doesn’t care quite so much.
“You all right then, Angie, love?” asks Bob as Dean returns to the beer fridges and begins noisily stocking them with bottles of Carlsberg.
“Bearing up, sweetheart. Bearing up.”
“You’re an early bird today.”
“Had some shopping to do. Thought I’d treat myself.”
“You deserve it, love. Nice to see you.”
She looks at her latest benefactor. He’s in his late forties and not much taller than she is. He’s wearing knockoff designer jeans, scuffed at the knees, and mucky white trainers, with a blue fleece under a faded brown suede jacket that has distinct charity-shop credentials. He’s not a bad-looking man. Shaggable, if that’s what it takes. She tends to take a pragmatist’s view of her fleeting unions. Decides on a whim whether to endure a bit of sweat and sticky knickers in the name of a few more pints.
“You had your hair done, Ange?”
“No, love. Got caught in the snow. Just dried curly.”
“It’s cute. Ringlets, like. Very angelic.”
“That’s me, Bob. Little angel.”
They smile and clink glasses, and she takes another gulp, suddenly confident another drink will be forthcoming. Once, she would have recoiled at the thought of comparing herself to one of the Lord’s chosen
seraphim, but when God abandoned her, she let Him leave, and the cross she wears around her neck is the only reminder of the fact she was once a churchgoing Christian who prayed only for safety and sufficiency, and offered her soul in return.
She swallows the liquor.
She’s made something of an art form out of this. There are half a dozen pubs on her daily circuit, and she can usually wangle two or three drinks in each one. She always buys her first drink in each, but rarely has to dig into her purse for the ones that follow. If she’d ever taken up the offer of the post-traumatic stress counseling, she might have analyzed her need to spend so much of her time in pubs, in an environment that almost claimed her life. But Angie doesn’t have time for introspection. She found out what was inside her when the man with the knife began his work. And she’d seen nothing she wanted to see again.
“Looking dapper yourself, Bob,” she says, placing a hand on the back of his. “Pleased you came in. Was just me and the old boys for the past hour.”
Bob gives her a grin. “I’m meeting Ken in the Bear, if you want to join us. He’s all right, is Ken.”
Angie gives him a “maybe” kind of grin, but she’s pretty sure she’ll pass. Although there’s a small chance Bob and Ken will compete for who can be more chivalrous when it comes to keeping her glass full, there’s a better chance that the crowd of old boys who buy her drinks in the Bear will take exception at seeing her with the lads best known for drinking in Wilson’s, and keep their wallets closed next time she puts a hand on their thigh and tells them they’re looking smart.
The door bangs again and Angie looks round. She and Bob are the only customers left. She doesn’t remember seeing any of the old boys go and heard no good-byes, but her thinking is fuzzy enough at the edges that, if asked, she couldn’t swear how many punters there were when she came in. She remembers a big boy, reading a newspaper, and perhaps old Arthur, with his thick glasses and polyester trousers, but was that today or yesterday? She doesn’t even have time to begin wondering whether it matters before she’s decided that it doesn’t.
“Did you hear about John? Silly bastard.”
“No, love. Go on. I love a story.”
She sits and listens to Bob as he begins to tell her about what John did in the Red Lion on Saturday night, and doesn’t even have to make a show of finishing her drink to earn herself another one. Halfway down it, she begins to feel the urge for a smoke but fancies she can keep it at bay. In the next pub on her circuit, she’ll head straight to the beer garden and make a show of looking in her handbag for her cigarettes until one of the smokers takes pity on her and offers a fag. Then she can save her own for this evening. Smoke them in front of the telly while drinking supermarket vodka and using up her free minutes texting saucy messages to the landlord of the White Hart, who can’t seem to get through a late shift without baring his soul about how he and his wife are only together for the kids, and that it’s a woman like her, a real woman, who should be in his bed.
She doesn’t know what he sees in her. What any of them see in her. At forty-three years old, she’s not exactly pinup material, though she does wear her purple leggings, denim skirt, and loose-fitting jumper from the sale rail at Asda with a certain sassiness that, when added to the red lipstick, dark hair, and large, dangly earrings, make her oddly easy on the eyes. She’s tactile, too. Flirty and friendly. A good listener, apparently, though she rarely says anything other than “you deserve better” or “she doesn’t know she’s born” when roped into conversations about the failings of her gentlemen’s other halves.
It wasn’t always like this, of course. Angie Martindale was a miracle, once. The doctors said so. Police. Press, too, even though she was never named in any of the reports. She was the one who got away. The survivor. The one he couldn’t kill. She hasn’t reached the stage in her alcoholism where she will tell the story in exchange for drink, but there are times, when her glass is empty and nobody is giving her the eye, that she feels like unfolding one of the newspaper clippings she keeps in her handbag and telling Grimsby’s hard-core drinkers that in a pub like this, a decade and a half ago, she was brutalized and raped by a man whom a judge called “evil” and whose dead blue eyes still stare through her on the nights she falls asleep too sober.
Her telephone vibrates in the pocket of her denim skirt. She apologizes to Bob for the interruption and pointedly silences the phone.
“You could have taken it,” says Bob, trying to hide his big silly grin when he realizes she’s rejected the call, just so she can continue to chat.
“I’m talking to you, Bob,” she says, softening her body language slightly. She’s used this trick plenty of times before. Made her gentlemen feel special, just by setting her alarm for half-hour intervals and then hanging up on whosoever had the temerity to disturb her while engrossed in conversation with the most fascinating man in the world.
She does deliver, of course. She can’t get by on suggestiveness alone. On occasion, when she thinks they’ve earned it or she’s simply too bloody miserable to face going home alone, she’s invited back the occasional gentleman. Let him slobber his way on top of her and into her. Endured a few minutes of uncomfortable weight and awkward pounding, in a way that is at once her own punishment and her beau’s reward. It doesn’t happen as often these days. She’s become less happy with the notion of people seeing her own private space. Perhaps it is since she let the flat go to seed. The increase in her drinking has coincided with a marked downturn in the presentability of her home, though halfway up a multistory block, it was never palatial.
“You sure you don’t want to tag along?”
“Next time. You’ve got my number. Text me later and I’ll see what I’m up to.”
He gives another big grin. “I’ll do that.”
“I’ll probably just be at home, all by my lonesome.”
“Well, we can’t have that. Can we?”
“No, love.”
He kisses her cheek before he leaves. She feels his rough stubble against her skin and the tickle of his mustache against her eyelashes. Wonders if he’ll want to taste her down below, like these bloody modern men always seem to. Whether his mustache will tickle her thighs. Whether he’ll want the light on. Whether he’ll mention the scars.
Slowly, carefully, she steps down from the barstool. Leans over and gathers up her shopping bags. Some cheap cooked meat from the butchers. Some liver. Six white rolls. Bottle of vodka. Twenty Richmond Superkings.
“You off, Angie? Place will be dead without you.”
Dean has finished loading the bottle fridge and is standing behind the beer pumps, watching the door. It’s been a quiet lunchtime, and he doesn’t see business picking up again until tea. He gets a set wage, so doesn’t wish too fervently for a sudden rush, but his shift passes quicker when he’s busy, and the owner gives him disapproving looks when the weekly takings aren’t what he has expected. There are even fewer excuses at Christmas, when, according to Wilson, people have got no excuse not to be pissed.
“Think I’ll go and put my feet up,” she says, smiling and feeling pleasantly unsteady on her feet. “Taped a Miss Marple last night. Might give my brain a workout.”
“You enjoy yourself, love. You deserve it.”
She gives him a different kind of smile from the one she reserves for her gentlemen. It’s genuine. The sort of smile she used to display without thinking. The fleeting, happy grin she once flashed at the man who carved his initials on her vagina before sticking a twelve-inch bread knife through her ribs and fucking her while she lay bleeding on the tiled floor of a pub toilet.
“Probably be in tomorrow,” she says. “You working?”
“No rest for the wicked.”
As she heads for the door a cold draft of air works its way up her body and concentrates itself on her bladder. She looks back at Dean and giggles. “Call of nature,
I think. First of the day.”
“Honestly, I don’t know where you keep it,” he says good-naturedly. “Must be a camel somewhere in your family.”
“Ooh, you charmer,” says Angie, putting her shopping bag on top of the nearest table and heading for the toilet.
“I meant it as a compliment,” shouts Dean as she pushes open the door, but she’s already out of range, and he pulls a face as he realizes he might have upset her. Fears he’s put his foot in it and that it may cost him a drink or two to make amends. He decides to get it over with and stoops to grab an empty glass.
He’s halfway to the floor when the blow comes.
There is an instant of crushing, mind-numbing pain to the back of his neck, and then he is flat on his face, a crumpled heap of unconsciousness lying on his belly by the beer fridges, one unmoving hand comically positioned inside a half-full box of salt-and-vinegar crisps.
Dean doesn’t hear the man stepping over his body and walking over to the front door.
Doesn’t hear the soft snick as the bolt is slid home or the soft sound of black boots on wooden floor as they cross the room.
Doesn’t hear the door to the toilets creak open, the sound of a blade being drawn slowly from inside a leather sleeve. Doesn’t hear the screaming begin . . .
16.
You’re sure?” bellows McAvoy, one finger wedged in his ear to blot out the squeal of the engine and the hum of the tires on the concrete road. “Well, how hard did he knock?”
Tremberg changes down to fourth gear, trying to ease an extra five miles an hour from the one-liter engine. She finds what she’s looking for and, despite the protestations of the smoking metal beneath the bonnet, pushes the accelerator almost through the floor.
“No . . . I can’t say for certain, but there’s a strong chance . . .”