by Mark, David
“Go back to the one about the lady,” says Roisin, nodding at the mouse and encouraging him to return to the site she had read over his shoulder when she had brought him his first hot drink of this marathon session at the screen.
He retraces his steps. Opens the history of the last twenty-four hours of Web surfing. Spots something down at the bottom of the list. It’s a story from the Independent, dated a little over four years ago, under the banner headline “Brit Pays Price for Bravery.”
A British charity worker is thought to have been the only survivor of a devastating explosion that ripped through a school bus yesterday.
Anne Montrose, twenty-seven, is in critical condition in a British military hospital following the latest bomb attack in the troubled area of Northern Iraq.
Miss Montrose, originally of Stirling, refused to be evacuated when the region was designated an enemy hotspot six months ago.
Since then it has been the scene of some fierce fighting between Allied forces and insurgents still loyal to toppled dictator Saddam Hussein.
She originally traveled to the region with the British children’s charity Rebirth, which specializes in helping communities create shelters and orphanages for children bereaved by war and disaster.
While many of her colleagues have fled the region, Miss Montrose is thought to have stayed on to assist with rebuilding in the area.
Reports suggest that she was taking the children on a trip to a recently reopened play area when the bomb exploded. Up to twenty children are feared dead.
A spokesman for Rebirth said: “We do not know the full details yet, but this is a tragedy simply too awful to comprehend. Anne would do anything for anybody. She wouldn’t think twice about endangering her life to help others. The risks she faced on a daily basis never once stopped her being the most caring, loving person that we ever had the pleasure to know . . .”
“Poor lady,” says Roisin. “Is there nothing else on it?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I’ve put her name in umpteen search engines and there’s not a word on it after this story. Doesn’t say if she even pulled through. I’ve e-mailed the reporter at the newspaper, though, to see if they have a number for her relatives. She could be up and about by now. Or dead. Sometimes the papers just lose interest.”
“They did with you,” says Roisin.
“I was never that interesting in the first place.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“It depends which way the wind’s blowing,” says McAvoy, as honest as he can be. He still hasn’t made his mind up whether he believes himself to be the best detective in the universe or a big hopeless lump.
Roisin slides off McAvoy’s knee and gives a large yawn, stretching her arms high and wide, her bosom rising to reveal the two tattoos of squashed fairies that she had inked into her rib cage as a surprise for him one Saturday, and which make him laugh every time she takes her breasts in her hands and pushes them skyward for his attentions. She walks over to the bed and lies down on top of the blanket. “Will you be much longer?”
“I’ve no idea,” he says, and means it. “I’ve got the entire Internet to read. Haven’t made much of a dent so far.”
“Pharaoh did tell you to spend some time with your family,” she says, midway through another yawn. “I’m sure what she meant was that you should come over here on the bed with me and make me feel all pretty for a little while.”
McAvoy turns from the computer screen. Lets out his breath in one fast burst. She’s spread-eagled on the blanket, one hand rubbing the dark triangle between her legs, the other, thumb glistening with spit, softly squeezing the full, fat nipple on her tiny left breast.
“Roisin, I . . .”
“You just carry on,” she says breathily. “I’m fine on my own.”
She stops for a moment. Reaches over to her bedside table and pulls out a pot of muddy green ointment. She dips her finger in it, and begins to knead it firmly into the delta of her thighs.
“What’s that?” asks McAvoy, his voice catching.
“My secret,” she teases. “It’s nice.”
“What’s in it?”
“Lots of things. Mostly you.”
McAvoy feels his face turn red.
“Amazing how you can still blush when all your blood’s heading south,” she says, and this time there’s a tiny gasp in her voice.
He begins to stand, but she shakes her head at him. “As you were, soldier.”
She closes her eyes.
A moment later, she turns onto her side and takes a bite of the quilt, goose pimples rising all over her body, shaking as if in convulsion.
After thirty seconds, the motions subside and she rolls onto her back, a smile on a face shiny and red with perspiration.
“Sleepy now,” she says, and one eye is already beginning to close.
McAvoy, breathless and hard, makes fists with his hands. Manages to drag his eyes away from her naked form and back to the computer screen. To the text document full of his notes. Wonders what he’s learned. Wonders whether any of this has been worth his time.
Whether today he has been a good man.
He’s going to have to sleep soon. His thoughts are starting to feel muzzy. He fancies he should be able to get four or five hours of sleep before he has to get himself back to the station. Before he starts getting e-mails back from people linked to sole survivors, and tries to put together some kind of report on who the hell they should be protecting.
Fucking reports. He’s had a bellyful, this past year that began in a hospital bed, waiting for his commendation, and which, within a day, had seen his part in the capture of a serial killer hushed up, had seen promises broken, and had seen the foundations laid for his speedy transfer to a job collating, sourcing, filing, and inputting—dancing around the edges of real police work and trying not to let his heart burst through his chest every time the Serious and Organised Crime Unit took a call and he was told to “work the phones.”
He’s already printed out his report for Pharaoh. Kept it succinct. Easily digestible. Kept out his hunches and theories. Wonders whether he should have just given her it all. Handed her his mind in a manila envelope and told her to pick out the best bits.
He feels himself getting warm. Feels heat in his toes. Feet. Ankles. Can feel himself sinking into sleep. He picks up the report and shuffles it. A sheet of paper slips through his hands and he makes a grab for it. It’s a picture of a one-armed, one-legged man, sketched by Fin, hours before.
McAvoy considers the drawing. Finds the energy for a smile. Finds some more for self-reproach. Should he be talking about these things in front of his boy? Is he doing him some damage by talking about death, about violence, about one-armed drunks and one-legged hacks?
He looks at the picture again. Wonders why he even mentioned the man with the missing arm. It had been one of the first things to spill from his mouth.
“You say Channler?”
The man had asked it in an accent that was pure Eastern bloc. Had appeared in front of McAvoy like some sort of ghoulish apparition as he emerged from the side door of the pub. McAvoy was putting his mobile back in his pocket, having left a voicemail for Chandler, asking him to ensure that he was going to be at the rehab center mid-morning the following day. He hadn’t realized he’d been talking at any volume.
“Chandler, yes,” said McAvoy, trying not to appear startled. Trying harder not to look at the armless shirtsleeve, pinned across the man’s chest. “Russ Chandler.”
“Why you want Chandler? He not know Angie.”
“Miss Martindale was involved in a serious attack tonight—”
The man waved his single arm. He was tall. Wiry but hard-looking. He had a broad face and, despite wearing only a white shirt and faded jeans, didn’t seem to notice the cold. Th
ere was something intense in his gaze. McAvoy placed him as one of the men from the bar. One of the men who blocked his way and got some kicks in. Bruised, cold, and sick of being cut off mid-sentence, McAvoy hardened his own gaze.
“I hero,” said the man, his accent all caviar and vodka. “I stop bad man, yes?”
“You not stop bad man, no. You stop policeman trying to catch bad man.”
“Bullshit.”
“No bullshit.”
They stood, looking at each other, two tall men, eyeball to eyeball, angry and wind-blown.
“I mistake. Not Channler. No mind.”
The man turned to leave. McAvoy instinctively shot out a hand to stop him, and grabbed for the area where his arm should have been. He clutched at air. Then the voice of the young constable behind him had caused him to spin round. To take in the sight of the warm patrol car, its doors open, waiting to take him home. Home to Roisin, to Fin. When he turned back, the Eastern European was somewhere among the crowd that had gathered at the police cordon, in among the cigarette smoke and the beer cans, the chip wrappers and the wet clothes.
Somebody would take his statement. Somebody else . . .
McAvoy puts the picture down on top of the report. Looks at the stick figure. The stump where the leg should be.
“Chandler,” he says to himself. What was the Russian talking about? Did it matter? Did any of it fucking matter?
His head starts lolling forward as the thick treacle of sleep climbs toward his mind. He staggers toward the bed, pulling his jersey off, easing down his shorts, already allowing himself to think of the warm touch of Roisin’s skin as he spoons up behind her, places his large hand on the perfect orb of her belly, and pictures his unborn child reaching up to press his or her own fingers against his, as if separated by prison glass.
His mobile phone bleeps.
Cursing, he rolls back off the bed and finds his work clothes crumpled up in a heap next to the wardrobe. He finds his mobile and looks at the display. Notes that it’s not yet 1 a.m.
Opens the message.
It’s from a number he doesn’t recognize.
Colin Ray has arrested Chandler. Thought you might like to know. Tom Spink.
Feels his heart sink as bile rushes up his throat and fills his mouth.
Wide awake in an instant.
19.
The snow has begun to fall. Fat, white, perfect flakes tumble in their millions from a sky a hundred shades of black, icing the curbs, the pavements, the rooftops, the awnings, adding inches of height to the wet, damp city.
McAvoy looks but does not see. The windscreen is misted insensible from the breath that eases from his lungs in a low, icy, angry whistle. Two great dorsal fins have been carved into the snow upon the glass by wipers he has no memory of switching on. He does not register the weather. Nor the cold. Just grinds his teeth and narrows his eyes and drives the people-carrier too fast on slick, treacherous roads.
Colin Ray, he thinks. Colin fucking Ray.
The effort of holding his jaw tight is giving him a headache, and the cold is making his ribs ache. Gradually, in increments, he becomes aware of the pain. Becomes aware of his surroundings. Of the weather.
“You silly bastard,” he says to himself, for what must be the hundredth time. “Why did you go home. Why?”
When the anger subsides he will find time to reproach himself for this. Tell himself that he lost his temper because he feared having his moment of glory taken away. Missing out on the arrest in a case that has crawled under his skin. He will find ways to loathe himself, and resolve to never let his own need for personal glory become his primary reaction when learning about an arrest in a murder investigation. But for the moment, it feels justified. He is not the lead investigator, but it feels like his case. It is he who has slotted the pieces together. He who has twice looked into the wet blue eyes of the man who is committing these crimes.
Worst of all, he finds himself wondering if he has got it wrong. Ray couldn’t have gone in with nothing. Couldn’t have arrested Chandler on a hunch.
Christ, what if it really is him?
Gingerly, so as not to add to the dull agony in his ribs, he turns the wheel hard to the right and pulls into the car park at the back of Queen’s Gardens station. Parks in a spot reserved for visiting senior officers and finds himself quite enjoying the feeling of not giving a damn whether he gets into trouble. Kicks open the door as the wind and the snow take him in their fist.
“McAvoy,” comes a voice. “Sergeant. Here.”
Struggling with the door, shivering as the snow spills from the brim of his hat and down the collar of his ragged rugby shirt, he glares across the car park at the dimly lit rear entrance to the building.
McAvoy leaves a trail of deep, perfect footprints as he crosses the distance between himself and the voice. The snow is ankle-deep already.
“Figured you’d come,” says the voice, and as McAvoy gets closer he sees Tom Spink, standing in the doorway, a mug of something in one hand, dressed, as yesterday, in dark trousers, cardigan, and collarless shirt.
“I got your message,” says McAvoy, who is too windblown and irritated to chide himself for stating the obvious.
Spink nods. Blows out a sigh, then holds out the mug as McAvoy skips up the stairs and into the shadow of the doorway.
“Fancy a nip?”
McAvoy doesn’t care what’s in the mug. He takes it and gulps down a liquid that is at once warming and cold.
“Calvados,” says Spink, taking the mug back. “They’re in interview room three. We’ll talk on the way.”
Stepping through the open door, a wave of heat washes over them both. Overhead, the motion-activated, energy-efficient lighting flickers on and the corridor is bathed in lurid green. At this hour, the station is virtually empty, with the civilian workers long since tucked up in bed and only a skeleton staff of uniformed officers tasked with manning the custody suite while the patrol cars and traffic officers are scattered across the city, no doubt hunkered down somewhere warm with flasks of tea and petrol-station food.
McAvoy is about to ask what the hell has happened in the few hours since he left the Bear, but Spink gives him no opportunity. He starts talking softly, rapidly, as they make their way up the hall, past locked doors and notice boards overflowing with policing initiative posters, rotas, rosters, and staff news. McAvoy has never once seen anybody stop to read them.
“Pharaoh’s not here,” Spink says under his breath. “She knows, though. Spitting bullets and teeth.”
“Is she on her way in?”
“Can’t. Her husband’s an ill man. Wheelchair-bound, if you hadn’t heard. He has good days and bad days. This is a bad day. She’s trying to get somebody to watch him and the kids so she can get across, but in this weather I doubt we’ll see her.”
“So this wasn’t her call?”
“Are you joking? Christ, she’s going spare.”
“She didn’t send DCI Ray?”
“No chance. The cheeky monkey did this as soon as her back was turned. Trouble is, it’s starting to look like the right move. To the top brass at least.”
“What?” McAvoy stops dead in the corridor, and then has to scamper to catch up with Spink when he realizes the man isn’t stopping.
“Look, I’m just an innocent bystander, son,” he says, shaking his head and then nodding to direct them down another corridor as they come to a crossroads. “Trish knows her stuff, but she’s got her enemies. She was never meant to have this job. For every woman and ethnic minority member that gets promoted to make us all look reasonable and forward-thinking, another twenty blokes from the old school get bumped to superintendent. If Colin Ray’s gone in with his size tens and managed to nab somebody we can actually pin this on, they’re not going to tell him off for going over Trish’s head.”<
br />
“But it’s nonsense,” says McAvoy, the frustration apparent in his voice. “Chandler couldn’t possibly—”
“Look, I’m not the one with the answers, lad,” he says, slowing their pace and looking up from watching his footsteps to actually make eye contact with McAvoy. “I’m just a writer these days. A writer who happens to hear things now and then, and a writer who tonight happened to be having a mug of tea with the desk sergeant when Colin Ray and Shaz Archer brought in a little bloke holding a wooden leg and asking for you. I phoned Trish. She said she’d get here as soon as she could. Told me to let you know. I have.”
“She asked you to tell me? Why?”
“I don’t know, lad. Perhaps she wanted you to make them some sandwiches.”
Spink turns to walk on, but McAvoy blocks his way. “What have they got? What has Ray found?”
Spink looks down the corridor, as if keen to make a break for it, then appears to come to a conclusion.
“I don’t know how much of this is bollocks and how much they can prove, but Colin’s been telling people that you and Trish have ballsed up. Failed to run a background check on a key suspect in the investigation. It turns out Chandler isn’t called Chandler at all. He’s really Albert Jonsson. Registered under that name at the clinic. Asks to be called Russ Chandler and people respect it, but he’s a nonperson. Albert Jonsson, however, is very real. And he’s got a record. One count of wounding, two burglaries, obtaining money by deception . . .”