A Bad Death: A DS McAvoy short story (Ds Aector Mcavoy)

by David Mark

  Pharaoh considers her. Then she slips out of her leather jacket and puts it around Ronnie’s shoulders. She removes two black cigarettes from her pocket and lights them both. Wordlessly, she places one between Ronnie’s lips. They smoke in silence. At length, Ronnie waves in the direction of the bathroom.

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend. He didn’t seem like a punter.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem much like a human.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to spray him. I thought he was working for them. He’s massive.’

  ‘He’s a massive idiot.’

  ‘I do want to help you. I just can’t.’

  ‘I want you to help me. And I think you can.’

  McAvoy comes back into the living room. His eyes are still red and the front of his shirt is soaking. He sees the two women smoking and goes into the kitchen. He returns with two saucers and places one on each end of the sofa, as if he is feeding cats. Then he goes to the recliner and sits, blinking hard.

  ‘You look like you’ve got wind,’ says Pharaoh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Ronnie. ‘I thought you were trying to hurt me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ says McAvoy, making fists with his hands so as not to scratch at his eyes. ‘We want to help you.’

  ‘Aren’t we all a fucking helpful bunch,’ says Pharaoh, knocking the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Now, can we stop fucking about and get some answers, please?’

  ‘I can’t,’ says Ronnie, crossing her legs and squeezing her arms into her sides.

  ‘We’ve been through that,’ says Pharaoh, dismissively. ‘Thing is, I’m sure your phone has all sorts of exciting messages in it and it wouldn’t take a moment to unearth them all. We could walk you out of here in handcuffs for assaulting an officer and we could time it so that whoever looks after you is sitting outside at the perfect moment. We could laugh and joke and make it seem like we’re all best friends and you’ve helped us out. We could do all sorts of things to fuck life up for you, Ronnie. But we don’t want to do that. We want to find out who killed Will Blaylock. If you give us enough help we could even register you as an informant and get you some money. You have so many more options than you think you do. But if you tell me you’re not going to help me, then I have no choice but to act like a total cow, and that will cause my sergeant here all sorts of emotional turmoil and then his wife will make some sort of potion to soothe his bile duct and I think that will just about push me over the edge. So spare us all, and tell me about Will.’

  Ronnie looks up at the mention of potions. She focuses on McAvoy. ‘Rosewater,’ she says. ‘If she has some, bathe your eyes with it. You’ll be fine.’

  Pharaoh throws her hands up. ‘Am I the only person in Britain who thinks that rosemary is for lamb and lemongrass stops being useful when you’ve eaten your Thai curry? What is wrong with you people?’

  McAvoy sits forward in his chair. He looks at Ronnie with his red-seamed eyes and seems, for a moment, like a poet weeping for the ugliness of the world. If he did such things on purpose, Pharaoh would marvel at his powers of manipulation. Instead, she simply lets him do what he does better than anybody she has ever worked with. He makes people want to help him. He makes them see a different kind of world. She has seen him become father, son, lover and confidant in the eyes of those he opens up to, has seen battle-hardened villains break down and confess rather than see any more disappointment in those liquid brown eyes.

  ‘Can I tell you what I think?’ asks McAvoy, in the voice he uses to calm his children and shush horses. ‘Is it Veronica, by the way? What do your friends call you?’

  ‘It’s Annabel. Anna, really.’

  ‘Anna, that’s lovely. Anna, I know that right now you’re scared and confused and you’re trying to work out the right thing to do. I have no doubt that some very nasty people have made you feel scared. I hate the thought of that. I want you to feel safe and appreciated and all the things that it’s everybody’s right to wake up feeling every day. And to do that, I have to lock up those bad men. That probably sounds terrifying. Your head is probably full of images of having to go into police stations and courtrooms and going into hiding for months until a trial comes up. Well, I can’t promise you that I won’t ask you, some way down the line, to give evidence formally but here, today, I’m not asking for that. I’m asking you for a little help. I don’t really need you to do much more than nod, and perhaps mutter a couple of names. Then you can clean yourself up and leave here on time and go about your day knowing that, at the very least, things won’t get any worse for you than they have been, and that they will quite possibly get better.’

  Ronnie manages a little smile. She sniffs and looks ashamed at making such a crude noise in front of McAvoy.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a theory, you see,’ says McAvoy, leaning back in his chair and twitching his mouth into a grin that his new best friend is unable to resist mimicking. ‘You were right when you asked about the whole herbalism thing. My wife is wonderful at it. And she told me what it means when you bind a lover’s name in lemongrass. She told me about the Wiccan alphabet. What it all adds up to is a young man who was very much infatuated with a young woman by the name of “Ronnie”. Now, I’m making quite a few leaps of intuition here and can’t be sure of anything without your help, but I’ve had the word “Ponderosa” running around in my head all night. I’ve been thinking about a pot of nail varnish and some anti-bac in a wheelbarrow out at Shepton Farm. I’ve been thinking about a brothel madam and her husband and how much money could be made providing services for prisoners. And the picture I have in my head is a cruel one and it makes me angry and sad, but more than anybody else, it makes me angry and sad for you.’

  Ronnie squeezes her face up. Fresh tears spill.

  ‘It’s over now,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to be part of it. I never did.’

  McAvoy nods. Were he able to reach, he would be patting her hand.

  ‘Michael Bee,’ he says. ‘He got a job at Shepton Farm and persuaded the owner to let him use one of the outbuildings as a brothel for the prisoners on day release. No doubt the casual workers too. He paid the farmer a cut and he used the girls his wife was running.’

  Ronnie nods, sniffing into her hand.

  ‘One of those clients was William Blaylock. He saw your tattoo. Maybe he even talked to you about the things he was interested in. He fell for you.’

  ‘He didn’t deserve what happened,’ mutters Ronnie. She looks across to Pharaoh, who is already lighting her another cigarette. She takes it gratefully.

  ‘I think Will got upset at the idea of other prisoners spending time with you. Perhaps he made a fuss. Perhaps he threatened to have the thing shut down. And for that, he got himself killed in a way that would send a warning to anybody who even thought about stepping out of line.’

  ‘He thought he was in love with me,’ says Ronnie, pushing her hair back and exposing the cheap hair extensions that grip her own short, dark locks.

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘It was already running when Mike Bee contacted me. Said there was easy money. Regular punters. Quick work.’

  ‘And the Ponderosa?’

  ‘It’s like a lodge, out at the back of the farm. Looks a bit like a Wild West ranch in miniature. It’s named after some cowboy show, I think. Erskine had it built for holiday lets but never got it finished. Mike did it up for us. There were three girls, taking turns. I started last April.’

  ‘And Will was a client?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Do you know about the phone line? The videos?’

  Pharaoh jumps in before McAvoy can answer. ‘Yes. We do.’

  ‘He was spending everything he had to be able to talk to me. Even before he was eligible for day release he saw me on the webcam. He saw my tattoos. Showed me his. We got talking. He said he was in love with me before we even met.’

  ‘And when he did get day release?’

  ‘He was too nervo
us at first. Paid for his turn but we just talked. He was nice.’

  ‘And how did he feel about you sleeping with other prisoners?’

  ‘We didn’t talk about that. He just kept saying he loved me and that when he got out we could start a life together. I’ve heard that so many times.’

  ‘The video streaming,’ says Pharaoh. ‘That was Bee’s friend, yes? Kinchie.’

  ‘I just know him as Jimmy. He was inside with Mike. They saw an opportunity. They had us girls doing live shows for prisoners. They’d pay to be in the audience, all crowded around a mobile phone. They could tell us what they wanted to see. What they wanted to do. The money went to Mike and we took our cut.’

  McAvoy scratches at his beard. ‘When I went to the farm yesterday, Bee was threatening Erskine.’

  ‘One of his girls told me that Mike was furious. Erskine shut things down. He cleaned out the Ponderosa.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When Will died it was too risky to carry on streaming the videos or sorting dates with the prisoners. But Mike started things up again not so long back. Different market,’ says Ronnie, looking away and letting out a breath that trembles. ‘Different prisoners. Mike’s not letting Erskine say no, but Erskine’s standing his ground. He’s scared of somebody more terrifying than Mike, though don’t ask me who because I don’t know. Mike’s been asking more money than ever. He always says there’s money in people with specialist tastes and prison provides a hell of a lot of customers.’

  McAvoy’s gaze darkens. A stillness comes over him and his voice is suddenly as cold as a marble headstone.

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘I’m not involved any more. I just do calls. People’s houses.’

  ‘Who is it you’re scared of, Anna?’ asks Pharaoh. ‘Who did you think we were?’

  ‘After Will died, Mike told me they didn’t need me at the Ponderosa any more. He told me to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t hear much from him for a bit and then a couple of months back he came to my house. Told me that whatever I heard, there was nothing happening at the Ponderosa. It was over. And if anybody asked that was what I was to say. I didn’t know why he was so wound up but he has a hell of a temper and I said he could trust me.’

  ‘Do you think he was scared of somebody?’

  Ronnie bites at her wrist again. ‘He’s not easily scared. He’s massive and he doesn’t let people tell him what to do. He was so angry about Will dying out at the farm. Said it interrupted business, that it could have been done somewhere else. But then he was all smiles and had money in his pocket, acting like the big man again. The next thing he was in my face and threatening me. I don’t know what happened. I would never have told you any of this if you hadn’t made me.’

  McAvoy nods, as if accepting the accusation. He turns his attention to Pharaoh, who is still digesting the word ‘kids’ and feeling as if she would like to be sick and then drown a paedophile in it.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ he says to her. ‘What’s going on at the farm is horrific but why kill Will? If Bee was that upset about his death then it makes him an unlikely suspect.’

  Pharaoh holds up her hands as she reads a text. As she does so, McAvoy turns back to Ronnie.

  ‘Did you know an inmate named Owen?’ he asks. ‘Was he a client at the farm?’

  ‘Owen?’ asks Ronnie. ‘That was Will’s friend. We never met, no. But Will spoke about him. Admired him like a big brother or something. It was Owen that Will was talking about the last time I saw him. It was the day before he died. He’d said that it would be our first time. He really wanted us to make love. That’s what he called it – making love, as if I hadn’t just been fucked by half a dozen other blokes. But when he got to the bedroom of the Ponderosa he was shaking. Bleeding from the mouth. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened but he said he had to do something he didn’t want to. Said he would tell Owen and Owen would help him make it OK. Then he left. Next day Mike told me we had to get out of there because somebody had been killed over at one of the farm buildings. I just knew it was Will. I don’t know how I felt about him when he was alive but I was sad he was dead.’

  McAvoy is staring at the painting above the fireplace, lost in an image of a young Parisian boy in oversized boots holding a baguette. Pharaoh interrupts his thoughts.

  ‘Ben,’ she says. ‘He’s worked through the inmate files he can access. A couple of nights before Will was killed, there was an incident in his room. His roommate was attacked in his sleep. He woke up to find somebody sitting on his chest and smashing him in the teeth, knocking most of them out. Left him in a hell of a state. Will was prime suspect but there were no witnesses. The governor ordered an investigation but Will was allowed to keep working at the farm. When the toothless bastard woke up, he said he had no memory of the incident, though I reckon we can safely assume that was bollocks. He just wanted the coast clear to make his own arrangements for revenge.’

  ‘Who was the inmate?’

  ‘Elton Flemyng. Nickname of Kremlin. Don’t know why. Nasty piece of work who’s becoming a force to be reckoned with up in Newcastle. Stepped into the vacuum left by our friend Mr Nock.’

  McAvoy stares at her, examining her face through a veil of painful memories and weeping wounds.

  ‘There’s more. I can see it in your face.’

  ‘Elton’s brother Tyrone is missing. So are two of his crew.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking moron.’

  McAvoy sits still, blinking so ferociously that he splashes a tear on to the end of his nose.

  ‘You think?’ asks McAvoy. ‘Seriously?’

  Pharaoh nods.

  Ronnie looks between them, seeking answers. McAvoy turns to her, eyes half closed.

  ‘Will was given orders to hurt Elton Flemyng. And when he carried them out, he paid with his life.’ He turns to Pharaoh. ‘You think Flemyng’s still in danger?’

  Pharaoh shrugs. ‘I hope so.’

  Chapter Ten

  The line of yellow light that frames the doorway is not really enough to see by, but Mahon has been in this small, cramped cupboard since before dawn and his amber eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness. He does not need the torch that sits in the pocket of his quilted coat, resting against the handle of the silver meat cleaver. He has spent much of his life in places like this. During his long incarceration he found himself in repeated solitary confinement and enjoyed the nights more than the days. The light always troubled him more. It made a mirror of every surface, each harsh bulb on a painted wall showing him his own ruined face. Better to rule the shadows than bow to the light.

  He is comfortable here, in this supply cupboard on the second floor of the Britesmile Centre on Nottingham’s leafy West Bridgford estate. His car is two streets away, parked in a gap where CCTV cameras fail to overlap. He broke in at 4 a.m., disabling the alarm with the same practised ease with which other men tie their shoes. He switched the system back on once inside and then found his hiding place. He has not moved since.

  In the surgery down the corridor, a dentist by the name of Dr Malcolm is fitting Elton Flemyng with a second set of veneers. He has undergone three months of expensive dental work at different dental practices but his appointment here today with this expensive consultant will finally give him the smile he seeks. Steel posts have been drilled through his gums and into his jawbone for the eight implants he requires to repair his shattered smile. Once complete, Flemyng will look a lot better than he did when his cellmate Will Blaylock sat on his chest and smashed his teeth in last summer. Mahon has worked hard to bring Flemyng here, to this quiet building. Flemyng’s other appointments have been at hospitals and busy surgeries that were ill-suited to Mahon’s needs. This final appointment at the dentist’s private practice offers much better odds of success. Mahon will not allow himself any moment of self-congratulation. He is doing this because he feels it must be done and because he does not know how else to live his life.

  Mahon would
admit to this kill being one of the more difficult to arrange. He could have had Elton Flemyng murdered in prison but that would have been riddled with complications. He enjoys being thought of as dead, and if somebody were caught having killed Elton at his behest, Mahon knows they would happily roll over and give him up. Moreover, Mahon wants the kill himself. Not for pleasure, but to satisfy his own code. The Flemyngs betrayed Mr Nock, and it is Mahon’s job to avenge that slight.

  Outside the store cupboard he hears voices. The receptionist and the dental nurse, talking in the corridor. He does not need to check his watch to be certain that the time is right. Flemyng will be in the chair, head back, mouth open. Mahon hopes that the dentist will pose no problem. He does not like hurting innocents.

  In the darkness, Mahon thinks back to the last time he stood, immobile; an obsidian statue sunk in black tar. It was last summer, hidden in the shadows of that tacky, ranch-style cabin on the outer reaches of Shepton Farm. He had closed his eyes as the first three men took their turn with the skinny girl. He had no desire to watch their fumblings. Then came the boy, with his tattooed arms and his sweaty forehead. The boy who had fallen for the whore and who shared a cell with Elton. Mahon took him as soon as he pushed open the cabin door. The boy didn’t know he was in danger until Mahon’s finger and thumb closed around his windpipe. He squeezed the way he was taught, forcing the boy’s mouth to open and his tongue to unroll like a carpet. He slipped the bicycle spoke into his open mouth, and let it jab into the flesh. Let the boy taste his own blood. Let the terror take him. And then he told him that if he didn’t smash Elton Flemyng’s teeth in, he would come back. He would skewer him through the head and then go looking for his girl.

  Mahon was saddened when he learned that the attack on Flemyng cost the boy his life. He noted the irony of him being skewered, though Mahon fancies that he would have made a cleaner job of it than those fools with the auger.

  He moves swiftly. The cupboard fills with light as he opens the door and steps into the corridor. He has already counted how many steps this will take, which doors open outwards and which inwards. There are no cameras inside the building and the one that covers the car park doesn’t face the direction in which he will make his escape.