Cold Bones
Also by David Mark
The DS McAvoy Series
Dark Winter
Original Skin
Sorrow Bound
Taking Pity
Dead Pretty
Cruel Mercy
Scorched Earth
A Bad Death: an ebook short story
Fire of Lies: an ebook short story
As D.M. Mark
The Zealot’s Bones
Cold Bones
David Mark
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Mulholland Books
An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Dead Pretty Ltd 2019
The right of David Mark to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 9781473643185
Hardback ISBN 9781473643192
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
To Ruth
Jafnan er hálfsögð saga ef einn segir . . .
‘Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self place, for where we are is Hell,
And where Hell is there must we ever be.’
—Christopher Marlowe
Contents
Prologue
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
DAY TWO
Emergency Call
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
DAY THREE
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Four days before . . .
He skids on something wet. Something greasy. Something dead. His feet slip out from under him. His shriek of fear is feeble; birdlike. He breaks the worst of his fall with his left hand, jolting his old bones. The blood on his palm blots an impression of plump lips onto the stone.
Desperate, he shuffles his weight, scrabbling at the floor. Kicks out at the darkness as if it were a living thing.
‘Please . . . please, stop . . . I’m old!’
He hears himself snivelling, the words popping in bloody spit bubbles.
‘I’m just an old man . . .’
He tries to stand. Shifts his weight. The carcass of a bird explodes beneath his boot. The air fills with a sweet foulness and it is all he can do not to throw up as he squints at the streak of feathers and flesh that pattern the broken stones.
He gulps down a breath and wipes the back of his hand through the redness on his brow. There are bloody feathers on the hems of his trousers. He can taste blood. And deeper, like fingers in his throat: the familiar, clammy whisper of rotting flesh.
Scraps of memory: smashed glass and burning paper. He glimpses faces, flickering snapshots. Pain. The hoofbeats of hard rain hitting metal. Of metal hitting meat. Of meat hitting stone. He has a memory of bright yellow light: patterns slicing into the blackness; a murmur of steel and the thud of a body striking rock . . .
Remembers.
Sees.
Frothing blood and falling snow. The cold: ferocious, as if he were being swaddled with iron chains.
He pictures the girl. Remembers the weight of her in his arms. Scrawny, like an unfed cat; broken ribs shifting inside her skin.
He screws up his eyes. Tries to put the pieces together. Listens, hard. The shifting ocean; water on wood; the kiss of land meeting sea. He looks up. The great oval picture of a raven perched on a harbour wall. Suddenly he knows where he is. The Blake building. St Andrew’s Dock. Hull. He returns to himself as if waking from sleep.
He’s Gerard Wade.
He’s an old man.
An old, broken man.
He’s been waiting for this moment for fifty fucking years . . .
‘Is it you? It can’t . . . we thought you were dead!’ screams Gerard, and feels bloody spittle land on his chin. ‘Please. I never touched her!’
He has a sudden recollection of the moments before the darkness took him. The postcard. The dark figure beyond the glass. The one who called himself Vidarr . . .
Here, now, it feels as though a great black bird were unfurling its wings within him. He grinds his teeth and feels them rattle in his gums.
He’d been waiting for his pals. His old crewmates. They deserved an explanation. A warning. He’d had enough of keeping secrets. His bones were growing cold. He checked his watch. Checked his phone. Where were they? Napper? Alf? Fat Des? He’d glared at nothingness and smoked cigarette after cigarette, the glowing embers the only light in this bleak, bitter place. Then the shadows had moved. The air had changed. The shape of a man had stepped towards him; a silhouette cut from black velvet.
Long hair and dead eyes.
A hook in his shimmering hand.
Then it had seemed as if there were iron filings in his nose and old keys in his mouth and he was falling into the whirlpool in his senses; the hook slipping under his ribs as expertly as a filleting knife into the belly of a wriggling cod . . .
Pain shoots and he slides forward, toppling over by inches. He sucks in a breath and begins to wheeze. Opens his eyes. The whole world seems to be vibrating.
His head feels on the verge of splitting apart and one whole side of his body is tingling. He looks down at himself. There is blood on his hands. Thick blood drips down his face.
He reaches out and steadies himself on the wet brick. He forces himself to take a breath and stares out across the black water. On the inky, bloated surface of the Humber it looks as though a billion fish were rising to the surface to feed.
He starts trembling. He can taste bile. He has to breathe slowly to stop himself from retching. Unsought, a memory rises. The reek of mud and rotten timber. The reek of fish guts and blood. Cold air stinging his sinuses.
‘I had to . . . it wasn’t just me . . . what choice did I—’
He stops gabbling as he feels a sharp, crunching pain in his mouth. A tooth has freed itself from his lower gum, slipping out as easily as a pip slipping free of rotten fruit. He fumbles for something with w
hich to defend himself. Agony rips through him: hot and cold, a perfect burning point of frozen fire. He glances down and sees the hook. The lower half catches the light, glistening silver. The curve is deep within him, sunk into his flesh, curved up beneath the fragile cage of his ribs. He fights for breath and a fit of coughing grips him, tight as pincers. He cannot seem to force any strength into his limbs. He wants to stand up straight and yet he remains where he has found himself: crook-backed, hunched over, peering over the wall as if vomiting into the sea.
He doesn’t notice the figure who follows, the creature with the gleaming black braids and the odd, bird-like walk, who cocks his head enquiringly as he moves from shadow to shadow. Doesn’t see the man who slowly winds the cord around his gloved hands and reels him in, moving closer with each jerking step.
The man with the black braids is perhaps ten feet away when the cord rises from the broken ground. He can feel the tension in the rope, tied to the hoop at the base of the hook. It’s sunk deep. The more his catch wriggles, the further it works itself into his flesh. He seems to enjoy this brief, peaceful pause. Then he tugs on the line in a swift and powerful motion.
The broken, bleeding man comes tumbling back towards him, wet screams bubbling from his mouth.
The man with the braids stays anchored to the spot. Drags his prey across the ground towards him. He hears the creak of bones groaning under pressure; watches, as ribs splinter and skin tears and the hook bursts free in a joyous riot of black and silver.
And red. So much beautiful red.
The man who calls himself Vidarr allows himself to smile; the dying man’s screams are lost amid the crying of the gulls, and the song of the crows.
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
9 January, this year
Walkington, East Yorkshire
9.06 a.m.
‘Off you go, then. Love you.’
‘I haven’t finished my biscuit.’
‘You could eat it while you walk.’
‘It’s raining. Have you ever had a wet biscuit? It’s the worst.’
‘It’s not raining. It’s more like freezing fog.’
‘Oh well, that’s so much better. I love freezing fog.’
Father and daughter sit in silence for a time, watching ghostly vapour rise from the icy ground. It turns the picture beyond the windscreen into something otherworldly, obscuring the colourful oblongs of the village school as it collects the last of the shivering children like fish into a trawl. They watch as the mist gathers up the silvery breaths of the skiwear-swaddled mums and dads who linger by their cars on this quiet curve of road: gossiping through chattering teeth, hugging themselves with insulated sleeves; a collage of pink noses and sparkling eyes peeking out from great voluminous folds of angora wool and plum-coloured pashmina. None of the grumbling parents seem keen to continue their morning commute; to trust mid-range tyres on roads that shimmer with black ice.
To their right, a harassed-looking businessman is using a credit card to scrape at the windscreen of his hatchback.
‘That’s going to snap,’ mutters McAvoy, wincing in advance.
It does. The businessman’s shoulders slump and he looks down disconsolately at the stump of Barclaycard he holds between forefinger and thumb. He trudges back to his open front door. Slams it behind him, hard enough to dislodge the icicles that dangle from the upstairs gutter. Three perfect, translucent daggers plunge to earth. Two shatter as they strike the drive. The other punctures the white flesh of the frozen earth.
In the back seat of the battered silver people-carrier, Lilah McAvoy giggles naughtily. ‘Doofus,’ she says, then repeats it for emphasis.
In the driving seat, her father endeavours to give his daughter a stern look. He gives up without a fight, unable to catch her in the mirror. Lilah has placed herself in the most awkward position she can find. Every time he shifts his bulk and shuffles around to talk to her, the tatty car starts rocking.
‘You’ll be late,’ he says, cajoling. ‘You don’t like walking in after everybody else.’
Lilah shrugs. ‘Mrs Whatsherface says that she doesn’t get angry, just disappointed. I can live with that.’
A misty rain hangs in the air. The car headlamps are on full beam, casting yellow searchlights into the air. Great ferns of ice pattern the windscreens of the vehicles that hunker down in driveways. The water in the bird baths and puddles has been frozen over for days. Uniformed officers are patrolling Beverley Beck, trying to stop teenagers from testing the safety of the sheet ice by throwing younger siblings onto it. The national papers would have called it the Big Chill if it had reached London.
Inside the car, the heater is turned up high. Lilah is luxuriating in the warmth. McAvoy, sticky with sweat, feels like a snowman in a sauna.
‘Do you think I look okay?’ he asks eventually, gesturing at himself. ‘Not too much, is it? I’m an acting detective inspector today.’
‘Acting? Do you mean like pretending?’
‘You’re not funny.’
McAvoy’s a huge man, all muscles and gristle and scars. He’s an easy six feet five with red-brown hair and a full beard, turning grey. His eyes are the soft brown of the exposed earth beneath a fallen tree. He never looks comfortable. Today he has incarcerated himself in a new red and blue checked shirt, his heart sinking when he saw the words ‘slim-fit’ on the label. He can never relax in slim-fit, forever concerned he will pop a button and cost some poor bystander an eye. His wife, Roisin, insisted he pair the shirt with mauve braces and a deep blue three-piece suit. In one of the hipster pubs in London, McAvoy would be saluted for his style. In East Yorkshire, he fears such affectations may mark him out as a tourist, or a twat.
‘I have to go, Lilah . . .’
‘I’ll come too.’
McAvoy closes his eyes and wonders what the women in his life would make of him if they were to see him in these moments of private struggle with his daughter. Roisin would find it adorable: would grin at him with her most kissable smile and agree with Lilah’s suggestion that they give school a miss today and go and do something fun. Trish Pharaoh, his boss and friend, would roll her eyes and tell him he’s softer than a sack of dead mice. He’s not sure which counsel he would prefer.
He feels fingers tugging his beard. Opens one eye. Lilah is staring into him in that way of hers. He holds her gaze. Fills himself up with it. He loves his family so much that it sometimes threatens to consume him.
‘You’re such a doofus.’ Lilah grins, obeying his instructions to try and use a new word every day. ‘I like that word. Has Mammy got a word for “doofus”? Is it a Traveller word?’
McAvoy smiles. ‘She has lots of words for “doofus”, my love.’
‘Is that lady looking at us?’ asks Lilah. She points towards the school. A woman is standing by an old purple hatchback, peering at McAvoy’s car. He suffers a moment’s panic. Wonders what he will do if she comes and tells him that he is the worst kind of parent and must be a pretty poor police officer if he can’t even get a five-year-old girl to school on time. She comes into focus. Multicoloured coat, battered Doc Marten boots and a woollen hat with flaps that dangle either side of a round, pleasant face. He’d sat next to her at the Christmas concert in Beverley Minster. He can recall a smell of extra-strong mints and gingerbread. She had been the only other parent not taking pictures or recording the event for posterity on an expensive iPad or smartphone. What was her name? Paulette? Paulina? A child in Year 2, as far as he can recall. Little boy. Was it Magnus or Otto? He worries about himself sometimes. There are days when it feels as if the librarian in the great chambers of his mind has retired, leaving the doors and windows open on her way out.
‘She is,’ says Lilah. ‘Look, she’s walking over. What have you done?’
McAvoy’s eyes widen and he opens in mouth in mock outrage. ‘Me? Why is it me? Oh, it’s funny, is it? Laughing, are we? Right, come here . . .’
Lilah squeals, wriggling back into her seat as McAvoy gra
bs her ankle and pretends to chew on her knee. Despite the game, he does it cautiously – Lilah has her mother’s tendency to kick out when under attack.
‘Quick, lock the doors,’ says Lilah, grabbing her bag. ‘That’s Otto’s mum. She smells funny.’
‘Everybody smells funny to somebody,’ says McAvoy, giving her what he hopes is a firm look. They have had lots of conversations recently about what a person should and shouldn’t say about other people’s appearances. He has done everything by the book, explaining that it doesn’t matter what a person looks like as long as they are decent underneath. Roisin, grinning, had offered a different perspective, suggesting that Lilah had a duty of care: a moral obligation to help those less gorgeous measure up.
‘You smell nice,’ says Lilah, shrugging. ‘You look nice. You are nice.’
McAvoy swallows. He fixes on a smile and slides down the window. The cold air feels delicious on his face.
‘You’re the policeman,’ says the lady. ‘Sorry, that sounded rude. Do you remember me? Are you okay? Erm . . .’
‘It’s police officer, actually,’ says Lilah, from the back seat.
‘Oh sorry,’ says the woman, looking genuinely horrified at having accidentally joined the patriarchy and contributed to centuries of oppression. She puts a hand to her mouth. ‘It just sounds right, doesn’t it? Policeman. Po-lees-man. Oh goodness, I’m making it worse.’
‘How can I help?’ asks McAvoy, resisting the urge to tell her not to worry about it. He’s long since come to the conclusion that other people don’t worry enough.
‘I’m not sure,’ says the lady, looking flustered.
He considers her. She wears no make-up and her coat appears to have been made from some form of dense hessian. It makes McAvoy think of incense shops and folk festivals. She wears pin badges on the strap of her crumpled school satchel. Greenpeace. Game of Thrones. Jeremy Corbyn. He finds himself warming to her. She’s scatty, fretting at her cuffs, looking up and down the road as if lost.