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  PRAISE

  “Effortlessly blends the brutal and the tender, the dark and the light. Aector McAvoy is a true original. So is David Mark.”—Mick Herron, author of Dead Lions

  “McAvoy must be one of the most fascinating fictional detectives out there – a true original. This is an intoxicating brew – Catholicism, travellers, underground fight scenes, the mob – and rumbling through it all like a bear with a blush is DS Aector McAvoy. Superb writing. A truly fantastic read.”—Michael J. Malone, author of A Suitable Lie

  “To call Mark’s novels police procedurals is like calling the Mona Lisa a pretty painting. Beautifully crafted, filled with flashbacks, horror, angst, and chilling detail, this one is his most complex and best yet.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “[A] strange but compelling brew.”—Thomas Gaughan, Booklist

  PRAISE FOR TAKING PITY

  “A police procedural thriller that pulls no punches… Another terrific mystery/suspense novel by a master of the genre.”—Midwest Book Review

  “There seems to be no end to the vile deeds to be encountered in [Hull].”—The Wall Street Journal

  “Hurry up and read the first three novels in this amazing series, because the fourth installment featuring the huge and huge-hearted Aector McAvoy is the best yet… Author Mark creates vivid, poignant characters that drive this series, from the complex McAvoy to his gypsy wife; from the tenacious Pharaoh to various supporting saints and villains. The ending is a stunner.”—The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Mark’s excellent fourth novel … weaves a complicated web of deception, betrayal, and violence as the action builds to a stunning conclusion.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A dark, bloody, twisting tale of love, hate, and greed you can’t put down.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Det. Sgt. Aector McAvoy is recovering from tragedy, living with his young son in a flat near the burnt skeleton of his old home and easing back into work with what should be a straightforward investigation of suspected police wrongdoing. But it leads him to some very bad guys. Fourth in a dark and much-starred series.”—Library Journal

  PRAISE FOR SORROW BOUND

  “Each McAvoy novel has been dark, but Sorrow Bound goes beyond dark to near-apocalyptic. Mark pulls it off, though, and fans of the giant Scottish detective will lose sleep reading this one.”—Booklist (starred review)

  “Mark adroitly weaves all these threads together during a sweltering Hull summer full of lowering clouds but no rain, ‘a feverish heat; a pestilent, buzzing cloak.’ The physically imposing Aector, a terrific lead, hews closely to the rules. Well-fleshed out supporting characters round out the cast.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “McAvoy is a sure bet for fans of dark crime fiction set in Britain. Mark is particularly skilled at brief, effective characterization and at establishing an ominous, suspense-ridden setting in which his hero must struggle to reconcile his concept of justice and his admirable integrity with the evil that men do. VERDICT: A satisfying read-alike for fans of Peter Robinson or Val McDermid.”—Library Journal

  “Compelling characters and a knotty mystery make the third from Mark (Original Skin, 2013, etc.) stand out from other procedurals.”—Kirkus Reviews

  PRAISE FOR ORIGINAL SKIN

  “Dark, disturbing and gripping… Graced with a complex plot and stunning imagery, Original Skin stands as a worthy successor to Mark’s debut, The Dark Winter… Readers who revel in thrillers marked by intelligence and originality will celebrate the continuation of a fresh and fascinating series.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Compelling … Richly satisfying and told with remarkable flair, [Original Skin] confirms Mark as one of the darkest of the new faces in British crime writing, and not one to miss.”—Daily Mail (UK)

  “Sophisticated plotting, in-depth characters, and sharp dialogue elevate British author Mark’s gritty second police procedural featuring Yorkshire Det. Sgt. Aector McAvoy. Mark expertly brings together two seemingly unrelated investigations while weaving in McAvoy’s devotion to his young family and sensitivity to the Roma background of his wife, Roison, whose extended family becomes involved in his inquiries. Fans of John Harvey and Peter James will find much to like.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A dark and nasty police story with strongly drawn characters, an unsettling story, a twisty plot, and a surprising ending… Snap it up.”—Examiner.com

  “McAvoy’s second is an excellent police procedural featuring sex, violence, and complex characters who are quirky but likable.”—Kirkus

  “Readers will immediately be drawn to the compelling, contradictory personality of McAvoy. Grade: A.”—Cleveland Plain-Dealer

  “Equally good read as a stand-alone or as the second in a series, Mark’s fast-paced police procedural featuring a likable and compelling main character is sure to keep fans of dark UK crime fiction entertained.”—Library Journal

  PRAISE FOR THE DARK WINTER

  “David Mark’s British police procedurals are a wholesome corrective to cop novels starring prima donna detectives who single-handedly solve major murder cases. Sgt. Aector McAvoy, the ‘gentle, humble, shy giant of a man’… is clearly the hero of this brawny series set in the north of England… But Mark surrounds his Scottish detective with fellow officers who make vital contributions to the case and are interesting in their own right.”—The New York Times Sunday Book Review

  “British crime reporter Mark’s outstanding first novel, a suspenseful whodunit, introduces Det. Sgt. Aector McAvoy… Readers will want to see more of the complicated McAvoy, who well deserves a sophisticated and disturbing plot.”—Publisher’s Weekly (starred)

  “[A]n impressive debut. John Harvey readers should take note.”—Booklist (starred)

  “With a poetic intensity in its prose, an unpredictable plot and a Scottish detective, Mark’s novel gripped me from its opening pages.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “It will not be long until new voices in the genre are hailed as the ‘next David Mark.’”—Bookpage.com

  “Fast moving and tightly plotted, with strong characterization and a likeable protagonist, this is an extremely promising debut.”—The Guardian

  “A promising debut by David Mark… certainly provides a trip to Hull and back.”—The Telegraph

  “A fantastic debut of a police procedural series that takes place in northern England. Just as Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy seems to be able to put himself in the mind of a killer, David Mark has developed his characters so completely that the reader can almost put himself in the mind of McAvoy as he is connecting dots that no one else even sees. McAvoy may be a gentle giant of a man but he is also determined to get at the truth even if his job is in jeopardy. Luckily, he finds a believer in his boss, another dedicated officer who also is fighting to keep her job.”—Nancy McFarlane, Fiction Addiction

  “An exceptional debut from an exciting new talent. David Mark is an original and captivating new voice.”—Val McDermid

  Also by David Mark

  The DS McAvoy Series

  Darkness Falls

  Dark Winter

  Original Skin

  Sorrow Bound

  Taking Pity

  A Bad Death

  Dead Pretty

  Cruel Mercy

  Scorched Earth

  Fire of Lies

  Dead Pretty

  Cold Bones

  Standalone Novels

  The Burying Ground

  A Rush of Blood

  Borrowed Time

  The Zealot’s Bones

  DARKNESS FALLS

  David Mark

  An Aries book

  www.headofzeus.com

  This edition first published in the Uni
ted Kingdom in 2021 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © David Mark, 2021

  The moral right of David Mark to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (E) 9781800243996

  ISBN (PB) 9781800246331

  Cover design © Nick Venables

  Aries

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  For Steve P. A good man.

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

  The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars

  Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

  Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

  Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

  Morn came and went – and came, and brought no day,

  And men forgot their passions in the dread

  Of this their desolation; and all hearts

  Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light.

  From ‘Darkness’, by Lord Byron (George Gordon)

  “The dog that digs deepest finds the bones.”

  Gypsy proverb

  Prologue

  Shane is feeling good. Shane is feeling great. Shane is feeling downright smashing, now you’re asking. There’s a giddiness to him; a fizz – a general sense of ebullience and joie-de-vivre. Shane is rather proud that he knows the phrase joie-de-vivre. A horse of that name had won a minor steeplechase at Uttoxeter in 2005 and earned a decent payday for the Francophiles swigging their supermarket champagne in the county stand. Shane’s own nag, Maple Stirrup, is still running.

  Shane had learned that joie-de-vivre means ‘joy of living’, and is French. Shane can understand the joy of living, if one is French. They have very good bread. Shane also knows that to be a Francophile means to love French things. Shane struggles to understand how that lends itself to ‘paedophile’. He doesn’t love ‘paedos’ at all.

  Shane is standing in the kitchen of his small flat. He rents the top floor of a narrow, red-and-brown house halfway along an overcrowded terrace in Hull’s grandly named Garden Village. A damp, anaemic-looking sunlight oozes in through the porthole that Shane has cleared in the grime which varnishes the kitchen window. The filth now stains the sleeve of his dressing gown. The gown, once white, is now largely sepia toned and mottled with assorted stains. Pizza, at the lapel. Piss, at the hem. Ella… everywhere. The garment hangs loose, cordless. He is naked beneath – his rotund belly nosing through the curtains of his robe like the head of a bear snuffling in through a tent flap.

  Shane whistles as he pads across the kitchen. It’s a new song – something about poking faces. He likes it. Likes the video too. He opens the refrigerator door. Considers the possibilities. The top shelf is all spices and pickles. He likes his food hot, does Shane. He cannot taste very well. His nose has been broken and broken again, and his sense of taste was wiped away along with the snot and blood. He has to squirt obscene spurts of super-hot sauce onto his daily tin of baked beans if he wants to be able to receive any pleasure from his food. The sauce makes his nose run and his eyes water but he enjoys both feelings. It is the closest he gets to crying.

  Shane scans the contents of the other shelves, looking for something befitting his lady-friend. The thought of her warms him. Excites him. Delights him. Fills him with so much joie-de-fucking-vivre he wants to rub himself against the kitchen wall. She’s in the bedroom, spooned up on her side, cradling the space he has just vacated. Worn out, poor thing. Already missing him. Deserves a treat.

  He allows his thoughts to linger. Sucks his cheek as he considers his lover. She’s definitely not his usual sort. She’s a bit out of his league, if he’s honest with himself, and he always tries to be. He knows he’s not the best-looking lad. He sometimes catches sight of himself and cannot help but be disappointed in his likeness. He’s ungainly. He can’t help but see himself as a bit… well, mismatched, as if he were a person put together from the unwanted bits of other people. He doesn’t like to analyse himself too closely but he does wonder whether it is a sense of general futility that stops him taking any care over his personal hygiene. A washed pig is still a pig. One of his friends told him that and had expected him to laugh about it. He could be mean, sometimes, could his friend. Thought he was just being funny, but some of the barbs struck home. Last summer Lewis had told him that he looked as if somebody had stepped in his face while it was still hot. That had upset Shane. Upset him so much that Shane had been forced to follow him home and stamp on his cat. Things had been OK after that. He’d even commiserated with his poor friend. Who could do such a thing? Who could treat an animal like that? Shane had been rather proud of his performance. Mum always said he could have been an actor, if he’d had the discipline and could read well enough to learn his lines.

  Shane looks up at a sudden sound from the window. Rain. Later afternoon rain, hitting the kitchen window. He hadn’t noticed the coming of the rain or the darkening of the sky. He has been marvellously indolent today. It has been a languid, lazy, sensuous day, for him and his lady-friend both. These past days have flowed over one another like a shoal of silvery, slippery fish: a glorious tumult of pleasure. He cannot remember eating very much but he is not particularly hungry. He smokes sixty cigarettes a day and they suppress his appetite. He is obese largely because of
the pills that the doctors insist he takes. Weight gain is a side effect. So too is nausea. Headaches. He hears ringing sounds in his ears when he takes them too late in the day. He can’t hear the sounds now so he presumes he has taken them already. Perhaps this morning. He seems to recall having risen from his bed already today. Had there been a visitor? Perhaps one of his friends had come to call. Shane is not popular, not like Lewis, but he doesn’t suffer for company. His friends frequently pop over to play computer games or watch a porno or to cut up their powders and potions on the low coffee table in the living room. Sometimes they bring him lager or shoplift him a six-pack of Lion bars as a thank you. Shane likes Lion bars. He hopes his mum will get him a Lion bar Easter egg this year. Last year she got him a posh one, from the fancy chocolate shop. With his dead taste buds it had been like eating slime.

  He closes the fridge door, tutting at himself. He’ll have to get better at taking care of himself. He needs to clean the place up a bit. Buy some groceries. Some fruit and veg, maybe. A toothbrush. Toilet roll. There’s never been much point, living on his own. But since meeting his new friend he has become aware of his own shortcomings. His house is filthy. Grotesque, even. There is a patch of carpet in the living room that has begun to rot down through the wood beneath. There had been a cat’s litter tray there when he moved in and he had taken to using it himself when he was too pickled to make it to the bathroom. It smells bad. Sometimes he can’t sit in the lounge without two twists of dishcloth up his nose, reclining in one of the mouldy, pilfered deckchairs that face the cracked plasma TV.

  Shane was delighted to find that his new friend had been into the same things he was. She’d been too polite to mention the smell as they sat together in their matching chairs, watching as he blitzed through the levels in God of War III, hacking and slashing through a great swathe of monsters. She’d been impressed with his speed. Didn’t flinch at the more shocking visuals that flickered on the cracked screen. Limbs ripped, heads removed, bowels gutted – she had sat and drunk it in. She’d been the same when he slipped the disc into the DVD player. Hadn’t offered a word of protest as the screen filled with skin.