Darkness Falls - DS Aector McAvoy Series 0.5 (2020) Page 9

  “No, it’s something worth considering,” says Roper, charming. “Case like this we want to cover every angle. You’re the computer whiz, anyway.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me here, sir?”

  “I’d love to have you here, sunbeam, but you’d be helping the investigation a lot more working the database. The DI is on call if I need anything specific, and you’ll be the first to know if we need anything. You get on back. It’s a horrible day.”

  McAvoy stands, shivering and cold. His cheap fleece is wet-through and his suit is damp underneath. Another drip of rain runs down the back of his neck. When are you going to learn? he asks himself. They’re trying to get rid of you again. Want you out of the way. You’re not one of them. You’re not one of Roper’s boys. Do you even want to be? You’ve heard the whispers. You’ve glimpsed something in the way he does business. Give them a bit of publicity and it goes to their head. They think they’re untouchable.

  No, he tells himself, sharply. Give people the benefit of the doubt. That’s what makes you good at what you do. You think the best of people and give them a chance. Innocent until proven guilty. And Roper’s conviction rate is top-notch, he thinks. Keep plugging away. You’ll get there. You’ll show him what you can do...

  “Yes sir,” says McAvoy.

  “Good lad,” says Roper, watching him slurp his way through the mud and back to the path. “Miss you,” he says, under his breath, as McAvoy reaches out a hand to help up the big, bright-eyed PC who’s slithering around in the mud at the edge of the perimeter.

  Roper considers young Sam. He’s got plans for the lad. Eager to please, none too bright, and happy to hurt those whom Roper deems deserving. Big baby face and innocent eyes, and bad all the way through.

  Could be a Godsend, all this, thinks Roper. Tie up the Butterworth case and sort this out inside 72 hours and it’s TV fucking gold.

  He shivers under the umbrella and stares out as officers in luminous raincoats tie police tape around trees. Christ, this could be good. Could be a real hit. Real nasty, by the looks of it. Could be gangland. Everybody likes gangland, don’t they?

  One of them, the scruffy lad, has got a bullet in his head. Tough luck, son, thinks Roper. Could have been worse.

  The other one’s not even human anymore. His head’s almost gone. It’s just bone and pulp, and a swamp of blood-red leaves.

  The scruffy one couldn’t have done it, he thinks. Hasn’t got the strength or the venom, by the looks of him. Smackhead, too. Couldn’t lift anything heavier than a needle. No, he thinks, the bigger lad probably shot the scruffy one. Drug deal gone wrong, maybe? Could be. Who killed the big lad, though? Somebody he was with? Somebody he trusted? A partner? Christ, it couldn’t be a stranger. Nobody could stumble on this and then do this much damage. This was somebody who came here to kill, and did it royally.

  “Sir, the Press are arriving.”

  A young female officer, dripping with the cold and with flushed pink cheeks, is shouting at him from the pathway. He gives a smile.

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Tony from the Mail just pulled up, and Owen Lee from the Press Association has been and gone.”

  “Fine. I’ll be out to see them in a tick.”

  Been and gone? Quick off the fucking mark, that one. So sharp he might cut himself. You’d never know his past to look at him, either. Never know what he had done. Not unless you’re Doug Roper, he tells himself.

  He pulls another cigarillo from his coat pocket and lights it. Runs through a quick mental stock-take. Anything to ruin his mood? Any little problems? Oh yeah. Minns. The bodybuilder. The cell-mate. Choudhury’s star witness. Could fuck it all.

  Shit.

  Roper sucks his teeth. Considers his options and finds that most of them are very much to his taste.

  He steps off the root and onto the wet soil, with its carpet of leaves. Takes a step and feels his loafer nudge something hard.

  Roper reaches down and gently slides his hand under the leaves.

  His fingers close on metal.

  It’s good to be me, he thinks.

  Quietly, discreetly, he pulls out the gun, and slips it into a clear plastic evidence bag. He puts in his pocket.

  Behind his eyes, wheels are turning.

  Can’t waste a moment like that, he thinks. Need an audience.

  Besides, it could come in handy.

  He turns and walks away.

  There’s a spring in his step.

  13

  Simmo spots me as I walk into the main car park. There are a few police cars, parked up here and there. Roper’s Jag is next to the forensics van, just begging to be keyed. There are some coppers milling about, trying to look busy, and a bloke from Supercop’s documentary crew sits pulling on some wellies in the back of a Range Rover, but nobody pays me much attention.

  That’s all going to change.

  Simmo gives a wave and plods across to meet me. He’s got a hiking jacket on over his uniform, and is wearing a woollen bobble hat instead of his cap. Well-pressed trousers with shiny knees, tucked into well-loved Welly boots. He mimics a shudder as he gets close, and we shake hands. I’m still wearing gloves.

  “First again, Owen?” he asks, with a smile.

  “You know me, mate. Can’t help it.”

  “I thought we’d have the place to ourselves for a while yet. Everybody being tied up with the Cadbury case and all that. Always nice to know where you and Tony H are.”

  “Yeah, I struck lucky. I saw a couple of the coppers leave the courtroom in a hurry and popped out on the off-chance. Checked the voicebank and suddenly my day’s even shittier than it was this morning. Fucking trial of the century and now a double bloody murder. Should make Roper’s documentary a little juicier.”

  “Aye, it looks like it could be a big one for you, this. One of them’s been shot by the looks of things, and the other’s had his head stoved in. Really bad. Really.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Aye, fuck indeed. Between you and me, like.”

  “Oh yeah. Christ, though. What can you say on the record, then?”

  “It’s so early we can’t really say owt. Victims of a violent death, that’s about it. Roper might be willing to talk to you in a couple of hours, but you’re going to get wet. I’d stay in your car. You won’t get near the scene.”

  “In the woods, is it?”

  “Yeah, a few hundreds yards in. Reckon it happened last night. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but you couldn’t hide two bodies in there without somebody seeing.”

  “Were they hidden, then?”

  “Well, they were covered over a bit, right in amongst this real tangle of trees. It’s a horrible place for the forensics boys to be working. Soaking, they are.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch.”

  “No.”

  We laugh at that, and Simmo removes his glasses to wipe the raindrops from the lenses. He looks weird without them, almost cadaverous. If you didn’t know Simmo you would think he was severe, harsh, patrician-like. Long nose, high cheek bones, thin eyes, grey hair. But he’s a deflated fat man. By nature, Simmo should be 20-stone, red-faced and jolly, able to balance a pint on his gut; the sort who roars with laughter at everything from a filthy joke to a dog’s fart. A fast metabolism robbed him of his birthright.

  “What you going to be doing?” I ask as I debate my next move and a gust of wind plays with the tails of my coat. There’s a metallic noise as the gun bangs against something in my pocket. Simmo is too busy shuddering to notice.

  “I’ll hang about a bit then head down to Hessle nick. Get a cup of tea. There’s that sandwich shop on the main street in Hessle isn’t there? They do that baguette with the caramelised peppers and onions.” He gives the matter some consideration and makes a conclusion. “The day could be a lot worse.”

  I give him a friendly pat on the arm, and saunter back to the car. My coat is billowing in the wind, and I’m vaguely aware that I’m looking good.


  Step back inside the Vauxhall. Trap my coat in the door and crush the fags in the pocket. Curse, and get over it.

  I lay back in the driver’s seat, and close my eyes.

  I’m tired now. My mind has always worked at two distinct paces, and it wears me down, despite the adrenaline that’s carbonating my bloodstream. My thoughts arrive like they’re driving between speed bumps, roaring between obstructions, then slamming on the brakes and easing over the hurdles, speeding and slowing, speeding and slowing.

  I look up.

  It takes a moment to register what I am seeing.

  There.

  Just above the level of the trees.

  A security camera.

  Pointing at the car park.

  Clicking.

  Whirring.

  Like me.

  14

  I open my phone and glance at Jess. The pain of staring into those eyes is duller than before, as though somehow muffled and muted by the weight of all the other thoughts lining up like stacked towels in my mind.

  I allow myself a moment, a fluttering of wings in my chest and a tongue of sickness on my thorax, then I’m scrolling down to Tony’s number.

  The briefest of chats. Excitement in his voice, something shrill and anxious in mine. Arrange to meet up later.

  Then on to the newsdesk. Neil Grange, the Northern news editor, his two bellies divided by a belt, nether regions a bulging mass of flesh, pressing against his cream slacks and forcing his grey jumper to ride up. Moustache and bulging eyes. Panicky. Takes it seriously. Thinks I’m too reckless and doesn’t like the way I talk to him, but hasn’t yet fathomed a way to make me care.

  “Neil, mate. It’s Owen. Got the court copy, did you? All cool? Well that’s up to you. I thought we’d try making it sound interesting for a change. No, that’s your call. You get paid more than me. Anyway, there’s been two murders. Two bodies in the Country Park by the Bridge. Well no, you’re right, they could be suicides. Whatever. Well look, it sounds interesting so I’ll send you some stuff. That laptop would be a help, if you ever get round to it. No, I’m sure you’re busy. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted. What? No I can’t get there. I’m doing this. And the trial. Got that backgrounder lined up for later. I’m not omnipotent, am I ? You show me how, then. No. No. Fine. Bye.”

  Fucking prick. One for the list, definitely.

  Open the inbox in my phone. Read Jess’s last message again. Three days ago, now. Three days and still the words make my face twitch and fists bunch.

  So many tears, inside one girl …

  I pull some faces and light a cigarette but I’m not enjoying it and I’m pissed off, so I decide to explore the wound, and call Kerry.

  The payphone on the landing of the house where she has a room is answered by a Kurdish-sounding man. I’m pretty good at telling the difference. I can mumble an introductory salutation in Albanian, Kosovan, Iraqi and Bosnian, having made it my business to get myself on good terms with the influx of asylum seekers and migrants who flooded into the city a decade back. It’s done Hull a power of good, though it hasn’t been without trauma. I covered a riot a few years ago that started when a gang of Bosnians and a gang of Serbs all decided to attend the same family fun day at their local pub, and things turned sour. Ended with half of West Hull being sealed off, and got worse when some daft bastards with white skin decided to get involved and got their heads kicked in. Other daft bastards with white skin took umbrage at this, and some poor Kosovan who had nothing to do with it got himself spread across a good swathe of the city centre. Relations are still in decline. Personally, I couldn’t give a fuck where people come from, and reckon their life must have sucked if they think that life on Springbank in Hull is a better option.

  “Bayanit bash …tu chawai yi? I was hoping to speak to Kerry, dark hair, slim girl, if you could give her a knock ….,”

  The Kurdish chap hangs up when I switch to English and I sit, grinding my teeth, more pissed off than before.

  The phone rings, and I recognise the number as Lenny’s. She’s called half a dozen times already today, and I keep ignoring her. I don’t want to think about Jess, or hear Lenny’s fears. I ignore her, and it stops, so I just sit there for a while, thinking of green painted walls and pale curtains and leather straps and soft toys and pills and shocks and pills and treatments and diagnoses and Mam’s tears and Dad’s guilt and Kerry’s hand in mine.

  It rings again, Kerry’s number. I answer it immediately.

  “Kerry?”

  “Owen,” she mumbles, like a drunk. “Hey you.”

  “Are you all right? You left a message last night. Sounded like you were freaking out.”

  “Did I?” she asks, vague and blurry. Her voice a ghost. “I don’t know.” Then, with a start. “Owen, I need some money. I need …”

  “No, Kerry. I can’t.”

  “Please.” Whiny, like a child asking for sweets.

  “I can’t let you poison yourself any more.”

  “You’ve got your poison,” she says, anger in her voice. Desperation too. “You’re an addict too.”

  “Kerry, you’re going to kill yourself …”

  “I will if you don’t get me what I need.” She’s crying now. Snotty and pathetic. So far removed from the little girl who used to hold my hand in front of the painting, that she’s almost unrecognisable. Almost.

  “I’ll be round tonight,” I say, shaking my head, and feeling each of her tears fall upon my defences like acid.

  “Hope so. But don’t promise. I hate broken promises.”

  “I love you,” I say.

  The line goes dead.

  Almost without warning, a great surge of emotion rises up from within me, pitching me forward as surely as a breaking wave. My head fills with images of Jess. Of the love of my life. Of the girl I drove away because I couldn’t stand how hard she loved me. I think of the skinny, broken, tearful mess she became. That I perhaps turned her into. Broken and miserable and weak. Living for the moments of compassion and tenderness I would sometimes throw her, if the breeze in my mind was blowing the right way.

  Tentatively, as if probing at a painful tooth, I start thinking of happier times. I think of sunny days. Throwing stones in the water and holding hands. Me, listening as she prattled on about people at her work, suggesting colour schemes for the dining room. Me, trying to be entertaining, desperate each time her smile failed. Her, talking about babies and the future, trying to disguise her questions over my fidelity. Dark fears dressed as jokes. Me, promising all, denying more. Me, telling her that I need nobody else, that she’s all I want. Her dissecting my answers. Finding meanings that weren’t there. Her, crying again. Always crying. Jess. The girl who loved me to the end, the end of us, the end of her suffering and the doubling of mine. The girl who is missing. Gone from my arms. Taken.

  I get out my phone and text Lenny. Tell her to try Jess’s friends in Nottingham, and send her the number. Tell her that it might be worth her driving down there. That Jess used to go there sometimes, when we fought. I apologise for ignoring her, and tell her when I get a moment, I’ll have a ring round a few other people. I tell her not to worry, then feel ice in my stomach as my mind conjures an image of what could have happened to her.

  No, I say, shutting it down, and I grip the gun through the material of my jacket, holding it like a talisman and feeling its strength flow into me. No, don’t…

  15

  “…No, I’m back at the office. Setting up the incident room. It’s important. Useful. Honestly, this is the best place for me. I wish I could be there but this could be the opportunity, you know? Who did? Roisin, she’s a senior officer, a decorated senior officer, she wasn’t looking at me like anything. Contempt, perhaps. No, I didn’t notice. She’s not a woman, she’s a police officer. Yes. I’m not getting into this conversation – everything about you is perfect. Of course. Like there’s no tomorrow, I swear it. You’ll make me blush. You will. The plastic’s melting, I have to go...”<
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  McAvoy hangs up. Holds his hand in front of his mouth until he’s sure that the smile has disappeared behind a cloud. Gets a grip on himself. Sits, quietly, unobtrusively, waiting for somebody to tell him what to do. Nobody looks his way. Nobody gives a damn.

  McAvoy’s grown used to his own company since he ditched the comfortable camouflage of uniform and moved down the corridor to CID. It’s not that they don’t like him. They just don’t know what to do with a man who cycles to work and loves his wife. Who brings home-made soup in a flask each day to save himself the prices at the canteen. Who arrives early, stays late, doesn’t swear and won’t use the office phone for personal calls. Who doesn’t surf the web unless it’s work-related. Calls people by their full rank and smiles when he mentions his wife or son.

  Months after being unveiled as the new boy, McAvoy knows he’s the loose stitch in Roper’s tightly-knit team. The unknown quantity. Mentally bracketed by the others as a computer geek, paperwork junky, odd-ball and anal retentive.

  They’ve tried, of course. Tried to help him chisel his way through the invisible barrier that keeps him apart from the rest of them. Even given him nicknames.

  Mac.

  The Highlander.

  The Flying Scotsman.

  None have stuck.

  They’ve played jokes, too. Left a raw chicken breast in his desk drawer when they found out he was experimenting with vegetarianism. Superglued his fountain pen to his keyboard. His coffee cup to his coaster. His coaster to his desk. Left his mobile number on a toilet wall under the legend “Jock Sucks Cock”.

  All good, clean, workplace stuff.

  They’ve watched his reactions, and despite his attempts to laugh along, he’s come up short.

  Been dismissed as a do-gooder, know-it-all and pain-in-the-fucking-arse.

  He’s never been any good at all that blokey stuff. Never really felt comfortable with the back-slapping and the swearing and the burping of pop songs down the boozer. All the talk about tits and arses. 15 pints and a fight. Then being sick and starting again. He doesn’t doubt that he and his father could drink each and every one of them under the table given a bottle of whisky and a log fire, but he isn’t the competitive sort. He wants to fit in, but for the right reasons. Wants them to indulge him in his idiosyncrasies because he’s good at what he does. Wants to hear them whisper that McAvoy might have his own way of doing things, but that he gets results.