by David Mark
Kerry’s head spinning in my direction. Cameraman repositioning himself and zooming in on my face.
Could be the money shot.
“What?” Poor retort.
“About Beatle. You’re on the story, know the names.”
“I just knew him as Beatle. Didn’t put that on the voicebank, did you?” My smile looks like a snarl.
“Maybe not. Still, cracker for you, ain’t it? You going to let her stop crying before you get your exclusive interview with the victim’s girlfriend? Or do the tears add to the piece?”
“You can fucking talk,” I say, pissed off, nodding at the camera team.
“Yeah. I can.”
“So many ways of saying nothing. Must be so proud. Got to bring in a TV team just so it’s worth your while to open your mouth. Must be quite sad, constantly having to validate your existence like that, not being a real person unless there’s an audience to watch the performance.”
“But I do things, lad. And you just write about them.”
“And what have you done? Haven’t even got a reg number for this Vauxhall you’re chasing, have you? Haven’t got a fucking clue. You’re telling her you’re going to catch him? Bollocks.”
“I will catch him, son. I catch them all.”
“You couldn’t catch syphilis, pal. Not unless your wife let you back in her bed.”
Frantic coughing from the young copper as the laugh rattles his throat.
Sniggering from the sound man.
A little intake of breath from the director, an excited slurp of air, as she realises she’s making classic TV.
Kerry chewing on her knuckle.
Me smirking, arms outstretched, daring him to bring it on.
Doug frozen, trying to work out how Supercop would react at a time like this.
Roper moving at last, nodding to the others to wrap this up. Pressing a card into Kerry’s hand.
“I’ll see you again,” he says.
“I’ll see you out,” I say, and hold the door open.
Camera drops. Microphone retracts.
The film crew are muttering among themselves as they file down the corridor, and I spot some patting of backs.
Young copper goes next, raising an eyebrow as he passes my face. It’s a friendly gesture, as if we’re mates. I can’t return it.
Roper last of all. Stops in front of me, face close to mine.
“Balls, lad. Fucking big ones. I wouldn’t want to piss me off.”
“Press conference at 9? Can’t wait.”
Five seconds of eye contact.
Then we both smile.
Just the two of us, loving it all.
“Should be a cracking show,” I say, friendly.
He nods enthusiastically and we walk together down the corridor and stairs. “Oh aye. Just watch the cracks about the missus next time, eh?”
“Yeah, sorry fella. You can win the next one.”
“I will, don’t fret.”
We’re at the door. He pulls it open and lets the storm in, the darkness and the flashing lights. “See you tomorrow?
“No doubt. Trying to do this and the trial is a fucking ball-ache.”
“Worse for me. Ella’s boyfriend’s on the stand. Choudhury’s going to eat him up. Defence should start day after tomorrow. He’s got a psychiatrist reckons Cadbury’s so-called confession is worth fuck-all. Then there’s the cell-mate. You know juries, and Choudhury’s basically written his script for him. If Cadbury walks…”
“He won’t. He did it.”
“Maybe.”
Stops.
Said too much.
“Look after your sister.”
“Always will.”
And he’s gone, in a swish of coat-tail.
Me, standing on the step, bare-chested, watching his car move off, thanking fuck that I parked the Cavalier a few streets away.
Smiling as it passes the white van; its owner stiff beneath Kerry’s bed.
Shivering as I realise they’ve all gone.
A car engine. Thick, expensive tyres on wet tarmac…
Land Rover coasting past me, slowly: a hulking lad in a tracksuit top at the wheel, following Roper. Passenger; a skinny guy with style.
Staring at me.
Forming a gun of finger and thumb.
Pulling the trigger as they pass by.
And I’m standing there; cold and exhilarated. Glad to be alive. Thinking one word, over and over.
Petrovsky.
27
McAvoy wishes he were the kind of man capable of acting on impulse. He saw a film once on an aeroplane (his first trip abroad, to a honeymoon on a Greek island, where his pale Celtic skin peeled off like wallpaper), in which the lead character was urging another man to throw caution to the wind. Saying that sometimes, it was better to rush in headlong, than dally with strategy. The advice had jarred strongly with his father’s words.
Slow and steady wins the race.
Look before you leap.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Don’t be a bloody fool.
If you marry that gypsy bitch you’ll never hear another word from me.
He stands outside the tidy three-bedroomed house, a bundle of documents under his arm, and feels an overwhelming urge to ring Roisin. To get permission. To be told, again, that he’s a good man. A policeman. That he’s just doing his job.
The paperwork in the manila envelope seems to sting him. Each word on the printed page feels like another brand. A lash on his skin. An accusation that he has been a peripheral part of an investigation which is trying to convict the wrong man.
He holds the scented handkerchief to his face again. Breathes deep. He wonders if her photograph will be staring down at him. If he’ll be able to keep his feet when the nausea comes. If he’ll drop to his knees and throw up his lunch in the living room of the Butterworth family home.
He doesn’t know what he wants more. To knock on the door and ask the dead girl’s parents for a quiet chat, or to turn and run. Get back to his computer files and the glorious feeling of disassociation that comes with investigating through a keyboard and a screen.
He turns away from the property. Finds it too painful to look.
From the files, McAvoy knows Ella didn’t grow up here. She and her family had lived a few streets away until she was in her mid-teens, before upgrading to this nice, functional, ex-council property, with a sparkly pebble-dashed frontage and cheap double-glazing that seem to jar, at once twinkly and thickly dull, in the glare of the street-lamp and the veiled moon.
He wonders how long it’s safe to stand here, across the street, inside the piss-stinking telephone box, getting his courage up and working on his story. Wonders if he’s aroused suspicion. What he’ll do if a squad car pulls up. What he’ll tell Roper, about why he was standing across from the Butterworths’ family home, with a dossier of evidence that is starting to suggest Shane Cadbury might not have killed their baby girl. That Doug Roper might have taken the easy option. That the real killer might still be on the streets with a weapon in their pocket and bad intentions on their mind.
He rehearses the lines in his head. Wondering whether it is ever acceptable in the eyes of God, in the eyes of his father, to tell a lie.
“Mr Butterworth… yes, hi… just for the sake of completeness… I’m eager to go through a few items in your statement… just check the facts…”
The door to the phone box swings open and McAvoy spins round, a deceit forming in his mouth, his papers clutched to his chest; a picture of guilt and remorse.
“We told you, no more bloody comments!”
Ella Butterworth’s father is framed in the doorway. He’s angry, but with it is a colossal tiredness. An exhaustion. The air of a man who has fought many enemies, and knows that weight of numbers is soon going to bring him down.
“Leave us alone,” he says, weakly.
McAvoy tries to pull himself together and reaches into his pocket for his warrant card
. He holds it up, trying to find the muscles to in his face to twitch out a smile.
“I’m Detective Sergeant McAvoy,” he stammers, then takes a breath. “Hector,” he adds.
Arthur Butterworth gives a slow nod. Tries to look apologetic and gives up. He’s wearing a cheap, charity-shop overcoat, jogging pants and shoes. He’s got a scarf around his neck and wisps of wool are attaching themselves to his unshaven, pale face.
“Sorry,” says Arthur, again. “Thought you were another reporter. It’s not as though we haven’t been good to them. Given them everything we have. What more is there to say?”
The question is so immense that McAvoy can find no words.
Under his arm, the folder burns guiltily, but he ignores it, and finds Arthur’s eyes with his own.
“Sorry, I was just passing this way and wanted to check everything was OK. I’ve been involved in the investigation and wasn’t sure if the family liaison officer was still assigned…”
Arthur nods and steps backwards, allowing McAvoy to extract himself from the call-box. He feels suddenly shivery as he steps into the cold, misty dark.
“Diamonds, they are,” he says, softly. “Family liaison team. With us even before Roper found her. Kept us going. Can’t speak highly enough of them. Nowt else for them to do now, though, is there? Just got to get through the trial, and then it’s done.”
McAvoy looks at the house across the street. There are still no lights on inside.
“Your wife home?”
“Yes. Just having a quiet few minutes.”
“The light’s off. I wasn’t sure if you were in.”
“What’s the point in switching it on?” Arthur doesn’t say it, but McAvoy hears the sentence, in his skull: “What’s the point of anything?”
“Sorry if I scared you,” says McAvoy.
“No, no, it’s nothing. Pleased you care. I was just off for my walk and saw you and figured you were another reporter. Nobody else ever uses that phone box. When she was missing, they would stand across the road from the house and ring us, asking to be allowed in. Must have figured the caller display unit would seem more friendly if it were a local number instead of a mobile. The things they tried! One lad came to the door and reckoned he’d torn his trousers and wanted to know if we had a needle and thread. The missus let him in and next thing he was pulling pictures off the wall! We gave them what they wanted in the end, of course. Don’t know if we did the right thing, now. Every copy of every paper has the same picture. The one where she’s smiling, sort of looking over her shoulder. God, she was so happy that night. She had a real talent, y’know. If she put herself forward a bit more she could have been a star. When she won that singing competition in the Hull Mail I thought I was going to burst with pride. She was so happy. Deserved it all. Judges all said it wasn’t just her looks. Had such a talent. Such a talent …”
He drifts away, lost in himself, mummified in misery and loss. Consumed with the grief of a man who knows his baby was being butchered while he downed a pint in the pub.
“Which way are you heading?” asks Arthur, suddenly. “I don’t mind a bit of company, once in a while.”
“Of course,” says McAvoy, falling into step beside the older man as they plod through the cold and the dark to the end of the street. They don’t speak much as they wind their way through the estate. Arthur’s breath sounds pained. Difficult. McAvoy finds himself offering Roisin’s services.
“She makes this toddy which really cuts through the gunk in your chest,” he says. “Tastes wonderful too.”
“Knows her stuff, does she?”
“Oh yes. We’ve only got a little herb garden but she’s been raised with all this stuff. Knows which leaves can cure what ailments. Honestly, you tell her you’ve got a broken leg and she can find the right flavour mint-leaf to fix it.”
Arthur gives in to a smile, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. He doesn’t care about his chest. His pain. He relishes it, and will end it, when this trial is over. When the Chocolate Boy is behind bars.
They are already in the alleyway before McAvoy realises where they’ve been heading.
Arthur stops. Puts his bare hands on the rough bricks.
“This is where the knife blade broke off,” he says, softly. “Went right through her. They never found it, you know. Of course you do, what am I saying?”
McAvoy doesn’t know what to do. He wants to put a hand on Arthur’s arm. Tell him he understands. But it would be lies. All he knows of Ella Butterworth is what her corpse looked like. How her rotting cadaver smelled when he opened the door. He doesn’t remember her first steps. The first time she flashed the smile that would light up the newspaper stands.
“Just seconds, they say,” he’s muttering. “A couple of seconds either side and their paths would never have crossed. She’d have come home. Had a cry about the dress, but we’d have fixed it. Silly thing to get upset about, but I suppose she wanted the fairytale. Wanted it to be perfect.”
McAvoy nods. Summons up the courage to pat the older man’s back. Gets no response.
“Bad timing, they say. Silly thing to die for, isn’t it? That’s the bit that gets me. I know Cadbury’s not all there, like. Got the screws loose. But how do you see a pretty young thing and go from giving her the eye to cutting her up? That’s what I don’t get. God help me, when she was missing I had all sorts of images in my head. I reckon I always knew she wasn’t coming home. But for it to be a stranger? For it just to be bad luck?”
He sniffs, but he’s too used to these feelings to give in to more tears. “That’s the hard part. Knowing his face was the last thing she saw. She’s never had a hand raised against her in her life. Never said a bad word about anybody. She was beautiful. She had such a good heart.”
Arthur turns. Fixes McAvoy with a look from beneath eyelids swollen with the effort of blinking back a never-ending agony.
“You got kids?” he asks, suddenly.
“A boy,” he replies, grateful to know the answer to at least one question. “Fin. Just a toddler. We’re trying for another but maybe it’s not meant to be. Fin’s enough, whatever happens.”
“Nice age,” he enthuses, smiling without showing teeth. “Treasure him.”
“I do.”
“You can never keep them safe enough,” he says, looking at his feet. “Christ, you can’t know how many times I’ve wished it was me instead of her. Anybody but her. I’m her father. I’m supposed to keep her safe.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” he begins, but it’s feeble.
“I don’t,” he says. “Not really. I blame Cadbury. He’s the one who did it. That much was clear from the first time I met your man Roper …”
McAvoy feels the pain in his gut. The sensation of falling. Of nausea. He smells the old man’s rotting daughter in his throat. Wants to steady himself against the wall but fears he’ll feel her blood on his palm. Wants to ask. Ask how it would feel if he learned that somebody else had stuck the knife in. That Roper had taken the easy option. Taken it easy and nabbed himself a headline. Arthur saves him from himself.
“I had my doubts, of course,” he says, talking more to himself than to the policeman. “You go through everybody in your mind. Try and imagine the unthinkable. It wasn’t that long before she went missing that we had those hassles with the kids in the neighbourhood, bouncing on the cars, making a show of themselves. And then there was that chap who Ella convinced herself was spying on her. I still don’t know if that was true, but her mum had no doubts she saw somebody at the window that night. I called the police, like you do, but they couldn’t find anybody. I only bothered because Ella had told me about these funny messages she’d been getting. You can convince yourself of all sorts, though. Wendy even reckoned some of her tights had gone from the basket, but that’s how it builds. You scare yourself…”
McAvoy can’t breathe. He looks at the spot where Ella Butterworth lost her life and turns to her father. Listens to him spill his guts about another l
ine of enquiry the investigation had ignored.
Finds the strength in his mind’s eye, to take notes.
The stench in his nostrils.
The feeling in his belly.
He’s out there.
The man who killed her.
We’ve got the wrong man….
28
Give yourself an Oscar, thinks Detective Superintendent Roper. A-grade performance, that. Fucking beautiful.
He skips down the stairs and enjoys the slick, graceful sound his shoes make on the linoleum. Swishes down the corridor, coat-tails billowing. Alone, and still making the effort to look good.
Add that one to the repertoire, he thinks. Actually had him thinking I was surprised to see him there! Like I didn’t know. Like I’m not Doug Fucking Roper. Little tit.
It’s all coming together, he thinks. All the little pieces. And I can knit them into something beautiful. Documentary crew were creaming their knickers. Can edit out the insults. Some of them stung.
Flies in the ointment, though, sunbeam. Still got to find this witness. Can’t screw the trial. Can’t let the Chocolate Boy melt. You got a little physical with him in the interview and there could be repercussions. Don’t need that, he thinks. A little bit of reputation is one thing, but a blemish on the record could spoil things royally.
Pulls his phone from his pocket. Quick call to McAvoy, the rising star. Hope the cunt’s asleep, he thinks.
Answered on the sixth ring.
“Sergeant. It’s Roper. The girlfriend. Yeah, . Pick her up first thing. Wait until her brother leaves, though. I don’t want there to be a scene.”
Oh Doug, he thinks. You are a card.
29
She cried for two hours after Roper left, snottering and muttering into my shoulder, begging to be held and then pushing me away.
I was glad to escape, happy to jog the half mile to De Grey Street and fork out for a foil wrap full of poison; pressing three grubby notes into a grubbier hand, the gun back at Kerry’s flat for fear of temptation during the transaction.
