by David Mark
I wanted to look away while she shot up, but couldn’t move my eyes; fascinated as the rock bubbled on the spoon, as the blood misted the chamber of the syringe, and the delicious smack charged into her veins.
Me, wiping the drool from her chin.
Laying her down and watching her sleep; cuddling my hand to her face.
Slipping away in the darkness.
She’ll be out for hours.
I miss the coat more than I miss her. The gun is too obvious in the inside pocket of my suit jacket, my fags and notebook too cumbersome in my trousers.
And I’m cold. Shivering in the fine drizzle of the grey morning.
7.22am, Tuesday, February 9.
Tramping up Spring Bank. Back towards The Tap.
Pop into the little café near Kwik-Fit and order a tea with two sugars, warming my hand on the polystyrene cup.
Sipping tea and feeling it sting my teeth. I order a teacake and stand, waiting.
“Excuse me, have you finished with the Mirror?”
I turn around and a big lad with a stud in his lip and short, bleached-blonde hair, is pointing at the newspaper I’ve inadvertently leant on. “Help yourself,” I say, handing it to him. He takes it, gratefully, and orders himself a ham-salad sandwich, in a broad Hull accent.
“Bit fancy,” I say, conversationally. “More fried pig trotters and giblet ciabattas in here.”
“I look after myself,” he says, smiling. He’s youngish and there’s a bit of a softness to his movements and a slight pouting of the lips that I take as distinctly homosexual.
“I can see that,” I say. “Which gym you with?”
“Used to go to the Holiday Inn,” he says. “Left there a few months ago and just been doing my own thing since then. You into lifting, are you? You look in good shape.”
“I do my bit, when I remember. The workout’s the boring bit, though, isn’t it? I just go for the sauna and the Jacuzzi. Chill out a bit.”
“I know what you mean. Love the lifting though. Working up a sweat.”
I sip my tea and he glances over the sports pages. His sandwich arrives before mine, but he doesn’t find a seat immediately. He stands, looking at me. I sense he’s lonely.
“You want to join me?” he asks, and there’s a look in his eye that suggests he’d like to do more than chat about weight-lifting.
“Sorry,” I say, and mean it. “Got to be at work. Another time, though, eh? You a regular here?”
“No, never been in before. I’m staying at the hotel down the ways there and their idea of continental breakfast is a fucking croissant and a roll, so I came out to get myself something. I can come back though.”
“If you like,” I say. “You sound local, though. Why you staying in a hotel.”
He goes a bit coy, and I help him out by saying: “Boyfriend kick you out?”
He gives a smile and shakes his head, tapping the side of his nose in a conspiratorial gesture. “I can come back tomorrow if you want to continue this conversation…”
“Might see you around,” I say, as my teacake appears in a greasy bag on the counter-top.
“I’m Minns,” he says, and the name flows over me without being snagged.
“A pleasure,” I say.
Out the door and into the rain.
The fumes.
Darkness like rancid fruit.
Suddenly not hungry anymore.
I drop the teacake in an empty bin outside the corner shop.
Onwards and upwards.: jangling sounds right in the centre of my head.
Not giving a shit as I pass the two coppers and scene of crime van down Jamieson Street and get into the knackered, beige, Vauxhall Cavalier that every copper in East Yorkshire is looking for, and failing to spot.
Flip Johnny Cash out of the CD player and slide in a bit of Prodigy.
Waking up properly and swilling my mouth with tea.
Juggling a notebook, polystyrene cup and unlit cigarette.
Into first, second, third,
Roaring up Spring Bank at sixty, an hour before gridlock.
Light it up.
Breathe deep, to my toes.
Twisted Firestarter.
30
Twenty minutes later.
Road slick beneath the tyres.
Looking in the mirror, I notice that my stubble’s become a beard. I look like my dad, but with something added and a lot taken away. Thinking of him feels like a pint of cold Guinness on an empty stomach, and I pull back from the memory.
I let my brain drift down familiar, well-worn tracks. Remember his hands, those big hands and the tiny cigarettes he cupped within them; those fingers the colour of over-ripe bananas.
Drifting into Cottingham for the press conference. Still dark.
Round a roundabout, down a side street. Park in a cul-de-sac, under a tree, outside a big house with an unkempt garden. Children’s swing and a slide on its side. Soaked fluffy rabbit, sinister on its back, abandoned on the front step; glassy eyes staring up at the tumbling sky.
Cottingham. Britain’s biggest village, according to the sign and the bullshit. Town, really. Quite well to do. Few chain shops, decent pubs, nursing campus. Big bastard of a police station, next to the site of the new cemetery. Fields, here and there. Rural, after a fashion. It all looks the same.
A sigh, then out the car. Not raining, exactly, but the air’s wet.
Freezing. Wishing I’d brought my coat. Feel naked without it.
Fags and notebook tucked under my arm, inside my suit jacket.
Gun in my waistband, pleasantly uncomfortable.
Bit of a walk ahead, through the town and down Priory Road, fields full of horses either side.
Passing houses, stepping between dark shadows and circles of streetlight, then drifting into countryside.
Today’s the day, I think. Today’s the day you all get to see who I really am.
“MORE THAN A HUNDRED BLOWS,” he reckons. “Pathologist couldn’t tell which bone fragments came from the front of his head and which from the back. Powder and mush.”
“Brick, wasn’t it?” Scruffy lad from a radio station, standing with us without being asked.
“Rock. Boulder, actually. Smashed his fucking head in.”
We all say: “Nice”.
8.54am. Priory Road Police Station canteen. It’s been cleared for the press conference.
Me, Tony H, Steve from The Mirror and Aled from one of the Leeds news agencies, leaning on the snooker table and talking death.
Big room. Modern. Rows of chairs facing a table, in front of the Humberside Police crest.
Place is filling up. TV crews fiddling with tripods, checking levels, getting in each other’s way. Cockneys talking into headsets and mobile phones.
Kids from Yorkshire radio stations, dressed in Punky Fish and corduroy, looking lost.
Microphones on the table, sticking out in all directions, like spears repelling a cavalry charge.
Proper reporters lounging at the back, sharing with our mates.
Knowing it’s all bullshit. Surprised to see so many faces for a routine press conference. Isn’t even silly season. Plenty happening.
Train crash in Oxfordshire last night, I’m told. Nutter drove the works van onto a level crossing. Four dead and plenty injured. Enough for six pages. Another Leeds United player arrested for butt-fucking a teenage girl in the lift at Elland Road.
Business as usual.
Tony H sucking the chocolate off a Twix and scowling at Steve, who’s stolen his thunder by sharing the details of the post-mortem.
Raining in sheets now, soaking the news vans parked on the field beyond the glass doors.
I missed the worst of the downpour.
Charmed life.
Black circles around my eyes.
Waiting for Roper.
“I wonder what they were doing in the woods, though. Lover’s tiff?”
Laughs all round.
“It’s a theory. Has to be drugs though. Y
ou know the Petrovsky line, yeah?”
“Fuck yeah. Checked the cuttings and we haven’t had much on him. Not exactly a Kray though, is he? Not a household name.”
“No but this guy’s got the potential to be a Bond villain. We could make him anything we want. Can’t exactly libel the evil twat, can we?”
“True. How you playing it, Owen?”
“God knows. I’m struggling to get worked up about it, to be honest. A druggie and a head-case take each other out and they waste my taxes trying to catch someone for it? Nobody ever stops and wonders whether it’s worth the bother, do they? Be nice if just once, they said, ‘Who gives a fuck about this one’ and spent the money on, I don’t know, me? Makes as much sense…”
Raised eyebrows.
Realise I barked it. Said it like I meant it. “Sorry, was in my Daily Express mode, there. Give me a moment, I’ll Guardian it up for you. Yes, shocking, terrible – probably had an awful childhood, poor lamb. I blame the cuts to social care. Call this a Labour government? No wonder people are turning to Clegg...”
Relief all round.
“Remind us why you haven’t got your own column,” says Tony H, lightening the mood.
“Doubt this will be worth the trip,” says Aled, nodding expansively. He’s come over from West Yorkshire for this, on the off-chance one of the nationals will have neglected to staff it. Busy thinking of ways to make his copy unique. “Still, everybody loves Roper, don’t they? Always good for a line or two.”
“I bloody don’t,” I say, wanting to tell somebody about his visit to Kerry’s, and deciding against it.
I amble over to speak to Trish from one of the local TV stations, but she’s busy getting an earful from a producer on her mobile, and after a few seconds standing waiting for her to finish and sharing a conversation of facial expressions, I decide I look like a twat and head for the door.
Cigarette. Fingers. Lighter. Lips.
Inhale. Absorb.
SHIVERING, blocking the doorway, staring at the car park and the grass, wires snaking around my feet.
There’s a barrel-chested bloke in a well-pressed suit leaning against the wall, taking deep breaths of cold air. Big lad, looking lost. He’s a red-head with pale skin and freckles. Probably about my age, though better looked after. He sees me and moves along the wall to make room. He looks familiar. Definitely a copper, but I can’t place him.
“Fag break?” I ask.
“Fresh air, actually,” he says, and his voice is a low, soft, Scottish brogue.
“Yeah? Sorry if I’m spoiling it for you. Do you want me to put it out?”
He pauses, as if unsure how to respond. I can see him working things out. “That’s rather up to you. My wife’s a smoker. People should make their own decisions.”
I smile, politely. His manner is a bit disconcerting. I have an overwhelming desire for him to like me. He’s got big sad eyes, like a cartoon cow, and there’s something about his manner that makes me think he should be wearing a hood and sandals and trudging along a pilgrim trail. Maybe it’s the voice, I think. Or the stillness. Or maybe I’m just going mad.
“Which paper are you with?” he asks.
“Press Association,” I say.
“A fine organisation. No frills. I presume this will be going national?”
“Oh yeah. Big story. Should get Roper a few headlines.”
He raises his eyebrows and gives a little smile. “He will be pleased,” he says.
We share a look that says we both know Roper and the things that make him tick. He thaws a little.
“Oh aye, he’s not averse to seeing his name in lights,” I say.
“No, he’s certainly got a profile.”
“I’d love to see his psychological one.”
We laugh, making friends, two blokes together. Then he back-pedals, as if concerned he’s given too much of himself away.
“It’s important, though,” he says. “The media can play a crucial role in any investigation…”
He sounds like he’s reading from course-notes, and I lose interest. He seems to sense it.
“I’m sure he does it out of decency and a burning desire for justice,” I say, dripping sarcasm. “Not just so he can see his face on the telly and lick the screen.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stands there, looking daft and nervous. I feel for him. I can’t imagine how it must feel to be almost inert with indecision and self-doubt. I sense a pathological willingness to please. I sense that if I made a gentle jibe about his roots or his hair, he wouldn’t sleep tonight for wondering what I’d meant by it. Wouldn’t fit in with the press crowd, I decide. Not one of the boys.
He makes to leave, then stops. “You’re covering the trial as well, are you?”
“Oh yes. Busy bee.”
“What do you think?” his big face is earnest and genuinely interested. I’m taken aback to be asked. Reporters don’t often get a chance to offer opinion to anybody who isn’t part of the hack-pack.
“He’s going to go down,” I reply. “Roper wouldn’t have let it get this far unless he was sure. I’ve heard about this witness but I reckon Cadbury’s a good bet.”
“I didn’t man about being found guilty. I meant about being responsible.”
I pause, smoke in my mouth and throat. I give him a puzzled glance, and he tries to laugh it off. It comes out as a high-pitched cough. He’s got no style at all, this one. But there’s something in his eyes that makes me want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him he’s a good egg. Picking on him would be like kicking a puppy, and I haven’t done that in years.
“You not on the same hymn sheet as the boss?” I ask, journalist reflexes kicking in, nose for a story, ear for a yarn.
“Best get back inside,” he says, then extends a large, clean hand. I take it and am surprised at the roughness of the skin. It’s weather-worn and used to hard-work. Like Dad’s.
“McAvoy,” he says. “Sergeant.”
“Owen Lee,” I reply.
His face freezes. For a second various expression seem to duel on the large canvas of his face. Then he nods and turns away, stepping back inside the police station.
I’m puzzled, for the briefest of moments, then forget it and try to enjoy the last of my cigarette, looking around at nothing very much. I notice a fair few uniformed coppers milling about out in the rain. Yellow coats, hunched at the shoulders. Loads of them, now I look again.
They’re looking at me. Glancing over shoulders, throwing sly eyes. Milling about, like they’re trying to appear relaxed.
More, by the gate.
I can see arms being raised. Fingers to ear-pieces, walky-talkies to mouths.
And I’m feeling paranoid. Trapped. Set-up.
I can feel every bump and prickle on the gun’s handle, pressing into my back. Can hear the wet thump of a skull cracking; the hiss and squelch of a thorax being pulped.
And I’m trembling. Dropping my cigarette. Bending to pick it up but feeling a constriction as the gun digs in, and stopping, hunched, halfway to the floor.
I want to stay here. Trapped between moments. Hiding. Each foot on a different road.
A sudden movement to my left. People taking seats, switching off phones, rolling cameras.
Those young enough, angle one leg across the other, notebook on thigh.
And I tumble, still shivering, to a seat at the back, plonking down next to one of the assistant press officers. Juliet. Forty-six and blonde. Moderately well-kept. Designer glasses bought cheap from Asda. Trouser suit in a tasteful green.
And then Roper is here. A swish of leather and a cloud of Aramis; camera crew and two sergeants following like apostles.
Looking bright. Well-rested. In his element, here. Cameras. An audience. A chance to perform. Probably nipped into the toilets to touch himself up beforehand.
Flops into his chair like a dandy. White shirt and matching white tie today. Black pinstripe. Tan shoes. Chunky knot in his tie.
Leaves an empty se
at beside himself.
I put a heading on a new page of my notebook, and the date, but the letters blur as I look at them and I don’t know if they’re shorthand or longhand.
Me smashing my eyes shut, scraping the top layer off my tongue against my teeth. Whimpering, quietly. Pen leaking ink onto the page.
Everyone straining for a better view, as though Roper’s a fucking rock star.
Sip of water. Flash of a smile.
“Good morning. Thank you for coming. I’m aware that it was quite short notice and many of you have to cover the ongoing trial at Hull Crown Court, so I’ll keep this brief. It’s been a long 24 hours for everyone.”
Another sip of water. Scans the room. Spots me. Smiles.
“As you are all aware, two bodies were found yesterday morning in the Humber Bridge Country Park. One had been the victim of a bullet wound, the other a particularly savage attack. It should be mentioned that the injuries were some of the worst ever seen by experienced members of this police force. Our inquiries have quickly identified a vehicle that was parked in the nearby car park around the time we believe the killings took place, which was shortly after midnight. Unfortunately we have no registration plate, but we believe the vehicle to be an early-eighties Vauxhall Cavalier. We are currently searching a large database of vehicles, but I would urge anybody in the East Yorkshire area who drives such a car to contact myself or my officers so they can be eliminated from our enquiries. The names of the victims have already been made public and I don’t propose to waste your time by going through it all again. However, I am concerned that people understand what a horrific crime has been perpetrated and feel that can be best illustrated by providing some more information about one of the victims. Darren Norton was just 23 when he was killed, two nights ago. He was originally from Goole, but had lived in Hull since leaving school at 16. He worked for a time as a porter at Castle Hill Hospital, and as a barman on board one of the North Sea ferries for several months. He was known as an aspiring DJ, and had a younger brother with whom he was no longer in contact. Yes, I can confirm that at the time of his death he was a registered methadone user who had struggled with a heroin addiction for some time, but he was nonetheless a victim of murder, and those who knew him, have painted a picture of a caring, intelligent, ambitious young man. His family are understandably too upset to comment, but Darren’s girlfriend has agreed to read a pre-prepared statement to help with the investigation. A copy of the statement will be handed out when she has finished and she will not be answering questions. Thank-you.”
