by David Mark
50
9.38am.
Out the door and into the swirling rain.
Through the barriers, the dust and the diggers, the yellow roadsigns and blinking lights. Newspaper under my arm, keys jangling in my hand, two revolvers tucked in my waist-band.
Three bounds, up the stairs, a turn of the key, along the corridor, another turn, and I’m back in the flat.
He’s still laying there, is Petruso. His blood has run as far as the kitchen, and shards of glass and fragments of skull float like islands in the deep claret sea.
The other man lays where he fell, by the bedroom door.
I lean down, and pick up the picture of Jess and me. Hold it close to my face, as if I can breathe her in. I put it in my inside pocket. Flop down on the sofa and open my phone.
Close my eyes and hold back tears as I scroll through the numbers and select the name I should have called days ago.
She answers on the second ring, her voice tremulous and small.
“Owen,” says Jess. “Owen, what’s happening?”
Her voice is a blanket. I tie myself up in it, and feel as if swaddled.
“I’m so sorry, Jess,” I say, and am stunned by the honesty of the statement. “I miss you so much.”
She pauses, then the words come out in a rush. “I’ve had so many messages. Saying things about you. Saying you’re in trouble. Lenny won’t leave me alone, she thinks you’ve done me in, and she’s twisted my brain around so I don’t know what I’m thinking and she says you’ve been manipulating me and treating me wrong and maybe you have and maybe you haven’t but I can’t stand this being apart when I can feel how much you need me there with you, and it wasn’t mean to be like this, Owen, it wasn’t …
“Where are you? People have been worrying.” Then, truthful: “I’ve been worrying.”
“I needed to get away. To think. To decide what I really want.”
“You told nobody? Just ran?”
“My mind was everywhere. I couldn’t tell Lenny. You know how she feels about you…”
“She really thinks I hurt you...”
“Owen, that’s crazy.” There is real shock, there. Incredulity. “That’s crazy. You won’t even hug me too hard for fear of breaking me!”
“Mud sticks.”
Silence. Tears, and snot. The air heavy with the enormity of it all. Then I say: “You answered my call. I wasn’t sure …”
“It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
“I need to see you. There are things I need to tell you. Things I want you to hear from me and nobody else.”
“I knew you would call. Eventually.”
“I suppose I knew you would answer.”
“I told you I would. I told you all you had to do was find it in yourself to let me in. To think about what you wanted and decide if it was me …”
“It shouldn’t be me making this decision, Jess. It shouldn’t be me agreeing to love you. You shouldn’t even breathe the same air as me. I’m poison. You’re an angel…”
“No, Owen! No.” There is anger, and hurt. “I’m not. I’m a woman. A grown-up. Not a child. Not a pet. Not an angel. I’m not here to be protected and pretty. I love you and ache for you and want you, but I can’t grow old with a projection. A character. The bits of yourself you let me see. I want it all. Better and worse. Sickness and health. Darkness and light.”
“You made that one up.”
“I was going to put it in our vows.”
Silence, again. I want to climb inside the phone. Be kissed. Held.
“I told Len you’d gone to Nottingham. Was I right?”
“No. I’ve been at Bridlington. Crappy bed and breakfast. Just been sitting in my room, staring at my phone, trying to work it all out.”
I feel bubbles in my blood. Almost intoxicated by the nearness of our embrace. Giddy and girly with the sensations of being loved, properly. Suddenly feeling able to offer the same in return.
“I’ll come to you.”
51
Ten minutes later.
Up and out, with a bounce in my stride.
Dropping today’s Hull Daily Mail with its picture of a good-looking, smirking journalist and Tony H’s byline, onto the mangled mess of Petruso’s head.
MAN WHO KILLED AS A CHILD HELD OVER DOUBLE MURDER
EXCLUSIVE
By Tony Halthwaite
A MAN who killed a Yorkshire landowner with a shotgun when he was just nine-years-old is being held on suspicion of the horrific double murder at the Humber Bridge Country Park, the Mail can reveal.
The bodies of Darren Norton and Alfred Prescott were discovered on Monday morning at the popular beauty spot in the heart of East Yorkshire. Mr Prescott, from West Yorkshire, had been beaten to death and Darren, a city man, had been shot.
Owen Lee, 29, was arrested at the Sandringham Hotel in the city centre last night by well-known policeman and the detective in charge of the case, Det Supt Doug Roper, following assistance from this newspaper.
For more details, turn to page 2…
I DO. I turn it slowly, wondering which words I would have cut from the intro if I’d been sat on newsdesk when Tony filed the piece. Good tabloid read, I admit.
LEE, who lives in a city centre flat and who recently broke off his engagement to a long-term partner, is a reporter with the Press Association and had been covering the case for the news agency prior to his arrest.
He shocked other reporters at a press conference at Priory Road police station yesterday with an outburst aimed at Det Supt Roper, 39. He fled the scene when the girlfriend of one of the victims was brought in to read a statement. It is understood by this newspaper that the witness is Lee’s sister, Lee, and that the two had an especially close relationship.
The Hull Daily Mail can exclusively reveal that Lee spent many of his teenage years in a succession of mental hospitals, seeing his family only at weekends and attending a special school, before eventually joining his family in Scarborough, where he changed his name and gained a place at university due to good ‘A’ level results - secured while just 13-years-old - and a high IQ.
Lee was committed to an institution by mental health chiefs following the death of respected landowner and fishing fleet owner, Tom Blake, 58, on the Drayton Manor estate, near South Cave, in 1987.
Lee was killed with a shotgun blast to the face during a pheasant shoot on his land. This newspaper understands that Lee, whose father was gamekeeper on the estate and whose family lived in one of the farm cottages, was said at the time to have harboured a grudge against Mr Blake for his attitude towards his father, and for disciplining him in front of party guests.
He is said to have walked calmly up to Mr Blake carrying his father’s gun, spoken briefly to him, and then shot him.
Because of his young age, Lee was never charged, but the incident made headlines around the world. Lee remained in the care of the mental health authorities for many years, and was only allowed occasional visits to his family’s new home.
After continued scrutiny from journalists, the family changed their name to Lee, from the original, Swainson.
His father, at his home on a run-down estate in Scarborough, last night declined to comment, but appeared visibly shaken. The suspect’s mother died a short while ago, and his sister, Lee, 27, is helping police with their enquiries. It is understood Owen disapproved of his sister’s relationship with Mr Norton, a known drug user. The suspect also drives a car similar to that spotted on CCTV at the Humber Bridge car park on the night of the deaths.
Lee was last night described as being a “very dark and brooding person”, who did not get on with fellow journalists, and whose career appeared to have flatlined following a promising start. He was also said to be a very heavy drinker, and is understood to still be on medication to control his mood swings, manic depression and violent temper…
52
Detective Superintendent Doug Roper puts a warm arm around Sergeant McAvoy’s shoulder and raises his
coffee mug to his lips. Together, they pretend to have a conversation about the case, while the camera rolls. There is much earnest nodding of heads.
“You ever mention this, and I’ll fuck your youngest,” says Roper, who’s feeling better than ever.
The response is mumbled, made insensible by the sickness in McAvoy’s throat. The fog in his eyes. “You’re worse than he is. Worse than any of them.”
“Nah, sunbeam,” he says, pointing at McAvoy’s computer screen as though discovering a new piece of evidence. “I’m a fucking star.”
“It isn’t your world.”
Roper smiles expansively and gestures at himself. “It’s more mine than anybody else’s.”
He hears Flora shout ‘cut’ and gives McAvoy a smile. “You could still be part of my team,” he says “I would like to keep you close. You’ve got a future.”
“You haven’t,” says McAvoy, getting up. His skin is goose-pimpled, his face white. He looks like the sole survivor of an atrocity. “You’re going to Hell.”
“The place could do with a new broom,” laughs Roper, and pulls on his coat.
A swish of leather, a cloud of Aramis, then back to court.
53
He’s standing in the entrance of the church across the street, zipped up against the slanting drizzle inside a well-worn waterproof jacket. His pale, freckly face as grey as the dreary bricks that frame him.
Hair, darkened by rain, plastered across his forehead, like something plastic has been melted across his skull. His hands are in his pockets and there’s something under his arm. He looks like a farmer, all weather-beaten skin and strong arms beneath cheap fabrics.
The copper.
The barrel-chested Scot who shook my hand and froze at the contact.
McAvoy.
Me, scowling as the big man approaches, fingers becoming fists: not sure if I want him to hit me in the jaw or pick me up in a bear-hug and tell me everything is going to be okay.
He towers over me, looking lost. There are pink spots on his cheeks: spheres of colour against the slate of his face. He looks feverish.
“Mr Lee.”
He stops, falters, battling with himself. I wait, squinting into the cold, damp air, wondering how long it is since any of us saw the sun.
“I think we need to talk,” he says, at last.
“I got the message last night,” I say, not breaking eye contact.
McAvoy looks momentarily pained, as if he’s just heard a story about a cancer survivor being killed in a hit and run.
I don’t know why he’s here. What he wants. I know he can’t be allowed inside the apartment – not now; not with the bodies bleeding out onto the carpet.
I test the waters. “Tell Roper I’m on it,” I say, weakly. “Being taken care of. He needn’t waste the manpower.”
“This isn’t Roper,” he begins, then stops himself. “Well, it is. But not like that. This is about him. He’s why I’m here, but he doesn’t know I am.”
I hold his gaze, make him squirm. Examine him properly. Big and broad-shouldered, open-faced. Clever eyes and huge hands; the knuckles sunk beneath ridged, rough skin. There’s something else. Some spark in his gaze, some flicker in his expression, that Owen takes as being fuelled by a rapidly moving mind. Could be a thinker, this one. Could go far.
“You had a tiff with your fearless leader?” I ask.
McAvoy closes his mouth and purses his lips until it seems they are shaded in pencil.
“I need to know what’s happening. What he wants you to do. What he’s done to you.” He pauses. Seems to make a decision. “I think he knows Shane Cadbury didn’t kill that girl.”
Despite the blood in my nostrils and the heavy scent of the wet air, I can suddenly smell burning. For a moment, it seems that the metal of the guns is searing into my flesh…
54
I sit in the front pew of the church, colder in here than I was on the street. Eight gaudily-attired stone bishops gaze down from plinths behind the altar, faces serene, halos golden. One is captured mid-blessing, his hand raised, three fingers extended. He looks like he’s lost his glove-puppet. Fat angels and unfeasibly clean shepherds stretch towards the white clouds and perfect sunrise that crowns the masterful painting on the far wall. It seems to shimmer in the pin-pricks of heat that rise from the candles, and Jesus, sat atop the mural like a fairy on a cake, looks at once beatific and sinister in the rippling air.
It’s a magnificent church: a splendid, gorgeous, ornate celebration of a religion I don’t understand. If this place were on the continent, it would be full of tourists. It’s not. It’s empty, save the rumpled copper genuflecting before the cross, and the good-looking, battered journalist in the front row.
He finishes his ritual and takes a seat behind me, so I have to swivel to talk to him. He looks wild-eyed and earnest. I can’t help myself. I take pity on the poor sod and open the conversation.
“Catholic, I presume?”
He pulls a face, apologetic. “Yes and no. Free Church of Scotland, as a child, but Mother’s new husband was a Catholic, and I had to convert to get into the school he wanted me to go to. Some of it’s stuck. All must seem rather disingenuous, I suppose.”
I twist in my seat and give him a hard stare. “You’re not like the other coppers on Roper’s team, I can tell. You’re not like many other coppers, period.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I run through what I know about him and feel a sickness in my gut as I remember where our paths crossed before.
“You found her,” I say, softly. “Ella.”
McAvoy nods, looks down.
“Thought I remembered you. You know I covered it, don’t you? I was on the scene an hour after they found her. I’d done plenty on the search, like. Got a tip something had come up. You were uniform, then.”
“I was busy taking the sergeant’s exams around the same time. Hadn’t been long in Hull. Got a CID posting a few months back. First available sergeant job.”
“Straight onto the golden boy’s team? Lucky for you.”
He looks up at the church roof, as if expecting to see something. Gulps, as though swallowing a half-pint. “I’m not one of them,” he says. “Not properly. It doesn’t bother me, you understand. I’m not out to make friends, though I don’t like not being liked. Who does? But it’s not the blokey talk or the drinking or the talking about girls. That’s the same in any workplace. I can do all that. I’m a farmer’s boy, for pity’s sake. I can swear with the best of them. It’s something else. Something they seem to have accepted and I can’t bring myself to. They reckon that ‘good enough’ will do. They whinge about lack of resources and manpower and money, and they laugh when the official figures come out and they show that there’s about a five per cent chance of actually getting caught if you do something wrong. ‘That’s life’, they say. ‘Aint got the lads’.”
“You out to catch every shoplifter in Hull, are you?” I ask, and can’t keep the sneer out of my voice.
“It’s not that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not about crime figures. Or being seen to do everything you can. That’s all just a show. It’s about right and wrong. About doing something wrong, and paying for it.”
“Justice?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
His face folds in on itself and it’s hard not to reach back and hug the big lump until he feels better. He’s so miserable and confused it’s like looking in a mirror.
“I just know how she smelled when we found her. How she looked. Just a body, a headless mannequin, her white dress stained red. Skin like orange peel. Her private parts exposed...”
I don’t speak. I don’t want to visualize what he’s telling me, but I can’t help it.
“He just stood there beside me,” he’s saying, his world turned inwards, watching his memories. “Said she was a gift. That he’d found her. I couldn’t even breathe. Couldn’t think. And then Roper’s there, and he’s taking over and t
aking charge and it’s like he’s floating above us, untouched by it all. We went home with her stink on our clothes and he walked out of there smelling like a film star. It’s me who wakes up retching. Me who scares my son with my nightmares. ‘Work through it’, they said. ‘Been through something terrible’. Catch the bad guys, put them away. Make the streets safe. Do your job. And that’s what I’ve been doing. Trying to catch the villains and lock away the dangerous people and find some kind of ending for the people who loved her…”
“But you are, mate,” I say, comfortingly, wanting to tell him it will be OK. “They’ve got the Chocolate Boy and he’s going to go down.”
He looks up and through me, eyes seamed red. “It wasn’t him. I stood there next to him and he told me what he had done to her and it didn’t bother him for a second. There was regret in his eyes, but it wasn’t for what he had done. It was for what he hadn’t. He hadn’t been the one to kill her. Wasn’t the one to stick the knife in, and the thought upset him. I convinced myself otherwise. I was too busy trying not to let my mind unravel. But the more I think about it, the more I think he’s still out there. The person who killed her.”
We sit in silence, growing cold, breath forming into ghosts on the chill air.
“You’re sure?” I ask, eventually.
“No,” he says, soft, with a faint, hopeless smile. “I could be wrong. But I don’t think so. I think Roper took the easy option. And I think he wants you to help keep it that way.”
I can’t help but probe for more. “So who do you think did it?” I ask.
“Until last night, I thought it was you.”
Eventually, I say: “And now?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I watched you take your beating. Through the window in the cell-door. You took it like you wanted it. There was nothing in your eyes. No anger or disgust. No venom. You found your release in your own pain, not the pain of others. The man on the floor in the cell couldn’t do those things to her. To Ella. I saw hatred in your eyes, but it wasn’t for anybody else. The man who did this has a rage turned outwards …”
