by David Mark
‘So little mercy,’ he says, half to himself.
‘Sarge?’
‘Just makes you wonder,’ he mutters, and a disloyal blush climbs from his shirt and up his broad face. ‘Why her? Why here? Why now?’ He waves a huge, shovel-like hand. ‘Why any of it?’
‘Horrible world,’ says Tremberg with a shrug.
McAvoy looks at his feet and strokes the cover of the Bible. ‘Chapter and verse,’ he says softly, and closes his eyes.
‘She’s called Daphne Cotton,’ says Tremberg, her voice suddenly softer and less abrasive, as if, after the viewing of the corpse, her earlier bombast has been diluted by the sheer brutal sadness of the scene. ‘Fifteen years old. She’s been part of this church for four years. Adopted.’
‘Stop there,’ says McAvoy, already dizzy with ideas and questions. He has a logical mind, but things make more sense to him when they are written down and neatly ordered. He likes the process of detection. Likes the orderliness of logging things properly. With his aching head and dulled wits, he wonders how much of this will go in. ‘Daphne Cotton,’ he repeats. ‘Fifteen. Adopted. Local?’
Tremberg looks confused. ‘Sarge?’
‘She’s a black girl, DC Tremberg. Was she adopted from overseas?’
‘Oh, right. Don’t know.’
‘Right.’
They fall into silence, both disappointed in the other and themselves. McAvoy finds himself worrying about his use of the word ‘black’. Would it be more appropriate to use the procedural moniker? Is it wrong to notice her colour? Is he being a good detective or a bigot? He knows few other officers concern themselves with such subtleties, but McAvoy would give himself an ulcer fretting about such things were it not for Roisin’s ability to calm him down.
‘So,’ says McAvoy, looking back at the girl’s body and then up to the ceiling. ‘What did they tell you, the witnesses?’
Tremberg glances at her notebook. ‘She’s an altar server, Sarge. An acolyte. They hold the candles in the procession. Sit in front of the altar during the service. Take the stuff the priest hands them and put it away. Lots of ceremony and pomp. It’s a big honour, apparently. She’s been doing it since she was twelve.’ There is enough scepticism and eyebrow-raising in Tremberg’s speech to hint at a set of religious beliefs somewhere south of agnostic.
‘You’re not a regular at Sunday service?’ asks McAvoy with a faint smile.
Tremberg gives a snort of derisory laughter. ‘In my family, Sundays were for the Grand Prix. We followed F1 religiously though.’
At the far end of the central aisle a door bangs open with a sudden gust of wind, and for a moment McAvoy sees gravestones and gates, Christmas lights and uniforms, as a blue light flashes rhythmically, illuminating the darkness in sweeping circles. He can imagine the scene out there. Police constables in yellow coats fixing blue-and-white striped police tape around the wrought-iron gates. Drinkers from the nearby pubs peering over half-empty pint glasses as cars do battle in the forecourt, screeching to a halt, inches from collision; anxious drivers leaping out to pick up loved ones who had been in the congregation and who are now emerging into the cold, snow-blown square, to be led away from the horror of what they have witnessed.
‘So whoever did this knew she would be here?’
‘If she’s who he was after, Sarge. We don’t know it wasn’t random.’
‘True. Do we have anything to that effect?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got a statement here from a Euan Leech who reckons the bloke pushed aside two other servers to get at her, but in all the confusion …’
‘And the other statements?’
‘Couldn’t say. Just saw a figure suddenly appear by the altar and the next thing he was hacking her down and it was all screams. It might become clearer when they have time to get their minds straight.’
‘Nothing from the patrols yet? No sign of him?’
‘Not a sausage. Too windy to get the chopper up, and too late now anyway. But with the amount of blood he’s covered in, somebody will have spotted him …’
‘OK,’ says McAvoy. He turns away from the girl’s body and looks into Tremberg’s face. She’s a very average-looking woman, compared to his Roisin, but she has a face that he reckons an artist would enjoy. Thin, elfin features sit in the centre of a round, broad head, like a gourmet meal in the middle of a large, plain plate. She’s tall and athletic, perhaps thirty years old, and dresses in an inoffensive, nondescript fashion that makes her neither a sex object to the male officers nor a threat to the more Machiavellian women. She’s funny, energetic and easy to get along with, and although there’s a slight tremble to her lips that betrays the adrenalin running through her body at the thought of being involved in the hunt for this killer, she is otherwise masking it with an aplomb McAvoy finds admirable.
‘The family,’ he says. ‘Were they here?’
‘No. They usually are. The verger said they were friends of the church, whatever you think that means. But no, she was here on her own. They dropped her off and she was going to make her own way back. That’s according to one of the other acolytes. An older lad. Wants to be a priest. Or a vicar. Don’t know the difference.’
‘But they’ve been informed, her parents. They know?’
‘Yes, sir. Family liaison have been contacted. I thought you’d want it to be our first port of call, soon as you got your faculties together.’
McAvoy gives a thin smile. He’s pleased he is standing up. Were he sitting down, his legs would be jiggling up and down with a feeling that a less specific man would call excitement. McAvoy does not think of it as such. It is not even nervousness. It is a feeling he associates with the beginning of things. The potential of the blank page. He wants to know about Daphne Cotton. Wants to know who killed her, and why. Wants to know why he, Aector McAvoy, was spared the blade. Why there were tears in the man’s eyes. Wants to show that he can do this. That he’s more than the copper who brought down Doug Roper.
He looks at his surroundings, at this majestic, aweinspiring place.
Will it be the same? he wonders. Can the faithful sit in their pews and praise the Lord and not remember the time a killer leapt from the congregation and slaughtered one of the acolytes as she held her candle and attended the priest? He screws up his eyes. Rubs a palm over his features. When he opens them again he is staring at a great golden eagle, its wings folded in repose. He wonders at its significance. Why it stands here, on a tiled floor, at the top of the nave, facing the gothic stairs that lead to the lectern. Wonders who chose this bird, for this place. Feels his mind beginning to race. To analyse. This murder in a church, less than two weeks before Christmas. He contorts his features, as he remembers that moment, not yet two hours ago, when the song of the choir flooded across the square and warmed the hearts of those who heard it. Thinks of how Daphne Cotton must have felt in those awful moments, when the protective embrace of her faith, of her congregation, was punctured by a blade.
‘The car’s outside, Sarge,’ says Tremberg eagerly, gesturing to the door with her head. ‘Ben Nielsen’s on his way here to oversee interviews. We’ve got child specialists en route to interview the choirboys. They probably had the best views, poor sods …’
As McAvoy starts walking towards the door, the phone rings in his inside pocket. A tremor of anxiety floods him. He should have called in. Should have logged this straightaway with the top brass. Stamped his brand on the case. But he was lying on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, letting an inexperienced DC run the show.
‘Detective Sergeant McAvoy,’ he says, and stops walking, already letting his head drop.
‘McAvoy. This is ACC Everett. What’s going on down there?’ The voice of the Assistant Chief Constable is tense and stern.
‘We’re on top of things, sir. We’re on our way to see the family now …’
‘We?’
‘DC Helen Tremberg and myself, sir …’
‘Not Pharaoh?’
McAvoy hears himself
gulp. It feels as though he’s swallowed ice water on an empty stomach. His guts start to cramp.
‘Detective Superintendent Pharaoh is on a course this weekend, sir. I’m duty senior officer …’
‘Pharaoh phoned in, McAvoy. Cancelled the course the second she heard. This is a murder, Sergeant. In the city’s biggest, most historic church. The church where William Wilberforce was baptised. A teenage girl, hacked up by a lunatic in front of the congregation? This is all-hands-to-the-pump time, man.’
‘So do you want me to fill her in after I’ve spoken to the girl’s family?’
‘No.’ There is a finality to Everett’s voice that makes a mockery of his own belief that this could be his investigation.
‘Yes, sir,’ he says defeatedly, like a schoolboy told he has not made the team. Beside him, Tremberg turns away, popping two pieces of gum into her mouth and chewing angrily as she realises what is happening.
‘No, I was ringing about the other matter, McAvoy. The one I telephoned about earlier,’ Everett continues with barely a pause.
‘Yes, sir, I got the message but-’
‘Well, never mind that now. Other things have come up. But now you’re free of having to lead the investigation you can do something else for me. A favour, actually.’
McAvoy’s eyes are closed now. He’s barely listening.
‘If I can, sir.’
‘Excellent. I’ve had a call from a pal of mine at Southampton. It seems an old chap from their neck of the woods has had an accident while making some documentary out at sea. Terrible. Terrible. He’s from this area originally. Still got family. A sister, out at Beeford. Normally, a uniform would drive by and break the news, but this lady, well …’ Everett starts to stumble over his words. He sounds like a shy man making a speech at a wedding. ‘Well, look, she’s the wife of the Police Authority vice-chair. A very important lady. She and her husband are big supporters of a lot of the initiatives the community policing programme are hoping to see through over the next few years. And you always have such a fine way with people …’
There is a rushing sound in McAvoy’s ears. His heart is thudding. He can smell his own blood in his nostrils. He opens his eyes to see Tremberg walking away from him, an air of contempt to her gait. She’ll find her way into Pharaoh’s team.
Do what you do best, McAvoy. Be the gentle, decent soul. Do Everett’s bidding. Keep your head down. Get on with your job. Earn a wage. Love your wife …
‘Yes, sir.’
CHAPTER 3
McAvoy slows down to 20mph. Squints into the darkness as the wheels of the boxy saloon throw up muddy streaks against the spray-jewelled glass. His eyes are eerily keen, but the December gloom enfolds him in a damp fist. Concentrating, he glimpses the eyes of song thrushes roosting in the lower reaches of the hedgerows. Can see the dead, rotting stems of cow-parsley and flaxweed sticking out like broken spears from the muddy, tyre-worn boundary of the road. Fancies that a rabbit is streaking across the wet gravel to his rear; a moment of fur and exclamation mark of tail, glimpsed in the foggy glass.
It is already 6 p.m. The drive back from Beeford, twenty miles up the coast from his North Hull home, will take an hour in these conditions. He will have to pass his own front door on his journey back to the central police station, and the thought makes him irritable, but a recent order from the Chief Constable’s office forbade the overnight use of pool cars without prior written approval, and McAvoy assumes there must be a good reason for the directive, and will ensure it is enforced.
A gap suddenly opens up in the hedgerows to McAvoy’s right and he gently swings the lumbering vehicle into the space for which he has been searching. In daylight, in spring, he imagines the scene around him will be a watercolour of ploughed brown soil and swaying blonde corn; but in this Stygian dark, this feels a lonely place, and it is with relief that he spies the brooding hulk of the tall, slate-grey farmhouse as the car grinds over firm, reassuring gravel and up the private drive.
A security light blinks on as McAvoy ramps up next to a muddy 4x4 in the oval parking area. An elderly woman is standing at an open back door. Despite the quizzical expression on her face, she has an attractiveness about her that the years have not diluted. She is straight-backed and slim. Subtle adornments — designer reading glasses, Swarovski crystal earrings, the softest trace of blush-coloured lipstick — gild soft, neatly composed features. Her short bobbed hair looks as though it is drawn in pencil. She is wearing a sleeveless body warmer over a burnt-orange sweater, with navy-blue, neatly pressed slacks tucked into thick walking socks. In her hand she holds a wine glass, containing just the faintest puddle of red.
McAvoy opens the car door into a gust of wind that threatens to pull his tie from around his neck.
‘This is private property,’ the woman says as she reaches down for a pair of wellington boots that stand by the door. ‘Are you lost? Were you looking for the Driffield road?’
McAvoy feels colour rising in his cheeks. He slams the car door shut before his notes, loose on the passenger seat, can start playing games with the wind. Quickly, he calls up her name from memory.
‘Mrs Stein-Collinson? Barbara Stein-Collinson?’
The woman is halfway out into the driveway, but her name stops her short. A look of concern freezes her face. ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’
‘Mrs Stein-Collinson, my name is Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy. Might we go inside? I’m afraid I have-’
She shakes her head, but her denial is not directed at the policeman. It is as though she is aiming the gesture at a vision. A memory. Her face softens, and she closes her eyes.
‘Fred,’ she says, and her next words do not sound like a question. ‘The silly sod’s dead.’
McAvoy tries to catch her eye, to hold her gaze in the earnest, comforting way he does so well, but she is not paying him any attention. He turns away, oddly embarrassed, though it is more at the cack-handed way he has handled this, the only mission for which his superiors feel he is suited. He watches the snow fall inconsequentially onto the gravel. Sniffs politely as the cold makes his nose run.
‘Found him, have they?’ she asks at last.
‘Perhaps we could-’
Her sudden glare cuts him dead. She stands there, snarling, her head shaking, her glasses slipping down her nose as her countenance turns hard and cold. She spits out her words, as if taking bites out of the air.
‘Forty years too bloody late.’
‘Would you mind taking your boots off? We have a cream carpet in the kitchen.’
McAvoy bends down and starts unfastening the soggy, triple-knotted laces. Lets his eyes sweep the little cloakroom from his vantage point at knee height. No wellingtons. No dog baskets. No rubbish bags or newspapers waiting for the next bonfire or tip-trip. Incomers, he thinks instinctively.
‘So,’ she says, standing above him like a monarch preparing to bestow a knighthood. ‘Where did they find him?’
McAvoy looks up, but can’t make eye contact without straining his neck, and can’t unpick his laces without looking at them. ‘If you’ll just give me a moment, Mrs Stein-Collinson …’
She responds with an irritated sigh. He imagines her face becoming stern. Tries to decide if it will do more harm to give her the details from this most inappropriate of positions, or to make the poor lady wait until he’s removed his boots.
‘He was about seventy miles off the coast of Iceland,’ McAvoy says, trying to inject as much empathy and compassion into his voice as he can. ‘Still in the lifeboat. A cargo ship saw the vessel and the search teams went straight to the scene.’
With a tug, he pulls off one boot, coating his thumb and forefinger in thick mud. He surreptitiously wipes his hand on the seat of his trousers as he begins work on the other.
‘Exposure, I assume,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘He won’t have taken any pills. Won’t have wanted to numb himself to it, our Fred. Will have wanted to feel what they did. I never guessed this was what he was planning. I mean, wh
o would? Not when he’s laughing and telling stories and buying everybody a drink …’
McAvoy wrestles the other boot free and stands up quickly. She’s already halfway through the open door, and it’s with relief that he leaves the cloakroom and steps into the large, open kitchen. He’s surprised by what he finds. The kitchen is as unruly as a student bedsit. There are dirty dishes stacked high around the deep porcelain sink which sits beneath a large, curtainless window. Splashes of grease and what looks like pasta sauce are welded to the rings of the double-oven at the far end. Newspapers and assorted household bills are scattered across the rectangular oak table that fills the centre of the room, and laundry sits in crumpled islands all over the precious carpet, which has not been cream in many a year. His policeman’s eye takes in the dribbles of wine that sit at the bottom of the dirty glasses on the draining board. Even the pint glasses, embossed with pub logos, seem to have been used for the slugging of claret.
‘That’s him,’ she says, nodding at the wall behind McAvoy. He turns and is greeted with a stadium of faces; a gallery of higgledy-piggledy photographs stuck or Sellotaped to a dozen cork boards. The photos are from each of the last five decades. Black and white and colour.
‘There,’ she says again. ‘Next to our Alice. Peter’s grandniece, if that’s a word. There he is. Looking like the cat that got the cream.’
McAvoy focuses on the image that she is pointing to. A good-looking man with luscious black hair, swept back in a rocker’s quiff, holding a pint of beer and grinning at the camera. The fashion of the man in the foreground suggests it was taken in the mid-eighties. He’d have been thirty-something. McAvoy’s age. In his prime.
‘Handsome man,’ he says.
‘He knew it, too,’ she says, and her face softens. She reaches out and strokes the photo with a pale, bejewelled hand. ‘Poor Fred,’ she says, and then turns to look at McAvoy, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘I’m pleased you came. It wouldn’t have been nice to hear it in a phone call. Not with Peter away.’
