A Bad Death: A DS McAvoy Short Story

by David Mark

  As he feels McAvoy’s big heart begin to flutter beneath his palm, Owen looks at McAvoy’s phone. Something sparks in his mind. He knows Roper, how he operates. He knows he will be searched within moments of the blue lights appearing through the trees. Knows, too, that Roper will need to save face, to tell him how inconsequential this truly is. Hope becoming prayer, he lifts McAvoy’s phone and punches in a number he knows by heart. He slips the mobile back into the dying man’s pocket.

  The sound of sirens grows louder, even as the pulse under his hands fades away . . .

  Chapter One

  Now . . .

  Different venue. Different coroner. Different time.

  Were he pushed, Inmate HN 6781 would admit to finding the changes a little disquieting. He’d had a picture in his mind of what to expect. He used to know the old courtroom like the palm of his hand Knew the girls by name. Ate biscuits with the last coroner in his warm, private office while talking over changes in the law.

  Better times. A better life.

  It hadn’t occurred to Inmate HN 6781 that things would have moved on in his absence. He had prepared himself to be remembered, steeled himself for a few pitying stares. He thought he might have made one or two of the female officers blush. Imagined them greeting him like a much-missed friend and enquiring about his well-being and whereabouts for the past few years, only to notice the cuff on his left wrist and the man in prison blues standing like a shadow a pace behind him.

  In his last interview with his personal officer at HMP Bull Sands, Inmate HN 6781 admitted that he copes with his incarceration by imagining that things are remaining the same in his absence. He likes to imagine that the world is in a state of suspended animation; that it is on hold, like a buffering internet connection, while he is away. His personal officer picked holes in the coping strategy, asked him how he could possibly feel that way when his father had died during his imprisonment. When his partner had left him. When he had lost his home and been declared bankrupt and been brutally beaten a half-dozen times since his sentencing. Inmate HN 6781 did not offer a reply.

  ‘I preferred Essex House,’ he says, looking down at the scruffy wooden floor and the mosaic of intermingled footprints left by the men and women who sit behind and around him in blue, high-backed chairs, playing with their phones or staring at nothing as they wait for the coroner to come back and tell them they can leave.

  ‘Sorry it’s not up to your standards,’ says Mr Hills, seated to his left. ‘I did ask if they could hire a five-star hotel and bring a butler to wait on you but they said it was too short notice.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Inmate HN 6781 keeps his eyes on the floor. The tall man to his left doesn’t like being stared at too hard. Inmate HN 6781 uses only his peripheral vision to check what the man he is handcuffed to is occupying himself with. Notices that he is scrolling through Facebook on his phone and liking posts that suggest foreigners are, broadly speaking, the problem. He has taken off his raincoat and hung it on the back of his chair, where it is dripping melted snow on to the feet of the woman behind him. She chose to wear Ugg boots this morning despite three inches of slush. It now looks as though she has her feet stuffed into two dead meerkats, and the court is filling with a smell of damp socks and wet dog.

  He looks ahead of him, at the public gallery. The woman with the black hair is Will’s mum. She’s plump and wears a lot of purple. She’s in her late forties but could be twenty years older. She keeps dabbing her nose with a balled-up tissue, exposing the lacy cuffs of a cheap velvet jacket. She’s got silver rings on each finger and a stud in her nose. There’s a twisted metal pendant on a cord around her neck and a Green Man tattoo pokes out of the top of her blouse, winking lopsidedly from her left breast. She smells of incense and cats.

  Prisoner HN 6781 looks away. He doesn’t want to catch her eye. Doesn’t want to tell his lies to somebody who knows a different truth.

  ‘I don’t think much of this coroner,’ he says to Mr Hills, trying again to make conversation. ‘Last bloke was really friendly. Properly put people at their ease, y’know.’

  Mr Hills grunts. He’s been a prison officer for fourteen years. He’s been handcuffed to hundreds of inmates. He long ago stopped giving a damn who his charges were before they became his responsibility and his problem. The man he’s looking after today used to be a journalist in this part of the world. Kept chattering about it on the drive up. He seemed almost excited as they crossed the Humber Bridge and were enveloped in a grey swirl of snow-filled cloud.

  Inmate HN 6781 decides to be quiet. Mr Hills is a decent enough officer. He’s professional and courteous, if not exactly brimming over with compassion. He’s treated him decently enough today. Even walked shoulder to shoulder, so the chain that held them together wouldn’t be immediately visible.

  ‘You think he’ll be long?’ asks Mr Hills, looking at his phone.

  Prisoner HN 6781 enjoys being asked for his expert opinion. He makes a meal of his answer, giving it full and detailed consideration.

  ‘Another few minutes,’ he says. ‘Court closes for lunch at twelve thirty. The coroner’s got two hearings this afternoon. If he comes back from his deliberations at twelve-ish then that gives him time to deliver his decision and shut up shop. Have himself a long lunch.’

  Mr Hills gives a begrudging grunt of thanks. Inmate HN 6781 enjoys it, though he wishes his answer had been different. He would have liked the hearing to go on all week. As it is, the whole thing was dealt with in under an hour. The statements were read out without cross-examination. His own witness report was read by a short, round-faced officer of the court. It hadn’t sounded any more truthful in her voice than it had in his own.

  He leans forward. He’s seated at an angle to the press bench and can’t see what the young reporter is typing on his laptop because his back and shoulders are in the way. Inmate HN 6781 would love to read the words, if only to revel in superiority. He has no doubt he will find spelling and grammatical errors, and he is sure that the piece will start with three relatively interesting paragraphs, before tailing off into legalese and bullshit.

  Inmate HN 6781 used to be called Owen Swainson. He used to be a journalist in this city. Used to sit at the press bench and write about people with more interesting lives than his own. Then he helped catch a serial killer and went to prison for his trouble. He has not been back to Hull since the judge at the Crown Court building, less than fifty yards from where he now sits, told him he was going to prison for a very long time.

  As he sits inside the Guildhall and waits for the coroner to come and deliver a verdict that was a foregone conclusion even before the hearing began, Owen wonders whether the judge would recognise him. His long dark hair is now a dirty grey and there is little meat on his bones. His skin has the pale, greenish tinge of an old alabaster headstone and his T-shirt and prison-issue jeans hide scars, bruises and bones that are broken as often as they are not. He has suffered in prison.

  Owen senses movement and looks up to find that the journalist has left his seat. The article he was writing is still on the screen. Owen squints to make it out and smiles as he notices that the journalist has left space at the bottom for the closing quotes and verdict. The top half of the story will clearly not be affected by whatever it is the coroner says when he returns from his deliberations.

  A CONVICTED drug dealer was horrifically killed when he became caught in a drilling machine while on day-release at a farm in East Yorkshire, a court heard.

  William Blaylock, 23, suffered multiple injuries when he became entangled with the auger while working at Shepton Farm, near Gilberdyke, in June this year.

  Mr Blaylock, originally from Ipswich, was a prisoner at Bull Sands Open Prison near Mablethorpe, where he was serving a 16-month sentence for possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply.

  The Category-D prisoner had recently become eligible to apply for work as part of a successful rehabilitation programme
run by the prison. Having spent time on the prison’s own farm and shown an interest in agriculture, he was given a temporary position at the farm belonging to Mr Ronald Erskine.

  On the day of the incident, Mr Blaylock was working alone in an outbuilding when it appears his clothing became entangled with the large, petrol-powered auger stored there. The drill has a diameter of 8´´ and spins at 150rpm. He was dragged into the machine and suffered catastrophic wounds to his sternum.

  The alarm was raised by other workers at the farm – among them a fellow inmate.

  Owen Swainson, 37, told the court in a statement: ‘I heard the scream and ran as quickly as I could but by the time I got to the building there was nothing I could do. There was a huge amount of blood and it was clear he was beyond help. I held his hand until help arrived but I don’t think he knew I was there. It was a terrible, terrible accident.’

  Mr Swainson, a former journalist, was previously a Hull resident and was sentenced for a vicious assault on a local woman which came to light during the hunt for the killer of Ella Butterworth.

  At yesterday’s hearing at Hull Coroner’s Court, a solicitor for HMP Bull Sands explained that Mr Blaylock had been a model prisoner and had been hoping to work on a farm full-time after his release.

  An investigation carried out by the Health and Safety Executive found that while the auger should not have been accessible to untrained staff, there were no indications Mr Erskine was at fault. A solicitor for Mr Erskine said that he had offered work to many serving and former prisoners and felt terrible about what had occurred.

  Hull coroner, Donald Haynes, said: ‘.’

  Verdict: ‘’.

  Owen keeps his face expressionless. He has grown good at that over the last four years. He will not let himself smile unless there is a good reason for him to be seen doing so. Will not allow temper or frustration to alter his countenance. He has become a decent actor, over the years. When he begs them to stop hurting him it’s because he knows that such utterances are what they seek. When he cries on his bunk, hugging his knees, it’s because he knows he is being watched. Today, on the drive from HMP Bull Sands, he exuded excitable giddiness for the benefit of the bus driver and Mr Hills. He’d known that his demeanour would get back to those who pull his strings. If he appeared introspective, they might have worried that he was thinking about giving vent to his conscience and baring his soul about what really happened that day on the farm. Instead, he chose to appear schoolboy-like. To go on and on about who he used to be. He doesn’t want them knowing what he truly feels about anything. Needs to keep them all guessing, right up until the end.

  ‘All stand.’

  Owen rises, bringing Mr Hills to his feet and feeling the metal of the cuff pull on his wrist. The coroner marches, straight backed, to his chair and gives a curt nod before sitting down. The assembled witnesses, officers and lawyers make themselves comfortable and the young hack scurries to his seat.

  Owen doesn’t listen to the verdict. The solicitors at the table nearest the front represent the prison service, the Health and Safety Executive and Mr Erskine, the owner of the farm where Will died. They will all be happy with a verdict of accidental death.

  Owen stares at the journalist’s back. Wishes he could grab the laptop and write the truth. Wonders whether anybody would even believe him.

  Several times since his incarceration, Owen has started writing a book. Each time he has seen it destroyed.

  Inmate HN 6781 can control the way people perceive him. He can appear broken and beaten. Can seem fool, failure and victim. But Inmate HN 6781 is a performance. Owen Swainson is not. Owen Swainson is a man so full of hate and rage that sometimes he thinks it will burst through his skin and consume him. His every thought is of retribution. He wants to thrust his hands into his tormentor’s chest and pull apart the bones of his ribcage. He never thought he would hate anybody more than he hated Tony Halthwaite. But then Aector McAvoy betrayed him. As he sits and listens to the coroner regurgitate lies, Owen remembers that day on the farm; the day they skewered Will to the floor and tore through his guts with a drill the width of a dustbin lid.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy pulls his hat down and his collar up as he watches the snow fall half-heartedly from a grubby sky. The sharp wind is blowing in off the river, bringing with it a smell of petrol, fishmeal and tarmac. It makes goose pimples rise beneath his shirt, jumper and waterproofed coat. He gives a theatrical shiver. He’s meant to be blending in with the other pedestrians waiting at the bus stop on Hull’s Alfred Gelder Street and they all look as though they are one tremble away from fragmenting into icy shards. He’s not a good actor. Shivering, he looks like a huge dog shaking itself dry.

  McAvoy grew up in the Highlands of Scotland, in a tumbledown croft built halfway up a mountain. The old stones were battered with hail, wind and snow for half the year. The hardships made him pretty much immune to the cold. So too did his size. He’s a huge man, the sort of person that children stare at in the street. With his greying red hair and his angry scars, he has the air of a warrior about him. He’s not an obvious choice for surveillance work.

  ‘Still nothing. Still inside,’ says McAvoy, softly, into his lapel. ‘Still a horrible day.’

  ‘Stamp your feet,’ comes the voice in his ear. ‘But not too roughly – you’ll start an avalanche.’

  McAvoy hides his smile. His boss, Superintendent Trish Pharaoh, is back in the warmth of the control room, watching the operation on CCTV. When the suspect emerges from the bank across the road, McAvoy will follow him on foot until he is told to hand off to one of the other officers dotted around the Old Town. He hasn’t seen anybody he recognises yet. He only knows the face of the suspect because it was on the whiteboard at this morning’s briefing. Pharaoh’s Serious and Organised Unit has been drafted in to help the Major Incident Team from West Mercia Constabulary. They have evidence that the middle-aged, balding man busily discussing his borrowing requirements with a blonde cashier is responsible for three murders on their patch. McAvoy doesn’t know the background of the case well enough to pass judgement. He just knows it’s his job to keep an eye on him, and not let the bugger disappear.

  ‘I’m drinking a hot chocolate,’ comes the voice in his ear. ‘It’s warm and creamy, with extra marshmallows.’

  ‘You’re cruel,’ says McAvoy, slightly more loudly than he intended. The short, grey-haired woman to his right looks at him curiously, then turns away. She hasn’t reached a ripe old age by questioning big, scarred nutters on their conversations with invisible people.

  ‘It’s got a Flake in it.’

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  McAvoy pulls his hat down, giving him a chance to shield his smile with his hand. He looks up at the sky, past the roofs of the old buildings that were built as merchant houses and municipal centres and are now home to solicitors, estate agents and copy shops. The snow isn’t particularly thick. This morning, over breakfast, McAvoy told his six-year-old son that the sky was so grim it made the windows look dirty. Fin paused to give the matter some thought, before opining that it seemed as if somebody was grating a giant snowman over East Yorkshire. Fin’s teachers occasionally worry about his imagination. McAvoy revels in it.

  To his right, a single-decker bus is cruising through the grey slush that has been heaped into matching peaks by endless tyres.

  ‘Bus approaching. View obscured. Switch to Team B.’

  ‘Understood.’

  McAvoy steps back. Gives the old ladies at the bus stop a kindly smile and indicates they should go first. He looks to his left. Half a dozen black cabs stand at the taxi rank; their windows steamed up as their drivers read newspapers and drink tea. Taxis are a luxury here. The ladies waiting for the bus to the Bransholme estate could feed themselves for a week on the cost of getting a cab home. They use their bus passes and endure the cold. They’re of a generation that remembers when Hull mattered. When kids left school at fourteen and took a job
on a trawler, sailing to distant waters to do battle with the elements in exchange for a decent wage. But when the industry died, so did Hull’s fortunes. For all of the money that has been pumped into the city, it remains on its arse. The schools are at the foot of the league tables and crime and unemployment are high. Despite its beautiful architecture and good-natured people, it’s a hard city. It has suffered. McAvoy feels at home here. He’s suffered too.

  ‘Team B not in place. Vision blocked. McAvoy, change position.’

  McAvoy turns away from the bus shelter. He fumbles in his pocket for his mobile phone and pretends to be making a call as he walks, using the reflection in the shop windows to his right to check that the suspect is still at the cashier’s desk across the street. There is a moment’s panic as he notices that he is no longer at the head of the queue. He turns and looks directly at the bank, staring hard through the darkened glass. The door swings open and Michael Lenneville emerges, walking quickly past the entrance to Hull Council’s customer service centre. He pauses at a window covered with posters offering help and advice. McAvoy isn’t sure whether the staff inside are trained for this particular challenge.

  McAvoy considers the suspect. He’s 5 feet 8 inches and thirty-seven years old. Overweight. He’s turning around, furtively. He breaks stride when he notices the giant across the road, staring at him too hard.

  McAvoy looks away, staring at his mobile phone.

  ‘I think he’s spotted me. Pulling back.’

  ‘Shit, Team B are blocked in. There’s a bloody van parked on the slipway. Who’ve we got on foot?’

  The radio crackles and McAvoy hears the voice of Ben Neilsen. ‘Poised at Guildhall, guv. Andy’s in Queen’s Gardens. West Mercia still in position – two officers by the suspect’s car.’

  Across the road, Lenneville starts to walk.

  ‘McAvoy, stand by.’