Dark Winter (9781101599891)

by Mark, David

  McAvoy nodded. He was vaguely interested in the Orchard Park fire, but if he was honest with himself, he had dismissed the victim as a drug addict or a burglar the second he heard the story on the radio. A shame, but not a tragedy. Worth somebody’s time. But not necessarily his.

  “So I missed the postmortem?”

  “Count your blessings,” she said. “Even Colin Ray kept his trap shut.”

  “Upshot?”

  Pharaoh hadn’t needed to look at her notes. Just reeled it off, emotionless, staring into his eyes without really looking at him. “Eight separate slash wounds, each to the bone. The first severed her clavicle. An overhand hacking motion with the right hand. Six more slashes in the same area, splintering the clavicle. One spar of bone punctured her thorax. A final thrust, as she lay on the floor, right to the heart. She’ll have been dead by the time he pulled the blade out.”

  McAvoy closed his eyes. Steadied his breathing. “He meant to kill her, then? The final thrust, that’s just so . . .”

  “Final,” Pharaoh nodded. “He wanted her dead. We don’t know who he is, why he wanted to kill her, or why he chose to do it in a packed fucking church, but we know he was pretty bloody determined.”

  McAvoy watched as she pressed her forehead into her knuckles. Worked her jaw in circles. Screwed her eyes shut. She was getting angry.

  “What else?”

  “Proof of what your young lady told you last night. Evidence of old scarring to her collarbone. Same side. Pathologist could barely see it under the mess of new wounds, but it was there. This had happened to her before.”

  “What are we going to do with that information, ma’am? Have you alerted the team?”

  She nodded. “We don’t know what it means, but it’s something to look into. Such a tiny number of people knew about it, it could be a horrible coincidence, but I find that hard to believe. Colin Ray gobbled it up like a pork-pie. As soon as I mentioned it, he’d made up his mind. This was some African refugee, finishing what they started. Went out of here, grumbling about foreigners finishing their dirty business in Yorkshire. I don’t think he really got the right end of the stick.”

  McAvoy kept quiet. The same idea had occurred to him.

  “According to the toxicology reports, she had no more alcohol in her system than a sip of communion wine. She had a bit of a cold. And she was a virgin.”

  She’d turned away, then, unable to keep it up. “It’s incident room phones for you,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the stairs. “Call yourself office manager if you like. Just make sure the PCs and the support staff don’t say anything stupid. I’ve got to go back and see the family, then the Hull Daily Mail want a chat. Chief constable wants a briefing at three. Like I’ve got anything to fucking tell him. There’s a load of CCTV to go through, if you get five minutes.” Then, more like a wife than a superior, she’d turned, given him a smile, and said: “You got compliments on the info. Thought you might like to know.”

  That had been two hours ago, and the morning has been dire. The first three phone calls he’s taken have done little to lift his spirits.

  His thoughts drift to Fred Stein. There is something about all this that seems not just peculiar but almost eerie. He understands guilt. Knows how it feels to survive an attack when others have been less fortunate. But to redress the balance in such a dramatic, almost contrived manner? To tag along with a film crew? To bring your own lifeboat? He doesn’t know enough about Fred Stein to assess his personality, his capacity for self-hatred, but in his experience ex-trawlermen are not usually given to such extravagance.

  He slips out into the corridor and leaves a message for Caroline Wills—the documentary-maker who had managed to lose the star of her show seventy miles off the Icelandic coast.

  He walks back to his desk. The incident room is taking shape. The filing cabinets have been lined up against the far wall and the desks arranged in neat twos, like seats on a bus. The map stapled to the board by the grimy window has more pins in it than yesterday. Definite sightings, possible sightings, and best guesses. One uniformed officer is talking softly into a telephone, but from his body language it doesn’t look like an exciting lead. McAvoy has received a dozen texts from Tremberg, Kirkland, and Nielsen keeping him apprised of their movements. Nielsen is finishing off the witness list, and losing patience. They saw, but didn’t see. Heard, but weren’t really listening. Witnessed the aftermath, but couldn’t say where the killer had come from, or where he went.

  Sophie Kirkland is up at the tech lab, working her way through Daphne Cotton’s hard drive. So far, she’s found that she liked to visit websites featuring Christian doctrine and Justin Timberlake.

  He’d be loath to admit it, but McAvoy is bored. He can’t get on with any of his usual workload because the files are back at Priory Road, and despite his reservations, the officers are using the database in the manner he had hoped, so there’s not even any cleaning up to be done on the system.

  The mobile phone rings. It’s a withheld number. McAvoy sinks into his chair and answers with a palpable air of relief.

  “Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy,” he says.

  “I know, son. I just rang you.” It’s DCI Ray.

  “Yes, sir.” He sits up straight. Adjusts his tie.

  “I take it Pharaoh’s still busy?”

  “I think she’ll be preparing for her interview with the Hull Mail at the moment . . .”

  “Ready for her close-up, is she?”

  McAvoy says nothing. The polite thing to do is to make a small laughing noise, so as not to upset the senior officer. But he just insulted Trish Pharaoh, and McAvoy is taking it to heart.

  “Was there something you wanted, sir?”

  Colin Ray’s voice changes. Becomes aggressive. “Yeah, there is, son. You can tell her that me and Shaz are bringing somebody in. Neville the racist. Drinks in Kingston. He’s agreed to a chat, so don’t be worrying about issuing a press release. Just going to let him have a look at an interview room and see if it jogs his memory.”

  McAvoy’s heart is racing. He stands up, too quickly, and drags the phone off his desk. “What’s the link?” he stammers.

  “He don’t like the foreigners, our Neville,” says Ray. “Hates the buggers, truth be told. And he’s got a nasty temper. Your teacher lady got me thinking. I reckon our Neville wanted to teach one of them a lesson so figured he’d bump one off and pin it on another. Make it look like unfinished business from Africa or wherever. It’s a hundred yards from Kingston to Holy Trinity, and Terry the barman reckons Nev was missing for a good hour on Saturday afternoon. That’s not his normal routine at all. Normally stays for the duration. Neville reckons he went to buy a present for his granddaughter, but . . .”

  “Granddaughter?” Incredulity creeps into McAvoy’s tone. “How old is he?”

  “Late fifties. Fit as an ox, mind.”

  “Chief Inspector, I saw this man. He was in good shape. Fast. I don’t think—”

  “Just tell Pharaoh when she finishes preening.”

  The line goes dead.

  McAvoy rests his forehead on his hand. He hears blood rushing in his head. Could it be that easy? Could it be a simple race-hate crime? An old bigot venting his frustrations? McAvoy wonders what such a result would mean. Whether his own contribution, however peremptory, would be noted. Whether Colin Ray would leapfrog Trish Pharaoh in the chain of command.

  He looks up. There’s a hard breeze shaking the bare branches of the charcoal-sketch trees beyond the dusty glass. There’s a storm coming. When the snow falls, it will be a blizzard.

  McAvoy’s phone rings again.

  “McAvoy,” he says dejectedly.

  “Sergeant? Hello, this is Caroline Wills. From Wagtail Productions? I’ve just got clear. What can I do for you?”

  McAvoy drags his n
otepad closer to himself and pulls the top off his Biro with his teeth.

  Focuses on Fred Stein.

  “Thanks for returning my call, Miss Wills. It’s regarding Fred Stein.”

  “Really?” She sounds disappointed. “I had rather hoped it might be the Daphne Cotton case.”

  McAvoy places his pen between his teeth, as some kind of physical reminder to watch what he says.

  “You’re aware of the ongoing murder investigation?”

  “Just what I’ve heard,” she says breezily. “Horrible business, isn’t it? Poor girl.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, Fred Stein.”

  “Yes, yes, sad stuff. Nice old boy. We were getting on well. You’re Hull CID, though, aren’t you? What’s the connection?”

  “Mr. Stein’s sister lives in this part of the world. She simply has some concerns about the facts regarding his death, and I said I would do what I can to fill in the gaps.”

  “Wife of the chief constable, is she?” She laughs again, a high, pleasant sound. She sounds middle-class. Definitely Southern. He has her pegged as early thirties and savvy. McAvoy decides to play along.

  “Member of the Police Authority, actually. Tipped to be chairman before he’s sixty.”

  “Ah. All makes sense now.”

  “So, what can you tell me?”

  “Well, I gave a statement to the Icelandic authorities and am due to provide one for the coroner when he opens the inquest, but I know so little about what happened it’s not going to be a killer to go over it again. Basically, I run a little TV company specializing in documentaries. We’ve been involved in some stuff for terrestrial TV, but largely you’ll find our work on the documentary channels. About five years ago I did a program on the sinking of the Dunbar. Spent some time in Hull. My goodness, what a place.”

  McAvoy hears himself laughing. “That’s one way of describing it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Down to earth. Proper Northern, if that doesn’t sound too silly.”

  “Oh, yes. A whippet down each trouser leg and a bag of chips on their shoulder.”

  “You know what I mean,” she says, giggling.

  “What was the interest in the Dunbar?”

  The vessel in question was a brand-new supertrawler that sank in the late seventies during a ferocious storm off the coast of Norway. For years, the fishing community in Hull had voiced their doubts about its loss. There was talk of it being a spy ship, sailing into Russian waters to photograph enemy vessels during the Cold War. The gossipmongers reckoned the crew were all still alive, holed in some Russian gulag. Even when the local fishing industry went belly-up, the rumors about the Dunbar persisted until, eventually, a city MP had to make good on a pre-election promise and lobby for a public inquiry. When it came, the results were inconclusive. The Dunbar had indeed sunk to the bottom of the Barents Sea. Bodies were indeed found on board. But were there spies among their number? Nobody could say. It was tabloid and conspiracy theorist heaven.

  “The Yanks love anything that reminds them of the Cold War. We pitched the idea to a channel in the U.S. You know the kind of thing: Were these plucky Yorkshiremen really spies against the Soviets? Were they silenced by the Reds? I think they miss the good old days. Anyway, they went for it and I attended the last few days of the inquiry. Good crowd. One chap, Tony something-or-other, smelled like an ashtray. As it happened the program never saw the light of day. We still got paid for it, but there was no room in the schedules.

  “So. Last year I was going through some old footage. Things that never aired. I was watching the Dunbar program and realized what an interesting little story it was. Not the Cold War nonsense. Just the people involved. Their lives. Their stories. Long story short, I did some research and realized it was coming up for forty years since the Black Winter. Four trawlers in a few days. Terrible stuff. I went through the old contacts book and tried to get in touch with some of the old hacks I met during the inquiry. Well, you know how these things are. People move on. But after a bit of graft I found Russ Chandler. More of a writer than a journalist but knows his stuff. Certainly knows the fishing industry. He told me all about Fred Stein. The one who got away. It seemed tailor-made for what we wanted. A program about the Black Winter with a modern twist. When we heard Fred had never spoken about what happened to him, we got the checkbook out. Set Russ the job of tracking him down. Made the offer, did the deal, and bish-bash-bosh—next thing we’re trying to find a container ship we can hitch a ride with to Iceland.”

  McAvoy nods. He’s stopped making notes. He finds himself liking the way this lady talks.

  “So, that was that. We sent transport. Made the arrangements. Met him at the gangplank, or whatever you call them. Real nice old boy. Full of stories. Real charmer. We planned to do a series of interviews during the journey, and then he was going to lay a wreath over the spot where it happened. Would have made a wonderful closing scene. But after what should have been the last interview, he got really emotional. Went to get a breath of fresh air and didn’t come back. Two days later, while we were going bloody frantic, we heard over the radio his body had been found in a lifeboat. Died of exposure and injuries to his ribs . . .”

  She pauses.

  “Emotional,” prompts McAvoy. “Emotional enough to kill himself?”

  “I wouldn’t have said so. But if he brought his own lifeboat he must have planned it from the start. I don’t remember seeing him unload it, and I’ve checked with the taxi firm that brought him to the dock and they don’t remember him having it with him, but people make mistakes and forget the silliest things. Apparently, with this style of lifeboat, before you inflate it it’s not much bigger than a medium-sized suitcase. You just flip open the switches, pull the lever, and it inflates. Got a rigid midsection, so it’s possible that the impact on that is what did his ribs in. Hard to say. I’ve got to be honest, the captain was never really keen on us even being there and most of the conversation was in Icelandic, so trying to find out what happened was a nightmare.”

  McAvoy nods. None of this makes sense. “What do you think happened?”

  “Me? I think he probably did himself in. I don’t know if it was guilt or just the fact he was getting old and it seemed like the right time. He’d had forty years that, in his head, he didn’t deserve. Maybe he didn’t think he’d used them right. Either way, it’s a shame. At least he’ll be remembered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The documentary. The interviews are extraordinary. So moving. I can send you them if you’re interested.”

  McAvoy nods, then realizes she can’t see him. “Yes, thank you.” They both stay silent for a moment. “It’s Russ you could really do with speaking to, if you want to fill in some of the gaps,” she says lightly. “He’s the bloodhound who found him. Knew chapter and verse on the story. He’s a cracking writer, is Russ. I miss him.”

  “Why, where is he?”

  “He wanted to come on the tanker with us, but there was no way we could get insurance for him.”

  “No?”

  “No, he’s a bit . . .”

  “What?”

  She gives a little laugh, unsure of the best way to say it. “Unhinged,” she says. “He drinks. In fact, no, Oliver Reed used to drink. Amy Winehouse used to drink. Russ really, really drinks. You’ve never seen anything like it. Smokes more than your sixty a day as well. Already cost him one leg, and it’s probably going to cost him the other.”

  “Sounds like he knows his vices.”

  “Vices, yes. But it’s the voices that do Russ the most harm. He’s in a private clinic in Lincolnshire at the moment. Halfway between drying out and being sectioned. Real character, but he’s had one of those lives. It’s made him bitter, and everybody likes bitter with a whiskey chaser. You should talk to him, though. He can tell you more about Fred than anyone. We wouldn’t have even fo
und him if it wasn’t for Russ. It’s a shame he’s having to use his check to pay for treatment.”

  McAvoy looks around the room. The officers have gone back to writing up telephone interviews and logging calls. There is nothing for him to do. Something inside him is screaming. That this is important. That this conversation, this information, somehow matters.

  He lowers his voice. Closes his eyes. Already regretting his decision.

  “Is he accepting visitors?”

  11.

  3:22 p.m., Linwood Manor

  Deepest, darkest Lincolnshire.

  Two hours from home.

  Pretty swish, thinks McAvoy, as his tires slide to an elegant halt on the shingled forecourt and he looks up at the imposing redbrick building. He takes in the giant oak double doors, standing open to reveal a neatly tiled floor.

  A converted Victorian manor house set in four acres of landscaped woodland. McAvoy thought he had clicked on the wrong link and arrived at an upmarket country hotel when he first navigated his way through a maze of mental-health websites and spotted the address he was looking for.

  Run by an international company specializing in detox treatments, borderline personality disorders, and alcohol dependence, the center boasted a 90 percent success rate, and made what could have been viewed as a month of agonizing withdrawal seem like a vacation in paradise.

  Although it’s only mid-afternoon, the sky is already darkening, and the gray cloud of ferocious snow that will soon split and engulf Hull has already been torn open here. A confetti of plump white flakes tumbles from the sky, and McAvoy is grateful for his knee-length coat as he trots up the steps and through the doors, feeling the wind tug at the hems of his trousers and almost slipping on the wet tiles.

  A smiling middle-aged woman in a white blouse and believably dyed black hair is sitting behind a mahogany reception desk. A vase of gerbera and gypsophila sits on its polished, gleaming surface. Glossy brochures and price lists stand in a rack to her left. It would be impossible to pop in for a leaflet without having to walk past her. Impossible, too, not to nod a hello in response to her wide, gleaming grin. Difficult to get out again without engaging her in conversation and being persuaded within twenty minutes that Linwood Manor is the best place to put yourself, your loved ones, and your cash.