Dark Winter (9781101599891)

by Mark, David

  “About yonder, is it?”

  The man on the front step is in his mid-sixties and bald as a bowling ball. He’s short but wiry, and his Merchant Navy tie is fastened immaculately at the neck of a checkered shirt tucked into polyester trousers with creases so sharp they could be used to slice meat at a deli counter. He stands with a straight back, and despite the fact that he’s accessorized the outfit with the old-man twinset of cardigan and slippers, there is something about him that commands respect. Although he’s standing in the doorway of a two-bedroom terraced house on an abandoned street on the city’s worst estate, his manner puts McAvoy in mind of a country laird, opening the great double doors of a stately home.

  “Jack Raycroft,” he says, offering McAvoy a liver-spotted but firm hand. He gives Helen Tremberg the same courtesy and then nods again. “Bad business,” he says. His accent is local.

  “It is that,” says McAvoy, after they’ve gone through the business of showing identification and introducing themselves.

  “Don’t know why it had to be that one,” says Raycroft with a sigh. “Enough empty houses round here. Why pick one that somebody’s taken a bit of pride in, eh? It’s like pride’s the crime.”

  The three of them stare at the house across the tiny street. There are few signs that up until two days ago it had been a treasured home. It is now every bit as derelict and broken as its neighbors. The front wall is smoke-blackened, and the chipboard nailed over the broken front window has already been daubed with graffiti, a canvas of obscene drawings and spray-painted tags.

  “You’ve spoken to the uniformed officers, I understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Not that there was much to tell. My pal Warren was in hospital with a spot of angina. Joyce, his missus, was with their lass out in one of the villages. We were inside watching some costume thing on BBC. We heard the sirens about the same time we saw the flames. Not that we pay much attention to the sirens. You hear them all day and night round here. But they were definitely heading our way. I looked out of the window to see what was going on, and there was smoke pouring out the front door opposite. Even with the smoke it was the open door that struck me first. It’s funny how your mind works, isn’t it? You just never see an open door around here. Least of all over there. They’ve been here almost as long as we have. Know better.”

  Tremberg reaches into the pocket of her waterproof and pulls out a sheaf of typed papers that she had printed off before leaving the office last night. It’s a basic breakdown of the investigation so far, and contains little to get enthusiastic about. “The lock was picked,” says Tremberg, nodding, as if to congratulate herself on remembering the fact. “Professional job, too.”

  “Must have been,” says Raycroft. “Double-glazed job like that. Bought it with security in mind.”

  From inside the house comes a woman’s voice. “Is it more police, Jack?”

  He rolls his eyes at the two officers, who return his slight smile. “The wife,” he says. “Taken it badly.”

  “I’ll bet,” says McAvoy, nodding.

  “I’d invite you in, but I think she’d get upset.”

  “We’re fine,” says McAvoy, content to loiter on the doorstep. From the floral print on the walls of the small section of hallway that he can see behind Raycroft, he imagines the living room will be a chaotic fusion of antimacassars and lace, grandchildren and wall-mounted flying ducks, and he knows instinctively that seeing all that will make him sad. He has a great admiration for people who refuse to be intimidated and refuse to move on when all common sense dictates that they should cut their losses and sell, but deep down, he knows their stand is a futile one. That when they die, the house will be flogged to whatever private company decides to clear the land and build flats for asylum seekers.

  “Odd business, isn’t it? Leaving the photographs and all that?”

  McAvoy finds himself nodding politely, then realizes he’s no clue what the man is talking about. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “I told the uniformed chap who came yesterday. On the front lawn of the house, there was a big holdall full of all Warren and Joyce’s photographs. They kept them on the mantelpiece. I don’t know if the victim was on the rob and chucked the stuff, then went in for a kip, but at least that’s one good thing out of all this—none of their photos were ruined.”

  McAvoy looks at Tremberg, who shrugs. This is news to her, too.

  “Where are the photos now?”

  “I’ve got them,” says Raycroft, matter-of-factly. “Picked them up off the lawn, still in the bag. I’ll give them to the daughter when she comes round. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  McAvoy turns away. Looks back at the burned-out house. Tries to work out what it might mean. Why somebody would go to the trouble of saving the family pictures before setting fire to a house with a human being on the sofa. He thinks back to what had been said the night before. About the homeowner’s daughter being pleased that her parents would now have to leave the area. For a moment, he wonders if her concerns for her parents’ safety could be enough to persuade her to light a fire at their home or whether this was all coincidence and foolishness.

  “Jack, love. Is that police?”

  “Won’t be a minute, pet,” shouts Raycroft over his shoulder.

  “We won’t be much longer,” says Tremberg, taking the lead while her colleague stares into the distance and runs his tongue around his mouth as if he’s chasing something.

  “Do you know who the silly bugger was yet?” asks the old man, turning his gaze on Tremberg and surreptitiously standing a little taller, as if uncomfortable at having to look up to keep eye contact with a woman half his age. “Why he chose that house to fall asleep in? We heard on the news that there was a fire at Hull Royal in the burns unit and that the victim had been involved. When they took him out of here he didn’t look like he was ready to roll himself a cigarette . . .”

  McAvoy and Tremberg exchange a glance and decide that this nice old boy deserves a little honesty.

  “The fire at the hospital was deliberately started,” says Tremberg. “Somebody came onto the ward, went into his room, doused him in lighter fuel, and set fire to him.”

  “Goodness,” says Raycroft, looking to McAvoy for confirmation and receiving it with the merest of nods.

  “It was definitely the same man who was pulled out of the fire at your neighbor’s house. The reports show he had a tremendous amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. Almost fatal amounts. So, there’s every chance that he was coming home from the pub, wandered into the wrong house, lit a fag, and set himself on fire. But we’ve managed to identify him, and we’ve got a name. Does Trevor Jefferson mean anything to you?”

  “Jefferson,” says Raycroft, coming back. “Wasn’t he the sod whose family died a couple of years back in the fire over the way? A few streets from here?”

  McAvoy nods. Hopes Tremberg has the presence of mind to play this delicately and not start putting words in the old man’s mouth.

  “That’s correct, sir,” she says. “His wife, two children, and stepchild all succumbed to their injuries.”

  “Aye,” says Raycroft, rubbing his face with his hand. “Few years ago now, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “By God.” He stares over at the burned-out house and then pats the pockets of his cardigan. He pulls out a tin of rolling tobacco and, with the absentminded dexterity that always amazes McAvoy, makes himself a thin cigarette. He lights it with a match and proceeds to smoke it in the way that reminds McAvoy of his father: embers toward his palm, the cigarette held by four fingers and a thumb. Shielded from the wind and prying eyes. “Got what he deserved, then,” he says at last.

  “Sir?” McAvoy tries not to pounce. To keep his voice even.

  “He was the sod who started the fire. Killed the lot of them. Never served a day for it. Only one who
got out alive, and he was the one playing with matches. Sounds to me like somebody punished him for it. Make sure before you handcuff him, you shake him by the hand.”

  14.

  It’s been only two hours since McAvoy and Tremberg stood on the doorstep of Jack Raycroft’s home, but already they are building up a pretty clear picture of the kind of man whose death they are investigating. Irresponsible, selfish, a welfare scrounger. A tabloid would need little encouragement to slap the “evil” tag on him, though Tremberg put it best when she declared that “nasty bastard” was a more suitable moniker for the dear departed than any of the psychological terms McAvoy suggested while poring over the limited case notes that the database had been fed.

  Tremberg clicks the mouse, and the computer screen fills with images of charred bodies. Both detectives sniff and fight the urge to look away. The corpses are unmistakably those of blackened, flame-devoured children.

  A rumbling belch comes from the doorway, and both detectives spin round. Sergeant Linus is wrapping both of his fat, fleshy hands around a mug. He’s eclipsing the light spilling in from the corridor, and the room suddenly darkens as he yawns expansively and takes a gulp of his drink. The smell coming from the container is meaty and inviting, and McAvoy realizes that the uniformed officer wedging his considerable bulk in the doorway is actually drinking gravy.

  “Was a bad one,” says Linus, taking a slurp from the mug and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never saw anything like it. Was like Pompeii in there when the smoke cleared. Could still see the expression on the youngest lad’s face. Wish I could say he looked like he was asleep. He didn’t. He looked like he was in fucking agony.”

  “Must have been awful,” said Tremberg.

  “Fucking was.”

  Tremberg waves a hand at the office, with its damp walls, out-of-date posters, and threadbare carpet. “I take it you’re not missing CID. Cushy number here.”

  Linus fails to spot the sarcasm and gives a nod. “Twenty years was enough, love.”

  “You got the time to fill us in?” asks McAvoy, making it sound as though the whole investigation would stumble without a few moments of Linus’s valuable time. “We just need an overview.”

  “Like I said on the phone, I’m happy to help.”

  Even in the first couple of hours of the inquiry, McAvoy has found it hard to escape the conclusion that the investigation into the original fire had been a haphazard affair. And he’s finding it hard not to blame the shambolic, lazy bastard in front of him—a feeling not helped by the sensation that the charred bodies of the dead youngsters are staring at the back of his head from the computer screen.

  “Well, it was pretty clear from the off that the dad was the one who’d pulled the trigger, so to speak. Bloke didn’t have a mark on him. Was tempting to put a few there myself.”

  McAvoy jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the screen. “The forensics report suggests an accelerant was used. Lighter fluid. Early indications are that the same MO was used last night at Hull Royal. And the night before at the house yonder. You don’t think that perhaps he was innocent, do you? That whoever did the fire that killed his missus and his kids might have come back to finish the job?”

  Linus appears to give it some thought. “Possible, lad. But like I said, I’m pretty damn sure that Jefferson did that fire. And I reckon somebody’s decided an eye for an eye is the only kind of justice he deserved.”

  The room falls silent for a moment. McAvoy nods slowly and decides to stop being so bloody nice.

  “You didn’t charge him, though, did you? If he’s got the only kind of justice he deserved, it’s because you never charged him with anything. Never even came close, from what I can see.”

  Linus bristles. Pushes himself away from the wall. “Hang on there, now,” he begins, temper flushing his cheeks. “We did a thorough investigation. We just couldn’t pin it on him.”

  “Thorough?” McAvoy contorts the word into a snarl of contempt. “The bloody Hull Daily Mail did a more thorough background check on this bloke. Eight fires! Eight fires at his previous addresses. That didn’t strike you as odd?”

  “We knew there’d been some little blazes, here and there,” says Linus, waving the accusation away with both wobbling arms. “He’d reported them to the council, not the police. We had nothing on him except a couple of deception convictions from his younger days and a drunken assault on a copper a year before.”

  “And yet you say you had him pegged from the start.” McAvoy turns to Tremberg. “I don’t know about you, Detective Constable, but when I make up my mind that somebody has killed a lot of children and his other half, I tend to be rather dogged in my pursuit of a way to lock the bugger up.”

  Linus looks from one officer to the other, his many chins wobbling with righteous indignation.

  He deflates slightly. Turns away. “Look, I never said I was bloody Sherlock Holmes . . .”

  Again they sit in silence. Eventually, McAvoy wipes a hand across his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache starting. He feels like he’s trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle and fears that more than half the pieces are still picture-side down.

  “I understand, Sergeant,” he says, and hopes his face doesn’t betray him. “We all get days like that. Get weeks and months, even. We’ve all had cases where we just knew from the off that we were onto a loser. And it can’t have been easy. Roper dumped you in it. Realized it was going to be hard to make anything stick and walked away. Hardly made you feel like going the extra mile, did it?”

  Linus is breathing heavily, but the gasps are coming through a half smile. He looks relieved. Pleased that this holier-than-thou jock bastard at least understands how it is to be running uphill with the world on your back. “What could I do? The report said that it had been deliberately started and that accelerant was used. Fine. But Jefferson said it was the eldest boy. That he’d caught him playing with his lighters in the past. Was a case of his word against the dead. Sure, Jefferson’d been involved in other suspicious fires, but the dead lad had been at all those properties, too. Knowing something and making it stick are two different things.”

  “You push him? You lay the pressure on?”

  “Course I bloody did. Had him in the interview room for hours, me and Pete May. Took it in turns. Tried to make him feel guilty. Just kept sitting there, shaking his head, saying his boy did it and that was that. Couldn’t charge him. Wouldn’t have got past the magistrates.”

  “Press gave you a roasting, though, eh?”

  “That’s what they do! The same papers that had been criticizing us for spending a day and a night interrogating a poor grieving father went after us saying we were incompetent when they found out he’d reported eight fires in the previous couple of years and that his neighbors all reckoned he was a pyro-bloody-maniac. We can’t win. Wasn’t easy, letting him go.”

  “And the neighbors? The people who spoke to the papers. Would any of them have been bitter enough about him walking to go and finish the job?”

  Linus shrugs. “You know estates like this. Doesn’t take much to get people hot under the collar. But I don’t reckon I know any of the locals with the balls to walk into Hull Royal and cook a burns victim in his bed. Least still walk out again. I reckon you’re on a hiding to nothing, son.”

  McAvoy crosses to the window and opens the crumpled metal blinds with his fingers. Looks out on an estate as gray and miserable as school mashed potato. Two children no more than seven years old are playing on the only equipment in the little swing park not to have been vandalized beyond use. The joy of seeing the two boys laughing with glee as they push each other around on the roundabout is tempered by the fact they are both smoking.

  “Not exactly Tenerife out there, is it, lad?” laughs Linus as McAvoy turns away from the world beyond the glass and returns his gaze to the se
rgeant’s sweaty, flabby face. “Sometimes you have to wonder if these poor dead nippers got off light.”

  McAvoy says nothing.

  The silence is broken by the unmistakable sound of McAvoy’s mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. Glad of the distraction but concerned that it may be Pharaoh ringing for a lack-of-progress report, he pulls the contraption free. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize.

  “McAvoy,” he says.

  “It’s Russ Chandler, Detective Sergeant. You came to see me . . .”

  “Mr. Chandler. Yes. Hello.”

  “I suppose this call is a preemptive strike. When do you want me in?”

  “Mr. Chandler, I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “I’m not daft, Sergeant. I know how these things work. Are you sending a car, or . . . ?”

  “Mr. Chandler, can we start again? You and I have concluded our discussions, unless you’ve remembered anything further regarding Fred Stein.”

  “Stein?” Chandler sounds astonished. Angry, even. “Sergeant, whatever game you’re playing, it’s not necessary. I’m willing to cooperate.”

  Tremberg looks at McAvoy and mouths “What’s happening?” at him. He has no answers. His mind is a mess of headaches and confusions.

  “Cooperate with what, Mr. Chandler?”

  There is silence at the other end of the line. It sounds to McAvoy as though the other man is drawing a breath, settling his thoughts.

  “Mr. Chandler?”

  “You must have checked his phone records.”

  “Whose phone records?”

  “Christ, man. Jefferson. The bloke who got cooked. I spoke to him, okay? But that’s where it ends. I was nowhere near Hull when it happened. Remember that . . .”

  “You spoke to him? Why?”

  “The book, remember. About survivors. We spoke about it. He was one of the names I’d approached when I started researching it. Just early stages, like I told you, but he phoned me a few days ago. Wanted to know if I was still interested. Said he was short on cash . . .”