Darkness Falls

by David Mark

  “No. Owen, tell him he’s wrong.” She’s imploring me to take the pain away, but all the magic’s gone from my wand and I just sit there, looking at the floor, picturing the moment I finally met her precious boyfriend; a patch of shadow in the darkness, falling into mud and leaves, a hole in his head and a bullet in his brain.

  Kerry – wiping tears, sniffing, dabbing at her nose with the sleeve of my shirt. Sniffles, but no sobs.

  Roper pursing his lips, nodding to the young cop in the direction of the kitchen, urging him to go and make a cup of tea.

  Film crew zooming in. Microphone boom snaking across the room above my head like a dinosaur’s neck, peering down at Kerry as she loses herself in thoughts and miseries, cross-legged, staring at her lap, tail of my shirt puddling in front of her dignity.

  Young cop, staring at the draining board and looking for ingredients. Giving up and pulling a face that suggests he’ll be wiping his feet after he leaves.

  “Kerry.”

  Roper, soft of voice and watery of eye.

  “Kerry.”

  Her looking up. Light catching the blackheads on her nose. Putting one of her plaited rat-tails in her mouth and sucking on the end. Spindly legs and arms like twigs stripped of bark.

  “Kerry, do you have any idea why Beatle would be at the Country Park late last night?”

  Looking at me again, knowing that this is the sort of shit I can wade in without dirtying my socks.

  “Tell him the truth, Kerry,” I say, soft as her face. “You can’t drop him in it now.”

  Kerry adopting the pose. The dance of grief. Picking it up lovely.

  “I don’t know.” Voice like a weeping wound. “He didn’t say where he was going.”

  “When was the last time you saw him, Kerry?”

  “Yesterday morning, I think.” Face creasing with the effort of recollection. “It might have been the day before.”

  Roper moving closer and placing a hand on hers. Me shuffling away.

  “Tell me what you think I need to know.”

  And she does. Doesn’t even take any charm to pick the lock. Opening up to Roper’s probing like scrunched-up silk.

  “I know he was a dealer,” he says. “I know he was a bad lad. But he didn’t deserve this and I’m going to catch whoever did it. You can help.”

  She’s his now. Lured into his camp without even a look in my direction.

  “He didn’t get scared, y’know,” she says, earnestly, sniffing, taking the cigarette that Roper has produced and ignited without request or ceremony. “But he was excited. Working on something that was going to make it all better. But he didn’t speak about it, I swear.”

  “It’s OK. Just tell me what you know.” So gentle. So delicate. Such a fucking pussy. “They tell me you meant everything to him. How long had you been together?”

  Kerry smiling, all girly, through the tears. “Just a few weeks, y’know, but it was real. Soon as we met it was just, like, we’d always known each other, y’know.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “William Booth House.” Homeless hostel in town. Kerry’s occasional home, when she can’t remember where she lives. “He was staying there for a night and we just got talking and sat together in the park for ages. He was so clever, and really kind to me. He had a real something about him, a real spark. His life hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to, but his dad used to…”

  “Yes, I heard. So it was love at first sight?” Smile in his voice. Might be genuine.

  Me, shaking my head and scowling at the floor.

  “I think so.” Giggling again. “He said he wanted to make my world spin in the opposite direction. And he did.”

  “Wine you and dine you, did he?” asks Roper. I’m the only person in the room who notices the trace of irony at the corners of his eyes.

  “It wasn’t like that. But he brought me things. Held my hand. Took me for walks. Looked after me.”

  “Gave you drugs?”

  Pause.

  Kerry testing the edges of the man-trap and deciding she doesn’t fear it.

  “Sometimes. But he didn’t want me doing so much gear anymore. We only smoked a bit of dope together, took the odd E. But he didn’t go near smack. Hated the stuff.”

  “But he sold it.”

  Kerry shrugging. Roper accepting her acceptance.

  “Did you know he had enemies, Kerry?”

  “We had a bit of bother a while back with some people shouting at us but he wasn’t bothered. And the other day… well, some lads in a Land Rover gave him some aggro. But that was nothing. Barely mentioned it again. But I suppose when I think about it he was a bit jumpy. When we were in the pub he used to watch the door, always sitting with his back to the wall.”

  “You noticed that, did you?” Roper asks, surprised. Doesn’t seem interested in the Land Rover.

  “It reminded me of somebody.” She looks at me for the first time, and I smile automatically.

  Roper takes his hand from hers and removes the cigarette stub from her mouth. Extinguishes it on the sole of his boot.

  Playtime over.

  “You see, Kerry, Beatle had some very dangerous enemies. Beatle had been a very bad boy. He’d started working for somebody that a bottom-feeder like Beatle had no right to work for. Beatle should have stuck to selling barbs and wraps to schoolkids. That was his level. It was his place in the world. He had no right to step into the world he stepped into.”

  “What?” Kerry confused now, looking around for a friend, wanting the tenderness back. “What d’you mean?”

  “Beatle had stopped being freelance, pet. Beatle was on the payroll for a very bad man. And Beatle, God bless his ignorant fucking cotton socks, didn’t realise what a bad move it would be to cream a little off the top. And today, Beatle has a big fucking hole in his head.”

  Kerry’s face twisting into tears, like a sponge being wrung. Me moving forward without thinking. Melting. Arms around her shoulders and pulling her in.

  Looking up at Roper.

  Glare that could turn a desert to glass.

  “Enough.”

  “Job to do, laddo. Murder to solve. Two, actually. Bonus. And princess here might be able to help. You know the score.”

  “And what, you reckon my sister killed him, do you? Shot him in the woods and battered his mate to death? Christ, she can barely remember her own fucking name most of the time. She can’t raise a glass to her lips without stopping for a rest.”

  Wry smile from Roper.

  Silence, again.

  Tension like fog.

  Just him and me staring at each other.

  Doug breaking first, giving a nod to the young copper to stand down.

  “Fair enough, Owen. It’s a lot for the poor girl to take in. Sorry to have to break the news like this. I’ll get back in touch when she’s had time to digest all this.”

  Kerry looking up and half-smiling. Polite, despite herself.

  Me and Roper standing up, both still on guard.

  He can’t resist it. Gives me a look.

  “Seems that you’re your usual well-informed self, laddo. Surprised you didn’t break the news yourself, if you know everything. Must have come as a shock for you too.”

  Kerry’s head spinning in my direction. Cameraman repositioning himself and zooming in on my face.

  Could be the money shot.

  “What?” Poor retort.

  “About Beatle. You’re on the story, know the names.”

  “I just knew him as Beatle. Didn’t put that on the voicebank, did you?” My smile looks like a snarl.

  “Maybe not. Still, cracker for you, ain’t it? You going to let her stop crying before you get your exclusive interview with the victim’s girlfriend? Or do the tears add to the piece?”

  “You can fucking talk,” I say, pissed off, nodding at the camera team.

  “Yeah. I can.”

  “So many ways of saying nothing. Must be so proud. Got to bring in a TV team just so it
’s worth your while to open your mouth. Must be quite sad, constantly having to validate your existence like that, not being a real person unless there’s an audience to watch the performance.”

  “But I do things, lad. And you just write about them.”

  “And what have you done? Haven’t even got a reg number for this Vauxhall you’re chasing, have you? Haven’t got a fucking clue. You’re telling her you’re going to catch him? Bollocks.”

  “I will catch him, son. I catch them all.”

  “You couldn’t catch syphilis, pal. Not unless your wife let you back in her bed.”

  Frantic coughing from the young copper as the laugh rattles his throat.

  Sniggering from the sound man.

  A little intake of breath from the director, an excited slurp of air, as she realises she’s making classic TV.

  Kerry chewing on her knuckle.

  Me smirking, arms outstretched, daring him to bring it on.

  Doug frozen, trying to work out how Supercop would react at a time like this.

  Roper moving at last, nodding to the others to wrap this up. Pressing a card into Kerry’s hand.

  “I’ll see you again,” he says.

  “I’ll see you out,” I say, and hold the door open.

  Camera drops. Microphone retracts.

  The film crew are muttering among themselves as they file down the corridor, and I spot some patting of backs.

  Young copper goes next, raising an eyebrow as he passes my face. It’s a friendly gesture, as if we’re mates. I can’t return it.

  Roper last of all. Stops in front of me, face close to mine.

  “Balls, lad. Fucking big ones. I wouldn’t want to piss me off.”

  “Press conference at nine? Can’t wait.”

  Five seconds of eye contact.

  Then we both smile.

  Just the two of us, loving it all.

  “Should be a cracking show,” I say, friendly.

  He nods enthusiastically and we walk together down the corridor and stairs. “Oh aye. Just watch the cracks about the missus next time, eh?”

  “Yeah, sorry fella. You can win the next one.”

  “I will, don’t fret.”

  We’re at the door. He pulls it open and lets the storm in, the darkness and the flashing lights. “See you tomorrow?”

  “No doubt. Trying to do this and the trial is a fucking ball-ache.”

  “Worse for me. Ella’s fiancé’s on the stand. Choudhury’s going to eat him up. Defence should start day after tomorrow. He’s got a psychiatrist reckons Cadbury’s so-called confession is worth fuck all. Then there’s the cellmate. You know juries, and Choudhury’s basically written his script for him. If Cadbury walks…”

  “He won’t. He did it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Stops.

  Said too much.

  “Look after your sister.”

  “Always will.”

  And he’s gone, in a swish of coat-tail.

  Me, standing on the step, bare-chested, watching his car move off, thanking fuck that I parked the Cavalier a few streets away.

  Smiling as it passes the white van; its owner stiff beneath Kerry’s bed.

  Shivering as I realise they’ve all gone.

  A car engine. Thick, expensive tyres on wet tarmac…

  Land Rover coasting past me, slowly – a hulking lad in a tracksuit top at the wheel, following Roper. Passenger: a skinny guy with style.

  Staring at me.

  Forming a gun of finger and thumb.

  Pulling the trigger as they pass by.

  And I’m standing there; cold and exhilarated. Glad to be alive. Thinking one word, over and over.

  Petrovsky.

  27

  McAvoy wishes he were the kind of man capable of acting on impulse. He saw a film once on an aeroplane (his first trip abroad, to a honeymoon on a Greek island, where his pale Celtic skin peeled off like wallpaper), in which the lead character was urging another man to throw caution to the wind. Saying that sometimes, it was better to rush in headlong, than dally with strategy. The advice had jarred strongly with his father’s words.

  Slow and steady wins the race.

  Look before you leap.

  Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

  Don’t be a bloody fool.

  If you marry that gypsy bitch you’ll never hear another word from me.

  He stands outside the tidy three-bedroomed house, a bundle of documents under his arm, and feels an overwhelming urge to ring Roisin. To get permission. To be told, again, that he’s a good man. A policeman. That he’s just doing his job.

  The paperwork in the manila envelope seems to sting him. Each word on the printed page feels like another brand. A lash on his skin. An accusation that he has been a peripheral part of an investigation which is trying to convict the wrong man.

  He holds the scented handkerchief to his face again. Breathes deep. He wonders if her photograph will be staring down at him. If he’ll be able to keep his feet when the nausea comes. If he’ll drop to his knees and throw up his lunch in the living room of the Butterworth family home.

  He doesn’t know what he wants more. To knock on the door and ask the dead girl’s parents for a quiet chat, or to turn and run. Get back to his computer files and the glorious feeling of disassociation that comes with investigating through a keyboard and a screen.

  He turns away from the property. Finds it too painful to look.

  From the files, McAvoy knows Ella didn’t grow up here. She and her family had lived a few streets away until she was in her mid-teens, before upgrading to this nice, functional, ex-council property, with a sparkly pebble-dashed frontage and cheap double-glazing that seem to jar, at once twinkly and thickly dull, in the glare of the street lamp and the veiled moon.

  He wonders how long it’s safe to stand here, across the street, inside the piss-stinking telephone box, getting his courage up and working on his story. Wonders if he’s aroused suspicion. What he’ll do if a squad car pulls up. What he’ll tell Roper, about why he was standing across from the Butterworths’ family home, with a dossier of evidence that is starting to suggest Shane Cadbury might not have killed their baby girl. That Doug Roper might have taken the easy option. That the real killer might still be on the streets with a weapon in their pocket and bad intentions on their mind.

  He rehearses the lines in his head. Wondering whether it is ever acceptable in the eyes of God, in the eyes of his father, to tell a lie.

  “Mr Butterworth… yes, hi… just for the sake of completeness… I’m eager to go through a few items in your statement… just check the facts…”

  The door to the phone box swings open and McAvoy spins round, a deceit forming in his mouth, his papers clutched to his chest; a picture of guilt and remorse.

  “We told you, no more bloody comments!”

  Ella Butterworth’s father is framed in the doorway. He’s angry, but with it is a colossal tiredness. An exhaustion. The air of a man who has fought many enemies, and knows that weight of numbers is soon going to bring him down.

  “Leave us alone,” he says, weakly.

  McAvoy tries to pull himself together and reaches into his pocket for his warrant card. He holds it up, trying to find the muscles in his face to twitch out a smile.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant McAvoy,” he stammers, then takes a breath. “Hector,” he adds.

  Arthur Butterworth gives a slow nod. Tries to look apologetic and gives up. He’s wearing a cheap, charity-shop overcoat, jogging pants and shoes. He’s got a scarf around his neck and wisps of wool are attaching themselves to his unshaven, pale face.

  “Sorry,” says Arthur. “Thought you were another reporter. It’s not as though we haven’t been good to them. Given them everything we have. What more is there to say?”

  The question is so immense that McAvoy can find no words.

  Under his arm, the folder burns guiltily, but he ignores it, and finds Arthur’s eyes with his
own.

  “Sorry, I was just passing this way and wanted to check everything was OK. I’ve been involved in the investigation and wasn’t sure if the family liaison officer was still assigned…”

  Arthur nods and steps backwards, allowing McAvoy to extract himself from the phone box. He feels suddenly shivery as he steps into the cold, misty dark.

  “Diamonds, they are,” he says, softly. “Family liaison team. With us even before Roper found her. Kept us going. Can’t speak highly enough of them. Nowt else for them to do now, though, is there? Just got to get through the trial, and then it’s done.”

  McAvoy looks at the house across the street. There are still no lights on inside.

  “Your wife home?”

  “Yes. Just having a quiet few minutes.”

  “The light’s off. I wasn’t sure if you were in.”

  “What’s the point in switching it on?” Arthur doesn’t say it, but McAvoy hears the sentence, in his skull: “What’s the point of anything?”

  “Sorry if I scared you,” says McAvoy.

  “No, no, it’s nothing. Pleased you care. I was just off for my walk and saw you and figured you were another reporter. Nobody else ever uses that phone box. When she was missing, they would stand across the road from the house and ring us, asking to be allowed in. Must have figured the caller display unit would seem more friendly if it were a local number instead of a mobile. The things they tried! One lad came to the door and reckoned he’d torn his trousers and wanted to know if we had a needle and thread. The missus let him in and next thing he was pulling pictures off the wall! We gave them what they wanted in the end, of course. Don’t know if we did the right thing, now. Every copy of every paper has the same picture. The one where she’s smiling, sort of looking over her shoulder. God, she was so happy that night. She had a real talent, y’know. If she put herself forward a bit more she could have been a star. When she won that singing competition in the Hull Mail I thought I was going to burst with pride. She was so happy. Deserved it all. Judges all said it wasn’t just her looks. Had such a talent. Such a talent…”

  He drifts away, lost in himself, mummified in misery and loss. Consumed with the grief of a man who knows his baby was being butchered while he downed a pint in the pub.