by David Mark
And then he hears it. The unmistakable, crunching sound of violence and laughter.
A growl, emanating from the belly of the station. Animal and ugly.
He stops. Slows.
There’s rotting meat in his nostrils, bile climbing in his throat.
And stepping out of the cell like the devil himself: smiling wide.
Roper.
45
I’m dragged back onto the bunk.
The young blonde copper’s grabbing the skin beneath my armpits as he manhandles me into a sitting position. There’s more pain – a sharp, precise sting through the throbbing agony in my neck and crown – and I hear him snigger as I twist in his arms.
“Look at me.”
Roper, standing astride me, in a silver two-tone suit, grey shirt and oxblood tie. Leather coat. Black gloves.
“Look at me.”
I raise my head, pain shooting from my neck to my toes and back again.
He brings the phone book down again on the back of my head, spine first.
I sprawl onto the floor.
Blondie picks me up. Puts me back on the cot.
Roper hits me again.
Takes off his coat in a graceful shrug of rustling leather and a cloud of Aramis.
Pulls his extendable baton from a pocket. A flick of the wrist and it’s two-foot long.
A nod to Blondie. Grabs me and sits on my chest, holding my left leg with his strong hands as I squirm and struggle to breathe.
Directs my foot over the end of the cot, bare toes twisting and curling as though trying to make their own escape.
Wet cloth in my face, pressure on my chest and jaw, pain everywhere.
Wham.
I hear it before I feel it.
Flash brings the baton down across the knuckles of my toes with a sound like a branch breaking in two.
The pain comes. White hot and sickening.
I kick and roar and clench my fists and bite down hard with bleeding teeth as I struggle to shift Blondie. I need to see the damage. Need to squeeze my broken toes with my hands and roll into a ball and sob.
The pressure subsides as Blondie steps down.
I roll into a ball, my legs drawn up, my toes hot and throbbing in my palm, my teeth biting into the mattress. There’s snot and blood on my chin.
Three loud bangs on the cell door. A tssk of irritation from Roper.
A big red face at the window: eyes that can’t quite believe what they are seeing.
Me, hoping against hope that I still deserve help.
46
“Happy now, Sergeant?” asks Roper, enjoying the look on McAvoy’s face. “Your hunch was right. Not that we needed it, of course, but at least your instincts are correct.”
They’re standing in the corridor outside the cell.
“You don’t need to do that,” McAvoy says, quietly. “There’s enough evidence…”
“I don’t need to. I just fucking want to,” says Roper, astonished that there are people in this world who won’t kick somebody if they are down. “When you’ve been here a few more years, you’ll want to as well. And even if you don’t, you’ll know when to shut the fuck up about those who do.”
“You’ll kill him,” says McAvoy. His stomach hurts, and his fingers are numb. He can smell rotting food.
“Nah,” says Roper, listening to the grunts. “We’re very experienced.”
“I can’t be a party to this,” says McAvoy, and he finds there is a pain in his throat.
“But it is quite a party. Go on in. Give him a prod. You can learn a lot from me.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“Come on, sunbeam,” says Roper, enjoying every minute. “God loves a sinner.”
47
Keys. Metal. Chains.
Light, filling the room in increments with its pissy yellow glow.
Me, braced for it. Up on my haunches: coiled.
Roper.
He steps in front of me, and gives me a nod, as one professional to another. He takes the lit cigarillo out of his mouth and proffers it. There’s a suit carrier draped like a deflated skin over his right arm.
I hesitate, reach up, take the cigarillo and inhale. It feels good. Warming, somehow.
He extends a hand and I take that too, and he hauls me to my feet, and I stand naked, bruised and bleeding, in the middle of the cell. He gestures to the bed and I take a painful step, then sit down on the mattress.
He takes off his coat, puts it around my shoulders, and retreats.
He stands with his back to the door, and the back of his head blocking the spy-hole.
He says nothing for a while. Lights another cigarillo and watches me like a stud watches the dancefloor.
My hands start to twitch.
“Why did you do it?” he asks, his head on one side and an eyebrow raised theatrically.
I smile, weakly, and say: “Fuck. Off.”
Roper smiles at the gesture. Nods. Has a moment of inner dialogue that I can’t fathom, then nods again, as if making his mind up.
“I’m only asking, because from now on, you’re not going to have much to say in this conversation,” he says, softly. “I’m going to tell you things, you’re going to nod, and when we’re done, you and I will be friends again, and I won’t have to worry about you being a silly boy.”
I try to say something clever, but any fight that’s still within me is saving itself.
“Good lad,” he says, and pushes off from the door. Four steps, and he sits down next to me, his legs touching mine. Slings an arm around my shoulder and leans in. He whispers in my ear until I’m warm.
“I’ve never actually got round to thanking you, Owen. I must be honest, when you broke that story about me as a kid and the world found out I wasn’t just Doug Roper, it really did change my life. I won’t say I wasn’t furious with you at the time, but look at how far I’ve come since then. But I’m nowt compared to you, son. You’re a better story than I am. I’m good at knowing who to poke around inside, if you’ll forgive the double-meaning. You always did seem a little bit different to the rest of the herd. So I had a look into your life. Your past. The things you did. You’ll never guess what I found. I put you away in my back pocket. Got to know you. Liked what I saw. And I kept your secrets secret. I’m good at that, at keeping something back for when you need it. I’ve got half this force stitched up with secrets. I’ve got a lot of favours to cash. I’m untouchable, lad. Got very big plans, got a future doing whatever I choose to do, all thanks to you. And I still get to put villains away.”
He pauses. Sighs: the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Thing is Owen, I’ve still got a job to do. I’m still a copper. I’ve still got baddies to catch and crimes to solve. I do that well, you know. I may put the boot in, but I do catch people who need to be caught. Famous for it, when all is said and done. That’s why this week has been so very hard. The Butterworth case. The Chocolate Boy, as you lot call him. An evil fucking sadist kills an angel in her wedding dress and cuts her head off so he can fuck her better. No real grey areas, there, son. Not much middle ground. Kind of case you lot like. Kind of case that needs a good strong conviction. That’s what I need too. One hundred per cent clean-up rate, Owen. One hundred per cent! I’m proud of that. This documentary, Owen, in which you are going to play such a part, will set me in stone, son. Life for Cadbury, justice for the Butterworths, all thanks to me. He was what? Hunting a double murderer at the same time? Fuck. Who wouldn’t watch that? I’m going to be up in lights, lad, for doing my job and doing it with style. I’ll be a superhero, son. Trouble is, Owen, that if I don’t get the conviction I need, I’m snookered. And truth be told, I’m worried. This witness of Choudhury’s, this fucking cellmate. That’s strong evidence. It’s a worry. I couldn’t get to him, you see. He was inside, and Choudhury had him sewn up like a duck’s arse. By the time he appeared on the scene, I’d already charged Cadbury. I’ve been trying to iron it out ever since.
“Then bang! Boom-shack-a-lack, we’ve got a double murder on the first day of the trial, and most importantly, on the first day of the documentary. I’m a busy boy, but I take it. And there it is. My solution. My salvation. I let Tony H into the incident room. Let him see the pictures, and the boy does a double-take when he sees the shot of the lad with the bullet in his head. Almost loath to tell me he is, but he’s a greedy little weasel and he knows I remember a favour, so he tells all. It’s only Owen Lee’s least favourite human being, his sister’s drug-addicted boyfriend. Really, I say. She into that scene, is she? Oh yeah, says Tony. She’s a smackhead. Lives in a bedsit, spreads her legs for cash, never been the same since, well, since you did what you did. And it all crystallises in my head, Owen. All the little pieces come together. I see a way out, and I see a way to thank you properly for what you did for me.
“So here’s where we’re at, laddo. Here’s the deal. You killed Beatle. And the other one. Prescott. Your car was in the car park at the time. You’ve got quite the history and quite the motive. You killed them both. Personally, factually, I doubt it. That other one was a real star. Hard as nails. Doubt you could have offed him, but juries are more easily persuaded than I am, and the most important thing is, I can make it stick. Almost as good as the Butterworth case. But that’s the word. Almost. It isn’t going to set the world alight, is it? Half-decent journalist offs his sister’s boyfriend and his mate. Page 15 of the Telegraph, if I’m lucky.
“I’m a bright boy, though, Owen. And it comes to me. Two birds, one stone. Two cases, one lucky bugger. That’s you, by the way. I’ve got to get the conviction in the Butterworth case. Got to. No argument. What’s the sticking point? What’s the obstacle? The cellmate. The witness. He has to go away, Owen. He has to leave the picture. How do I make that happen? I need somebody to make him disappear. Who can do that, I ask? I’ve got a lot of people I can call upon in said circumstances, but none of them I could trust to truly shut the fuck up in an interview room. Nobody who wouldn’t save their own skins by flaying mine. Of course, I could do it myself, but it’s a bit tricky getting time to indulge yourself when there’s a TV crew following you around twenty-four seven.
“No, what I need is somebody who’s fucked already. Somebody who’s capable of doing the job and then keeping their mouth shut. Somebody with a past to die for, a present that’s a gift. I need you, Owen. We both know I’m going to get you for Beatle’s death. That’s a given. But I can hang fire for a day or two. We’ll do a ‘no comment’ interview, and I’ll bail you. Set you free. Give you a change of clothes, and an address. A room number, in fact. A room at a rather plush hotel where the infamous cellmate is staying, and you’re going to kill him. Then I’m going to arrest you, for three counts of murder. The two in the woods, and the cellmate. Minns. Big fucker, but you’ve got a pedigree. Maybe a couple more, if needs be.
“And we’re going to have quite the time, you and I. Some wonderful dialogue in the interview room. You’ll be a serial killer, Owen. And I’ll be the man to catch you. It’s hard to avoid the word ‘nemesis’ isn’t it? We’re aiming for primetime, here, Owen. I know you’re the sort of guy who’ll play nicely with me, despite what we both know you’re capable of. I doubt you’ll mention this little chat, because your sister, who seemed so very taken with me, will still be on the outside, with me. I don’t have to go through the cliché of threatening her life, do I? You get it, I’m sure.
“So there we are. An interview, we go through the motions, and I let you out. You find him, and you kill him. Use this. It’s one of a pair and it’s taken life before so you’ll get on famously. I’ll slip the bullets in your pocket as you leave. Don’t think of getting cute. He’s a big guy. Use your looks, what’s left of them. Then you can run, if you like. I’ll catch you, and the chase will be good TV. Or you can just hang around until I feel like bringing you in. Then we do the interview properly, we charge you, and after that, your future’s whatever you want it to be. I’d end it all, if I was you, but there’s no pressure. You do whatever makes you happy. Just don’t confess too early, yeah? I want them to see me break you. Are we clear, here? Any questions that won’t irritate me?”
I try to hold his gaze. Cough. Spit blood. I ask: “How much did Tony know?” My voice is so weak as to be little more than a smoker’s last breath.
He smiles at that. “Tony knows what I tell him. He told me where he was meeting you, and I thought the arrest would make good TV. I promised him the exclusive, and I’ve kept my word. Anything else?”
“Jess?”
“Your girl? Interesting. We got a report on her early this morning. Friend of hers said she was still missing. Said you were the last person to see her alive. Don’t worry, I’ve taken over the investigation. Leave it all to me. I’m sure she’s fit as a fiddle. What d’you reckon? Now get dressed. Remember, ‘no comment’ answers to every question. Then out the door, and do what you’ve got to do. Console yourself with the fact you’re giving justice to the Butterworths. They’re a nice family, like yours were once. And try not to read the papers. They’ll just upset you.”
And he’s up. Opening the suit carrier and tossing me a black suit, black shirt, and my own muddy boots. He pulls my rings and chain from a pocket and drops them on the floor. Then he hands me a gun.
“Suit’s my spare,” he nods. “I want to be a part of this.”
He pulls open the door.
I’m just sitting digesting it all.
Holding a gun in my hand.
Cold and metallic and oh so familiar.
There’s a half-smile on my face.
He wants me to kill a dead man.
And he doesn’t know.
About the gun.
About the others.
About the six beautiful shots or the bodies I’ve left behind.
He’s opening the door and giving me another chance.
A chance to make a difference.
Put things right.
48
At 6.58 a.m. two uniformed officers come into my cell and bang their palms against the metal door to wake me up. I’m already dressed, but they tell me to get ready, so I lick the last of the ink off my fingertips and rub my hands on my trousers and check my watch and they walk me to the front desk.
The breakfast show is playing Radio Humbershite and I catch the news headlines while I’m signing my bail form. A twenty-nine-year-old local man was arrested last night on suspicion of carrying out the horrific double murder at the Humber Bridge Country Park. Detective Chief Superintendent Doug Roper is understood to have made the arrest and is currently interviewing the…
They tell me to come back in the morning and walk me from the belly of the police station through corridors and up green-painted stairs with their posters and noticeboards and damp patches, and we stand aside as a figure in a good suit jogs briskly up the stairs, then it’s on, up, on to the large double-fronted glass doors and the white-painted lobby and its smiling desk sergeant and its rain-mottled windows and the darkness beyond, and I nod a thank you as they punch a code into a keypad and disappear back into the station and I fold the bail papers and put them in my inside pocket where they tuck themselves behind a tin of cigarillos.
The doors open as I walk towards them, and then the cold and the dark and the rain take me into their embrace and I walk down the steps and into Queen’s Gardens, across the well-tended lawns and barren flowerbeds and frozen earth that serve as the city centre’s lungs in summer and which attract the tramps and the teenagers and the drunks and the office workers whenever the sun shows its smile and we sprawl on the grass and read books and drink cider and ogle cleavages and throw a rugby ball and which make us northerners feel like we live in London.
Up the steps at the far side, past the duck pond with its year-round algae and its matted reeds, and look up at the towering apartment building, which seems to be growing all the time, as if craning its neck for a view of something more palatable.
It’s not until
I’ve passed the fountains and the benches and I’m scampering across the main road past the slumbering, half-lit hulk of the shopping precinct that I reach into my trouser pocket and feel the cold, metal object that Roper slipped to me as we passed on the stairs.
One more. One more chance. One more opportunity.
Enough!
Walking briskly on the wet pavements and skirting dirty puddles, watching Hull coughing itself into life with the early morning farts and belches and retches of engines revved, voices raised, buses vibrating, beer kegs dropping down cellar stairs, street lights humming, mumbles into mobile phones…
The rain is so fine as to be barely visible, but it’s the kind that chills to the bone and makes your bruises sing with pain, and I’m huddled inside my suit jacket and almost running as I pass the big screen and its fifteen-foot blonde newsreader telling me they’ve caught someone on suspicion of an horrific double murder…
Consumed with minutiae and tedium. Wondering which photos of me they’ll pull out. Which papers will have the balls to name me. Which of my friends will even try to call and get a quote, and which will simply tell their news editors they tried but my phone was switched off. Wondering how many people will be surprised. Whether they will be telling each other that they always knew there was something dark about me, that they always believed me to be capable of anything.
Cold and wet and with my heartbeat sounding in my head, I creak up the front stairs to the Royal Hotel and into the warm and walk briskly across the red carpet of the lobby to the lift. I push the button, and the brass doors open. I step inside, nod to the waiter in his black-and-white tweeds as he heels his breakfast trolley out into the lobby, then hit three, and lean back against the wall as I’m carried upwards, staring at my reflection in the glass doors; a reflection cut in two when they open, and I step onto the landing with the image of my bruised features and grazed, burned hands dividing and separating like a tattoo on the insides of my eyes.
