Original Skin (19 page)

The man scans the room. Takes in the monochrome baseball and Rat Pack photos on the wall, the black-and-white tiles on the floor, the expensive flowers by the till, and the open grill at the back of the room, where white-suited chefs toss pancakes and grill bacon.

McAvoy waves a hand. Beckons him over.

“Detective?” he asks, approaching. He lifts his hand to shake, drops it to his side and then lifts it again.

McAvoy begins to stand. Smiles through a mouthful of breakfast. Realizes that, even in this half crouch, he towers over the other man, and is quick to sit down again so as not to be instantly intimidating.

Cabourne slides into the seat opposite him. He is full of nervous energy. Drumming his hands on the table. Playing with the saltcellar. Jiggling his legs.

“That your partner?” Cabourne asks the question with what is intended as a little laugh, but it comes out as a strangled, high-pitched giggle. He is nodding at Lilah, fast asleep in a car seat at McAvoy’s side.

“Saturday parenting duty,” says McAvoy. “You got children?”

Cabourne looks away.

McAvoy already knows that his brunch companion is a father. A married man. Home owner and former council officer turned politician. Fourteen years on the local authority. A member of the Police Authority and face on more committees than he could name. This is an important man, and he looks like a child summoned to the headmaster.

“Nice here,” says Cabourne distractedly. “Chain, is it.”

McAvoy nods. Approves. Wishes they would switch back on the Italian jazz they had been playing when he arrived.

He and Cabourne are among only a handful of customers in this imitation-American diner. It sits between the hamburger joint and the fried-chicken chain that constitute a major part of the “retail and leisure” end of the Kingswood estate.

Roisin has taken Fin to see a Disney film at the nearby cinema. There is talk of slush puppies and bowling afterward. It could yet be a nice family day within walking distance of home. There has been no need to tell Roisin that his offer to take Lilah for breakfast is not entirely selfless. He is not sure how he would have arranged things if Cabourne had not agreed to meet him here.

As it happened, Cabourne had been only too willing to help—happy to meet the detective whenever and wherever he wanted, and not once asking what it was about.

“Can I get you something?”

McAvoy passes the brunch menu across the table. He takes a sip of his chocolate milk shake, and skewers another pancake with his fork, teaming it with a half rasher of bacon and enough maple syrup to fossilize a woodpecker.

“Erm, coffee would be nice. And water, please. I’ll get them . . .”

Cabourne plunges his hand into his pocket and tries to retrieve some change. As he does so he seems to get his sweaty palms stuck, and as he wrenches his hand free, change spills onto the hardwood floor.

“Shit!”

A waiter in black trousers and shirt comes to help as McAvoy levers himself out of the booth and starts retrieving coins. The councillor just sits there, arms folded, looking down at the black lacquer of the table, seemingly unsure what to do or say.

“Coffee,” says McAvoy to the waiter, as they both deposit a handful of change in front of Cabourne. “And water, please. Tap.” As McAvoy slides back into his seat, Cabourne gives him a grateful smile. “I’ve always been clumsy,” he says. McAvoy looks him up and down. He is around six foot. Late forties to early fifties. Gray hair swept back from a thin face, made stern and bookishly intelligent by rimless glasses. He is dressed in a thick mauve shirt and chinos, and his only adornments are a simple gold wedding ring on his left hand and a thin silver chain at his throat. To McAvoy, he has the air of a foreign football manager. He looks like he can afford his own breakfast.

“I appreciate your coming,” says McAvoy, pushing his plate away. “As I explained, we are at the very earliest stage of an investigation and I am talking to you purely out of courtesy . . .”

Cabourne holds up one hand. He closes his eyes. Takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

“I think I already know,” he says quietly.

They sit silently as the waiter leaves the coffee and water on the table.

“Councillor?”

Cabourne sips his water. Puts the glass down. Lifts it and gulps some more.

“I didn’t know it was illegal,” he says.

McAvoy sits in silence, content to let things play out.

Cabourne’s eyes are darting, flitting from booth to booth, table to table, although whether for familiar faces or a way out, McAvoy cannot say.

“Why don’t you get it off your chest?”

The older man seems to sag. It is as if he has been punctured. When he looks up again, McAvoy has removed Lilah from her car seat and is sitting her, floppily, on his knee. Deep down, he knows he is using his daughter as a prop: putting the councillor at ease by making this a chat between fathers rather than an interview with a policeman, but to acknowledge it would be an admission of manipulation, and that is an admission he does not want to make.

“Hepburn’s ignoring me now,” Cabourne says. “I think he’s more scared than he’s letting on. That’s Steve, though. Always the same.”

McAvoy strokes his daughter’s cheek with the back of his knuckle. Dips his finger in the dregs of maple syrup and lets her lick it, while nuzzling her head with his nose.

“Councillor, I know you want to tell me something. You’ll feel better. You’re not under caution. This is just a chat.”

Cabourne seems to galvanize his resolve. Gives a nod.

“He’s left me so many messages. This Ed Cocker. Some sort of political fixer. I don’t know what he wants me to say.”

McAvoy gives an encouraging nod.

“Some people get sports cars or motorbikes when they hit middle age. I did this.”

“This?”

Cabourne looks suspicious suddenly. “Can I see your warrant card?”

McAvoy raises his eyebrows. Pulls out his card from his shirt pocket and slides it across the table. Cabourne studies it. Nods.

“This Ed Cocker. He won’t take no for an answer.”

McAvoy sighs. “What’s the question, Councillor?”

“He says Hepburn’s the story, but he’s not, is he? Not when he finds out.”

McAvoy runs his tongue over his lips and strains his brain. Thinks of the desperation in Cabourne’s messages to Hepburn’s stolen phone. The kisses. Looks now at the father of three, sweating and panicking in the seat opposite him.

“Councillor, your personal life is your own. Whom you have relationships with is not police business.”

Cabourne sags again. “It’s not a relationship,” he says. “It was just one of those things.”

Something that you wish would continue
, thinks McAvoy. “And the journalist from the
Hull Daily Mail
knows about it?”

“I don’t know. Steve would never tell, no matter how much he likes the limelight. And I haven’t told anybody. But we’ve made mistakes. And I’ve hardly been discreet.”

McAvoy raises his hands to stop the councillor’s flow. Takes a breath.

“Councillor, I’m obliged to inform you that I am here to talk to you about the circumstances surrounding the death of a young man named Simon Appleyard. Simon died in November last year. Hanged himself. There are reasons to consider looking again at his death. Your name has come up in connection with the investigation.”

“Oh, God!” The councillor collapses in on himself, his face red, his mouth open. “I knew,” he says, hugging his arms. “I knew.”

McAvoy does not know how to respond, so simply kisses his daughter and waits for Cabourne to meet his eye.

“Do you know Simon Appleyard?”

“I don’t know,” replies Cabourne angrily. “Fuck!”

McAvoy gestures in the direction of his daughter. “Don’t swear.”

Cabourne, rubbing his face, apologizes. He sips more water. Has his face in his glass when McAvoy slides a picture of Simon across the table. It is a photocopy of the image that the dead man’s aunt had given him.

Cabourne shrugs. Looks away.

“Do you know Simon?”

Cabourne forces himself to study the photo. “It was dark.”

“When?”

“Every time!”

They look at each other, each trying to gauge what the other knows.

“You have been meeting men for sex,” whispers McAvoy, conscious of Lilah’s nearness. “Am I right?”

Cabourne sips his coffee. Meets the detective’s eye. “Men, not boys.”

“Simon was twenty-five.”

“I didn’t mean that. I mean it’s not illegal.”

“No, it’s not.”

Cabourne breaks first. “I love my wife,” he says, suddenly pitiful. “I think I do, anyway. We’ve been together so long. It was just—”

“One of those things?”

“Exactly. I’ve never cheated with a woman. Not really.”

“Not really?”

“Only when they’ve been there, too.”

“Where?”

“The parties!” he says exasperated. “The clubs. The dates.”

McAvoy puts Lilah back in her seat. Scratches his head. Lets the pieces drift together.

“Sex parties. That is what Ed Cocker is investigating?”

“It must be!”

“Parties that Councillor Hepburn organizes?”

“He doesn’t organize them,” says Cabourne defensively. “Why would he? He can have what he wants. Take what he wants.”

Cabourne sniffs. McAvoy passes him one of Lilah’s wipes, which he takes gratefully and uses to clean his face.

“Councillor Cabourne, my brain is starting to hurt. What is it you’re frightened of?”

Cabourne looks up, blinking.

“Playmatez,” he says, under his breath. “It was just to try it out. I’d always had this fantasy . . .”

McAvoy nods, keeping his eyes impassive. Non-judgmental. “You went on a website, yes? A dating site?”

“I wanted to try it. Everybody was there for the same thing. It was free. I must have been drunk when I signed up. Just put a bit about myself and what I liked. Didn’t even think about it at first. Linked it to my private e-mail.”

“And?”

“And I got loads of responses. Men and women! I didn’t even say I wanted girls, and there they were, turned on just at the thought. I e-mailed a few of the lads back. Said I was a novice. Didn’t know what to do or what I wanted. Said discretion was everything . . .”

“You met?”

Cabourne finishes his coffee and looks away. “Cheap hotel near Goole,” he says. “A married man, out for the same thing as me.”

“And?”

Cabourne shrugs, all pride lost. “I wanted more. Met more.”

“When did this begin?”

“A year ago, maybe. No more.”

“Simon,” says McAvoy, nodding again at the picture. “Did you ever meet Simon?”

Cabourne picks up the picture again. “No,” he says at length. “I’m sorry. No. This is the dead man?”

“Did you ever read this post?”

McAvoy slides a piece of paper across to Cabourne. The councillor’s lips twitch as he reads the words on the page. It is Simon’s posting on the Playmatez website. An invitation to fill him up and a phone number.

“It rings a bell,” he begins, noncommittal.

“Did you respond to that posting?”

“Possibly,” he says, with a shrug that is far from uncaring. “I replied to so many.”

McAvoy looks around him. There are balloons on a table to his left, already laid out for a party later in the day. Beyond the wooden blinds the rain is holding off temporarily. Shoppers and diners walking past the glass are coatless. Some have bare arms. He wants to be in that sunshine now. Not here, where the clouds are gathering and the air smells of rain.

“Councillor Hepburn,” says McAvoy, deliberately vague, “explain how that happened.”

Cabourne closes his eyes. He pulls his phone from his shirt pocket and looks nervously at the screen, as if checking for messages. “We had friends in common,” he says, and appears to be watching footage of the night in the cinema of his memory. He is almost smiling.

“Friends?”

“I let my mouth run away with me. Told a guy my real name. What I did for a living. I don’t know why. Just trying to impress.”

“And he knew Hepburn?”

“Everybody knows him.”

“And?”

“And even though I begged him to forget what I said, it wasn’t long before I got a text from Steve telling me he knew I’d been a bad boy.”

“That must have been a difficult moment.”

“Horrendous. I panicked. Told him I had no idea what he was talking about.”

McAvoy reaches across and takes a sip of Cabourne’s water. He can think of no other way to show the other man that he is not disgusted. That he does not feel repulsed by these admissions and is still a safe listening ear.

“He didn’t believe you?”

“We were only colleagues, not friends,” explains Cabourne. “We’d had a few rows in council meetings. Been in the same bars after meetings. I’m Labour, he’s an independent, but he wasn’t exactly a political enemy. Nor was he a great mate. Just a guy I kind of knew. A guy famous for his lifestyle choices, who now knew everything about me.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t have to do very much,” he mutters with a half smile. “Hepburn didn’t make a big deal of it. After those couple of texts he was just his usual self. Said hello when we passed on the stairs, gave me a grilling at committee. Usual stuff. I didn’t see anybody else for a while. Then one day he just asked me, out of the blue, if I fancied a drink. He was casual about it. Just said it one day as we were coming out of committee. I panicked. But I said yes.”

“And?”

“And we talked. He didn’t try and put pressure on me to admit what I’d been doing, but I just blurted it out. Told him it all. He just listened. Let me be myself.”

Cabourne purses his lips. Distractedly brushes at the front of his shirt. Looks at his phone and puts it down again.

“You had an affair?”

Cabourne shakes his head. “We just became friends.”

McAvoy looks skeptical. “Friends?”

“He made my life more interesting. He knows everyone. Has been living the right kind of life for an age.”

“The right kind of life?”

“Fun,” he says bombastically. “Alive.”

“You went to parties together? Sex parties?”

“Nothing around here,” says Cabourne, as if trying to prove he has not been a complete fool. “We’d go to London. Manchester. There’s one in Blackpool . . .”