Sorrow Bound (15 page)

Roisin swings the nail file. The man sees it coming and instinctively raises his arms, still holding the coat. The file rips into the material of the jacket, and as he pulls away, a cloud of dust billows up from between him and Roisin.

‘You stupid, stupid bitch!’

The man is frantically examining the coat, trying to find the patch of quilting that tore. He spins it around and a large white packet falls to the ground, spilling powder like a bag of flour.

‘Jesus, no …’

He throws himself down, scooping the powder into pockets, looking up, sweat and fear on his face as he hears sirens.

‘You don’t … you don’t know what you’ve–’

Roisin kicks him in the balls and he doubles over, mewling like a child, powder in his hair and on his clothes.

Behind the counter, Mel pulls herself up. ‘What’s happening, Ro …’

Through the glass, they see a patrol car pulling up beside the
bread delivery van. See two officers running towards the shop, barking into radios.

Roisin only has a second to react. She bends down, and scoops up the fallen money from the floor.

Then she kicks Adam Downey in the balls again, grabs the stroller, and heads for the back door.

Two days later, 10.44 a.m.

The health centre on Cottingham Road. The same, airless room. The same hum of traffic and the dark shadow of the rowan tree at the window.

The same school chair.

The same reluctance to talk.

Aector McAvoy, jiggling his leg like he’s playing boogie-woogie piano.

Sabine Keane. Sweating like she’s just finished dancing a flamenco, but trying to keep professional. Her legs are sticking together as she tries to shift them. Her high heels are sweaty and slippy, crushing her already painful toes. She wants to reach into the bag beside her and pull out her flip-flops. Wants to open her litre bottle of water and pour it onto the back of her neck, to shake her head in a mountain stream like she’s advertising shampoo …

‘Aector, would you like some water, perhaps? It’s still so muggy, isn’t it? I thought there would have been a storm by now. I thought I felt rain on the way in but no, it’s holding back. The sky’s so ominous though, isn’t it? Just really eerie.’

McAvoy gives her a polite nod. ‘So psychologists are as irrational as the rest of then,’ he says, trying to make his voice light. ‘You still see signs and symbols where there aren’t any.’

‘Human nature,’ says Sabine, returning his look and tone. ‘We have to accept some things about ourselves, don’t we? We may want to be the best versions of ourselves and have good mental health, but you still can’t look at a sky like this without expecting a wolf to howl.’

McAvoy considers it. Pulls his clammy pinstripe shirt from his skin and wafts it. ‘Last wolf in Britain was killed in 1743,’ he says, studying her to see if she’s interested in the story or in what it says about him. ‘Shot near Inverness. Everybody was delighted. Big celebrations and the hunter was a hero. Funny thing is that since then, the number of deer has exploded. Half of Scotland is barren and treeless because the deer just eat through everything in their path. Scotland doesn’t look like it should and it’s because the wolves have gone. There are people want to reintroduce them. Can you imagine? Reintroducing wolves. I guess that would mean reintroducing hunters as well. It all goes round and round, doesn’t it? Interesting idea, though.’

Sabine taps her chin with the nib of her pen, leaving a tiny blue dot. ‘What do you think?’

‘Me?’ McAvoy looks surprised. ‘I don’t know enough about it. Dad thinks it’s a good idea.’

‘People have opinions, even when they don’t know all the facts.’

McAvoy pulls on his nose, as if it will help him articulate the thought better. ‘I don’t have many opinions worth listening to. Maybe if I read all the reports …’

‘But what does your gut say, Aector?’

He sighs. ‘Why does it matter?’

‘Gut instincts are important. Do you never act upon them?’

‘I have them, yes. But I don’t have to give in to them. They’re suggestions, not impulses. A lady told me she likes how I think the other day. What do I make of that? It’s not like I can take pride in it. I didn’t choose to be this way. It’s just how I am.’

Sabine smiles. She’s fanning herself with her notes and her blonde hair is clinging to her forehead. When she reached up try the sash windows, she had exposed unshaved armpits and the label on a Primark bra. McAvoy had looked away. He doesn’t want to judge his psychologist any more than he wants her to judge him.

‘You seem to hold yourself in quite close control, Aector. There must be times when you have given in to those suggestions. When you’ve let go. Your file suggests–’

A sudden buzzing interrupts the conversation. Somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, McAvoy pulls out his phone. He holds up a finger to suggest he will be quick.

‘Sergeant McAvoy? This is George Goss. You’ve been ringing me. Can I help?’

McAvoy gives Sabine an apologetic glance. Decides to follow her advice and act on impulse. Gestures that he will call her to set up another appointment, and bolts for the door. He hears the psychologist calling his name, but tells himself that he doesn’t.

‘Mr Goss, yes, I wondered if I could come and see you …’

*

An hour later, McAvoy is pulling into the driveway of a terraced property on North Road, at the centre of the Gypsyville estate. It hasn’t got the greatest of reputations and the house prices are through the floor, but McAvoy has always rather liked this little
network of quiet roads a stone’s throw from the old trawling hub. There’s no litter in the gutters or dog shit on the pavement and the people who live here strike him as the sort who would take it upon themselves to scrub a neighbour’s wall if somebody had spray-painted graffiti on the brickwork.

George Goss’s house is the neatest in the row. There are roses in the front garden, the exact variety neatly labelled in blue ink on white labels, and there are no weeds growing in the cracks between the paving slabs that lead to the front door.

McAvoy is fumbling in a pocket for his warrant card when the door swings open.

George Goss is in good shape. He’s mid-sixties, and though his face has the waxy jowls of a man who likes a cheese course after his dessert, he’s not overly portly and has a full head of grey-black hair. He’s wearing a pair of polyester trousers with a neat seam down the front, with a short-sleeved checked shirt. As he extends his hand, McAvoy notices the mottling of liver spots that starts at his knuckles and carries on halfway up his arm. He’s a man who likes his drink, but McAvoy has never met a retired copper who doesn’t.

‘I phoned Tom Spink,’ says Goss, brusquely, by way of greeting. ‘He said you’re not a dickhead.’

McAvoy gives a laugh, pleased that Pharaoh’s old boss had vouched for his credentials. ‘Praise from Caesar.’

‘Spink’s not a dickhead either.’

‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear it.’

‘Still writing, is he? Books and stuff? His house fallen into the sea yet?’

McAvoy nods. ‘He’s writing a book on some unsolved cases, I think. Just finished doing something for the top brass. History of
Humberside Police, sort of thing. I’m not sure about his house. That coastline’s eroding fast …’

McAvoy follows the retired inspector into a comfortable square living room. He figures this is the family room. It’s a nice space, all sand-coloured wallpaper and pictures of Whitby seafront in tasteful frames. There is a three-seat leather sofa and matching armchair, angled to view the small flat-screen TV beneath the window. Half a dozen different pairs of spectacles lie jumbled on the video recorder and DVD player on its fancy glass stand, and a picture of a boy in school uniform grins toothlessly from the mantelpiece, above an electric fire. There is a catapult on the windowsill, with some rolled-up pieces of Blu-tack. McAvoy gives the object some thought. Considers the pretty garden, with its neatly tended roses and wall-climbing ivy. Decides that either George Goss or his wife are not big fans of cats.

‘Back in a sec,’ says Goss.

McAvoy hears cupboards opening and closing. Water pouring on teabags. The chink-chink-chink of spoon on mug. Hears it again. Guesses he’s getting a mug of tea.

‘Here you go,’ says Goss, handing him a giant cup. ‘Guessed you took sugar.’

‘I do.’

Goss spreads his arms and makes fun of himself. ‘Once a detective, always a detective, eh? Sit down.’

McAvoy sinks into the sofa, careful not to spill his sloshing drink. Goss gives a tiny nod of appreciation. ‘Missus is at Sainsbury’s,’ he says. ‘Her daughter takes her once a week.’

McAvoy notes the use of the word ‘her’. Goss smiles.

‘Yeah, I said “her”. Not mine. I’ve got two of my own from my first marriage. Any of that important?’

There is silence in the room for a moment while McAvoy decides how to play this interview. The old boy seems to swing between welcoming and brusque with every sentence. He wonders if it was his trademark when he was still in the force. Wonders whether the retired inspector liked to play both roles in the ‘good cop/bad cop’ game.

‘Mr Goss, I …’

‘George, please.’

‘George, I’m attached to the Serious and Organised Crime Unit in Humberside Police. We’re investigating two murders that took place within the space of twenty-four hours. Our enquiries have demonstrated–’

Goss takes a loud slurp of tea and gives an exaggerated nod. ‘I know what it’s about, son. You said in your messages. You want to know about Sebastien Hoyer-Wood, yeah?’

McAvoy pauses, not liking to be steered. He considers the man in the armchair opposite. Imagines his day-to-day life. Is he bored? How does he fill his days? Does he like to talk about past cases or does he hate being reminded of the things he has done and the bodies he has stood over during a thirty-year police career? McAvoy decides that he likes to talk, but likes to tell a story rather than answer questions. Sees him as a pub raconteur who doesn’t appreciate interruptions. He decides to just let the chat play out. He nods, sits back in the sofa.

Goss settles back too, mug resting on his thigh, his other hand tapping on the arm of the chair.

‘Hoyer-Wood,’ he says, again. ‘Nasty business.’

‘Hmm?’ says McAvoy, coaxingly.

‘More people should have heard of him.’

‘I read the file.’

Goss makes a scornful noise. ‘File? Date of birth, date of arrest and a couple of witness statements? They don’t know the half of it.’

‘Why don’t you fill in the gaps?’

Goss stares for a moment, then appears to come to a decision. ‘Hoyer-Wood was a posh boy,’ he says, sighing. ‘Mid-thirties when we got him. Nearly qualified as a doctor, if you can believe that. Left university under a cloud four years into his training. Went abroad for a bit and trained as a sports physiotherapist. That’s what he was doing when all this came out. Had a private practice at his nice big house out on the road to York. Nice gaff. Don’t know who’s got it now …’

‘You found all this out in the background probe, did you? After he was arrested?’

Goss nods. ‘I went to town on the bugger. Spoke to everybody who’d ever met him, it felt like. We thought the case was watertight.’

McAvoy waits. Drinks his tea. Listens to the silence and stares at the carpet. When he looks up, Goss is staring at nothing. Picturing things only he can see.

‘We don’t know how long he’d been at it. How many there were. He liked them to watch, you see. That was his thing.’ He snarls. Swallows, as if there is something vile in his mouth. ‘It wasn’t the actual sex that he got off on. It was the look on their husbands’ faces. Their kids’. Their mums’ and dads’ …’

McAvoy breathes out. ‘Jesus.’

Goss nods. ‘He’d wander about in crowds. Take a shine to a family. Maybe a couple. Maybe some middle-aged woman pushing her old dad in a wheelchair. And then he’d just choose. Pick who he liked, and follow them. He’d just bloody choose!’

Goss slaps the arm of the chair, then gives a joyless little laugh. ‘First one we heard about was a young mum in a holiday cottage in Aldbrough. Little village on the coast there. Her and her two boys, up here for a little break. All she could afford, poor cow. Petrol station attendant reckons Hoyer-Wood was there at the same time as she was filling up her car, second day of her holidays, but they’d wiped the CCTV. Wasn’t much good in those days, anyway. Reckon that’s where he took a shine to her, though. Just caught his eye.’

Goss bites on his lip. ‘He broke into her place the next night. Boys were sleeping in her bed with her. She said later they’d been scared. They’d heard noises the night before. Asked if they could sleep in with Mum. She woke up with a knife against her cheek. Him looking down at her. He wore a surgical mask. Can you believe that? Like he was carrying out a procedure. He woke the kids. Wasn’t rough with them. Just told them to wake up. Told the oldest to put the light on. Then he raped her. Just like that. Held a knife to her throat and told the boys that if they tried to move he’d open her windpipe. Then when he was done he said that if she told anybody, he’d come back and do it again. And again …’

McAvoy stares at the floor. ‘She reported it?’

‘Not at first. Not until after. Not until we were investigating the one we got him for.’

‘In Bridlington?’

Goss nods. ‘This was a couple of years later. He’d got good at it by then. Perfected his technique, so to speak. Wasn’t enough for just the kids to see. He was into husbands by now. Same MO. Breaking in when they were asleep. He added a bit more of a kick this time, though. Started playing with lighter fluid.’

McAvoy looks up. ‘What?’

Goss nods, finding it hard to believe even as he relays it. ‘When they were asleep, all curled together. He’d spray them with lighter fluid. Then he’d stand there with a lighter. Tell the bloke to stay still or he’d set fire to the three of them.’

‘The three?’

‘Oh aye, he’d be covered in the stuff himself. Blokes would wake up with this stranger in their bedroom threatening to set them on fire. And they’d do what he said. They’d stand against the wall and they’d cry and call him a bastard and threaten him with all sorts. But they wouldn’t stop him. They wouldn’t do a thing. When he was done he’d tell them the same thing – he would come back. And nobody wanted to report it, anyway. Not the blokes. Not the blokes who were too bloody scared to stop a stranger raping their woman in the middle of the night.’