Taking Pity (17 page)

Tom terminates the call as the patrol car pulls level with him. A grim-faced young police constable in the passenger seat is pointing to the slip road that leads off the motorway and up and around into Goole. Spink frowns, knowing there is a stopping place half a mile ahead, but a sudden stern glare from the cop convinces him to do as he’s asked. He checks his speedometer and realizes he may have been going a tad fast. Curses, then indicates left and turns off the motorway. The patrol car follows him.

“Can’t stop here, son. No hard shoulder, you prick . . .”

The road leads up to a roundabout with exits for Goole and the motorway. To his left is the country road, leading to the pretty little towns and villages that dot the scenic route to York. Tom sees the police vehicle’s indicator light begin to wink so he dutifully flicks his own on.

“You after a McDonald’s?” he mutters under his breath as he turns left and cruises toward the little estate that offers a couple of fast-food outlets and a discount hotel.

Tom is about to pull into the estate when the patrol car draws level with him again, driving on the wrong side of the road. The policeman in the passenger seat gestures for him to keep driving.

“What’s this, son? Where? Toward York? Why? There’s a car park back there . . .”

Sighing, raising his hands, glancing in his mirror, Tom follows the car for another mile down the B road. The landscape begins to look more rural. The potholes in the road become deeper, as though heavier, more agricultural vehicles have eaten away the track. Finally, Tom sees the police car indicate left and pull off into a lay-by. It’s shielded from the main road by a mound of grass and earth. A red-painted wooden shack, offering bacon sandwiches and cups of tea, sits abandoned and graffiti-sprayed in front of a plowed field.

“Really? This is the best place you could find for a telling-off?”

Tom kills the engine and puts his head back, looking at the ceiling of his car. He’s going to have to play nicely. He’ll apologize. Won’t mention that he used to be a copper unless it comes up in conversation. He knows that, these days, telling young cops you used to be a policeman during the good old days is more likely to get you an extra fine than a new friend.

He sits forward in his seat. Listens to the rain hit the roof and the glass.

“Let’s get it over with, eh, boys?”

He switches on the electrics so he can wipe the rain from the windscreen. Squints as the image clears.

The patrol car is gone.

“Where the bloody hell . . . ?”

Tom is in the act of taking his seat belt off when his car gives a colossal lurch, with the sound of metal slamming into metal. He is thrown forward, smashing the bridge of his nose against something cold and biting his tongue as his chest slams into the steering wheel.

He tastes blood.

Sees in black and gold as his vision spins and swims.

The door is yanked open and strong, gloved hands pull him from the vehicle. He feels a sharp pain in his knee and realizes he must have hurt himself in the initial impact. He tries to put his feet down on the pitted concrete but can’t seem to find his balance.

He tells himself to concentrate. To think like a policeman. To stick his thumb in his attacker’s eye and knee the bastard in the bollocks. But he feels weak and confused and his heart is racing so hard that he can’t seem to hear his thoughts . . .

A fist slams into his stomach. It’s a perfect blow. He doubles over, crippled with sickness and agony. Then a foot, clad in a simple black shoe, hoofs him beneath the jaw. His glasses fly off and his head snaps back, and he lands on his side on the wet road.

Tom is barely conscious as the hands go through his pockets. Can manage only a groan as his phone and wallet are taken. Can’t raise his head to see the man scooping up the piece of paper from the passenger seat and the notebook from the glove box.

Tom passes out just as the man squats over him and stares deep into his eyes.

He is spared the terror of wondering just what his attacker is holding in his hand, or what he intends to do with it.

He is blessedly unconscious as the man begins his work.

But he wakes as the first nail splinters bone.

T
HE
LAD
IN
THE
FLAT
CAP
doesn’t expect the branch to break. He anticipates a jolting impact and a vibration up his arm. He is prepared for a grunt of pain and perhaps a spray of blood across his clothes and face. He has no other outcome in mind. Knows, just knows, that the big man in the damp clothes will fall to his knees, then onto his back. And then he can begin to really put the boot in . . .

McAvoy shakes rotten wood and dirt from his hair and his eyes. Looks down at the thug who is in turn ogling the stump of rotten timber he holds in his right hand.

“Will! Shift! Move!”

McAvoy turns in the direction of the voice. The older man is raising the shotgun.

“You’re dead! I’m gonna—”

McAvoy reaches out and grabs the man called Will. Closes both hands around his shirtfront and lifts him clean off the ground. He plants his feet and swivels at the hips, then throws Will at the older man as if he is made of straw.

The impact knocks the other man backward and he drops the gun to the forest floor.

McAvoy crosses the small space between them. Will is getting to his feet and swings a right hand dazedly toward McAvoy’s head. McAvoy doesn’t want to hit him. Knows how much paperwork will be involved. He ducks back and lets the punch whistle by, then slaps him, open-handed, on both sides of the head. Ears ringing, eyes wide, the attacker drops to the ground, clutching at his temple.

“Will?” shouts the older man. “What have you done to him? You bastard! You’re—”

McAvoy knows Will will be unable to get his bearings for a good few seconds so he turns his back on him and kicks the shotgun out of reach. He closes his hand around the lower jaw of the older man and brings the man’s face close to his own. Smells meat, gravy, and red wine on his breath. Sees the flicker of the other youth behind him . . .

McAvoy turns and slams his hand, open-palmed, into the skinny lad’s chest. The boy falls backward as though he has run into a tree. He turns back to the older man and exerts enough pressure on his lower jaw to show that he could break it like a dried twig.

“I’m a policeman, you idiot,” says McAvoy into the older man’s face. “I tried to say! I tried!”

Fear mixes with confusion in the man’s face. It morphs into an expression of relief, and then of fear once more as he replays the events of the last few seconds in his head.

“Christ! Christ, I’m sorry, we didn’t . . . I thought . . . I mean, fuck! Fuck!”

Breathing hard and pissed off to his bones, McAvoy lets go of the man, then takes two steps to his right and picks up the shotgun.

“Seriously?” he asks. “I mean, who behaves like this? Who thinks this is okay!”

He’s shouting, louder than he has in a while. Blinks a few times and pinches the bridge of his nose until the spots stop dancing in his vision. He considers the gun. “You have a license for this?”

“Yes, yes,” mumbles the man. “Shit, honest, we didn’t mean . . .”

McAvoy turns away from him. Bends down and checks on the man called Will.

“Sit still for a minute. It’ll pass. And you,” he says, turning to the Asian youngster who is coughing his lungs up into the leaves and dirt. “Take deep breaths.”

He gives the older man his attention. Follows his own advice and slows his breathing. Rubs his hand over his face and tries to pick the bark and mud from his fringe.

“I’m Detective Sergeant McAvoy,” he says, and it feels suddenly wonderful to hear the words spoken aloud. “I’m investigating the murders in the church in 1966. I don’t know who the hell you thought I was but I know that whoever they are, they could well be dead by now. Who do you think you are? You don’t attack somebody with a branch and a shotgun for trespassing. You just bloody don’t!”

The older man seems to have recovered a little composure. He gives a nervous twitch of his lips. “My name’s Jasper,” he says with stuttered breath. “That’s all it was, Sergeant, we thought you were trespassing. We were just going to scare you, that’s all. Heard you coming through the woods and wasn’t sure you weren’t a villain. Honest, I’d never have fired . . .”

McAvoy breaks open the shotgun. Looks at the cartridges.

“It’s loaded,” he says. “You’d have taken my face off.”

“Only cuz you were beating up the lad,” says Jasper with an air of petulance. “We’ve had bother.”

McAvoy looks from Jasper to Will and then back again. There is some resemblance, but not much.

“Your son?”

“Nephew.”

“And this gentleman?” asks McAvoy, pulling the Asian lad to his feet and gesturing that he join the other two.

“Business associate,” says Jasper uncertainly. “Liam, we call him. Can’t say his real name. He’s Will’s friend.”

McAvoy frowns. Watches Will pull himself unsteadily to his feet.

“There’s something going on here,” says McAvoy. “This isn’t somewhere you go for a little walk. Not dressed like that, anyways. Is there a path through these woods?”

“A path? Just a trail, you’d call it. Bugger to get to the trailer, though . . .”

Jasper bites his lip as the younger men turn angry glares at him.

McAvoy looks back at the camouflaged bulk of the horse trailer; deliberately hidden and obscured in this remote, inaccessible spot.

“What’s in that?” he asks. “Is it yours?”

Jasper and his nephew exchange glances.

The Asian lad opens his mouth to speak. “Are you arresting us?” His tone is nonconfrontational. He is still wheezing and seems genuinely afraid.

“I don’t bloody know,” says McAvoy, pushing a hand into his hair and leaving it sticking up at mad angles. He wrinkles his face and thinks back to what has been said. “You mentioned protection. Who did you think I was?”

Jasper examines the forest floor. Will and Liam look at each other, as if communicating with just their eyes.

“Somebody had better tell me what’s going on,” says McAvoy.

For a moment the only noises are the sounds of the forest. Raindrops patter onto dead and dying leaves. The wind plays with spindly branches, and crows scrap with magpies in the tangle of greenery.

“One phone call and I’ve got a dozen uniformed officers here,” says McAvoy more confidently than he actually feels.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” says Jasper pleadingly. “Look, we’re not bad sorts, this is just a mix-up . . .”

“Seriously, I can barely hear a thing, mate,” says Will, arms wide. “Can’t we just shake and forget this happened?”

“The trailer’s nothing to do with us.”

Will and Jasper turn fierce eyes on Liam at the mention of the trailer, and McAvoy turns his attention back to it.

“Do you have the key for the lock?”

“It’s not ours.”

“Of course it’s bloody yours! And you tried to blow my head off for looking at it!”

“That thing’s been there for years,” says Jasper soothingly. “We were just out walking, honestly.”

“So this is your land, is it?” asks McAvoy. “You’re patrolling to make sure no trespassers come and steal your leaves?”

“No, no, but we know the owner and he doesn’t mind—”

Liam is speaking now. He’s rewarded with a hissed “Shut up” from his friend.

McAvoy sighs. Breathes in a lungful of cold, damp air. Makes a show of reaching into his coat pocket for his phone.

“Easy, no need for that,” says Jasper hurriedly. “Look, there’s not much to tell.”

McAvoy realizes he is still holding the shotgun. Tries not to let himself feel he is threatening these men. They are staying where they are out of civic duty and respect for the authority of the law.

“Who did you think I was?” he asks again.

Jasper is about to speak when Liam steps forward, his hand still on his chest. “We’ve got some business interests,” he says. “Here.” He nods at the trailer. Sighs. “There.”

“We’ve had bother,” says Will, butting in. “Couple of blokes came to see Uncle Jasper. Said they had heard we were making money. Wanted to help. Wanted to offer resources.”

“Bloody protection racket,” says Jasper bitterly. “I told them I didn’t need protecting. I’ve got a nephew who does boxing. Got my shotgun. Got the lad here. We don’t need to pay anybody else. We’re just a bunch of entrepreneurs. We don’t want trouble.”

McAvoy considers each of the men in turn. “They said they would come back?” he asks.

“Made it clear,” says Jasper. “We’ve been shitting our pants for days, haven’t we, lads? I mean, they said it was a friendly offer, but people like that don’t like refusal, do they?”

“Like what?”

“They were young lads. Two of them. No older than the boys here. But they didn’t do much talking. Just introduced themselves and passed me a phone. I spoke to this slick chap. Southerner, I reckon. Told me how much help he could give me. Said it must be difficult, running a business in the middle of nowhere. Said he could take away those worries for a minor percentage.”

“And you said no?”

“My blood was up! Who did they think they were?”

“Where did this happen?”

“My bloody house!” he says, indignant. “I just live down in Ottringham. Jasper Blackwell. Didn’t say, did I? Land here belongs to the next farm over. Never uses it, does he? And I hate to see it going to waste . . .”

McAvoy looks into the man’s anxious, earnest face.

“Is it drugs?” he asks, nodding back at the trailer.

“Christ, no,” says Will, stepping in. “Nowt like that.”

“Well?”

Liam gives a huge sigh and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m good with computers,” he says. “Will and me met at university—”

“I didn’t stay long . . .” butts in Will.

“My family do import and exports,” Liam continues. “I do a bit of buying and selling. Stuff you can get really easily here sells for a fortune back in Tunisia.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“Me? No, I’m from India. I just have business connections there. Look, this is all a bit complicated . . .”

McAvoy tightens his grip on the stock of the gun. Picks his words carefully and chooses not to swear. “What’s in the trailer?”

“Bin bags,” blurts out Jasper suddenly. “Charity bloody bin bags! Easy money, no hassles,” he says, as if reciting it the way the idea had been sold to him. “Nobody gets hurt . . .”

“Somebody’s going to get hurt in a minute,” says McAvoy, snapping. “Now, pick a bloody spokesman and make some bloody sense.”

It takes ten minutes for the bedraggled trio to tell their story. Liam has family who sell secondhand designer clothes in countries where anything with a Western brand goes like gold dust. He used to make a bit of pocket money wandering around the charity shops and buying up anything that could be flogged for profit overseas. A year back, he graduated from university with plans to go into computers but couldn’t find much in the way of work. Started doing jobs for the family firm instead. Those jobs became less and less legitimate over time. Somebody had realized how much easier it would be if people didn’t bother donating to the charity shops at all and just gave the stuff straight to Liam’s family instead. Liam knocked up a design on his computer and had the printing done back home. Had a job lot sent over from India inside a shipment of fine tablecloths bound for a chain of restaurants in the East Midlands. And it turned out, as predicted, that there was good money to be made in fake charity bin liners.

“People were chucking the stuff out anyway,” protests Will in the face of McAvoy’s disapproval. “They didn’t care where they ended up. Those bin bags are a nuisance anyways. We were doing people a favor, taking them off their hands . . .”

“They were giving them to good causes.”

“Well, so were we. They’d have made people happy overseas . . .”

“I’m touched by your philanthropy.”

Liam had approached his friend Will and asked him if he would help with pickups and drop-offs. Together they left fake charity collection sacks outside thousands of homes in East Riding: all embossed with official logos and images of crying children. Will had, in turn, approached his uncle to ask if he knew of anywhere they could store the stuff they recouped until it could be shipped abroad.

“I live on an old farmhouse,” says Jasper, shrugging. “Got a couple of outbuildings. Stuff was fine there until I got that call.”

McAvoy looks at the trailer. “You couldn’t fit more than two dozen bin bags in there,” he says, frowning.

Jasper sighs. Holds up a hand as if in supplication. “Underneath,” he says reluctantly.

“I don’t understand,” says McAvoy.

“The trailer’s just a marker, mate. You ain’t seen nothing yet . . .”

The bogginess of the forest floor makes the going hard, but together the four men succeed in rolling the trailer forward a few yards.

“Brought it with a Land Rover,” says Jasper, wheezing. “Years ago, it was. Used to make a few drops of home brew, I did. Was nice to have somewhere I could get away and have a think about the world. My granddad worked here, y’know. During the war. All this belonged to the manor house then, but it’s all part of the next farm over now.”

McAvoy wipes the sweat from his head. He had been unsure about dropping the gun and letting the three men help him but his curiosity dictated that he take the risk. He can feel his heart beating hard. Can feel moisture on his back and hopes it is perspiration rather than a torn wound.

“There,” says Will, nodding at the ground. “This will all be taken into consideration, yeah? That we’re helping you? You think it will be a community service order or something, mate? I mean, I know we did wrong, but . . .”

McAvoy isn’t listening. He’s staring at a metal disk, a meter in diameter, set in a slight rise in the undulating forest floor.

“Dug them during the war, my granddad says. Had to sign the Official Secrets Act. Only told me when he was in his eighties and going a bit daft in the head. I didn’t believe him, to be honest. Some underground bunker out in the middle of Winestead Woods? But I brought the metal detector. Still a million-to-one shot that I found it.”

“You didn’t tell the authorities?” asks McAvoy.

“Didn’t see it was any of my business.”