Taking Pity (4 page)

“How are you coping, Hector?” asks Pharaoh, softening her face and perching her rump on the windowsill. “Seriously?”

McAvoy looks as though he is about to say something glib in reply, but he stops himself and sinks slowly onto the foot of the bed. He pushes both hands through his hair, and when he withdraws them, his hair remains sticking up. Pharaoh cannot help herself. She crosses to him. Flattens his fringe. Takes his face in her hands and raises his eyes to hers.

“It won’t be forever, Hector. It won’t always be like this.”

McAvoy holds her gaze. Holds her scent in his lungs. Fills himself with the cigarettes and perfume, the mints and gin. Wonders how she would react if he pressed his head to her stomach and let her cradle him until the world made sense again.

“Auntie Trish?”

McAvoy spins around as his son struggles upright, rubbing his eyes. Pharaoh gives the boy a fulsome hello. They have only met a handful of times but Fin has fallen very much in love with his dad’s boss. She’s loud and naughty and she talks funny and doesn’t mind him hearing when she swears. She also has four daughters who all think he’s the cutest thing since baby rabbits, and her visits tend to presage the consumption of sweets.

“How the devil are you, my little monster? You driving your dad up the wall?”

“I’m being good,” says Fin sleepily. “Where’s Sophia?”

Sophia is Pharaoh’s eldest daughter, and Fin’s favorite human being.

“She’s at home, trying to find how many pairs of dirty knickers it takes to cover a bedroom carpet. It’s important work. She’s taking it very seriously. I’ve told her she should use mine. When we were poor, they used to double as a tablecloth.”

Fin has no real idea what Auntie Trish is talking about but he finds everything she says hilarious, so falls into fits of giggles. Pharaoh turns and catches McAvoy’s eye.

“Shall we take a stroll? I’ve got something to run by you.”

McAvoy looks unsure. “It’s late. He needs to get to sleep . . .”

Pharaoh scoffs. She is an experienced parent who is used to being obeyed and believes that most children can be made to behave by the judicious application of chocolate bars and headlocks.

“He’ll fall asleep the second we get back. That’s right, isn’t it, Fin? No moaning now. You can come for a walk with Dad and me, but if you make a fuss when we put you to bed, I’m allowed to set fire to your legs, yes?”

Fin grins and nods. He looks at the window and the teeming rain.

“We have umbrellas,” he says solemnly. “Daddy can hold yours. If you hold his, he’ll have to walk on his knees.”

“You’re a bloody genius,” says Pharaoh, grinning back at him.

Fifteen minutes later they are heading west, taking the narrow footpath by the water’s edge. To their left, the rain beats down on the still, brown waters. To their right, the dense forest gives way to a train line and rough, stony waste ground. It would have been far more pleasant to turn left out of The Lodge but by unspoken agreement they avoided the sad ruin of McAvoy’s abandoned home.

“Can you run on a little way, Fin? I need to talk to Daddy.”

Obediently, Fin splashes away up the track. He’s dressed in Wellington boots and a blue raincoat. It’s not the sort of thing he would have worn if Roisin were around. She styled him with attitude and flair. But his clothes were ruined in the blast and Fin is now wearing whatever Daddy can afford.

For a few seconds, neither McAvoy nor Pharaoh speak. They trudge in unison, McAvoy holding the umbrella. He’s wearing his expensive coat with his sneakers and tracksuit trousers and looks like he has ram-raided a charity shop. He is a regular visitor to the thrift stores in the center of nearby Hessle. He’s bought himself a few shirts and comfortable trousers, discarded by the nice, middle-class types who live in these towns and villages to the west of Hull. Eight miles east, in the center of the city, the charity shops sell clothes with knees so shiny they could double as a mirror.

At length, Pharaoh slips her arm through McAvoy’s.

“She’s okay,” says Pharaoh at last. “Roisin. I couldn’t get much more than that. Just that the injuries are healing and she’s making a nuisance of herself. And she wants to come home.”

There is rainwater in McAvoy’s eyes, but he can still feel the pricking of tears.

“And Lilah?”

“Missing her daddy. She’s taking to the gadget. Loving music. Got a taste for reggae . . .”

McAvoy stops, the pain in his chest almost overwhelming. He stands with his hands on his knees while Pharaoh rubs his back. His daughter sustained damage to the inner ear during the blast. Will probably need the tiny hearing aid for the rest of her life.

“And she knows that’s what I want, yes? That I don’t blame her. If I could just talk to her. Just say I don’t blame her . . .”

Pharaoh gives his shoulder a squeeze. “She’s being kept safe, Hector. That’s all. The threat remains the same. She knows you want her. Knows you’d die for her. But right now, you have to live for her. I can’t justify putting you in witness protection. There’s been no threat to you. We’re still off the books here. It’s all still unofficial. I wish to God the bloke would call again so we could get something more, but for now we just have to wait until the threat to your family is removed.”

McAvoy purses his lips, as though biting back protests. The image that was sent to Trish Pharaoh’s private mobile phone had shown Roisin McAvoy asleep in her hospital bed. Whoever had taken it had gotten past the uniformed guard on the door. They’d pulled back the bedsheets and lifted her nightdress. Then they had slipped away. Had taken the time and trouble to digitally alter the image. The picture Trish had received had been too grotesque to show her sergeant but she can bring it to mind in an instant. She knows how McAvoy would react if he knew the picture showed how his wife would look after somebody had taken a blowtorch to her breasts.

The call had come later. It had been short and to the point. The Headhunters were split on the issue of Roisin McAvoy. There were those within the caller’s organization who believed she needed to suffer. The caller himself was more pragmatic. Even had a grudging respect for the tough, beautiful gypsy girl. But the Headhunters were run by committee. And a decision had been made . . .

McAvoy wants to tell Pharaoh that his wife and child would be safest with him. But experience has shown him that is not the case. He just wishes to Christ he knew where they were. Where Pharaoh had sent them. Who was taking care of them and making sure they didn’t forget him.

“You’re a bit of a mess, Hector,” says Pharaoh gently as they begin to walk after the distant figure of Fin. “If she came back tomorrow, what would she see?”

“I’m trying,” says McAvoy petulantly. “Fin’s warm and clothed and fed. We do his homework. I tell him stories. I try and be a good dad.”

“You
are
a good dad. You’re just not taking care of yourself. Look at your knuckles.”

Like a child hiding chocolate-smeared fingers, McAvoy shoves his hands in the pocket of his long cashmere overcoat. It’s the only coat he has, and were he to hold it up to the light, he would be able to see the holes made by the scalpel as it was plunged into his back by a serial killer.

“You’re boxing again?”

McAvoy shakes his head. “Just keeping fit. Heavy bag.”

Pharaoh looks at him knowingly.

Abashed, McAvoy looks down. “I use a tree.”

“In the Country Park?”

“Nobody can see. I know a place. Under the cliffs. Big, broad sycamore trunk. I take one of the blankets from the room. Twist it and tie it round the middle. It’s just a workout.”

Pharaoh pulls a cigarette from her bag and lights it, making a tent from her jacket around her head. When she emerges, she has clearly made a decision.

“You can’t go on like this,” she says firmly. “I can’t either. Can’t watch. Can’t feel the guilt. I don’t like guilt, Hector. It makes me cross. And I feel like shit that you’re all alone and hating yourself and beating up fucking trees in your spare time. I wasn’t sure I was going to agree to what they wanted. But seeing you . . . Christ, you need to be a policeman again.”

McAvoy feels lost. He’s cold and wet and hungry. His hands hurt. There’s a clamminess to his skin and a dull ache in his forearms. Whatever Pharaoh can give him, he’ll take.

“You can’t come back properly,” she says through a mouthful of smoke. “Not to the unit. Not yet. With you off, and Ray still suspended, and Helen out of action, I’d love to be able to put you back in the front line, but Human Resources will go bloody mental.”

“So what can I do? With school times, and picking up and dropping off and stuff, I can’t even go full-time . . .”

Pharaoh waves him into silence, her cigarette a conductor’s baton between her fingers.

“Home Office has asked for you. They said they wanted the best I had to offer. Said they wanted you.”

Despite himself, McAvoy feels a sensation of merriment play at his lips. A tremor shoots through his hand and the umbrella wobbles, spilling water down Pharaoh’s right arm.

“Aye, I told them you were a bloody genius,” she says, wiping herself down with a soaking palm. “Anyway, it’s a job where you can set your own hours. Just something to ease yourself back in. A bit of digging. A bit of fact-checking. All the stuff you like. It won’t be too much of a headache and I’ve managed to arrange a bit of a discretionary supplement to your sick pay. Won’t be much, but it might help.”

McAvoy shivers. Hopes his boss will put it down to the weather.

“And if I do an okay job . . .”

Pharaoh shrugs. “It will be hard to let you be involved in the Headhunters investigation. Not when you’re so connected.”

“But not impossible?”

Pharaoh beams. Looks up at him from under the umbrella they share. “Just keep out of mischief. Don’t dig up more bodies than you have to.”

McAvoy watches his son in the distance, swishing a stick at the thistles in front of the railroad tracks. He straightens his posture. Pushes his hair back from his face. Feels himself spark into some semblance of life.

“Will I have my warrant card?” he asks. “Is it police work? Will I be a policeman?”

Pharaoh tuts and gives him an affectionate kick on the ankle.

“Yes. You’ll be a policeman. Tomorrow, I might let you be a fire engine.”

McAvoy nods. “With a siren?” he asks.

Pharaoh lifts her face to the rain.

“That’s my boy.”

9:18
P
.
M
. N
INETY
MILES
NORTH
.

A patch of woodland, five miles inland: buffeted by stiff winds and transformed into a charcoal sketch by darkness and rain.

A great bear of a man, wrapped up against the chill, moving through the trees without a sound.

Raymond Mahon’s face is barely visible in the gap between his black scarf and flat cap. His tinted sunglasses reflect the light from the half-moon. The lenses rarely leave his eyes, no matter how dark the sky becomes. The incident that destroyed his face wreaked devastation on his vision. One retina was irreparably damaged, leaving him unable to see bright colors. The other, perhaps in sympathy, lost its ability to distinguish between shades of dark. It left his world streetlamp yellow.

“Like honey?” the doctor had asked when he removed the bandages.

“Like piss,” he had replied with bleeding gums.

Mahon is a big man. Tall and broad. It seems as though he is wearing several layers of clothing beneath his heavy leather jacket, but he’s not. It’s all him.

Deft, agile, straight-backed, and purposeful, he strides across a carpet of wet leaves and rotten twigs to the little house that hides among the high trees and bent branches. In this light it has the appearance of a fairy-tale cottage and Mahon is the Big Bad Wolf come to snarl at the windows. It is made of big gray stones and has been here for a long time. The windowsills are painted white and patterned with roses. A small garden sits at the front of the property, which will be rich with snowdrops and bluebells in February but is colorless now.

Home.

Mahon opens the unlocked wooden door and steps onto the concrete flagstones of the hallway, followed by a swirl of wind, rain, and leaves. He shuts the door against the darkness outside, but it does little to stop the sighing of the wind and the fingernails of rain on the glass.

It is cold in the house. It seems to grow colder with every step.

Mahon switches on the hallway lamp, and the yellow of his vision becomes more pronounced. He turns and walks to the large, farmhouse-style kitchen and fills the deep sink with water from the cold tap. He removes his sunglasses, hat, and scarf, and places them on the wooden work surface. Behind him is a large granite-topped table. It supports a vase of bright yellow roses. In the corners of the room, drifts of dead rose petals pile up like dunes of autumn leaves. Their vivid colors have faded to brown and black, their scent a sickly-sweet decay, heavy on the air.

Looking up, Mahon catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window.

He has spent endless hours under the surgeon’s scalpel but there are still times when he sees himself as almost inhuman. One side of his face is still a hairless mess of white and pink flesh; a butcher’s window of raw and rotten meat.

He looks away.

Mahon places his hands in the icy water and leaves them there until the splashes of blood begin to lift from his skin. He has done this many times in his long life and knows the process cannot be rushed.

Slowly, the water turns red. It is a gradual transformation, like milk being poured into strong tea, one drop at a time. Eventually, he rubs his fingers together, scrubs at his wrists, and removes his hands from the rose-red water. He dries them on his trousers, and walks across the concrete flags to the living room.

For a time, still in semidarkness, he busies himself by the slate fireplace. Twisting kindling, stacking logs. Then he strikes a long-nosed match on one of the rough bricks of the mantelpiece and touches it to the dry paper. A soft, warm light grows into a red and yellow blaze as the kindling is devoured and the wood begins to crack. Satisfied, Mahon stands up, removes his coat, and sits down in the armchair facing the fire. He centers himself and settles back, retrieving an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled packet, and igniting it with the cheap plastic lighter he has taken from the pocket of his black jeans.

The room takes on the appearance of a cave. The light of the fire flickers and dances, pushes inward, then retreats like a tide. It exposes the drabness of the living room. Pale walls, mottled with damp, and patterned with patches of pink wallpaper that the scraping brush could not remove. A solitary standing lamp. Three-seater sofa, with only one flattened cushion. Wooden floorboards, stained and unvarnished. Almost black in the places where the blood has dried.

The breeze hurls handfuls of leaves and twigs at the thick, old-fashioned windows. It is utterly black beyond the glass.

“Feeling better?” asks Mahon.

The thing on the floor was a man just a few nights ago. He was handsome and poised, well perfumed and elegantly dressed. Tonight he is a collage of bloodied silk and frayed flesh.

Mahon leans forward and puffs some cigarette smoke into the man’s face. He is wreathed in mist; a demonic, half-made thing.

The man tries to push himself into the floor. Wrestles with the blade that holds his arms still and only serves to further expose the tendons in his palms, bisecting the open wounds.

Mahon has not bothered to gag the man. Was content to let him scream and shout and beg. Let him holler himself into unconsciousness while Mahon went up to the big house and gave Mr. Nock a report on the day’s wins and losses. Mr. Nock hadn’t asked whether the slick bastard in Mahon’s cottage had talked yet. Both men know that it is only a matter of time.

“Wake up, bonny lad. We’ve got to have another wee chat.”

The man is still dressed in the designer clothes he was wearing when Mahon took him. His black suit and purple shirt are streaked with blood and piss, but Mahon has allowed him to keep his dignity and chosen not to strip him. He’s searched him, of course. Taken the man’s two mobile phones and the expensive leather wallet. Took his switchblade, too. Used it to pin the man’s hands to the hardwood floor of the cottage to keep him still while Mahon set about levering up floorboards and gathering stones.

He has used this technique before. It’s messy but effective.

“Pressing, it’s called,” says Mahon conversationally, pulling a sleek black mobile phone from his pocket. “I’m sure you know that, of course. You look like a clever man. Not as clever as you think you are, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, but you’ve obviously got a bit of something about you. Guile, I think it’s called. Ambition, maybe. Some people might say you were bloody stupid to think of going behind Mr. Nock’s back. I’m not so sure. I understand the temptation. He’s old. Had things his own way a long time. Outstayed his welcome at the party. The thing is, though, bonny lad, it’s his party. He can stay as long as he wants. And he’s got one or two bouncers who don’t like gate-crashers. You understand? Now I’ll ask you again. The passcode for this phone. What is it?”

On the floor, the man gives a cough and spits out blood and swearwords.

Mahon shakes his head. He reaches down and picks up a big white rock from the pile beside the fire. Lightly, he tosses it onto the floorboards that are laid horizontally across the man’s chest. It lands among the bricks and boulders already crushing the man down onto the sharp stone Mahon has wedged between the vertebrae at the small of his back.

The scream is lost in the rain and the wind.

“You’re being awfully silly,” says Mahon, whose voice wavers with the slightest sibilant hiss around the letters that require his tongue. “Tell me who you report back to and I won’t even bother with the phone. I know who you represent, of course. Your people have got a lot of folk running scared. But I would love to put a face to a name. Now tell me who asked you to come and rock the boat. Who told you to approach our man Lloyd? Who decided that would be a good idea?”

Through snot and tears, the man manages more venom, shaking his head from side to side and opening fresh wounds on his chin as he rubs his flesh against the splintered wood that pins him down.

“The French have a name for this,” says Mahon, sitting back and holding a fresh rock in his lap. “
Peine forte et dure
. I’m no linguist but I think that’s right. Only been to France once and never got a chance to use the expression. Hope I’ve got it right. Protestant bastards used it on Catholics who refused to recant. Was a famous case in York. Beautiful city, York. You ever been? No? Was a lady there called Margaret Clitherow. Upright, well liked, normal sort of woman. Authorities arrested her for her beliefs. Ordered she be pressed to death. Laid her on a stone the size of a man’s fist then placed a door on her chest. The town sheriffs were supposed to load the door with rocks but couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Couldn’t persuade any townsfolk either. Ended up paying some beggars. What that woman must have endured, eh? But she wouldn’t recant. Stuck to her beliefs. Some people even say that her final words were ‘More weight.’ I admire her for that. She cared about something so much she was willing to endure whatever it took. I think she’s been sainted since. The thing is, son, you’re not protecting a faith. You’re not standing up for what you believe in. You’re just being a silly, obstinate bastard. You might get your orders through a mobile phone. You might not know who the next man up the chain is. But you know the passcode for your phone. And if you don’t tell me, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, shitting in a bag. And I tell you, nobody’s going to think you’re a saint.”

The man on the floor opens his mouth. His breathing is ragged and strained. A blood vessel has popped in his right eye and the wounds to his palms from the switchblade are big enough to pass a coin through.

“Please,” he manages, and red tears run down his face. “No more . . .”

Mahon begins to smirk, when his own mobile phone rings.

“Sergeant,” says Mahon brightly into the phone. “This going to be expensive?”

For the next few moments, Mahon doesn’t speak. He just listens and stares at the shadows on the wall, as if the flickering shapes are players on a stage.

“Thank you,” says Mahon at last. “Usual amount, plus a bonus. And your loyalty is appreciated.”

Mahon ends the call. Looks at the broken human being on the floor at his feet.

“Painful memories,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “Haven’t thought about that place in years. Bad business. Mess, it was. Cost me a lot, that night. People can’t control themselves, can they? Just have to act like animals. And then people like me have to pick up the pieces.”

Mahon drops the rock on the man’s chest. Listens for the sound of bone turning to powder.

He turns away from the riot of screams and looks out of the small window at the dark forest and the tumbling rain. He drifts into remembrance. Lets his mind tumble back almost half a century. Remembers gravestones and blood, snow and gunshots. Remembers the girl and the smell of innocence lost. He has no wish to revisit that place. Nor to remember that night. But circumstances dictate he has to rebury a ghost.

•   •   •

T
UE
SDAY
MORNING
,
9:05
A
.
M
.

McAvoy can only afford one cup of coffee and fancies that he will need to use the Internet for longer than it will take him to drink it. So he orders the drink in a takeaway mug and walks with it through the soft rain and gray air to his car, parked directly outside the Costa coffee shop that sits on this little retail park to the west of Hull. From his vehicle he can still access the shop’s Wi-Fi, but he won’t feel compelled to get up and leave as soon as he drains the last sip of his gingerbread latte. This way he can take his time and won’t sweat and blush himself insensible each time one of the nice young ladies asks if they can get him another.

He opens his laptop. Takes a sip of the sweet, frothy drink. Wipes foam from his freshly shaved upper lip and rubs his back against the driver’s seat. One of his wounds is finally scabbing over and itching so badly he wants to tear his skin off with a rake.

McAvoy is dressed in a way that would not displease the women in his life. He managed to find a supermarket suit in his size and looks passable in dark blue with a plain white shirt and an old-school tie. His walking boots don’t look too incongruous and last night’s rain cleaned the last of the dirt from his cashmere coat. He looks fine. Battered, and careworn, and a little dangerous around the edges, but he had still felt caring eyes upon him when he dropped Fin off at school this morning and said hellos to the appreciative mums.

McAvoy accesses his e-mails. There are some big files from Pharaoh. They were sent just after eight a.m. and the originals carry government logos. He opens one at random. Flicks through the findings of a mental health tribunal. Closes it down and opens another. Scanned images of witness testimonies. Black-and-white photos. A shotgun, tagged and wrapped in polythene. A photograph of a footprint. Tire tracks on crushed snowdrops. He takes a deep breath. Opens up a search engine and types a name into the Internet. He gets fewer hits than he had expected. But he still finds plenty to keep him going.

Over the course of the next hour, McAvoy’s drink grows cold in the cup holder at the front of the battered minivan. The laptop screen casts images onto his face. Fills his scarred features with the words of witnesses long dead. Fills his mind with images he will not soon forget.

By midmorning, McAvoy feels ready to close the computer. He blinks hard. Rubs a hand over his face and drains his cold drink. He reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a chocolate croissant wrapped in tissue paper. He munches it thoughtfully. Wonders, for a time, quite what he should hope for. Were this a fresh case, he would be giddy at the thought of taking it on. But these murders happened nearly fifty years ago, and the tone of the correspondence between Pharaoh and her contact at the Home Office suggests that it is McAvoy’s job to just make sure that if the case should ever come to trial, it can be tied up swiftly and without embarrassment.

The situation he finds himself in is the direct result of the new home secretary staying true to his word. Two decades ago, while still a junior minister, the cabinet member had met one of his constituents at a local hospital. She was a sweet woman. Timid but determined. A loyal party member. A regular voter. A pillar of the community and the sort of person who looked good in a twinset and pearls. She’d told him about her grandson. Peter Coles. Arrested back in 1966 at the scene of a spree killing and locked away under the Mental Health Act. Had been pretty much catatonic ever since. Wouldn’t tell her why he had done it. Hadn’t been a bad boy. Hadn’t ever wanted to hurt anybody. Was it right? Could he be locked away like that, without a trial, for all those years? She wanted to hear the facts. Wanted to know if he could be kept in a cell for decades without a proper hearing before a judge. Said her neighbors, the victims, had a right to know. The minister had made a promise. Said he would do what he could. And twenty years later, a decade after the old woman’s death, he remembered it. Set the wheels in motion and demanded that if Peter Coles was mentally fit to be so, he should be tried on four counts of murder. Caused his civil servants a succession of heart attacks. And they had approached Trish Pharaoh with a request for help.