Cold bones, p.24
Cold Bones, page 24
part #8 of DS Aector McAvoy Series
He is so very pleased to be home.
Chapter 23
Skagastrond, Skagi Peninsula, Iceland
7.03 p.m.
Pharaoh stares out through the glass. Everything seems too white, too dark. The snow makes her think of autopsies she has witnessed: the pale, bloated skin of drowning victims. She stares up, through the clouds and circling birds and towards the absolute blackness of the mountain. She turns her cigarette so that it faces palm inwards. Turns back to the two Icelandic police officers. The big man had told her his name was Thor, though his surname was beyond her. The two officers have spent the best part of the afternoon using her holiday home as a makeshift office, dragging in computers and printers and wireless routers from the car, chatting into mobile phones and making video conference calls with superiors back in Reykjavik. It’s too cold and stormy to drive back. Apparently, Pharaoh has been the cause of some consternation at HQ. They are being very polite, but after hours of being talked about rather than to, Pharaoh’s patience is close to snapping. She’s opened a bottle of red and made herself a sandwich containing what might be the remains of last night’s pizza. She’s got a mouthful of soggy carbohydrates when the blonde officer finally closes her laptop with the air of a virtuoso pianist at the keys of a Steinway grand.
‘All sorted,’ says Minervadottir, with a poor attempt at a smile.
‘You’re fucking thorough,’ mutters Pharaoh. ‘My brain’s hurting.’
‘My colleagues have been working very hard to keep me abreast of all developments in this case, and the many others for which I am responsible.’
‘You’re responsible, are you? Going to arrest yourself?’
Minervadottir ignores her. Continues with the speech she has clearly been rehearsing in her head. ‘My superiors are pleased at the zeal with which you have approached witnesses, ignored established procedure and neglected to work within the investigation unit which you previously claimed would benefit from your specific expertise. They would like me to pass on their thanks, while encouraging you, from this point on, to consider an alternative working practice.’
‘That was a mouthful,’ says Pharaoh, swallowing crusts, tomato sauce and a mouthful of Merlot. ‘Didn’t look easy to say.’
‘Can you say it in Icelandic?’
‘I can only say “skyr”, and that’s not much use. Not unless you’re trying to explain to a paramedic what you’ve just thrown up.’
‘You asked to be involved in this investigation,’ says Minervadottir icily. ‘Now, can we please begin to cooperate?’
Pharaoh sighs, tired and not anywhere near drunk enough to be belligerent. ‘What do you know about the Blake Purcell?’ she asks at last.
Minervadottir glances at her junior colleague. They talk briefly in Icelandic. She moves her fingers over the keyboard of her laptop and taps at the screen.
‘An English trawler,’ she says finally. ‘It sank off Isafjordur Bay in 1970. The hulk’s still there. There are fishermen here who curse it. They still snag their nets. There was talk of trying to refloat it – some salvage operation paid for by an English businessman. The report said it was impossible. So we are stuck with it.’
‘Very good,’ says Pharaoh, impressed. ‘Why do you know all that?’
Minervadottir licks her lips. ‘When a foreigner’s body is found in a remote patch of your district, do you not make it your business to know everything of interest in the area?’
‘Yes, I do,’ says Pharaoh sweetly. ‘But I doubt I’d know the names of every Icelandic fishing vessel that ever sank off Spurn Point.’
‘Perhaps not,’ concedes Minervadottir. ‘We have a database of all maritime fatalities; an accurate map of wreck sites and tide patterns. It helps with the search for bodies, which is one of the less pleasant parts of our job. When we recovered the car and found the magazine . . . well, the Blake Purcell’s name caught my eyes and the rest I read online. What is the relevance?’
Pharaoh grinds out her cigarette. ‘The man,’ she says. ‘The body. Do you have the ID?’
‘Our lab has yet to provide the report,’ says Minervadottir, with an edge to her voice. ‘But I have been able to give the forensic team a little push in the right direction. We both know who we are referring to. Albert Jonsson was Russell Chandler. Russell Chandler was a witness in a trial in England. That trial spoke of the work done by Detective Sergeant McAvoy, and the recommendation that he receive the Queen’s Police Medal. That makes Mr Chandler’s final words extremely interesting. That is why I contacted your department for assistance.’ Minervadottir looks her up and down. ‘And here you are.’
Pharaoh smiles, opening her hands as if having performed a conjuring trick. She suddenly realises she has misjudged the Icelandic officer. Considers how she would feel if the roles were reversed and comes to the conclusion that she should really start playing more nicely.
‘That’s good work,’ she says, nodding. ‘Seriously, I’m impressed.’
Minervadottir gives a curt nod. ‘I believe we both share the same rather insane theory. This Mr Chandler believed he had identified some kind of serial attacker – the man from his ridiculous magazine article. He came here seeking answers. He underestimated the weather and fell from the cliffs like so many other foolish tourists. Had he not managed to mutter a name, he would have been chalked up as another victim of the Icelandic winter. Instead, here you are.’
‘Yeah, lucky you,’ says Pharaoh. She glances at the big man. ‘You don’t say much. What’s your take on it? Why was an English journalist up here in the dead of winter? Why did a local artist get a picture of a figure out at the lighthouse?’
He turns to his superior officer. They exchange a few words. At length, she pulls a plastic evidence bag from an inside pocket. Inside is a squat black telephone.
‘Please don’t think we came up here just for you,’ says Minervadottir, holding the bag out to Pharaoh as if she has won a goldfish at the fair. ‘This was found this morning by the engineer visiting the lighthouse at Kalfhamarsvik. It is encrypted, as you see. We charged it up on the drive but it will take some time to ascertain if it belongs to our victim.’
Pharaoh holds the bag up to the light. She turns to Minervadottir. Flashes her best smile. ‘Look, I’ve been a terrible host. I’ll put the kettle on. Have my next fag outside, yeah? There’s information to be shared. We’re all police officers. I’ve got a few ideas to run by you and no doubt you want to use the Wi-Fi and get some paperwork completed. Let’s start again, eh?’
Minervadottir holds her gaze for a moment. She glances at the dark, unwelcoming sky beyond the window. ‘Might I trouble you for a cigarette?’ she asks at last.
Pharaoh grins and throws her the packet. She heads to the kitchen and starts jangling pots and pans. Reaches into the fridge. Opens the milk and pours it onto her jeans and then the floor. ‘Fuck!’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got no bloody luck. Bit of a spillage. I’m frigging soaked. Look, I’ve got to . . .’
She darts to the bathroom and locks the door behind her. Wriggles out of her jeans. Sets the shower running, all hiss and steam. Pulls the phone from her pocket and slides it free of the plastic bag. She fancies that Minervadottir would have agreed to let her try and unlock it, but until she knows precisely what secrets it may contain, she would rather not risk exposing its contents to anybody.
‘Right, Patricia,’ she mutters to herself. ‘Let’s see how clever you really bloody are.’
Pharaoh sits with her back to the bathroom door. Despite the lock, she suspects that if Thor were to give it a push she would end up at the far side of the room. But the position gives her a vague feeling of privacy. She peeked out a few moments ago. The big cop is sitting in the living room, reading one of the paperback novels from the rickety bookshelf. Minervadottir is in the kitchen, sitting at the table and trying to persuade her laptop to connect to the non-existent Wi-Fi.
The tatty bath towel she found in the airing cupboard isn’t big enough to fasten so she has draped it over herself like a tablecloth. She has her knees drawn up, and there is gooseflesh on her skin despite the humidity in the small bathroom.
She looks at the phone. It’s waiting for a password. She doesn’t know how many chances she’ll get before it locks itself for good and she doesn’t want to jump in without a plan. She pictures Russ Chandler. Journalist. Drunk. Aspiring writer. Sixty-something and never stayed anywhere long. She fancies that he wouldn’t use a birth date. He’d want something personal. Something memorable. Something significant. She has an idea. She jots twenty-six letters onto the steamed-up glass of the bathroom cabinet. Works her way through the alphabet, circling numbers and types the resulting figures into the keypad.
13-3-1-22-15-25
There is a pause, then the screen turns green. The word HELLO appears in the centre. Pharaoh gives a tight smile. She takes off the towel and smears the letters away. Then she crosses back to the door and slides back down to the floor. She works her way through the contacts first. There aren’t as many as she had expected. The first is from Advantis, a debt collection agency for Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. There is an asterisk next to it, and the words ‘do not answer’. She scrolls through. Adele. Alf. Andrew. The names become a blur as she skims through them. McAvoy’s entry contains his last three mobile phone numbers as well as his direct line at work, his two email addresses and an extra number that Pharaoh doesn’t recognise. It’s a landline. She sucks her cheek, thinking hard. Her grip on the phone tightens as she realises that Chandler even has a number for McAvoy’s father, up on the family croft a couple of miles inland from Loch Ewe in the Western Highlands. She looks at the activity log attached to the contact. Reads through the various emails that Chandler has written and not sent. They’re not much more than notes; heartfelt scribblings. Were they written on paper they would have been rolled into balls and thrown over his shoulder. They drip with apology, with profound regret.
I don’t know what I am . . .
Such a cunt . . .
You were caught up in something that I could never have foreseen . . .
I need to make it right . . .
She skims on through the contacts to her own name and rubs a hand across her forehead as she spots the contact details attached to her file. Recognises Sophia’s number. Her Facebook profile. A private email address that Pharaoh used during a previous investigation. She bites down on her lip. He was a good journalist, she knows that much about him. Thorough. Diligent. Admirably dishonest . . .
She grinds her teeth. Looks at the numbers dialled most recently. There are several with Hull area codes. She wonders if she should call and decides that the reception is too patchy to try. She opens up the recent emails.
A low, rumbling voice emanates from beyond the door. ‘You okay? I’ve tidied up the mess.’
‘Be out in a bit,’ shouts Pharaoh, as brightly as she can. She navigates her way back to the home screen. Skims through the handful of photographs. The phone’s camera is woeful and the images are blurred, as if viewed through cataracts. She opens the documents folder. Four files. She opens the one marked ‘Roberta’. Reads the top paragraph and smiles as she recognises the first draft of the article that appeared in CrymeLog. The next file contains a list of numbers and dates. They begin in 1985 and continue up to the present day – a list of ships and years. She wipes the fog from the screen.
‘Fuck!’
Pharaoh drops the phone as it suddenly chirrups into life. It lands screen up, connected to a number with a Hull dialling code. She reaches out for it, unsure whether to speak, but she loses the signal before she has to make a decision. She finds herself short of breath, panting and perspiring and telling herself to calm the fuck down.
There is a file called Vidarr.
Medical notes: head injury. Partial deafness. Talipes (club foot). Evidence of long-term abuse: physical, not sexual. Aggression, aimed primarily at sibling. Extreme intelligence but lacking in social skills. Bond with aunt but endless conflict with mother, stepfather. Expelled from three schools. Aggressive, frequently disappeared from home. 1983, death of Bowbells. Hysterical at funeral. First meeting with X, ’86? RB, attacked at ice-house. Blood and glass. Gerard? Clifftop property in Atwick. Merchant Navy record incomplete. Cadet to deck officer. Capable but poor disciplinary record. Incidents of violence. ’93, Sri Lanka. Questioned for attack on local woman. Security officer aboard MV Excellence. Trained in submersibles. Leaves the Aspen over falsification of documents. Visa difficulties, Gibraltar, ’02. Postcards stop at this time. ’05–’07, brief time ashore, resident in Southampton. Signs on as deck officer, Iceland-reg. Trail cold since April ’09.
Pharaoh uses her own phone to take a picture of the garbled notes, hoping that, given time, they will make more sense. She hears Thor, pacing around outside. The last file is a list of names. A crew list. The name ‘Ballantine’ has been typed in bold. She scrolls to the bottom of the document. Feels like she’s staring into a man’s mind; the complex machinery of a journalist making connections.
Kalfhamarsvik. Ravens? GB. Videy. Rag. Le Havre. Hair motif. Speak to Mags. Enid to introduce. Talk to Napper while SB away. Torfadalsvatn. Latitudinal line with Atwick? Bobber boots and wound to soft palate. Wreck site. FB Good Ol’ Hessle Road.
She opens the memory display on the phone’s home screen. A selection of sound files saved on the microphone function take up a huge chunk of the data allowance.
Pharaoh sucks her teeth. Her head is spinning. It’s too hot in the bathroom. Too clammy and close. She feels a pain in her chest and she slams the palm of her hand against it, praying for indigestion rather than a heart attack. She climbs to her feet and splashes cold water on her face. She pulls her jeans off the radiator, still damp at the front but scorching at the back. She grabs her vest and sweater from the back of the door and ties her hair back with a sodden band from around her wrist. A smear of roll-on deodorant and a squirt of Issy Miyake. She slips the phone back into her pocket, takes a breath and opens the door. Thor’s waiting outside. She’s about to apologise for keeping him waiting when she realises that the look in his eye is not irritation, but concern. He’s been sitting here worrying about her. She finds herself tongue-tied, her words falling over one another. She casts an appraising glance. He’s bigger than McAvoy. A little broader in the shoulder. Not so handsome a face but not so many scars either. Same sad, mournful eyes.
‘I thought you’d drowned,’ says Minervadottir, emerging from behind him.
‘You could have buggered off,’ says Pharaoh. ‘I’d miss you but I’d get over it.’
‘That would be my preference,’ says Minervadottir, as Pharaoh crouches down and starts pulling on her socks. She’s suddenly embarrassed at her chipped nail varnish, her size 4 feet, the hem of little black hairs sprouting from her ankles. She concentrates on the past few moments. Makes a decision.
‘What are your instructions?’ she asks, grunting, as she puts on her left sock upside down. ‘Keep me out of mischief or help me?’
‘A little of both. It would help if we knew your suspicions.’
Pharaoh finds a pair of earrings in her jeans pocket. They’re simple silver hoops, a present from her daughters on her last birthday. They turn her earlobes green but they mean a lot to her. She slips them in. ‘The place with the lighthouse, half an hour up the road. Basalt columns. You know it?’
It’s Thor who answers. ‘It’s beautiful. Bleak, but beautiful.’
‘Best combination,’ says Pharaoh. She meets his gaze. ‘Could I get there in the Swift?’
‘That little car? No way. Why do you want to go there?’
‘That’s where his car was,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Makes sense to see it.’
‘No it doesn’t, it makes sense to stay here and compare notes.’
‘You could take me,’ says Pharaoh. ‘I could talk on the way.’
‘We’re not a taxi service,’ says Minervadottir, pulling a face.
‘You will go anyway,’ says Thor quietly. ‘You will go in that silly car.’
‘Don’t dith the Thuzuki,’ mutters Pharaoh. She reaches out a hand and Thor takes it. His hands are huge and warm. He pulls her up like she weighs nothing.
‘We’ll come back in the morning. We can show you where his car was,’ says Thor. ‘I don’t know what good it will do you. The lighthouse. There’s nothing much beyond.’
Pharaoh looks out into the darkness. Her voice is soft as snow when she speaks.
‘Yes, there is.’
Chapter 24
Wawne Road, Meaux, East Yorkshire
7.06 p.m.
The truck’s brash headlights are the only illumination on this cold, dark tunnel of road. The fog hangs in the blackness, a tangled mesh of silvery white. McAvoy feels as though he could scoop handfuls of sky into his palm.
They’re still twenty minutes away from Bransholme station. Voicemails and message notifications start pinging on McAvoy’s phone as soon as they enter something approaching civilisation. McAvoy is putting them in order when the device chirrups into life. He spots Neilsen’s number and answers at once.
‘Ben . . . how’s your mum?’
‘Still with us,’ he says, and his tone suggests he has other things on his mind. ‘Look, I’ve been talking to Dad. He’s not so bad at the moment. He’s in with Mum now. I don’t think he knows he’s saying goodbye but he knows she’s not well and he’s doing his best to make her feel better. She’s drifting in and out but she still managed a smile or two.’
McAvoy says nothing, aware that he can contribute nothing. He wonders how his own exit will look, and feel.
‘We’ve been sat here for an age,’ says Neilsen, a slight catch in his throat. ‘Just talking. I think you’ve jogged something in his memory. He was on about the Blake Purcell. Kept talking about Big Gerard. Rory. Some bloke called Napper. Well, I’ve had nowt to do other than sit and look at Mam and Dad and Shirley and the carers and I thought I’d be useful. Went through the Facebook group looking for anything or anyone that might have a connection to Mrs Chappell. That comment about her being “big mates” with Mags Lowery. Well, I’ve looked into her and she’s still local. Her name’s Aspinall now. Went back to her maiden name in 1988, a few years after hubbie number two died in an accident at the docks. Lives up Atwick way.’
