Cold bones, p.29
Cold Bones, page 29
part #8 of DS Aector McAvoy Series
He sips his drink and lets the warmth of the bar seep into his aching limbs. He likes Rayner’s. Likes knowing he is drinking in a place where the city’s legends were created and their stories shared. A fisherman’s pub. Rough and raucous. They served trawlermen their first pint when they got home and their last before they left. He’s seen old photos and it hasn’t changed much in the last half century. If the regulars could be persuaded to dress as they had in 1968 it could easily serve as a museum.
He looks at his phone. Missed calls from Slattery and two from a number he doesn’t recognise. He puts it back in his pocket without unlocking it.
‘Any good news for us?’ asks Jean, her face already twisting into an expression of pre-emptive dissatisfaction. ‘Bloody horrible what’s happened down the docks.’ She’s small. Late fifties. A skin-tone that speaks of too much Marbella sunshine and a lake of white wine. She’s wearing leggings and a black vest; a wedding ring on a gold chain around her neck. She looks beguiling when she smiles, though it doesn’t happen often. Last time he was here, Jean explained she had been a barmaid for most of her life. Seen it all, done it all, bandaged lacerations with the T-shirt. She’s never shied away from booting out troublemakers or demonstrating to drunken Romeos what she is capable of if they overstep their boundaries.
McAvoy looks around the faded, peeling pub. At a table by the window, two men in bright blue jeans and knock-off Ralph Lauren T-shirts are sitting side by side playing with mobile phones. McAvoy can’t tell if they are together, or whether they are strangers who are both secretly seething that their fashion style has been copied. Neither looked up as McAvoy entered the bar. The other drinker did. He’s an old man. Big flat ears filled with coarse grey tufts. Thinning strands of yellow-white hair scraped back over a greasy, mottled head; the lines left by the comb still visible, like rakings in a Zen garden. He wears a grey suit over a V-neck pullover, shirt and tie. The collar of the shirt is threadbare where it has rubbed against the stubble of his jawline. He’s reading a copy of the Hull Mail, though McAvoy notes that his eyes aren’t moving over the words. Instead, he’s making a display of being occupied, listening in while seeming engrossed.
‘I presume the gossips have got it right for once,’ says Jean. ‘Fat Des. Alf Howe. Druggies, wasn’t it?’
‘Why are you asking me?’
‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’
Jean shrugs. ‘Sixth sense.’
‘Okay then,’ he says. ‘Let’s test your powers. Why am I here?’
‘I should imagine it’ll be to do with Roberta,’ she says.
McAvoy nods. ‘I’m investigating the death of Enid Chappell.’
Jean sniffs, sadness flooding her features. ‘Bloody shame,’ she says, nodding. ‘Weren’t a bad sort, for a social worker. Tried, if you know what I mean. Did her best by Roberta though that weren’t always easy. What was it you were wanting to know?’
McAvoy wonders if he knows the answer. ‘She was looking into something,’ he says carefully. ‘Local history. Something from her past. I wondered if you knew what that might be.’
Jean leans in, her breasts squishing against the bar and wrinkling at the cleavage. McAvoy makes sure he doesn’t look. ‘I think you may be barking up the wrong tree with that idea,’ she says quietly. ‘Enid were going a bit funny. She was just trying to sort out her own memories, I think. She and that friend of hers, they were visiting old places, seeing things that might help her stay a bit more . . . well, y’know . . . connected. Did the Hessle Road tour a few times. Still bright as a button, you could tell that, but she would, well, lose her place, I guess. She’d be sipping her port and lemon and chatting away and then she’d be batting at the air as if she were being attacked by bees. We get plenty of old sods in here so everybody was kind to her. That pal of hers glared holes in anybody who looked like they might laugh.’
‘Her friend,’ says McAvoy. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘Old. Walked with a limp. Bit unhealthy looking. Started on the orange squash but looked at the whiskies like he was a diabetic and they dispensed insulin.’
‘You have a very good memory, Jean.’
‘Barmaid’s job. Nice to remember people’s names and what they drink. I’m good with faces. His name was Marlowe, before you ask. Enid introduced him as such. It might have been a nickname though. He glowered at her when she said it and she laughed.’
‘Do you remember the last time she was in?’
‘Around Christmas, I reckon. We’ve got days and days of CCTV on the system, if it’s any use to you. I wouldn’t fancy going through it myself but it’s yours if you want it.’
McAvoy smiles warmly.
‘You’re a sweetie, aren’t you? Must be horrible, seeing the things you see.’
McAvoy nods. ‘The day you get used to it is the day you’re supposed to quit. That’s what my boss says.’
Jean shrugs. ‘Must be nice to have the luxury. Most people just go to work and play the Lottery and hope that the people they love don’t suffer.’
McAvoy raises his glass in her honour. ‘Do you mean I overthink things?’
‘I’m sure your wife loves you despite it.’
‘How do you know I’m married?’
‘Call yourself a copper?’ scoffs Jean. ‘The ring’s a giveaway, you plonker.’
Jean waves as one of the Ralph Laurens clatters out of the double doors.
A gust of cold wind raises the hairs on McAvoy’s neck. He finds himself wondering how many men had tottered drunkenly away from Rayner’s and onto ships that never made it home.
‘You must be one of the chivalrous souls, I bet. Maybe you’d have fitted in on Road. Don’t go thinking fishermen aren’t romantic. My dad used to send flowers to me mam every time they had a row. Used to buy her a new dress or a fur coat each time he was on shore. The second he was back at sea Mam would be pawning it to pay for food. It was a mad life.’
‘Your dad was a trawlerman?’ he asks, pretending to look surprised.
Jean rolls her eyes. ‘I bet Sherlock Holmes is shitting himself with you hot on his heels.’
‘You’re a hard woman,’ says McAvoy, looking hurt.
‘Aw, look at you – you’re like a big toddler. I’m only playing with you. I just mean it’s not exactly rocket science, is it? Everybody from round here was from a fishing family.’
‘The Ballantines,’ prompts McAvoy. ‘They suffered a lot of sadness.’
‘More than most,’ says Jean. She checks the level of the liquids in the glasses of her customers and comes to a decision. ‘Just a second,’ she says. It takes her more than five minutes but when she returns she’s holding a burgundy folder and a black coffee in a floral cup. She lays the album on the bar top and flicks through until she finds a black and white photograph. McAvoy recognises Rory Ballantine and his mates, squashed in together in a little square living room with a floral carpet and mustard-coloured walls. Mags Ballantine, sitting on her man’s knee, his fingers playing with her peroxide-blonde curls. The rest crowd in behind, all Teddy boy quiffs and bell-bottom trousers and eyes that look ready for adventure. Roberta Ballantine sits squashed up between Cowboy Mick and William Godson. She’s maybe thirteen and looks even younger. Her hair is thick and dark, like her brother’s. She’s smiling for the camera, centre of attention. She’s wearing pyjamas and her hair’s messed up at the back. It looks as though she’s come downstairs midway through a party.
‘Who took this?’ asks McAvoy.
‘Arthur Lowery,’ says Jean. ‘Blokes called him Bowbells.’
‘The man who drowned at the docks? Who married Rory’s widow?’
‘You know a lot, don’t you?’ asks Jean. ‘Aye, he were pals with them all. Didn’t sail on the Purcell. Septic hand, I think. Worked out well for him. Not so much for Rory.’
‘You knew Rory?’
‘Oh yes, Roberta was my friend. Much cleverer than me and not easy to get on with but I was there often enough. She had a good life for a while. After her dad died Rory stepped up and took her to live with him and Mags. He sent her brothers and sisters off to relatives but he wanted Roberta with him. She adored him. Broke her heart when he didn’t come home.’
‘And with Mags expecting too,’ says McAvoy conversationally.
Jean looks away. Sips her coffee. ‘It was a comfort to Mags, I think. To know that at least she’d given Rory a bain, even if he never got to see him.’
‘Twins, wasn’t it? Stephen and Tommy? Stephen’s done very well for himself.’
Jean closes the book and puts it behind her. She sits down on her stool and looks at McAvoy, arms folded. ‘Why don’t you just ask me?’
‘Ask you . . .’
‘Ask me whether those bains were Roberta’s.’
McAvoy sips his cider. ‘Were they?’ he asks quietly. ‘Are they?’
Jean sighs and it seems to come from deep inside her. ‘The copper who investigated her disappearance – Peach, that was his name – he asked the same thing. Plenty of people know secrets about one another in this part of the world. Plenty of “brothers” who are two foot different in height. Lasses pushing their “little sister” around in a pram and you all know that she’s just come back from nine months staying with her auntie up the coast. You turn a blind eye.’
‘Except when there’s a missing persons inquiry,’ says McAvoy.
‘Aye. Peach asked me the same questions you are, though not in such a nice way.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said that yes, after Rory died, Roberta and Mags went away. Convalescence, we called it. They went up the coast. A friend had a caravan up there. And when she came back, Mags had her nippers in tow. Rory’s boys. Stephen and Thomas. And that was that.’
‘You suspect that they were Roberta’s?’
Jean scratches her arms, suddenly cold. ‘I was in here the night she disappeared,’ she says. ‘We hadn’t seen much of each other over the years but I still thought she was my pal. People said horrible things about her after Bowbells died. And she was in and out of that hospital, got into drugs. Enid – you know she was her social worker – she was up and down the country in that daft old campervan of hers, picking her up, bringing her back, trying and trying to save her from herself. She’d almost got the job done too. Had a nice job, little place of her own, got herself cleaned up.’ Jean lowers her eyes. ‘I think that was the problem. The haze lifted. She started to remember. My fella – husband number one, I call him – he didn’t like me hanging about with her and in those days you still had to pretend to do what your bloke said. I maybe wasn’t there for her. We had a couple of drinks in the few weeks before she vanished and she was talking about shadows and birds and the night her hair got ripped out.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She had this white streak in her hair. There was a clump pulled out when she was young and it grew back white.’
‘When did that happen?’ asks McAvoy.
‘Few weeks before Rory was lost,’ answers Jean sharply.
McAvoy finishes his drink. He’d like another but daren’t risk it. ‘Jean, you seem like you would be a better detective than I am. Tell me, honestly, what you think happened to Roberta.’
Jean holds his gaze. A fine mist clouds her eyes and she blinks back the tears. ‘Whatever she remembered, she was going to tell. And I think there were people who would have done anything to make sure she didn’t.’ She glances in the direction of the docks. ‘He’s done everything to measure up to his dad. Can you imagine? To find that out? The world thinking you’re this boarding-school posh boy making his tragic daddy proud and it turns out you’re the son of whichever nasty bastard raped your so-called aunt.’
McAvoy considers her. ‘This all seems very fresh in your mind. Almost as if you’ve been waiting to tell somebody.’
Jean shrugs. ‘That pal of Enid’s. He asked me if I would give an interview about Roberta. Wanted to know what I remembered. Whether the police had been leaned on to hush anything up. Whether I believed Roberta was still alive.’
‘What did you tell him?’ asks McAvoy.
‘Not a word,’ she says sadly. ‘He never came back in. I’d got myself in a bit of a lather, as it happens. I’d spent so long not saying anything, you see. Rory’s pals, Napper and Gerard, they could be a bit handy with their fists. They’d made it clear that it wasn’t appreciated – talking. That it was best to just stay quiet. But they’re old now, aren’t they? I heard Napper’s not got long left and Gerard’s got religion so I can’t see any repercussions. I had my heart in my mouth the other day when I saw him going past.’
‘Napper?’
‘Yeah, on his way down to the docks.’
‘And this was?’
‘Morning before last,’ says Jean. ‘He’ll have been heading to see the lads no doubt. Probably shifting Gerard’s car.’
‘Sorry . . .’
‘Old Ken who drinks in here. He goes fishing at the docks. Says Gerard’s Range Rover’s parked outside the Chinese. Sorry, can I say Chinese? You know the place. Been there since middle of last week. Still, he can afford it, eh?’
McAvoy holds up a hand to ask for a moment. He sends a text to Andy Daniells. Gets a ping back a moment later.
Jean suddenly looks worried. ‘When I say Napper was going towards the ship . . . don’t go thinking what you’re thinking. He wouldn’t do that. I mean, they’re his pals. He wouldn’t.’
McAvoy looks at his phone. The mobile phone registered to Gerard Wade has been in the same place for the last six days. Before the battery died, it was still receiving signals from a telecommunications tower that could pinpoint its location more or less exactly. It was on the second floor of the abandoned Blake building on the fish docks.
‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Jean,’ says McAvoy, putting the drink down on the bar. He heads for the exit and stops. Heads back to where she stands. ‘They’re not even brothers, are they? That’s why he wouldn’t spit in the tube. He doesn’t want to know.’
Jean starts picking at the tabletop. ‘I think Roberta thought he would be pleased,’ she mutters. ‘To know the truth. That she was his mum, not his aunt.’
‘Which one?’ asks McAvoy, his voice a whisper. ‘Which one of the boys is hers?’
Jean’s lip trembles. She gets it back under control. ‘She didn’t know. They took the baby away at once. She was still out of it – didn’t know what was real and what was hallucination.’
He reaches into the pocket of his trousers and removes his phone. Presses the screen. Fourteen missed calls and a trio of voicemails. He listens to the first.
McAvoy balls his fists. Looks at the last message: a number he recognises but can’t quite place.
Call me at once. Trish.
McAvoy suddenly realises where he knows the number from. He saw it on the list of phones dialled by Enid Chappell. He found it on a list of freelance journalists, offering the services of a reporter and researcher.
It’s the phone number of Russell Chandler.
Chapter 32
Kalfhamarsvik, Skagi Peninsula, Iceland
6.43 p.m.
Icy rain drums on the roof of the car. Droplets of water run down the glass, turning to ice on the bitter air. Steam rises from the bonnet of the 4x4; ribbons and curls of soft smoke, drifting upwards to lose themselves in the swirling clouds.
‘Hector,’ says Pharaoh, under her breath.
The big police car has come to a stop on the barren strip of land. The lighthouse is an exclamation mark on the headland; a column of white rising from the snow-covered ground, throwing a yellowy light onto the scattered earthworks and toppled brick walls of the abandoned town. She has her back turned on her companions.
She speaks quietly. Briefs him on why she is here. Tells him about Russ Chandler and his dying words. Listens as he speaks of Enid Chappell’s body, entombed in a block of ice. About Russ Chandler: journalist turned investigator, who had stumbled upon half a century’s worth of secrets and hidden bones.
‘Hector, I’m so fucking sorry. There’s so much I have to tell you about – I was trying to keep you safe.’ She growls, shaking her head, furious with herself. ‘Not “safe”. I thought you might be in the frame, somehow. You have so many enemies. I thought if I could just . . . spare you. Not put you through it . . . tidy it up. I should have done things differently.’
She hears him breathing.
‘Did he suffer?’ asks McAvoy quietly. ‘Russ?’
‘I think he did, yes.’
‘He said my name.’
‘It was his password. That will be why Enid wrote it in the crossword. She didn’t have any time. When her attacker appeared, all she could do was leave a trail. Russ had told her about you.’
She pauses. ‘What about Enid? Why did he hurt her, do you think? Why the hair?’
‘A way to use Roberta against her. A way to be extra cruel. He got frustrated with her. Maybe he wanted answers and she couldn’t remember. Or she simply wouldn’t tell and he hurt her to break her. Either way he wanted her to suffer. The chipped ice – he carried it there with him, I’m sure of it. Knew what he was going to do.’
‘The chicken coop?’
‘He’s out of his mind, Trish. Unhinged. That’s why this has looked so erratic – a profiler would mark it down as the work of two people. Controlled one moment, frenzied the next.’
‘You’re going to arrest Ballantine?’
