Cold bones, p.9
Cold Bones, page 9
part #8 of DS Aector McAvoy Series
McAvoy watches a muscle begin to tick in his boss’s cheek. You don’t know where she is, he thinks. And you’re worried . . .
‘Your victim,’ says Slattery, clearing his throat. ‘You said she was a social worker. Outspoken on fishing issues. Fuck, aren’t they all? I had to ask Ben to turn the radio off on the drive over. Nothing but nostalgia, all this shite about the good old days. Good old days! Six thousand men dead in a century and they talk about it like it was paradise.’
‘It was an identity,’ says McAvoy softly. ‘They were important. They were the last of the hunters.’
‘Bollocks. How do you hunt a cod? Sneak up on it? Anyway, if somebody did kill this old girl then it was probably a burglary gone wrong. Some little prick looking for a fix. I’ve seen it time and again. The Social Services thing probably doesn’t matter, though no doubt there’ll be some civil servants shitting themselves right about now. Give it a few hours and we’ll all be getting phone calls from politicians looking for a bit of currency. I’ll handle that side of things.’
McAvoy presses his lips together.
‘I know plenty people on Road,’ says Neilsen. ‘They’re bound to know her. They know every bugger.’
‘More old duffers?’ snaps Slattery. ‘Tea and scones and a nice warm fire. I know your game, Neilsen. I’m going to liaise with the press office. Keep me in the loop. Regular updates but not so often that I have to keep steering you, yes? I want to know what we’re dealing with. I mean, how certain are the CSIs? You said her fingertips were scratched. How do we know it isn’t all just an accident? She slipped in the bath, couldn’t get out, tried to escape and died from hypothermia. Very sad. Not as sad as the fact she wasn’t found for a week . . .’
‘We’ll know more when the pathologist is able to examine her,’ says McAvoy. ‘Obviously with her in situ, it’s hard.’
‘Like carving a frozen turkey, I should imagine,’ snorts Slattery. He grimaces, repelled by the thought. ‘You can brief me at 4 p.m. For now, this is an unexplained death. That’s all. Ben, you stay here. I’ll drive myself back.’ He stops. Looks at the pair of them with undisguised disdain. ‘Tread lightly, Acting Detective Inspector. I don’t want you upsetting the people who can help me – sorry, help us – become the police service that Humberside deserves.’
‘There’s no such place as Humberside,’ says McAvoy, unable to stop himself. ‘I can tell you about the history of the boundary changes, if it helps.’
Slattery’s cheek suffers a sudden spasm and McAvoy decides to be quiet. He climbs from the car and back into the cold air. A moment later he hears the driver’s door slam and watches Slattery wriggle his bulk through the gap between the front seats. It’s like watching a sofa give birth.
McAvoy and Neilsen stand side by side, watching as the big, expensive vehicle reverses back out onto the main road and glides away towards Walkington. Shivering, McAvoy turns to Neilsen, whose whole demeanour puts McAvoy in mind of a marionette with its strings cut. He’s not used to seeing his handsome colleague so wrung out.
‘How is she?’ asks McAvoy at last.
‘Mum? She’s still fucking dying,’ says Neilsen quietly. ‘Could be now, could be tomorrow. I didn’t want to leave but he said you needed me. He’s the boss, I suppose. Pays to show willing.’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ says McAvoy. ‘Your family need you.’
‘She might hang on . . .’
McAvoy stares at the gates as if the flash car and its occupant might still be there. Feels something stir in his gut and realises it’s something close to temper. He imagines Pharaoh is beside him, what she would say. He has to jerk himself back to alertness when he hears the low buzzing coming from Neilsen’s pocket.
‘Christ, can I get this?’ asks Neilsen, fumbling for his phone. ‘It’s my sister.’
McAvoy feels the waves of cold grief drift off his friend’s frame. Sees the tears in his eyes and admires his courage for letting them fall. ‘Sarge, I . . .’
McAvoy nods. ‘Of course.’ He looks at his phone and types ‘Russian bodies’, ‘Hull’ and ‘Murmansk’ into Google. Like most investigating officers, it’s become his go-to database. He prefers to be familiar with the public version of the truth as well as the established facts that are entered into the official police files. He clicks on a story on the Yorkshire Post website, dated 12 September, last year, and starts to read. It’s ascribed to a ‘Grace Hammond’ – the moniker traditionally given to any story written by a freelance not a staff reporter.
DID RUSSIAN VILLAGERS BURY TRAGIC HULL TRAWLERMEN?
Human remains discovered half a century ago in a remote Russian wilderness are thought to be sailors from a doomed British trawler.
Family members of those lost when the Blake Purcell was lost in January 1970 have been asked to provide DNA samples after Russian authorities admitted that two bodies were found decades ago.
It was initially thought that the bodies might belong to the Gaul, which sank in 1974 during a fierce storm off the coast of Norway with the loss of her thirty-six-man crew.
But tattoos on the body of one of the victims indicate that the men may be from the Blake Purcell. Michael Timpson, Rory Ballantine and William Godson were lost in bad weather off Iceland’s Skagi Peninsula. The Blake Purcell sank after the remaining crew were rescued.
Area Commander David Slattery of Humberside Police said: ‘This is a very sensitive situation and compassion has been uppermost in our minds while approaching family members. I admire the way those affected have dealt with this challenging and unexpected development.’
A police press release revealed that the remains were found on the Rybachy Peninsula in the Murmansk region of Russia. It is understood that a local custom was to use rocks to cover the bodies of unknown seafarers, because freezing conditions meant it was impossible to dig proper graves.
Bosun Rory Ballantine had just discovered that his wife was expecting their first child when tragedy struck. His son, Stephen, is now a successful Hull businessman who has invested heavily in local good causes to honour his father and his lost comrades.
He said last night: ‘It’s a strange feeling. Part of me wants to know if he really has been lying there all this time – that he was treated decently by men who understood the sea. The other part of me likes the mystery of not knowing. Without a body you always have that whiff of hope. I’ve tried to measure up to my dad all my life and I’ve always felt him watching me. This has really come as a shock.’
It is not clear why the discovery was not reported at the time. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office were only told about the remains in July 2012 and have been awaiting a ‘suitable opportunity’ to begin further inquiries.
McAvoy looks up from the article. Neilsen is talking to Parekh, their body language suggesting a burgeoning intimacy. McAvoy fancies he can see her blushing even through the plastic oversuit. He flicks on to the next article, printed on 23 October.
POLICE DEFEND ‘INSENSITIVE’ TACTICS AS DNA TESTS PROVE INCONCLUSIVE
Russian authorities have been accused of orchestrating a cover-up that has heaped fresh grief on the families of Hull fishermen lost at sea almost half a century ago.
Police have revealed that DNA tests performed on bodies found in a remote coastal region of Russia have proven they are not members of the crew of the Hull trawler Blake Purcell, which sank in 1970.
The development has left the families of those lost at sea ‘devastated’ – and there are now calls for the tests to be repeated by British authorities.
Humberside Police had been led to believe that tattoos visible on two bodies suggested they could be fishermen from Hull. Officers had already taken DNA samples from blood relatives of the three men lost off the Skagi Peninsula in Iceland in bad weather.
But senior officers have now revealed that the tests performed by Russian authorities show the remains ‘most likely belong to the Northern Russian or Finno-Ugric population’. Police officers had been preparing to travel to assist in the investigation but the force now says that the news from Russia concludes their involvement in the matter.
Sylvia Lyons, 53, had hoped that the tests would conclusively identify the body of her father, deckhand Michael Timpson.
She said: ‘I’m devastated and I’m sure the other families are too. It’s dragged it all back up again. Why did the police come and get our hopes up? They had me and my two brothers spit into a tube for a DNA match. I don’t know what to believe. What if the whole thing is a cover-up? It was like a murder inquiry. Now it turns out it was all for nothing. I don’t even remember my dad but his death broke all our hearts.’
Businessman Stephen Ballantine, whose father Rory perished while trying to save teenage crewmate William Godson, said: ‘I understand the police have a difficult job. It was the Foreign and Commonwealth Office that pushed it their way and now they have to pick up the pieces. I gave a sample and obviously hoped we would get answers. Now it seems we’re back to guessing. It’s hit my mother very hard. Without a body you never know how to grieve. She always had this fantasy that one day he would just walk back through the door – that maybe he’d been in some Russian gulag or living a whole other life with some Russian family.’
Area Commander Slattery said: ‘We thought long and hard.’
McAvoy jerks his head up at the sound of his name. Parekh is waving him over, angling her tablet to show Neilsen what is happening in the bathroom: huge great metal heaters glowing amber and gold, melting the pack ice that encases Mrs Chappell; a uniformed CSI scooping up the melting ice with large beakers while another takes photographs. McAvoy sees Neilsen stiffen, a sudden rictus gripping him as he stares at the sugar-pink corpse. He turns to McAvoy, who crunches across the icy gravel to where his colleagues stand.
‘Ben?’
‘Look, Sarge,’ he says, and it sounds as if his throat is being stepped on. ‘Her hands . . .’
McAvoy stares at the screen. Mrs Chappell’s fingers are slowly emerging from the ice; the ribs of a sunken galleon exposed by a retreating tide. They stick out at grotesque angles, dislocated and twisted. Somebody has held her old, arthritic fingers, and pulled them clean from their sockets. Somebody has hurt her in a way that McAvoy knows he could not have endured.
He turns to Parekh, who has pulled down her face mask. She swallows, but it doesn’t change the expression of revulsion that fills her features.
‘She couldn’t pull herself out,’ says McAvoy softly. ‘Couldn’t grip the sides.’
‘Every resource,’ says Parekh, her face taking on a hard look. ‘First priority.’
She turns away, muttering. McAvoy barely hears the words that emerge from behind gritted teeth.
‘When you catch him, make sure you hurt him.’
Chapter 9
Dog Kennel Lane, Beverley
2.57 p.m.
Neilsen’s hands lie splayed on his thighs. His fingers are bent at the top knuckle, his nails pressing through the material of his trousers into the skin of his legs. His shoulders are stiff, his eyes hooded. He sits motionless in the passenger seat, glaring through the fogged-up windscreen, an intensity to his gaze that suggests he is trying to melt the frost from the road.
‘Okay, Ben?’
‘Fucking peachy.’
It looks to McAvoy as if his colleague has pulled on his suit jacket without removing it from the hanger. McAvoy wishes he could think of something to say to him.
‘Coffee?’
Neilsen swivels his eyes. ‘Eh?’
‘There’s a machine in the shop at the village,’ says McAvoy, trying again. ‘And it’ll save uniform a job if we pop in and leave a card or two. There’s always a nugget of gossip if you keep your ears open in the queue. I think they do sandwiches.’
‘I’m not bothered.’
McAvoy waits for more. Nothing comes. He feels horribly uncomfortable, cold in his belly and fiery hot in his cheeks. It is normally he who prefers silence. He’s aware of his reputation for being self-conscious in company. Pharaoh takes the piss out of him for it regularly, telling him that she feels like she is chauffeuring a hideously malformed crash-test dummy whenever he squeezes himself into the passenger seat of her little sports car.
‘Do you know Stephen Ballantine?’ he asks.
‘I know the name,’ mutters Neilsen. ‘Ask Dad. Get him on the right wavelength, he knows everybody.’
McAvoy doesn’t like the quality of the silence in the vehicle. ‘You’ve told your sister you’re on your way?’
‘Yeah. I’m in trouble for leaving.’
‘What’s the, um . . . I mean, how long . . .?’
‘Today, she thinks,’ murmurs Neilsen abruptly, his teeth locked. ‘Fading. But they said she was fading a week ago. They should switch the machine off . . . what’s she staying for? And Dad’s having to live it over and bloody over.’ He falls into silence. Shakes his head.
McAvoy concentrates on the road. Hears the vibrations of messages into his inbox as the vehicle crests a slight incline and picks up a 4G signal. His cheeks feel warm enough to stir-fry beef.
‘She’s still hanging in there,’ adds Neilsen, glancing at his phone. ‘We can take the scenic route, right enough. Is it better if I’m holding her hand at the last?’ He smears the heel of his hand across his nose and cheek. ‘I don’t even know what I want to happen.’
McAvoy stays quiet, unwilling to make things worse by offering an opinion. He indicates left, turning off the desolate country road and slipping down to second gear as the tyres do battle with a sheet of slick ice. He hears gravel ping and pop against the panels and windscreen, a hail of grit shooting up to strike the underside of the car. The gritters were out early. He makes a mental note to get in touch with the council, find out which crews were on this bleak patch of country road over the last few days. He’s already spoken to the uniformed inspector about placing officers at either end of the stretch of road outside Mrs Chappell’s property. It would be a huge help to take a name, number and witness statement from every commuter who cruised past the house over the past few days. The inspector claimed there was insufficient manpower. Told him to put up a sign asking witnesses to come forward. He’d thanked her for the advice and sighed.
‘When do you think it will thaw?’ asks McAvoy, aware that he has now scraped through the bottom of the conversational barrel and into the gunge beneath.
‘Sorry, Sarge?’
‘The big freeze,’ he says, nodding at the sparkling road and the ice and cloud that appear and disappear beneath the headlights of the car. He sits up straighter in the seat, his hair touching the roof of the car, looking into the gloom for potential dangers. Deer live in the little copses of woodland to the left and right. It’s a popular spot with dog-walkers and twitchers. He’s passed the gates to two farmhouses already. He knows how easily a moment’s loss of concentration can snuff out a life.
‘Thought you’d like this,’ says Neilsen. ‘Remind you of home.’
‘Home? I live in Hessle.’
‘Proper home,’ says Neilsen.
‘Scotland, you mean?’ asks McAvoy, surprised. ‘It wasn’t like this.’ He raises a hand from the wheel and gestures at the stark landscape. He gives a little shrug. ‘Maybe it was. I probably remember it differently to how it was.’
‘Think you’ll ever move back?’
‘Back? I left when I was ten. I stopped being a local a long time ago. I haven’t really been local anywhere since.’
Neilsen seems to consider this. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re a good copper,’ he says. ‘You see things as an outsider. You’re not blinded by familiarity.’ He seems about to say more. Bites his lip.
‘Familiarity?’
A flash of temper shows in Neilsen’s face. ‘I grew up with it,’ he says bitterly. ‘Fishing. Trawling. Hessle bloody Road. All that City of Culture bullshit celebrating these working-class heroes. It made me sick. Try growing up in a fishing family when there’s no fishing industry any more. It left the men empty, you understand that, right? You think it’s hard for a footballer to readjust when their career on the pitch is over? That’s nothing compared to a trawlerman having to deal with a life on land. They were rock stars, that’s the thing of it. Fabulous tailored suits and Teddy boy quiffs, a fortune in their pockets and less than three days to spend it. They worked and they fought and they watched their mates get swallowed by the ocean because it was what they knew and somebody had to fucking do it and it might as well be them. How do you take that attitude into a job as a security guard or a sofa salesman or whatever? How do you teach your kids the right way to live when all you know is how to scrape by and stay alive? And the wives . . . Have you been on one of the Facebook groups? Good Old Hessle Road? All these pictures and photos and memories. All this do-you-remember Dillinger riding a horse into Rayner’s and has anybody got a photo of Doris Forrest’s Hair Salon for me mam? Some days I understand it – that nostalgia for a time that made sense. Other times it feels like watching a widow cry for the husband who used to beat her up and fuck her sister.’
Neilsen jerks in his seat, lunging forward sharply and scrabbling about in the footwell, retrieving his laptop from the slim leather case at his feet. He opens it up and keys in his password.
‘The bodies in Murmansk,’ says McAvoy. ‘I need to know more than what I can half remember from a newspaper article.’
‘Do you?’ asks Neilsen. ‘I thought Slattery made it pretty clear—’
‘Look, Ben, if we join the dots, what have we got? Our victim visits the police brandishing a story about the bodies of fishermen from Hull turning up in Russia. Today, a senior officer belts across East Yorkshire to speak to the investigating officer as soon as he hears about that particular line of inquiry? It doesn’t feel right; there’s something there.’
