Taking Pity (14 page)

Glass nods. “Anticorruption purges. A lot of high performers were put to the sword. Stings all over the place, and all the boys who had been accepting envelopes for favors were rounded up and booted out.”

“Len Duchess was among them.”

Glass looks like he wants to spit. “Should have been, from what I’d heard. But he saw the writing on the wall and fled before anybody could put the cuffs on him.”

“And now?”

Another shrug. “Happy ending to the story is that he’s living in a nice little villa in Spain with some fat lass feeding him paella. That’s not the version of the story I believe. I reckon he ended up in somebody’s fried breakfast.”

McAvoy gives a quizzical look.

“Was a favored disposal method, lad. One particular firm in London. Had a pig farmer on their payroll. They got rid of unwanted personnel for them. You seen what a pig can do to a human body? Can munch the whole lot down. Bones and teeth and everything else. I’ve never seen it happen but I wouldn’t want to neither.”

McAvoy swallows. Tries not to let his thoughts stray or let the pictures in his head become too clear. He looks out the window, breathing slowly.

“They’ve given you a right shitty job here, ain’t they, lad?”

McAvoy turns back and gives a sigh that turns into a smile as he catches Glass’s eye. “It’s proving a little awkward to get specifics,” he says as tactfully as he can. “The one thing that seems certain is the culprit. Nobody has suggested anything to the contrary, which is almost a relief. But in terms of building a viable case . . .”

“What do they expect, eh? They should have looked into this years ago. I was the one who found the poor bastards and even I don’t think somebody should have been locked up without a trial for half a century. And that night cost me a lot. I wasn’t in Patrington for more than a couple of months after that. When the merger came through, I ended up in a police box on Myton Bridge in Hull. Spent my days dealing with drunks and scrubbing puke off the door. Dragging people out of that mud by the River Hull. Breaking up fights in the Old Town. Was a bloody treat to retire. And I’m pleased to say I’ve had more years on a police pension than I gave to the job. Feels like a victory, that.”

McAvoy is looking at the floor, brooding. He’s wondering about Len Duchess. Trying not to imagine the sound of pig teeth crunching through a shinbone. Wondering whether he will have to paint John Glass’s actions in a negative light when he writes his report for the Home Office.

“There’s no real chain of evidence,” says McAvoy, gesturing at his paperwork. “Half of the crime scene photos are missing. I don’t have a single image of the bodies in situ. The postmortem is completely missing and I don’t know where to start looking for that. And all I really have is a list of people saying they thought Daft Pete was a bit of an oddball but not really capable of murder. I think this needs more than just me, Mr. Glass. Or it needs nobody at all.”

Glass nods. Slowly, he reaches down beside him and retrieves one of the photo albums. He opens it at a page marked with a Post-it note and hands it to McAvoy, who takes it with a puzzled expression.

“Dug it out when you rang,” he says. “Winter, 1963. Coldest for fifty years. That’s the Winn family. And that daft bastard’s Peter Coles.”

McAvoy peers at the black-and-white image. A young, slim-hipped man is in the foreground, shoveling thick snow from one pile onto another. Behind him, a tall, broad-shouldered man in an expensive wool coat is standing up to straighten his back. A middle-aged woman in furs is wincing into the cold as she steps across a newly cleared path, carrying a tray on which a teapot and six cups sit alongside a silver milk jug and sugar bowl. And in the far right of the picture, an adolescent male in blue overalls and a flat cap is talking to a dark-haired lad in a Harris tweed overcoat and a pretty girl wrapped up against the chill in pale fur.

“Clarence,” says Glass, leaning forward and touching his finger to the older man in the foreground. “His missus. His youngest, Stephen. Vaughn, Anastasia, and Peter. Wouldn’t credit it, would you?”

McAvoy looks closely at the picture. There is nothing sinister within the image. Nothing to suggest that the lad with the dungarees would kill the other four people the camera caught that day.

“You took this?” asks McAvoy.

“The wife. We were new to the village. Trying to make friends. She took photos of everything, she did. Was like a human camera. Cost me a fortune in film. She’d love those new digital cameras. Died before they were invented, poor lass.”

McAvoy would normally offer condolences but is too lost in the image to make any comment.

“Clarence Winn looks a strong man,” he says speculatively.

“He was. Hard worker. Good man, if it’s possible to be such a thing when you’re rich.”

“That’s what I find hard to understand,” says McAvoy, locking his hands and tapping his thumbs together. “Without the postmortem report I can’t know whether he fought back. And Coles must have reloaded. So how come nobody tackled him? I know it must have been terrifying, but if he just stumbled into their paths in the woods and killed them so he wouldn’t get into trouble . . .”

“Then how did he get them all? I know. I asked.”

“And?”

“Coles hasn’t spoken much at all since Len Duchess slapped him about. You should ask him yourself.”

“Coles?” McAvoy looks instantly unsure. “I don’t know how that would be received . . .”

“I can imagine,” says Glass sympathetically. “Have yourself a look through the albums if you like. I’ve got no others of the family, but you might find something interesting. Wish I had a better one of Vaughn for you. Did you say you’d spoken to him? Give him my best if you speak to him again. Doubt our paths will ever cross, but he was always a charmer and he’s done well for himself. Nothing if not deserved. Anyway, I’m going for a piss.”

Glass hauls himself from the chair and makes his way toward the living room door. McAvoy is left alone in the silent room. He drops his head to his hands. Finds himself thinking not terribly charitable thoughts about Trish Pharaoh for landing him with all this, and instantly chides himself for disloyalty.

He begins to absentmindedly leaf through the album. Sees pictures of a young John Glass with wife and child. Holidays on Bournemouth Beach interspersed with candid snapshots of Patrington village life. McAvoy wonders what happened to the child in the photos. Whether she’s still in touch with her dad. Whether she ever heard him whimper in the night as he suffered nightmarish recollections of what he found in the grounds of the church that snow-filled night in 1966.

McAvoy examines faces and changing fashions; Crombie coats and colorful flares. Watches heels shorten and hemlines lengthen. Watches a couple grow old.

He turns to the final page. Recognizes the image. St. Germain’s Church; shot with the stone angel in the foreground and a watery sun behind.

It seems out of place. Incongruous. Seems almost to have been stuffed in, while the other images are neatly placed behind the clear cellophane.

McAvoy pulls on his lower lip, confused.

Why keep it? Why retain an image of a place with such terrible memories?

He looks at the date, written in black ink on the pale blue sky: 1983. The same year Glass retired from the police force. Had he really used his retirement to make a pilgrimage back to the place where he saw such atrocities? Did that not speak of a man who felt he had unfinished business? Or had he simply taken a photograph of an attractive building while visiting old friends on the remote strip of land he once called home?

McAvoy slides the image from the photo album. Holds it by the edges so as not to leave fingerprints on the surface. Turns it over.

There are four neat crosses, set out in a random constellation.

Three words are written underneath in a shaky, old man’s scrawl:

Count the bodies.

McAvoy looks up as Glass shuffles back into the room. He locks eyes with the old man. Raises an eyebrow and looks down at the photo in his hand. Glass gives the tiniest of nods. McAvoy puts it in his pocket, and feels the hard thud of his heartbeat as his palm touches his own chest.

“Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Glass.”

The old man frowns. “I ain’t got much of it left, son. Seen the morgue enough times to know when a body’s on the way out.”

“I’m sure you’re fighting fit, sir.”

“There’s no fight in me, Sergeant. Wish there was.”

McAvoy stands and takes a business card from his wallet. Takes out one of Pharaoh’s, too. He leaves them on the windowsill and turns back to Glass. He shakes the old man’s hand. Something passes between them. Were McAvoy asked, he would not be able to describe the feeling. But as he makes his way to the front door, he feels as though a fresh weight is settling on his chest.

He doesn’t want his thoughts to move in the direction they are drifting. But he cannot help it. As he walks through the rain and across the damp grass, McAvoy finds himself thinking of Peter Coles. Finds himself overlaying the image of the old man in a mental hospital with the young, dull-eyed lad in the photograph. Was it possible? Could he really have been robbed of fifty years? Or was he seeing secrets and lies, shadows and conspiracies, in the place of a simple truth?

McAvoy’s head spins with thoughts of corrupt coppers and forced confessions, intimidated witnesses and the crunch of bone. He smells rain and damp earth, crushed leaves and wet wool. He turns the three words over and over and tries to make sense of the strange, cryptic message that seems to be forming into a fist in his shirt pocket.

•   •   •

M
C
A
VOY
DOESN
’
T
FEEL
the eyes upon him.

Doesn’t sense himself being watched by the one amber-tinted eye of a man who has inhaled the last breaths of countless dying men.

Doesn’t sense Mahon, as he stands in John Glass’s living room and glowers through the gloom at his dwindling shape.

Doesn’t look around at the monster who is burning fresh holes in his broad, scarred back. Doesn’t see Mahon scoop the business cards from the windowsill and slide them into his wallet.

Doesn’t see him turn back to John Glass, and sadly shake his head.

M
AHO
N
DOESN
’
T
LIKE
this city, with its wet, chilly air: its heat haze of some undefined gloom.

“Itching for home, I am,” says Mahon, turning away from the window. “Nice to get away, but always better to get back, I always say. Mr. Nock does, too. Or at least, he used to.”

John Glass is back sitting in the rocking chair. His lips are pressed tightly together. It looks as though he is biting down hard on an expression of fear. His eyes betray him. Terror has turned his pupils to pinpricks.

“He’s a big bastard, isn’t he?” says Mahon, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the retreating figure. “Little on the inside, though. Couldn’t hear half of what he said. I was expecting some sort of sergeant-major voice. Came as a shock, it did. And at our age, John, we don’t need shocks.”

“I played along,” says Glass with a dry wheeze in his throat. “I had to give him something. It would have seemed like I was being awkward. Everything I gave him he knew already, and the other bits were just to show willing—”

Mahon holds up a hand to stop him. He bears John Glass no ill will. He even feels for the poor old sod. Lost his wife. Living in a faceless apartment all by himself. And now, in his dotage, answering the door to a man he hasn’t seen in fifty years. A man willing to do harm.

“You did fine, John. Don’t worry. We’ve always thought of you as reliable. You were worth every penny, my friend.”

Glass screws up his face. “I don’t . . . What money? I never took a penny from anybody.”

Mahon pauses. Then he barks a laugh.

“Cheeky bastard! That Len was a card, wasn’t he? I almost wish the crooked fucker was still alive. Would give me a chance to kill him myself.”

Glass clears his throat but the cough bursts a dam and for almost a full minute he is possessed by the pain that accompanies these wet, hacking sounds. His face turns red and his eyes run. His hands begin to shake. Mahon goes to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water, held in a large, gloved hand. Glass takes it gratefully and sips, only to cough the liquid back onto his chin.

“Jesus, John. Take it easy. Breathe slowly, mate. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Relax, yeah? Relax.”

As Glass’s breathing begins to slow, Mahon drops onto the sofa that McAvoy vacated. He sinks a little into his clothes.

“Len really never slipped you a bob or two? Crafty bastard.”

Mahon marvels at the print above the fireplace. Gives a shake of his head. Len Duchess earned good money. He had never needed to swindle Mr. Nock or any of the other firms who lined his pockets. But some people are corrupt to the bone.

“He said you understood,” says Mahon. “Said you were on board, bonny lad. Said he’d given you a couple of packets to salve your conscience. I am sorry, John. This must feel even more unfair, given you’ve never seen a penny.”

Glass has taken on the appearance of a scared old man. He seems smaller since McAvoy left. What strength he had was used up keeping the anxiety from his face as they chatted. Mahon had been in the next room, listening at the door. Glass doesn’t recall seeing a gun. Nor a blade. Mahon hadn’t even threatened him, really. Just stood there at the front door and given his grotesque, scarred smile. Glass had known immediately. Known, since the copper called him the night before, that the events of fifty years ago were about to be brought back into the light.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” says Glass wetly. “From the pub . . .”

“I was prettier then,” says Mahon. “Wasn’t sure you’d recognize me. Thought I’d have to go through a whole rigmarole of threatening you and telling you what would happen to you and your loved ones if you suddenly decided to succumb to honesty. But you’re still on the ball, aren’t you? I’m pleased you’re on my wavelength. Makes things easier.”

Glass says nothing. His chest hurts and his legs have started to jiggle of their own accord. He needs a piss. Couldn’t squeeze a drop out when he excused himself to give McAvoy a chance to read the note he had hastily scribbled on the back of the photograph when the doorbell rang and Mahon had slipped into the next room.

Mahon looks the older man up and down. He can still see the young cop in the sack of skin and bones before him. He has a good memory for faces. Seems to recall that Glass was a bitters drinker. Had looked positively pissed off when Mahon had sidled up to him that night and told him he’d heard gunshots out at the church.

“You must have had your doubts, John. Over the years. You weren’t a proper city cop. You didn’t have murders on your doorstep every day of the week. You must have had the odd sleepless night wondering what it meant. The smell. The odd drop of blood. C’mon now, mate, unburden yourself.”

Glass blinks and turns away. He should never have gone up to the manor house. Should have gone straight to the cottage. But his mind had been all over the place. He’d just found the bodies of four people he knew. He was speckled with blood and brains and mud. He’d needed to see. Needed to knock on the door of the big house. He’d known the squire wouldn’t answer. Had known he was lying dead in the graveyard of St. Germain’s. But he’d had a few moments before the masses arrived and needed to extinguish his one last flicker of hope.

“I saw nothing. No matter what Len said, I saw nothing.”

Mahon looks at him with resigned kindness, like a veterinarian looking at a half-dead cat. Dabs his face with his handkerchief. “You let yourself in.”

“Only for a tick.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothing!”

“What did you see, John?”

A shivering sob racks Glass’s body. His chest heaves. He’s not lying. He’d seen nothing. But he’d smelled it. Smelled gunpowder and bleach.

“You must have a lot of self-control, John. Must be a strong character to have suspicions like the one you’ve been holding on to for five decades and never follow up on them. You’re either somebody who knows what’s best for them, or you’re unnaturally free of curiosity.”

Glass does not reply. He seems to be struggling to breathe. His skin has taken on an unhealthy greenish tone that reminds Mahon of the stone angel that had looked down upon him this morning as he revisited the site of the massacre. It had been a difficult journey to make. It had affected him more than he’d expected. Hadn’t remembered it as such a pretty place, but then, he’d only seen it in darkness. It had brought back memories he had no desire to revisit. Memories of what he’d found. Memories of Flash Harry’s handiwork. Recollections of driving with the window open so the stench of blood could dissipate into the snow and the wind. Those curses, under his breath. His promises, to Mr. Nock. His guarantee to sort it out.

“You got pills, John? You need to take something?”

Mahon sits forward in his seat. He is growing concerned for John Glass. He hates to see people suffer if there is nothing to be gained by it.

“You want a cup of tea, John? I can open the freezer door. Take some deep breaths, you might feel better . . .”

Glass begins to claw at his throat. He can’t breathe. It feels as though somebody is sitting on his chest and pushing him into the ground. And the ground is opening up. His mind is suddenly swimming with pictures. He sees himself at the door of the manor house. Sees himself pushing open the great double doors. Breathes in a waft of chemicals and cordite.

He’d known then. Known that the scene he had stumbled upon was only a fraction of that night’s story. But he had closed the door. He had run back to where Peter Coles was sitting with his hands tied, muttering to himself about liars and bones. He made up his mind to tell the detectives. Would point the CID boys in the direction of Clarence Winn’s house. Len Duchess had turned up. John had told him what he’d smelled. Told him where to look. And Len had smiled and told him not to worry. John Glass didn’t open his mouth on the subject again. Didn’t say or write a word until today. And he will never speak another.

Mahon watches as Glass’s eyes roll back. He looks like a shark. The pupils roll upward into his skull and his mouth slides open. A set of dentures slip forward and protrude from his lower jaw.

Mahon gives a sigh. He reaches forward and pushes the dentures back into the old man’s mouth. Feels it is the least he can do.

“Well, that was a turnup,” he says to himself. “I hadn’t made my mind up, to be honest. You might have got away with a slap.”

Mahon walks back to the kitchen. Has a look in the cupboards and the fridge for anything worth pocketing and decides there is nothing worth his time. He wonders how often he has done this. How many times he has stood in the homes of the dead. How many souls have passed through his skin and bones on their way to wherever the fuck they were going.

Wonders how many times he has cleaned up other people’s messes.

He can’t help but think of Flash Harry. Can’t help but remember the scene he found when he went to check on the young lad’s houseguest. Can’t help but remember how the gutted southerner had looked.

Mahon closes his eyes. He’s a young man again. Handsome. Loyal. Fearless. He’s a good soldier who has already proven himself in battle. He’s a bit pissed off he hasn’t been listened to. Pissed off Mr. Nock has ignored his advice and given the job of looking after the southerner to his new protégé. But Mahon’s playing ball. He’s keeping it on the inside. Doing his own thing and keeping a watchful eye.

In the theater of his memory, Mahon is turning up at the house. Knocking on the door to the sound of silence. He’s letting himself in and walking up dusty, dirty stairs. He’s opening doors. Calling out. Trying to find the residents. And then he’s in the bedroom. He’s looking at the thing that used to be the southerner. Looking at her: the other one; draining out into the carpet and skin like marble.

Mahon takes a deep breath. Wishes somebody else had found what Flash Harry had done. Somebody else would have thought of themselves first. Mahon hadn’t considered himself. He’d considered his employer. He’d known. Known what Mr. Nock needed.

By his heart, Mahon’s phone rings.

He looks at the screen. It’s from a call box number he recognizes. There are still a few in Newcastle. Not everybody trusts mobile phones.

Mahon speaks to the caller for fewer than thirty seconds. Hangs up without saying good-bye.

Somebody has been asking questions. Some writer. An ex-cop. Has some links to Humberside and a detective with an exotic name. Mahon squints as he tries to recall where he knows the name “Tom Spink” from. Clicks his fingers as he places him. Years back. Some shit happened in one of Mr. Nock’s snooker halls. Manager had called the cops before he’d called Mahon. And Mahon had helped him disappear.

Mahon considers the body of John Glass. Smiles sadly.

Thinks:
It’s a day for meeting old friends
.

He sniffs noisily. Tucks the handkerchief back in his pocket and lets himself noiselessly out of the flat. In a dozen brisk strides he has found the shadows and is crossing the broad green space without getting wet or leaving the pockets of blackness that puddle around the base of the trees.

Mahon is about to make a call on his own phone when the other mobile beeps at him. Mahon gives a tiny laugh, as if some other force is guiding him and giving him signs. He pulls the gangster’s phone from his pocket and keys in the code he had pressed its owner into giving up:

Let him go. You have no idea what you’re up against. Contact us. We can be very accommodating to our friends.

Mahon smirks.

No idea what he’s up against? He reckons he has a pretty good idea.

As he gets into his car and lights himself a cigarette, one simple thought swirls inside his skull.

You poor bastards.