Taking Pity (26 page)

He holds up the pieces of old, dirty paper. Reads again the young boy’s fantasy about the girl next door. Reads again about how he wanted to cut her bra off with a Stanley knife, the way he had read in one of his mucky magazines. McAvoy purses his lips. He’s trying not to be a hypocrite. He knows that what exists in the imagination does not have to damn the rest of the soul. There are things that he and Roisin have talked about while exploring their darker sides that would horrify those not used to letting their physical and mental desires intermingle. But he cannot escape the conclusion that there was a dark side to Peter Coles and that the boy’s secret and special place is littered with the dead.

By the light of his phone, McAvoy looks afresh at the newspaper clipping. Looks again at Vaughn Winn, done up to the nines and with his hair slicked up in a pompadour. He’s handsome. Confident. Standing shoulder to shoulder with a well-groomed thirty-something and two very familiar faces.

Neither of the calls McAvoy is waiting for have come through. Vaughn Winn has yet to call him back and explain the significance of the photograph. The CID team at Newcastle have not replied to his three phone calls, requesting information on a local man by the name of Francis Nock. He’s not sure he needs the second call. A Google search has filled in some of the background. And a picture is starting to form in McAvoy’s mind.

He sits, stroking his son’s hair with a hand that still remembers the touch of bone. He shouldn’t have taken the boy. Shouldn’t have made a murder investigation into a game. But Fin’s sleep remains untroubled by nightmares. The boy’s eyes had been filled with excitement, not fear, as they made the drive back to the crappy little hotel. And Mammy is not here to tell either of them off for being so reckless.

McAvoy feels his eyes closing. Feels the weight of the day pressing down on him. Feels his limbs grow warm as sleep takes him. Turns the sound of his ringing phone into a part of his dream.

Only wakes as Fin holds the call to his face and a killer says hello.

•   •   •

S
HE COULDN
’
T
,
thinks Ray, wiping his nose on his hand.
Couldn’t have known.

For a decade, Shaz Archer has been his pet project. She’s been his understudy, confidante, and friend. She’s been somewhere between a daughter and a wife. He’s tucked her into bed after one too many vodkas. He’s draped a blanket around her shoulders and held her when she has cried. He’s told her about himself. About his wives and children. About the bad things he has done. He’s kissed her cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose. He’s barely even had a wank over the silly cow. She matters to him . . .

Her new man has just killed Piers Fordham. Beaten him to death. He’s removing the top tier of the Headhunters and he has just completed the most hostile of takeovers.

Ray has been a policeman long enough to spot the obvious. Somebody has found a way to get inside the investigation. They’ve done so by getting inside Shaz.

He crunches over the gravel. Breathes in deep and smells the ale, cigarettes, and vomit that he associates with this hour. Wonders what the hell he is going to say. He’ll help her, of course. He’ll take the blame if necessary. Shaz is his friend. She has a bright future. She’s made a mistake. That’s all. Spilled her guts to the man in her bed and betrayed the identity of Mr. Mouthpiece. But who hasn’t made the odd mistake? She’s a good person. A good cop. A friend . . .

Later, Ray will wish he had looked in through the windows before he rang the bell. Later, he will have a brief period in which to chastise himself for his foolishness in knocking on Shaz’s door.

Here, now, he has little time for such regret.

The door is answered by a tall, good-looking man in his mid-thirties. He’s naked, save for a sheen of sweat and some tasteful tattoos. Shaz Archer’s perspiration anoints his skin. He’s smiling, and he’s holding a gun.

“You fucking . . .”

Colin Ray’s temper takes over and he lunges forward.

He is hit in the head so hard that he is unconscious before he hits the floor.

The man who stands above him and scratches his balls is called Mark Oliver. He used to make a living conning vulnerable women into bed and then taking everything he could. Then the Headhunters took him under their wing. Used his skills to find the weak spots of their enemies. They gave him a glimpse of a life he wanted more of. He got greedy. Saw an opportunity and took it. Charmed a posh copper and recruited a few old friends.

Mark has gotten very good, very quickly.

He’s not killed a copper before.

But he reckons he’ll pick it up as he goes along.

N
EXT
DAY
,
1:18
P
.
M
.

The lighthouse on Flamborough Head. A column of whitewashed stone, jutting from a sodden spit of green headland into a sky of rotten timber.

Francis Nock is pissing against the lighthouse wall. He’s wearing pajama trousers and a fleecy shirt. His feet are bare. His hair is plastered against his wind-slapped features by the rain that blows in off the sea. Above, gulls swirl and scream, spun by a wind that has not paused in its rush across hundreds of miles of ocean.

Nock looks up. Sees dragons in the sky.

He hunches down into his shirt and tucks himself away, still pissing. He puts an arm above his head, as if expecting to be carried off and dashed on the rocks below.

Nock feels somewhere between sleep and death. He doesn’t know where he is. Has a vague understanding that he is far from home and that people tend to do what he says, but right now he would not recognize either his name or reflection. He is a frightened child, lost and bewildered, shivering in the rain and searching for something that he cannot name and only feels in the memory of his bones. Nothing here is familiar. He feels as though he has awakened into a half-formed world. He expects the green of the newly painted grass to smudge against his feet. He feels that, should he wipe his hand against the lighthouse, then it will pass straight through it. His thoughts feel insubstantial. He has to approach his memories carefully. Needs to sidle up to the flashes of familiarity that his dementia-seamed mind vomits up. He knows only that he is lost. Knows that he is seeking somebody out. Knows that when he awoke, the man who looks after him was gone and that it suddenly felt unacceptable to be alone. He feels, too, the absence of something fundamental; something central to his being. He remembers things like snatches of nightmare. Remembers splashing petrol onto bare legs. Recalls how it feels to stick a blade between two ribs. He feels snatches of guilt and pride. Bristles at the thought of disrespect. Fears discovery. Fears anonymity. Fears bullets and solitude.

There was a time when Mr. Nock would have recognized this little street with its stone bungalows and its simple, old-fashioned tea shop. He used to like it here. Knew a lass in the village whom he used to enjoy fucking a couple of times a year. He owns the freehold of the chalet park on the next rise. Owns half a dozen caravans and a farm within a five-minute drive. There was a time when he and Mahon would stroll along this cliff top, talking about who was earning their keep and who needed to be cut loose; which revenue streams were paying out and who was taking the piss. It is a place of happy memories for him. But here, now, his memories are a swirl of wet paint; a dance of gulls and black clouds.

When the police car pulls up, he will run from it and not toward it. The older, more experienced uniformed officer will wonder what that says about the old, rain-soaked man. Then he will shrug the thoughts away and place a blanket around the old man’s shoulders and try to elicit a name.

The younger constable will check Mr. Nock’s pockets. He will find the squares of card that Mr. Nock picked up from the kitchen counter when he awoke this morning into a world that spanned and dipped and shrank away from his grasp. He will find business cards for two members of the Serious and Organized Unit. He will call the first number and leave a voicemail. And then he will ring the curvy, motherly, sexy detective superintendent who half a dozen cops he knows would leave their wives for. He will tell her that a man with her business card has been found wondering on the cliff top. He’s an old man. Got a debit card belonging to a Raymond Mahon. And he will tell her, in response to her questions, that he is quite certain the man does not have half his face missing.

The constable will hang up, satisfied he has done his job.

And then he will make another call. A call far more profitable.

He will call his paymasters. He’ll call Mark Oliver. And he’ll tell him that Trish Pharaoh and Francis Nock will soon be together, in the darkness of this remote cliff-top village.

Alone, and ripe for the taking.

•   •   •

1:49
P
.
M
. R
AYWELL
O
LD
H
ALL
.

Mark Oliver sits on a burgundy chesterfield sofa, watching a wall-mounted flat-screen TV. He is hunched forward; his bare feet resting on stripped floorboards and his hands pulling at the material of his dark jeans. Two mobile phones sit on the glass coffee table in front of him, alongside a crystal tumbler of scotch and a small, sleek laptop.

The TV is tuned to the local news. A dark-haired reporter is interviewing an ugly, round-faced policeman against the backdrop of the city docks. He’s looking smug. Smiling, despite the rain that blows in sideways against his face. The estimated street value of the seized shipment will run to several million, according to the graphic that scrolls along the bottom of the screen. The cop keeps mentioning Humberside Police’s Serious and Organized Crime Unit and the hard work of one officer in particular, Detective Superintendent Patricia Pharaoh . . .

Oliver leans forward. Empties his glass in one swallow. Reaches down and picks up the bottle. Refills the tumbler and takes another swig.

A few hours ago he was standing over Piers Fordham’s body, watching the life bleed from him like red wine from a dropped glass. He’d won. The Headhunters were done. He’d slipped inside and taken over. He’d taken command.

Here, now, it feels like things are slipping from his grasp. This shipment was the one that was going to make him. He’d needed capital to fuel his ambitions. He’d joined the Headhunters in order to secure the funds to launch his own enterprise. It had taken him a long time to build up the contacts and clout to make a deal with his Albanian suppliers. He’d seduced a lot of women and let himself be used by men in ways he never imagined. He’d made people like him. Had played endless parts and been a lot of different people as he made the right network of influential friends. Learned which palms to grease and whom he should never, ever upset. All he needed was funds to get things started. Those funds have just disappeared; seized at Alexandra Dock. He’s fucked up. He’s a dead man. And he has nobody to blame but himself. It’s the second time he has underestimated his opposition, and this time he has even farther to fall.

There was a time when Mark considered himself untouchable. He has always been very good at the things he has tried. He got through two years of a law degree before he found he could make more money playing cards. Spent a couple of years on the gambling circuit before he upset some people and took a beating for his trouble. Took a job teaching casinos how to spot the con men. Then he conned them, too. By thirty, he had been inside only once and had learned how to get whatever he wanted out of people. His time in prison was a networking opportunity. When he came out, he started getting commissions. Private investigators would pay him to see whether distrusted wives were ready to jump into bed with somebody charming. Then the clients became richer. Scarier. He had to get women to share their security passwords. Had to keep them busy while other people stole the keys and pass cards for the companies where they worked. Soon he was bedding women so they could be filmed. Blackmailed. Used for leverage. He became important to important people. But Mark wanted more. He saw himself as more than just some pretty gigolo. He had ambition. Had ideas. He wanted a chance to prove himself, and the Headhunters promised that and then failed to deliver. He had no choice but to use his skills. Chatted up one of their best earners. Let the ugly fucker do what he wanted to him but got information in return. Found out where they were weakest. Poured honey in a few ears and persuaded a few lads to join him. Put together a little crew and began to earn. The Headhunters didn’t stop him. After all, he was handing over a large chunk of his earnings to their organization. He debased himself with the poof as many times as he could endure. Turned his head a little. Became more important to him than the benefits of keeping his mouth shut. Mark suffered, but learned all about the Headhunters’ plans to remove Mr. Nock from the throne. Soon, Mark felt comfortable to share his plans with the nasty bastard who liked to hold him and stroke his hair after fucking him so violently it made his teeth rattle. His name was Dave Absolom, and he used to be a copper. It was Dave who told him about the problems Nock was giving them. One of the Headhunters’ best men went to speak to an old Geordie villain called Lloyd. Lloyd ended up in bits on the beach and the Headhunter disappeared.

That was when Mark decided to make his move. He approached the organization that had shown displeasure with the way the Headhunters had steamrolled into their operation. Mark had offered to put things back to how they used to be. All he wanted in return was the right to supply their gear and guns for twelve months. They bankrolled him. He used his connections to set up a shipment. Guns and gear. Only one other person knew when the drugs were coming in. Mark felt invulnerable. Felt emboldened. He sent Absolom to demonstrate the Headhunters’ frailty. Absolom was only too happy to please the object of his affection. He headed north to find Francis Nock and kill the old fucker. Beat Tom Spink half to death on the way. Spread rumors and lies about Nock in a bid to draw the old man out. But Absolom had done more than that. He’d drawn out Raymond Mahon. And Mahon had tortured him until he gave up everything that Mark had worked for.

Mark drains his drink. Pulls at his dark hair. He stands and looks at himself in the reflection of the TV screen. He’s still good-looking. Tall. Sunbed-tan. Neat line of designer stubble along his jaw and upper lip. Slim, toned body, and ink to die for. He’s unblemished. Mark knows how to fight, but none of his scraps have left their mark on his skin. He’s too greasy for that.

Mark should be feeling fabulous. He has played it all perfectly. Even found himself a tasty piece of skirt on Pharaoh’s team. Shaz Archer has been a fucking miracle. She’s hungry, ambitious, and as filthy in the sack as any of the whores whom Mark has used for his own pleasures. She’d been easy to seduce. Vanity, that was what it took. Wanted to be told she was good and that all those around her were nothing. Mark had obliged. Had liked the way he had backed up her opinions on the bitches at work. Tremberg. He remembered fucking that fat backside. Remembers her pathetic neediness. The way she’d clung to him. He hadn’t had the pleasure of Trish Pharaoh yet, but she’s caused him headaches this week and he hopes he gets the chance to meet her very soon. Archer had lapped it up. Sneaked him into the station and let him fuck her on Pharaoh’s desk. She’s given him everything she knows on the Headhunters. When that scruffy old fucker Colin Ray turned up at her door and told her that Piers Fordham was the mouthpiece of the organization, all the pieces came together. Mark killed him with pleasure. Had gone to sleep with Shaz’s sweat and Fordham’s blood on his skin and awakened expecting a phone call to say the shipment had arrived safely and he was about to become a very rich and important man. Instead, he had switched on the news and seen his world collapse.

On the table in front of him, one of the phones begins to ring. It’s Shaz again. She’s just checking in. Seeing if he’s okay. He’d been quiet this morning. Is everything okay? Has she done something wrong . . . ?

Mark ignores the call like he’s ignored the others. He doesn’t know what to say to any of the people who have been ringing and demanding answers. He can’t think straight. Rage is clouding his vision and his thoughts. He wants to hurt Pharaoh. She’s the one taking credit for his downfall. He wants to tear Francis Nock apart. If Mark hadn’t tried to get to the old man, he would never have put Absolom in the hands of Mahon. He wants to hurt somebody. Anybody. Everybody.

Mark stands and crosses to the hallway. The man tied to the radiator is bleeding from a wound to the head and is holding himself in a way that protects his broken ribs. Mark kicks him in the guts anyway. Presses his bare foot against the man’s bleeding face and punches him twice in the top of the head.

Colin Ray is gagged with a pair of Shaz Archer’s worn knickers and a length of gaffer tape. He doesn’t make a sound as the blows come. Waits until Mark has finished, then tries to say the word “cunt.” It makes him choke. His eyes start to stream, and blood runs from his nose. Mark pulls the gaffer tape from his mouth. Watches as Ray pukes up the red lace thong and a length of bloody spit and bile.

“Shouldn’t have knocked, old man,” says Mark through his teeth. “Should have sneaked in. Should have waited for her to come back from work.”

Ray growls. Coughs crimson phlegm onto his clothes and raises his eyes to Oliver’s. “You should mute the telly, son. I can hear every word they’re saying about your fuckup down on the docks. You’re a dead man. I’d go now, while I still had the chance.”

Mark shoves the knickers back into Ray’s mouth and bangs his head off the radiator.

“You’re not me. There’s nobody like me.”

Mark returns to the living room. Lies on the sofa and closes his eyes. Broods on pain and revenge and all the ways he’s going to fuck Trish Pharaoh when he gets his hands on her fat little frame. He falls asleep and dreams of blood and bones. Wakes, sticky and confused, to the sound of a ringing phone.

Oliver doesn’t recognize the number. Isn’t sure if it’s another of his creditors demanding delivery. But he takes the call.

A minute later, Mark Oliver is pleased with himself again. Knows where to find them all and how to get them all together for one blessed extermination. Gives himself a little pat on the back. He’d known from the start that he would get nowhere without tame policemen. It had cost him a few inches from his stack of notes, but the coppers he had in his pocket were proving to be worth their weight in gold. Finding the right men for the job—that was the problem. How to find those with the capacity for a little gentle corruption. That was the skill that Oliver possessed. He saw what people wanted and he helped them get it.