Taking Pity (28 page)

A sudden trilling in Pharaoh’s pocket curtails her trail of thought. She apologizes and takes the call. It’s from an unfamiliar number, but Pharaoh answers it with her full name and title. She says it loud, so the barman can hear. Looks around for her handbag and starts scrawling blue ink in her notebook as her heart begins to race. She half knocks the table as she stands, and Mallett is too busy cursing and wiping spilled beer from his uniform to stop her as she heads for the door.

Within moments, Pharaoh is running through the rain. She’s half a mile from her car and a long way from knowing what the fuck she thinks about anything. All she knows is that Mr. Nock has been found wandering on a cliff top at Flamborough Head. She knows he is in danger and that her decision to bend the rules may have placed him there.

Bodies are piling up. Castles are crumbling.

M
C
A
VOY
DOESN
’
T
KNOW
why he has made an effort with his appearance. He’s wearing his good gray suit with a thick, checked shirt and a double-knotted purple tie. He’s trimmed the hair around his ears and shaved his stubble into a neat goatee. He’s wearing the long cashmere overcoat that Roisin bought him and that he stitched up by hand after a killer stuck a blade through it and into his skin. He looks more than presentable. He looks good. It seems to matter somehow. He doesn’t know what today will bring. Doesn’t know if he is about to solve a multiple murder or simply stick a rake in the swollen belly of corpses long since forgotten.

He leans against the bonnet of his car. Feels the light rain and cold wind keep the blush from his face. Feels his hair and coattails play in the breeze. He checks his watch. Breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to keep his heart steady and his hands from shaking or making fists. He wants to look relaxed. Confident. Wants to appear like a seasoned detective who meets gangland enforcers and serial killers every day.

It’s midafternoon. Already the day is giving itself over to the gloom of evening. The dark clouds have folded into the gray-brown stillness of the sea. McAvoy gazes at a miserable horizon; a pulp of smoke and damp charcoal. He is standing at Alexandra Dock, just off Hedon Road. One of the monstrous superferries is a little way to his left: a toppled office block of whites and blues against the gray of dock and sky. There are four other vehicles in the little car park. It’s a popular place on these dreary days. Old couples like to sit and watch the waves; to stare at the swirling, keening gulls and the distant towers and lights of the oil refinery on the far side of the estuary. Families are drawn to the idea of travel, of departure, of escape. McAvoy has watched mothers and fathers of young children wave wistfully at the departing ferries as their giggling, gleeful offspring wave at strangers and imagine they are saying good-bye to loved ones bound for adventure.

In the small sports car to McAvoy’s right, a young man with a dark beard and too much hair dozes in the driver’s seat. The light rain has made his windscreen opaque. Farther away is a blue van with open back doors. A short, fat, unattractive man in a Hull City raincoat is keeping an eye on a fishing rod—its line stretched taut as it scythes into the water beyond the little footpath that leads down to the housing estate on Victoria Dock. The other vehicle belongs to a reporter from the
Hull Daily Mail
. She’s sitting chatting on her mobile phone, and eating a fruit salad from a Tupperware box. She has no desire to go back to the office yet. Would rather sit and watch the waves and argue with her mam than go and write up the latest developments on the drugs raid that took place a few hundred yards away in the early hours of this morning.

McAvoy sniffs. Breathes in the cold air. Catches the whiff of diesel and creosote. Smells sawdust and grease. Fills himself up with the mixed aromas of this unwashed city by the sea. Wonders whether he should have worn his stab vest beneath his coat.

At 2:07 p.m., a flatbed pickup truck pulls into the car park. The man at the wheel wears a scarf, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. He has on a leather jacket with the collar pulled up, and the hands that grip the steering wheel are clad in calfskin.

McAvoy purses his lips and blows out a stream of nervous breath. He has spent the morning learning all he can about this man. Has spent the past few hours acquainting himself with the record of Raymond Mahon. The rumors. The associations and legends. Mahon deserves more than respect. He deserves fear. McAvoy does not expect to be able to arrest him alone. Does not expect he will need to. Mahon knows the rules. Knows that any information he provides will be inadmissible in a court case. A second officer would need to be present to verify his words and Mahon had made it clear that McAvoy was to come alone. He had even allowed him to pick the location. McAvoy had chosen the docks purely because it offered privacy along with the safety net of CCTV and a handful of witnesses. He used to walk here with Roisin. Used to push Fin in his stroller as the three of them ambled along the water’s edge and fantasized about one day owning one of the big four-bedroom detached properties that overlooked the water. The home they finally bought is four miles farther down the coast. The motel he now calls home a little farther still. Both are marked by the distant shape of the Humber Bridge; a vertical slash of tarmac and metal that punctures the clouds and provides the horizon’s only line.

McAvoy straightens his tie as Mahon climbs from the vehicle. He tries not to show his nervousness. There is no doubt that those gloved hands have taken lives. This man has served serious time. He has served a North East crime kingpin for five decades. And he may well have committed the crime for which Peter Coles has been incarcerated for half a century.

Mahon walks forward, his steps light, his bulk imposing. As he nears, McAvoy glimpses the ruination between the rim of Mahon’s spectacles and the collar of his coat. Sees the wet, pink, slimy mass of torn skin. The yellow teeth. He tries to hide his revulsion from the man. Tries and fails.

“I’m used to it,” says Mahon, waving his hand toward his face. “Don’t blame yourself. I’d make myself feel sick, too.”

McAvoy doesn’t know what to say. Stands motionless for a second. Then he reaches out a hand and takes Mahon’s in his. Feels the strength in the grip. Wonders whether he could outmuscle this old man if it called for it. Fears he already knows the answer.

“Your boss has had a good day, eh?” Mahon says. “Tell her she’s welcome.”

McAvoy narrows his eyes. He had heard about the raid on the news as he drove here an hour ago. Heard the plaudits thrown the way of the Serious and Organized Unit. Had felt like pulling over and punching the steering wheel when he realized what he had missed out on by not taking Pharaoh’s call. He wants to be by her side. Wants to be part of something. Feels so alone: here, among the ghosts and the screaming gulls.

“Hell of a place to be, eh? Hull, I mean. Never been a fan. Can’t say my own neck of the woods is much more palatial, like. Newcastle’s a funny place, I’ve always said. Everywhere’s uphill. How’s that possible? Like Edinburgh, isn’t it? Uphill, whichever direction you’re going. You get big thigh muscles if you live there, of course. That where you got yours? Your university was there, wasn’t it? Rumor has it you were going to be something spectacular until you grew a conscience and became a cop.”

McAvoy still hasn’t spoken. Doesn’t quite know which way to play this. Wants to know if he is in danger of being hurt or just looking a fool. Decides to play Mahon’s own game.

“I doubt you would have crossed paths with me then,” he says. “You were inside again. Firearms offenses. Should have been more, by all accounts, but a witness changed their statement and they could only do you for possession. Wasn’t much of a stretch for somebody with your record. Soft time, I think it’s called. Not compared to the seventeen years you did for killing Randall Mosedale. Shotgun, wasn’t it? Bad sort, so I’m told. Bit of a villain. You didn’t say a word in your own defense—not in interviews or during the trial. Impressive. No wonder Mr. Nock has kept you around for so long.”

The two big men stand on the dock and examine each other. Absorb the other’s muscles and scars. Mahon is the first to smile.

“Randall Mosedale? Randy, to his mates. Summed him up, too. Went too far with the wrong girl. I was just going to give him a bit of a slap but he pulled a gun. I didn’t know the daft bastard was under surveillance. He had an undercover cop on his crew. Saw the whole bloody thing but never said a damn thing about it being self-defense. That’s coppers for you, eh? The truth’s what you make it. Shall we take a little stroll?”

McAvoy rubs his eye and pushes his hair back from his face. They fall into step, mooching along slowly with the sea to their left. They both nod hellos to the fisherman. Duck under the taut fishing line and turn right to where the massive canal gates stand open, as if a monster has just been released from a prison of iron, wood, and stone.

“Sea’s supposed to be blue, isn’t it?” asks Mahon, pointing at the brown water and the thick chocolate fondant of mud that sticks to the stones of the sea defenses. “Is this where they empty dirty radiators?”

“It’s a pretty clean waterway, actually,” says McAvoy, because he can’t help it. “Dangerous, though. One of the hardest to navigate in the world.”

“All the old river pilots got the boot a few years back, didn’t they?” asks Mahon chattily. “The Port Authority wanted to save a few quid and cut them adrift. Made life as difficult as possible for them. Was like the seventies all over again. Reckon I would have enjoyed the seventies if I’d been on the outside. Strikebreaking was a specialty of a crew I used to have some dealings with. Not sure I would have been able to bring myself to do that, personally speaking. I don’t really understand politics, but I’ve never been on the side of the rich.”

McAvoy casts a glance at his companion. Wonders if he is joking. “Mr. Nock’s not short of a bob or two,” he says cautiously.

“He’s worked hard for it,” says Mahon without malice. “Started with nothing. Had to get his hands dirty for years to get himself where he was. Where he is, I mean.”

“Dirty with what?” asks McAvoy. “Honest toil or blood and tears?”

Mahon looks at him and smiles: a ghoulish, horrifying thing. “Where did they find you, mate? Seriously?”

“What do you mean?”

Mahon shrugs. “Wouldn’t know how to buy you, mate. Wouldn’t know what to offer. Of course, I haven’t had very long to sniff around. Few rumors. Interesting CV. Lots to learn about the missus and the people you’ve upset. Don’t know what we’d have made of you, back in the good old days. Mr. Nock would have made that decision. I’d hate to have had to carry it out, though.”

Their footsteps take them past a timber yard shielded by steel bars. To their left there would be nothing to stop their fall should they slip over the edge of the footpath and down into the thick mud and standing water.

“You asked me here to talk about 1966,” says McAvoy, trying to keep his voice steady. “You said you had information.”

Beside him, Mahon takes a deep breath. Behind his colored lenses, he blinks, long and hard. He seems to be watching a snippet of film in his head. Eventually, he stops. Leans back against the steel. Lights a cigarette and pushes a plume of smoke into the gloom.

“You’ve been down there, haven’t you?” he says, nodding. “The hole.”

“The bunker?”

Mahon nods. Looks away. “Saves a bit of time, then. Would hate to have to draw you a map. Figured when I heard you talking to Glass that you were going to be the bugger to dig it up.”

“You killed him?”

Mahon grins indulgently. “Natural causes, mate. Pity, to be honest. I liked him.”

“You scared him to death, then.”

“Wasn’t me that did any of this. I paid a fucking heavy price for what you found in that hole in the ground.”

“Not as heavy as the Winn family. Not as high as Peter Coles.”

Mahon slides his sunglasses down his nose. Looks at McAvoy with his pink, ratlike eyes. Gives the slightest shake of the head.

“You put any of this together, Sergeant McAvoy? You got any fucking idea what happened or why?”

McAvoy looks down at the mud and stones below. Watches crows and seagulls fight over the same tattered scrap of nothing. Screws up his eyes and lets himself talk.

“Vaughn was one of your boys, wasn’t he?” he asks carefully. “One of Mr. Nock’s. He may be some slick businessman in Australia these days but all those investments he makes in the local community are just a way to salve his conscience. His family died because he upset somebody. His family died because he got in with the wrong crowd and ended up working as a bloody gangster’s muscle at the time the big boys from London wanted some action. How am I doing?”

Mahon sucks half an inch off his cigarette. Flicks the ash off the end and watches it fall down like black snow.

“The bodies in the bunker,” says Mahon at length. “How’re they looking? Well? Handsome? Identifiable?”

McAvoy doesn’t answer. Finds his leg jiggling as he tries to keep up. Tries to make sense of what he thinks he knows. Replays the last few days in his head. The scene of the Winn family’s murder. The conversations with Vaughn. The strange, bewildered figure of Peter Coles. The fear and paranoia of John Glass. He knows he is missing something. There are too many bodies. Too few answers. Peter Coles had said they knew Vaughn.

Knew Vaughn. Knew Vaughn, new Vaughn, new Vaughn . . .

“
A new Vaughn,” he says suddenly, turning his head to Mahon. “He’s not bloody Vaughn Winn, is he? The injuries to the faces . . . the smell of gunsmoke in the house . . . what Glass smelled and saw . . .”

Mahon turns to him. He suddenly looks as old as the man he serves.

“Mr. Nock always said it would be taking pity that would cost me,” he says, turning back to the horizon. “Always said I needed more steel in me. It was pity that cost me my face. Pity that nearly cost me my life. They nearly took all my pity from me that night. Nearly made me the monster people see. Maybe they managed it, I don’t know. I still think I did right. I still think Flash Harry deserved everything he got.”

McAvoy says nothing. Just waits. Tries to keep his heart from racing and resists the urge to grab the old man by the throat and shake the truth out of him.

“Vaughn was a head case,” says Mahon softly. “His dad and Mr. Nock had history. Made some money together during the war. Clarence met some lass in Hull and sold his Newcastle business interests to Mr. Nock. Moved out to the middle of nowhere and tried to become lord of the manor. Tried to play a straight bat. Had himself a nice little family and sent Mr. Nock a Christmas card every year. Problems began when young Vaughn was a teenager. He was a bad lad. Dangerous. Liked women’s clothes. Liked to draw. Liked to hurt animals and watch his sister in the bath. Clarence kept it as quiet as he could. Even kept that bloody simpleton Peter Coles nearby so people would think it was him and not the squire’s son who was causing problems in the village. Made no difference. Vaughn needed discipline. Needed an outlet. So Clarence called Mr. Nock and the boy came to the North East to learn how to behave himself.”