the conversation was in Icelandic, so trying to find out what happened was a nightmare.’
McAvoy nods. None of this makes sense. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘Me? I think he probably did himself in. I don’t know if it was guilt or just the fact he was getting old and it seemed like the right time. He’d had forty years that, in his head, he didn’t deserve. Maybe he didn’t think he’d used them right. Either way, it’s a shame. At least he’ll be remembered.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The documentary. The interviews are extraordinary. So moving. I can send you them if you’re interested.’
McAvoy nods, then realises she can’t see him. ‘Yes, thank you.’
They both stay silent for a moment. ‘It’s Russ you could really do with speaking to, if you want to fill in some of the gaps,’ she says lightly. ‘He’s the bloodhound who found him. Knew chapter and verse on the story. He’s a cracking writer, is Russ. I miss him.’
‘Why, where is he?’
‘He wanted to come on the tanker with us but there was no way we could get insurance for him.’
‘No?’
‘No, he’s a bit …’
‘What?’
She gives a little laugh, unsure of the best way to say it. ‘Unhinged,’ she says. ‘He drinks. In fact, no, Oliver Reed used to drink. Amy Winehouse used to drink. Russ really, really drinks. You’ve never seen anything like it. Smokes more than your sixty a day as well. Already cost him one leg and it’s probably going to cost him the other.’
‘Sounds like he knows his vices.’
‘Vices, yes. But it’s the voices that do Russ the most harm. He’s in a private clinic in Lincolnshire at the moment. Halfway between drying out and being sectioned. Real character, but he’s had one of those lives. It’s made him bitter, and everybody likes bitter with a whisky chaser. You should talk to him, though. He can tell you more about Fred than anyone. We wouldn’t have even found him if it wasn’t for Russ. It’s a shame he’s having to use his cheque to pay for treatment.’
McAvoy looks around the room. The officers have gone back to writing up telephone interviews and logging calls. There is nothing for him to do. Something inside him is screaming. That this is important. That this conversation, this information, somehow matters.
He lowers his voice. Closes his eyes. Already regretting his decision.
‘Is he accepting visitors?’
CHAPTER 11
3.22 p.m. Linwood Manor.
Deepest, darkest Lincolnshire.
Two hours from home.
‘A converted Victorian manor house set in four acres of landscaped woodland’; McAvoy thought he had clicked on the wrong link and arrived at an upmarket country hotel when he first navigated his way through a maze of mental health websites and spotted the address he was looking for.
Run by an international company specialising in detox treatments, borderline personality disorders and alcohol dependence, the home page boasted a 90 per cent success rate, and made what could have been viewed as a month of agonising withdrawal seem like a vacation in paradise.
Although it’s only mid-afternoon, the sky is already darkening, and the grey cloud of ferocious snow that will soon split and engulf Hull has already been torn open here. A confetti of plump white flakes tumbles from the sky, and McAvoy is grateful for his knee-length coat as he trots up the steps and through the doors, feeling the wind tug at the hems of his trousers and almost slipping on the wet tiles.
A smiling, middle-aged woman in a white blouse and believably dyed black hair is sitting behind a mahogany reception desk. A vase of gerbera and gypsophila stands on its polished, gleaming surface. Glossy brochures and price lists stand in a rack to her left. It would be impossible to pop in for a leaflet without having to walk past her. Impossible, too, not to nod a hello in response to her wide, gleaming grin. Difficult to get out again without engaging her in conversation and being persuaded within twenty minutes that Linwood Manor is the best place to put yourself, your loved ones, and your cash.
‘Hello there. Awful day, isn’t it? Looks like you’re dressed for the conditions. Do you think it’ll lie? We might get a white Christmas after all. Haven’t had one of them in years. I think our guests will appreciate it. We had a hoot last year. Can I help you, m’duck?’
McAvoy has to make a mental effort not to recoil from the sheer force of her jolliness. Although she’s slim, she puts him in mind of a fat and happy Victorian cook, with big, floury arms and a red face. He pities the poor shambling drunks who must deal with her on their way to begin their detox programmes.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy. Humberside Police CID Serious and Organised Crime Unit. I was wondering …’
‘Serious crime, is it? Isn’t all crime serious? I mean, it’s not as though having your bike nicked isn’t serious to somebody. That’s what happened to my nephew and he was so upset …’
She rattles on until he wants to reach across the desk and physically press her lips together. The smile never leaves her face, although it never quite reaches her eyes, which puts him in mind of lights left on in the upstairs windows of a deserted house.
‘It’s about one of your patients,’ he says, jumping in when she pauses for breath. ‘Russell Chandler. I did call ahead, but I had difficulty getting through.’
‘Ooh, we’ve had no end of problems. It’s probably the weather. Email and internet have been playing up as well.’
McAvoy runs his tongue around his mouth and twitches his face to reveal a hint of teeth. He has had quite enough of today. Although he covered his own back by contacting ACC Everett and telling him that Barbara Stein- Collinson had requested his help in tying up some loose ends regarding her brother’s death, he’d still received an angry call from Trish Pharaoh when the message had been relayed that her office manager had been sent on an errand for the top brass. ‘Say no, you silly sod,’ she’d shouted down the line. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, for God’s sake. This is where you let yourself down, McAvoy. Trying to do too many things for too many people and ending up pissing everybody off.’
She’d only hung up when he gave her something bigger to worry about, and relayed Colin Ray’s message about bringing in a suspect.
‘Russell Chandler,’ he says firmly. ‘I understand he’s a patient here?’
The receptionist switches off her grin. ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential.’
McAvoy doesn’t speak. Just looks at her for a moment with an expression that could melt a computer screen. ‘It’s important,’ he says eventually, and although he’s not sure if the statement is true, discovers that he is starting to believe it.
‘House rules,’ she says, and there’s an air of smugness about her now. Despite the cold wind blowing in through the open doors, McAvoy feels sweat trickling down his neck. He’s pretty sure that if he made a big enough fuss, he could gain access to Chandler, but what if they were to complain? What would be his defence? Chandler is not a suspect in any investigation. Not even a witness in any real sense. It’s just a bit of background info on a case from another patch. And besides, he wonders, would it be ethical to speak to somebody in a place like this? At a time when they’re seeking help to combat their problems?
