about onearmed drunks and one-legged hacks?
He looks at the picture again. Wonders why he even mentioned the man with the missing arm. It had been one of the first things to spill from his mouth.
‘You say Channler?’
The man had asked it in an accent that was pure Eastern bloc. Had appeared in front of McAvoy like some sort of ghoulish apparition as he emerged from the side door of the pub. McAvoy was putting his mobile back in his pocket, having left a voicemail for Chandler, asking him to ensure that he was going to be at the rehab centre mid-morning the following day. He hadn’t realised he’d been talking at any volume.
‘Chandler, yes,’ said McAvoy, trying not to appear startled. Trying harder not to look at the armless shirt- sleeve, pinned across the man’s chest. ‘Russ Chandler.’
‘Why you want Chandler? He not know Angie.’
‘Miss Martindale was involved in a serious attack tonight-’
The man waved his single arm. He was tall. Wiry but hard-looking. He had a broad face, and despite only wearing a white shirt and faded jeans, didn’t seem to notice the cold. There was something intense in his gaze. McAvoy placed him as one of the men from the bar. One of the men who blocked his way and got some kicks in. Bruised, cold and sick of being cut off mid-sentence, McAvoy hardened his own gaze.
‘I hero. I stop bad man, yes?’
‘You not stop bad man, no. You stop policeman trying to catch bad man.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘No bullshit.’
They stood, looking at each other, two tall men, eyeball to eyeball, angry and wind-blown.
‘I mistake. Not Channler. No mind.’
The man turned to leave. McAvoy instinctively shot out a hand to stop him, and grabbed for the area where his arm should have been. He clutched at air. Then the voice of the young constable behind him had caused him to spin round. To take in the sight of the warm patrol car, its doors open, waiting to take him home. Home to Roisin, to Fin. When he turned back, the Russian was somewhere among the crowd that had gathered at the police cordon, in among the cigarette smoke and the beer cans, the chip wrappers and the wet clothes.
Somebody would take his statement. Somebody else …
McAvoy puts the picture down on top of the report. Looks at the stick-figure. The stump where the leg should be.
‘Chandler,’ he says to himself. What was the Russian talking about? Did it matter? Did any of it fucking matter?
His head starts lolling forward as the thick treacle of sleep climbs towards his mind. He staggers towards the bed, pulling his jersey off, easing down his shorts, already allowing himself to think of the warm touch of Roisin’s skin as he spoons up behind her, places his large hand on the perfect orb of her belly and pictures his unborn child reaching up to press their own fingers against his, as if separated by prison glass.
His mobile phone bleeps.
Cursing, he rolls back off the bed and finds his work clothes crumpled up in a heap next to the wardrobe. He finds his mobile, and looks at the display. Notes that it’s not yet 1 a.m.
Opens the message.
It’s from a number he doesn’t recognise.
Feels his heart sink as bile rushes up his throat and fills his mouth.
Wide awake in an instant.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 19
The snow has begun to fall. Fat, white, perfect flakes tumble in their millions from a sky a hundred shades of black, icing the kerbs, the pavements, the rooftops, the awnings; adding inches of height to the wet, damp city.
McAvoy looks but does not see. The windscreen is misted insensible from the breath that eases from his lungs in a low, icy, angry whistle. Two great dorsal fins have been carved in the snow upon the glass by wipers he has no memory of switching on. He does not register the weather. Nor the cold. Just grinds his teeth and narrows his eyes and drives the people-carrier too fast on slick, treacherous roads.
The effort of holding his jaw tight is giving him a headache and the cold is making his ribs ache. Gradually, in increments, he becomes aware of the pain. Becomes aware of his surroundings. Of the weather.
‘You silly bastard,’ he says to himself, for what must be the hundredth time. ‘Why did you go home. Why?’
When the anger subsides he will find time to reproach himself for this. Tell himself that he lost his temper because he feared having his moment of glory taken away. Missing out on the arrest in a case that has crawled under his skin. He will find ways to loathe himself, and resolve to never let his own need for personal glory become his primary reaction when learning about an arrest in a murder investigation. But for the moment, it feels justified. He is not the lead investigator, but it feels like his case. It is he who has slotted the pieces together. He who has twice looked into the wet blue eyes of the man who is committing these crimes.
Worst of all, he finds himself wondering if he has got it wrong. Ray couldn’t have gone in with nothing. Couldn’t have arrested Chandler on a hunch.
Christ, what if it really is him?
Gingerly, so as not to add to the dull agony in his ribs, he turns the wheel hard to the right and pulls into the car park at the back of Queen’s Gardens station. Parks in a spot reserved for visiting senior officers and finds himself quite enjoying the feeling of not giving a damn whether he gets into trouble. Kicks open the door as the wind and the snow take him in their fist.
‘McAvoy,’ comes a voice. ‘Sergeant. Here.’
Struggling with the door, shivering as the snow spills from the brim of his hat and down the collar of his ragged rugby shirt, he glares across the car park at the dimly lit rear entrance to the building.
McAvoy leaves a trail of deep, perfect footprints as he crosses the distance between himself and the voice. The snow is ankle-deep already.
‘Figured you’d come,’ says the voice, and as McAvoy gets closer he sees Tom Spink, standing in the doorway, a mug of something in one hand, dressed, as yesterday, in dark trousers, cardigan and collarless shirt.
‘I got your message,’ says McAvoy, who is too wind-blown and irritated to chide himself for stating the obvious.
Spink nods. Blows out a sigh, then holds out the mug as McAvoy skips up the stairs and into the shadow of the doorway.
‘Fancy a nip?’
McAvoy doesn’t care what’s in the mug. He takes it and gulps down a liquid that is at once warming and cold.
‘Calvados,’ says Spink, taking the mug back. ‘They’re in interview room three. We’ll talk on the way.’
Stepping through the open door, a wave of heat washes over them both. Overhead, the motion-activated, energy-efficient lighting flickers on and the corridor is bathed in lurid green. At this hour, the station is virtually empty, with the civilian workers long since tucked up in bed and only a skeleton staff of uniformed officers tasked with manning the custody suite while the patrol cars and traffic officers are scattered across the city, no doubt hunkered down somewhere warm with flasks of tea and petrol-station food.
McAvoy is about to ask what the hell has happened in the few hours since he left the Bear, but Spink gives him no opportunity. He starts talking softly, rapidly, as they make their way up the hall, past locked doors and noticeboards overflowing with policing initiative posters, rotas, rosters and staff news. McAvoy has never once seen
