actions, laced with a resolute determination to take no pleasure in them.
Remembers, too, the damp eyes his father had turned upon him. The tenderness with which he had reached down and stroked the wool. The way he raised his hand to his nose and breathed in the damp, musky scent of a ewe he had reared from birth, and whose neck he had snapped to end her pain.
The man at Holy Trinity Church had that same look in his damp, blue eyes. So did the man who carved his name in Angie Martindale. Who sat, crying, for an age before embarking on his work.
Energised, blood pumping, thoughts racing in his mind, McAvoy considers a killer.
‘Is that what you’re doing? Putting them out of their misery? Are you ending their suffering? Are you asking me to end yours?’
McAvoy stops. Lost in his thoughts, he has taken the wrong path from the park.
His phone begins to ring. Number withheld.
‘Aector McAvoy,’ he says.
‘Sergeant? Hi, this is Jonathan Feasby. I got a message to call …’
McAvoy racks his brains. Puts the events of the past twenty-four hours into some sense of order. Feasby. The reporter from the
‘Mr Feasby, yes. Thanks for getting back in touch.’
‘No problem, no problem.’ His voice is breezy. Southern-sounding. Cheerful, considering the weather and the hour.
‘Mr Feasby, I’m involved in the investigation into Daphne Cotton’s murder and I believe you may have some information that would be relevant to the inquiry.’
McAvoy listens as the reporter gives a whistle of surprise.
‘Me? Well, yeah, if I can. Hull though, isn’t it? I’ve never even been to the North East.’
‘Hull isn’t in the North East, sir. It’s in the East Riding of Yorkshire.’
‘Right, right.’
‘Are you aware of the case I’m referring to?’
‘Not her name, no. But I just Googled “Hull” and “murder” and “McAvoy” and got myself about a billion hits. Process of elimination, I’m assuming it’s the current one. Poor girl in the church, yes? Terrible.’
McAvoy nods, even though nobody can see.
‘Mr Feasby, I want to talk to you about an article you wrote some time ago. It concerned an Anne Montrose. She was injured in an incident in Northern Iraq. I understand you were the freelance writer hired by the
There is silence at the other end of the line. Pressing his ear to the phone, McAvoy fancies he can hear the sound of mental gears clashing.
‘Mr Feasby?’
‘Erm. I’m not sure I remember the case,’ says Feasby. He’s lying.
‘Sir, I have a decent relationship with the local press and my colleagues make fun of me for my belief in human nature. If I talk to you off the record, will it stay that way?’
‘I’m one of the last reporters who believes in such a concept.’
‘Well, I’m one of the last men in the world who believes that a promise means something, and I promise you I won’t be pleased if the contents of this conversation appear in print.’
‘I understand. How can I help you?’
‘I’m working on a theory that perhaps the man who killed Daphne Cotton may be targeting other people who have survived near-death experiences. That perhaps he or she is finishing off something that they view as an unacceptable escape from the Reaper’s scythe. I am trying to work out who might be next on their list, if such a list exists. Anne Montrose fits the criterion. She was a survivor in an incident in which everybody else involved died. I want to know what happened to her after the story you wrote. I want to know that she’s safe.’
There is silence at the other end of the phone. McAvoy listens out for scribbling.
‘Mr Feasby?’
‘If I’m off the record, then so are you, yes?’ Feasby’s voice has lost its lightness. He sounds pensive. Almost afraid. ‘I’m not intending to incriminate myself or anybody else here …’
‘I understand.’
The reporter lets out a whistled breath. ‘Look, it probably doesn’t mean much to you, but when I say that I’ve never done this before …’
‘I believe you.’
McAvoy isn’t sure whether he does or he doesn’t, but knows how to sound sincere.
‘Well, the only time I’ve ever taken money not to publish a story was when I tried to follow up on Anne Montrose. I had the opportunity to write one more bloody follow-up on one more bloody victim of one more bloody day of that bloody war. And I had the chance to write nothing. To call in a favour with my news desk and bury the whole thing …’
‘How? Why?’
‘I had the chance of a way out.’
McAvoy pauses. He tries to clear his head.
‘After I wrote the story about the explosion, about what happened to her, a man came to see me,’ he says, and his voice sounds far away.
‘Go on.’
‘He was the boss of a company that was making money in the clean-up operation. Rebuilding communities. Building schools and hospitals. And he said that if I did him a favour, he’d do me one in return.’
‘And the favour?’
‘Not another word on Anne. The newspaper would get full exclusives on everything that his company did from this point onwards …’
‘And you?’
Feasby sighs. ‘An honorary position on the board of his company.’
‘You took it?’
‘On paper I was a marketing consultant, helping his firm establish its media relations strategy …’
‘And in reality?’
‘I never wrote a word. Drew a salary for a few months, then went back to what I was good at.’
‘You weren’t curious?’
McAvoy imagines Feasby spreading his palms wide. ‘I’m a reporter.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t think I should really be telling you any more until I’ve had a good hard think about what you really need to know.’
McAvoy pauses. He wonders if the reporter is fishing. Whether he is expecting the promise of an exclusive in exchange for his information.
His phone beeps in his ear. More from impulse than any conscious desire, he switches lines and answers.
‘Mr McAvoy? This is Shona Fox from Hull Royal Infirmary. We’ve been trying to reach you for hours. It’s about your wife. I’m afraid there have been complications …’
And nothing else matters any more.
CHAPTER 21
McAvoy didn’t sleep for the first twenty-seven hours. Didn’t eat. Managed two sips of water from a cloudy, plastic beaker, then coughed them back up onto his stinking rugby shirt, mucus trailing from his eyes and nose.
Outside, Hull froze.
The excitement of a possible white Christmas gave way to fear at the harshness and severity of the conditions. The snow landed on hard ground. Froze. Fell again. Froze. The sky was a grey pencil sketch. Clouds broiled, rolled, twisted, curdled; like snakes moving inside a black bag.
The city stopped.
Later, McAvoy would tell his daughter that it was she who finally broke the winter’s spell. That it was only
