Original Skin (3 page)

Nobody has any doubts that the victims were involved in cannabis production. Their clothes had shown traces of marijuana, of fertilizer—even the broad of sparkling mineral water known among the experts to produce a flowering harvest.

She got little from the victims at first, but by pulling in a few favors and suggesting she could assist with their pleas to be allowed to stay in the United Kingdom rather than be returned to Vietnam, she managed to get descriptions of the men who had hurt them. They spoke of big white men. Men who had been giving them orders ever since they smashed down the door to one of their marijuana farms and pressed a mobile phone to their foreman’s ear. Their gang leader was relinquishing authority for their operation. The crop, and the workers, were now somebody else’s property. They were to cooperate. Work hard. Their families would be taken care of.

The man’s transgression was never truly explained. They upset somebody. Did something wrong. Said the wrong thing, perhaps. Made a call they should not have made. They fell foul of their new bosses. And they paid the price.

Little was yet known about these new players on the drugs scene, but the next set of crime statistics was an embarrassment to the top brass. The number of incidents of cannabis possession was up 17 percent in twelve months. More than that, violent crime was on the rise. It wasn’t the street dealers who were taking the beatings. It was the people with backroom growing operations. People who grew enough to supply themselves and their friends. They were the ones being beaten down in the street. Beaten beyond recognition. Rendered too afraid or too unintelligible to talk.

Tressider is sufficiently concerned to demand answers. And Everett has none to give.

Stammering at first, and then warming to his theme, McAvoy outlines the situation as best he can. Tells the committee that it is not merely a matter of insufficient resources. It is a case that the new drugs operation is, in no uncertain terms, “very, very good.”

“Bloody cannabis,” says Tressider. “Should just legalize it. Get it over with. Going to happen, isn’t it? Backward and forward this country. Can’t have a smoke in a pub but you can drink a liter of supermarket cider for two pounds fifty! And all this nail-gun business! By Christ but that’s vicious.”

“We’ve tried to find examples of similar techniques used nationally, but we’re having no success, sir. These people seem to have appeared out of nowhere. They took over, and now they’re having their way . . .”

“But cannabis? Why not cocaine? Ecstasy? Heroin, even?”

McAvoy feels a vibration in his pocket, and discreetly retrieves his mobile phone. He has to fight to keep the smile from his face.

“We’ve made a significant breakthrough, sir,” he says firmly. “An informant of Detective Superintendent Pharaoh has supplied us with the location of the current bulk of the cannabis operation. We’re hopeful a raid will be imminent, and that the perpetrators of the foreshore attacks will be present.”

Tressider holds his gaze for a fraction of a second longer than McAvoy is comfortable with. He is not sure what the chairman is thinking, or whether he is about to be praised or bawled out.

“It’s a relief to find some bugger who knows what he’s doing,” says Tressider at length. “Sounds like you’ve got a busy day ahead of you. We won’t detain you further.”

McAvoy begins to stand.

“Actually, a piss would be nice. Shall we call a break?”

Amid mutterings of both consternation and agreement, the committee members stand. McAvoy gathers his things.

“A shambles,” says Everett under his breath. “Bloody shambles.”

McAvoy presumes the remark to be directed at himself. Chooses not to hear it.

Squeezing through the throng of bodies and careful not to touch anybody with his damp clothes, he makes his way out of the room and down the stairs. He can feel a fizz of excitement building inside him. Pharaoh has made progress. Leanne has an address. And within the hour they could have everything they need to kick in some doors and slap on handcuffs.

He emerges back onto the High Street to find that the rain has paused for breath. The cold wind grabs his soaking clothes and instantly brings goose pimples to his skin. He shivers. Looks at his watch and tries to decide what to do for the next hour. He has some time to kill before meeting Pharaoh, a five minutes’ walk away in one of the quieter pockets of the city center, and were he to drive back to the office he would only have to turn around and come back again. He looks around.

Next door to the Police Authority stands the Hull and East Riding Museum. He has been here plenty of times with Roisin and Fin, but Lilah is probably still too young to appreciate the giant woolly mammoth that stands in the entrance, or the siege gun commissioned by Henry VIII, which was dug up by archaeologists excavating the city walls and placed on display alongside other exhibits from the city’s colorful past.

His feet take him past the entrance and down to the water’s edge. The River Hull gives the city its name, and scythes into the city center, then onward into the dark, muddy waters of the Humber. He stares down at the dirty water. At the feet of thick mud, which sit like so much chocolate mousse against the brick and timber walls of the footpath upon which he now stands.

To his left is the
Arctic Corsair
, an old-fashioned sidewinder trawler transformed into a floating museum by well-meaning types keen to ensure that everybody get a chance to experience the hell of life on board a distant-water fishing vessel.

Idle, directionless, he walks along the towpath by the river. Looks up at the busy divided highway overhead. Past the overpass, to where the curious, curving pyramid structure of the city’s aquarium sits, incongruously modern and shiny, on the muddy spit of land called Sammy’s Point.

The rain begins to fall again. He wonders for a time whether he should huddle under the bridge until he dries out. Perhaps phone Roisin, or call Helen Tremberg to see if anything has occurred that requires his attention.

Realizing he has thought himself into inertia, he retreats from the downpour and leans against one of the concrete columns that support the overpass. Closes his eyes. Wonders for a time whether he should have responded to ACC Everett’s muttered criticisms, or whether he was right to keep his mouth shut.

He looks back the way he has come. Back at the city where he has spent most of his career so far. Where he has risked his life, and captured men and women who have claimed the lives of others. It is a city he cannot love, and yet he feels an affection for it. A closeness. Feels a bond with this city at the end of the motorway, which grew to prosperity on the back of an industry which killed its men, only to slump into listlessness and decay when it disappeared.

At the back of the Police Authority building he can make out the shapes of two stick men. Two silhouettes, picked out against the white paint of the
Corsair
and the gray of the sky.

He wonders if they are committee members. Whether they are councillors having a shifty smoke, or laughing at the great, hulking sergeant who had turned up damp, but still somehow seemed to persuade Tressider that the sun shone out of his arse.

McAvoy begins walking back. He makes no attempt to protect himself from the rain. He is too soaked to see the point.

Lost in thoughts, adrift in a not-unpleasant daydream, he does not see the two figures depart. He finds himself back at the riverside quicker than he had expected. Gives a last look at the water. Indulges himself in a smile as he looks at the wheels of the supermarket trolley sticking out of the mud bank. The bottles and mattress springs that litter its surface. The mobile phone, sitting on the thick and cloying surface like a tooth left in the frosting of a chocolate cake . . .

He moves to the water’s edge. Crouches down.

The mud stops perhaps ten feet below him. Slopes down to water six feet below that.

From this angle, the phone looks relatively new. He wonders if it has slipped from somebody’s pocket. Whether it has been kicked accidentally over the side, amid the chaos and frenzy of the rain.

McAvoy screws up his eyes. He’s surprised the phone hasn’t yet slipped beneath the surface. Whether it is his duty as a policeman to try and recover such obviously valuable property.

Leading down from the footpath, nailed into the river wall, is a metal ladder; its surface slick and grimy, mud-soaked and treacherous.

Is it worth it, Aector? Seriously?

He looks at his watch.

It could belong to one of the committee members. Could be important.

Screws up his eyes.

You could fix it, if it’s broken. Would be a challenge for you.

Lifts one gigantic leg over the side.

Just see if you can reach it . . .

Begins to climb down.

10:46 A.M. EIGHTY MILES WEST.

A LIGHT DRIZZLE
falling softly on gray, uneven pavements, on plywood shop fronts and untaxed cars.

“Shit-tard bollocking fuckcunts!”

Harry Tattershall is a magnificent and venomous swearer: doing things with words that other people would require a snooker ball and a football sock to achieve. Were he able to do the same with the non-vernacular, he would be poet laureate.

“Twat-box cock cunt!”

He picks up the bundle of dropped keys from the damp, dirty curb. Bangs his head on the wing mirror of his old-style Saab as he rights himself.

“Fucking wank-titting monkey pisser!”

He rubs a hand over his forehead and pushes the raindrops back through his thick, gray hair, then takes off his cola-bottle glasses and smears the moisture and fingerprints into a new pattern, before replacing them on his broken nose. He shivers, wishing he’d thought to pull on more than tracksuit pants and a lumberjack shirt before slamming the door closed at his housing association flat. He is a short, fleshy-limbed man in his late fifties, who does not enjoy the cigarette that is habitually hanging from his lower lip. He just keeps it there to light the next one.

Harry exults in his job title of general manager of the private members’ club, but on days like these he can’t help but feel like little more than the caretaker. Were it in his power to appoint somebody to the role of watchman he would do so in a flash, but the owners grumble if he so much as changes to fresh from long-life milk, and in his words are “tighter than a ladybird’s chuff.”

The blue light is flashing on the burglar alarm, but there is no sound. They disabled the bell months ago to keep the neighbors sweet. This is not a nice spot, a mile to the east of central Huddersfield, on the corner of a run-down row of pizza shops and budget hairdressing salons. Despite the less than beautiful location, the club has still faced plenty of problems from protesters and busybodies. Its license is dependent on the council’s not having a good reason to shut them down, so keeping the locals happy is paramount.

Harry scrabbles through the many keys on his chain and finds the big one that opens the closed front door. He does not even think to try the handle. He has no doubt the alarm has gone off for no good reason: the same way it always seems to when he gets himself settled in front of a new blue movie with a pot of tea and a packet of HobNobs.

The big blue-painted door swings open, and he stands for a second in the drafty, unpainted, breeze-blocked cubicle where, on weeknights from seven p.m., consenting adults stand in their lace and PVC finery, sliding a ten-pound note and their membership card through a hatch in the interior door, and waiting to be let in for an evening of no-strings coupling, tripling, and, on one memorable occasion, human-centipeding.

He unlocks the inner door and steps into the dark of the downstairs bar. It’s red-painted, with brass wall lamps and silhouettes of naked women stenciled artistically around the room. The floor is black lacquer, and the booths and bar stools are covered in imitation crushed velvet that, as Harry knows too well, does not wipe 100 percent clean.

With quick, practiced steps, he crosses to the bar and switches on the downstairs lights. It takes a moment for the bulbs to kick in, and there is a brief flickering before the room is illuminated.

At once Harry knows something is wrong. The computer behind the bar is whirring. It’s an old machine and the internal fan is dust-clogged, so it habitually makes a noise like a helicopter in distress. The motor is spinning now. The monitor may be switched off, but recent use of the computer itself is betrayed by a green light winking beneath the bar.

Harry switches the monitor back on. Wiggles the mouse. Screws up his eyes as the database of members’ names and addresses gradually comes into focus on the screen.

“Fuckbollocking titshits.”

He says this under his breath, resignedly, already knowing that his day has just been ruined. They’ve had break-ins before, of course. He’s turned up at work to find an entire week’s worth of booze nabbed from the storeroom, and the fancy leopard-print throw from the circular bed in the viewing room had lasted only a week before it found its way into the depth of a voluminous handbag. But this is the first time the computer has been targeted. He doubts very much any intruder would have deemed the machine itself worth the bother of carrying, but there are bits and pieces stored on its hard drive that he knows, with sudden crystal-clear hindsight, he should have protected better.

“Shit.”

He surprises himself with the simplicity of the statement. Pulls up a stool and begins tapping at the keyboard. He would never call himself a computer expert, but he knows how to build a database and surf for porn. He also knows how to transfer footage from the CCTV camera in the swing room to his own personal file.

Harry spins away from the keyboard, grabs a half-pint glass from beneath the bar, and holds it to the vodka optic, gathering up a healthy double measure. He opens the beer fridge and removes a bottle of Holsten. Takes a swig of vodka, then dilutes the burn with the lager. He’s not worried yet, but his mind is racing. He wonders if he will be blamed. How they got in. How they got out . . .

It occurs to Harry that he has not yet checked the rest of the building. There is another bar downstairs, with a dance floor, pole, and large flat-screen TV where they show pornos to get clients in the mood. Upstairs there are five private bedrooms with doors that lock, and three where the policy is very much open door.

In the old-school boozer where Harry used to work, there was always a rounders bat next to the till. He wishes he were there now. But there hasn’t been any trouble in the two years he has run the place. The members are like-minded and friendly. They know the rules and play the game. They take no for an answer and leave when asked. Harry likes working here. With two students running the bar and a bouncer on the door for three hours on Friday and Saturday nights, the place works like a dream. At the last count they had more than a thousand members, and there can be upwards of fifty people who make this their regular Friday-night outing, turning their backs on regular pubs and clubs for an evening where they can be who the fuck they like in the company of people who don’t judge, and are grateful for the attention.

Harry’s mind whirs with the same grinding difficulty as the computer fan. He tries to imagine who would break in, and why they would go straight to the machine. He has had plenty of time to get to know the clientele over the past couple of years, lounging at the end of the bar with a mug of coffee, nodding appreciatively at the lads and ladies in their eclectic wardrobes. He could write a book on the sights he has seen. The people. The pervs. The giant, hairy Asian man in the dog collar and leotard. The big one in the gold mask who made a noise like a heifer in distress when he reached orgasm. The woman in her seventies who had to be helped out of the love swing when her hip came out. The fat lass in the pirate costume who cried rape when one of the four men she was fucking tried to put it in her arse . . .

He taps the keyboard again, unsure what to do. Wonders about the potential consequences of inaction. Suppose he confronts a burglar? Suppose they have seen the footage on his private files? He can’t afford to be blackmailed. Would simply have to admit culpability to the bosses and look for another job. He doubts there would be charges. But who would target him? He shakes his head and downs his vodka. Perhaps somebody is looking for information. Perhaps a member wants to find out more about somebody who caught his eye or pissed him off.

Perhaps they want to delete their own information. He knows from experience that members are notoriously shy about giving real names and real addresses, so doubts anybody would think it worthwhile to even try and get a name or phone number for another member.

His train of thought is derailed by an unmistakable creak from upstairs.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, then picks up the nearly empty bottle of Holsten and upends it; a dribble of beer running over the blurry blue ink of his tattooed forearm.

He pulls open the door to the stairway and peers into the gloom. The cord-carpeted stairs disappear into darkness halfway up, and there is nothing appealing about climbing them. Harry pauses, already half decided.

There is another creak.

“Fuck.”

He puts his foot on the bottom stair. Puts a hand on the banister and pulls himself up, trying to stand on the corners of each step so as not to make a sound.

As he reaches the top step, the last dribble of beer runs over his wrist. The sudden coldness makes him jump and he lets out a small exclamation, which he follows with a curse.

Harry knows he has given himself away. Whoever is waiting in the dark can fuck-buggering stay there.

He turns. Begins to creep back down the stairs.

This time the sound is unmistakable. Running feet. Sudden movement. Coming closer.

Harry looks up.

Crack.

Opens his mouth to let rip with a stream of invective, but finds himself wordless. His tongue has been crushed to pulp between his back teeth; a reflex reaction to the hammer blow that has struck him just above the left temple.

Movement. Bone-jarring impact. Thuds and cracks.

Harry finds himself upside down. Right way up again. Feels his old limbs twisted into unnatural directions as they jar with the brick and stair.

Darkness.

Now red clouds.

A sensation of friction at his back and pressure at his wrists.

Now he is looking at the ceiling from an angle he has never seen it before. Now there is dusty, cheap carpet by his face.
How did that happen? Why am I at the bottom of the stairs?

He blinks. The effort pains him. It seems to awaken other senses.

Agony grabs him. Twists him in its fist.

He looks up. Sees a face. Halfway familiar; attractive and cold.

A voice. Soft, in his ear.

“Her real name. It’s not here. Just ‘Blossoms.’ I already know that.”

The voice sounds as if it were underwater. Harry hears an echo. Feels dampness on his skin.

“I never really thought it would be here. I knew you wouldn’t check. Just a name and a number. And the number isn’t real.”

Harry wants to speak. Wants to ask for help. An ambulance.

Harry manages a croak.

“I’m sorry. I’m getting desperate. I had to try. I don’t even know if it’s her. He said ‘Suzie,’ but he could have lied . . .”

He croaks again. Tastes blood. Blood and vodka.

“It keeps getting worse. It could have been simple. Now look where we are. There will be more, I know it. I’ve just made it worse. He’ll be so angry . . .”

Harry knows what he wants to say. Can feel the words lining up in his mind. Wants to say that, whatever this is about, he will never speak of it. Wants to say that he can feel himself dying and cannot stand it. Wants to know where his glasses are, and whether they can be fixed.

“I thought your neck was broken. I think it is. I don’t know. I could have walked away if your neck was broken. Now it has to be an accident.”

Harry tries to move. Realizes he cannot feel his limbs. That it only hurts on one side of his body. On the other, he can feel nothing.

“I’m so sorry.”

He lies broken. His limbs broken branches, his back shattered glass. He is on his back, wedged in the doorway. His positioning tells the story of his death. Of a man who slipped climbing the stairs, and who could not put out the flames . . .

His neck is twisted gruesomely to the left, so Harry does not see the cigarette butt that a gloved hand grinds into his vodka-soaked T-shirt. Cannot move his arms to flick it away. Can only watch, eyeballs climbing out of his skull, as it begins to smolder.

He sees his killer walking to the back door, the same hammer in hand that was used to force the lock and crack his skull.

Pain now. Heat. Smoke and flame.

He gulps hard, trying to clear his mouth; to speak.

Swallows clotting blood. Begins to choke.

Coughs and pukes, choking on blood and sick, as the flames take hold of his ragged clothes and spread to the floor.

He is dead before he has to endure the stench of his own cooking skin.