Cold Bones, page 17
part #8 of DS Aector McAvoy Series
‘Nice girl, that,’ says Michaels quietly. ‘Family are from down Summergangs Road. Wouldn’t fancy her chances of breaking up a scrap if it all kicked off in the Criterion but her heart’s in the right place.’
‘Wouldn’t fancy my chances either,’ says McAvoy.
‘You’re Scottish?’ asks Michaels.
‘Does it show?’
‘I did some time offshore up there,’ admits Michaels, staring back into his tea. ‘Knew plenty of Jocks on the Gamecock Fleet too. Can I say “Jocks”? No offence meant. I like your lot. Hard workers but a bitch on settling day. You ever been to sea?’
‘Just the family fishing boat when I was a boy,’ says McAvoy, settling himself into the plastic chair opposite Michaels and slipping out of his wet coat. ‘Did some rowing at university but I doubt that counts.’
Michaels looks up. ‘You a posh boy, are you? Bet you played union.’
McAvoy smiles. ‘I’ve seen League. Too fast for me. You’ll be Rovers.’
‘Course I’m bloody Rovers,’ says Michaels, rolling his eyes. ‘You ever hear the story of when we played FC in the Challenge Cup? Whole bloody city took a bus to London. One city, two teams, and they still play the final at Wembley. I ask you! Some daft bugger strung a banner by the Humber bridge, telling the last person to leave Hull to turn out the lights.’
McAvoy has heard the story before. He’s heard most of the stories before. But he’ll listen to them a hundred times more if it helps put Norman Michaels at his ease.
‘How are you, Mr Michaels?’ asks McAvoy, placing his notebook and mobile phone on the table. ‘I’m so sorry you had to see what you did.’
Michaels holds McAvoy’s gaze. ‘I’ve lost friends before,’ he says quietly.
‘Doesn’t make it easier.’
‘I suppose not. It makes it feel more familiar though. I know how it goes. What will come next, what to do to get through it. Still a shock though. Wasn’t expecting this when I got up. Poor bastards. Druggies, was it? No, sorry, you can’t say.’
McAvoy considers the old trawlerman. A skipper for twenty-seven years. A Hessle Road kid who made it all the way. He volunteers aboard the Corsair when he gets the chance. Happy to give up his free time to help put the Blake Holst back together too. McAvoy can understand why so many former trawlermen want to stay connected, however loosely, to the industry that defined them. There is a comfort in the familiar. He wonders if he will do the same himself when he retires, whether he will start some meaningless research project down in the archives, popping into community stations for a cup of tea and a yarn, telling the next generation of coppers they would never have cut it in his day. He can’t picture it.
McAvoy examines the wall of newspaper clippings behind Michaels. Various appeals for funding. A profile of Rory Ballantine and the son he never met. Anniversary pieces and two-page re-tellings of the same tales of tragedy and bravado he has read about before.
‘You have no doubts about the identities of the men you found?’ asks McAvoy.
‘No doubt,’ says Michaels, scratching at the back of his hand. ‘Poor bastards. Alf. Fat Des. Christ, whoever did it got bloody lucky. If they’d tried that a few years ago they’d have been torn to bits. Old men now. We all are. Makes you think . . . I tell you, the way the world’s going, I don’t reckon we should be mourning the dead, we should be bloody jealous.’ He closes his eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m being a right miserable git. Grandkids got me a mug with Grumpy Old Man written on it last birthday. Cheeky sods.’ He takes a breath. ‘How can I help? I didn’t see anybody. Wish I had.’
To McAvoy, Michaels looks like an actor putting on a mask. He is trying to pull himself together: to be the gruff, matter-of-fact trawler skipper who’s seen it all before. McAvoy wishes they’d met under better circumstances. He seems an entertaining sort.
McAvoy makes a show of looking at his notes. In truth, he has the details memorised.
‘Tell me about them,’ he says quietly. ‘Your pals.’
Michaels consider him for a moment. He has intelligent eyes. McAvoy pictures him in the wheelhouse, sitting in the skipper’s chair and scanning the horizon.
‘I can’t say as we were close mates or anything,’ says Michaels thoughtfully. ‘Not that we weren’t either. It’s an odd business, fishing. You spend so long crammed in with these lads, sometimes high as kites and sometimes thinking that the next wave is going to kill you all. So there’s a bond between you, even when you’re having a barney and threatening to kill the next bloke who does something that rubs your fur the wrong way. Alf and Des were good lads. Alf were a decent skipper. They were part of this group of friends – proper characters. I think they thought they were the Magnificent Seven. But there were never much room for an eighth, if you get me.’
McAvoy takes his notepad from his pocket. Ensures that Michaels can see his shorthand notes. He makes no remark. Just stares into his mug and talks in a faraway voice.
‘It was always a daft idea. I can’t see the Holst chugging up and down the Humber. Can’t see people flocking to come aboard even if we managed it. You ever been out on the Humber? It takes a while to get your sea legs. An authentic trawling experience?’ He shakes his head. ‘How could it be authentic? Poor Stephen. He’s done bloody well for himself but if you ask me he’d have been happier as a deckie on a sidewinder. The world that made him, it’s all gone. Look at what’s left. Buildings falling down, docks sliding into the sea. They can put on as many songs and plays about the good old days of Hessle Road as they want but it’s never going to bring all that back.’
‘You don’t agree with Mr Ballantine’s plans for the Holst?’
‘Pipe dream, son. Money to burn. Wants to measure up to this image he has of his old man, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Rory were a good bloke, everybody will tell you that and I’m not going to disagree. He was the leader. Told them all what to do. The ones who survived, they were lost for a long time. It’s no wonder they filled Stephen’s head with all these heroic tales. They turned him into some sort of bloody superman. I don’t know if they did Stephen any favours.’
McAvoy sits back in his chair. ‘Seven, yes?’ He holds up one hand and raises a finger as he counts off the names he knows. ‘Rory Ballantine. Alf Howe. Des Kavanagh.’
‘Cowboy Mick. Young Billy. They never came back from Iceland. Died alongside Rory. Story’s on the wall yonder.’
‘Do you know the names of the other two, just for reference?’ asks McAvoy cautiously.
‘Big Gerard,’ says Michaels, nodding. ‘Sorry, Gerard Wade. He pops by the Corsair every now and again for a cup of tea though he’s never been a sociable sort. I think he likes to see how we’re spending his money.’
‘He contributes?’
‘Aye, done well has Big Gerard. Him and Rory were thick as thieves. Gerard half killed himself trying to save him. I don’t think he ever got over it. It were Gerard that put Stephen in that posh school. Set him up in business. He’d promised Rory, you see. Told him he’d always look out for his family if anything happened to him.’
McAvoy slides a finger between the buttons of his shirt and scratches the ridged pink skin of the scar across his breastbone. It’s starting to throb.
‘And number seven?’
Michaels rolls his eyes, pursing his lips to hide his grin. ‘You’ll know Napper, I’m sure. All the coppers know Napper.’
‘That’ll be Bernard Acklam.’
‘Aye, I suppose. He’s just Napper. A walking nightmare but you can’t help but like him. Always got his fingers in pies and they usually belong to other people. The fingers, I mean. And the pies, now I think on it. No stranger to a prison cell. Stephen calls him “Uncle Napper”, which gives you an idea how things are.’
‘Close?’
‘It’s Napper who got the ball rolling on all this,’ says Michaels, gesturing at his surroundings. ‘Called in plenty of favours from the sort of people who don’t put their hand in their pocket very often. Stephen wanted to do this and that meant Napper was damn well going to make sure it happened. He loves that lad like he’s his own.’
Michaels stops, raising his hand to his mouth. ‘Don’t go thinking I’m buying into gossip, Sergeant. That were a slip of the tongue.’
McAvoy sips his tea. He waits for Michaels to fill the silence.
‘There’s some spiteful bastards on Road,’ says Michaels at last. ‘When everybody was wailing and roaring about losing Rory and how it were awful that his wife was left with these bains and his little sister was off her head with grief – always some bastard has to taint it. I never bought into it.’
‘There were people who cast doubts on Stephen’s parentage?’
‘Horrible thing to do if you ask me. Don’t forget, we’re talking about a community where secrets run from cradle to grave. There are lads as old as me who called some bloke “Dad” for their whole life, and everybody else knows that their mum was having it away with the rent-collector when her man was away at sea. There are people who call their grandmothers “Mum” and their mums their big sister and who’ve never worked out what everybody else refuses to talk about. That’s just the way of it. I was born five months after my mam and dad got married and believe me, I weren’t premature.’
McAvoy stops writing. He can hear the CSIs working in the bunkroom, the soft squeak of equipment being wheeled along damp metallic corridors and the drip-drip-drip of condensation tumbling from the rusty ceiling.
‘So much sadness in that family,’ mutters Michaels. ‘The Ballantines. I knew Rory’s dad, Lachlan. He were one of twins and the sea got them both. Lachlan trawled up a mine off Norway. His brother, Stuart, was lost overboard near the Faroes. Poor bains. Their dad and their grandad and God knows how many others over the years. Aye, the newspapers had a ball with all that. I remember reading some article on Stephen that went on about how the Ballantines could be forgiven for thinking they’d offended Poseidon. Poseidon! They were just trawlermen. It’s a bloody dangerous business. You’re lucky one moment and the next you’re dead. That’s why we’re such a superstitious bunch. I’ve had deckies turn around on their way to the docks and head back home because they’ve seen a bloke with cross-eyes or realised they’ve got change in their pockets. No green. No washing clothes on sailing day. No whistling unless you want to whistle up a storm. Don’t wave anybody off.’ He stops himself. Gives a dry laugh. ‘All nonsense, I suppose, but when the ice is building on the rigging and the seas are throwing you about like a cork in a Jacuzzi, none of it seems that daft. It’s something to cling to.’
McAvoy looks around. Glances at the headlines stuck to the walls again.
‘Rory’s up there, somewhere,’ says Michaels, jerking a thumb at the wall. ‘Story on the Blake Purcell. Been stuck to the wall since day one but you can still read it. Reckon the writer thought he was starting a novel but it’s not far from the truth.’
McAvoy flicks his eyes back to the clipping. He focuses on the patchy image of the Blake Purcell, steaming out of St Andrew’s Dock, the low clouds and the smoke from the chimney stack virtually indistinguishable. Inset is a picture of a broad, square-jawed man in a cloth cap, the whites of his eyes unnaturally bright. McAvoy stands and moves towards the wall, the words becoming clearer: the image more precise.
‘Can you think of anybody who might want to harm Alf and Des?’
Michaels shakes his head. ‘We weren’t big mates, like I said. I only popped in because the security gate was open and it didn’t look right. I half expected it to be Napper in there with some bit of stuff.’
‘You weren’t concerned for your own safety?’ asks McAvoy.
‘I’m an old man but I can still kick a burglar in the goolies, don’t you worry about me. Napper mentioned that they were putting security cameras in though I don’t know if they ever got around to it. You’ll be as well asking Stephen about that.’
‘They’d had problems before? With security?’
Michaels sucks his lip. Nods. ‘Few of us old buggers were having a pint just before Christmas. Des was going for it. Knocking them back like he was catching the morning’s tide. He made a bit of a show of himself. Snivelling a bit. Kept saying it weren’t fair and that he were an old man. I got the impression somebody had been getting in his ear. Leaning on him a bit. Napper sorted him out. Got him cleaned up and took him home. Brave of Napper if you ask me – you wouldn’t want a drunk bloke puking on your nice upholstery. Drives this real vintage beauty, does Napper.’
McAvoy listens to the sound of a muffled conversation outside the hatchway. Slattery? Criticising him, no doubt. Probably taking notes; making loud calls to the top brass, explaining that the reason they haven’t put things to bed yet is due to McAvoy’s meandering interview technique.
‘You’ll know all about that night, I presume,’ says McAvoy quietly. He’s starting to feel as though he has heard the story told too many different ways. ‘The night that the crewmen were lost . . .’
‘Napper were in his bunk when it happened,’ mutters Michaels, and starts to examine the back of his hand. ‘The night they lost Rory. He were always happy to talk about it. The journalists sought him out because he’d give them chapter and verse for the price of a couple of pints. He said there was a noise like they had driven a wagon into a wall. Run aground just off Skagi. Radar was completely iced up and it was just bad luck that they hit it. They spent hours huddled together up in the wheelhouse, world getting darker, men getting colder. Radio operator was a good lad. Scottish, actually. Klein, was it? Maybe Klein. He were trying to get a signal out of the wireless. Kept broadcasting, over and over, while the ship started listing, sinking. Skipper gave the order to get into the lifeboats but the instant they threw the first one over the side the rope snapped. Blew away like it were a plastic bag.’
McAvoy swallows. He can taste blood and his headache is starting to squeeze. He closes his eyes as his mind fills with chilling images: pack ice and darkness; the relentless pummelling of the sea.
Michaels looks at McAvoy to check he has his attention. Gives the slightest of nods of appreciation.
‘Napper says the lads who hadn’t sailed before were nigh-on hysterical. The experienced lads just went quiet. I’ve seen it. Sometimes all you can do is lay in your bunk and read your book and hope that God doesn’t want you dying today. That’s it. That’s what it comes down to.’ Michaels is somewhere else now, describing something only he can see.
‘The way Napper told it, the wave picked up the ship like a bath toy and flipped it off the rocks; men tumbling into the sea. Gerard had his head half stoved in. Cowboy Mick took the lifeboat full in the face. Young lad was snatched like there was a fist grabbing him from the deck. Weren’t far short of a miracle that any of them made it home. You ever been in water that cold? Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Poor bastards . . .’
McAvoy turns at the sound of a rapping on the hatchway. Detective Constable Andy Daniells: wide-eyed, wet-faced. ‘A word, Sarge? When you’ve got a moment?’
McAvoy glances at Michaels, who waves a hand. ‘I shouldn’t be rattling on like this. You’ve got things to be doing. I told the uniformed lass most of what I know. Like I say, I reckon it were druggies.’
McAvoy hauls himself out of the chair, following Daniells into the gangway. ‘Anything?’ asks Daniells.
‘Better understanding of the victims, if nothing else,’ says McAvoy, hating the word even as he says it. He shakes his head, trying to alter his train of thought. He looks at Daniells, who has a pained expression on his round face. ‘What is it, Andy?’
‘Up top,’ says Daniells quietly. ‘There’s a bit of a ding-dong.’
McAvoy follows him down the gangway towards the stairs. He sees the flash of cameras strobing in the darkness. Puts his foot on the metal stairs and hauls himself up to the deck. The air is so cold it takes his breath away. Daniells points to where two uniformed officers are having an argument with a man in a flat cap. Even from a distance, McAvoy recognises him. He unpeels the blue nitrile gloves, slips them into his pocket and trudges up the gangway towards the fluttering police tape. Ballantine’s words carry on the wind.
‘…it’s my fucking ship, you prick! What do you mean? This is fucking ridiculous! It’s my ship on my dock. What’s your name?’
As McAvoy approaches, the uniforms shift their position. For a moment a gap appears between them. In the distance, across the broken tarmac and the tumbledown brick buildings, he sees a long, plum-coloured classic car by the Chinese restaurant at the edge of the leisure park. He squints, the cold air playing with his hair and the tails of his coat.
‘Mr Ballantine,’ says McAvoy, using the voice he reserves for calming angry horses and football supporters. It’s firm but reassuring. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant McAvoy. Perhaps we should have a wee chat.’
Ballantine stops shouting. His handsome, wolfish face is the colour of old paper and there is a darkness under his eyes. He gives off a smell of whisky and herbal cigarettes. His flat cap is jammed onto a shaved head and there are grey stripes in his black goatee. He wears a designer donkey jacket over black jeans and two silver necklaces glint at his throat. He looks more like a pop star than a property developer.
He looks McAvoy up and down. Scowls nastily.
‘Detective fucking Sergeant? That’s one up from a plod, isn’t it? Where’s Slattery? I want to speak to who’s in charge. And I want to be allowed aboard my own bloody ship!’
Behind him, one of the uniforms gives McAvoy a look that asks whether it might be possible, just this once, for him to turn a blind eye while they gave this obnoxious bastard a physical education.
‘Mr Ballantine, the vessel is now a crime scene. The bodies of two men were discovered here in the early hours of this morning. We are in the initial stages of the investigation but I will be requiring a conversation with you and a number of your associates.’
