Past Life

Book 6: Detective Sergeant McAvoy

by David Mark

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers

Synopsis

DS Aector McAvoy must face the dark, disturbing secrets of his past if he's to keep his family safe.



The clairvoyant is found with her tongue crudely carved out, a shard of blue crystal buried deep within her mangled ribcage.



The crime scene plunges DS Aector McAvoy back twelve years, to a case from when he was starting out. An investigation that proved a turning point in his life – but one he’s tried desperately to forget.



To catch the killer, he must face his past. Face the terrible thing he did. But doing so also means facing the truth about his beloved wife Roisin, and the dark secrets she’s keeping have the power to destroy them both completely.

David Mark brings Hull to dark, brutal life in this gripping novel in the critically acclaimed DS McAvoy series – a perfect pick for fans of Denise Mina, Val McDermid and Peter Robinson.

 

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Release date: November 1, 2021

Publisher: Severn House

Print pages: 228

Sample

PROLOGUE

A pig of a day.

Afternoon bleeds blackly into evening: big dark shillings of rain tumbling down from slow-moving, pot-bellied clouds.

The land, featureless, beaten down. Flat, in every direction; a green-brown cloth draped across the earth and stamped until the wrinkles are smooth. A visitor here could be forgiven for believing the planet to be a disc.

A long, straight road, heading for the coast.

A copse of trees.

And here, the last house before the water: the final man-made structure before the soil becomes the sand; becomes the sea.

A plume of smoke, emerging from a red-brick chimney like an illustration in a nursery rhyme.

Inside, now. The door isn’t locked.

Here.

A murky little room.

An overhead light throws a yellow glare upon a horseshoe of coloured picture-cards. The cards are encircled by a small henge of different crystals: their glittering stones reflecting fire; a jagged coral reef of serrated edges – each tiny spike sharp as a tooth.

A plump woman, long hair, clever eyes, half lost in a swirl of incense.

This is Dymphna Lowell. She talks to the dead. Sometimes, she gets a reply.

Opposite, a man in a sodden overcoat, dark trousers, boots leaving muddy prints upon the carpet: a triangle of ankle peeking out from between the unlaced tongues and the sodden hems. Upon the skin at his heelbone, an ugly ridge of scar tissue, as if burned by hot iron. In his dark coat, he’s a bundle of kindling: a corn dolly, burned black.

Dymphna is thinking of the money. Telling herself that the smell of him, and the sight of him, and the muddy prints on the floor, are worth enduring for the inch of crisp notes he had placed in her hand. She’s never been the sort to turn somebody away. Would never deny her gifts to those in need. And money’s money. She’s been inconvenienced. Had to deal with a knock on the door on a wet afternoon. Here, at the end of the road, where a person could be forgiven for expecting peace and quiet. Only right she gets what she deserves.

‘It is important not to take these things at face value,’ she says, with an encouraging smile. ‘The widower card, well, it doesn’t mean you’ve necessarily lost somebody, or are about to. It’s about loss. About a sense of bereavement, yes, but that doesn’t mean a life. The other cards inform it, you see.’

A quick glance at his left hand, starfished flat on the wooden table. A gold ring, on the third of his big, pink fingers. It’s a little loose. There’s clear space between gold and the flesh. She hadn’t noticed it at first, having been focused instead on his fingertips. He has no nails. The nails have been bitten down so far that there is virtually no cuticle: each tiny strip of nail a letterbox in a pinkly wrinkled door.

He used to be bigger, she tells herself. Suffered, this one. You can see it in his neck, too. That loose skin. The collar of his shirt’s a little frayed, as if it used to rub against stubble. Been through something. There’s so much pain in him it’s like he’s full. Like he’s been a sponge and now he’s saturated. Like pain is spilling out a tear at a time …

‘The militaria,’ she muses, examining the pretty, colourful card. ‘One of my favourites. Very encouraging. Not a soldier, by any means, but somebody with purpose. A mission. Perhaps a belligerence, a devotion to a duty. Am I getting warm? Stop me if I’m getting ahead of myself …’

She glances up at his face. He’s barely spoken since he arrived. Hasn’t responded to much of her chatter. She finds it a little rude, if she’s honest. She hasn’t got much enthusiasm for idle prattle, but most of her clients expect it, the same way they expect a little gossip at the hairdresser’s or some borderline racist invective during a cab ride. She counts it as part of the service. With this one, she may as well have said nothing at all. Just lit the candle, wafted the incense, and got right down to business. Not much of a one for foreplay, she decides. Probably hasn’t played the field. Married young, and for life.

She makes a theatrical display of examining the cards. She doesn’t need them. Can read this man just from the way he looks; the way he smells; the catch in his voice as he said he was desperate, that he would pay twice her normal rate. The money had been enough of an incentive to overlook her own protocols. She doesn’t like walk-ins. Likes to be suitably prepared. Some of the cynics suggest she only accepts advanced bookings so she’s got a chance to Google the shit out of each new client, acquainting herself with every aspect of their character. She doesn’t rise to such suggestions. She knows she’s the real deal. Always has. Can read a person like a pop-up book. The cards just give her something to look at while she’s letting an innate empathy draw a picture of whoever is sitting in the chair. The crystal ball; the palm, the tea leaves, they’re all mostly props. She could tell this man’s future just by looking at him, and none of it rings with promise.

‘Now that’s interesting,’ she says, peering at a colourful picture card, soft yellows and gleaming red. ‘This is a feeling card: a state of being, you might say. Amore, that’s love. And love means love. It doesn’t take much explaining. You feel it, or you’ve known it, or will again. That’s where this esperanza card comes in – a sense of hope. And I can see the power there, how you long for something. There’s a sadness in you, something beyond gloom. If I were to describe a kind of wistful, delicious melancholy, a nostalgia for something fondly remembered, would that mean something to you?’

He doesn’t reply. Blinks, once or twice. She watches the little pearl of saltwater build. Take shape. Bulge, reflecting tiny prisms of iridescence. She has to force herself not to pull a face as the tear finally spills over the lip of his drooping eye. He’s wept, one-sided, since he sat down, though there has been no accompanying sound. His eye, tugged down as if with an invisible finger, glistens pinkly. A steady drool of tears oozes from the lip of the lid, charting a course down yellowy, unhealthy-looking skin. He spends most of his time indoors, she thinks. Hasn’t known much sunlight. And that smell. Like something on the turn …

‘Ah, so this is one of my favourites,’ she says, cheerfully. Considers the cards. She’s pleased to be considering the images again: studying the Oracle with the same warm feeling as others might consider an old photo album. She is among friends, here. Knows each image like her own reflection.

‘Hmmm, that one facing towards me … that’s unusual …’

Glances up. She’s grateful for the smoke from the incense burner. It blurs his edges. Conceals the worst of the fungal, earthy aroma that seems to seep out of his skin. She feels an urge to stick her nose above the scalding surface of her herbal tea. There’s something about this man that makes her think of spores: of something rotten. Can imagine him coming apart into a million tiny points of flesh, billowing away like seed heads to be distributed by the breeze.

‘Who is that?’ he asks, his voice low, the words hard to discern. She wonders whether English is his first language. He’s staring at the card as if it were written in his blood.

‘Ah, well, that’s next, but if you’re eager, well …’

‘Who!’

She gathers herself. She’s no stranger to raised voices, heightened emotions. Telling the future, disentangling the present, providing guidance from the spirits: she can forgive outbursts of emotion.

‘An interesting card,’ she says, quietly. ‘You’ve chosen an unusual spread, as it happens. But, well … L’Amica is the Female Friend, but she can also represent friendship in a general sense – similar to the Dog in the Lenormand deck, though we’re getting fairly advanced territory there. L’Amica brings valuable aid, especially when she appears upside-down. She can be a safe harbour in a dark storm. She won’t make all of your problems disappear, but …’

‘I don’t know her,’ he says, and the sound is harsh, grating: a hiss through locked teeth.

‘Well, obviously, it’s not saying this is a specific friend, it’s implying somebody with that kind of relationship, that closeness …’

‘What do you mean “obviously”?’

She smiles, to show she hadn’t meant anything offensive. Does her best to look the way her clients want her to. Friendly, plump, a little Bohemian: an ethereal being emerging through the fog of incense carrying opaque messages from beyond the veil.

‘Perhaps there is somebody from your past – somebody who may be returning, to listen, to offer counsel …’

‘No.’

She glances at the item he had placed upon the table. It’s pretty. Well-made. Antique, if she’s any judge. She likes all of the charms, but it’s the horsehead that makes her smile. She can imagine herself wearing such a piece, though she would hang it on a chain.

‘The person who wore this … she’s in pain, yes? She needs help.’

Another tear spills over his ruined eyelid. He blinks, slowly. The damaged eye does not close all the way. She is left staring into the milky grey of his lower eyeball: a Cheshire cat smile beneath the puckered lid.

‘If you could select a card from this pile, please, perhaps we can get …’

He shakes his head. Opens his eyes. ‘You’re a liar,’ he says, candidly. ‘I thought for a moment you understood. But no. A charlatan.’

She bristles. ‘Hey, back off there, mate, not everybody likes what they hear but I’ve been doing this for twenty-odd years and—’

‘How much money have you made in that time?’ he asks, staring a hole into her. He’s not looking her in the eye – seems to focus his burning gaze on the very centre of her forehead.

‘I provide a service, mate. You don’t like it, I can sympathize, but you came to me, don’t forget. You’re in my kitchen, my house. You’ve known pain, I see that, but we’ve barely begun and you’re calling me a liar, and that’s one thing I’m not. My daddy taught me to always tell the truth …’

‘Another liar,’ he says, sadly, shaking his head.

She rises, furious, knocking the table. A curl of ash falls from the incense stick: cards slide across one another, the pattern and meaning lost. ‘How dare you! Don’t you ever think you can—’

He picks up a crystal from the circle surrounding the stones. It’s heavy and sharp: sparkling and brittle.

‘Liar,’ he says, again, and hits her in the side of the head with such force that the jagged edges of the twinkling rock embed themselves in bone. There is a grotesque slurping sound as he pulls the gory crystal from the wound. She slumps forward. He hits her again. Harder, right at the back of the neck. Takes a fistful of her rosaries, and pulls.

The chain snaps.

Beads fall like hail.

He lets go before she dies. Pushes her onto her back. She’s heavy, and there’s a thud as she topples back onto the floor. One of the cats, nosing near her feet, gives a hiss before it darts away.

He crouches over her. Opens her eyes and peers in.

There’s life in there, he tells himself. A consciousness. Something that can still feel.

‘Charlatan,’ he says, leaning down so his lips are by her ear. ‘Deceiver.’

He considers the pupils in her dulling eyes. Changes his angle until he sees his own barely-there reflection in the glassy surface of the eyeball. Peers in as if searching for something. For someone.

Smiles, as he finds it.

‘My love,’ he whispers, and puts one hand to his heart.

He pulls the blade from his pocket.

Reaches into her mouth and seizes her wet, dead tongue.

Begins to carve.

ONE

Not much of a moon tonight.

Typical, thinks Mr Dash. They can’t even do that right.

He squints through the binoculars. Rubs at the lenses. Thumbs at the focus wheel as if tuning a radio.

‘Not a bloody dicky bird,’ he mutters, pressing his skin again the eyepieces. ‘Not a sausage.’

He isn’t surprised. Whole bloody world’s going to the dogs. It’s the same with the weather. Used to be proper weather. Winters used to look like Christmas cards. And puddings. Used to get proper puddings, once upon a time. Children had proper names. Shoes lasted. Hotels gave you a proper key …

Mr Dash is not a sunny individual. He is well-suited to the bleak panorama into which he gazes. Remote, joyless, unremarkable: he and the landscape could be twins.

It’s cold, now. Cold and bitter and still. If he were to strain his ears the same way he forces his eyes, he would be able to hear the Humber estuary, sucking and pulling and chewing at the land. Instead he can hear little save the shushing of the trees, and the low, mournful wail of next door’s cats.

‘Last chance,’ he mutters, raising the eyeglasses and training the blurry circles on a distant spot of darkness. There’s a waning crescent, out there, apparently: somewhere over the shimmering blackness of the water. According to the website, some eleven per cent of the lunar surface should be visible. Gazes into nothingness. It does nothingness well, this part of Holderness, out on the very eastern edge of Yorkshire.

He pushes out a wispy grey cloud of air. There is a brief whiff of denture-paste and Ovaltine, before it is gathered up by the chill wind and carried inland. He considers emitting a true hurrumph of dissatisfaction. Decides to keep it in reserve: a weapon in his arsenal in case the electricity goes off or the French invade.

‘Ah, there’s the blighter …’

He finally sights the moon, just out there, just above the treeline, peeking out of the lower reaches of a great wall of cloud: a silvery arc – a curved blade puncturing a gut. Thinks of a shark’s eye, almost closed. Thinks of sickles and slash hooks.

He holds the glasses steady, enjoying their heft. Wartime glasses, still complete with the original leather case. He likes how he feels when he’s holding them. Can make-believe he is on the deck of a battleship, scanning the horizon for any sign of the Bismarck. Can feel quite the hero, out here, on the front lawn: a vision in slippers and raincoat.

He gives a nod, satisfied. He’d feared the worst. Very little surprises him anymore. A missing moon? Very much par for the course, these days. Too many softies, that’s the problem. Too many bleeding-heart liberals and not enough speed cameras. Mr Dash is in no doubt that the world is ‘going to the dogs’. That civilization is ‘off to Hell in a handcart’. He feels that he is living through the end of days. Young people have no respect, no drive, no bloody backbone. He’s all for the short, sharp shock, is Mr Dash. Would like to see the return of National Service, the birch, and public executions for benefits claimants and vegans.

He looks up again. Not many stars, neither. He can see a distant smattering, out where the sky is at its darkest, at the place where the sky meets the sea. Swings the glasses back to the moon. The clouds have moved on. It sits there, a clipped thumbnail, discarded on the dirty black sheets of the night sky.

Waning Crescent, he muses. Sounds like a nice place to live. Can visualize a row of well-tended trees and high, terraced properties shielded by wrought-iron, black-lacquered spikes. Can imagine a child, sitting in a distant skylight, staring through a telescope and jotting down constellations in a neat lined notebook. He’d like to live on Waning Crescent. Would like to live anywhere other than here, truth be told. Four years they’ve been marooned on Sunk Island and each day has been more disappointing than the last. The wife had promised him magical sunrises and vast skies; a private wilderness teeming with rare birds and serving up nightly celestial spectacles. Fat chance of that. It’s cold and bleak and miserable, and while he believes that all suffering breeds character, he considers himself, at sixty-eight, to have developed sufficient character to be excused having to build any more.

He hurrumphs, unbidden, lost in crossness. Feels better at once.

A light flicks on, not far above his head. He doesn’t change his position. Just keeps his vigil, standing here by the gatepost in front of the sturdy Victorian farm cottage, gazing into the air above the Humber estuary as if willing a trawlerman home safe from a storm. The light from the house serves as a timepiece. He knows it to be 10.05 p.m. His wife, Dinah, will have finished her programme, made herself a herbal tea, and made her way upstairs. For the next ten minutes she will busy herself with whatever it is that women do behind closed doors, and then she will head to bed to read the next three chapters of whatever silly romance novel has been bringing a blush to her cheeks this week. Mr Dash will join her in an hour. He prefers her to be asleep while he completes his ablutions. There is a creakiness, an uncertainty, in his movements of late and he does not wish his wife to see him becoming enfeebled. She is ten years younger than him. There’s still a lot of life in Dinah. Life and light and lustre. There was life in Mr Dash once. But the buggers forced early retirement on him, and his youngest daughter died of the cancer, and they lost a fortune selling off the family home at just the wrong time. And now he’s here. Sunk Island. Somewhere between Hull and the arse-end of bloody nowhere. Half a dozen houses spread out around a church and a crossroads; making do in one of the smattering of old homes that hunker down, hidden behind bow-backed trees, sheltering from the merciless gale that howls in from the sea. His hobbies are what keeps him going. Birdwatching. Astronomy. And Dymphna, next door.

In the darkness, Mr Dash purses his lips. Raises his eyeglasses. Twitches them sideways. Plays with the focus until he sights the bedroom window in the left-hand corner of the last house before the water. The light’s on. The light’s always on. The curtains are always open too. And one blessed evening, several months back, Dymphna had stepped out of the shower, squeaked a porthole into the condensation on the bedroom window, and managed to give Mr Dash far more than he had expected to see when he stepped out into the spring air and attempted to spot the rare Montagu’s harrier he had been given to believe was inhabiting the little wooded area near the water’s edge.

The image remains imprinted on Mr Dash’s mind: a memory so perfectly clear that he wonders whether he has had to forego other memories in order to make it. He can’t fully recall the faces of his nieces and nephews, or his best friend’s birthday, but he can see every glorious particle of that magical evening. Can visualize her perfect pink roundness; the damp glistening on scorched skin; the tattoo winding up her ankle to her fleshy buttock; the two metal bolts pinned through her big pink nipples. He had not thought her more or less attractive than Dinah. She had simply been different. And by God, how he longs for different.

He stares through the glasses. Stares, and hopes beyond hope that she will waddle, wetly, buxomly, onto the big yellow screen of the bedroom window. He has only sighted her on a handful of occasions, and never in anything more evocative than her swishy pale blue kimono. On the other occasions she was fully clothed, bustling about, laughing and chatting into a mobile phone, or carrying a laptop around in front of her, the screen filled with an unfamiliar face, as if bearing a head on a tray.

He’s had little to do with Dymphna in the flesh, much as the thought warms him on cold nights. She was already living in the little house when he and the wife upped sticks and set out for the very edge of civilization. They’d lived in a little market town twenty miles inland before Dinah got it into her head that sea air and bracing winds were what they needed to make their retirement go with a bang. Dymphna had popped by as soon as the removals men had driven away. Brought them a little basket of gifts. Dinah had dealt with her. ...