Sorrow Bound (16 page)

McAvoy briefly imagines how the men felt. Imagines the fear and the rage and the helplessness. Then he imagines the women. Imagines their sheer, indescribable terror.

Goss gives a smile. ‘I know what you’re thinking, son. Thinking you’d never do what he asked, yeah? I thought that too. But these weren’t cowardly blokes, lad. These were ordinary fellas. Blokes who would wade into a scrap if you asked them to. But there’s something about fire, isn’t there? Something that stops you dead. Hoyer-Wood knew that. He would have kept going if he hadn’t messed up.’

‘Bridlington, yes?’

Goss nods. ‘Picked the wrong family, I’ll tell you that. Locals, they were. Not holidaymakers …’

McAvoy sits forward. ‘Sorry George, can I just ask, were these cases all seaside towns? Was that part of his thinking?’

‘No, there were a couple in little towns as well. Or at least, we think there were. Half of this is guesswork, son. We put this together afterwards, based on where we knew he had been, and with a lot of promises that none of the information we received would ever be shared. No, we think he liked the seaside because it’s where families and couples spend happy times. You know how it is when you see a family enjoying themselves at the beach. All that candyfloss and kiss-me-quick hats. That’s what he liked.’

‘But this happened in December, yes?’

‘You can get cheap breaks in places like Bridlington in winter. You still find holidaymakers. Maybe he’d seen this family before and got a taste for them then and couldn’t wait until the snows thawed. We don’t know.’

‘What happened?’

‘Same thing,’ says Goss, wearily. ‘Woke a family up. Cromwell, their name was. But he hadn’t done his research properly. Didn’t know the Cromwells like we did.’

‘Bad news?’

Goss opens his eyes wide to demonstrate his strength of feeling.

‘He didn’t cooperate? The dad?’

‘Did for about five seconds. Did as he was told. Stood against the wall and watched Hoyer-Wood stick his cock in his wife, holding a lighter to her hair.’

‘He intervened?’

‘He hasn’t got many gears, Johnny Cromwell. He’s not one of life’s thinkers.’

‘And Hoyer-Wood dropped the lighter?’

‘We don’t think he’d ever have done what he threatened to. He just liked having the power. Soon as Johnny-boy came at him
he panicked. Tried to flick the wheel on the lighter and dropped the thing. Johnny threw him around like he was made of straw. Beat the shit out of him.’

‘There was a fire, though, yes? The reports I read–’

‘Johnny told us that Hoyer-Wood did it himself. Flicked the wheel on the lighter. That’s bollocks. It was Johnny. Set the bastard on fire.’

McAvoy purses his lips. ‘Was he naked? Hoyer-Wood? During the attacks?’

‘Aye,’ says Goss. ‘Just the surgical mask. We found his clothes outside Cromwell’s house. We reckon he used to get changed before and after.’

‘Condom?’

‘Yeah. Put it on before he came in.’

McAvoy considers it. ‘That rather suggests–’

‘That the anticipation of it got him hard? Yep. Sick bastard, like I said.’

‘What happened next?’

Goss gives a laugh. ‘Threw himself out the bloody window, didn’t he? First floor, straight through the glass. Tore himself to bits and hit the ground like he’d fallen from an aeroplane.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘He got up, though. Was thick snow that night. That took some of the impact out of his fall and put the flames out. Staggered a few hundred yards before Cromwell caught up with him again.’

‘This was on the seafront, yes? There were people around …’

‘That’s what saved the bastard. People in pubs and chip shops, looking out as this battered and burned naked bloke stumbled past the window.’

‘They stopped Cromwell? Stopped him from killing him?’

‘Couple of blokes held him back. They didn’t know what was happening.’

‘And Hoyer-Wood?’

‘Went into shock. Heart stopped. His leg had been cut coming through the glass. He’d fractured his skull, too.’

‘And Philippa Longman? Yvonne Dale?’

Goss breathes out, slowly. ‘I didn’t realise when I heard about the poor woman in Barton. But yeah, I remember Philippa. She was up in Bridlington for a mini-break or something. Over from West Yorkshire. She pumped his heart. Blew in his lungs. Brought him back.’

‘Yvonne?’

‘I’ve brought her to mind since I got your message. Quick thinker, that one. Pulled off her tights and tied them around the wound. Tourniquet, it’s called, yeah? Then she sat there in the blood and snow holding his hand until the ambulances arrived. They say you shouldn’t do that now. Guidelines have changed. You should just hold a compress over the wound. But back then, she did the right thing.’

‘They saved him?’

‘For a while. His heart stopped again in the ambulance. They brought him back. Then they operated. Saved him, though.’ He shakes his head. ‘They should have let him die.’

McAvoy finds himself nodding and then stops himself. ‘They didn’t know. And even if they did–’

‘The local uniforms turned up to arrest Cromwell. He told them everything. That’s when we got the call. CID.’

‘And?’

‘And it unfolded, lad. What he’d done. What he liked.’

‘How did you find out about the other incidents?’

Goss points with his chin, as if Hoyer-Wood’s home is at the end of the garden. ‘Searched his place. Found his appointments book. Had a look at his magazine collection. Proper police work, lad. Appealed for witnesses and got a call from the Aldbrough lass. She said she could never give evidence, but thought we should know what he did to her. I think she wanted to know, more than anything. Wanted to know if it was the same man. Why he’d done it. Who he was. Just couldn’t bring herself to give a statement.’

‘And the others?’

Goss closes his eyes. ‘Hoyer-Wood liked to write. In court, they said it was just fantasy. It wasn’t. He wrote it all down afterwards. Described every bloody moment of it.’

‘What did he say? When he came out of surgery, I mean?’

Goss laughs. ‘He didn’t say much, lad. He was a wreck. Paralysed down one side. Couldn’t walk. No motor skills in one half of his face.’

‘But he was charged?’

‘We charged him with what we knew for certain. One count of rape. Figured that when we got him for that, we could start to build a case around any others that decided to give evidence. The important thing was locking him up.’

‘What happened?’

Goss grinds his teeth. ‘His posh friends happened, that’s what. A psychiatrist said he was unfit to stand trial. Judge bought it.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘He was an evil little bastard but he knew what he was doing. The shrink was an old university friend. They’d studied together. Half his old university chums sent the judge letters saying what a super chap Hoyer-Wood was. They said they didn’t believe he had
acted maliciously but was suffering from some mental disorder or something.’

McAvoy squeezes the handle of his empty mug. ‘He was sent to a mental facility?’

‘He was sent to his mate’s place. Private healthcare facility, licensed by the Home Office to look after dangerous patients.’ Goss sneers. ‘Got the licence about a week after Hoyer-Wood was arrested. It was a holiday camp! Went to live there in bloody luxury.’

McAvoy rolls his head from side to side, his neck suddenly stiff and sore. He becomes aware how cool it is in here. Wonders where the chill is coming from. What is raising the goose pimples on his skin.

‘And he’s never stood trial? Never been brought to account?’

‘No.’

‘Cromwell?’

Goss shrugs, suddenly looking a little older. ‘Got sent down a couple of years later for attempted murder. Row in a bar. He never did control that temper. Still inside.’

‘So where is Hoyer-Wood now?’

‘Went to stay at his pal’s asylum, not far from here. Was there a couple of years then moved to another facility. He’s still classified as unfit to stand trial, and there’s no hunger to change that. I heard he suffered a major stroke a few years back that left him worse than ever. He’s a cripple. Can’t do anybody any harm and has to piss and shit in a bag. The thinking is that for a man with appetites like his, that’s punishment enough.’

McAvoy considers it. ‘No, it’s not,’ he says, finally.

‘Tom Spink was right about you.’

They share a tired smile and McAvoy scratches at his eyebrows, trying to formulate his thoughts.

‘The murders I’m investigating …’

Goss holds his gaze. ‘Bloody big coincidence if it’s nothing to do with this, but I don’t know how it could be. How, or why …’

‘They saved his life. Saved the life of somebody who did terrible things and ruined the lives of others.’

Goss nods. ‘I don’t envy you,’ he says, ruefully. ‘Bloody shame, all this. I only spoke to Yvonne the once and Philippa not much more than that, but they were nice ladies. Didn’t deserve that. If somebody is punishing them, whoever they are, then they’re as bad as Hoyer-Wood. And he was the fucking worst.’

McAvoy stares into the bottom of his mug.

Goss softens his voice. ‘I made it with a bag, son. You won’t find answers in your tea leaves.’

McAvoy runs his hands through his hair, wishing he had started taking notes when the conversation began. It would help him, now, to be able to read back through what he has discovered. To busy his mind, his eyes, his fingers, with something other than the thoughts banging like heartbeats in his head.

‘The facility. The one his friend ran …’

‘On the way to Driffield.’

‘You ever go?’

‘Tried to. His mate wouldn’t agree to the interview. Said it would interfere with his treatment.’

‘You push?’

‘Had to apply to the Home Office. Orders came down to leave it alone.’

McAvoy reaches into his pocket and pulls out his notebook.

‘I’ll need some names and addresses. Whatever you can remember …’

Goss considers. ‘I promised the people who came forward I’d never share.’

McAvoy says nothing. Lets the old man consider it.

He shakes his head. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up. First thing you want to do is visit the shrink who got him off.’

McAvoy raises an eyebrow. ‘You think?’

‘There are questions to be answered, lad.’ He stares hard at McAvoy.

‘On the road to Driffield, yeah?’

Goss reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. ‘I wrote the address down before you arrived, lad. Figured it would be your next stop. I think it’s in new hands, but there are some ghosts at that place worth exorcising.’

McAvoy starts to stand then stops himself.

‘Does it get easier?’ he asks, softly. ‘Living with it. The ones that beat the system? Got away with it?’

Goss is silent for a second then lets out his breath in a hollow laugh. Shakes his head apologetically.

*

Come on, Mark, please, just a text, just a trio of kisses or a promise to call later …

Helen sits at her desk, staring at the screen, desperate for her email inbox to light up. She hasn’t heard from Mark since he slipped away from her home in the middle of the night. She woke unsure if he had ever been there. The warm residue of pleasure and the stickiness between her legs were the only evidence that they had made love. That they had made love the way they do in the movies and in a way that she wants to be made love to again.

Her inbox flashes and she clicks on the screen. It’s not him. Just a message from another police force about Adam Downey:
the little shit who’s been saying ‘no comment’ for two days and who they are about to charge with possessing a large quantity of cocaine.

Colin Ray’s team were among the last to hear about what had happened at the alterations shop on Southcoates Lane. The incident went to Drugs Squad, who held on to it for as long as they could. Their detective inspector, a fast-track university graduate by the name of Rick Breverton, had done the first interview with Downey. He had done some decent work on the basics. Got his name. A list of known associates. Even persuaded the lass from the shop to give a statement. Breverton didn’t deserve to be called the names that Colin Ray threw in his direction when they both met with the Assistant Chief Constable and the head of CID to decide who was going to be given the case. Ray was adamant that it fell within his remit. He had no doubt that the lad was involved with the drugs gang he had been tracking for months. Breverton believed the young man was more likely linked to an older, more established outfit within the city, and therefore nothing to do with Ray’s wild imaginings about the elite new organised crime outfit outmuscling the old guard. For an easy life, ACC Everett had given the case to Ray, who had briefed his team immediately. Given them chapter and verse on Adam Downey.

Downey is twenty-four, and lives on the Victoria Dock estate by the waterfront. The area was built with London’s Docklands in mind and marketed as an ‘urban village’ but has failed to draw the middle classes away from the West Hull villages, and large chunks of the area have been bought up by private landlords to rent out at reduced rates. It’s a mixture of hard-working families and dodgy bastards. Downey falls into the second category. He did his first stretch in a young offender institute
at sixteen, having been caught using stolen credit cards. None of the other incidents on his record include violence, but he’s no stranger to drugs. A year ago, he was arrested when a van on board the
Pride of Rotterdam
ferry was found to have packets of pure cocaine stitched into the upholstery. CCTV showed Downey getting out of the van when it boarded. He and the driver were both charged, but the case collapsed before it got to court. Downey had done a few months on remand in Hull Prison. Ray told his troops that he believed it was during his time inside that Downey joined the new outfit. The old punk rocker who used to have a hand in local supply and demand had disappeared not long afterwards.

‘He’s in the big leagues now,’ Ray had barked, tugging at his tie as if involved in some auto-asphyxiation sex game. His face was greasy with sweat and his hair, slicked back from his ratty face, had only been combed at the front. It stuck up on his crown like an antenna and gave him the look of a crazed preacher as he stomped about in front of the whiteboard and scribbled illegible theories and scrawled lines between suspects’ names.