Taking Pity by David Mark Read Free Book Online Page B

you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, shitting in a bag. And I tell you, nobody’s going to think you’re a saint.”
    The man on the floor opens his mouth. His breathing is ragged and strained. A blood vessel has popped in his right eye and the wounds to his palms from the switchblade are big enough to pass a coin through.
    “Please,” he manages, and red tears run down his face. “No more . . .”
    Mahon begins to smirk, when his own mobile phone rings.
    “Sergeant,” says Mahon brightly into the phone. “This going to be expensive?”
    For the next few moments, Mahon doesn’t speak. He just listens and stares at the shadows on the wall, as if the flickering shapes are players on a stage.
    “Thank you,” says Mahon at last. “Usual amount, plus a bonus. And your loyalty is appreciated.”
    Mahon ends the call. Looks at the broken human being on the floor at his feet.
    “Painful memories,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “Haven’t thought about that place in years. Bad business. Mess, it was. Cost me a lot, that night. People can’t control themselves, can they? Just have to act like animals. And then people like me have to pick up the pieces.”
    Mahon drops the rock on the man’s chest. Listens for the sound of bone turning to powder.
    He turns away from the riot of screams and looks out of the small window at the dark forest and the tumbling rain. He drifts into remembrance. Lets his mind tumble back almost half a century. Remembers gravestones and blood, snow and gunshots. Remembers the girl and the smell of innocence lost. He has no wish to revisit that place. Nor to remember that night. But circumstances dictate he has to rebury a ghost.
    •   •   •
    T UE SDAY MORNING , 9:05 A . M .
    McAvoy can only afford one cup of coffee and fancies that he will need to use the Internet for longer than it will take him to drink it. So he orders the drink in a takeaway mug and walks with it through the soft rain and gray air to his car, parked directly outside the Costa coffee shop that sits on this little retail park to the west of Hull. From his vehicle he can still access the shop’s Wi-Fi, but he won’t feel compelled to get up and leave as soon as he drains the last sip of his gingerbread latte. This way he can take his time and won’t sweat and blush himself insensible each time one of the nice young ladies asks if they can get him another.
    He opens his laptop. Takes a sip of the sweet, frothy drink. Wipes foam from his freshly shaved upper lip and rubs his back against the driver’s seat. One of his wounds is finally scabbing over and itching so badly he wants to tear his skin off with a rake.
    McAvoy is dressed in a way that would not displease the women in his life. He managed to find a supermarket suit in his size and looks passable in dark blue with a plain white shirt and an old-school tie. His walking boots don’t look too incongruous and last night’s rain cleaned the last of the dirt from his cashmere coat. He looks fine. Battered, and careworn, and a little dangerous around the edges, but he had still felt caring eyes upon him when he dropped Fin off at school this morning and said hellos to the appreciative mums.
    McAvoy accesses his e-mails. There are some big files from Pharaoh. They were sent just after eight a.m. and the originals carry government logos. He opens one at random. Flicks through the findings of a mental health tribunal. Closes it down and opens another. Scanned images of witness testimonies. Black-and-white photos. A shotgun, tagged and wrapped in polythene. A photograph of a footprint. Tire tracks on crushed snowdrops. He takes a deep breath. Opens up a search engine and types a name into the Internet. He gets fewer hits than he had expected. But he still finds plenty to keep him going.
    Over the course of the next hour, McAvoy’s drink grows cold in the cup holder at the front of the battered minivan. The laptop screen casts images onto