Cold bones, p.18
Cold Bones, page 18
part #8 of DS Aector McAvoy Series
‘Me?’ He steps back, affronted. ‘Fuck off, I haven’t got time for that. And which fucking associates?’
‘Mr Ballantine, that language isn’t helping anybody,’ says McAvoy. ‘I appreciate this must be a terrible shock but perhaps if we went and got out of the wind, had a cup of tea and spoke sensibly, we could both answer some questions for the other.’
For a moment, Ballantine seems on the verge of calming down. He looks as though he may see the sense in McAvoy’s words. Then he looks past him. His eyes narrow as he sees the two CSIs struggling to carry a corpse in a black body-bag through the dark mouth of the gangway door. McAvoy turns, following his gaze. He spins back to Ballantine, face full of compassion.
‘I really am very sorry, Mr Ballantine . . .’
Ballantine’s face twists, fury gripping his features. He lashes out with his fist; a haymaker that catches McAvoy full on the jaw. McAvoy looks at him, a little hurt. ‘Mr Ballantine, if you do that again I’m going to have to arrest you. Please, I know this is a shock, but—’
Ballantine swings again. McAvoy catches his fist and twists at the wrist, pushing his arm up his back. Ballantine’s cheeks burn crimson. He looks like a schoolboy, embarrassed beyond enduring. He writhes and kicks as McAvoy holds him. McAvoy gives his wrist the faintest tug. A screech splits the air.
‘Assault! This is assault! He’s broken my arm, he’s broken my fucking arm!’
One of the uniforms snaps a pair of cuffs on Ballantine’s wrists, the sleeves of his donkey jacket bunching up around his forearms. McAvoy sees intricate black ink on tanned skin. A leather strap, patterned with shimmering silver fish scales.
‘Stephen Ballantine, I am arresting you—’
‘You’ll fucking burn for this, you Jock bastard. I play golf with the chief fucking constable!’
McAvoy pushes Ballantine towards the two uniforms, looking around at the sound of running feet. DC Daniells and three other uniforms are tearing towards where McAvoy stands, blood rushing in his ears and a bruise rapidly swelling on his cheek.
‘You okay, Sarge?’ asks Daniells, out of breath. He glares at Ballantine, who looks ready to do murder.
‘It’s Des, isn’t it!’ hisses Ballantine, teeth locked. ‘Alf and Des. He’s fucking killed them.’
McAvoy nods, his face full of sadness.
Ballantine sags in the constable’s arms, folding in on himself as if deflating. He puddles onto the cold black ground. Sobs like an orphaned child.
Hull Daily Mail, 5 January 1970
BRAVE BOSUN LOST IN DRAMATIC RESCUE WAS GOING TO BE A FATHER
By Neville Greaves, Shipping Correspondent
TRIBUTES have been paid to ‘a prince among men’ who perished while attempting to save a crewmate from the freezing Icelandic waters on New Year’s Day.
The death of Rory, 23, is the latest tragedy to hit the well-known Ballantine family. His father, uncle and grandfather all died at sea.
Mr Ballantine, of Marmaduke Street, was serving as bosun aboard the freezer trawler Blake Purcell, owned by the long-established Hessle Road trawler firm Blakes Ltd, when the tragedy occurred.
He leaves a widow, Margaret, who revealed last night that she is expecting their first child. Mrs Ballantine had relayed the good news to her husband through a coded telegram message just hours before the vessel struck rocks near Grimsey Island, off the Skagi Peninsula in the far north of Iceland, in the early hours of 1 January.
The vessel, already foundering, was trapped on rocks and pummelled by heavy seas. Skipper Malcolm Gill made an emergency Mayday call and ordered the crew to man the lifeboats but the gale made it all but impossible to get any of the rescue vessels into the water. Deckhand Michael Timpson, 42, of Eton Street, Hessle Road, courageously attempted to use his own body to weigh the inflatable down and allow his crewmates to climb aboard. The rope connecting the lifeboat to the Blake Purcell snapped and the inflatable was swept away, together with Mr Timpson. Deckie learner William Godson, 16, was struck by the rescue craft and pitched into the freezing water.
Gerard Wade, 24, was later plucked from the freezing waters by the crew of an Icelandic vessel. He has been transferred to Isafjordur hospital where his condition is critical.
The tattered lifeboat was later found clinging to the basalt columns that form the entranceway to the uninhabited township of Kalfhamarsvik. Mr Timpson’s body was not inside. Local rescue workers are still searching for the bodies of his crewmates.
The Blake Purcell sank within hours. Those saved by the Icelandic rescue vessel were landed at the tiny fishing village of Skagastrond, where locals provided them with food and dry clothing.
Mrs Ballantine told the Mail: ‘Rory wouldn’t think twice about risking his own life to save one of his friends. He thought the world of Billy and Mick. They were like family to him. I’m trying to take comfort in the fact that at least he knew he was going to be a father. I’ll raise his child knowing that their father was a true hero. He was a prince among men.’
At Mr Ballantine’s home, his younger sister Roberta, 13, was too distressed to talk to our reporter, refusing to believe the reports that her beloved older brother had perished.
Neighbour Eva Banks, 63, said: ‘The Ballantines have known so much heartache. Rory’s father Lachlan died in an accident at sea and his grandfather was lost during the war. His uncle, Stuart, was lost overboard in 1945. Rory had worked so hard to become a bosun at such a young age and he’d made a lovely home for his wife and his little sister who doted on him. Him and his pals were such characters. They’d do anything for you, generous to a fault. He and Gerard were inseparable. My prayers are with that poor family.’
Mr Wade was last year awarded a Royal Humane Society certificate for his part in a previous rescue at sea. He lives with his mother, Kathleen, at 47 Eton Street, Hessle Road.
She said: ‘I got a telegram late on New Year’s Eve, saying he was sorry he’d left me on my own over the festive season and that he wished he’d stayed home. He would always keep in touch because he knew I worried but he never had to apologise for doing what he was good at. He was a fisherman and he was proud to be one. He and Rory were like brothers. I don’t think he even knows that he’s gone. It will break his heart.’
Mr Godson had until recently been a resident at Hesslewood Hall, run by the Hull Seamen’s and General Orphanage to provide accommodation for the orphan children of seafarers.
He had been lodging for the past seven months in a flat on the Boulevard.
Close friend Enid Chappell, 28, said: ‘He was so excited to have been accepted as one of Rory’s lads. He and Gerard took him under their wing and he paid them back by being the hardest worker he could be. He was an inquisitive, tender-hearted lad who didn’t have the easiest of starts. I can’t shake the feeling that in his last moments he would have felt he’d let down the people who had helped him. He won’t even have a grave, that’s the worst thing. His life was a lonely one until recently and the thought of him adrift, so far from home, breaks my heart.’
Mr Timpson had served more than twenty years in Hull trawlers and was in the Somerset when she won the Silver Cod Trophy for the year’s record catch by a British trawler. Mr Timpson, who leaves a widow, Iris, two married daughters and a son, was known on the docks by the affectionate nickname ‘Cowboy’ due to a love of all things Western.
Chapter 18
Interview room C, Clough Road Police Station, Hull
12.03 p.m.
‘Interview commenced at 12.03 p.m.,’ says McAvoy, glancing up at the clock on the wall. The red slashes on the digital read-out represent the only real colour in this soulless box. The blue cord carpet and unpleasant yellow strip light somehow contrive to give off an aura of intrinsic greyness. The walls have been painted a shade of white that looks, and quite possibly tastes, like week-old tofu. ‘Officers present Detective Sergeant McAvoy and Detective Constable Andrew Daniells.’ He looks again at the printed news article in his hands. ‘I’ve been reading about your father. A good man, it seems.’
‘You think?’ asks Daniells beside him. He has a menthol inhaler up one nostril, his time below decks in the damp hold of the Blake Holst having already defeated his immune system.
‘Sorry, Andy?’
‘Hard to say, isn’t it? I mean, what else would they say about him? He’d just died. Hardly going to call him a numpty, are they?’
McAvoy stares across the plastic-topped desk at Stephen Ballantine, who glares back with hard, black eyes.
‘You’re going to look back on this, McAvoy,’ he spits, breathing hard. ‘You’ll look back on this as the day your whole fucking life changed.’
‘Tell me a little about yourself, Mr Ballantine,’ says McAvoy, not rising to it. ‘I’ve read the articles but they do tend to put a gloss on things. Difficult upbringing, so I heard. A lot of tragedy in your family.’
‘You’re rubbing that in my face?’
McAvoy looks hurt. ‘I was about to say that you have a lot to be proud of. You’re a success. I understand you were a pupil at the Bennington Academy. Scholarship, yes? You must have been quite remarkable.’
‘I still am. Ask your bosses. Ask them what I do for this city.’
McAvoy looks again at the man across the desk. He fights with his emotions. Ballantine might well be grieving. He may have lost two men who he’d known all his life. His pet project might be delayed by God knows how many months while police and forensics teams swarm all over it. McAvoy tries to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he might not always be like this. There is no evidence that he has done anything at all. He’s here because McAvoy was left with no other choice.
‘Look at me,’ growls Ballantine, gesturing at himself. ‘Look at the way you’re treating me.’
Ballantine was relieved of his coat and his boots when McAvoy booked him in. They took his jewellery, his necklaces and the leather strap around his wrist. They took his clothes too. He’s been given a grey sweatshirt and a pair of supermarket jeans. He looks as though it pains him.
‘Mr Ballantine, you understand why you’re here, yes?’
‘Because I’m successful and you fucking hate it? Because I could buy your house and bulldoze it with the change in my fucking pocket?’
McAvoy can’t help but start to feel disappointed. He has heard the word ‘philanthropist’ used about this man. This working-class boy done good. He tries to appear calm. He knows he’s being watched, can feel the eyes drilling into the back of his skull as the interview is relayed to the monitors of the various CID officers who want a look at the businessman who smacked McAvoy in the face.
‘You’re quite sure you don’t want to wait for your solicitor to arrive?’ asks Daniells cheerfully. ‘I would, if I were you. This is a very serious matter.’
‘Don’t speak to me,’ spits Ballantine, hugging himself. Steam seems to be rising from his skin. ‘I’m talking to this big bastard, not you. You sit quietly, there’s a good girl.’
McAvoy glances at Daniells, who waves it off. He’s heard far worse.
‘Mr Ballantine, I understand you are the partial owner of the Blake Holst, currently at anchor on inflatable pontoons at St Andrew’s Dock, is that correct?’
‘Partial owner? Fuck no. I own the lot.’
McAvoy opens the folder on the table. ‘Forgive me. I was under the impression that your associate, Bernard Acklam, has helped source funding from interested parties in the maritime community.’
‘Is that how you always talk?’ growls Ballantine. ‘Do you mean did a few old duffers chuck in a few quid to get the ball rolling? Yeah, they did. But this is my project. Get that?’ He looks at the backs of his hands. ‘When I find the bastards who did it . . .’
‘You’ll what, Mr Ballantine?’
He glares back at McAvoy. ‘That’d be telling.’
‘So tell us,’ says Daniells.
‘I told you to be quiet, princess.’
Daniells chuckles. ‘I’m struggling to know what tone to take with you, Mr Ballantine. On the one hand, you’ve just lost two very old friends and your vanity project has become a crime scene. That makes me feel for you. On the other, you’ve punched a police officer in the face and humiliated yourself in front of an awful lot of people. Do I feel sorry for you? I can’t make up my mind.’
‘Fuck you,’ growls Ballantine, teeth locked. ‘Humiliated? How?’
‘Well, I’ve heard you hit the sarge here with your best shot. He told you not to do it again. We’ll be laughing about that one for a while.’
Ballantine jabs at the air, finger extended, pointing a bullet-wound into the centre of Daniells’s head. ‘That’s not what happened.’
McAvoy clears his throat. Looks back at his papers. ‘Mr Ballantine, I want to ask you about Enid Chappell.’
Ballantine glances back at McAvoy. He reaches out and takes a sip of water, glaring over the lip of the plastic cup. ‘Auntie Enid? What the fuck for?’
‘Auntie? Could you explain your relationship to Mrs Chappell?’ asks McAvoy.
Ballantine throws his hands up. ‘Is this about Alf and Des or about me smacking you or what? Look, I lost my temper, okay? We both know I’ll accept a caution so just get on and fucking offer it. Why are you asking me about Enid?’ Anger and bewilderment war in his face as if he were two different people in one skin.
McAvoy scratches his forehead while he thinks. Could he conceivably not know? He thinks about the leather bracelet; the iridescent fish scale. Thinks about the chair, angled towards the bath.
‘When did you last see Mrs Chappell?’ he asks quietly.
‘For fuck’s sake, why does it matter?’ He looks from one to the other. ‘I don’t know, just before Christmas, I think. I throw a bit of a do for the old crowd. She came along. Brought me a tin of mints.’ A smile twitches his lips. ‘She still thinks I’m a bloody nipper.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Fancy place down Humber Street.’ Ballantine shrugs. ‘I put a credit card behind the till. It’s a bit of a tradition. All the old faces. I make them serve fish and chips. Haddock, not cod. We do things right. Raise a glass to the old days and look forward together.’ He stops, rubbing his knuckle across his forehead. ‘Des and Alf were there, same as usual.’
McAvoy leans over to Daniells. Whispers in his ear.
‘For the benefit of the tape, DC Daniells is leaving the room. The time is 12.14 p.m.’
Ballantine glowers at Daniells as he leaves. Then he flicks his attention back to McAvoy. ‘Was it quick?’ he asks. His voice softens, and it is suddenly as if an entirely different person is inhabiting his skin. ‘Alf and Des. Poor old sods. They shouldn’t really have been there at all but I think it was a bit of an escape. They got to remember who they were. Feel the world rocking beneath them. They were who I did it all for, y’know. As a thank you. They’ve been good to me and mine.’
McAvoy feels wrong-footed. Suddenly he is talking to a reasonable, sensitive man. His whole demeanour has altered. He looks eager to help, horrified by the wretchedness of the world.
‘Mrs Chappell,’ says McAvoy. ‘She was at this gathering.’
‘Oh yes,’ Ballantine says. ‘As I say, it’s a private affair for those who have been good to my family. One or two absences but still the usual crowd. My father’s old crew.’ He stares past McAvoy, smiling at nothing. ‘Salt of the earth. Last of the cowboys.’
‘I’ve seen the sculpture,’ says McAvoy.
‘Do you like it?’ asks Ballantine excitedly. ‘Stylised, of course. Meant to be your “typical” fishermen. But I think we know who it really is. A suitable tribute, I’m sure you’ll agree. The Magnificent Seven, riding on for all eternity.’ He starts to hum the theme song from the film. Stops short as a tear escapes his left eye. ‘Why are you asking me about Auntie Enid? I know she was on the slide but she hasn’t done anything silly, has she? I told her at Christmas, she needs to let me put her somewhere she can be looked after. Too scared of losing her independence, that’s her trouble. My mother’s the same. Old as Methuselah but won’t hear about having any help up there. Don’t know which of us is more stubborn.’
‘Your mother or Mrs Chappell?’
‘My mother or me.’ Ballantine laughs. He sits forward, elbows on the table, suddenly conspiratorial. ‘We’re not talking. Hardly ever bloody talking. I’m nearly twice the age that Rory was when he died, can you believe that? Mam says it’s hard. Says it’s like watching him age in front of her – seeing the man he’d have been if he hadn’t taken that job on the Purcell. He should never have sailed. There were enough omens. You ask her, she’ll tell you. Roberta dreamed about mirrors the night before they left. She woke up and covered every damn mirror in the house but the bad spirits must have got in anyway. Dad wasn’t superstitious. Said they needed the money and that he’d led a charmed life. He’d be fine. Kissed them both and took a taxi to the docks. Can you imagine it? Out there, fighting the seas, the storms, and you get a wireless message from home telling you you’re going to be a dad. They had this code. She sent him a wireless message. They’d agreed that if she signed it “Margaret” then she was pregnant and if she signed it “Mags” then she wasn’t. So at least he got to know I was on my way. I hope I’ve done him proud.’
‘You seem to have done very well indeed, Mr Ballantine,’ says McAvoy, and means it.
‘Thank you. I do hope so. Wasn’t always easy. Potless for most of my childhood. Dad’s old pals did what they could but I think they felt a bit, well, surplus to requirements when Mam married Bowbells.’
‘That would be Arthur Lowery,’ says McAvoy, consulting his notes.
‘Horrible man. The worst. Mam married him for security and he ended up becoming our jailer. It was a blessing when he had the accident.’
McAvoy looks at the clipping from the Hull Mail, printed out and hastily stuck in his briefing notes as he entered the interview room. ‘Horrible way to go. Open verdict, I see.’
