Sorrow Bound: A Detective Sergeant McAvoy Novel - Couverture souple

Mark, David

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0147516250 ISBN 13 : 9780147516251

Editeur : Penguin Publishing Group, 2015

Synopsis

The third installment of David Mark s internationally acclaimed and bestselling series The sweltering summer heat is pushing Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy and the Serious and Organized Crime Unit to the brink as a sadistic new boss takes over the local drug trade and violent crime escalates. Then, McAvoy and DS Trish Pharaoh are distracted by something deadlier: a serial murderer with a taste for the macabre. McAvoy comes to suspect these are actually copycat murders, committed as revenge for mishandled police investigations conducted years ago. But when one of McAvoy s fellow police officers is blackmailed, McAvoy s life and that of his wife, Roisin, and the couple s two young children is suddenly in jeopardy. As the vicious monsters lurking in the shadows creep closer and closer to home, McAvoy must figure out a way to protect his family at all costs."

A propos du livre

Extrait

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2014 David Mark

ONE

Monday morning. 9:16 a.m.

A small and airless room above the health center on Cottingham Road.

Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy, uncomfortable and ridiculous on a plastic school chair, knees halfway up to his ears.

“Aector?”

He notices that his left leg is jiggling up and down. Damn! The shrink must have seen it, too. He decides to keep jiggling it, so she doesn’t read anything into his decision to stop.

He catches her eye.

Looks away.

Stops jiggling his leg.

“Aector, I’m not trying to trick you. You don’t need to second-guess yourself all the time.”

McAvoy nods, and feels a fresh bead of sweat run down the back of his shirt collar. It’s too hot in here. The walls, with their putty-colored wallpaper, seem to be perspiring, and the painted-shut windows are misting up.

She’s talking again. Words, words, words . . .

“I have apologized, haven’t I? About the room? I tried to get another one but there’s nothing available. I think if we gave that window a good shove we could get it open but then you have the sound of the road to contend with.”

McAvoy raises his hands to tell her not to worry, though in truth he is so hot and uncomfortable, he’s considering diving head-first through the glass. McAvoy was dripping before he even walked through the door. For two weeks it has felt as though a great wet dog has been lying on the city, but it is a heat wave that has brought no blue skies. Instead, Hull has sweated beneath heavens the color of damp concrete. It is weather that frays tempers, induces lethargy, and makes life an ongoing torture for big, flame-haired men like Detective McAvoy, who has felt damp, cross, and self-conscious for days. It’s a feverish heat; a pestilent, buzzing cloak. To McAvoy, even walking a few steps feels like fighting through laundry lines of damp linen. Everybody agrees that the city needs a good storm to clear the air, but lightning has yet to split the sky.

“I thought you had enjoyed the last session. You seemed to warm up as we went along.” She looks at her notes. “We were talking about your father. . . .”

McAvoy closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to appear rude, so bites his tongue. As far as he can recall, he hadn’t been talking about his father at all. She had.

“Okay, how about we try something a bit less personal? Your career, perhaps? Your ambitions?”

McAvoy looks longingly at the window. The scene it frames could be a photograph. The leaves and branches of the rowan tree are lifeless, unmoving; blocking out the view of the university across the busy road, but he can picture it in his imagination clearly enough. Can see the female students with their bare midriffs and tiny denim shorts; their knee socks and back-combed hair. He closes his eyes, and sees nothing but victims. They will hit the beer gardens this afternoon.
They will drink more than they should. They will catch the eye, and emboldened by alcohol, some will smile and flirt and revel in the sensation of exposed skin. They will make mistakes. There will be confusion and heat and desire and fear. By morning, detectives will be investigating assaults. Maybe a stabbing. Parents will be grieving and innocence will be lost.

He shakes it away. Curses himself. Hears Roisin’s voice, as always, telling him to stop being silly and just enjoy the sunshine. Pictures her, bikini-clad and feet bare, soaking up the heat as she basks, uncaring, on their small patch of brown front lawn.

Had he been asked a question? Oh, yeah . . .

“I’m not being evasive,” he says, at last. “I know for some people there are real benefits to what you do. I studied some psychology at university. I admire your profession immensely. I’m just not sure what I can tell you that will be of any benefit to either of us. I don’t bottle things up. I talk to my wife. I have outlets for my dark feelings, as you call them. I’m okay. I wish my brain didn’t do some things and I’m grateful it does others. I’m pretty normal, really.”

The psychologist puts her head on one side, like a Labrador delicately broaching the subject of a walk.

“Aector, these sessions are for whatever you want them to be. I’ve told you this. If you want to discuss police work, you can. If you want to talk about things in your personal life, that’s fine, too. I want to help. If you sit here in silence, that’s what I have to put in my report.”

McAvoy drops his head and stares at the carpet for a moment. He’s bone tired. The hot weather has made his baby daughter irritable, and she is refusing to sleep anywhere other than on Daddy. He spent last night in a deckchair in the backyard, wrapped in a blanket and holding her little body against his chest, her fingers gripping the collar of his rugby shirt as she grizzled and sniff led in her sleep.

“The rowan tree,” says McAvoy, suddenly, and points at the window. “They used to plant them in churchyards to keep away witches. Did you know that? I did a project on trees when I was eight. Sorbus acuparia, it’s called, in Latin. I know the names of about twenty different trees in Latin. Don’t know why they stayed in my mind but they did. Don’t really know why I’m telling you this, to be honest. It just came to me. I suppose it’s nice to be able to say something without worrying that people will think I’m being a smart-arse.”

The psychologist steeples her fingers. “But you’re not worried about that at this moment? That’s interesting in itself . . .”

McAvoy sighs, exasperated at being analyzed by anybody other than himself. He knows what makes him tick. He doesn’t want to be deconstructed in case the pieces don’t fit back together.

“Aector? Look, is there somewhere else you would rather be?”

He looks up at the psychologist. Sabine Keane, she’s called. McAvoy reckons she’s divorced. She wears no ring, but it’s unlikely she’d been saddled with a rhyming name from birth. She’s in her early forties and very slim, with longish hair tied back in a mess of straw and gray strands. She’s dressed for the hot weather, in sandals, linen skirt, and a plain black T-shirt that exposes arms that sag a little underneath. She wears no makeup and there is a blob of something that may be jam halfway up her right arm. She has one of those sing-song, storytelling voices that are intended to comfort, but often grate. McAvoy has nothing against her and would love to be able to tell her something worthwhile, but is struggling to see the point of these sessions. He’s grateful that she learned to pronounce his name the Celtic way, and she has a friendly enough smile, but there are doors in his head he doesn’t want to unlock. It doesn’t help that they got off to such an inauspicious start. On his way to the first session, he had witnessed her involvement in a minor incident of cycle rage. It’s hard to believe in somebody’s power to heal your soul when you have seen them pedalling furiously down a bus lane and screaming obscenities at a Volvo.

McAvoy tries again.

“Look, the people at occupational health have insisted I come for six sessions with a police-approved counsellor. I’m doing that. I’m here. I’ll answer your questions and I’m at great pains not to be rude to you but it’s hot and I’m tired and I have work to do, and yes, there are lots of places I would rather be. I’m sure you would, too.”

There is silence for a second. McAvoy hears the beep of an appointment being announced in the waiting room for the main doctor’s office downstairs. He pictures the scene. The waiting room of sick students and chattering foreigners; of middle-class bohemians waiting for their malaria pills and yellow-fever jabs before they jet off to Goa with their little Jeremiahs and Hermiones.

Eventually, Sabine tries again. “You have three children, is that right?”

“Two,” says McAvoy.

“Youngest keeping you up?”

“Comes with the job.”

“It’s your duty, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me about duty, Aector. Tell me what it means to you.”

McAvoy makes fists. Thinks about it. “It’s what’s expected.”

“By whom?”

“By everyone. By yourself. It’s the right thing.”

Sabine says nothing for a moment, then reaches down and pulls a notepad from her handbag. She writes something on the open page, but whether it is some clinical insight, or a reminder to pick up toilet paper on the way home, McAvoy cannot tell.

“You’ve picked a job that is all about duty, haven’t you? Did you always want to be a policeman?”

McAvoy rubs a hand across his forehead. Straightens his green-and-gold tie. Rolls back the cuffs on his black shirt, then rolls them down again.

“It wasn’t like that,” he says, eventually. “Where I grew up. The
setup at home. The script was kind of written.”

Sabine looks at her notepad again, and shuff les through the pages to find something. She looks up. “You grew up in the Highlands, yes? On a croft? A little farm, I believe . . .”

“Until I was ten.”

“And that’s when you went to boarding school?”

McAvoy looks away. He straightens the crease in his gray suit trousers and fiddles with the pocket of the matching waistcoat. “After a while.”

“Expensive, for a crofter, I presume.” Her voice is soft but probing.

“Mam’s new partner was quite well-off.”

The psychologist makes another note. “And you and your mother are close?”

McAvoy looks away.

“How about you and your father?”

“Off and on.”

“How does he feel about your success?”

McAvoy gives in to a smile. “What success?”

Sabine gestures at her notes, and the cardboard file on the floor at her feet. “The cases you have solved.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. I didn’t solve anything.” He stops. Considers it properly, and shrugs. “Maybe I did. Maybe I was just, well, there. And when it was just me, on my own, when nobody else gave a damn, I ended up thinking I shouldn’t have bothered. Or maybe I should have bothered more.”

There is silence in the room. McAvoy rocks the small plastic chair back on two legs, then puts it down again when he feels it lurch.

After a moment, Sabine nods, as if making up her mind.

“Tell me about Doug Roper,” she says, without looking at her pad.

Involuntarily, McAvoy clenches his jaw. He feels the insides of his cheeks go dry. He says nothing, for fear his tongue will be too fat and useless to make any sense.

“We only get the most basic details in the reports, Aector. But I can read between the lines.”

“He was my first Detective Chief Superintendent in CID,” says McAvoy softly.

“And?”

“And what? You’ve probably heard of him.”

Sabine gives a little shrug. “I Googled him. Bit of a celebrity policeman, I see.”

“He’s retired now.”

“And you had something to do with that?”

McAvoy runs his tongue around his mouth. “Some people think so.”

“And that made you unpopular?”

“It’s getting better now. Trish Pharaoh has been very helpful.”

“That’s your new boss, yes? Serious and Organized Crime Unit, is that right? Yes, you mentioned her last time. You mention her quite a lot.”

McAvoy manages a faint smile. “You sound like my wife.”

Sabine cocks her head. “She means a lot to you?”

“My wife? She’s everything . . .”

“No. Your boss.”

McAvoy’s leg starts jiggling again. “She’s a very good police officer. I think so, anyway. Maybe she isn’t. Maybe Doug Roper had it right. I don’t know. I don’t know anything very much. Somebody once told me that I would drive myself insane trying to understand what it’s all about. Justice, I mean. Goodness. Badness. Sometimes I think I’m halfway there. Other times I just feel like I’m only clever enough to realize how little I know.”

“There’s a line in the report we have that says you take the rules very seriously. Can you tell me what you think that might mean?”

McAvoy holds her gaze. Is she making fun of him? He doesn’t know what to say. Is there something in the file about his adherence to the rule book? He’s a man who completes his paperwork in triplicate in case the original is mislaid and who won’t requisition a new Biro from the supply closet until his last one is out of ink.

He says nothing. Just listens to the tires on the bone-dry road and the sound of blood in his ears.

“The report says you have lots of physical scars, Aector.”

“I’m okay.”

McAvoy tries to be an honest man, and so does not reproach himself for the answer. He is okay. He’s as well as can be expected. He’s getting by. Doing his bit. Making do. He has plenty of glib, meaning-less ways to describe how he is, and knows that were he to sit here trying to explain it all properly, he would turn to ash. At home, he’s more than okay. He’s perfect. With his arms around his wife and children, he feels like he is glowing. It is only at work that he has no bloody clue how he feels. Whether he regrets his actions. What he really feels about the corrupt, pitiless Detective Superintendent whose tenure at the head of Humberside Police CID only ended when McAvoy tried to bring his crimes into the light. Whether noble or naive, McAvoy’s actions cost him his reputation as rising star. This gentle, humble, shy giant of a man was made a distrusted, despised pariah by many of his fellow officers. He was dumped on the Serious and Organized Crime Unit as little more than accountant and mouthpiece, expected by all to be chewed up and spat out by the squad boss, Detective Superintendent Trish Pharaoh, with her biker boots, mascara, and truckloads of attitude. Instead she had found a protégé. Almost a friend. And at her side, he has caught bad people.

The burns on McAvoy’s back and the slash-wound to the bone on his left breast are not the only scars he carries, but they have become almost medals of redemption. He has suffered for what he believes.

Sabine puts down her pen and pulls her phone from her bag. She
looks at the display and then up at McAvoy. “We have half an hour left. You must want to get some of this off your chest.”

McAvoy pulls out his own phone to check that she is right, and sees that he has had eight missed calls, all from the same number. He pulls an apologetic face and before Sabine can object, calls back.

Trish Pharaoh answers on the second ring.

“Hector, thank fuck for that. We’ve got a body. Tell the shrink to tick your chart and let you go. You’re in fine shape. Let’s just hope your gag reflex isn’t. This one’s going to make you sick.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock, turn signal f lashing right. A bluebottle buzzing fatly against the back window. Horns honking and the drone of a pneumatic drill. Shirtless workmen lying back against the wall of the convenience store on the corner; egg-and-bacon sandwiches dripping from greasy paper bags onto dirty hands.

The lights turn green, but nobody moves. The traffic stays still. Two different radio stations blare from open windows. Lady Gaga fights for supremacy with The Mamas and the Papas . . .

A city in the grip of a fever: irritable, agitated, raw.

McAvoy checks his phone. Nothing new. Tries to read the sticker on the back windscreen of the Peugeot two c...

Revue de presse

“Each McAvoy novel has been dark, but Sorrow Bound goes beyond dark to near-apocalyptic. Mark pulls it off, though, and fans of the giant Scottish detective will lose sleep reading this one.”—Booklist (starred review)

“Mark adroitly weaves all these threads together during a sweltering Hull summer full of lowering clouds but no rain, ‘a feverish heat; a pestilent, buzzing cloak.’ The physically imposing Aector, a terrific lead, hews closely to the rules. Well-fleshed out supporting characters round out the cast.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“McAvoy is a sure bet for fans of dark crime fiction set in Britain. Mark is particularly skilled at brief, effective characterization and at establishing an ominous, suspense-ridden setting in which his hero must struggle to reconcile his concept of justice and his admirable integrity with the evil that men do. VERDICT: A satisfying read-alike for fans of Peter Robinson or Val McDermid.”—Library Journal

“Compelling characters and a knotty mystery make the third from Mark (Original Skin, 2013, etc.) stand out from other procedurals.”—Kirkus Reviews

PRAISE FOR ORIGINAL SKIN

“Dark, disturbing and gripping... Graced with a complex plot and stunning imagery, Original Skin stands as a worthy successor to Mark's debut, The Dark Winter.... Readers who revel in thrillers marked by intelligence and originality will celebrate the continuation of a fresh and fascinating series.” –Richmond Times-Dispatch 

“Compelling ... Richly satisfying and told with remarkable flair, [Original Skin] confirms Mark as one of the darkest of the new faces in British crime writing, and not one to miss.” —Daily Mail (UK) 

“Sophisticated plotting, in-depth characters, and sharp dialogue elevate British author Mark’s gritty second police procedural featuring Yorkshire Det. Sgt. Aector McAvoy. Mark expertly brings together two seemingly unrelated investigations while weaving in McAvoy’s devotion to his young family and sensitivity to the Roma background of his wife, Roison, whose extended family becomes involved in his inquiries. Fans of John Harvey and Peter James will find much to like.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review) 

“A dark and nasty police story with strongly drawn characters, an unsettling story, a twisty plot, and a surprising ending... Snap it up.” –Examiner.com 

“McAvoy’s second is an excellent police procedural featuring sex, violence, and complex characters who are quirky but likable.”—Kirkus 

“Readers will immediately be drawn to the compelling, contradictory personality of McAvoy. Grade: A.” –Cleveland Plain-Dealer 

“Equally good read as a stand-alone or as the second in a series, Mark’s fast-paced police procedural featuring a likable and compelling main character is sure to keep fans of dark UK crime fiction entertained.” –Library Journal  

PRAISE FOR THE DARK WINTER

"David Mark’s British police procedurals are a wholesome corrective to cop novels starring prima donna detectives who single-handedly solve major murder cases. Sgt. Aector McAvoy, the 'gentle, humble, shy giant of a man'... is clearly the hero of this brawny series set in the north of England... But Mark surrounds his Scottish detective with fellow officers who make vital contributions to the case and are interesting in their own right.”—The New York Times Sunday Book Review

“British crime reporter Mark’s outstanding first novel, a suspenseful whodunit, introduces Det. Sgt. Aector McAvoy...Readers will want to see more of the complicated McAvoy, who well deserves a sophisticated and disturbing plot.”—Publisher’s Weekly (starred)

“[A]n impressive debut. John Harvey readers should take note.”—Booklist (starred)

“With a poetic intensity in its prose, an unpredictable plot and a Scottish detective, Mark’s novel gripped me from its opening pages.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“It will not be long until new voices in the genre are hailed as the ‘next David Mark.’”—Bookpage.com

“Fast moving and tightly plotted, with strong characterization and a likeable protagonist, this is an extremely promising debut.”—The Guardian

“A promising debut by David Mark... certainly provides a trip to Hull and back.”—The Telegraph

"A fantastic debut of a police procedural series that takes place in northern England. Just as Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy seems to be able to put himself in the mind of a killer, David Mark has developed his characters so completely that the reader can almost put himself in the mind of McAvoy as he is connecting dots that no one else even sees. McAvoy may be a gentle giant of a man but he is also determined to get at the truth even if his job is in jeopardy. Luckily, he finds a believer in his boss, another dedicated officer who also is fighting to keep her job."—Nancy McFarlane, Fiction Addiction

“An exceptional debut from an exciting new talent. David Mark is an original and captivating new voice.”—Val McDermid

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Penguin Publishing Group
• Date d'édition: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0147516250
• ISBN 13: 9780147516251
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 368