his face. Fills his scarred features with the words of witnesses long dead. Fills his mind with images he will not soon forget.
By midmorning, McAvoy feels ready to close the computer. He blinks hard. Rubs a hand over his face and drains his cold drink. He reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a chocolate croissant wrapped in tissue paper. He munches it thoughtfully. Wonders, for a time, quite what he should hope for. Were this a fresh case, he would be giddy at the thought of taking it on. But these murders happened nearly fifty years ago, and the tone of the correspondence between Pharaoh and her contact at the Home Office suggests that it is McAvoy’s job to just make sure that if the case should ever come to trial, it can be tied up swiftly and without embarrassment.
The situation he finds himself in is the direct result of the new home secretary staying true to his word. Two decades ago, while still a junior minister, the cabinet member had met one of his constituents at a local hospital. She was a sweet woman. Timid but determined. A loyal party member. A regular voter. A pillar of the community and the sort of person who looked good in a twinset and pearls. She’d told him about her grandson. Peter Coles. Arrested back in 1966 at the scene of a spree killing and locked away under the Mental Health Act. Had been pretty much catatonic ever since. Wouldn’t tell her why he had done it. Hadn’t been a bad boy. Hadn’t ever wanted to hurt anybody. Was it right? Could he be locked away like that, without a trial, for all those years? She wanted to hear the facts. Wanted to know if he could be kept in a cell for decades without a proper hearing before a judge. Said her neighbors, the victims, had a right to know. The minister had made a promise. Said he would do what he could. And twenty years later, a decade after the old woman’s death, he remembered it. Set the wheels in motion and demanded that if Peter Coles was mentally fit to be so, he should be tried on four counts of murder. Caused his civil servants a succession of heart attacks. And they had approached Trish Pharaoh with a request for help.
1966
, thinks McAvoy.
Bad year to be a Scotsman
.
McAvoy was not born until a decade after the events he has been tasked with investigating. His mother and father had not yet met. His dad was still working the family croft near Aultbea. Still not sure who or what he wanted to be. Never sure whether he should flee the croft for adventure or stay and work the land where so many McAvoys had lived and died. Still a bit of a bastard and a bugger for trouble when the drink was in him. It would be another few years before he met and fell in love with the wild, bright-eyed, and very-English student on a backpacking holiday in the Highlands. Still a few years until he became a father to two strapping sons. Still a few years until he had his heart broken by a woman who left him because his big, strong arms and his brooding intensity were nowhere near as attractive as her new lover’s money.
McAvoy considers the man his father is today. He and his dad have little to do with each other. Haven’t seen each other more than a dozen times since he left the croft at the age of ten and went to a boarding school paid for by his mum’s new man. His dad sends Fin a letter each month, filled with details about life on the croft. Sometimes they include little pencil sketches of views that make McAvoy dizzy with nostalgia. He always asks after McAvoy’s health and even threatened a visit during Aector’s stay in the hospital. But the visit didn’t happen. Fin has still only met his grandfather twice. Lilah has never met him at all. Probably never will. Neither of them have met McAvoy’s older brother or visited the low-roofed, tumbledown property that Aector owns in Gairloch or the snug, well-tended family croft a few miles away. McAvoy wonders what his dad was doing in 1966. Whether he watched England’s triumph in
By midmorning, McAvoy feels ready to close the computer. He blinks hard. Rubs a hand over his face and drains his cold drink. He reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a chocolate croissant wrapped in tissue paper. He munches it thoughtfully. Wonders, for a time, quite what he should hope for. Were this a fresh case, he would be giddy at the thought of taking it on. But these murders happened nearly fifty years ago, and the tone of the correspondence between Pharaoh and her contact at the Home Office suggests that it is McAvoy’s job to just make sure that if the case should ever come to trial, it can be tied up swiftly and without embarrassment.
The situation he finds himself in is the direct result of the new home secretary staying true to his word. Two decades ago, while still a junior minister, the cabinet member had met one of his constituents at a local hospital. She was a sweet woman. Timid but determined. A loyal party member. A regular voter. A pillar of the community and the sort of person who looked good in a twinset and pearls. She’d told him about her grandson. Peter Coles. Arrested back in 1966 at the scene of a spree killing and locked away under the Mental Health Act. Had been pretty much catatonic ever since. Wouldn’t tell her why he had done it. Hadn’t been a bad boy. Hadn’t ever wanted to hurt anybody. Was it right? Could he be locked away like that, without a trial, for all those years? She wanted to hear the facts. Wanted to know if he could be kept in a cell for decades without a proper hearing before a judge. Said her neighbors, the victims, had a right to know. The minister had made a promise. Said he would do what he could. And twenty years later, a decade after the old woman’s death, he remembered it. Set the wheels in motion and demanded that if Peter Coles was mentally fit to be so, he should be tried on four counts of murder. Caused his civil servants a succession of heart attacks. And they had approached Trish Pharaoh with a request for help.
1966
, thinks McAvoy.
Bad year to be a Scotsman
.
McAvoy was not born until a decade after the events he has been tasked with investigating. His mother and father had not yet met. His dad was still working the family croft near Aultbea. Still not sure who or what he wanted to be. Never sure whether he should flee the croft for adventure or stay and work the land where so many McAvoys had lived and died. Still a bit of a bastard and a bugger for trouble when the drink was in him. It would be another few years before he met and fell in love with the wild, bright-eyed, and very-English student on a backpacking holiday in the Highlands. Still a few years until he became a father to two strapping sons. Still a few years until he had his heart broken by a woman who left him because his big, strong arms and his brooding intensity were nowhere near as attractive as her new lover’s money.
McAvoy considers the man his father is today. He and his dad have little to do with each other. Haven’t seen each other more than a dozen times since he left the croft at the age of ten and went to a boarding school paid for by his mum’s new man. His dad sends Fin a letter each month, filled with details about life on the croft. Sometimes they include little pencil sketches of views that make McAvoy dizzy with nostalgia. He always asks after McAvoy’s health and even threatened a visit during Aector’s stay in the hospital. But the visit didn’t happen. Fin has still only met his grandfather twice. Lilah has never met him at all. Probably never will. Neither of them have met McAvoy’s older brother or visited the low-roofed, tumbledown property that Aector owns in Gairloch or the snug, well-tended family croft a few miles away. McAvoy wonders what his dad was doing in 1966. Whether he watched England’s triumph in
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