Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  “That fat bloke on the stool,” says Pharaoh, peering over McAvoy’s shoulder. “He looks like he’s been carved out of ham.”

  “If you’re not quiet, I’m going to shut the lid,” says McAvoy.

  Pharaoh grins. She’s got a blanket around her shoulders and is wearing a pair of blue flannelette pajamas that gape a little between the buttons. She’s wearing a touch of eyeliner and lip gloss and her long black hair is mussed up around the crown, as though she has been wriggling on her back. It’s around three a.m. in England and she is sitting in the kitchen in her house in Scartho, drinking wine and smoking. She is leading a raid on the house of a suspected double murderer at daybreak and had every intention of getting a few decent hours before the fun started. She never made it to sleep—preferring to obsess over what McAvoy has been up to since she waved him good-bye at the airport. McAvoy would have been happy to talk to her on the telephone but her eldest daughter has recently shown her how to use Skype and she was anxious to see whether McAvoy looked okay. He likes that she worries about him, though in fairness, the majority of things that cause him grief stem directly from her.

  “You should be grateful I care,” says Pharaoh through a cloud of smoke. “Some people would feel a little hurt not to have been asked to tag along on some jolly to America.”

  McAvoy’s mouth drops open. “I asked you!” he says.

  “But you didn’t sound like you meant it,” says Pharaoh, pouting. “Besides, some of us have a job to do. Some of us don’t have understanding superiors who can cover for them while they’re gallivanting on the far side of the world.”

  “I do appreciate it,” says McAvoy. “You know I do.”

  “Stop looking like a kicked puppy, Hector. If I was with you in New York, Roisin would burn my house down. We both know this.”

  McAvoy nods. “She’s grateful for your help, honest. You’ve got me here—got me help . . .”

  “You can make it up to me when you get back. A shoulder rub, a box of Maltesers, and you have to punch Shaz Archer in the solar plexus.”

  McAvoy grins, enjoying the fire that comes into Pharaoh’s eyes when she mentions the stunningly attractive but morally bankrupt head of the Drugs Squad. “Done.”

  Pharaoh takes another swig of red wine and looks down at her notes. She leans forward and McAvoy picks up one of the earbuds from the table and inserts it. Before she got the volume levels right, Pharaoh’s voice had been loud enough to risk tinnitus, but he fancies that when she is talking about confidential police files, she will be less inclined to shout.

  “I’ve got what you wanted, anyhow,” says Pharaoh. “A very nice sergeant in the Guards was happy to cooperate. He said nobody from the States had requested the information, and wanted to know whether anybody in New York actually knew their arses from their elbows. I didn’t offer an answer, though I did point out that it should be ‘asses.’ What you think? Is this Alto character lazy or crap?”

  McAvoy takes a swig of Guinness. Remembers what it cost and lets half of his gulp flow back into the glass.

  “I didn’t get the impression he was either,” he muses. “Remember, I only know that Valentine was here because of my connections to the family. Estrada mentioned him purely in passing. It was dumb luck. What we’ve got to remember is that if two people were found in a ditch with bullet wounds back home, that would be kind of a big deal. Over here, it’s just a Thursday. We’d have eighty officers on it. Here, they’ve got Alto.”

  Pharaoh purses her lips, thinking it over. She seems prepared to give Alto the benefit of the doubt.

  “Well, he’ll be delighted with what you’ve got gift-wrapped for him,” says Pharaoh, smiling. “I tell you something, Hector, you’ve married into a lovely family.”

  McAvoy tries not to look upset. He refuses to be ashamed of Roisin’s clan. He knows the majority of them to be good people, if a little rough around the edges. Valentine is the blackest sheep, and were it not for his bond of blood to Roisin, McAvoy doubts he would be trying so hard to say something vaguely laudable about the lad.

  “Her parents are kind,” says McAvoy defensively. “Sisters, too. They’re wary of me but they’re not unwelcoming. They just don’t know what to make of me.”

  “Who does?” asks Pharaoh, finishing her wine. “Anyway, Valentine is a bad sort, there’s no doubting that.”

  “What have you got?”

  “More than Alto. Valentine’s got convictions for assault, burglary, handling stolen goods, benefit fraud, and being involved in illegal bookkeeping. Longest sentence was for the burglary—fourteen months. He served five. Not a desirable lad. You can see why the authorities were a bit twitchy about giving him a passport.”

  “That’s where the bishop stepped in.”

  “Indeed. His letter was about as close to being a ringing endorsement as it’s possible to get.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I have friends in low places. It was a nice letter. Explained that Valentine had a chance to turn his life around helping disadvantaged Catholic youngsters learn how to box. Said that one of his most esteemed priests—a former New Yorker, no less—had known Valentine all his life and personally vouched for his intentions.”

  “That’s unusual,” says McAvoy, taking another swallow of his drink. “Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.” Pharaoh shrugs. “Maybe bishops vouch for gypsy criminals all the time. But it struck me as odd. Know what else struck me as odd? The letter to the authorities doesn’t mention Brishen or Shay.”

  “But Valentine told his parents they were going as a trio,” says McAvoy.

  “I know. But do we have any other sources to back that up?”

  McAvoy considers it. He has been assuming that Valentine had been telling the truth. But what if he came to America for reasons entirely different from those he confided to his family? Perhaps the boxing was merely a cover story? But then why would he show up at Dezzie Estrada’s gym? Suddenly, the phone call made by Brishen to the gym takes on a more sinister tone. Was he checking up to see if he and his protégé were in danger from the young Teague?

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” warns Pharaoh. “The Guard in Galway reckons the NBCI . . .”

  “NBCI? Remind me.”

  “National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. They’re basically us, but in Ireland. Ask me to say it in Gaelic, I dare you. Anyways, he says they’re getting more interested in this situation by the day and they were good enough to do a little trawl of Valentine’s Internet history. Can you look stuff up on the Web while still talking to me on this thing?”

  McAvoy gives a tiny laugh and minimizes the image of Pharaoh. He pulls up a search engine and hears Pharaoh’s voice telling him what to look for. In moments, he is reading the sixth page in a lengthy thread of arguments underneath a video of a bare-knuckle boxing match.

  “Remember when YouTube was used for videos of dogs slipping on shiny floors?” asks Pharaoh. “World’s moved on a bit.”

  McAvoy watches the first few moments of the bout. It shows a huge, bearlike man, stripped to the waist but covered in so much body hair that it is initially hard to tell. His face is little more than eyes and nose peeping out through a wall of black fur. In the video, he is relentlessly pummeling a tall black man, who is struggling to stay on his feet. Both men have taped hands, and they are surrounded by a jostling crowd of onlookers who roar encouragement. It is a barbaric encounter, and McAvoy knows that if he continues to watch, he will see the black man get truly hurt.

  “Read the comments,” says Pharaoh. “Starts with TravellerVal81.”

  McAvoy does as he is told. In the first posting, the contributor labels the big bearded man a pussy and says that he wouldn’t last five minutes with the fighters of true gypsy stock. The comment gains attention in moments, and soon contributors the world over are pitching in on whether or not the Irish bare
-knuckle fighters are the best in the world or overrated. The debate becomes fierce. TravellerVal81 names men he reckons could knock the hairy boxer on his arse. He counts himself among their number. The argument continues over three pages. Then a contributor called Boxguy12 appears. His post is simple. I CAN MAKE THIS HAPPEN. MSG ME DIRECT.

  After that, there are no more postings from either man and the discussion fizzles out.

  “The massive bloke in the video is known as Byki, which is a Mob term for ‘bull’ or ‘bodyguard’ or ‘massive beardy bastard who eats live rabbits,’” says Pharaoh, reading the name from her notes. “He’s a bare-knuckle fighter, in case you didn’t realize it. The NBCI has run his details. American-born but his parents were Chechen. Lives in New York. This video is one of about a hundred in circulation, all showing him pummeling local hard cases. Turns out he used to box professionally but lost his license when he took part in an MMA bout and gouged somebody’s eye out. Lovely chap. Linked to a suspected heroin importer by the name of Sergey Volotov but he’s not served any time. Volotov has, but not in the States. He’s done proper hard time—the kind of prisons where rape is pretty much timetabled.”

  McAvoy closes the search engine and enlarges the image of Pharaoh. Her eyes are particularly blue tonight and there is a tiny curl of red wine at the corner of each lip, so it looks as though she is smiling. She’s not.

  “Who is Boxguy12?” asks McAvoy.

  “Traced to an e-mail account of a similar name, set up on a computer that was using the Wi-Fi connection of a café on Church Street.”

  “I don’t think I’m far from there,” says McAvoy. “I could go . . .”

  “No need. I had NBCI run the other name you gave me, just because I’m, y’know, good at this shit. There’s a reason your new friend Marcel from the gym didn’t give Alto his real name. Only took a couple of phone calls to the States to learn he was fined a thousand dollars three years ago for his involvement in an underground fight club in Wilmington, Delaware. Violations of the ‘combative fighting’ laws.”

  McAvoy rubs his forehead. “Valentine said he came here to fight.”

  “The question is whether or not Brishen knew,” says Pharaoh. “Whether he was involved. You think he was?”

  McAvoy shakes his head. “From what I know of him, he wants boxing to get away from that image. He’s cut boxers loose for fighting in underground bouts. I can’t see Dezzie risking his reputation for the underground scene. But if Marcel was sourcing fighters . . .”

  On the screen, Pharaoh nods. “I’ll do a bit more digging. See what we can find out about Brishen and whether he’s as squeaky clean as you reckon. I’d love to chat with the priest, too, but NBCI are urging me to be a little tactful on that one.”

  McAvoy hides a smile behind his fingers, knowing that Pharaoh will already have come up with a way to respect the NBCI’s wishes and still get what she wants.

  “I’ve contacted his office in Galway,” she says, suddenly looking prim and deferential. “Told his secretary I’m an English policewoman with questions to ask him about a boy in America. I don’t think it will be long before he calls back.”

  “That was tactful?” asks McAvoy. “You might be best just going straight to Father Whelan. Jimmy. He’s the real connection here. And from what I’ve heard of him, he’s a good man.”

  Pharaoh shrugs. She is not a fan of religious organizations and thinks of the priesthood as a loose collection of weirdoes, oddballs, and degenerates.

  “This nun of yours,” says Pharaoh. “She said Brishen wanted a blessing for a boxing match. What do you make of that?”

  “I think we’re making big jumps,” says McAvoy. “Remember, I’m here to find Valentine, not run a whole murder investigation with one laptop and a phone.”

  Pharaoh laughs, though it is not a particularly happy sound. “If you find something you’ll run with it, whatever happens.”

  McAvoy says nothing. His mind is speeding up. He finds himself making connections and drawing lines in his imagination. He wants to talk to Alto, to share this information with him and ask him for names and places. If Valentine came here to fight the colossal man in the video, the reason he has not been in touch with his family may be because he was beaten to death. And if Brishen and Shay were witnesses, they could have been put in the ground to stop them from talking.

  “Father Whelan,” says Pharaoh, chewing her lip in the way that makes McAvoy want to slap her on the nose like a cat who won’t stop grooming itself. “I asked NBCI if he was a character worthy of further investigation and they gave me pretty short shrift.”

  “All he did was ask his bishop to write a letter,” says McAvoy placatingly.

  “And Brishen and Shay visited the church where he started out,” says Pharaoh.

  “If they know Father Whelan, that’s a normal thing to do,” says McAvoy. “Say a prayer, light a candle . . .”

  Pharaoh waves a hand, as if this religious stuff could be filed under the word bollocks. “RTE News has been running the story on every bulletin,” he says. “I’ve seen some of the footage. Lots of shots of Brishen at his gym, and interviews with a load of people saying how terrible it is what’s happened. They had Barry McGuigan on the evening bulletin, saying what a loss this was to Irish boxing. I think the Guards will have to send somebody out before too long, if only to show they’re involved.”

  McAvoy shudders at the thought of again being involved in a case that garners so much attention. He finds himself marveling at the contrast between the furor in Ireland and the inactivity of Alto over here.

  “You were telling me about Whelan . . .”

  “He was on the same bulletin,” says Pharaoh, curling her lip. “Saying what a good man Brishen is and how he hopes to travel over to be at his bedside. Urged his flock to say their prayers.”

  McAvoy waits for more. When nothing comes, he opens his hands.

  “I asked the sergeant in the Guards about Whelan and he talked about him like he was the second coming or something. I find that disconcerting.”

  “You’re biased,” says McAvoy, without taking the time to find a more tactful way to say it.

  “Probably,” concedes Pharaoh. She pauses, as if ordering her thoughts. “I’ve no doubt there are great priests who make a real difference to their communities and help people live good lives. I get all that. I also know that they spent so long being pretty much infallible, they got very good at doing evil deeds. I’m not saying your Father Whelan is anything other than a great guy. But he found a way to allow Valentine Teague to go to America and I don’t know why he did that and I would like to know more. I’d like that a lot.”

  McAvoy smiles. He wishes she were here, sitting opposite him, waving her hands as she talked and spilling her drinks on his notes; making him blush with crude innuendo and telling him he’s a bloody idiot and a good cop. More than that, he wishes she were in Galway, close enough to Roisin to keep her safe.

  “One more thing,” says Pharaoh, looking through the last page of her notes. “Mr. Molony. The bloke the nun told you about. That’s the only gap in Alto’s timeline. Sometime between leaving Saint Colman’s and turning up at the next bar, there are about three hours unaccounted for. Now, Alto has clearly presumed they were drinking and just didn’t keep the receipts from that particular bar. We only know they were at Saint Colman’s because Brishen had one of their leaflets in his pocket when he was found. Now, after you met your lovely nun, you went to Saint Brigit’s and asked around and nobody remembered them. That might not mean anything in the slightest, but it makes Molony somebody worth talking to, and Alto doesn’t have a statement from him, which means he’s on your agenda. And you might want to know a little bit about him before you track him down.”

  “And you have something that helps?” asks McAvoy hopefully.

  “Momma loves you,” says Pharaoh, grinning. “I did a little digging.
Or at least Ben did.”

  “Ben?” asks McAvoy, startled. “Does he know . . . ?”

  “About your connection or whereabouts? No, of course not. He does as he’s told and doesn’t ask questions, unlike some great lumbering sergeants of my acquaintance.”

  McAvoy relaxes a little. DC Ben Neilsen is a good cop, with a silver tongue and an uncanny ability with databases and technology.

  “He’s found mentions of Molony online. Going back years. Newspaper articles all about charity work and the history of the church and the different appeals he’s involved in. Even ran a charity back in the late eighties that collected money for political causes in Ireland.” Pharaoh pauses. Shrugs. “I’m not going to jump to conclusions there but I am going to underline his name in big red letters on the whiteboard in my head.”

  McAvoy waits. Starts making connections of his own. His head suddenly feels too full. He just wants to find Valentine and get home and already he feels as though he knows too much, and nowhere near enough.

  “I’m going to send you some articles,” says Pharaoh. “Ben’s got electronic copies of some of the more important clippings. I don’t know how much of it is relevant, but I know you like things to be as complicated as fucking possible, so I’m obliging. I’m also getting seriously drowsy, so if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go and fall asleep on the sofa for the next three hours and have a good hard think about Gérard Depardieu.”

  McAvoy pulls a face. “Seriously?”

  “I like big, peculiar men,” says Pharaoh with a smile. Her face softens, turning her into the motherly, tactile woman who matters so much to him. “Be careful. They have guns.”

  “I don’t want to be here,” he says, and the confession feels like release. “I’m so out of my depth, Trish.”

  “Roisin’ll be proud of you no matter what happens,” says Pharaoh, and it looks a struggle for her to keep the scowl off her face. “She’ll never forget that you went. You tried. You jumped on a plane and went to do something when nobody else did. You’re a good man, Hector. Now, stop flirting with nuns and go show Alto how to be a cop.”