by David Mark
“Arrests would be nice,” says Mallett thoughtfully. “One driver isn’t going to cut it.”
Pharaoh agrees. The driver of the lorry was Albanian and had taken his arrest with good grace. There had been no tantrums or protestations. He’d known what was coming as soon as the officers threw open the back of his wagon and the dogs climbed aboard. The stash was found inside the hour, hidden inside adapted metal bars and pipes that his manifest claimed were destined for a welding company in the East Midlands. Pharaoh doesn’t reckon he’ll talk. Not yet, anyway. The breakaway crew from the Headhunters is too dangerous to risk upsetting, though whether that will still be the case for long is hard to say. The new crew will be unable to keep its promises. The guns and drugs they have promised their associates will not materialize. The Headhunters have crushed the uprising. Whoever it was they employed to extract the information that led to the raid had carried out the job with aplomb. Pharaoh just wishes she could shake away the feeling of unease. She has received information from dangerous sources before, and she cannot argue with the feeling of a job well done. But she fears that blood has been spilled to provide her with that information. She feels again as though she has been steered from the start. She worries that perhaps her own idea of right and wrong is blurring. She wishes she could talk it through with McAvoy and knows that she never will. His own ideals are too painful to live by. She’s just grateful that she is the one who has to make the decisions and that he is spared them. The man would screw himself into the ground like a puppy chasing its tail if asked to wrestle with such moral conundrums.
“I got a nice e-mail from some prick in London,” says Mallett conversationally. “Breslin. Slick chap. Very southern. All the words spelled correctly. Said to pass on his congratulations over the raid. Good result. Reckons you’ve got them on the ropes but wonders if perhaps, next time, you could share the information with the rest of the symposium before rushing in. I’ve subtly suggested he fuck off. What’s a ‘symposium’?”
Pharaoh drains her drink. Holds up her glass and waits for the barman to grudgingly bring her another.
“A meeting of minds, was how he described it,” she says, thinking. “Talked about starbursts and popcorn.”
“He taking you to the pictures?”
“Popcorning, apparently, is when ideas bubble up and burst open, like popcorn . . .”
“Christ.”
“Yeah, well, was useful, I suppose. We got some handy information. Something about the Headhunters imitating some Eastern European MO from years back. And we found out about the problems they were having. Even so, I reckon we gave away as much as we discovered.”
“There was a security breach?”
“They know more about us than we do about them.”
“But they’ll be hurting from today’s raid, yes?”
“The Headhunters? No, they’ll be laughing, sir. It’s one of their teams that has been causing the bodies to pile up. They recruited the wrong man and he’s brought a lot of ambition with him. He’s stopped taking orders. I think today’s raid has only served to help the Headhunters show who’s really in charge. And I’m not sure it’s us.”
Mallett broods. Ponders. Shrugs.
“At least it’s off the streets, eh? A drop in the ocean is better than no drop at all. And say what you will about these Headhunter bastards, they don’t hurt civilians if they can help it. I was sorry to hear about Tom Spink, by the way. How’s he doing?”
Pharaoh looks down. Clinks the ice in her glass. “He’s tough. Will be back on his feet, eventually. I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Tom? Showed me around when I first started out. Him and Mike Canard. Tall bloke. Into trains. Big brain on him, though his missus was a terror. They were my teachers when I was green as grass. Lost touch over the years, but I saw his name on the incident report. Send him my best, will you? I know you’re close. Was a real shame that had to happen. Somebody clearly went too far.”
Pharaoh peers through the grimy window at the stream of cars making their way up Hedon Road in the drizzle and gloom of a wet weekday afternoon in East Hull. She’s unsure how she feels about her friendship with her old boss being common knowledge in the top tier. Wonders if Tom had tried to grease the wheels of her promotion. Called in a favor or two with other grateful protégés who have risen to the top. She knows he will have done it purely out of his fondness for her, and that thought seems to catch behind her eyes. She feigns a cough in case tears threaten to spill.
“He’s one of the few ex-coppers who doesn’t seem lost,” she says, turning back to Mallett. “He’s found something else to be. So many coppers just lose themselves when they hang up the warrant card. You’ve seen them. Drunks and security guards. Or both. Sends shivers right through me, the thought of what I’ll be if I’m not this.”
Mallett seems to be thinking. He scrutinizes her. Takes in the wavy black hair and blue eyes; the strong scent of perfume and cigarettes, the irrefutable swell of cleavage, and the halfhearted makeup around the wrinkles on her forehead and neck. When he speaks again, his voice is lower than before.
“I’m nearer the knacker’s yard than you, love. People don’t get it, do they? What it means to do this job. What it does to you. It pays to think ahead. There’s a company in London that always needs good coppers when they’re done locking up villains. They know how to compensate people for their expertise. Consultancy work—that’s the future for old campaigners like you and me. You should give my mate a ring—he’d be glad to hear your voice.”
Pharaoh nods, looking down at the shredded beer mat in front of Mallett’s big white hands.
“There are some coppers who go to the dark side,” says Mallett. “Some bastards slide across and become the thing they used to chase. They see opportunity. They see how little difference they’ve made on the side of law and order and decide they may as well make some money.”
Pharaoh takes a breath. She examines Mallett for signs of duplicity.
“Any copper who doesn’t think we’re winning needs to catch more crooks, sir. No problem’s going to be fixed by joining the enemy. It’s hard, sure. But at least we do a job where we make a difference of some kind.” She stops herself and checks her watch. “I sound like my sergeant.”
“The big lad?”
“McAvoy, sir. My best.”
“Still on sick, I’m told. Bad business at his house. His missus had been shagging one of the villains. Am I right?”
“It’s complicated.”
Mallett’s countenance grows dark and his face becomes hard. “I’m a bright man, Superintendent. I can handle complicated. Let’s hope McAvoy can. That missus of his is going to hold back his career, you know that, don’t you? Poor lad. How did he get tangled up with a gypsy?”
“A gypsy, sir?”
“Come on, love, we all hear the rumors. Threesome, wasn’t it? With that other fella who got splattered on Holderness Road. That McAvoy’s a fucking Jonah, isn’t he. He should watch his step. Get rid of that lass before she causes him any more bloodshed or harm. You’ve had a good result today, love. We’re all happy. You should be able to relax and enjoy it, and instead your mind is a million other places. Maybe you should unburden yourself a little. I can help, love. I can even make sure somebody has a word in the pikey’s ear—make sure she doesn’t come back. Would be best for him in the long run. She’s away, isn’t she? Give me a clue or two. Where would we find her . . . ?”
Pharaoh rubs a knuckle with a cold, dry palm. Keeps her eyes on Mallett’s. She doesn’t know where the conversation is going. She’d accepted the invitation of a drink without question. But she knows little about her new deputy chief. She feels suddenly vulnerable. Can’t help but think of the piggy little eyes of Dave Absolom poking out at her from the computer screen as she sat beside Dan in the tech department. Wonders why her boss has chosen this tiny, deserted pub. Wonders wheth
er she has been a fool . . .
A sudden trilling in Pharaoh’s pocket curtails her trail of thought. She apologizes and takes the call. It’s from an unfamiliar number, but Pharaoh answers it with her full name and title. She says it loud, so the barman can hear. Looks around for her handbag and starts scrawling blue ink in her notebook as her heart begins to race. She half knocks the table as she stands, and Mallett is too busy cursing and wiping spilled beer from his uniform to stop her as she heads for the door.
Within moments, Pharaoh is running through the rain. She’s half a mile from her car and a long way from knowing what the fuck she thinks about anything. All she knows is that Mr. Nock has been found wandering on a cliff top at Flamborough Head. She knows he is in danger and that her decision to bend the rules may have placed him there.
Bodies are piling up. Castles are crumbling.
TWENTY-THREE
MCAVOY DOESN’T KNOW why he has made an effort with his appearance. He’s wearing his good gray suit with a thick, checked shirt and a double-knotted purple tie. He’s trimmed the hair around his ears and shaved his stubble into a neat goatee. He’s wearing the long cashmere overcoat that Roisin bought him and that he stitched up by hand after a killer stuck a blade through it and into his skin. He looks more than presentable. He looks good. It seems to matter somehow. He doesn’t know what today will bring. Doesn’t know if he is about to solve a multiple murder or simply stick a rake in the swollen belly of corpses long since forgotten.
He leans against the bonnet of his car. Feels the light rain and cold wind keep the blush from his face. Feels his hair and coattails play in the breeze. He checks his watch. Breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to keep his heart steady and his hands from shaking or making fists. He wants to look relaxed. Confident. Wants to appear like a seasoned detective who meets gangland enforcers and serial killers every day.
It’s midafternoon. Already the day is giving itself over to the gloom of evening. The dark clouds have folded into the gray-brown stillness of the sea. McAvoy gazes at a miserable horizon; a pulp of smoke and damp charcoal. He is standing at Alexandra Dock, just off Hedon Road. One of the monstrous superferries is a little way to his left: a toppled office block of whites and blues against the gray of dock and sky. There are four other vehicles in the little car park. It’s a popular place on these dreary days. Old couples like to sit and watch the waves; to stare at the swirling, keening gulls and the distant towers and lights of the oil refinery on the far side of the estuary. Families are drawn to the idea of travel, of departure, of escape. McAvoy has watched mothers and fathers of young children wave wistfully at the departing ferries as their giggling, gleeful offspring wave at strangers and imagine they are saying good-bye to loved ones bound for adventure.
In the small sports car to McAvoy’s right, a young man with a dark beard and too much hair dozes in the driver’s seat. The light rain has made his windscreen opaque. Farther away is a blue van with open back doors. A short, fat, unattractive man in a Hull City raincoat is keeping an eye on a fishing rod—its line stretched taut as it scythes into the water beyond the little footpath that leads down to the housing estate on Victoria Dock. The other vehicle belongs to a reporter from the Hull Daily Mail. She’s sitting chatting on her mobile phone, and eating a fruit salad from a Tupperware box. She has no desire to go back to the office yet. Would rather sit and watch the waves and argue with her mam than go and write up the latest developments on the drugs raid that took place a few hundred yards away in the early hours of this morning.
McAvoy sniffs. Breathes in the cold air. Catches the whiff of diesel and creosote. Smells sawdust and grease. Fills himself up with the mixed aromas of this unwashed city by the sea. Wonders whether he should have worn his stab vest beneath his coat.
At 2:07 p.m., a flatbed pickup truck pulls into the car park. The man at the wheel wears a scarf, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. He has on a leather jacket with the collar pulled up, and the hands that grip the steering wheel are clad in calfskin.
McAvoy purses his lips and blows out a stream of nervous breath. He has spent the morning learning all he can about this man. Has spent the past few hours acquainting himself with the record of Raymond Mahon. The rumors. The associations and legends. Mahon deserves more than respect. He deserves fear. McAvoy does not expect to be able to arrest him alone. Does not expect he will need to. Mahon knows the rules. Knows that any information he provides will be inadmissible in a court case. A second officer would need to be present to verify his words and Mahon had made it clear that McAvoy was to come alone. He had even allowed him to pick the location. McAvoy had chosen the docks purely because it offered privacy along with the safety net of CCTV and a handful of witnesses. He used to walk here with Roisin. Used to push Fin in his stroller as the three of them ambled along the water’s edge and fantasized about one day owning one of the big four-bedroom detached properties that overlooked the water. The home they finally bought is four miles farther down the coast. The motel he now calls home a little farther still. Both are marked by the distant shape of the Humber Bridge; a vertical slash of tarmac and metal that punctures the clouds and provides the horizon’s only line.
McAvoy straightens his tie as Mahon climbs from the vehicle. He tries not to show his nervousness. There is no doubt that those gloved hands have taken lives. This man has served serious time. He has served a North East crime kingpin for five decades. And he may well have committed the crime for which Peter Coles has been incarcerated for half a century.
Mahon walks forward, his steps light, his bulk imposing. As he nears, McAvoy glimpses the ruination between the rim of Mahon’s spectacles and the collar of his coat. Sees the wet, pink, slimy mass of torn skin. The yellow teeth. He tries to hide his revulsion from the man. Tries and fails.
“I’m used to it,” says Mahon, waving his hand toward his face. “Don’t blame yourself. I’d make myself feel sick, too.”
McAvoy doesn’t know what to say. Stands motionless for a second. Then he reaches out a hand and takes Mahon’s in his. Feels the strength in the grip. Wonders whether he could outmuscle this old man if it called for it. Fears he already knows the answer.
“Your boss has had a good day, eh?” Mahon says. “Tell her she’s welcome.”
McAvoy narrows his eyes. He had heard about the raid on the news as he drove here an hour ago. Heard the plaudits thrown the way of the Serious and Organized Unit. Had felt like pulling over and punching the steering wheel when he realized what he had missed out on by not taking Pharaoh’s call. He wants to be by her side. Wants to be part of something. Feels so alone: here, among the ghosts and the screaming gulls.
“Hell of a place to be, eh? Hull, I mean. Never been a fan. Can’t say my own neck of the woods is much more palatial, like. Newcastle’s a funny place, I’ve always said. Everywhere’s uphill. How’s that possible? Like Edinburgh, isn’t it? Uphill, whichever direction you’re going. You get big thigh muscles if you live there, of course. That where you got yours? Your university was there, wasn’t it? Rumor has it you were going to be something spectacular until you grew a conscience and became a cop.”
McAvoy still hasn’t spoken. Doesn’t quite know which way to play this. Wants to know if he is in danger of being hurt or just looking a fool. Decides to play Mahon’s own game.
“I doubt you would have crossed paths with me then,” he says. “You were inside again. Firearms offenses. Should have been more, by all accounts, but a witness changed their statement and they could only do you for possession. Wasn’t much of a stretch for somebody with your record. Soft time, I think it’s called. Not compared to the seventeen years you did for killing Randall Mosedale. Shotgun, wasn’t it? Bad sort, so I’m told. Bit of a villain. You didn’t say a word in your own defense—not in interviews or during the trial. Impressive. No wonder Mr. Nock has kept you around for so long.”
The two big men stand on the
dock and examine each other. Absorb the other’s muscles and scars. Mahon is the first to smile.
“Randall Mosedale? Randy, to his mates. Summed him up, too. Went too far with the wrong girl. I was just going to give him a bit of a slap but he pulled a gun. I didn’t know the daft bastard was under surveillance. He had an undercover cop on his crew. Saw the whole bloody thing but never said a damn thing about it being self-defense. That’s coppers for you, eh? The truth’s what you make it. Shall we take a little stroll?”
McAvoy rubs his eye and pushes his hair back from his face. They fall into step, mooching along slowly with the sea to their left. They both nod hellos to the fisherman. Duck under the taut fishing line and turn right to where the massive canal gates stand open, as if a monster has just been released from a prison of iron, wood, and stone.
“Sea’s supposed to be blue, isn’t it?” asks Mahon, pointing at the brown water and the thick chocolate fondant of mud that sticks to the stones of the sea defenses. “Is this where they empty dirty radiators?”
“It’s a pretty clean waterway, actually,” says McAvoy, because he can’t help it. “Dangerous, though. One of the hardest to navigate in the world.”
