by David Mark
A sound behind him makes him stop short.
Shaun would have been home by around five a.m. It’s just after seven a.m. now. It would have taken time to do this. Could they still . . .
This time the noise is unmistakable. The bang of wood on brick, and then feet on cobbles.
McAvoy sprints across to the window. Peers left and then right, frantically searching for the source of the sudden sounds.
He catches a glimpse of three figures. A flash of black leather and bristled, porcine skin. Of broad backs and raised collars. A flash of auburn. An insinuation, in the chaos of the picture, of a smaller, more delicate form, quicker than the others, a blur of color and a flash of white.
And they are gone.
McAvoy finds himself alone in a missing informant’s flat. Finds himself sinking to his knees, bringing himself level with the ruined body of a man tortured to death for allowing his woman to open her mouth.
“Nobody here,” says McAvoy, into the phone, and the words seem to make his tongue swell—make bile rise in his mouth.
He stops himself. Bites back the lies.
“Guv, I’m so sorry . . .”
HOME AGAIN. Tired and guilty, aching and sick.
It’s not your fault. They were playing with bad people. It happened. Leanne could still be okay . . .
He has heard lots of soothing words in the past few hours, but none has helped him feel any better or cleansed his senses of the stench of Shaun’s skin.
Pharaoh has taken over. A murder investigation has been launched, but the top brass have yet to decide whether it is to be folded into Pharaoh’s existing investigation, or handed over to a separate CID team. McAvoy believes any attempts to remove it from Pharaoh’s grasp would be madness, but knows, too, that his opinion counts for nothing. He’s just the cop who found the body. The cop who has spent all day giving statements and having his clothes bagged by forensics officers because he went into the flat without a white suit on and contaminated the crime scene.
He shakes his head, hating everything. Wishing he had listened a little harder. That he had run faster. Caught even one of them. They have nothing to go on. His description is even weaker than that given by the Vietnamese farmers who suffered the same injuries months before. The initial reports on the nails driven into Shaun’s knees suggest they came from the same weapon as that used in the first attack, and the doctor’s initial impression is that Shaun endured an hour of abuse before his heart gave out.
He has never been as grateful to leave the station. Never wanted to hold Roisin more.
She is upstairs now. Changing Lilah. Pleased to have her husband home early and hoping his presence in the house will allow her a few hours of proper sleep.
McAvoy should be enjoying it, too. Should be up there, making them all giggle. Should maybe be getting his boots on and wandering around to pick up Fin from school. Should be reveling in the look on his son’s face, the pleasure and pride at having the biggest dad in the playground.
With no instructions to follow or any other ideas about where to look for Leanne, McAvoy had decided to have one last little look at the contents of the mobile phone he had fished out of the mud of the River Hull. He entertained a hope that by looking at it again he would satisfy his curiosity and be able to sling the damn thing away. Would be able to get focused. Get busy. Make amends.
He plugs the phone into his laptop. Begins to play.
Opening the contacts box, he scrolls through the dots and numbers, whorls and compressed digits. He squints as he tries to make out something intelligible. Mc? MC2? Me?
McAvoy gets up and grabs a piece of paper from the pad by the landline and writes down the half-dozen variations that the numbers may be making up. He crosses back to where his laptop is plugged in, and sits down in his armchair, his computer’s battery pleasantly warm on his bare legs.
He logs on. Types in the first number that could vaguely fit with the jumble of numbers. Finds nothing but a string of serial numbers for a courier firm. Tries the next: 07969 . . .
Bingo.
There are three hits. The phone number is linked to a trio of sites.
McAvoy clicks on the first.
“Black cat, three years old, lovely temperament, missing from Anlaby area since last Sunday. If found, please call . . .”
McAvoy, hoping the animal turned up, clicks on the second link.
“New line-dancing club. All ages and abilities welcome. Experienced instructors and fun atmosphere. Every Wednesday at St. Mark’s Church Hall, Anlaby Common. Call Simon, 07969 . . .”
McAvoy nods. He is building a picture. Starting to care.
The third link takes him to playmatez.co.uk. He stares at the white screen, its gaudy purple banner; thumbnail pictures of women in fishnets, and men showing off bare torsos, exposed genitals.
The Number 1 Hook-up Site on the Web! Swing When You’re Winning!
McAvoy turns from the screen. Looks at the door. Prepares an explanation in case Roisin walks in.
Turns his attention back to the laptop, unsure whether he is prying or being a policeman.
He scrolls down until he finds the phone number.
FILL ME UP. MAKE ME YOUR SLAVE. YOUNG, SLIM, OH-SO-EAGER MALE SEEKING DOMINANT MAN. ANLABY AREA. Call 07969 . . .
“Has somebody hurt you?”
His words are said under his breath, but they are laden with the weight of a growing unease.
McAvoy copies the posting. Creates a file on his desktop and saves the link and the words. Does the same with the lost-pet forum and the line-dance club. Wonders why this matters. Why he needs to know. Why he doesn’t just put the phone in the bin and agree that it’s none of his business unless a crime has been committed. Wonders just how he has convinced himself, with such certainty, that this warrants his time.
“You want to help me?”
The voice floats down the stairs with none of its usual music. Roisin is growing more tired and irritable. She told him earlier that it has been three days since she spoke to another adult. That she had found herself humming the theme tune to Wibbly Pig while walking back from taking Fin to school. That she had to make a conscious effort of will not to ask for the cake in the shape of the “moo-cow” when popping to the bakery last weekend. She is craving stimulation. Needing adult time. Needing to be a young woman rather than a mum.
McAvoy runs his tongue around his mouth to make sure there are no biscuit crumbs to give him away. Gives a slight nod. Makes up his mind.
“I’ve got an idea . . .”
He hopes she’ll squeal when he tells her that this evening they are starting a line-dance class in Anlaby.
• • •
“YOU HAVE TO HOLD ME CLOSER . . .”
The dancer smells of red wine and garlic bread, microwave lasagna, and menthol cigarettes. She’s angling her pretty face upward, eyes heavy-lidded and sweat moistening her face at the temples. She is in her mid-twenties, and has clearly done this before. She is grinding her toes into the hardwood floor and lifting her red dress above pink young knees to show firm calves and red-painted toenails. Her arms are shooting out with such ferocity that McAvoy wonders whether she is being operated by remote control. She is even managing to hum along to the music, which, to McAvoy’s ear, would sound the same backward.
He tries to ignore her nearness and warmth. Concentrates on his footwork. Counts in his head. Holds her hips as if she were made of glass. Tries to remember whether the hold he is about to place her in is called a hammerlock or a full nelson, and wonders whether the “Suzy-Q” she is performing will lead to osteoporosis in later life.
“One, two, three . . .”
He squints over her shoulder at where his wife is having the time of her life in the arms of a seventy-year-old man wearing yellow corduroy trousers and a designer shirt. His hands are on her buttocks. He appears to
be mentally testing a cantaloupe for firmness.
McAvoy and his wife came dressed for country and western. They found it was salsa night.
“Yes, it used to be Wednesdays, but we changed it,” said the nice middle-aged woman at the door. “Salsa’s more fun. Great for the youngsters. Beginners welcome. Only five pounds each. Refreshments at halftime. And Mike used to be a county champion . . .”
Roisin had squealed and begged him to give it a go. Told him they could still go line dancing another night if that was what he had set his heart on. Said it was a shame to waste the babysitter, and that he might love it.
He is not loving it. Salsa merely gives him indigestion.
“It’s in the hips,” says Mike, rotating his own in a manner that, if performed outside the confines of the church hall, could see him locked up for indecency. “Excellent. Yes, grind it. Grind it!”
Mike is shouting this last at McAvoy’s current partner, and she obeys, putting enough twist into her movements that he wonders whether her high heel will remain screwed to the floor when they separate and move on to the next person in the circle.
“That’s it, my lovely. It’s about sex!”
McAvoy looks as though he has been running in the rain. He is soaked through with sweat, his white shirt clinging to his skin and his jeans uncomfortably damp. His face is bright red with embarrassment and exertion, and exposed in its entirety due to Roisin’s decision to slick his hair back from his face with her hand when she spotted him beginning to drip on his partners.
“. . . and rest.”
The sound of drums and Spanish guitar crashes to a stop, and the dozen people in the circle give a little cheer and clap for one another.
McAvoy is breathing like a hot bullmastiff, and can barely even muster a polite smile when his partner squeezes him on his sodden arm.
“It takes some getting used to,” she says sympathetically. “I took to it straightaway, but some people can take longer.”
“There are fish on dry land who dance better than me,” says McAvoy, gasping, bending over and placing his hands on his thighs as if he had just run a marathon. He feels her pat him on his broad back.
“Don’t give up on it. You’ve got rhythm.”
He straightens up. Manages a little laugh. “Just not the same one as everybody else.”
The girl extends her hand. McAvoy wipes his own on his jeans and takes hers in his palm. “Mel,” she says.
“Aector,” he replies. It feels odd that he has introduced himself by anything other than his rank. He wonders why he has done so. Wonders if he is subconsciously reminding himself that he is not here as a policeman. He is not here on official business. That he’s just a nosy bugger, lying to his wife . . .
“Aector, did you see me?”
McAvoy turns as Roisin excitedly bounds up to him. “You were great,” he says instinctively.
“I know! This is awesome, Aector.”
“This is Mel,” he says, by way of explanation for the attractive, sweating woman at his side. “I’m turning her feet into flippers. I don’t think she sees me as a potential rosette winner.”
Roisin seems to notice her husband’s dance partner for the first time. She looks her up and down. Red dress. Hair tied back into a ponytail and tethered with a silk red rose.
“We thought it was line dancing tonight,” she says brightly, gesturing at her own red-and-white gingham blouse, tied above her belly button, denim shorts, and fawn, knee-length leather boots. “This is so much better.”
“The line-dancing club’s changed nights,” says Mel.
“So they said.”
“There aren’t many people go to it now anyway,” she says, and she shifts the direction of her conversation from McAvoy to his wife. “And they’re all ancient. I went to it a couple of times when it was half decent. Was a real giggle. These days they’ll be lucky to get enough people to make an actual line. Not like it was.”
“People got bored with it, did they?” asks McAvoy.
Mel shakes her head. “Different tutor,” she explains. “Boring lady took over and all the people who used to come for the giggle packed it in.”
“The giggle?”
“Simon,” she says, and instantly breaks into a smile. “He and his aunt used to run it. Was more of a cabaret night. Was such a laugh.”
“Has he gone to another club?” asks Roisin. “We could maybe go there . . .”
Mel shakes her head. “No,” she said. She looks away. “It’s sad.”
McAvoy pinches the sweat from his nose. Forces himself not to push it. Lets the two girls talk. Listens and takes notes in his head.
“We didn’t know he was so unhappy,” says Mel.
“Quit, did he?” asks Roisin.
“Killed himself,” says Mel, matter-of-factly. “Put a rope around his neck and hanged himself in his flat.”
McAvoy sniffs.
Blinks once.
“Poor lad,” says Roisin.
McAvoy nods. Tries to sound cool. “What was his name again?”
Mel pulls out her phone. Scrolls through. “Simon,” she says sadly, and holds up the screen to reveal a grainy picture of a tall, thin, sweaty, and smiling young man. “Simon Appleyard.”
McAvoy looks at the phone number displayed across the young man’s image. He blinks once, like a camera taking a picture. Files away digits he already knows.
11:13 A.M. COURTLAND ROAD POLICE STATION ON THE ORCHARD PARK ESTATE. A PRETTY NAME FOR A SHITHOLE.
USED TO BE a decent area, this. Still is, in places. Still a few home owners who give a damn and scrub their front step and pick up the crisps packets and empty beer bottles that roll onto their well-tended front lawns. Still people who give a damn, and who believe that once the empty high-rises are torn down and the druggies move on, this community of tiny terraces and low-rent flats will be an address to brag about.
For the time being they’re grateful for the nearness of the cop shop.
The Major Incident Team operates from the second floor: a cramped warehouse of grimy computer terminals and coffee-streaked desks; of overstuffed files, bulging in-trays, and mucky cups. A room joyless as a cell, decorated with crime-prevention posters, with overlapping memos and codes of practice, all spreading out from a streaky whiteboard where the names of active cases are scrawled illegibly in red marker pen.
Broken blinds fail to blot out the rain and the view. Strip lights buzz overhead and turn this oppressively quiet room the color of gone-off milk.
McAvoy looks up from his borrowed desk.
Biker boots thudding on the thin blue carpet.
A waft of Issey Miyake perfume strong enough to catch the back of his throat.
Bangles jangling as if their wearer were rattling a tambourine.
Hair swishing sensuously against the collar of her leather jacket . . .
McAvoy feels disloyal for even thinking it, but Trish Pharaoh does not have a natural gift for covert surveillance. The other senses announce her presence long before the eyes take her in.
“Aector, my boy. Mummy needs a hug.”
She plonks her backside down on his desk, creasing the computer printouts he is carefully going through with a ruler and highlighter. She leans forward and puts her head on his shoulder, then proceeds to trundle it back and forth. “I hate them all,” she says.
McAvoy looks around. There are three civilian support staff sitting at nearby desks, but there are no other police officers in the room. He lets himself smile.
“They being mean, guv? The brass?”
“They are being wankers, Aector.”
“Wasn’t it you that told me not to expect too much of people? That when an idiot is an idiot, it should not arouse surprise?”
Pharaoh removes her head from his shoulder and pulls a face. “Did I say that? I don�
�t think I said ‘idiots.’”
“You said ‘tossers,’ I think.”
“Yeah, it’s coming back.”
Pharaoh has spent the morning with the head of CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Andrew Davey. His underlings call him “the accountant,” though they occasionally drop a vowel. In truth, he’s a decent enough career officer in his late forties whose life seems to involve nothing but form filling, committee reports, and a desperate and futile succession of spreadsheets designed to keep the holiday schedules from clashing. He does not tend to interfere in the running of the various CID teams. A small-framed, smartly dressed man with chronic indigestion and glasses that leave grooves in the sides of his long nose, he looks to McAvoy like a man who needs a good cry.
“How did it go?”
Pharaoh rolls her eyes. Her lashes momentarily stick together, and she pulls them apart with chewed fingernails that, though bitten to the quick, have been painted red.
“I’ve got a ‘watching brief,’ whatever that means. Shaun’s murder’s going to regular CID, but under my supervision, though they made it clear they wouldn’t trust me to supervise the boiling of a kettle at the moment. They seem to think Leanne’s at the root of it, but you and I both know that’s bollocks. Davey made it plain that they think she set us up, and Shaun, too, but that’s just the way she is. You know that. I know that. She’s either so bloody frightened she’s gone to ground, or they’ve got her, too . . .”
McAvoy accidentally meets her eyes and quickly looks away.
“We’ll catch them,” he says. “Nail Gun and Blow Torch. They can’t just . . .”
“They sound like a tag team, Aector. Or really shit superheroes.”
“And the third man,” McAvoy carries on. “It doesn’t feel right. None of it does. They’ve done these things to send a sign. We need to send one back. You will get them, guv.”
Pharaoh smiles. “We will,” she says. “Well, somebody will. I won’t. I’m being shunted sideways a little. Out of harm’s way for a bit. They’re asking me to look at some of the ‘peripherals’ of the case, which has to be one of my favorite phrases of the day.”
