by David Mark
“So if you’re feeling randy you just pop on here, tell the world you’re after a bit, and then you get an e-mail from somebody who wants to pummel you from behind, yeah?”
McAvoy bites down on his embarrassed smile. “Something like that. There are different categories of membership. You can just log on and post a message, like you can on Craigslist or Gumtree or any of those . . .”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“Or you can become a member, create a profile, and then it’s more like a dating site.”
“Or?”
“Or you can become a gold member, pay a membership fee, and have access to even more stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Well, you get to see all the other member profiles. Pictures as well. And you can message them direct. That might be what happened with Simon.”
“But Simon’s phone number was on here. That’s how you found him.”
“It’s against the rules, but it’s not run like some big multinational company. It will have an administrator who checks for things like pictures of kids or threats or anything, but it’s easy for things to slip through.”
“So how do we see Simon’s profile?”
“We’d need to know his user name.”
“And we don’t?”
“No.”
“Could we try a process of elimination? Look for members between twenty and thirty, local to this area, certain body type, into certain things, tattoos and whatnot?”
McAvoy smiles, pleased that she has picked it up so quickly. “There are thousands of members. It’s still a needle in a haystack. If we had even a part of his name we could narrow it down . . .”
He stops. Closes his eyes. One picture flashes into his mind whenever he thinks of Simon. Of his inked skin and flamboyance. His love of words.
Types, slowly, into the website’s search facility.
P-E-A-C-O-C-K.
Four matches are revealed. Each has a user name that contains the name of the bird. Only one belongs to Simon. The image that accompanies his profile is a close-up shot of a hard, firm torso. The other three profiles are illustrated with erect penises.
“Distinctive,” says Pharaoh, peering at Simon’s picture. “Skinny as a rake. What did he have to say for himself?”
McAvoy brings up the member details of Peacock1990. The information is scarce.
Young, slim, tattooed male, seeks dominant master. Want to be hurt and controlled. Non-smokers preferred.
“Non-smokers?” laughs Pharaoh. “Fucking hell.”
McAvoy looks at the section of the profile that details sexual preferences. All relate to being controlled and dominated.
“What’s that?” asks Pharaoh, as he scrolls down the page. She puts her finger on the screen. Reads aloud. “‘Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless: peacocks and lilies, for instance.’” She pauses. “That’s nice.”
“That’s his profile signature. He must have been on the forums. You can give yourself a signature. Some line from a film or something so people know it’s you. That’s his.” McAvoy squeezes his fist with the palm of his other hand. Thinks for a moment. “That must be what his auntie was talking about. Poetry. Some line that meant the world to him. That must be what he put on the messages he exchanged with Cabourne.”
“So it was definitely him?”
“As definite as it can be.”
“Can we go on the forums, then?”
McAvoy looks at her. He is suddenly aware that his cheeks are no more flushed than usual, and wonders what to make of it. He is not embarrassed. He is looking at a sex site, crushed against his boss in the corner of a secluded pub, and he feels more like a policeman than he has in days.
“You need to be a member,” he says. “You have to pay.”
She shrugs. “Pay.”
“I haven’t got my credit card . . .”
“Oh, Aector.” She pulls her purse from her handbag. It’s designer and looks expensive, but when she opens it, it’s filled with receipts and battered business cards. “Here,” she says, handing him a Visa card. “Shall we do you or me?”
Now the blush comes. McAvoy’s face turns scarlet.
“Christ! Fine, we’ll make somebody up. Relax.”
For the next fifteen minutes they enjoy themselves crafting a sub-dominant twenty-something pretty boy with big muscles, tattoos, and, at Pharaoh’s giggled insistence, ginger hair. They choose not to upload a picture, and tick the same preferences boxes as Simon. They give themselves the user name ruffstuff69, which McAvoy hopes is in reference to his boss’s date of birth rather than anything else. Moments later, Pharaoh’s phone buzzes. An e-mail has arrived, activating her account.
“Nice one,” she says, smiling. “Go on, then. Show me.”
McAvoy navigates them onto the discussion forums as Pharaoh brushes past and heads back to the bar for more fuel. In her absence he checks his phone. He has a missed call from a withheld number, and an “I love you soooo much xxxx” from Roisin.
“What’s he got to say for himself?” asks Pharaoh, sitting back down. “He leave any messages saying he was bummed then strangled to death by three local politicians?”
McAvoy takes another sip of beer. He can feel it doing him good. Types Simon’s user name into the forum to see what he has posted on. Pulls a face when he gets nothing back.
“Not very chatty,” says Pharaoh.
“I’ll try some of his areas of interest.”
They try line dancing. Hull. Anlaby. Dominance.
All bring up discussion threads but none that Simon contributed to.
McAvoy drops his head to the table and gives a moan as Pharaoh takes over on typing duty.
“The spelling is shocking. I suppose it can’t be easy to care when you’ve only got one hand to spare.”
McAvoy listens as his boss murmurs ideas. Feels the vibration in his forehead as her fingers thunder on the keys. “Hey, Aector, I’ve got a message. Wahey, somebody loves me!”
He looks up. In the corner of the screen is an icon indicating the arrival of new mail.
“Open it,” he instructs.
Pharaoh reads: “‘No picture? You tease. Bet you’re pretty in the flesh. Want to meet?’”
McAvoy shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Dunno,” muses Pharaoh. “Sounds quite nice.”
“Click that one,” says McAvoy suddenly, looking at a discussion title. “Go on.”
Pharaoh does as she is told. The discussion is titled “All talk, no action—left me lying.”
“Scroll down. Click that. There.”
They read it together. It is little more than a chat between two members, with occasional comments from observers. The first posting was made in August of last year: a missive from a member called Adams71 furious at having been led on by a potential partner, only to be left wanting. A reply, from RedKen1960, details a similar experience.
“‘Was so embarrassing,’” reads Pharaoh, from the screen. “‘Days of texts, getting me so horny and hard, I did everything he wanted, and he just left me there.’”
“‘Ditto, mate,’” reads McAvoy. “‘Feel sick thinking about it. Just took a look at me and left. I thought it was part of the game.’”
“He’s online now,” says Pharaoh suddenly. “Look.”
A red icon is flashing on the screen. RedKen1960 is logged on.
“Let me,” says McAvoy, grabbing the laptop. Quickly, he types: “Hey you. Read about your problems with that no-show tease. What happened? xx.”
They say nothing for a moment. Just stare at the screen. Tap their fingers on the table. Inhale, in unison, ahead of the dejected sigh that will come if there is no reply.
“There,” says Pharaoh, first.
She clicks the message icon. Opens it up. Rea
ds aloud.
Still fuming about it! Met some teases but that was just cruel. Even thought about reporting him, but he’d closed down his profile by the time I came back on the site to give him a telling off. Spent the day e-mailing me, getting me so horny, all these things he wanted to do to me. So kinky. Wanted me naked, waiting for him when he got there. Was just going to take me without a word. Even asked me to get a belt so he could tie my hands. Did everything he wanted, he came in the room, and then just sodded off without touching me. Soooo embarrassing. Anyway, was his loss. Am over it now. Wot about you? See we’re into the same things. You got any playmates you can recommend?
Pharaoh pushes herself back from the table so she can look at McAvoy without his face going blurry through nearness. As expected, he has his eyes shut.
“I can think and keep my eyes open at the same time, y’know,” she says sweetly. “Multitasking, they call it.”
His eyelids flick open. He sees her staring at his face and looks away. When he finds the courage to return her gaze, she is looking back at the computer screen.
“He was looking for Simon,” says McAvoy quietly. “He wanted to see if they had tattoos. When they didn’t, he left. When he found the right man, he killed him.”
Pharaoh sucks in her cheeks. Blows out. Crosses her legs, then lifts one by the ankle and angles it across the other. The material of her clingy dress shows the shape of her thighs, and McAvoy has to fight the impulse to commit the image to memory.
“Am I replying?”
Pharaoh nods. “Tell him to see if he can find the original user name of the person he got in touch with. We need the messages, too. If we do take this further, we’ll need it all to give to the website administrator.”
“If?” asks McAvoy.
Pharaoh nods, openly. “Yeah, if. At the moment this is just Aector McAvoy’s intellectual exercise. It’s not a murder investigation. It’s you and your boss knocking theories about and trying to decide whether there’s enough here to take it further.”
McAvoy widens his eyes. Shows his frustration. He feels as if he is running over breaking ice. “I thought you agreed with me.”
Pharaoh smiles indulgently. Puts her hand on his knee, as if he were an angry teenager refusing to accept her advice. “I do agree with you. I agree CID didn’t look into this when they should have and I agree there is a bloody good chance Simon Appleyard was murdered. But the lad has been cremated. The only evidence we have are some knackered mobile phones and some theories. I’ve got to think about the likelihood of a conviction. If not, there’s just another unsolved murder on the books.”
McAvoy turns his face to her. He is flushed and prickling with sweat across his back and shoulders. “So what does that make us? If we’re more concerned with numbers than justice, then who holds it all together? What are we here for?”
He has raised his voice more than he intended, and Pharaoh’s face turns angry. “Don’t count me in with the number crunchers, boyo. When somebody does something wrong, I want them caught and I want them punished. When somebody has been hurt, they deserve to know that there has been some kind of payback.”
“And when somebody has been murdered?”
“We catch who did it,” she says, then adds, “if we can.”
They sit in silence, looking past each other, unsure of whether to make up or take the argument further.
“What next?” asks McAvoy.
Pharaoh shrugs. “Next, we take a step back. We see what else Dan can find on the phone laptop. We wait for a description of the taxi passenger. We try and find out why they took a cab. We learn more about Simon. Then we have a think.”
McAvoy nods sullenly. He can see the sense in the suggestion.
“What if he’s trying to hurt somebody else?” he asks.
“You said it yourself, he was after Simon. He’s got him.”
McAvoy cannot meet her gaze, so turns back to the computer screen. Starts flicking through Simon’s details again. Looks at the FRIENDS section of the site.
“You think any of those are Suzie?” he asks Pharaoh, highlighting some of the female contacts that Simon has listed on his page. “Should I e-mail them? See how they knew him?”
Pharaoh nods. “Good idea,” she says.
“It’s a whole world we don’t know about,” says McAvoy thoughtfully, as he plows through the endless profiles. “People must be so lonely.”
Pharaoh looks at him as if he’s from outer space. “Not everybody has what you have,” she says at last. “People need excitement. Some people drink. Some smoke. They gamble. They meet strangers for sex. They put themselves in the hands of a sadist because it makes their heart beat faster. Life’s so tame sometimes, Aector. People just need badness sometimes.”
McAvoy wishes he had something else to drink. “I just can’t imagine spending my evenings having sex in the back of a car with a stranger.”
“You wouldn’t fit in a car. You’d need to go dogging in a van.” McAvoy takes no notice of her words. He just hears “dogging” and has a moment’s flash of inspiration. He clicks out of the website and finds a search engine. Types “dogging, East Yorkshire” into Google. “Good job your missus doesn’t check your search history,” says Pharaoh.
Moments later, he is on a website called swingingheaven.co.uk. He scrolls through dozens of postings left by members with names like luvbstolik and trev69, until he sees one that mentions East Yorkshire. Opens up the discussion thread and finds a score of messages mentioning the A46, Coniston rest stop.
He goes back to Google. Types in the road name. Is taken straight to a story on the Hull Daily Mail website.
MAN HURT AT EAST YORKSHIRE REST STOP
A 44-year-old man is in intensive care after being involved in a suspected hit-and-run at an East Yorkshire beauty spot.
The man, visiting the area on business and said to be from West Yorkshire, was found by motorists at Coniston rest stop on the road to Bridlington late on Tuesday night.
Detectives are keen to talk to the person who made a 999 call from a nearby telephone box shortly after the incident. Anyone with information should call Humberside Police on 0845 6060222, or Crimestoppers, anonymously, on 0800 555 111.
As he turns to Pharaoh, her sigh is powerful enough to tickle his damp fringe. “Guv?”
She pulls out her phone. Rings through to control. Asks which uniformed officer dealt with the incident and whether he is working today. As she waits for an answer, she mouths “I hate you” at McAvoy, who scowls and then gives a nervous laugh.
“Really? I think I know him, yeah. Radio through and ask him to ring me on this number. Thanks.” She hangs up. Turns to McAvoy. “It’s gone up to Tony Laws at Bridlington. Control are asking him to get in touch.”
“Why don’t we know about this?” asks McAvoy.
“We’re just a little unit,” says Pharaoh. “We look after very specific crimes. You remember the regular CID workload, Aector. You can’t keep track of it. And nobody knows you and I are doing this. We’re supposed to be finding out which bastards nailed lots of people’s hands to their knees. They probably don’t think we have time for dogging.”
Her phone rings. She answers politely.
“Tony, hi. Yeah. No, I know. I won’t keep you. Forget all that ma’am stuff. Guv will be fine. Or Trish, once you’ve bought me a drink. Look, Coniston rest stop, I’m told somebody got a bit carried away . . .”
McAvoy listens as his boss learns more in five minutes of charm and chat than he has in days of solo grandstanding and analysis.
She hangs up, having made a new friend.
“Right,” she says as he looks at her expectantly. “Victim was one David Stoneleigh. Letting agent from Morley. It’s near the Ikea roundabout, before you ask. Leeds way. Over here looking to link up with another letting firm, or at least that’s the story. Tony Laws reckons he came all th
is way to meet somebody up the rest stop. Apparently it’s endless up there. They ignore most of it. Do the occasional sweep of the area but tend to turn a blind eye. Anyway, they got a call last week from a phone box in the next village. Female voice, told ambulance to get to the rest stop. Somebody badly hurt. Police were alerted automatically. Patrol car arrived. Found this bugger flat on the ground, pants around his ankles, legs smashed in and hips broken. Death’s door. Got him to hospital and he was unconscious for two days. Operated on Friday and he’s lost his spleen, but he’s conscious again. Not talking very much. Probably shitting his pants trying to think of something to tell the wife. She’s used to it, mind. He was cautioned for curb crawling in Bradford in 2003.”
McAvoy digests it all. “Nasty business. But I don’t see any connection.”
“No, neither did I. Was about to go back to being sensible and doing this cautiously. Then he gave me the other news.”
“Yes?”
“They’ve fingerprinted the bonnet of his car. His own prints, and another set.”
McAvoy looks at her expectantly.
“Susan Devlin. Twenty-six. Arrested two years ago for an attack on her partner. Criminal damage. Attacked her boyfriend when he was tied up. Sex thing.”
McAvoy tries to link the information, but cannot put it together. Pharaoh is smiling.
“Received a suspended sentence when it went to magistrates’ court. So did her co-accused.”
“Co-accused?”
Pharaoh grins. “Simon Appleyard.”
7:17 P.M. WELTON.
COUNCILLOR Peter Tressider’s big white house: screened by leylandii trees and tall black railings, so as to be almost invisible from this wide, quiet street.
Trish Pharaoh, pulling in to the driveway in her two-seater sports car, sucking two extra-strong mints and smoking a black cigarette.
She looks up at the property. Gives a grudging nod. It seems tailor-made for an aspiring politician. It suggests wealth without pretentiousness, success without pomposity. Pharaoh would use the word tasteful, if asked.
