by David Mark
She steps out of the car. Checks her reflection in the window. Ensures there are no errant herbs between her teeth, and then grinds her cigarette out with the heel of her boot. She’s been home. Changed into a lemon-yellow blouse and black skirt. Put a scarf around her neck and brushed her hair. Slipped into her biker boots and pulled on a suit jacket, which she has since discarded and thrown on the passenger seat. It was a long drive, just to make herself presentable. Sixty-mile round trip, over the bridge and back. But she’s pleased she made the effort. Feels less self-conscious about her bandaged cuts and scars now that she is dressed for her day job.
A slight pause. A breath and a moment of darkness, hiding behind her eyelids. Then up to the front door. Two taps with the brass knocker, followed by a ring of the bell.
Five seconds. Ten.
She tries the handle. Nothing. Listens for sounds from inside the property. Fancies she can hear activity somewhere past the glass conservatory that marks the western boundary of the long, brick-built property.
Pharaoh crunches over the gravel and onto the deep green grass. Is silent as she moves to the back of the house. Pushes open a wooden side gate and emerges in a long, well-tended garden. A raised patio area gives way to a hundred yards of landscaped lawn. At its center is a Chinese-style pagoda, overlooking a large, teardrop-shaped pond. On a raised platform above, water shoots from an ornamental fountain to splash merrily across polished, colored rocks.
Peter Tressider is sitting with his feet in the pond. He is wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with a jumper folded like a cape about his neck. His trousers are rolled up and he is reading from a sheaf of A4 papers while sipping beer from a can.
“Councillor Tressider, sir?”
He looks up, eyebrows knitting together, as Pharaoh crosses the grass. He’s a burly, square-shouldered chap with a dark, thick beard that looks as though it would regrow within the hour if shaven.
“No, no, this is my private residence, I’m afraid I . . .”
He starts getting up, pulling a pale, fleshy right foot out of the water and bracing his hands on his thigh to lever himself into a standing position. He recognizes her as she gets closer.
Gives a show of surprise.
“Pharaoh, isn’t it? Aector’s mate?”
She nods, happily accepting the description. “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry to intrude . . .”
He waves a hand. Lowers himself back down.
She stands at the water’s edge, watching her reflection being distorted by the water falling from the fountain. Catches sight of a large, orange-and-white carp moving slowly in the depths of the pond.
“You’re welcome to have a dip,” he says warmly, pointing at the pond. “Wonderfully refreshing once you get used to the cold. I used to go for a dip every New Year’s Day at Bridlington, y’know. Very bracing. Don’t think the heart would stand it now. Will settle for getting chilly to the ankles.”
Pharaoh notices a wooden fold-up chair in the gazebo and brings it down to the side of the pond. She erects it and sits down carefully.
“You okay with that chair?” he asks. “I notice you’ve hurt yourself.”
“Bit of a scrap with a couple of dogs,” she says matter-of-factly. “They came off worse.”
Tressider frowns. “Are you the officer involved in the gypsy case?” He catches himself. Looks around, feigning guilt. “I can’t say that, can I? Gypsy? What’s the politically correct term for them? It was you, though—yes? A suspect set his dogs on you and another officer? Am I right in thinking it’s all linked to the drugs business? Yes, yes. Goodness, how you keep it all in one head I’ll never know. You’re having quite a time, aren’t you? All this just to keep the spreadsheets looking pretty. It’s a world gone mad. Can’t wait to change it! Glad you’re back on your feet.” He stops. Looks suspicious. “This isn’t about compensation, is it?”
Pharaoh pinches her nose and sits forward in her chair. It’s nice here, with the tumbling water and the lowering sky. She looks back up at the house. There is a lot of glass and expensive-looking pleated curtains. She fancies that from the balcony you would be able to see down to the Humber from the second floor.
“It’s actually quite a delicate matter, sir,” she says, conspiratorially. “I’m sorry for intruding and turning up here unannounced, but I was keen to be as discreet as possible.”
A half smile plays at the corner of Tressider’s mouth. He takes a sip from his can of beer. “Now I am intrigued,” he says, and stifles a burp. “Pardon me. Goodness, my insides are disintegrating. Can you overdose on antacids? I’ve taken about twenty today.”
“I used to suffer,” says Pharaoh companionably. “Too much white wine. Doctor put me on pills that made me feel like I was full of polystyrene. Decided just to live with it. Friend of mine’s wife knocked up an herbal potion for me, actually. Don’t know what was in it. Tastes of cardamom and wet dog, but it does the job when you’re struggling.”
“Sounds like a good friend to have,” says Tressider. “Could use something similar myself. I’m ninety percent bile.”
Pharaoh tries to steer the conversation back where she had intended it to go. “Councillor . . .”
“Peter, please.”
“Councillor, I’m looking into a case from last year. Some questions have been raised. I’m talking about the death of Simon Appleyard, a man in his twenties who was found strangled in his flat in Anlaby last November.”
Tressider looks at her, open-faced, awaiting more. “I know that name. Aector was having a ponder, wasn’t he? On his computer screen when I popped in at Courtland Road? Small world, eh? Right, yes, well, what else?”
“The coroner recorded an open verdict because there was no suicide note. But evidence has since come to light that suggests Mr. Appleyard may have been murdered.”
She has Tressider’s full attention, but his expression still shows nothing more incriminating than intrigue.
“Councillor Tressider, this is not a proper investigation yet. We’re just taking a look. And out of courtesy I wanted to tell you face-to-face.”
Tressider wrinkles his brow, confused. “Well, I know I asked you to keep me in the loop, but I trust CID to investigate cases as they see fit. You don’t need to worry about the authority peering over your shoulder . . .”
Pharaoh looks down into the deep, dark water. “Councillor, I’m not talking to you in your role as chairman of the authority. I’m here to ask you some questions about your own knowledge of the case.”
There is silence for a moment. Tressider’s brow is so creased as to be almost knotted.
“I’m sorry, am I somehow a suspect in all this?”
His voice is quiet. There is no menace. Just a genuine inquiry. He looks confused. Bewildered. Lost.
“Councillor, we have evidence that suggests you took a taxi on fourteen November last year. It took you from Morrison’s in Anlaby to your own front door. The mobile phone that called for that taxi belonged, as far as we can tell, to Simon Appleyard.”
Tressider’s face pales. “I don’t have a bloody clue what you’re talking about,” he says, and throws himself angrily backward from the water—hauling himself into a standing position.
Pharaoh stands. “Councillor, I wanted to talk to you here, privately like this, so we could clear up any misunderstandings. As I said, this is not an investigation. Not at this stage.”
Tressider is windmilling his arms now. Looking around him as though expecting more enemies to jump out of the bushes.
“You’ve made a big mistake here. A big bloody mistake. Is this the best they’ve got?” He steps close to Pharaoh, face right in hers. “Do you think I’m a bloody idiot?”
Pharaoh holds her ground. Her heart is beating hard, but she is careful to remain calm. Professional.
“Councillor Tressider, did you take that taxi? Did you know Simon Appleyar
d? He was a practicing homosexual. Was involved in online dating. We believe he was known to one or two of your colleagues over on Hull Council.”
Tressider turns away. Drops his head to his palm. Appears to be tugging at his hair.
“I’m not having this,” he says when he spins back. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ve only been chairman five bloody minutes. The selection process for the next candidate doesn’t start until next year. Who’s so bloody scared of me they have to resort to this? I told him and I’ll tell you, I don’t even know if I want the nomination.”
“Told who, Councillor?” asks Pharaoh, reaching out to put a gentle hand on his arm and not letting go when he tries to shake her off.
“That slimy bastard. Cocker, or whatever. Upset Paula. Made me look a prize berk.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cocker,” he says again, angrily. Then he screws his eyes closed and throws himself back down to the grass, thrusting his feet back in the water.
“Cocker is the political fixer, yes? Guy who checks for skeletons in the closet of party members?”
Tressider rustles around in his top pocket. Pulls out a couple of receipts and then a business card. Hands it to Pharaoh. She takes it and looks at the logo, and Ed Cocker’s name and job title. “What did he want?”
Tressider casts around with his hands. Picks up his empty beer can and tries to find a drop of comfort. He looks exhausted suddenly.
“Stephen bloody Hepburn,” he says, and it almost pains him to say the words. “Cocker seems to think he’s a story. Could ruin my chances at the election. Not the authority one, that’s a done deal. The real election. If I stand. If they let me. If my heart doesn’t pack it in first. The git turned up here last Saturday . . .”
“Hepburn?”
“Cocker. Knocked on my door, bold as brass. Told Paula he wanted to speak to me. She said I wasn’t home. So he started on her. Asked her if she knew Hepburn. Whether she had any knowledge of his business dealings. Whether she knew that I had invested significantly in his club . . .”
“The gay bar? In Hull.”
“It’s bollocks,” he says dejectedly. “I never invested in any bloody gay club. I loaned a business associate some money to assist with the marketing of a new club he was buying into. It happened to be Hepburn’s.”
“Much money?”
“Fifteen thousand pounds. A pittance, really.”
“Who was this friend?”
“That’s not important. It’s all there in this paper trail Cocker says he’s got. It’s enough to bugger things up for me. Enough to give the party the jitters about me. Cocker’s the guy who will see if there’s enough there to be scared of.”
Pharaoh pulls a face. “Councillor, I don’t think that’s a story. Not these days. I don’t think anybody would care.”
Tressider looks up at her. “He upset Paula. I called him when she told me. Tried to be polite, but I lost my temper. Told him to leave us alone. Said I had done nowt to be ashamed of and they either wanted me or they didn’t. But he’s on good money to do this stuff. Has a job to do, so he says. A report to write. Reckons there are enough positives about me to make me worth digging a little deeper into . . .” He pauses. “Flattered me, I guess. I mellowed a bit. Said I didn’t like his methods but that I was listening.”
“How did he take that?”
Tressider looks down into the pond. Raises his feet and looks at his toes, as though confirming he is real.
“He seemed confused, I suppose. Said he wanted to explain properly. Wanted to meet up.”
“And?”
“And then he started asking questions about my family life. Even about Paula. Told me it was common practice to compile reports like these—about prospects and their partners. I lost my temper. I put the phone down. Tried to forget about it. And now you’re on my bloody doorstep.”
Pharaoh feels suddenly sorry for the man. She cannot explain it, but there is something about the tenderness with which he describes his wife that she connects with. She squats down next to him.
“You’re going to have to get used to people prying, Councillor. If you’re going to be an MP. If you’re this rising star . . .”
Tressider snorts. “I’m fifty-six,” he says. “I go to the toilet three times a night. I’m not on the bloody rise, love. I’m a decent councillor. I’m a good businessman. I could be a good MP, and I promise you I’ll be a good chairman. But I don’t know how much of it I actually want.”
They sit in silence for a spell.
“Simon Appleyard,” says Pharaoh at last.
Tressider looks away. Turns back to face her with his eyes still closed. “I don’t know anything about that, love. I don’t know the name. I haven’t taken a taxi in bloody ages. I don’t shop at Morrison’s. I’ve got one mobile phone and it’s in my pocket. You can look if you want. I’ve had the same number for years.”
He fumbles in his trouser pockets, and his wallet falls to the ground. Pharaoh picks it up. It has fallen open, and the front flap shows a picture of a smiling blond middle-aged woman holding a glass of wine and with candlelight catching in her blue eyes.
“She’s stunning,” says Pharaoh, though in truth the woman is little more than well groomed.
Tressider looks at the picture. “He really upset her,” he says, almost to himself.
“Is she home?” asks Pharaoh. “We could ask her if she wants to make a harassment complaint . . .”
Tressider blusters. Brushes it away. “She’s a tough lass. She can take it. We breed them hardy. She’s from Lancashire, to begin with, but I don’t hold that against her. One of ours now.”
Pharaoh considers him for a moment. Wonders how far to push it. Whether all she has succeeded in doing is alerting him that they are investigating a murder that he may have his fingerprints all over.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you, Councillor,” she says at last. “You can imagine how difficult it was to know how to proceed . . .”
Tressider nods, lips thin, eyes glassy and dark. “You have a job to do,” he says. “I appreciate your being so discreet.”
Pharaoh stays crouching for a moment longer. Then she extends her hand. Shakes the one that is offered in return, and while doing so, scoops up one of the receipts that has fluttered to the damp grass. She slips it into her boot.
She turns and begins walking across the damp grass.
“Simon,” he says suddenly. Pharaoh spins.
“Pardon, sir?”
“The boy,” he says. “Did he suffer much?”
Pharaoh considers it. Looks up. Clouds are rolling in. Against the darkening sky they turn the heavens into a muscled back.
“I think he always suffered,” she says. “But his death was no relief. It was murder.”
From this remove, she cannot see the councillor’s expression. But she can tell that his head has dropped, and his feet, in the water, are still.
9:43 P.M. TRANBY RISE, ANLABY.
A POLICE VAN, swaying erratically past nice middle-class houses and neat lawns.
Two angry Rottweilers making a racket in the back. Two animals in the front, hungry for blood . . .
“Shut the fuck up!”
Colin Ray twists in his seat and instantly regrets it. Pain grips his ribs; a bony handful of flesh and bone. He winces, then covers it up. Curses. Hopes Tanner didn’t see.
“Fucking gyppo,” through gritted teeth.
He hopes the pain is muscular, left over from his tussle with Ronan. He likes pain to be the result of something tangible. An impact or collision. He can understand the notion of cause and effect. Illness perplexes him. He is disquieted by syndromes. He wants his rib to be broken because that would explain why it hurts so much. The alternative diagnosis involves his heart, and he does not believe there is good news to be found in that line of in
quiry.
“You okay, boss?”
“Little git definitely potted a rib. Thought it would have worn off by now.”
“You should get yourself on sick. Have a few months. Bit of compo.”
“And who’d look after you lot, eh?”
Ray looks across at his traveling companion. Malcolm Tanner is a sergeant in the dog section of Humberside Police. He is a round-faced and affable man, with thinning brown hair and a tendency to swallow his top lip with his lower one when smiling. The habit makes him look a little like a sock puppet, and as such, he answers to Socko around his football buddies. He’s a better man than his presence here suggests. He has drunk too much, and recklessness has made him willing and cruel.
Ray considers his friend and for once he is grateful that he is not in the company of Shaz Archer. She’s busy tonight. Up to no good with one of her pretty boys. He’ll want details from her in the morning, and she’ll be willing to oblige. He’ll be glad to have her back by his side. Tremberg was happy enough to get stuck in, but if he needed some feminine wiles to get the Vietnamese to talk, he’d have been better off slipping into a dress than asking that fucking brontosaurus to act sexy.
Tanner’s good company, even if he’s not much to look at. For tonight’s adventure he has changed back into his uniform, but the collar of his goalkeeper jersey is poking out above his white shirt, and his knees are grass-stained and muddy beneath his creased navy-blue trousers.
They are sitting together in the front of a dog van, two streets from the home of Alan Rourke. They have the radio up high in a bid to drown out the Rottweilers’ incessant barking. The noise of the animals is muffled by the panel that closes off the driving area from the back, but the dogs are in a fury and the noise cannot be completely eclipsed.
Ray is almost grateful for the din. It keeps him angry. Keeps him looking forward to the moment, mere minutes from now, when he can put the gun barrel against the first dog’s skull, pull the trigger, and watch a lying gypsy bastard cry.
He looks down at the object in his lap. Enjoys its shape and heft. Its sleekness. Its clarity of purpose.
