by David Mark
“And she’s home already, yeah? Morpeth Street? That’s two minutes, isn’t it?”
McAvoy fidgets. Debates turning on the ignition. Decides not to.
Pharaoh hangs up. Raises a hand, then looks at her phone.
“Coming through now,” she mutters.
McAvoy looks at her expectantly.
“DC Jensen took the statement,” she says. “Queens Gardens CID. Would have come to us in time.”
“Guv?”
“Serious and Organized. That’s what it smelled like. That, or just some nutter on his way home. Was on its way to our in-box anyway.”
Her eyes narrow as she reads the statement Georgie-Lee gave yesterday morning from her hospital bed, as she waited for a nurse to remove the cannula from her wrist and to check that the stitches in her forehead weren’t likely to burst open before she made it to the taxi.
“Friend’s birthday party . . . outside for a smoke and a breath of fresh air . . . saw a vehicle, big thing, four-by-four, damage to front end . . . heard a door slam.”
Pharaoh stops.
“The attacker said, ‘Suzie.’”
McAvoy closes his eyes. Turns his head away. Looks out of the window, where a man in running gear is sipping a hot chocolate and smoking a cigarette while chatting up two students. He finds himself shaking his head. Wonders if there will be exhilaration later. He feels none now.
“Pushed to the ground . . . choked her . . . hands in her hair . . . turned her over . . . thought she was going to be raped . . .”
“Jesus,” says McAvoy softly.
“Ripped her dress. Tore it nearly to shreds.”
“Looking for her ink,” says McAvoy needlessly.
“Smashed her head into the ground, after . . .”
Pharaoh pauses.
“Guv?”
“They said sorry.”
McAvoy licks his teeth. Turns the key in the ignition only to have something to do with his hands.
“Description?”
“Yes. Sketchy, but yes.”
“And she’s home?”
“Yes. Two minutes.”
McAvoy pulls out. Makes the brief drive through a network of back roads and one-way streets.
“That one,” says Pharaoh, and he pulls to a stop.
“You have it?” he asks, and Pharaoh pulls the magazine from her bag.
They look at each other. They are suddenly bone-tired. Cold. Drained by the endlessness of what they do.
The front door is answered by an attractive girl in tracksuit bottoms and a skimpy top. She announces herself as Jen and tells them excitedly she is Georgie-Lee’s best friend. Tells them, too, that she has been looking after her. Keeping her comfortable. Keeping her spirits up, because that is what she always does for everybody else. Tells them, a manic note in her voice, that Georgie-Lee had just organized the “best birthday party ever” when the attack happened, and that she doubts she will ever get over the shock of finding her there, bleeding and unconscious on the front step.
“Georgie-Lee! Visitors!”
She opens a white-painted bedroom door. A young girl, childlike in pajamas and bandages, is sitting up in bed, reading a magazine and sipping hot black currant tea. The room is decorated with band posters and dream catchers, tattooed rockers, and colorful unicorns. She smiles as her friend enters the room, then freezes as McAvoy and Pharaoh enter behind her.
“Are you police?” she asks, instinctively pulling up the quilt. “Have you got them?”
Pharaoh sits down on her bed.
Does not speak. Just holds the young girl’s gaze, and tries to tell her that everything will be okay.
After a moment she pulls the magazine from her pocket. Leafs through. Flinches at the sound of glossy papers catching on the quilt and the tearing of quality paper.
Lays the mag down on the bed, open at the picture of politician and bride.
She does not have to ask Georgie-Lee the question. The shiver of fear and vile memory that ripples across her face is enough.
• • •
SUZIE IS UPSIDE DOWN. The blood is pooling in her head and there is a thunderous rushing sound in her ears, broken only by the ceaseless shrieking that fills the living room.
“Give it up. You won’t last . . .”
She does as she is bid. Tumbles right way up and gives in to fits of breathless noise.
She and Roisin are having a headstand competition on the sofa, and Lilah is laughing so hard, there is a risk of losing at least one eye.
“You sure this isn’t hurting?” asks Roisin, as they right themselves and pull faces at the giggling baby.
“Hurts anyway,” Suzie says with a shrug. “May as well be upside down.”
Roisin nods and seems to think about the sentence. “I like that. We should have that on a T-shirt.”
“Or a pair of knickers.”
They giggle like two old friends.
Roisin and Suzie have shared little in the way of their stories. They have not probed each other’s secrets. Roisin knows only that the kooky young woman in her house is somebody her husband wants to keep safe. She does not doubt him. Suzie strikes her as somebody the world requires.
Suzie, meanwhile, thinks Roisin may be the best person ever. She wants to tell her. Blurts it out, as the petite, dark-haired gypsy girl straightens her hair in the big mirror above the fire.
“You’re so lovely,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m giggling. Being silly.”
“We’re a silly family,” says Roisin, blowing a raspberry on Lilah’s tummy.
“I’m not sure your husband is silly,” says Suzie, carefully. “He seems quite serious.”
Roisin smiles warmly, as if looking at a picture nobody else can see. “He’s serious about some things. He’s a big eejit a lot of the time.”
“And this is okay?” Suzie asks.
“Nice to have company. Nice to be silly.”
Suzie looks at herself in the mirror. She is wearing one of McAvoy’s shirts, and a pair of Roisin’s leggings. She has no makeup on, though Roisin has promised to remedy this after lunch. She feels odd, looking at this unfamiliar reflection. This plain face and unremarkable hair. Comfy clothes and covered-up tattoos.
“Do you think I’d look good with my hair black, like yours?” she asks.
Roisin considers it. “Might be a bit severe for you. You’ve got a warm face. Need a warm color. Your hair suits you.”
Suzie smiles. “Thanks.”
Roisin picks Lilah out of her playpen. Pretends to bite her tummy. “Want a hold?”
Suzie shakes her head. “I’ll just stick to performing. I’m clumsy.”
“Aector is, too. Should see him trying to get his change ready to pay the toll at the bridge. He can’t manage five-p pieces. Hands are too big. Gets in a right state.”
The way she says it is not critical. Roisin seems to think her husband’s clumsiness is every bit as laudable as his strength.
“He must make you feel very safe,” Suzie says, and instantly wonders if she has overstepped an invisible boundary.
Roisin looks at her quizzically. Grins. “There’s no world without him.”
They enjoy a moment, two new friends together. As they stand here in front of the mirror, fixing their hair and praising each other, the first fresh handfuls of rain start to beat against the glass. They cross to the window, amazed by the thunderous onslaught.
“It’s gone so dark,” says Suzie, marveling at the sudden gloom beyond the glass. “Could be nighttime.”
“Going to be a good summer,” predicts Roisin. “Crappy spring means warm summer.”
“That true?”
Roisin shrugs. “No. If we say it enough, though, it will be eventually.”
As they talk, there is a screech of tires and a fountain of spray as
a car, traveling too fast, is flung around the turn-in to the little close. It is followed by another, uncomfortably close, and both scream to a halt on the curb opposite.
“Aector?”
Both women watch as the doors are flung open. McAvoy clambers from the driving seat of the hatchback in the lead. A middle-aged, busty woman in leather boots and a too-tight V-neck jumper wrenches open the driver’s door of the little two-seater sports car. From this remove, Suzie thinks her bra looks painfully tight.
“His boss,” says Roisin, by way of explanation. “Likes lamb.”
“Yeah?” asks Suzie, confused. “Bunnies, personally.”
The door swings open and McAvoy, red-faced, bursts into the living room, knocking a picture off the wall. Pharaoh is just behind him.
“These two,” says McAvoy, pulling out a mag and throwing it open at a picture of a smiling, fifty-something couple in a posh, expensive-looking house.
Suzie looks to Roisin. Glances at Pharaoh, whose eyes are wide and face unreadable.
“Look,” says McAvoy. “Do you know these two?”
Suzie takes the mag. Looks up into McAvoy’s face and gives a nod.
The big detective spins away from her, hands in his hair. Throws a look at his boss. Goes and stands in front of the window with his hands on the sill, collecting himself. Roisin, wordlessly, slips to his side.
“You’re sure,” asks Pharaoh.
“It was a place over in West Yorkshire,” says Suzie, and when she hears Lilah’s little squeal, drops her voice, as if embarrassed. “Private members’ club.”
“A sex club?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Simon had made friends with somebody online. Said we should try it out.”
“When was this?”
Suzie sucks her lip. “Not even a year, I don’t think. I’d only had the tattoos done a wee while. Simon, too.” She stops, nods excitedly as she remembers. “Yeah, that was his grand unveiling. Couldn’t wait to show them off. The tattooist was really pleased. Said he was going to use them in his adverts. Was going upmarket . . .”
Pharaoh moves them both to the sofa. Sits them down. “Were there many couples there? Would there be more witnesses?”
She frowns. “People don’t like to talk. They give false names. You’re pretty safe there.”
“What happened?” asks McAvoy, crossing from the window. “What did you do?”
Suzie looks at each of their intense faces. “We played. Him with me. Then him with Simon. Then all four of us. He was nice. Simon said he was amazing. She was a bit of a cold fish. Liked my tattoos, though . . .”
“This couple,” says McAvoy, pointing at the page. “You’re sure.”
Suzie’s mouth drops open, horrified she may have misled them. “Not him,” she says hurriedly. “I don’t know him. Just her. She had this mask. She was a big woman. Like a man, with boobs. She was wearing this silly mask when we went in. I think she’d been to posher parties than ours. We were a bit of a comedown, but she liked roughing it. She took the mask off soon after. Was really into it. Into me. There was another guy, too. Just joined in. It’s a bit embarrassing talking about all this . . .”
Pharaoh spins in her seat. Locks eyes with McAvoy. He pulls out his phone and quickly finds his way to the Hull Council website. Finds the right picture. Crouches down and shows it to Suzie.
“Him, yes? He was the other man? Stephen Hepburn.”
She nods. “Yeah. Friendly guy. Funny. Simon liked him. Are they not a couple, then? Who’s the guy with the beard in the mag? That her husband?”
Pharaoh gives a laugh. “That’s Peter Tressider. Chairman of the Police Authority. Future MP.”
Suzie looks at McAvoy, not understanding.
“And he killed Simon?”
McAvoy shakes his head.
“No,” he says, rubbing his head with a large, clumsy hand. “She did.”
THE MASK sits on the dressing table in the master bedroom, propped against the gilt-edged frame of the expensive oval mirror and surrounded by vintage perfume bottles, which flicker in the soft light of the large church candles that burn behind the four-poster bed.
Paula remembers the mask’s purchase. A little shop filled with grinning faces, laughing gargoyles, down a Venetian side street near the grand hotel where she and her new husband were honeymooning.
“Do you like it?” he’d asked, already reaching for his wallet.
She didn’t need to answer. She was mesmerized. Lost in the sightless eyes of the gold-and-crimson face she yearned to pull over her own.
A bauta mask, the seller had said. Worn in the eighteenth century by men and women keen to disguise their identities at the gaming tables.
She reaches for it now. Strokes the glossy paint. Touches its nose and its detailed jaw with the back of her knuckles.
Paula has never felt more alive than when looking out through its eyes.
This is the face she wears when she lets herself play. At parties. In hotel rooms. Letting herself be free.
It was only naughtiness at first. Just a chance to feel sexy with a man or two. It became an addiction. And then more than that.
She stares at the mask again.
The colors are entrancing. Traditionally, it should be painted in plain black or white, but the harlequin pattern of luxurious red and gold catches the light better. It is an exquisite work, a gorgeous example of its type. Tied with ribbon at the back, it covers the whole face, but the square jawline points upward, allowing the wearer to eat and drink without its removal.
From behind this magnificent veil, Paula has experienced pleasure and pain in equal and exquisite measure. She has tongued and tasted, felt and fucked. She has given in to every instinct and desire. And she has never had to look at her face in the mirror.
Of course, her identity had not mattered at the start. She had been a successful man’s wife, but the risk of having sex with strangers was no greater for her than for anybody else.
Then his political career took off.
She began having her photo taken. She began to become recognizable.
And they started to talk about Peter becoming an MP.
She had trusted to good fortune at first. Told herself that anybody who recognized her from her tawdry couplings would have a vested interest in keeping it to themselves. But she could not stop herself from remembering. Could not help but think back to all the nights when she had risked everything in the pursuit of faceless sex.
Alone among the many indiscretions troubling her was the night they slummed it. When she and Hepburn found a couple of playmates online and decided to take a risk.
During their Internet chats, the couple mentioned the private members’ place in Huddersfield. Told her and Hepburn all about the love swing. The chains. It had sounded deliciously seedy. Wonderfully down-market. Instantly arousing in its griminess.
They decided to take the risk. Convinced themselves eighty miles was far enough from home.
They had let their fantasies take shape and worked themselves up. Given false names and paid their membership. Had a drink with the foulmouthed old bastard who ran the place and then headed upstairs to one of the private rooms.
Paula had worn the mask. Been waiting in a private room, spread-eagle on the bed, when Simon and Suzie walked in.
Suzie had laughed. Taken a look at the tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged woman on the bed in her hook-nosed Venetian mask, and giggled.
So Paula had taken it off. She wanted the girl as soon as she saw her. Wanted to touch her warm, young skin. Wanted to trace her tongue against the blossoms on her back. She hadn’t wanted the evening to dissolve into silliness. She’d taken off the mask and pulled Suzie between her thighs. And the party had begun.
After a time, when her need for pleasure had outweighed all els
e, she had instructed Hepburn to open the door. To let in the first man he saw. She opened her legs, and allowed herself to be entered by a stranger. His name was Connor Brannick, and the few seconds he spent inside her would eventually cost him his life.
Here, now, Paula drops her head to her hands. She can hear her husband mowing the lawn in the back garden. Wishes she were out there, too. Perhaps sitting on a blanket. Drinking wine. She can’t go out there now. Can’t even look at the fish pond.
She knows that this cannot go on. That soon her husband will find the time to investigate properly the continued death of his expensive carp. Will drain the pond. Will find Connor’s body, stones wedged into his motorbike leathers, decomposing on the plastic bottom of the deep pool . . .
Her husband does not know she has killed. But he knows something has changed. Knows that she is lying. Has asked, more than he should have done, when the motorcycle in his garage will be going back to the “friend” for whom she claims to be looking after it.
She knows, too, that the big Scottish sergeant is getting closer. That Hepburn’s phone call to his superiors has done nothing but convince him there is something to investigate.
Knows that, far more than her husband, it is her lover, Stephen Hepburn, who is closest to making the accusation. To asking her whether she has killed two people, and is trying, so damn hard, to do it again.
She holds the mask to her face. Stares out through its eyes. Smells the stale sweat and shivers as she remembers the moment she first closed it over her countenance.
Her phone bleeps.
Behind the mask, she gives the faintest of smiles.
• • •
THEY DIDN’T THINK she was going to reply at first. Sat for hours watching Suzie’s phone and waiting for a message back. It came around six p.m., as Pharaoh and McAvoy were sitting at the laptop in his kitchen, eating ham-and-mustard sandwiches and filling in the gaps in their murderer’s life.
Paula Tressider was born in 1959. Nice middle-class Manchester family. Two sisters. Arty mum and businessman dad. Started university and met the man who would be her first husband. Played at being a political activist but seems to have been more about the outfits than the cause. Married the history student at twenty-two and divorced him a year later. Took a job in a boutique in Leeds. Became the manager. Met Peter Tressider. Married in 1989. Became the good wife. Started appearing on the boards of his various businesses. Turning up on his arm at political functions. Moved to East Yorkshire and opened two fashion houses. Gave talks to the Women’s Institute about the importance of a stable family unit. Started wearing twinsets and pearls. Joined the board of governors at a local school. Joined the Conservative Party. Became a pillar of the community and the cardboard cutout of a politician’s wife.
