by David Mark
‘I’m going soon,’ says Pharaoh, in as kindly a voice as she can manage. ‘If you could call me a taxi, please.’
Hollow stands with his arm around his daughter. ‘I’ll drive you,’ he says. ‘Here, have a drink.’
Pharaoh feels so out of place she’s tempted to simply run off through the woods. It’s all suddenly too much: the buzzing of the flies and the rustling of the trees and the chirruping of the songbirds on the headstones and high branches; the shadows of the leaves moving over her face; the emptiness in her gut and the hot, angry sense of having let herself down . . .
‘Are you okay? You look like you’re sweating. Drink this.’
Pharaoh feels unsteady on her feet. She takes the proffered glass. Smells Delphine as she puts her arms around her and steers her to the steps of the caravan. She smells like a teenager, of sweat and mown grass. Cheap shampoo and junk food.
‘Daddy, help me get her sat down. Is she okay? I heard shouting . . .’
‘Don’t worry, darling, she’s just overworked. Needs a rest. Here, Trish, drink some more. I’ll take you back soon, I promise.’
Pharaoh can smell something else. It’s an oppressive, thrusting scent and spears into her mouth and nose like the fingers of a grasping hand. She can smell corruption. Can smell the earth, the leaves turning to mulch beneath her feet. She’s suddenly overcome by thoughts that are alien to her. Is consumed by the knowledge that all things end. Feels tiny. Feels for a moment her place in the order of things and realises that if she catches a thousand murderers she will still have failed to matter.
This place, she thinks. Here, among the dead. It’s a window into something that we should not see. She imagines growing up here. Watching as chicks hatch and fledge and fly away. Finding their pathetic bodies among the snapdragons and bluebells. Seeing them feast on wriggling things; gulping down spiders and moths, squawking and fighting, begging for life . . . Pharaoh cannot stand it. She would grow mad here inside a week under the weight of seeing nature as it truly is.
‘I’m okay,’ she says, and tries to mean it. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired. Too many late nights.’
‘I’ll get the car,’ says Hollow. He seems pleased to have something to do, a little lost in the face of Pharaoh’s embarrassment and sickness.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Delphine, sitting next to her. ‘I can make you something. Have you eaten? Did Daddy take you for something? There are some nice pubs. We could go.’
‘I’m fine. I just need to get back to work.’
‘Will you come again? Daddy likes you.’
Pharaoh turns away. Doesn’t like the word ‘daddy’. Doesn’t want to be seen.
‘I came here to talk to him about a murder inquiry.’
‘I thought that was all over.’
‘Not that. That’s done. He told me he’d taken you to hospital and you saw a girl. Ava Delaney. She was found murdered last night.’
‘That’s horrible. How?’
‘I can’t tell you that. But do you remember anything about her?’
‘I had a migraine that night. I don’t remember very much. That’s so sad. How old was she?’
‘Do you know the name Hannah Kelly?’
‘I don’t think so. No, no, I do. Is she the one who’s missing? Why? Did Daddy say we’d met her too?’
‘No, we’re just asking everybody. I’m sorry to trouble you.’
‘I don’t blame you, y’know. You were just doing your job. But those lads did attack me for no reason and Daddy just did what everybody should do.’
Pharaoh looks into the eyes of the pretty, earnest girl and sees a love for her father that she has never seen in any eyes other than Fin McAvoy’s.
‘It must get lonely out here,’ says Pharaoh, gesturing around her. ‘Just you and your dad.’
‘It wasn’t always just us. My brother died – you know that, don’t you? Killed himself. And Mum drank herself to death.’
‘I’m sorry. About both of them.’
‘Aramis used to get sad all the time. He drank polish. Poison. It was a horrid way to die. Nearly broke Daddy’s heart.’
‘And yours, I expect.’
‘Of course. I talk to him a lot. It’s nice to have him close by. It only got lonely when Daddy was gone. But he’s back now.’
Pharaoh closes her eyes for a long time. When she opens them again, Reuben Hollow is standing in front of her holding out his hand.
‘I carved the figures because you’re beautiful,’ says Hollow softly, as he helps her down the steps towards the car. His hands are warm and his breath upon her neck threatens to take the strength from her legs. ‘Too beautiful to be sullied by me.’
Pharaoh allows herself to be steered into the passenger seat. Closes her eyes as the shadows dance upon her and the warm leather seats burn her skin.
‘Come again,’ says Delphine, as the car jerks away over the uneven grass. ‘Please.’
Pharaoh catches something in the voice. A plea. A hint of something she cannot place.
She looks across at Hollow. Handsome and charming, with his blue eyes and gentle hands. Reuben Hollow, who refuses to touch her because she’s too damn beautiful. Reuben Hollow, with his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and a kiss that lingered a second too long upon her head.
She closes her eyes and hopes sleep will take her.
Hopes that when she wakes it will be into a world where her thoughts do not make her feel so sick.
Chapter 16
Tuesday evening, 9.18 p.m.
A row of terraced cottages, white-painted and timeless; little front yards and potted plants blooming in window boxes. Overhead, the mass of the Humber Bridge; so many tonnes of concrete and steel, rising out of the fog and the coffee-coloured waters of the estuary.
Aector McAvoy, sitting on the stretch of grass opposite his home, phone under his chin and notebook on his lap, watching through the darkness and the clouds as his children throw stones in the water and his wife plucks daisies with her dainty toes to drop them in his lap one at a time.
‘No earlier than Sunday,’ he says, consulting his notes. ‘No later than Tuesday. He’d say later rather than sooner, if you pushed him.’
At the other end of the phone, Pharaoh snorts. ‘If I pushed him he wouldn’t get up for a month. Carry on.’
‘Cause of death was asphyxiation. Low levels of oxygen in the blood, high levels of carbon dioxide. Evidence of significant cyanosis. That’s the purplish colouring.’
‘I know what it is.’
‘Crushed hyoid bone. Do you know—’
‘Yes.’
‘Vomit in the mouth and throat. Not much stomach content left but she had been drinking red wine shortly before her death. A spirit too, though he’s struggling to identify it. She had eaten from a bag of toffee popcorn and had a microwave moussaka for her lunch. We found the packaging in the carrier bag she was using as a bin.’
‘The scalping,’ says Pharaoh, sighing. ‘Get to the scalping.’
‘A sharp blade. Well maintained. Polished with a normal household chamois. Equally sharp on both sides of the blade. Perhaps six inches long. Not like anything found at the flat. This was an impressive weapon.’
‘Was it after death, Hector?’ asks Pharaoh. Her voice suggests this is the thing that matters most.
‘Yes, thankfully,’ he says, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘He held the hair in his fist and sliced through the axilla. That’s the technical name for an armpit . . .’
‘I know.’
‘. . . left a tiny patch under the left arm. Enough to suggest at least a month’s growth. Possibly more.’
‘The bleach,’ says Pharaoh.
‘Used as a crude way of destroying anything of forensic value. Caused severe burns to the skin and meant we couldn’t get a print off any part of her. It was done by somebody with some understanding of forensics but no real expertise. Basically, nothing you wouldn’t know by reading a lot of crime books.’
McAvo
y hears the neck of a wine bottle hit a glass. Hears Pharaoh swallow and then a deep breath as she takes a drag on her cigarette. He has so much to ask her. He expected her to walk into the incident room all day. Had expected at least a phone call. But he has been left to run a murder inquiry without her guiding hand. Jackson-Savannah delivered his findings mid-afternoon and McAvoy held off briefing the team until he was damn sure Pharaoh wasn’t going to show. He has been calling her all evening. Was about to give up when she finally called back, just as McAvoy and Roisin were telling the kids it was time to cross the road and go back home for a bath and bed. They were delighted when McAvoy took the call and signalled they could have another few minutes on the little patch of rocks and mud that they insist upon calling ‘the beach’. It is where they spend most of their evenings. The house is already too small for them. They only moved in a couple of years ago and it has spent much of the time since under tarpaulin and scaffolding, being renovated and largely rebuilt. It is a newish property, built to look old. It shouldn’t have ghosts yet. But it has witnessed death and destruction. People died in the living room during an investigation that almost cost the McAvoys everything. They would have moved out were it not for the view. McAvoy adores it here. Loves the water. Finds the drone of tyres on tarmac comforting as it drifts down from the colossal bridge. Likes the chatter of the drinkers who make their way to and from the Country Park Inn; the sound of the ice-cream vans and the squeal of children playing football on the grass. Likes to hear the splash of the lifeboat as it hits the motionless water. There’s a park nearby. A large, decorated farm cart, filled with flowers that spell out the words ‘City of Culture’ in a riot of reds, yellows, blues and greens, poems by Philip Larkin etched into the spokes of the great wheels. It soothes him. Helps him to breathe.
Roisin holds a buttercup under his chin, clutched between her toes. She grins at him. She looks spectacular: leggings and a leopard-print vest, hoop earrings and a riot of gold and garnet at her throat. She’s been more affectionate than ever tonight. Still feels bad about upsetting him. Has told him half a dozen times how good he looks today. Made him a lemon meringue pie this afternoon. She hasn’t needed to do any of it but the fact that she has makes McAvoy feel a little more whole. She is his antidote. He fills himself with her so he can face the horrors of his days.
‘How did it go?’ he asks Pharaoh, when the silence stretches out. ‘Today?’
‘Peachy. I buggered off at lunchtime. Had a lead worth following.’
McAvoy waits, curious. This is not how she normally operates.
‘Anything?’
‘Nah. Well, maybe. I’ll tell you when I see you. My head’s a shed right now. You can email me Ava’s medical records if you like but I doubt I’ll get to it before morning. I have a report to write for the brass. Complete breakdown of the investigation into Hollow. Why I did what I did. Who said what. What I knew. They’re covering their arses but they’re still onside. We just have to weather it.’
McAvoy turns to his wife. Puts his hand on her bare ankle. Admires the delicate ink that winds up to the scarring around her calf.
‘Jackson-Savannah found something else,’ he says, stroking Roisin’s instep with his rough thumb. ‘He found traces of an organic material in her stomach. Something he wouldn’t expect.’
‘Yes?’
McAvoy looks again at Roisin. She told him about the properties of the substance, what it could be used for.
‘Houseleek. Sempervivum. Do you know what that is?’
McAvoy can hear the scowl in Pharaoh’s silence. ‘Go on,’ she says.
‘It’s the British aloe vera. Can be used to treat burns and skin complaints. Increases your blood pressure and is good for earache, the heart and digestive system and has been known to have a positive effect on shingles and haemorrhoids.’
There is silence. Pharaoh takes a glug of wine. ‘You’re telling me this because . . . ?’
‘A trace of it was found in Ava’s stomach. Recently ingested. It may have lots of good properties but you do not want to swallow this stuff. It causes serious stomach problems. Vomiting. People used to take it as an emetic to make themselves throw up. Can be used with large amounts of parsley to bring on a miscarriage.’
‘Parsley? You use that in fishcakes, Hector.’
‘Yes, but it’s all about the dosage and the part of the plant you use. If you have skills with herbs you can knock up a tincture that tastes of nothing which will make you throw your guts up in next to no time.’
Pharaoh breathes out her cigarette smoke. ‘Roisin told you all this, I presume.’
McAvoy looks at his wife, blithely polishing her fingernails on her Lycra-covered chest and beaming with affected pride.
‘If somebody went to the trouble of concocting this stuff then we aren’t looking for somebody who lost their temper and killed Ava in a fit of rage. They got her to ingest it. Followed her to the bathroom. Suffocated her with the toilet seat then cut her and took their trophy.’
Pharaoh stays silent for a moment. ‘Do I remember something in the Hannah Kelly disappearance about her waving to a group of ramblers and them thinking she was Mediterranean?’
McAvoy takes a breath. Wonders how the hell she stores it all in a mind so full of politics and children, wine and medication.
‘There’s a witness statement to that effect. It didn’t seem to make much difference at the time but if somebody has a fetish . . .’
‘Quite,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Ava’s body – was the rest of her unshaved?’
McAvoy doesn’t need his notes. ‘No. Shaved legs. Waxed bikini line. Forensics found some of the used strips in the bathroom pedal bin. She waxed herself only a day or two before she died.’
‘And Hannah?’
‘We obviously don’t know for certain but she had a used razor in her shower bag and one of her housemates remembered seeing her with smooth legs not long before she disappeared.’
McAvoy finds himself rolling up the ankle of Roisin’s leggings. Strokes her smooth skin.
‘You’re not a secret expert on fetishism, are you?’ asks Pharaoh. ‘You couldn’t tell me off the top of your head what sort of man likes a woman to be smooth everywhere but under the arms?’
‘I think it may have something to do with scent,’ says McAvoy, and turns away from Roisin’s quizzical expression. ‘There are some websites. I’ve requested a call from one of the registered clinical psychologists first thing. They may be able to shed some light.’
‘Does Jez Gavan strike you as the sort of person who would be able to set anything like this up?’
McAvoy considers the scabby little dealer. He doubts it.
‘This is somebody with a cool head. They either knew her or charmed their way in. Slipped something in her drink. I’ve requested that any drinking vessels or empty bottles be tested first by the lab team. They have so much to go through. The flat was a rubbish tip. Do you want to see the instructions I sent regarding how to prioritise?’
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ says Pharaoh dismissively. She seems tired. Her voice is a little slurred.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks her again. ‘Helen Tremberg came to see me today. Has an idea she wants to run past you. I thought we could maybe bring it under our umbrella . . .’
‘Whatever you think,’ says Pharaoh with a yawn. ‘Fuck, I’m no use to you tonight. I feel rotten, to be honest. Can you run all this past me again first thing? I need to sleep. You need to read about armpit fetishes.’
McAvoy smiles. ‘Is Sophia okay?’
‘It’s all peachy, Hector. Sleep tight.’
She hangs up and McAvoy is left staring at his phone.
‘She out of sorts?’ asks Roisin, standing up and brushing herself down. She peers through the fog and calls her children. They emerge like soldiers, bursting out of the mist. Lilah bumbles along beside her brother, who is holding her hand and pulling her a little too fast. Both are giggling.
‘Just office politics,’ says McAvo
y, hauling himself upright. ‘She plays the game well but this thing with Hollow . . .’
Roisin drops her eyes. Puts her hand in the small of his back and moves closer to him.
‘I don’t know how he charmed her, if that’s what he did,’ says Roisin. ‘He’s nothing special to look at. Not when you’re in the room.’
She stiffens for a moment, as if she is preparing to say something else. He knows her noises and movements. Knows them like his own.
‘You know the other night?’ she asks, quietly. ‘That business at Pharaoh’s? I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe there was more to it. Maybe I should have said something. But I thought it was just some bother with Sophia. She’s been in a state recently and I said she could talk to me. Look, I promised her I wouldn’t say anything and I know how you feel about promises, but I have to tell you this or I won’t sleep. It was nasty, Aector. They were men, not boys. And they wanted Trish. They weren’t just local thugs, babe, they were the real thing. I’m sorry, I should have said, but Sophia begged me not to. Those two need to talk.’
Aector sucks his cheek. Wonders if she is over-reacting. But he has never had any reason to doubt her.
‘A promise is a promise,’ he says, at last. ‘I understand why you played it down. But nobody would be daft enough to go after Trish. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. You’ve told me now. Leave it to me.’
Roisin seems relieved. Reaches up and strokes his beard.
McAvoy wants to push her for more details but fears spoiling the moment. He wants to sit on the toilet seat reading a story to Lilah as Roisin baths her. Wants to drink hot chocolate and finish the lemon meringue pie, to catch Fin reading under the covers with a torch, going over the letters that his granddad has been sending him almost daily since they returned from the family croft last summer after a holiday that mended a lot of the broken bridges of McAvoy’s past. He wants to make love to his wife as the breeze plays with the curtains of the tiny bedroom. Wants her to muffle her shouts against his neck. Wants her to fall asleep covered in sweat so that when she wakes she will be scented the way he likes. He half smiles to himself. He could have told Pharaoh that yes, he does know a little about what some men want. He likes for Roisin to sometimes smell a little less of perfume and more of flesh.
