by David Mark
‘Could you turn that down, please?’ he asks, polite but firm. A fat, round-faced lad of around twenty years is sitting in the driving seat of the central Subaru. He gives a snort of derision at the request. Turns to his companion and says something he thinks is clever.
McAvoy looks at the semicircle of youngsters who are lounging on the car bonnets. They are looking at him with interest, eager to see what will happen next. He senses that their days play out to a pattern and that today, he is the note of variety.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant McAvoy,’ he says, raising his voice. ‘I’m looking for David Hogg.’
Instinctively, several pairs of eyes flick in the direction of the passenger seat of the Subaru. McAvoy peers in. Spots the lad who crashed his car into horse and rider on a country road and then left them both for dead. He still looks battered, and the way he moves his jaw suggests there is still wire holding it together. He has fleshy lips and a constellation of spots and blackheads across his nose. His hair is a tangled mop, sprouting from a thin head. He may be wearing designer labels but he looks as though he has stolen the garments. Nice things do not sit well upon him. He has not replaced the earring that was torn from his ear during the attack that left him in hospital with bones pulped and jaw smashed. His earlobe still sports a scar.
‘You would be Mr Hogg,’ says McAvoy, leaning past the driver and fixing his gaze upon the unsmiling lad. ‘Could I have a word?’
Hogg mockingly raises a hand to his ear, miming an inability to hear. Then he looks through the glass to his friends for confirmation of his brilliance.
McAvoy sighs. Takes the keys from the ignition and enjoys the shouts that follow the sudden silence. Pockets the keys.
‘You can’t do that, that’s fucking theft!’
‘Give them back!’
‘You’re fucking dead!’
McAvoy turns to the group of youngsters who are glaring at him but making no attempt to move forward. The oldest looks around nineteen. The two girls look like they should still be in school. He wonders what their parents think they’re up to. Wonders what he would do if he learned Lilah was out with a group like this, spending her free time drinking cans of Red Bull in the back of a hatchback with the kind of lads who walk down the street with their hands inside their jogging pants.
‘Mr Hogg,’ he says, turning back to the car. ‘It really would be easier if you gave me a moment of your time.’
Hogg looks like he wants to spit. Locks eyes with McAvoy for a long moment. Finally, he hisses a curse and gets out of the vehicle. McAvoy walks around to the far side and holds the door open for him. Rather enjoys watching him struggle to manoeuvre a right leg that still seems to pain him.
‘This is harassment,’ he says, once he has extricated himself from the vehicle. He says it loud enough for his friends to hear.
‘Why is it that everybody the police want to question thinks they’re being harassed?’ muses McAvoy aloud. ‘I’m not harassing you. I’m going to ask you some questions and you can answer them if you want, or be awkward about the whole affair and cause both of us to have a tedious day.’
‘You a Jock?’ asks Hogg, making the word sound like a sneer. ‘My mam used to shag a Jock. He was a fucking prick as well.’
McAvoy closes his eyes. Lets his weariness show in his posture and face. Looks at the audience that Hogg has decided to play to. It’s clear Hogg is the alpha male among his cronies. He’s the nephew of a big deal. He’s got a bit of money. Got a reputation. Seems intent on playing up to it.
McAvoy moves closer to Hogg. Gives him a pleasant smile.
‘Did you hear we found her?’ he asks. ‘Hannah.’
‘Hannah who?’ says Hogg, as his face falls into its default setting of confused and hostile.
‘Hannah Kelly,’ says McAvoy. ‘You were questioned about her death. I’d have thought you’d remember.’
Hogg gives a laugh. Turns to his friends. ‘That was fucking months ago. And I told her what I’m telling you. Leave it.’
McAvoy keeps his eyes on Hogg’s. Breathes out through his mouth. Clicks his tongue against his palette. Nods.
‘Come with me,’ he says, and grabs hold of the young man by his stripy blue T-shirt. In the face of Hogg’s protests, McAvoy drags him a dozen feet away from the cars. Pulls him forward and presses his lips against his ear.
‘I don’t do this, Mr Hogg. This is not how I like to conduct my investigations. I believe that people are fundamentally okay but that sometimes they do wrong. When they do, it’s up to society to make sure that balance is restored. Somebody did something very bad to Hannah Kelly. I don’t think it was you. Nobody ever thought it was you. You were in hospital. That’s a pretty damn good alibi. But I know for a fact you ran your car into the back of a horse she used to own and I know for a fact that somebody used your phone to call her not long before she disappeared. All I want to know is the details of that call. And I can’t think of any other way to demonstrate my strength of feeling than this.’
McAvoy releases the smaller man, who makes a great show of smoothing down his shirt and glances back at his friends. Then Hogg looks over at the blue Volvo, where a pretty young woman with dark hair and incredible assets is leaning against the bonnet smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
‘Who’s that?’ asks Hogg.
‘Doesn’t matter. Not to you.’
‘You’re not a fucking copper, are you?’ says Hogg, suspiciously.
‘I told you I was.’
‘No, no, I mean, I don’t reckon you are. Who are you? Do you work for him?’
McAvoy pauses, thinking fast. ‘Him?’
‘Him, yeah.’
McAvoy isn’t sure whether to let Hogg continue to believe he is somebody other than who he claims to be.
‘If I was, I wouldn’t say, would I?’
Hogg grows a little pale. Shakes his head and his breathing becomes ragged.
‘I never told. Tell him. Please. I swear to God.’
McAvoy stares into the young man’s eyes. Wonders, for the merest fraction of a second, whether it would turn Roisin on to watch him punch the little shit in the chest.
‘Tell me about the call,’ he says in a low voice. ‘It will be better for you.’
Hogg seems unsure, torn between calling his mates over and trying his luck against the big guy, or spilling everything he knows. After a moment, his shoulders seem to sag.
‘He made his point the first time,’ says Hogg. ‘Fuck, I was in hospital long enough. I did what he said.’
‘And what was that?’ asks McAvoy, trying to maintain his composure.
‘I apologised!’ spits Hogg. ‘He owes me for that. Owes me the video.’
McAvoy’s mind races ahead; hands him a picture, fully formed. He glares at Hogg. Lets some gravel creep into his voice.
‘He made you apologise, yes? To Hannah.’
Hogg looks down at his dirty white trainers. Nods. ‘I was pissed when he grabbed me,’ he says, as if defending his lapse in dominance. ‘I’d smoked a fucking orchard of weed. I was walking home. Still didn’t have a car . . .’
‘Because your uncle had the last one you stole crushed,’ says McAvoy.
Hogg shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
‘And?’
‘He sprayed me with something. A little water bottle, straight in my eyes. Stung like fuck. I couldn’t see. Next thing I’m on the floor somewhere. A garage, I reckon, but I couldn’t say. I’m bleeding from my mouth and I can barely see. He’s got my phone . . .’
‘You saw his face?’
‘Are you listening? I couldn’t see a thing.’
‘He hurt you?’
Hogg swills spit around his mouth. Sucks it through his teeth.
‘He described what he was doing as he did it. Didn’t seem excited. Just calm, like he’d done it before. Said he had a horse-shoe in a sock. Said he thought it was symbolic after what I did. And then he hit me with it. Whipped me around the ribs. The face. I’ve never felt pain like
it.’
McAvoy cannot disguise the sound of his breathing or pretend to be anything other than energised by this sudden misguided admission.
‘He filmed you,’ says McAvoy.
Hogg nods. ‘Used my own fucking phone. I was lying there, bleeding and hardly able to move, and he videoed me. Told me to apologise. Told me to say I was sorry. To beg for my life.’
McAvoy looks away. Turns back to where Roisin is picking loose tobacco off her tongue and smiling at him.
‘He sent the video to Hannah,’ says McAvoy.
Hogg shrugs again. ‘I didn’t know her. Didn’t know why it was happening. But she saved my life. Phoned him back. I heard him whispering. Whatever she said, he left me alone after that. Came back and gave me one last smack. Took my jaw off the fucking hinge. Told me that if I spoke about what had happened he’d send somebody after me. Told me to be nice to the princesses, whatever that might fucking mean.’
McAvoy sucks his cheek and looks up, past the trees, to where a sudden strip of sunlight has managed to permeate the gloom.
‘Your phone,’ he says. ‘He took it?’
‘I was unconscious,’ says Hogg. ‘My uncle found me. Told me to keep my mouth shut, like I had any choice. They had to wire it shut until it healed. Broke all of my ribs. I can’t even drive again yet.’
McAvoy lets his irritation show as Hogg stands and feels sorry for himself.
‘You were interviewed by the police,’ says McAvoy. He decides to get into character. Snarls a little, like his old boxing coach had shown him years before. ‘He knows you told.’
‘I never!’ protests Hogg. He glances back over his shoulder. Seems unsure whether to start kicking out or to burst into tears.
McAvoy takes out his phone and finds the picture. Shows it to Hogg, keeping his eyes fixed on his. ‘You know him?’
Hogg concentrates. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t say. Tell him that. Tell him I never told her. I didn’t recognise him then and I don’t now. Only from what she showed me.’
McAvoy feels his world grow still. Feels everything slow down. Imagines, for a moment, he can hear the beating of every wing as the pheasant takes off from the trees. Imagines he can hear the ladybirds, scuttling over damp leaves.
‘She?’
‘The copper. Superintendent something. Cleopatra, or whatever. She showed me. I told her to leave it alone.’
McAvoy continues staring. Burns a hole through the centre of Hogg’s head.
‘She showed you his picture?’
‘When I was in hospital. Months ago. But I never told her owt.’
‘And who has spoken to you since?’
‘Coppers? None.’
McAvoy’s heart is banging against his chest. He can feel sweat in the small of his back and at his hairline. Wonders whether there is a breathing technique that would help him right now. Wonders whether it would be best to pull out his warrant card, arrest Hogg and make this all official. He shakes his head, as if making up his mind.
‘Did she mention his name?’ he asks softly.
‘Never said. But I saw him somewhere. Telly, it was. Got locked up for something and they let him out on appeal. Saw her, too. Told my uncle and he didn’t even believe me . . .’
McAvoy cannot help himself. He pushes forward and looms over Hogg like an oak.
‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘You never met her.’
Hogg scrambles back, fumbling in the pocket of his jogging pants. Pulls out an object and swings it wildly at McAvoy’s face. It connects with a noise like a hammer hitting a wall and McAvoy staggers back; spots of light fill his vision and warm blood runs into his left eye.
‘Fuck you!’ screams Hogg, swinging the object again and connecting with McAvoy’s left forearm. ‘Tell him he’s not getting me again. I haven’t got a horse-shoe in a sock but I can sure as shit put a couple of snooker balls in one. You like that? You like that, you big Jock fuck?’
McAvoy wipes his hand across his face and opens his eyes just in time to see the object arcing up again. He throws his head back. Flings out his right hand. Opens his fist at the last moment and catches Hogg with a slap that will leave the younger man’s ears ringing. Hogg shouts and stumbles and McAvoy starts to reach into his pocket for his warrant card. Before he can, a weight lands on his back. McAvoy realises the other lads have joined the fight. Somebody is pulling his hair. He can feel inexpert, ineffectual punches scudding into his ribs. He fights like an elephant being attacked by tigers. Throws one figure at another. Tries to warn them off but finds his mouth full of somebody’s sleeve. He wants to fight back properly. Wants to swing the kind of punch that can snap a neck. But he forces himself to remain a policeman. Fights like a grown-up being set upon by youngsters on a bouncy castle. Hooks legs and pushes chests. Refuses to do damage until he has no choice . . .
Tyres screech across gravel. In the gap between two arms, McAvoy sees a flash of blue. Then there is a crunch of metal upon metal. He reacts first. Spins inside the grasp of the teenager behind him and pushes him away with both hands. Sees a space between the fallen figures and darts for it.
‘Come on,’ shouts Roisin, her eyes wide with exhilaration.
McAvoy throws himself into the passenger seat. Hears roars of anger as Roisin flings the Volvo into reverse and crunches back from the smashed bumper and boot of the expensive Subaru.
‘We’ll fucking kill you!’ comes the scream, but it is lost almost at once in the sound of rubber hitting tarmac, and in an instant, the Volvo is picking up speed and flying around the bends in the road.
‘You okay?’ asks Roisin, reaching across from the driver’s seat and pressing her hand to the wound above McAvoy’s eyebrow. ‘Fuck, that’s deep. Sorry, Lilah – Mammy didn’t mean to swear.’
There is a ringing in McAvoy’s ears. His head is throbbing. There is blood on his face and on his shirt. None of it matters. The only thing he cares about is the lies that Pharaoh has told him. The only thing that matters is the sure and certain knowledge that Reuben Hollow killed Hannah, and that Pharaoh has always known.
Chapter 25
Foley is listening to the song he always fills himself up with before he hurts somebody. It’s a simple little melody, played entirely on the black keys. It’s from a zombie film, apparently, and it’s certainly sinister. It builds to a crescendo that always sets Teddy’s teeth on edge. It’s right for the conditions. In this fog he can half imagine an army of the undead staggering towards their vehicle. Wonders what he would do in such a set of circumstances, though really he knows, without a shadow of a doubt. He’d shoot Foley in the kneecaps and leave him to be eaten. Not now, though. There’s no need. It’s going to be a blast watching Foley get his revenge. Teddy suspects he’ll only break a sweat when he has to help his young companion lift the body into the boot.
‘I’m sticking it on again,’ says Foley, sitting in the passenger seat, and he skips back to the beginning of the track. Settles moodily in his seat. Fills himself up with the mournful tune and thinks of murder.
‘You’ll give yourself an ulcer,’ says Teddy. ‘I can hear you grinding your teeth. You haven’t done that since prison.’
Foley says nothing. There are a lot of things he hasn’t done since prison. A lot he won’t ever be doing again.
‘Save your petrol,’ says Teddy. ‘You’re going to burn your engine dry.’
‘The fucking engine’s off.’
‘No, in you, I mean. We only get so much fuel. You’ll be knackered by the time you get to him. He’s no slouch, we know that. Chill a little. You want a sweet?’
Foley turns furious eyes on the older man. He looks for a moment like he wants to raise the gun and put a hole in the face of his old cellmate, like he wants to stick a knife in the world and watch it bleed to death.
‘Easy, son,’ says Teddy. ‘I give you a long rope. I’m fond of you, but don’t look at me like that. You’re hurting. You’ve no need. Chill.’
Foley looks for a moment like he is going to a
rgue. Then he unwinds. Sniffs up something vile and solid; swallows it down. They located Reuben Hollow within moments of leaving the pikey and the teenager. Their boss has a tame copper on his payroll and with only two phone calls he had accessed the national number-plate recognition software. Reuben Hollow’s vehicle had just passed through the town of Beverley, heading inland. It had taken Teddy and Foley an hour to reach the location and another hour to pick up his tail. Foley hadn’t really expected to find him so easily but fortune had been kind. Despite the thick mist that has pulled a cloak over East Yorkshire, they’d stumbled on his battered old car in this pretty little hamlet that looks to Foley like an exhibit at a history museum. Teddy fancies that if he pushed his arm into the cloud, his hand would come out in another place and time. The air smells of the sea; of dog food and cold. He misses London. Misses people knowing that he is a man to respect and avoid. They’re all fucking backwards up here. Northerners throw punches without giving a shit whom the recipient is connected to. In the Grimsby pub that he and Foley warmed to, a bloke in his seventies threatened to smash his face in just for looking at his pint with disrespectful eyes. Teddy had actually found himself apologising. He hasn’t said sorry to anybody in years.
‘We should take him now,’ says Foley, moodily. He’s nodding along to the music. Picking at a spot on his neck.
‘In a church, lad? C’mon, the boss takes that shit seriously.’
‘He wouldn’t know.’
‘That’s not the point.’
They are parked beside a field, opposite the low boundary wall of St Mary’s Church in South Dalton. The fog has obscured the ornate spire but the low gravestones are given the power to unnerve by the grey mist that swirls around their ancient inscriptions.
‘No signal,’ says Teddy, looking at his phone screen.
‘How do people live in places like this?’ asks Foley. ‘What do they do for a laugh?’
‘There’s a good restaurant,’ says Teddy, hoping they will start talking a little more companionably. ‘Michelin star, according to the website.’
‘Here?’ Foley waves a hand at the landscape of nothingness. ‘For who?’
