by David Mark
‘Page seven,’ she says.
Gavan opens the paper and finds the page.
‘The man,’ she says. ‘Handsome devil.’
Gavan shrugs. Closes the paper.
‘You were in Full Sutton towards the end of your last stretch,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Did your paths cross?’
Gavan retrieves his cigarette. Lights the tiny roll of paper and tobacco and recoils as the loose end of the roll-up catches fire.
‘It’s a blur,’ says Gavan.
‘Let me help your memory. You know he was there because I’ve got witness statements from the guards who said you two were inseparable. He helped you out, so I’m told. Funny, that – you being the experienced con and him being the one who kept you safe.’
‘Bollocks,’ says Gavan, weakly.
‘And when you got out in November, you did him a favour or two. You paid off a lass who was making life difficult. But the thing I can’t work out is whether you actually killed her. I can imagine you losing your temper and strangling her but not cutting her armpits off. That’s not your sort of thing at all.’
Gavan has gone completely still. The colour is leeching from his face, sliding down his body like a lengthening shadow.
‘I never killed her,’ he says, quietly. ‘I swear I never.’
‘The money you gave her. Did you give her all that he gave you?’
‘What?’
‘We both know what Hollow is capable of. If he finds out you stole from him . . .’
Gavan makes a fist. His mouth seems to shake. ‘You were the copper he wouldn’t stop talking about!’ he says, as if he has just worked out the answer to a difficult quiz question. ‘He made little statues of you out of soap. Used the edge of his phone card. Kept saying you were beautiful. That meeting you was worth getting arrested for. But he says you stitched him up. You used your looks to get him to talk and then you fucking charged him with murder.’
Pharaoh’s smile remains in place though her eyes lose their lustre.
‘You know what he did with the statues? He washed himself with them. Rubbed this little replica of you in every nook and cranny.’
‘Did you kill Ava?’ asks Pharaoh again.
‘I gave her every last penny he gave me.’
‘You went to her home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she grateful?’
‘She said thank you. Counted it out in front of me. Pretty thing but not my type.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘Just the usual shit. Meant a lot to her. Felt awful having to ask. Tell him I’m sorry . . .’
‘And when was this?’
‘Weeks back. Christmas time. She were a nice lass. I wasn’t lying about trying to help her.’ He stops, collecting his thoughts, and when he speaks again it sounds as though he is reading a script. ‘I gave her my number and said she could use me as a guarantor if her landlord kept giving her problems. It were stupid – I was just trying to do the right thing.’
‘Where did you get the money?’
‘Picked it up from behind the bar in Bonny Boat in the Old Town. Gift-wrapped, it was, a box tied with a bow.’
‘Who left it there?’
‘I don’t know. Just said what I’d been told to say. That I was picking up a parcel. Landlord thought it was a birthday gift.’
‘What else was in the box? You said she counted the money out in front of you.’
‘Just a rock! Don’t fucking ask me what that was all about.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I left. That was that.’
‘And the story about meeting her in the Lambwath, giving your name to her landlord – was that Hollow’s idea?’
‘I didn’t want to get my name involved but he said it would be fine. That it was just a cover. I told the missus the story about the Lambwath when the landlord kept phoning me about the rent.’
‘You couldn’t just tell her the truth? Or me?’
‘I didn’t want to be involved in any of it,’ says Gavan, looking smaller somehow. ‘I saw what he could do. And I owed him . . .’
Pharaoh sits back in her chair. Stretches and gives a contented sigh, as if she has just taken off her shoes and tights on a hot day.
‘How come he’s out?’ asks Gavan quietly, suddenly looking more afraid. ‘He killed that bloke. The one who attacked his daughter.’
‘The evidence went away,’ says Pharaoh, holding his gaze.
‘I’ve met a lot of bad people,’ says Gavan. ‘I don’t know what to make of Hollow. I never heard him raise his voice. Never saw him get angry. But when I was in Full Sutton and that big black fucker went for me, Hollow took him down like he was nothing. Hit him again and again and again and I don’t think he broke a sweat. He’s dangerous.’
‘You think he hired somebody to kill Ava?’
Gavan shrugs. Looks at her with hooded eyes.
‘I don’t know why he would. I don’t know what she had on him. Anyway, he’s obsessed with you. I saw the carvings he did in the woodshop. Saw the way he looked at the little soap figurines. I wouldn’t want him on the streets if I were you.’
Pharaoh leans forward. Pulls her sunglasses from her blouse and puts them on.
‘He’s not dangerous,’ says Pharaoh. ‘He’s something else. He’s handsome and charming and clever, and he’s very, very arrogant. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is but he’s a lot cleverer than you. Don’t be frightened of him, Jez. You’re not his type.’
‘His type?’
Pharaoh stands and crosses to the sofa. Takes the can of lager from Gavan’s hand and takes a long swig.
She is about to say something else reassuring to Gavan when her phone bleeps and she gives a beery sigh as she answers. She says little but her face turns pale. She looks like a poker player who has laid down a triumphant hand, only to be presented with the barrel of a gun.
Pharaoh leaves without saying another word. Her mind is racing. She fumbles with her phone and feels like swearing as her head fills with Roisin’s soft, lilting voice. Something about men at her home, and letting people think the wrong thing about herself and Hollow. Her brain is too frazzled to process it. She has a pain between her breasts. Can feel her heart. She starts ringing Hollow’s phone, only for it to go to voicemail. She can see herself reflected in the windows of the car. Doesn’t see a strong, confident woman in sunglasses and biker boots. Sees mutton, dressed as sham.
It takes her only a moment to decide.
He answers on the second ring.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, by way of greeting. ‘I need to see you. Hollow’s been taken. I need to tell you everything.’
Chapter 27
Pharaoh leans her face against the cool metal of the van door. Starts to count to ten. Makes it to three before running a hand through her hair, scoring grooves in her scalp with her fingernails with the sound of somebody ripping cotton.
It’s just after 7 p.m. She’s leaning against the side of an unmarked white van, parked outside a Gothic church in the tiny village of South Dalton. Blue lights are flashing through the damp muslin of fog. Uniformed officers are fastening police tape to fence posts and dry-stone walls. A man in a tweed cap is arguing with a sergeant in a high-visibility jacket, demanding to know why he can’t go into the church grounds and visit the grave of an ancestor he has driven from Norfolk to see. Science officers in white suits are taking pictures of a body with a crushed head, an abandoned black gun, and Reuben Hollow’s Jeep.
She looks around her. It’s a gorgeous place, despite the gathering darkness and the weather. It’s as English as she can imagine; all red-brick and bunting, parish council meetings and hump-backed bridges. She remembers coming here a few years ago. Anders was celebrating a new deal and wanted to splash some cash on his wife and daughters. It had been a fun night. They’d hired a private room and giggled their way through five courses and wine. It had only soured on the drive home. Anders hadn’t liked how she’d looked at the w
aiter. Had drunk too many shots of brandy after the coffees and had lost the ability to control his insecurities. Simmered all the way home. Woke her an hour after she’d dozed off, pulling her out of bed by the hair and kicking her in the ribs with his bare feet. Sophia had stopped him. Took a smack to the mouth for her troubles.
McAvoy is still sitting in his car, looking like a kicked puppy, trying to work up the courage to come and tell her he’s sorry, or that he’s not, or that he hasn’t got a bloody clue who he is or what he wants and needs her to make it all better.
Pharaoh turns too quickly and feels dizzy. She’s weary to the bone. Can smell her own exhaustion. Can taste nothing but cigarettes. She’s ignoring her bleeping phone.
Pharaoh hasn’t had a drink since last night but she feels half drunk, ephemeral and half formed. She hasn’t eaten all day, save the three ibuprofen she necked with a cup of machine coffee at HQ. Her fingers feel trembly. She fancies that if she were asked to type up a report, the page would fill with duplicated letters.
She needs him.
Through the darkened glass she catches his eye. Gives the tiniest jerk of her head. Tells him to get his arse inside the fluttering police tape.
In the blue darkness he is just an outline; a big, lumbering thing made of rocks. As he gets close, she sees how tired he looks. Sees the darkness beneath his eyes and the alabaster pallor of his cheeks.
She holds his stare. Manages something like a smile.
‘I’m sorry for questioning you,’ he says, and she can see how much he wants to turn his head away as he says it. Instead, he focuses too hard; stares, intensely, into her eyes. His damp fringe flutters in the breeze and he seems to be suppressing a shiver. Pharaoh wants to put a palm on his cheek, though whether tenderly or violently, she is not completely sure.
Pharaoh waits a moment. Closes her eyes and sorts herself out. Jerks her head and they begin walking, slowly, up through the village towards the church.
‘He was working on a pew, we think,’ says Pharaoh. ‘He’s a specialist when it comes to church work. Lecterns and lintels and all sorts of words I had to look up on Wikipedia. That’s when they came for him. He went down fighting. Knows how to fight, does our boy.’
Beside her, McAvoy says nothing. He feels lost. Doesn’t know how he feels about anything right now.
Pharaoh kicks at a pebble as they approach the church. Breathes out.
‘You know what the Americans say about things being above people’s pay grade?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hate all that shit,’ she says, and pauses to light a cigarette. She sucks on it as if it contains answers she can absorb. Inhales it like a prayer.
McAvoy wishes he could think of something to say. He knows she is about to tell him something. Knows that if he keeps his mouth shut, he can’t mess it up.
‘Privilege of rank,’ says McAvoy.
‘Burden of it,’ says Pharaoh, wryly. She shakes her head. Looks up at the church. Decides she can’t bring herself to go in. Leans against the wall and looks up at her sergeant. At her friend.
‘I pushed to be allowed to tell you,’ she says, through a veil of smoke. ‘I wanted you on the team. Turned out I was lucky to be on it myself, if lucky is even the right word. I stumbled into something. They saw a chance to draw him out. They played mind games with a psychopath and they lost.’
McAvoy waits for more. He has to stop himself from reaching out and taking the cigarette from between her lips. Has to stop himself stroking her hair and telling her it will all be okay. She doesn’t even smell like Pharaoh any more. She’s supposed to smell of Issey Miyake, little black cigarettes and bacon sandwiches. Here, now, she smells of lager, cheap fags and unwashed sheets.
‘They think he’s killed half a dozen people,’ says Pharaoh, looking down. ‘More. I’ve been building a case. He would never have fallen for an undercover operation and the only copper who tried it ended up half dead. So they picked me. Hid me in plain sight. Vulnerable. Needy. Alone. They set me up to look like a Big Mac to a starving man, and Christ, he took the bait. I had no choice. I’ve had nobody to talk to, Hector. Christ, I’ve wanted to talk.’
McAvoy stares into her eyes. Fears, for a terrible second, that she is going to let the tears overflow. Gives a tiny smile of relief when she gets control of herself, even as a hundred questions flood his brain.
‘I don’t even know if I believe it,’ she says, grinding out her cigarette on the wall of the church and wrapping the butt in tissue. ‘It’s all been guesswork and supposition. This case is a career-maker, that’s the trouble. They weren’t content to let him go down for manslaughter. The bloke who went for him? The bloke Hollow knocked lumps out of? That wasn’t an eye-catcher, not for these buggers. They wanted a headline-making case. “Britain’s FBI Catch Serial Killer.” You know the bollocks.’
McAvoy nods. He is beginning to understand. Knows how the National Crime Agency operates and how its worth is judged.
‘The lead detective’s name is Aberlour,’ says Pharaoh, with a faint snarl. ‘Political animal. Utter twat. Acted like I should be grateful for an opportunity to work with the elite. That was his phrase. Elite! They came to me after Shaz Archer arrested Reuben. And my life turned to shit.’
McAvoy waits for more. Holds his hands in fists as Pharaoh plays with her phone and finds the document that Aberlour sent her when she started asking the right questions of the wrong people. It was culled from psychological reports, probation papers, court hearings and intelligence work. She hands the phone to McAvoy with a small nod of warning. Lights another cigarette and watches him read.
Reuben Hollow was not so named until he was twenty-two years old. Prior to that he had been Oliver Millichamp, born in 1974. He grew up in a pleasant, rural environment and was known as a cheerful and attentive student at the village school where he was an above-average student. At eleven, he passed the exams required to allow him to attend a decent school in central York. He excelled. Displayed extraordinary abilities in the arts and English. In 1986 he was involved in an altercation in his village. He was attacked by a group of local, older teens. Oliver grabbed a paintbrush and stuck it in the neck of one of his attackers.
Though the attacker survived, Oliver was tried for unlawful wounding. Went to a juvenile detention centre for the next two years. At seventeen, he brutally beat a man he thought was harassing an elderly woman in his local Co-op. He was sent back to prison. Finished his sentence in adult jail.
Pharaoh loses patience. Can’t stand to watch McAvoy read. She snatches the phone and begins spitting information at him without even looking at the text.
‘Oliver Millichamp began calling himself Reuben Hollow when he got out,’ she says. ‘Changed his name by deed poll and disappeared from the system. It was years before he resurfaced. A Nigerian people-trafficker was found with the back of his head smashed in and pepper spray in his eyes. The victim was known to the National Crime Agency. His name was Adejola Bankole, though women called him “the devil”. He was involved with an organised crime gang that brought young women over from remote parts of Africa and forced them into prostitution. A month before his death, Bankole met a young Nigerian girl off a plane at Gatwick Airport. She might have come to Britain expecting work as a cleaner or a maid but Bankole was nothing more than a pimp. He was a fucking slaver. He told her that if she didn’t do as he said, her family back home would be raped and burned. She never even got out of Gatwick. He’d already sold her to some contacts in Rome. Sold her like she was meat. He gave her a new passport. Fake. Put her back on a plane – this time to Italy. They wouldn’t let her in. Sent her back to her point of origin, which was Gatwick, in their eyes. She didn’t know what the fuck to do. Just sat in the bar at the airport and cried into a glass of alcohol that she had no intention of drinking. And then she met a stranger. Told him, despite herself, about the devil who would do terrible things to her when he learned she had not made it to Italy. He listened. Told her not to worry. Within the week
, the young woman had handed herself in to the authorities and was co-operating with the NCA in cracking the network. And Bankole was dead. The NCA used all of its toys. Facial recognition software was used on CCTV footage taken in the bar. It came up with a possible match: Oliver Millichamp. The NCA thought they had found a major player in the organised crime world. Presumed they had identified an assassin. They tracked Millichamp to his new life as a woodcarver and caring stepfather, living in the wilds of East Yorkshire. None of what they saw added up.’
Pharaoh takes a breath. Scratches at her forehead and leaves vertical lines. ‘The NCA green-lit an investigation,’ she says, and the memory seems to pain her. ‘Profilers were used. Cameras and recording equipment were placed in his home in the hope that Millichamp or Hollow or whatever the fuck you wanted to call him was going to start naming his gangland employers. The results were unexpected. Hollow was nobody’s hired muscle. He killed when he felt it was warranted. Killed only those who deserved to die. And that’s when it all got really interesting. Detective Chief Superintendent Aberlour reckoned he had identified a pattern. And that meant he had carte blanche to do what he wanted. Serial killers are recession-proof.’
McAvoy looks at Pharaoh, who is grinding out her second cigarette.
‘Helen has unearthed the same thing,’ he says. ‘There’s definitely enough to build a case.’
Pharaoh examines him. Looks upon him like a dog-lover who has just seen a Yorkshire Terrier perform an impromptu back-flip.
‘They were building the case,’ says Pharaoh, looking away. ‘Aberlour’s lot were getting ready to move on him when Mathers died. Archer arrested him. She didn’t expect the case to get anywhere. He’d been defending himself and his victim had fallen. It was always going to be a hard one to prove. Archer lost interest so they brought me in to advise. I looked into his past. Found gaps in his back-story. Found the legal documents that Aberlour had been so excited about. Then Aberlour himself and his pet poodle, DCI Dawn Leather, got in touch with me. They were so cloak-and-dagger it was almost funny. But as soon as they got my assurances that the conversation would go no further, they played me a recording of Mathers’ death. They’d bugged Hollow’s place, you see. Had the lot. And it was clear Hollow was telling the truth. It had just been an accident. They had struggled, and his attacker had hit his head. Aberlour had audio footage of Hollow telling the man to calm down and apologising for attacking his son.’
