by Mark, David
McAvoy’s face says it all.
“I know, son,” says Tom Spink. “I know.”
As McAvoy gulps painfully on his dry throat, there’s a faint knock at the door. Logistically, he wonders if there’s actually room in here to open it.
“Get that, Hector,” says Pharaoh wearily.
McAvoy turns the handle and pulls open the door, stepping back into the room and trying not to register the faint connection that his backside makes with Pharaoh’s stockinged knee.
Helen Tremberg stands there, looking surprised to see him. “Sarge?”
“He’s just the bouncer,” comes Pharaoh’s voice from behind him, and McAvoy hears her stepping down from the desk. She appears at his side, her warm body pressed fully against his. Her perfume and whiskey breath make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Boss,” Tremberg says, relieved. “The ID’s come back on the body at the hospital.”
“That was quick,” says Pharaoh.
“Called in a favor, boss. Bloke in forensics doesn’t take much sweet-talking to rush through a quick fingerprint and DNA sample. Still waiting for dental records, but the ID makes sense.”
“Well?”
“Trevor Jefferson,” says Tremberg. “Thirty-five. Last known address was a flat on Holderness Road. Bedsit, really. Over the bookie’s.”
“So how did he end up in the house on Orchard Park?” Pharaoh asks, and in her voice, McAvoy fancies he hears the faint hope that there will be an easy answer.
“That’s the weird bit,” says Tremberg. “He used to live on Orchard Park. Wife, two kids, and a stepson. Just a stone’s throw from where he was found.”
McAvoy feels a constriction in his chest. It is almost as if he knows what Tremberg is about to say.
“So what, he got pissed and forgot where he was? Thought it was still 2003? Let himself in at the first house that looked habitable, fell asleep on the sofa with a fag in his mouth and cooked himself? Somebody heard about it, thought it was a good way to settle some old feud, and finished the job off in hospital?” The optimism in Pharaoh’s voice sounds forced.
“I haven’t got to the weird bit,” says Tremberg, pulling a face.
“Go on,” says Pharaoh with a sigh.
“The reason he left Orchard Park was because his house burned down. His wife and kids in it. He was the only one who got out alive. The Fire Service thought it was arson, though nobody ever got caught.”
McAvoy looks at the floor as Trish Pharaoh stares hard at the side of his face. Somehow, he gets the impression she feels this is his fault.
“McAvoy?” Her tone of voice demands explanation.
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
She turns to Spink. He raises his hands in a shrug, simply relieved that he’s not really involved. That he’s only in Hull to write a book and that soon he’ll be able to get the fuck out of here.
“Stein will have to wait,” she says eventually. “McAvoy, you and Tremberg have got this. I want to know chapter and verse on those fires. On the suspects. On this victim. The homeowners. Helen, get McAvoy up to speed on what you know and get out to Orchard Park.”
Tremberg looks crestfallen. McAvoy realizes she thinks she’s being taken off the Daphne Cotton case. Perhaps she is.
“Boss, I’m swamped with the Cotton case already . . .”
“I know, Helen,” says Pharaoh, reaching around McAvoy to give her a squeeze on the arm. “But I need somebody I can trust. Keep an eye on this lump, will you?”
Tremberg lets herself be pacified and nods. Manages a toothless smile. It’s at Pharaoh, nobody else. She won’t look at McAvoy. He wonders if she’s angry with him or just too disappointed to be civil.
“Right,” says Pharaoh, looking at her watch. “It’s gone ten, which means my kids will either be putting themselves to bed or they’ll have taken over the neighborhood, and young Ruby has installed herself as queen. I know which scenario my money’s on.”
McAvoy takes the hint. Steps out of the office with an almost imperceptible nod and feels the heat of the hallway add another veneer of color to his glowing cheeks. The door closes behind him, and through the wood he simply hears Pharaoh say “fucking hell.”
“The coffee shop on the corner of Goddard,” says Tremberg over her shoulder as she walks back down the corridor. “Seven-thirty a.m. We’ll start knocking on doors while they’re still snoring.”
McAvoy watches her depart.
Stands still, unsure which of the many emotions swirling in his gut to focus on.
Wonders if it’s wrong to be excited.
And sinks into a sensation of delight that tonight, he’ll be home in time to make love to his wife, and tell her that today, somehow, he did something important. That he is natural police. And that deep inside, a little voice is telling him that all this is connected, and the only man who can join the dots is her husband.
13.
They haven’t released him yet,” says Tremberg, by way of greeting.
Her hair is damp, her face pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“Neville the racist,” she adds, to clarify, in a voice still half asleep. “Duty solicitor’s going bloody mental.”
She begins to take off her waterproof, and then changes her mind. Shrugs herself back into it and sits down on one of the padded, plastic-backed chairs that face the Formica-topped table. “You mind? I only got out of the shower twenty minutes ago. Haven’t had a drink yet.”
She reaches across and wraps her hand around the large chipped mug of builder’s tea that stands, half empty, in front of McAvoy. Raises it to her lips and takes a loud gulp. Pulls a face. “Sweet enough for you?” she asks, and her mood is far friendlier than last night.
They are the only two customers in the Pigeon Pie Café, a white-painted, glass-fronted building on the corner of Goddard Avenue. It’s a proper greasy spoon, complete with laminated menus and ketchup dispensers in the shape of tomatoes. The dish of the day tends to be sausage, bacon, or both, and the place is a Mecca for anybody who thinks that culinary evolution peaked with the combination of brown sauce and baked beans.
McAvoy would have loved nothing more than to order a sausage and fried-egg sandwich when he walked through the door ten minutes ago, but Roisin had knocked him up a breakfast of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on homemade rye bread before he left the house, and he knows how she would pout if she knew it had barely touched the sides of his appetite. He’d settled for tea.
“You eating?” he asks.
“Tempting,” she says, mulling it over. “They do a belly-buster special, you know. If you manage to eat it all you get it free. Nobody’s managed it yet.”
“You ever had a go?”
“What are you saying, Sarge?” She looks indignant, but then breaks into a smile to let him know she’s joking. “Sorry if I was a cow last night,” she says, taking another slurp of tea. “Had just got my teeth into the Daphne Cotton murder and then suddenly I’m given some dead drunk on Orchard Park.”
“I understand,” says McAvoy, nodding. He feels bad that Tremberg has been lumbered with this, and worse because, of all the things he has to worry about, his fear at having to make conversation with a female colleague for the day is the one uppermost in his mind.
“Two slices of toast, please,” shouts Tremberg at the big-boned woman in a blue overall working the counter. “Butter, not low-fat spread.”
“A woman after my own heart,” says McAvoy. “My dad used to say margarine had almost the same chemical qualities as plastic. I don’t know if that’s true, but it rather put me off. Like that whole thing about peanuts on the bar being full of blokes’ wee-wee. Nasty.”
Tremberg emits a snorting, braying laugh. “Wee-wee?” she asks.
McAvoy feels the beginning of a
blush and is grateful when Tremberg’s toast arrives. “Sorry. Comes from having a young son.”
“He’s a handsome boy, your Fin,” says Tremberg, with her mouth full. “Proud of you, too. Wasn’t scared, y’know. He knew something bad had happened in the church and he saw you go down, but he knew you’d be getting up again. He said you’d get whoever did it.”
McAvoy has to look away to hide the huge grin that splits his face. “That’s his mother’s doing,” he says, smothering his words with a big hand as he supports his head on his palm. “Got him thinking I’m indestructible. Some kind of superhero.”
“Better than him thinking you’re a knob,” she says matter-of-factly. “That’s what most kids think of their parents.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re weird, Sarge. Everybody knows that.”
They sit in silence for a while. McAvoy finishes the tea and watches Tremberg lick butter from her fingers. They’re unmanicured and unadorned with any jewelry. They seem somehow naked when compared to his wife’s, which are sparkling and dainty.
“You are, anyway,” she says finally, picking at her teeth with a finger.
“What?”
“Indestructible. Everybody knows that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last year’s palaver,” she says, raising her eyes and sitting forward in her chair. She appears to be coming to life in front of him. The tea and toast have given her some kind of sugar rush, and she’s suddenly full of energy. “When you got, y’know . . .”
“What?”
“You were stabbed, weren’t you? That’s what everybody says.” If she thinks it’s a sensitive subject that shouldn’t be approached without extreme care, she does not betray the fact in her manner.
“Slashed, actually,” he says softly. “A hacking motion. Overhand right.”
Tremberg lets out a deep breath. Feels compelled to say “fuck.” She looks at the ceiling, lost in thought. “Like Daphne?”
McAvoy nods. The thought has occurred to him, too, though it is significant only to him. He knows that before her heart stopped beating, she will have felt pain. That the sensation is strangely cold. That there is a moment of dull agony, and then mere confusion. That it’s a horrible thing to endure.
Tremberg cocks her head, waiting for more. Nothing is forthcoming. “Sarge?” she prompts.
“What?”
She throws her hands up in frustration. “You’re not much of a bloody conversationalist.”
He looks at his watch. It’s taken her eight minutes to find fault with his company. “Has it occurred to you that it’s a conversation I don’t want to have?”
Tremberg considers this. “Yeah.” Then she gives him an impish grin. “Just wanted to be the one who got you to crack.”
He looks puzzled, his eyebrows almost meeting in the middle.
“Don’t worry,” she says, noting his expression. “There’s no cash riding on it. Just professional pride. How are we supposed to get suspects to fess up when we can’t even get one of our own to admit what happened to him?”
“People wonder?”
“Course they do. Everybody likes a mystery man, but they’d rather solve the mystery.”
“Mystery man?”
“Come on, Sarge. Big bugger like you, tiny, gorgeous little wife who cooks you gourmet packed lunches, son who thinks you’re Spiderman. Then there’s the little matter of Doug Roper and all that fuss last year that saw CID scattered to the four winds and you sent to some fancy private hospital in Scotland for a knife wound? You think nobody’s interested in chapter and verse?”
McAvoy considers it, as if for the first time. “Nobody’s ever asked me,” he says weakly. “Anyway, I think I like being mysterious.”
“You’ve got it down to a fine art,” says Tremberg, laughing.
“My wife will be delighted. I think she sees me as some sort of rebel, out there on the mean streets, righting wrongs, though she knows I’ve spent the past ten months doing nothing more than designing databases and running errands. I haven’t got her thinking I’m some sort of one-man force for good.”
“She just thinks that way on her own?”
McAvoy looks into her eyes and tries to decide if she’s taking the piss or complimenting him on being loved properly. He wonders if she’s in a relationship herself. Whether she’s had her heart broken. Where she lives, what she thinks, and why she became a police officer. It occurs to him he knows nothing about her. About any of them.
“She was young when we got together,” he confides, and feels the blush spread to the back of his neck. “And I helped her with some problems. She makes up her own mind.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and McAvoy congratulates himself on biting his tongue. For not taking an opportunity to unload his neuroses by telling his colleague that not a moment goes by when he doesn’t worry that his young wife married him out of gratitude, and that someday the novelty will wear off.
“Problems?” asks Tremberg, intrigued again.
“She’s from a traveling family,” says McAvoy, looking away. He’s far from ashamed about the admission and knows that Roisin would not mind, but he feels uncomfortable talking about any aspect of his personal life and finds it easier not to meet her eyes.
“Gypsies?” says Tremberg, surprised.
“If you like,” says McAvoy. “Prefers it to Pikey.”
“So what happened?”
“It was a long time ago. I was barely out of training.” He stops. Can’t seem to find the right words.
“Where?” she asks, helping him along as if it’s an interview situation.
“Cumbria Constabulary. Borders.”
“And?”
“Group of travelers turned up in this farmer’s field on the road to Brampton,” he says, sighing. Reconciling himself to the fact he will have to share.
“Popular?”
“Nice little town. Plenty of Tory voters and blue rinsers who didn’t take kindly to it. Sergeant and me went out to have a chat with them. Told them there was a designated site on the outskirts of Carlisle. Anyway, they said they’d be gone before the day was out. Nice enough bunch. Maybe a dozen caravans. Kids everywhere. Roisin must have been there, but I didn’t see her.”
Tremberg looks at him expectantly. “Love at first sight, was it?” she asks, trying to keep things light.
“She was a child.”
“I’m kidding, Sarge. Jesus.” Tremberg looks pissed off. Shrugs, as if this is too much effort, but McAvoy has already started talking. More freely now. Suddenly desperate to get the words out.
“They didn’t go,” he says, staring out of the window. “More travelers turned up. Bad lot. So the landowner went down there to ask them why they hadn’t moved on. He was attacked. Hurt enough to upset some of his staff. They went looking for a spot of revenge. Found Roisin and her sister walking back from the shops.”
McAvoy pauses. Tremberg notices him pick up the salt cellar and grip it hard. Watches his knuckles grow white.
“If I wasn’t such a bloody idiot, I don’t know what would have happened,” he says, his jaw tight.
“What?”
“I’d dropped my bloody pocketbook at the camp,” he says apologetically. “Sergeant sent me back to the camp on my own. Got myself lost. Found myself on this little country road a couple of miles from the camp. Pulled into a gap in the hedge to do a U-turn and get myself back in the right direction. There was an old outbuilding there. Holes in the roof. Looked like there’d been a fire a while before. Anyways, there were two cars parked up outside it. It didn’t look right. There was no reason to be there. I don’t know what I felt. Just some sensation that something bad was happening. So I killed the engine, and that’s when I heard the screams.”
“Jesus,
” says Tremberg, half wishing she’d never asked.
“I should have called for backup,” says McAvoy, rolling the salt cellar between his palms. “But I knew that whatever was happening in there couldn’t go on a second longer. I didn’t think. Got out the car and ran into the place. Caught them at it. These farmer boys, whooping and hollering and having their fun.”
“Jesus,” says Tremberg again.
“I lost my temper,” says McAvoy, staring at the backs of his hands.
Tremberg waits for more, and nothing comes. McAvoy is motionless in his seat, his usually red face now a deathly gray. She wonders if he’s ever talked about this before. Wonders what he did to them, this big, barrel-chested, soft-spoken man with the scarred face and the unruly hair and a love for his wife that makes her feel almost ashamed to have ever laughed when one of her colleagues cracked a joke at his expense.
She looks down at her plate and decides there is absolutely nothing left to eat on it.
Decides, too, that whatever McAvoy did in that shed, she will never judge him for it as harshly as he appears to judge himself.
She lets out a breath. Beats a little rhythm on the tabletop. Tries to get them both into gear.
“Shall we make a move?”
McAvoy nods. Begins to stand. For an instant, their eyes meet. And for the briefest of moments she fancies she sees flames dancing on his pupils—a burning building, burning cars.
The double-glazed front door is already swinging open by the time McAvoy and Tremberg find themselves walking up the neat path to number 58. After spending the past hour being told to fuck off in a variety of colorful ways, and with McAvoy’s face still crimson from being called “Hoss” by the naked fat woman who threw open the upstairs window at the house and who made the original 999 call, neither detective is sure whether the opening of a front door is a sign of welcome or a prelude to the emergence of a shotgun.
