by David Mark
‘His last jail stretch,’ says McAvoy, sitting forward. ‘Can we get his file?’
‘Not without this getting a lot more serious,’ says Pharaoh. ‘We’d need the permission of the governor, and that might do more than ruffle some feathers.’
McAvoy looks at his boss, clearly expecting more. Pharaoh smiles and lights another of her black cigarettes.
‘His last stretch,’ she says, easing out a plume of smoke. ‘Wounding. He glassed a bloke in the Bay Horse down Wincolmlee. Case was straightforward enough. He was acting as a driver for a working girl. Punter roughed her up. He found the punter and gave him a hiding. He started off saying he wasn’t even there, that he was at home with his partner, Gresswell. She gave a statement backing him up. When he changed his statement, she was charged alongside him. He did some time, she got a suspended sentence.’
McAvoy realises that a mug of tea has arrived in front of him. He takes a swig, nodding a smile at Roisin.
‘Occupation?’
‘Gresswell is registered as a company director of two firms. Property company and a mobile nail franchise. Handsome turnover. They’re registered at an address in Wincolmlee.’
‘Handy.’
‘Yes.’
‘When it came to court, was there a witness statement from the working girl to support his mitigation?’
Pharaoh grins, clearly proud of her sergeant. ‘Ben’s pinging a name over now. She didn’t give evidence but she did provide a statement. The lad’s also looking through a list of recent releases from Bull Sands to see if there are any friendly names who might talk to us.’
Roisin looks between the two of them.
‘You know the herbs that Will got in trouble for taking?’ she asks, cautiously. ‘Can you remember exactly what they were?’
McAvoy puts his head back, obviously thinking hard. ‘Salt, pepper, vinegar, mustard. Lovely speedwell. He told me to ask my wife.’
Roisin nods, smiling. ‘He wanted to tell you but couldn’t be sure who was listening,’ she says. ‘Speedwell. You brew it in tea and it helps get rid of your colds.’
‘And?’ asks Pharaoh, as her phone rings.
‘Its other name is Veronica.’
‘And?’
Roisin nods at the swirls on the page. ‘That’s what the dead lad carved in the door there. Owen wanted to steer you but had to put on a show for whoever was watching. He wants your help, Aector. You’re doing the right thing.’
Pharaoh opens her phone and snorts. ‘The prostitute in question,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Annabel Veronica Dolan. Twenty-four years old. Last address was in Gipsyville. And Aector, you’ll love this, Ben’s been through the list of prisoners currently out on temporary licence and cross-referenced them against Michael Bee. He’s found a James Kinchie. Right age range. Served two years of an eight-year sentence for his part in a massive identity fraud. Released to an address in Goole. It was a big deal for SOCA.’
‘SOCA?’ asks Roisin.
‘Serious and Organised Crime Agency. Big boys. Wankers, largely, but they owe us a favour.’
McAvoy looks at the name on the pad. Squints a little.
‘If William carved her name, or wrote it and wrapped it in lemongrass, he wanted her to love him,’ says Roisin, quietly. ‘I wonder how they knew each other.’
Pharaoh starts keying letters into the search engine on her phone. After a moment she slides it across the table to McAvoy.
‘Angels,’ he reads. ‘Escort agency.’
‘Third girl from the left,’ says Pharaoh. ‘I know my eyes are older than Roisin’s, but that looks suspiciously like a tattoo of the Tree of Life on her thigh. That’s vaguely witchy and Wiccan, isn’t it?’
‘Ronnie Payne,’ he reads. ‘Looks the right sort of age. You think?’
Pharaoh nods. ‘Worth a shot.’
‘You think this is the girl?’ Roisin asks. ‘You’re going to ask her about Will?’
McAvoy says nothing. His cheeks are starting to colour. Roisin puts her hand upon his, stroking his scars with her thumb.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there to hold his hand,’ says Pharaoh, reaching across and taking a sip of his tea. ‘After all, it says she does couples.’
Chapter Nine
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but Pharaoh put on a distinctly more eye-catching set of clothes when she got up this morning. She always looks good, with her ever-present biker boots, leather jacket and large sunglasses, but they tend to be accessories for a plain black dress, or black trousers and a V-neck jumper. Today, she dipped into the back of the wardrobe for something that would make her feel a little better about herself in the company of a woman who men pay for sex. She has been self-conscious about her appearance for the past couple of years, having gained a little weight on her diet of wine, reheated pasta and cigarettes. Despite being a strong, intelligent and successful woman, there are days when she would give it all up just to be thin. Today is one of those days.
She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’s wearing a white blouse, fitted black jacket and a knee-length camel skirt that clings to her hips and thighs. She’s still wearing her biker boots, but her nylons have a line up the back. She caught McAvoy looking as they got out of the car. She was so pleased that she even forgot to tease him about it.
Pharaoh checks her make-up. Even with it, she looks tired. Feels it too. Feels old and fat and bloody ridiculous.
‘Mutton,’ she hisses at her reflection. Then, as she remembers the silly smile on her face as McAvoy admired her, she adds: ‘Stupid bitch.’
She says it louder than she means to. Clamps a hand over her mouth in case she spews any more self-loathing. Forces herself to focus.
She is standing in the bathroom of Flat 6, Oberon House. It belongs to DC Ben Neilsen and sits in the heart of what used to be Hull’s Fruit Market. Millions of pounds in regeneration money have been spent on this area. It’s a prime location, overlooking the marina and its bobbing yachts and the elegant pathways that lead down to The Deep aquarium on Sammy’s Point. The Oberon used to be a pub and has been sympathetically converted into the closest thing Hull can boast to a block of luxury apartments. Given Ben’s reputation for bedroom gymnastics, Pharaoh felt it an appropriate place to arrange the meeting with Veronica. Ben didn’t argue, wilting in the face of Pharaoh’s implacable gaze and half-smile. He agreed to let her and McAvoy use the flat on the proviso that nobody looked in the drawers under his bed.
Veronica has been here for ten minutes now and Pharaoh is starting to worry about what is going on in the living room. Standing at the front window, she and McAvoy watched Veronica arrive. She was five minutes early for their 11 a.m. appointment. She sat and waited in her Vauxhall Corsa, applying a second coat of lipstick while McAvoy and Pharaoh hid behind the curtains like nosy neighbours and waited for her to ring the bell. When she emerged from the car, she looked more like her voice than her photograph. It was Pharaoh who made the date, contacting Ronnie through the website and explaining that it was her husband’s fantasy to have a threesome with a stranger. Ronnie explained what she was willing to do and what she was not. As it turned out, the only things she wasn’t willing to do were things that Pharaoh had never heard of. When Pharaoh mentioned that her husband had a kinky side, Ronnie laughed and said that she’d never met a man who didn’t. They agreed a time, a place and a price.
The woman who got out of the car had probably been a looker when she was a teenager. Five years on, what shine she had has been squeezed out of her. The woman who sits on the sofa with McAvoy is thin as a nail. She has shoulder-length brown hair and she has accentuated her already prominent cheekbones with smears of red, so that it looks as though she has been struck across both cheeks with a cane. She arrived wearing a long coat over a short black dress, stockings and shoes that were clearly too big for size-three feet. Pharaoh slipped into the bathroom as she arrived, stepping into the bathtub and pulling the shower curtain closed. For a brief spell a decade ago,
Pharaoh worked in the vice unit and has run several operations like this. She has never known a working girl get straight down to business. In her experience, they excuse themselves and head for the bathroom, where they place a phone call to a colleague or a driver and let them know where they are. Then they look at themselves in the mirror. They get ready like an actor applying make-up and wig. And then they go and let strangers into them for money. Veronica was no different. She made a quick call on an expensive iPhone and told her contact that she was at the address. The client was a big man. Good looking, if a little battered around the edges. She said that the woman was running late but the man had paid for an hour up front. Everything was fine. As she hung up she opened the medicine cupboard and looked at a few bottles. Behind the shower curtain, Pharaoh allowed herself a tiny smile for remembering to put a few female items in there. Veronica didn’t look in the mirror as she left the room. She gave herself a spray of perfume, put her gum in the toilet and flushed it. Then she tottered out on her too-big heels.
Here, now, Pharaoh listens on her mobile to the conversation in the next room. She can tell that McAvoy is running out of excuses and decides to let him squirm for another minute or two before emerging from the bathroom. His mobile phone sits in the pocket of his suit jacket, casually thrown over the arm of the chair. Pharaoh can hear every word. She told him not to seem too nice, to be like an average punter and to keep the conversation friendly but with a hint of sexiness to it. McAvoy looked at her as if she’d told him to slip into suspenders and nipple clamps. He’s just being himself. She can picture him, red faced and looking at the floor, hands folded in his lap in case anybody throws themselves at him. At times like these, Pharaoh wonders how the hell he ever got together with Roisin.
‘She won’t be long,’ comes Aector’s voice. He has said this fourteen times already.
‘She’s an understanding woman,’ says Ronnie. ‘Not many wives buy women for their men.’
‘No?’
‘Well, a few. But there are often complications.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Y’know, they think they’re up for it but the second something starts to happen they get jealous. It’s like men in threesomes.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s sexy when you’re aroused. You like the idea of another man having a go with your wife or girlfriend. But the second it’s over you feel like killing them.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You look nervous. Are you OK?’
‘I’ve never really done anything like this.’
‘Would you like a massage? Relax you?’
‘No, I’m fine . . .’
‘I’ve got poppers. They take the edge off.’
‘Not really my thing. Sorry.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this? It’s no problem. I don’t want to force you. Is this your fantasy or your wife’s?’
‘Both. Hers. I don’t know.’
Listening in, Pharaoh frowns. She wants him to tell the story the way they planned. Wants him to bait the hook.
‘I was inside, y’see,’ says McAvoy, quietly.
‘Inside?’
‘Prison.’
‘Yeah? You don’t seem the sort.’
‘Tax fraud.’
‘Ah. Soft time, then.’
‘Mostly. Did my last two months at Bull Sands.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Mate of mine recommended you. Talked about you a lot, in fact.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Sad case, it was. Got himself hurt.’
‘Yeah?’
Pharaoh sighs into the phone, urging him to get on with it.
‘Will,’ says McAvoy. ‘Will Blaylock.’
‘Don’t think I know that name. Sorry. Anyway, shall we get on?’
‘Not without my wife. You sure you don’t know Will?’
‘I said so.’
‘He was really specific. Ronnie, that was what he said. Told me to look you up when I got out. Said you were the best.’
‘That’s kind, but like I said, I don’t know the name.’
‘Do you have anything else beside poppers? Coke, maybe?’
‘No, that’s illegal.’
‘Will said you might be able to hook me up.’
‘I don’t know Will. I said so. And I’m a busy girl, so if we’re not going to do this then I’d better be off.’
‘I’ve paid for an hour.’
‘I don’t care. I’m going.’
‘Please don’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Hey, you’re trembling. Don’t be scared.’
‘Please let me go. I’ve not said anything. I won’t say anything. Please.’
‘Ronnie, you’re shaking. Come here, it’s OK . . . Christ, my eyes!!’
Pharaoh yanks open the bathroom door and runs into the living room just as Ronnie comes charging out of it. Pharaoh reacts fastest and grabs the scrawny woman by her wrist, forcing it up and spinning her around back into the living room. McAvoy has the heels of both hands pressed to his eyes and tears streaming down his red cheeks. He’s hissing in pain.
Pharaoh looks at the floor and sees the vial of pepper spray. She pushes Ronnie forward on to the black leather sofa. She shuffles backwards on her bottom; her dress riding up and stockings coming unclipped as she wraps her arms around her head to ward off a blow.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I never said, I never said . . .’
‘Stay there,’ orders Pharaoh, and crosses to McAvoy. She pulls his hands away from his face and looks up into his red, teary eyes. She winces.
‘Go wash them out,’ she says. ‘Bit of salt in a shot-glass. Warm water. Put it over your eye and open your eyelid. Blink a few times. You’ll be good as new.’
McAvoy scrunches his eyes up again, growling at the pain. He looks like a hugely inflated toddler trying to be brave. As he leaves the room he knocks over a lamp and apologises to the air as he bumbles down the corridor.
Pharaoh turns back to Ronnie. She has pulled her legs up and the tattoo of the Green Man is clearly visible on her thigh. So, too, are the enlarged blue veins of a serial user.
‘Smile for me,’ says Pharaoh, flatly.
‘I’m sorry,’ stammers Ronnie.
‘You heard. Show me your teeth.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to. Smile.’
Trembling, Ronnie shows her teeth. They are the colour of toffees, and one incisor has split in two.
‘What you on? Miaow-miaow?’
Crying now, Ronnie nods. ‘I’m clean of the smack.’
‘Good for you. Your mother must be proud.’
Pharaoh looks at her. She’s a pathetic specimen, exuding fear from every pore. Pharaoh knows already the life that she has lived. Some street workers develop a hardness that keeps everybody else at a distance, while others are desperate for affection and fall in love with anybody who shows them kindness. Their hearts never toughen. Pharaoh can see at once what kind of person Ronnie is.
‘Will Blaylock,’ says Pharaoh. ‘The truth.’
‘I haven’t said a word!’ shouts Ronnie, and her voice cracks. A bubble of snot blows out of her nose and she wipes it away with her bare wrist.
‘No, you haven’t,’ says Pharaoh. ‘But you’re going to.’
‘I won’t. I swear I won’t.’
Pharaoh sucks her lower lip, thinking. Then she chuckles. ‘Can I ask, Ronnie – who do you think we are?’
‘You work for them. You’re trying to scare me. And you have. I swear, I won’t say anything!’
Ronnie’s handbag is at the far end of the sofa. Pharaoh crosses to it and picks it up. Inside are sex toys, restraints, lubricants, lipsticks, gels and nail varnish. She rakes through, pulls out a packet of tissues and hands one to Ronnie, who takes it with a shaking hand.
Pharaoh goes to the large front window and looks out at the city. The roofs of two old fruit warehouses spoil the view across the Old Town but she
can still make out Holy Trinity Church and the head of the golden statue outside the magistrate’s court. On Castle Street, the traffic is gridlocked and the rain swirling around the cars and buildings is falling at the rate that leaves drivers unsure whether to put their wipers on intermittent or constant.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ says Pharaoh, turning her back on the city and enjoying the elegant neatness of Neilsen’s apartment. She has found little to make fun of him about, save the loud floral wallpaper in his bedroom and the school photos in the drawer under his bed.
Veronica looks up, all folded in on herself. She seems braced for violence.
‘My name is Detective Superintendent Patricia Pharaoh,’ Pharaoh says, sweetly. ‘That chap in the bathroom is Detective Sergeant McAvoy. You can call him Hector, if you like, though you will call me Detective Superintendent. You’ve just pepper-sprayed him. You’ve just told me that you think I’m here to frighten you into silence. You look like you’re about to jump out of the window. All of this leads me to surmise that you have something to tell me that I am going to find jolly interesting. So, let me ask again – does the name William Blaylock mean anything to you?’
Ronnie’s eyes have grown steadily wider and now tears spill, carving lines in her rouged cheeks. As she wipes her eyes, one of her false lashes comes off and is left stuck to the side of her head like a half-eaten centipede.
‘I don’t know him,’ she says. ‘I don’t.’
Pharaoh sighs. She holds up her hand and shows Ronnie that she has taken her phone from her bag.
‘It’s going to be about forty-five minutes until you have to check in and tell whoever it is that looks after you that you’ve finished. We’ve got a nice quiet place and lots of time. You’re safe and warm and I can promise you nobody is going to ask you to touch yourself or take your top off or stick anything in your mouth other than a cup of tea and a biscuit. This could be the best part of your day.’
‘I can’t,’ says Ronnie, and she sucks on her wrist with a childishness that makes Pharaoh want to hold her. ‘They’ll kill me.’
