Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (29 page)

‘He met Ava Delaney at Hull Royal Infirmary. I’m aware of that.’

McAvoy looks confused. ‘That information hasn’t been distributed . . .’

‘I’m a fucking superintendent, Hector. Me knowing something is often enough.’

McAvoy looks up, past the trees. Snaps his head to the left as a bird begins its two-note call.

Pharaoh forces herself to hold his gaze when he finally turns to look at her.

‘Well I don’t know how well he got to know her at Hull Royal but we found traces of his saliva on a handkerchief in her pocket.’

Helen looks away as Pharaoh starts forward. For a moment, she seems about to slap him.

‘What?’ asks Pharaoh, so softly that it comes out as little more than a growl.

‘A handkerchief,’ he repeats. ‘Trace DNA evidence.’

‘He probably wiped her eyes! That’s the sort of bloke he is. And this is from Jackson-Savannah, yes? Probably bullshit. What else is there in her house? What connection have you found between them?’

‘Between Hollow and Ava Delaney? Nothing. But Helen has been investigating several suspicious deaths. Men who appeared in the newspapers having got away with something. Whenever there’s a vulnerable woman seeking justice he seems to swan in like a superhero and the next moment somebody is dead. We’ve got a growing number of cases in which men who have escaped justice have been killed not long after, and always when there’s a vulnerable woman to impress along the way. Ava’s boyfriend was a bully. He ended up dead in a ditch. Hannah Kelly received a video message from David Hogg’s mobile not long after he killed a horse she used to own and love. Yvonne Turpin’s sister, Toni, was killed in a hit and run and he all but got away scot-free. Next thing he’s dead too. And the whiff of Reuben Hollow is all over at least one of the cases. Raymond O’Neill had a connection to him. And Ben is pulling Jez Gavan’s prison records right now and I already have a pretty damn good idea what he’ll find . . .’

Pharaoh rubs a hand across her nose. Makes fists. She shakes her head. Fumbles in her bag for her cigarettes and tries to light another. She can’t turn the wheel on the lighter. She curses, shaking like a drunk going through withdrawal. McAvoy takes the lighter from her and lights the cigarette. She gives a small nod of thanks and breathes deep. Regains some composure as she smokes.

‘Whatever you think you’ve got, you don’t have enough to talk to him,’ she says, in a voice more like her own. ‘Not now. He’s right in the eye of the storm, Hector. Humberside Police is being called every name under the sun and I’m having my name dragged through the mud because he got sent down for a murder when the press think he’s a hero. Now is not the time to start questioning him over the murder of a young girl or a bunch of random bastards from all over the place. Trust me.’

McAvoy opens his mouth to speak but clams up when Pharaoh shakes her head.

‘People know how loyal you are,’ she says, some warmth creeping into her voice. ‘If word gets around that you’ve come and hauled Hollow off for questioning on some other charge it will seem like a vendetta. Like we’re closing ranks. You know I trust you and your judgement but have you considered the fact that maybe you’re looking for stuff against Hollow because you don’t like him?’

‘I don’t know him!’ splutters McAvoy, reddening. ‘I just know what’s he costing you.’

‘I’m a big girl,’ says Pharaoh, smiling. ‘Maybe, just maybe, there’s more going on than you know. I’m not saying we won’t ask him some questions. I’m just suggesting that softly-softly might be better. Mallett would go spare if he knew you were here.’

‘And what about you being here?’ asks McAvoy, his nostrils flaring. ‘Where is he, anyway? Off carving you a bunch of white roses in his fucking caravan?’

Pharaoh’s face tightens. Helen gives a little hiss of surprise. Neither woman has heard him speak this way before. Neither has ever seen him look so much like he wants to hurt somebody.

Pharaoh grinds out her cigarette. Straightens her back and looks at the side of McAvoy’s face until he looks at her.

‘Tell me about Hannah, Detective Sergeant. The injuries.’

‘It’s the post-mortem this morning,’ says Helen, when McAvoy does not reply. ‘But her armpits were scalped.’

Pharaoh does not turn her head. ‘You can’t scalp an armpit. Scalping involves the removal of the scalp.’

‘Okay then, the armpit was removed with a knife.’

‘A sculptor’s knife,’ says McAvoy, under his breath.

Pharaoh gives a laugh that contains no mirth.

‘I’m going to go and get in my car and have a little think,’ she says, after a moment’s silence. ‘Then I’m going to go and do my job. I suggest you two follow up some of these leads and concentrate on finding a link between Hannah Kelly and Ava Delaney. I suggest you do your jobs like professionals. I will have my phone with me for the rest of the day and I will be putting out some fires at HQ. If you need me, ring me, but make damn sure that it’s worth my time. And Hector, if you knock on Hollow’s door when I’m gone, I will suspend you. Are we clear?’

McAvoy breathes deeply. His face has gone white.

‘Where was he last night?’ he asks quietly. ‘Seriously, Guv. Where?’

Pharaoh gives a shake of her head. ‘We’ll talk later. I know what you went through last night. I know you’re hurting. Don’t let your emotions get on top of you.’

McAvoy watches as she turns away, her shoulders a little stooped and dandelion spinners in her hair.

‘Jesus, Sarge,’ says Tremberg, under her breath. ‘I thought she was going to hit you.’

McAvoy turns and looks at the red-roofed cottage. Takes in the ivy and the wildflowers, the gravestones and buckled railings. Imagines, for a moment, how it would feel to wake in this place. How it would feel to see Roisin sitting on the steps of the old bow-top gypsy wagon, hoops in her ears and dirt on the soles of her dainty feet. Wonders how Pharaoh looked, last night, moving on top of Hollow as McAvoy and his family coughed on the stench of Hannah Kelly’s body outside their home.

‘You don’t think there’s anything going on between them, do you?’ asks Helen, pulling a face. ‘I mean, she wouldn’t. She’s Pharaoh.’

McAvoy shakes his head. Remembers all the nights he has held her hair back while she has thrown up red wine and vodka. Remembers the slurred conversations at 2 a.m. and the miles he has put in to ensure she never drives the children to school when she’s too drunk to see.

‘No, she’s not,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Not any more.’

Chapter 22

Roisin doesn’t understand the motivation of the teenagers who lounge on the damp grass outside Grimsby Minster. It’s a ghastly day. Although the fog has not taken this part of the east coast in its fist, the sky is an endless smear of grey and the air is speckled with a misty rain, a billion tiny raindrops hovering like flies.

‘This is Webbo,’ says Sophia, indicating a tall, jointy specimen in a black hooded top, heavy white foundation and eyeliner. ‘He’s studying drama at Franklin.’

Roisin gives Webbo a parental once-over. Underneath the Goth make-up he seems to be quite freckly and she spots red roots peeking out through the black hair around his temples. He flicks his hair out of his eyes and nods a hello. Roisin smiles politely.

‘Nice to meet you, Webbo. Eyeliner, eh? What’s the word for that look? Emu, isn’t it?’

Webbo sneers, flaring his nostrils contemptuously. ‘I don’t do labels,’ he says. ‘I’m just me, man. I’m no emo.’

‘Emo, that’s it,’ says Roisin conversationally. ‘I heard you’re into slicing your arms with paper clips and razor blades and stuff. What’s that all about, then?’

Webbo looks to Sophia for support. Turns back to Roisin.

‘When the blood flows, your pain leaves with it, yeah? When I’m in pain inside, I just take a razor to my arm and let it out.’

Roisin considers this, nodding and sucking her cheek.

‘It’s not for me,’ she says at last. ‘If I’m feeling sad I have a good cry or cuddle somebody I love or have a bit of a shout and a bar of chocolate. But if you like slicing yourself to bits, that’s up to you.’ She turns to Sophia and gives her a hard look. ‘You’re not into that shit, are you? Because if you’re cutting yourself, I swear, I’ll save you the bother. You won’t need to self-harm – you’ll be in enough pain from the slapping I’ll give you.’

Sophia shakes her head, colour rising in her cheeks. Webbo looks between the two women and makes a poor decision.

‘It’s her body,’ he says, indicating Sophia. ‘She’s her own person. She wants to deal with her pain, that’s up to her, nobody else.’

Roisin ignores him for a moment, continuing to stare at Sophia. Slowly, she bends down and attends to Lilah in her pushchair. Her voice takes on a sing-song quality as she addresses her child.

‘This is Webbo, Lilah. He’s an emo. Can you say, “Emo”? He dyes his hair and puts on make-up and likes to cut his arms. What a silly man. Is he a big silly? Yes, he is. Do you know what would happen to Webbo if you brought him home to our house and said he was your boyfriend, Lilah? You do, don’t you. Your mammy would cut his legs off and bury him in the back garden, that’s what she’d do. And Daddy would probably be cross and give Mammy a bit of a telling-off, but deep down, he’d know that it was for the best, because Webbo is a total knob and should probably feck off while I’m distracted. Do you want to sing “Old Macdonald Had a Farm”? You do? Good girl!’

Sophia finds herself torn between a desire to turn crimson, and to throw back her head and laugh. She likes hanging out with the older lads but thinks of Roisin as the coolest adult she has ever met. Loyalty to Roisin wins out, and she turns her back on Webbo. She crouches down next to Roisin and together they sing a verse or two of Lilah’s favourite nursery rhyme. The child grins, gummy and delightful, and by the time Roisin and Sophia stand up again, Webbo has slouched off to join the throng of black-clad, disaffected teens.

‘Is he the one from the party?’ asks Roisin.

‘He’s okay,’ says Sophia. ‘He’s a friend. Sort of.’

‘Have you done it with him?’ Roisin asks her.

Sophia shakes her head. ‘I told you, I’m not ready for that. The lad who wanted to at the party isn’t even from around here. It all got blown out of proportion anyway. And I shouldn’t have led him on.’

Roisin looks at her teenage friend. She feels like lighting a cigarette but is making an effort not to smoke around the children. Instead she reaches into the pocket of her leather jacket for her lip-gloss. Applies a liberal coat and smacks her lips together. She’s fond of Sophia but doesn’t really know how far her duties and responsibilities should go. Although she wishes that Trish Pharaoh spent less time with Aector, she respects her. She doesn’t want to piss her off and make things awkward for Aector by overstepping the mark with her eldest daughter. But she has been stewing these past couple of days. She should have told Trish what happened, about the two men who turned up at her house with a taser and threatened bloody violence. Sophia had been so insistent.
Please don’t tell
. And in the moments after it happened, Roisin reacted instinctively. She may be married to a copper but she was brought up thinking of the police as a threat. She was brought up to handle things herself and never to tell anything to people in uniform. Instinctively, she had downplayed the incident and her part in it, and Sophia followed her lead.

In the days since, she has grown increasingly worried that she has put Trish and her children in danger. The two men didn’t seem like local thugs. They had a look in their eyes that she has witnessed too many times before. The horrors of last night have shaken Roisin. The body of Aector’s missing girl was left virtually on her own front lawn. Danger is encroaching on the safe little island of happiness where she and Aector and the children try to live. Aector’s work has cost them dear in the past. They both bear the scars of his need to secure justice for both the living and the dead. She accepts this. She would never ask him to be anything but the man she fell in love with. But she fears what could happen to those close by. Her friend, Mel, lost her life a couple of years ago because of her relationship with Roisin. Pharaoh’s old boss, Tom Spink, has to walk with two sticks after being caught up in an investigation. Now it is Sophia whom Roisin fears for. She has come here to check that she is okay, and to warn her that they must now tell the truth. She has come to tell her that the other night, they got it wrong.

‘Did you say you think you led him on?’ asks Roisin, fixing Sophia with a hard glare. ‘Christ, girl, don’t you ever bloody think like that. You can be naked and underneath a fella and still say no. Don’t you understand that? Your body’s your own. Not everybody gets the chance to choose who they share it with, but you’re a strong, intelligent girl from a good family. You don’t have to give yourself away and you don’t have to feel bad if you decide not to sleep with a bloke just because he’s got himself worked up. What was it he called you on Facebook?’