Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (33 page)

‘I’ll be quiet,’ says Roisin with a sigh. She pouts, petulantly. Leans her head against the window. Stares out at the trees. ‘Dead rabbit,’ she says, pointing.

‘It was just sleeping,’ says McAvoy, driving around the sad little grey carcass and trying to be himself.

‘In the middle of the road? Dangerous.’

‘He’s a dangerous rabbit. Proper hard. Kicked the shit out of a badger in his younger days.’

Roisin giggles. Puts her hand on her husband’s as it vibrates on the gear stick. ‘Do I have to stay in the car? I could help. You can be good cop and I can be fecking horrible cop.’

McAvoy strokes her fingers with his thumb. Looks down at the mobile phone in his lap. The sat-nav function says he’s nearly there.

‘You can’t get out of the car, Roisin. It wouldn’t look right. You just keep your head down.’

Roisin pouts again. ‘You’re no fun.’

She had called him as he was leaving the hospital. Told him he sounded too sad to be on his own. Told him she couldn’t stand looking out of the window at the coppers and reporters, gawpers and wankers who have taken up residence on the grass outside their home. She met him by the ice-cream van at Hessle Foreshore, dressed in a red leather jacket and painted-on jeans; holding Lilah’s hand and looking forward to a drive in the country with Daddy.

McAvoy looks at the phone again. Still nothing from Tremberg. Nothing from Pharaoh, either. His head hurts from everything he’s trying to keep inside it. He had needed Roisin as if she were medicine. Picked her up from home and decided that he would be a better policeman if she were by his side. She’d held him close when she got in the car. Told him that she’d had a tricky morning but she’d left Trish a message and that everything would be fine now she had got things off her chest. He hadn’t pushed too hard, though he had felt jittery at the thought of Roisin and Pharaoh having conversations he was not there to referee. Besides, his head had been too full of Pharaoh and the way she spoke to him to focus on his wife’s peculiar behaviour. His cheeks burn at the injustice of it. He knows Pharaoh’s been concealing something from him. He would not object to secrecy from any other senior officer but he thought he had proven himself to her. Thought they were more than boss and minion. He will never be less than grateful for all she has done for him but cannot help but feel betrayed. Somehow, Hollow has got a hold on her. She is not behaving like she should. He knows that the drink is starting to take its toll but thought the woman he knew was still in control. He cannot help but wonder whether Hollow has seduced her. He hates the thought. Gags on it. Shakes his brain as it offers up a more distressing question: why hasn’t he told her about Hollow’s connection to Hannah? Why does he feel so compelled to prove his theory to himself before proving it to her?

‘There might be more to it than you know,’ says Roisin, tactfully. She would love to criticise Pharaoh just for the sheer fun of getting one over on her, but in truth, she knows her to be a good copper and an even better person. ‘She’s a superintendent, Aector. She had a good career even before you came along. She wouldn’t have got there by allowing herself to be fooled by every charmer.’

McAvoy shakes his head. ‘We had good evidence. She blocked us. Made it clear he was off limits.’

‘He’s been in all the papers,’ says Roisin. ‘He’s made her life difficult. She knows about this stuff. Maybe she’s right when she says you have to play it carefully.’

McAvoy snaps his head to the left. Temper flickers in his eyes.

‘What is it about him? He’s got you all under his spell.’

Roisin looks hurt and McAvoy immediately regrets his words. He tries to say sorry but the word turns to ash upon his tongue.

‘I’m not under his spell,’ says Roisin quietly. ‘I didn’t even like him. He had something missing in his eyes.’

‘I don’t even know why he was there,’ says McAvoy, slowing down as the sat-nav tells him his destination is on the right. ‘He shouldn’t even know where she lives, but that’s today’s world for you – two clicks on a mouse and you know everything about everybody.’

Roisin seems about to speak. Seems about to confess something she has withheld. But McAvoy is turning the car into a gap in the line of trees, pulling into a large parking area where three cars are parked in a loose fan-tail. The doors are open and music is pumping out of the central vehicle, a souped-up Subaru with an exhaust pipe the width of a fire hydrant. The other two vehicles are sporty hatchbacks. This seems to be a place where the Volvo will not blend in.

‘Which one is he?’ asks Roisin, nodding at the youths who are lounging, languidly, on the bonnets of the vehicles.

‘Curly hair. Afro-style, but mucky blond. Probably wearing a tracksuit.’ McAvoy is reading from his notes. For all of his personal involvement in the hunt for Hannah Kelly, he has not yet had the pleasure of meeting David Hogg. He phoned the local police sergeant before setting off. Found out where Hogg was likely to be at this time of day. The sergeant had been a solid, dependable character who had been absolutely honest with McAvoy. ‘Little shit,’ he’d said. ‘Better off in the ground. If you get the chance, run over his fucking head.’

McAvoy parks the Volvo. Turns to shush Lilah, who has started whimpering at the sound of house music.

‘Wankers,’ says Roisin, shaking her head. ‘It’s such a lovely place. Make them turn it down.’

McAvoy looks around him, peering through the car windows. Green hills roll gently upwards both before him and behind. Behind the grey, a cold blue light strives to be seen. An unfinished triangle of geese arrows artfully across the distant cloud.

He looks at the youths that loiter around the vehicles. Can see four lads and a couple of young girls.

Drops his eyes.

Car tyres have pulped leaves and blossom into the gravel.

‘You will stay put, yes? It won’t take long. I just need to try.’

Roisin grins. ‘Leave me your phone. I’ll play Angry Birds.’

McAvoy climbs from the car. He makes sure to walk with a straight back. Makes sure they can see just how damn big he is. Covers the distance in half a dozen strides. Gives a jerk of his head; a northerner’s hello.

‘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.