Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (34 page)

‘He made his point the first time,’ says Hogg. ‘Fuck, I was in hospital long enough. I did what he said.’

‘And what was that?’ asks McAvoy, trying to maintain his composure.

‘I apologised!’ spits Hogg. ‘He owes me for that. Owes me the video.’

McAvoy’s mind races ahead; hands him a picture, fully formed. He glares at Hogg. Lets some gravel creep into his voice.

‘He made you apologise, yes? To Hannah.’

Hogg looks down at his dirty white trainers. Nods. ‘I was pissed when he grabbed me,’ he says, as if defending his lapse in dominance. ‘I’d smoked a fucking orchard of weed. I was walking home. Still didn’t have a car . . .’

‘Because your uncle had the last one you stole crushed,’ says McAvoy.

Hogg shrugs. ‘Whatever.’

‘And?’

‘He sprayed me with something. A little water bottle, straight in my eyes. Stung like fuck. I couldn’t see. Next thing I’m on the floor somewhere. A garage, I reckon, but I couldn’t say. I’m bleeding from my mouth and I can barely see. He’s got my phone . . .’

‘You saw his face?’

‘Are you listening? I couldn’t see a thing.’

‘He hurt you?’

Hogg swills spit around his mouth. Sucks it through his teeth.

‘He described what he was doing as he did it. Didn’t seem excited. Just calm, like he’d done it before. Said he had a horse-shoe in a sock. Said he thought it was symbolic after what I did. And then he hit me with it. Whipped me around the ribs. The face. I’ve never felt pain like it.’

McAvoy cannot disguise the sound of his breathing or pretend to be anything other than energised by this sudden misguided admission.

‘He filmed you,’ says McAvoy.

Hogg nods. ‘Used my own fucking phone. I was lying there, bleeding and hardly able to move, and he videoed me. Told me to apologise. Told me to say I was sorry. To beg for my life.’

McAvoy looks away. Turns back to where Roisin is picking loose tobacco off her tongue and smiling at him.

‘He sent the video to Hannah,’ says McAvoy.

Hogg shrugs again. ‘I didn’t know her. Didn’t know why it was happening. But she saved my life. Phoned him back. I heard him whispering. Whatever she said, he left me alone after that. Came back and gave me one last smack. Took my jaw off the fucking hinge. Told me that if I spoke about what had happened he’d send somebody after me. Told me to be nice to the princesses, whatever that might fucking mean.’

McAvoy sucks his cheek and looks up, past the trees, to where a sudden strip of sunlight has managed to permeate the gloom.

‘Your phone,’ he says. ‘He took it?’

‘I was unconscious,’ says Hogg. ‘My uncle found me. Told me to keep my mouth shut, like I had any choice. They had to wire it shut until it healed. Broke all of my ribs. I can’t even drive again yet.’

McAvoy lets his irritation show as Hogg stands and feels sorry for himself.

‘You were interviewed by the police,’ says McAvoy. He decides to get into character. Snarls a little, like his old boxing coach had shown him years before. ‘He knows you told.’

‘I never!’ protests Hogg. He glances back over his shoulder. Seems unsure whether to start kicking out or to burst into tears.

McAvoy takes out his phone and finds the picture. Shows it to Hogg, keeping his eyes fixed on his. ‘You know him?’

Hogg concentrates. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t say. Tell him that. Tell him I never told her. I didn’t recognise him then and I don’t now. Only from what she showed me.’

McAvoy feels his world grow still. Feels everything slow down. Imagines, for a moment, he can hear the beating of every wing as the pheasant takes off from the trees. Imagines he can hear the ladybirds, scuttling over damp leaves.

‘She?’

‘The copper. Superintendent something. Cleopatra, or whatever. She showed me. I told her to leave it alone.’

McAvoy continues staring. Burns a hole through the centre of Hogg’s head.

‘She showed you his picture?’

‘When I was in hospital. Months ago. But I never told her owt.’

‘And who has spoken to you since?’

‘Coppers? None.’

McAvoy’s heart is banging against his chest. He can feel sweat in the small of his back and at his hairline. Wonders whether there is a breathing technique that would help him right now. Wonders whether it would be best to pull out his warrant card, arrest Hogg and make this all official. He shakes his head, as if making up his mind.

‘Did she mention his name?’ he asks softly.

‘Never said. But I saw him somewhere. Telly, it was. Got locked up for something and they let him out on appeal. Saw her, too. Told my uncle and he didn’t even believe me . . .’

McAvoy cannot help himself. He pushes forward and looms over Hogg like an oak.

‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘You never met her.’

Hogg scrambles back, fumbling in the pocket of his jogging pants. Pulls out an object and swings it wildly at McAvoy’s face. It connects with a noise like a hammer hitting a wall and McAvoy staggers back; spots of light fill his vision and warm blood runs into his left eye.

‘Fuck you!’ screams Hogg, swinging the object again and connecting with McAvoy’s left forearm. ‘Tell him he’s not getting me again. I haven’t got a horse-shoe in a sock but I can sure as shit put a couple of snooker balls in one. You like that? You like that, you big Jock fuck?’

McAvoy wipes his hand across his face and opens his eyes just in time to see the object arcing up again. He throws his head back. Flings out his right hand. Opens his fist at the last moment and catches Hogg with a slap that will leave the younger man’s ears ringing. Hogg shouts and stumbles and McAvoy starts to reach into his pocket for his warrant card. Before he can, a weight lands on his back. McAvoy realises the other lads have joined the fight. Somebody is pulling his hair. He can feel inexpert, ineffectual punches scudding into his ribs. He fights like an elephant being attacked by tigers. Throws one figure at another. Tries to warn them off but finds his mouth full of somebody’s sleeve. He wants to fight back properly. Wants to swing the kind of punch that can snap a neck. But he forces himself to remain a policeman. Fights like a grown-up being set upon by youngsters on a bouncy castle. Hooks legs and pushes chests. Refuses to do damage until he has no choice . . .

Tyres screech across gravel. In the gap between two arms, McAvoy sees a flash of blue. Then there is a crunch of metal upon metal. He reacts first. Spins inside the grasp of the teenager behind him and pushes him away with both hands. Sees a space between the fallen figures and darts for it.

‘Come on,’ shouts Roisin, her eyes wide with exhilaration.

McAvoy throws himself into the passenger seat. Hears roars of anger as Roisin flings the Volvo into reverse and crunches back from the smashed bumper and boot of the expensive Subaru.

‘We’ll fucking kill you!’ comes the scream, but it is lost almost at once in the sound of rubber hitting tarmac, and in an instant, the Volvo is picking up speed and flying around the bends in the road.

‘You okay?’ asks Roisin, reaching across from the driver’s seat and pressing her hand to the wound above McAvoy’s eyebrow. ‘Fuck, that’s deep. Sorry, Lilah – Mammy didn’t mean to swear.’

There is a ringing in McAvoy’s ears. His head is throbbing. There is blood on his face and on his shirt. None of it matters. The only thing he cares about is the lies that Pharaoh has told him. The only thing that matters is the sure and certain knowledge that Reuben Hollow killed Hannah, and that Pharaoh has always known.

Chapter 25

Foley is listening to the song he always fills himself up with before he hurts somebody. It’s a simple little melody, played entirely on the black keys. It’s from a zombie film, apparently, and it’s certainly sinister. It builds to a crescendo that always sets Teddy’s teeth on edge. It’s right for the conditions. In this fog he can half imagine an army of the undead staggering towards their vehicle. Wonders what he would do in such a set of circumstances, though really he knows, without a shadow of a doubt. He’d shoot Foley in the kneecaps and leave him to be eaten. Not now, though. There’s no need. It’s going to be a blast watching Foley get his revenge. Teddy suspects he’ll only break a sweat when he has to help his young companion lift the body into the boot.

‘I’m sticking it on again,’ says Foley, sitting in the passenger seat, and he skips back to the beginning of the track. Settles moodily in his seat. Fills himself up with the mournful tune and thinks of murder.

‘You’ll give yourself an ulcer,’ says Teddy. ‘I can hear you grinding your teeth. You haven’t done that since prison.’

Foley says nothing. There are a lot of things he hasn’t done since prison. A lot he won’t ever be doing again.

‘Save your petrol,’ says Teddy. ‘You’re going to burn your engine dry.’

‘The fucking engine’s off.’

‘No, in you, I mean. We only get so much fuel. You’ll be knackered by the time you get to him. He’s no slouch, we know that. Chill a little. You want a sweet?’

Foley turns furious eyes on the older man. He looks for a moment like he wants to raise the gun and put a hole in the face of his old cellmate, like he wants to stick a knife in the world and watch it bleed to death.

‘Easy, son,’ says Teddy. ‘I give you a long rope. I’m fond of you, but don’t look at me like that. You’re hurting. You’ve no need. Chill.’

Foley looks for a moment like he is going to argue. Then he unwinds. Sniffs up something vile and solid; swallows it down. They located Reuben Hollow within moments of leaving the pikey and the teenager. Their boss has a tame copper on his payroll and with only two phone calls he had accessed the national number-plate recognition software. Reuben Hollow’s vehicle had just passed through the town of Beverley, heading inland. It had taken Teddy and Foley an hour to reach the location and another hour to pick up his tail. Foley hadn’t really expected to find him so easily but fortune had been kind. Despite the thick mist that has pulled a cloak over East Yorkshire, they’d stumbled on his battered old car in this pretty little hamlet that looks to Foley like an exhibit at a history museum. Teddy fancies that if he pushed his arm into the cloud, his hand would come out in another place and time. The air smells of the sea; of dog food and cold. He misses London. Misses people knowing that he is a man to respect and avoid. They’re all fucking backwards up here. Northerners throw punches without giving a shit whom the recipient is connected to. In the Grimsby pub that he and Foley warmed to, a bloke in his seventies threatened to smash his face in just for looking at his pint with disrespectful eyes. Teddy had actually found himself apologising. He hasn’t said sorry to anybody in years.

‘We should take him now,’ says Foley, moodily. He’s nodding along to the music. Picking at a spot on his neck.

‘In a church, lad? C’mon, the boss takes that shit seriously.’

‘He wouldn’t know.’

‘That’s not the point.’

They are parked beside a field, opposite the low boundary wall of St Mary’s Church in South Dalton. The fog has obscured the ornate spire but the low gravestones are given the power to unnerve by the grey mist that swirls around their ancient inscriptions.

‘No signal,’ says Teddy, looking at his phone screen.

‘How do people live in places like this?’ asks Foley. ‘What do they do for a laugh?’

‘There’s a good restaurant,’ says Teddy, hoping they will start talking a little more companionably. ‘Michelin star, according to the website.’

‘Here?’ Foley waves a hand at the landscape of nothingness. ‘For who?’

Teddy shrugs. Lights himself a cigarette. ‘Must be money here somewhere. You know how country folk are. Won’t redecorate for fifty years but then they go and buy a Range Rover with the change they found down the back of the sofa. Country folk with country ways.’

‘Cuntish folk,’ broods Foley.

‘Touché, my friend.’

Foley presses play again. Lets the music fill him. Reuben Hollow’s Jeep is parked a few feet away. The small cottages which overlook this quiet road are lost to fog. There’s little risk of anybody seeing what they have planned for the man who humiliated them when they were getting ready to enjoy themselves with Sophia. Even if the boss hadn’t given the go-ahead they’d have been tempted to come back for him. They can dress it up any way they want; he got the better of them.