Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (38 page)

McAvoy presses his lips together into a tight, bloodless line and thanks his lucky stars that he will never be a detective superintendent.

‘Aberlour was incandescent,’ says Pharaoh, licking her teeth. ‘He had to salvage something. Decided his best card was me. Hollow had warmed to me, according to Aberlour. For all that Aberlour’s a prick, he has good contacts. He knew that Hollow had been sending me these little carvings . . .’

McAvoy turns away before she can see his displeasure. She notices anyway.

‘I don’t know what was in his mind,’ she says. ‘We talked a lot and I was civil with him but I don’t know when he started thinking he could read my soul. Either way, he saw something in me and Aberlour wanted me to exploit that. That’s why they let my name be put through the wringer. That’s why it looks to all and sundry as if I’m done for. They thought he would swoop in. If all had gone right I was going to tell him about some fellow officer who was making my life a misery. That would be one of Aberlour’s team. When he went for them they could make an arrest. Get him to confess to all of it. But none of it’s gone to plan. I still don’t even know what I believe he’s guilty of. All I know is that somebody has taken him and I’ve got another body to deal with. And I have a horrible feeling Aberlour’s going to wash his hands of the whole damn affair.’

She breathes out, slowly, as though telling the story has exhausted her. She looks for a moment as though she is going to put her hand on McAvoy’s arm and squeeze it, both to give and receive reassurance. She holds herself in check. Unbidden, McAvoy gives her a clumsy pat on the shoulder. He looks at her in a way nobody else does.

‘How did they meet?’ he asks, half to himself and half to her. ‘He corrupted her.’

‘Ava?’

‘Hannah. He offered her a chance at revenge. Made her sell her soul.’

‘We don’t know what happened yet.’

‘Yes we fucking do,’ says McAvoy, and he is breathing hard. There is a light in his glare that could be flame. Pharaoh holds his gaze for a full ten seconds, then breathes out.

‘Do you want to go and piss off a much more senior officer?’ she asks, turning away and heading back towards the crime scene. ‘Keep that look on your face. Keep that fire stoked.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Come in the van,’ she says. ‘Best behaviour. Fuck this up and you are so bloody dead.’

Pharaoh flashes a smile at the young officer who is leaning out of the back doors of the shiny white technical support van parked just inside the police cordon. She has a little more swagger in her hips and he is only too happy to confirm that yes, the secure line is set up. She’s required to brief the man who has been fucking her life up for the best part of a year.

She allows the constable to help her into the van. Hears the thud as McAvoy bangs his head, followed by the sharp intake of breath as he absorbs the scene. It’s a computer geek’s paradise. Circuit boards blink and twinkle around a bank of computer monitors. Behind a sliding glass screen door, a small laboratory gleams with pristine whiteness. And then there’s
him
. The oily prick who slithered into her life and told her that she was duty bound to let him fuck her over.

His name is Detective Chief Superintendent Aberlour. Iain, to his friends. He’s perhaps fifty, with a lugubrious, sallow face, a mouth like a child’s drawing of a clown and hair brushed forward in a Mod cut. He has dark, attractive eyes, and though his belly is never in shot, Pharaoh fancies that he has a loose gut, sticking out from a pencil-thin body like a petulant lower lip. She knows little about him, but rumour has it that in his youth, he was a member of the Young Conservatives and is a regular dinner party guest at the private quarters of the Home Secretary.

‘Trish,’ he says, as if they are old friends. ‘A treat to see you, even considering the circumstances. You look tired. Pull up a chair. Any sign of Dawn yet? She said she was en route, but it’s a hell of a drive. And I see you’ve brought a giant. I trust there are operational reasons? You remember the part about “absolutely nobody”, yes?’

Pharaoh plasters on a smile. Pulls up a swivel chair and sits in front of the computer monitor. Wonders if it would be a sacking offence to light a cigarette.

‘Sir,’ she says, in the non-committal voice of somebody who has been dealing with superior wankers for twenty-five years. ‘No sign of Dawn, no. I’ve sent a patrol car to guide her in from the bridge. The fog is getting thicker. She may struggle. This is my sergeant. He is here because he has my absolute confidence and respect and because he is dangerously close to working this all out for himself.’

Detective Chief Superintendent Aberlour sucks in his cheeks. Then he gives an appreciative nod.

‘Keep trying Dawn, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Neither officer admits it, but they would not trust DCI Dawn Leather to find her way in from the city limits if it was broad daylight and she was following a marching band. She is good at one thing only, and that is agreeing with Aberlour. It is a skill that has seen her rise high.

‘We’re alone, yes?’ asks Aberlour, giving a theatrical peer down the lens. ‘And Sergeant, may I impress upon you the absolute secrecy of what you are about to hear?’

Pharaoh turns and rolls her eyes. She’s about to give the universal sign for “wanker” and try to make McAvoy laugh, but she sees he is earnestly staring at the computer screen and nodding his assent. She feels like sighing. Instead she gives the van another once-over. The young science officer has closed the door behind him. There is nobody to interrupt them. Nobody to back her up, come to that.

‘We’re alone, sir.’

Aberlour gives a long sigh. ‘Bad business,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You remember the word we used a lot when this began? “Containment”?’

Pharaoh allows her temper to become a quick, angry smile. ‘I do, sir. And I remember saying how hard it was going to be.’

Aberlour sits forward. Shows his distaste at her answer. ‘Nevertheless,’ he says, in clipped tones, ‘we didn’t expect this.’

‘No?’ asks Pharaoh, feigning innocence. ‘Extraordinary.’

They stare at one another through the computer screen. Pharaoh met him once, as a younger man, but recalls little of consequence. Has vague memories of oily hair and manicured nails. Remembers the way he spoke to her, as if constantly on the verge of saying his goodbyes. Here was a man whose time was precious, and who only employed good manners when he needed to. Despite his surname, he has no Scottish accent. If he is Scottish, he has rubbed the brogue off his shoe.

‘We’re certain, yes? No room for doubt?’

Pharaoh shakes her head. ‘A single gunshot was reported at just after four p.m. Patrol car despatched immediately and the Armed Response Unit was immediately notified. They found the victim. Found Hollow’s car.’

Aberlour digests this. ‘Any of his blood?’

‘Your people are working on it, sir. They’re faster than ours but it still takes time.’

‘And the victim?’

‘Hot off the press, sir. Dorian Foley. Twenty-four. Released last year from Belmarsh. Thought to have a couple of hits to his name and we know for a fact he’s dabbled in dealing and armed robbery. May have come to the attention of some serious players recently. Talent-spotted, you might say.’

Aberlour nods. Sucks his teeth. ‘Usual MO?’

‘Irritant in the eyes and back of the head caved in? Yes, sir. Looks like Hollow went down fighting.’

Pharaoh tries to remain impassive as she speaks, but something inside her creaks a little. The dam she has built around her imagination begins to give. For a second she imagines Hollow, bound and vulnerable, having his beautiful face turned into a mosaic by men he would never have encountered had she said ‘no’ all those months ago. Guilt dances in her eyes. She has to fight not to let it control her. Thoughts flash like tongues of fire in the back of her mind. She remembers Roisin’s garbled message. Thinks fast. Talks fast.

‘Foley’s associates?’ asks Aberlour.

Pharaoh breathes out slowly. ‘I’m sure you know them better than I do, sir.’

Aberlour considers this for a moment. In the cool of the van, Pharaoh watches LEDs flicker. Watches tiny test tubes shake and spin beyond the glass door; DNA evidence being fast-tracked by the kind of mobile support vehicle her team could never afford.

‘Teddy Tracy,’ says Aberlour. ‘Forty-eight years old. He’s spent twelve years of his adult life in prison for various spells. Last known to be working for Dieter Helfrich. East European. Rumoured to have recently gone into business with some old friends of yours.’

Pharaoh makes a fist beneath the level of the camera. Digs her nails into her knees and ladders her tights.

‘They’re no friends of mine. The Headhunters abandoned Hull when Piers Fordham died. We know that. If they’ve moved on then Humberside Police can offer nothing but expertise. Drugs and protection are back in the hands of morons in this area, sir.’

Aberlour allows himself a smile. Nods in appreciation.

‘We won’t be getting Hollow back,’ he says cautiously. ‘He’s dead already, we can say that with certainty. From here on in, this is a damage limitation exercise.’

Pharaoh pulls a face, unable to hide the strength of her disagreement ‘We don’t know that at all. What about the damage to Hollow?’

‘He’s a killer,’ says Aberlour, with a warning note creeping into his voice. ‘He got longer to play than he expected.’

Pharaoh’s thoughts speed up. She had expected this. Knew, when she got the call and an urgent request to head to South Dalton, that a covert operation was about to become an exercise in media spin.

‘We don’t do that, sir,’ she says, tight-lipped. ‘We don’t leave people to their fates. I don’t, anyway. I joined the police to stop bad people doing bad things.’

‘Then you can sleep easy, Detective Superintendent. Come tomorrow, Hollow will be doing no more bad things to anybody.’

Beside her, she can feel McAvoy’s presence. She wants to reach out and squeeze his hand. Resists.

Pharaoh cannot help but remember her first conversation with Aberlour. Cannot help but remember the way he sailed, elegantly, into her life, and told her that she had unwittingly got involved in a case she had no business investigating.

‘You’re going to lay this at my door,’ says Pharaoh. ‘I can see it in your eyes. This was your baby, sir. You were the one who was supposed to monitor his every movement when he got out.’

Aberlour looks as though he has just swallowed something a millennium or two past its sell-by date. ‘We have a skeleton crew in the north,’ he says, bristling. ‘And in the fog, he was impossible to follow.’

Pharaoh can contain her temper no longer. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a cigarette. Lights it and angrily inhales.

‘Have you read the papers, sir? Do you realise what I’ve had to put up with for this? My name is synonymous with being shit. I’ll take that, if it gets a bad man off the streets. I’ll be the laughing stock. But since Hollow came out, we’ve found two bodies. Two innocent girls with links to him.’

‘I’m well aware of the cases you’re referring to,’ Aberlour retorts. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point, you ineffable dickhead, is that we allowed this to happen. These girls are dead because we were worrying about how this would all play out politically rather than locking up a man we knew to be a killer. And I swear to God, if you hang Hollow out to dry, I’ll tell anybody who will listen that you were the one who made the decisions that left bodies all over the fucking county.’

There is silence in the van. Aberlour seems to be working out the different permeations of his next words. After a spell, he gives a half-smile.

‘We still have a trace in his phone,’ he says. ‘If Hollow’s alive, it would not be hard to find him.’

Pharaoh gives the tiniest of nods. Smokes her cigarette down to the filter. Licks her palm and stubs it out.

‘It would be better if he didn’t come back,’ continues Aberlour. ‘Despite our best efforts, this hasn’t worked out as we had hoped. I realise it has been especially difficult on you, given the very public nature of your humiliation over this case. Despite that, I am aware that you feel some degree of responsibility for his wellbeing.’

Pharaoh says nothing. Wonders who was listening as she tried to get Hollow to trust her. Wonders who was laughing and elbowing their mates as she tried to kiss her prime suspect, and was knocked back.

‘He doesn’t deserve to die,’ says Pharaoh eventually. ‘We can’t do that. We don’t do that. He has a daughter . . .’