Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (41 page)

‘You’ve been doing this a long time,’ says Helen, thinking of how the pieces slot together. He fits the description. Would have been able to read Yvonne Turpin’s soul in her teary eyes. ‘I don’t think you’ve killed anybody that the world would mourn. I think you’ve probably done a lot of people a lot of good turns. But those girls . . .’

Hollow stands. Winces, as his bruised ribs sing with pain. Takes a hard drag on his cigarette.

‘I need to talk to Trish,’ he says, looking agitated. ‘She understands. She understands me . . .’

‘Detective Superintendent Pharaoh is with your daughter,’ says McAvoy. ‘She’s going to tell her that Daddy was hurt by some nasty men but he’s okay now. A bit shaken up, but okay.’

Hollow sneers. Grinds his teeth. ‘That’s not what happened.’

‘She hero-worships you, that girl,’ says McAvoy. ‘She’ll be pleased to know you’re safe. Pleased you didn’t get hurt.’

Hollow is shaking his head. ‘You’re setting me up. This wasn’t me.’

‘You’ve killed a man already today,’ says McAvoy, pulling out his phone. ‘Dorian Foley. Bad lad, but it’s still murder. Manslaughter, at the very least. I doubt a jury will buy another case of self-defence. I mean, lightning does strike twice sometimes, but it’s hard to accept. The top brass would love to show they were right about prosecuting you. You’re just too dangerous to be allowed out on the streets.’

Hollow’s stance changes. He looks as though he is preparing to lash out or run. Subtly, Tremberg reaches into the pocket of her raincoat. Closes her fingers around the extendable baton and wonders, for a moment, how badly she is going to get hurt.

The three stand in silence for a moment, considering one another. In the darkness of the barn, Teddy bleeds onto the floor. In a dark corner of the building, his phone is silently ringing; a demand for an update from his employer, amid worrying whispers that one of his boys has got himself killed in the back of beyond.

‘Let me see my daughter,’ says Hollow, and his shoulders seem to sag. ‘I can explain. I just need to see her. And Trish, too. Sorry, Detective Superintendent Pharaoh. I can’t have them thinking I’m some sort of thug. It’s not like that. You don’t understand.’

McAvoy turns to Tremberg. Wishes, as he does so, that Pharaoh were standing next to him, telling him what to do. He imagines, for a moment, how it would feel to walk into the custody suite at Priory Road with Reuben Hollow in handcuffs and a case for serial murder already made against him. Wonders if it would be enough to wipe away the last smudges of stain upon his name. Whether Pharaoh would thank him or curse him. He closes his eyes. Knows how it would play out; how the brass would respond. Knows that before dawn, Hollow would be out, talking to the press about the rogue elements within Humberside Police who continue their vendetta against him. McAvoy is confident they have enough evidence to charge him but he knows himself to be hopeless at all the politics that come with a high-profile case. Pharaoh is his guide in all things hierarchical and until he takes her advice, he isn’t sure what to do next. He needs to see her before he acts.

‘We need to get medical help for this bloke,’ says Helen, nodding towards Teddy. ‘He’s bleeding. We’re shooting holes in our own prosecution if we don’t start doing some of this properly. Sarge, right now Hollow is a victim. He’s been abducted and hurt. You haven’t read him his rights and you’ve questioned him on a double murder. This isn’t how you do things. He needs to be checked over. Needs to give a statement. Leave me with this guy. Get Hollow to hospital. Get him in the system.’ She stops herself. Looks hard at Hollow. ‘Raymond O’Neill. He one of yours?’

Hollow holds her gaze, the faintest of smiles at the corners of his mouth.

‘Is there anybody you think I didn’t kill?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Helen, looking at his hands as if expecting to see them bathed in blood. ‘Sarge?’

McAvoy looks at her as if seeing her properly for the first time. Sees the young, ambitious detective constable who has suffered time and again through her willingness to do his bidding. She’s right. She’s here, now, standing in the dark and willing to do whatever he says, when she should be at home with her baby, or at the very least, safe behind a desk. And then he winces at his own thoughts. Realises how easily he could convince himself to think like Hollow, that he could too easily see the women in his life as frail and vulnerable flowers who need the protection of a big, strong man, and hates himself for his instincts. He remembers the stories his dad used to tell him, all about knights and noble warriors. Remembers the zeal in his father’s eyes as he recounted yarns about Rob Roy MacGregor, Wallace and De Moray. He wonders if he became a policeman for any other reason than a need to see the gratitude of damsels in distress. McAvoy met his wife by saving her. There’s something more than admiration in the eyes of Helen Tremberg because he has saved her, too. He wonders, here and now, whether he would kill for Pharaoh, but he knows the answer in his bones.

‘I need to see Delphine,’ says Hollow again. ‘Please.’

McAvoy gives the slightest of nods and turns to Helen.

‘Babysit him,’ he says, nodding at Teddy. ‘Make the arrest yourself, so whoever gets to run with this has no choice but to involve you. Do things properly. I’ll try and do the same.’

Helen wishes he would look at her properly, but he seems too lost in his own thoughts. She wishes he would shake her hand or slap her on the back. Forces herself to think professionally. She has an opportunity here, the chance to put herself back on the frontline. She has no doubt that the man on the floor of the barn is linked to organised crime. She knows little of the incident at South Dalton but it has the feeling of a gangland piece of work. And the presence of the nailgun is significant. The weapon was the favoured tool of the gang that she and Colin Ray helped bring down. She has seen it used on the outfit’s enemies and competitors. If this man has some link to the Headhunters, she wants to question him. Wants to ask him about Colin Ray. She realises just how hard she has worked to avoid thinking about her former boss. She does not believe Shaz Archer. Does not believe that Ray is sunning himself somewhere with another future ex-wife. She last saw him on his way to tell Archer that they knew who was behind the organisation. That same night, the suspect was beaten to death and Colin Ray disappeared. Half a picture forms in her mind. It disappears, snatched away like a flame on the breeze, but she keeps pushing. Keeps trying to make connections. Barely registers McAvoy’s hand on her shoulder or his words of thanks as he leads Hollow to his car.

Helen walks to the barn. Flashes her torch in the face of Edward Tracy.

‘Headhunters,’ says Helen, as she hears McAvoy’s car pull away. ‘You heard of them?’

Teddy looks at her quizzically. Registers something in her gaze and gives a sigh. ‘Is it always like this, up here?’ he asks, through the pain. ‘North, I mean. It’s fucking mental, love.’

Helen finds the enthusiasm to smile. She squats down in front of the bleeding man and stares into a face that looks deathly pale. There are bags under his eyes and blood on his face.

‘Your friend didn’t make it,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘I’m sure you already knew that. But if you thought he might have pulled through, you were wrong. Why did you want Hollow?’

Teddy rolls his eyes. ‘Like I’m going to tell you. I’m not speaking again until my lawyer’s next to me, and even then, I’ll only say what he tells me to.’

Helen nods. She stands up, and her knees crack as she does so. She thinks about how to proceed. Has the first spark of an idea.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a spot of blue light, flickering in the darkness. She crosses to the rear of the barn and finds Teddy’s phone amid a mess of straw and dirt. There have been several missed calls. Half a dozen texts, each containing nothing more than a question mark. A picture message, showing the front of a run-down, three-storey house, all loose gutters and dirty curtains. She crosses back to Teddy. Shows him the picture.

‘What does this mean?’

He manages a laugh. ‘Lawyer.’

Helen wonders if she should lean on the nail that is still pinning him to the ground. Wonders if she should set about him with a blowtorch.

‘I’m about to call in the troops. This place is about to get very busy with blue lights and uniforms. And you’re going to get to meet a real piece of work. She’s my boss, kind of. Really snotty bitch. But she’s very thorough. She’ll do whatever it takes. And she won’t unpin you from the floor until you start giving us something useful.’

Teddy shakes his head, though his strength seems to be weakening. Eventually, he shrugs his shoulders. Looks down at the mess of his foot.

‘I can help you,’ says Helen. ‘I can make a lot of this shit go away. We sign you up as an informant. We can pay you. I know you know who I mean when I say the Headhunters. Not everybody calls them that – that’s just the police name. But they’re lethal. They steamroll through existing outfits and cream off the ambitious and the hungry. Those who don’t bow their head end up nailgunned and blowtorched and very, very dead. They started up here but they’ve gone quiet on us. I reckon they’ve moved on to pastures new. You know things. You can help yourself.’

Teddy’s head slumps forward. He gives it a shake, as though trying to stay awake. Helen knows she needs to make a decision. Needs to call a superior officer and get this man some help. Takes off her coat and presses it to the sodden laces of Teddy’s boots. Winces as he gasps in pain.

‘I’m no grass,’ he says hoarsely. ‘This outfit you’re talking about, I’m not saying I know them. But you have to adapt or fucking perish. I’m adapting, love. You think I like all the theatrics with the DIY tools? You think I could see the point in making an example out of Hollow? We don’t need that. It’s cost my mate his life. The boss is making bad calls because he’s scared to death. You think you can keep me safe? You think they wouldn’t know I was informing? Christ, I’m a dead man whatever happens. They don’t mess about. That house in the picture? Me and Foley were due there when this was all done. Babysitting job. They’ve been moving him from house to house, shot full of every drug you can name. Foley and me were due to take over; show the new firm what we can do. Make him forget. That’s what the boss said. Make him forget who he fucking is. Foley had plans for that. He’d been reading up about memory on the internet, reckoned if he put a screwdriver in the right part of the skull he could make him forget just about anything. Poor bastard. Why don’t they just kill him, eh? You think I want that for me? I upset these bastards and the next thing I’m hanging in a cellar next to some ratty copper who these Russian fuckers simply cannot break . . .’

Helen feels a chill across her shoulders. Can smell the blood and the pigs and hears thunder in her ears.

Later, she will wonder if this was when everything changed. If it would not have been better if she had simply misheard, or misunderstood.

But she is too busy hauling the nail through tissue, blood, bone and brick, listening to Teddy’s hiss of pain as she frees him.

She needs him to trust her.

Needs him to spill his guts.

And then she needs him to show her where to find Colin Ray.

Chapter 31

10.16 p.m.

Trish Pharaoh and Delphine Hollow are sitting in high, hard-backed chairs, watching the glowing coals in the fireplace.

The only other light in this square, sturdy room comes from the fat church candles at the centre of the long table. Shadows dance upon a ceiling the colour of home-made butter. The room smells of bread and fresh flowers, of Pharaoh’s cigarettes and the perfume she has sprayed in her hair. Smells of a teenage girl who spends her days outside and didn’t shower this morning. Smells of dried grass, burning on hot stone.

It’s a hot, dark and comfortable space, and makes Pharaoh imagine horse brasses and cider. She feels somehow transplanted, as though she has been shoved, bodily, into another time, where women darn socks by the fire and the men swig ale from pewter tankards.

Both she and Delphine are drinking pear brandy. Pharaoh is holding her customary black cigarette in her right hand and her mobile phone in her left. Occasionally, she reaches up to push her hair back from her face, or to bat at the moth which keeps fluttering against her cheek.

‘He’s coming,’ says Pharaoh again, looking at her phone. ‘The fog’s not getting any better. They’re taking their time.’

Delphine nods. Her cheeks look red and sore. She has cried a lot this evening. First, when Pharaoh broke the news that her father had been taken. And then, an hour ago, when Pharoah’s radio crackled and the news came through that he was safe. They had a man in custody, and McAvoy was bringing her father home. They are waiting for the menfolk like fishermen’s wives. They take it in turn to stand and cross to the window, to stare through the trees and the gravestones at the dirty track, hoping for the gleam of headlights.