by David Mark
Roisin grins. McAvoy puts his hand on hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. Rolls her wedding ring around under his big, clean fingers. It was her grandmother’s: given to McAvoy to present to his bride when Papa Teague saw the pitiful specimen that McAvoy had used all of his savings to acquire. The ring on her finger is three-hundred-years-old: studded with rubies and sapphires. He’s always afraid somebody will see it and presume him to be a successful, wealthy man. When he pictures himself - bumbling, clumsy, inert with indecision - he is painfully aware how poorly he measures up.
He looks across at the woods that ring the car park and feels his chest clench as he considers what he hopes to find within. He wonders what it says about him, how despicable a person he must be, that he sees a potential death as an opportunity to curry favour with the boss who values him so little. He hears himself start to prattle. “I can drive back, if you’d prefer. The traffic at this time of day – well, I’m still getting used to it. There doesn’t seem to be any sense to the way they built this city.” He shakes his head. “Newland Avenue – the one with the nice cafes. Rumour has it they got the plans for the parking spaces upside down. Outside Sainsbury’s you have to go past the space, then indicate, and reverse it at a 270 degree angle. I’ll take you there. It’s very entertaining…”
Roisin laughs, all lip-gloss and white teeth. She has a stud in her top lip and a succession of large hooped rings in her dainty ear-lobes. She’s wearing a top that doesn’t cover her midriff, beneath a velour tracksuit top. McAvoy, sitting in the passenger seat in a blue Tesco suit and shabby raincoat, feels like a carthorse next to a unicorn.
“Have we been here?” asks Roisin, pulling in. She glances across the mostly-empty car park at the hugeness of the Humber Bridge. “We’ve walked that, I remember. Was I pregnant? Bloody freezing but an amazing view. Aye, we came here. Cliffs and trees, yeah? You told me about the cliffs. They’re white and made of chalk, which is why the locals call it Little Switzerland. See, I remember stuff. I love it when you tell me things.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ye fecking eejit.”
McAvoy looks into the back seat, where Fin, strapped into the car seat, is looking around, mildly intrigued. He catches his dad’s eye. “Did Mammy upset the other driver?”
McAvoy nods, and puts a finger to his lips. “It was the other driver’s fault, Fin. Mammy is an excellent driver. He shouldn’t have been so worried about his precious Audi. As Mammy told him, there was loads of room.”
“Too right there fecking was,” growls Roisin, re-applying lip-gloss in the rear-view mirror. She smacks her lips, then blows her son a kiss. Then she gives her attention to her husband. “Go on then. Be a police officer. Do your questions and stuff. They’re ladies – you’ll have them eating out of your lap.”
McAvoy feels his ears go pink. “It’s hand, Ro...”
“Aye, whatever,” she grins, and gives a full, throaty laugh. She leans over, quick as a kingfisher taking prey, and kisses him full on the mouth. He feels her warmth. Tastes her. Feels her climb inside him and settle down: a fox slinking into the warmth of a familiar burrow.
The cold wind swirls around him as he makes his way across the car park towards the row of units. There’s a little shop, and an information centre, but they’re both closed for the winter. The café is the only building with its lights on. There are some white plastic tables dotted around outside for anybody keen to sit in a car park in the drizzle, but none are occupied. He can make out a couple of customers inside: hunched-backed, windblown characters, protecting plates of fried food and mugs of tea as if they were vultures guarding a carcass.
The door opens. Framed in the warm yellow light that spills from the café, is a small, dark-haired woman. She’s the same height as Roisin, but more amply proportioned. She’s got a cigarette in her left hand and a Styrofoam cup in her right. With her big sunglasses, leather jacket and biker boots, she looks like a hungover rock star. She inches her dark glasses down her nose as she considers him. He notices bangles on her wrist. She’s wearing hooped earrings too, though they are not as extravagant as his wife’s. She doesn’t look dissimilar to Roisin’s mum, though he decides he should keep this, and every other helpful observation, to himself. He suddenly recognises her. He’s seen her before, bustling her way out of a meeting room at Queen’s Gardens, glaring at a manila folder held in fingers locked as if in death. It’s something about the set of the jaw. She’s attractive, though he hates himself at once for allowing the thought to occur. She’s a senior officer from across the river. Grimsby Nick. Ran a CID unit looking into Cold Cases until budget cuts put a stop to it. Took time out just as he was arriving in Hull – some ‘unnamed personal drama’ that stalled a stellar career. He stops as if confronted by a childhood hero.
“You’re a big old piece of policeman,” she says, sucking her lower lip and nodding, approvingly. “I’ve been reading your name off your business card. Still can’t get it right, so I’ll call you ‘Sergeant’. You can call me ‘Guv or ‘Boss’, or ‘sweetheart’ if you want a swift headbutt to the groin.”
McAvoy feels all the breath rush out of him. He’s used to feeling out of his depth, but in the presence of this small, daunting woman, he’s absolutely drowning.
“I’m Aector McAvoy,” he says, and is pretty sure he’s right. “The owner – she called me – said there had been an unusual discovery...”
She gives a bark of laughter. “Unusual? Yes, that would be about right, Sergeant. Two bodies, one with a bullet in his head and the other without much head to speak of? Yeah, that’s pretty unusual.”
McAvoy takes a moment to process things. If he were wearing a hat, he would take it off and clutch it to his chest. His face becomes solemn and filled with sadness. He licks dry lips, and looks down at the floor.
“Ha!” laughs the DCI. “Jesus, Sergeant, did you go to Stagecoach as a child? Best bloody amateur dramatics I’ve seen in an age.”
McAvoy snaps his head up, a hard look briefly gripping his face before he can get it under control. He suddenly remembers her name. Patricia. Patricia Pharaoh.
“There is a fatality, then?” he asks, quietly. “I advised the owner to dial 999 but she was most insistent it wasn’t anything to worry about so I said I would take a look...”
She shakes her head at him, sunglasses slipping down her face to reveal piercing blue eyes, and the darkness beneath. She doesn’t sleep much, thinks McAvoy, automatically. And there’s pain there …
“Well, you’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve also had a perfectly good day ruined. I only wanted a pissing cup of coffee to wash down the Ibuprofen. Then the young lad’s asking when the big police officer is going to get here and whether he can go back to look at the body, and despite my absolute desire to scurry out and leave it to you sods on this bank of the river, I felt duty bound to ask the question that a good police officer should ask. Such as ‘what fucking body’?”
“And you got a reply?”
She drops her cigarette and grinds it out. McAvoy notices the mud and leaves on the flanks of her biker boots. “Just what I needed after the weekend I’ve had. Followed the lad down to the most sorry excuse for a pond you’ve ever seen. Rummaging about in the undergrowth like a tramp looking for a place to build a second home, and there they are. Poor bastards.”
“You’ve called it in?”
She chews her lip, staring past him. He follows her gaze and realises she is looking at the people-carrier, where he can just make out the shape of Roisin, rocking extravagantly to whatever CD she has put in the player. He looks back and sees the accusatory frown on the DCI’s face.
“Roper’s team, aren’t you?” She wrinkles her nostrils, sucks her teeth. “What a waste. Had a quick glance at your file when they gave me your card and said you were making your way over as if you were the bloody sheriff. You’ve done some good work. Big brain, from what I can tell. Helped with some very difficult cases. Friends in high places and enemies in even hig
her ones. What a fascinating chap you are. Shame you’ve wasted your one favour on hitching your wagon to that bent bastard.”
McAvoy looks confused. “I don’t understand...”
“Well, that’s one good thing, at least,” muses Pharaoh, lighting another cigarette and pouring the last dregs of her coffee onto her boot then rubbing the toe against the rear of her dark jeans. “Most of the blokes who’ve worked for me would rather die than say they don’t understand. Not many of the ladies willing to admit to it either.”
“Should I go?” asks McAvoy, looking pained. “You’ve obviously got this under control...”
She laughs, big and loud and seemingly quite happy with the question. “Fucking hell,” she says, puffing out her cheeks. “I bet Roper bloody loves you! No wonder he’s got you out on loan to any department with a shitty job that needs doing. You’re not his type at all.”
“What type is that?” asks McAvoy, before he can stop himself. He wants to know about the two dead men.
“Bastards, normally,” muses Pharaoh. “Ambitious, dick-led, Right-wing, misogynistic uber-cunts who’ll do whatever he tells them to do and then lie about it afterwards if it helps them slip up the greasy pole behind him and pay a few quid off the mortgage on their Lanzarote timeshare.”
McAvoy recoils, raising his hands. He glances back to the people-carrier and the safety offered within. He hopes Roisin will come and ask him if everything’s okay, then slip her hand into his and take him home. He bites down, back teeth mashing together, wishing he were a better man, or at the very least, a less feeble excuse for one. He stands still: a schoolboy waiting to be told how many times he must write out ‘I must not be useless’ on the blackboard.
“That the missus, is it?” asks Pharaoh, chattily. “You know there’s an asterisk next to your name in your human resources file, don’t you? And if you happen to enter your good lady’s name into the PNC database or HOLMES, it comes up as flagged. You need to be an Assistant Chief Constable to view the record of your Roisin. You really are a fascinating chap.”
McAvoy rubs a hand over his face. Something sticky catches his thumb. He realises he’s wearing pink lip-gloss. He turns crimson. Dies a little inside.
“In answer to your question, McAvoy, I have indeed called it in. But I’ve done the sensible thing of leaving a message on a phone that I know won’t be checked for at least a couple of hours. That means I am absolved of responsibility and don’t have to get sucked into the investigation. So, if you want to be Roper’s good doggy for the day and get into his good graces, you can tell him you’ve got a case that looks like it could have headlines aplenty, and you know how he likes his headlines. He might even give you a few slices of packet ham while he tickles your tummy and rubs behind your ear. He’s like that, is Doug. As for me, I get to go home, and deal with my own shit, safe in the knowledge that I did my duty.”
McAvoy watches her mouth move as she talks. Stares into her blue eyes, peeping over the top of her frames. He sees a flicker of something: an intelligence, certainly, but something more. Something that tells him that she’s playing a role. There are tears inside her: tears unspilled. His compassion overwhelms him. He lowers his voice, cocks his head, gives her his full focus, as he remembers why she took the leave of absence. Her husband. An aneurysm. Left in a near-permanent vegetative state but clinging on to life. And her. Four daughters and a stepson to raise. He understands why she wants no part in an investigation over this side of the river. She has too much to do.
“Why are you telling me?” he asks, gently. “Surely I’ll have to explain that I saw you here. You’re telling me that you’ve purposely avoided involving yourself. You clearly hate Roper and his unit, yet you’re handing him a double murder. And you don’t know me at all and yet you’re talking to me like I’ve personally affronted you. Is there something wrong? I’d be glad to listen. I’ll call it in, and we can go and talk. I can see you’ve been crying … I’m okay as listening. My wife says I am...”
Pharaoh glares up at him, a sheen of moisture veiling her blue eyes. She looks at him the way Roisin often does: baffled and exasperated, unsure whether to throw something at his head or bite his lip.
“You’re an interesting man,” says Pharaoh, shaking her head. Then she walks past him. “Tell Roper you saw me and that I told him this was more up his street than mine. And tell your wife to start dressing you as if somebody loves you. That suit’s too small for you. And so’s she.”
McAvoy stays silent. Watches her storm across the car park towards a little two-seater convertible. She pauses, momentarily, by McAvoy’s people carrier. Gives Roisin a stare that she returns. Shakes her head, and trudges on.
McAvoy watches her go. Wonders what the Hell just happened. Then he pulls out his mobile, takes a breath, and calls Doug Roper.
“Sir, this is McAvoy. Yes, that one. The Sergeant. Erm, I think, well...”
He clears his throat. Closes his eyes. Winces, as the words come out in his low Scottish accent.
“We’ve got a murder.”
6
The lads from the Mail appear at the top of the stairs. Tom, Tony T and Tony H. Tom’s a young lad, first job out of college. A middle-class Southerner, he’s doing his best to fit in with the pack and laughs along at in-jokes he doesn’t understand, but has an eye for a good story and a nice turn of phrase.
Tony T has been at the Mail for an age. The running joke is that he’s approaching the end of some unique prison sentence, imposed for a despicable crime. Mid-50s, he’s one of those blokes who earns more than the editor because he joined the company in the days when journalism was well-paid, and has watched his salary creep up ever since, on a contract written in stone. It’s been a long while since he was bothered about being any good at his job, but he knows Hull better than anyone. He’s one of the few Mail reporters I’m ever likely to bump into in the pub, but can become a little maudlin by his third pint. His wife and daughter died within weeks of each other about ten years ago - wife from cancer, daughter from three bottles of Paracetamol. We indulge Tony T for his moments of despondency. He doesn’t do much. Picks and chooses his jobs, and takes pleasure in fuck all.
Tony H is something altogether different. He belongs to an age when reporters smoked cigarettes without filters, bashed out genuine stories on Imperial typewriters that made the floor shake, and when 600-words of half-decent scandal could bring down governments. When readers actually believed. He looks sepia. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, ashen face. Dirty mac. Yellow fingers. The only thing missing from his general appearance is a trilby hat with a “press” ticket stuck in it. He’s a walking cliché; a proper ducker and diver, a wheeler-dealer, a heartless, compassionless hack who’s always one last warning away from losing his job. He’s an utter wanker and I like him immensely. Any decent story the Mail ever runs comes from Tony H. He arrived in the city six years ago after leaving a paper in the Midlands under a cloud, and within days had found out the name, address and inside leg measurement of the 13-year-old boy rumoured to be providing a service to the then-assistant chief constable of the local police force. Tony H’s legend continues to grow. The villains in Hull think of him as more of a threat than the coppers. We usually share information if we turn up on the same job, which we frequently do.
“Owen Lee the Lonely,” says Tony T with a smile, as though he’s the first person to think it up. “You’re up early.”
“Well Simmo told us local lads to get a good seat, didn’t he? Good old Simmo. Always thinking of us.”
“You consider yourself local, do you?” asks Tony H, showing teeth the size of tombstones.
“I’ve got a foot in both camps, mate,” I say. “Local contacts and national interests, community stories with national acclaim. Best of all possible worlds, Rat-boy.”
“Fuck you, Voltaire. Nice shiner.”
Tony H and I grin at each other, and young Tom looks nervous. The three lads slump down into the seats beside me, one on either side, Tom
furthest away. He’s the only one who bangs his head. I remember the days.
“Looking flashy,” says Tom.
“That’s me.”
“King of Bling, aint you,” smiles Tony H. “Terrified of magpies.”
“Doesn’t hurt to look good.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“Court one, is it?” asks Tony T.
“Yeah, we should all fit in OK.” I say. “Judge Skelton. Won’t take any shit.”
“Going to be a bloody circus,” points out Tony H, gleefully. “What did you bring?”
“Oh shit,” I say, suddenly remembering that the stakes in our long-running competition have risen dramatically over the course of the last few court cases. “Forgot, mate. What about you?”
Tony H reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a cut-throat razor and a toy hand grenade. There are whistles of appreciation as he says “beat that”.
We’ve been playing this game for a while now. Court cases get fucking boring after a while so we like to pretend we’re terrorists. It started when a young lass from the Grimsby Telegraph got into court with a fruit-knife in her handbag and mentioned it to me and Tony. We wondered how far we could take it. We knew security was shit but we really wanted to push it. We’ve been getting more competitive ever since. Tony brought in a rocket launcher he had made out of the insides of toilet-rolls a few weeks back. Security didn’t say a word.
Young Tom, who wants to show willing, pulls a hammer out of his coat pocket. “What do you think of that?” he asks.
“Fucking hell,” we all say.
“Put that away, you daft bastard,” says Tony H, pissed off. “Christ, you’re not all there, are you?”
Tom sulks, and wonders if he misunderstood the rules.
Tony winks at me, then says: “Did you hear Cadbury sacked his barrister not three weeks ago? Got a last minute replacement.”
“Oh aye? Who?”
Tony H grins and lights a Hamlet from the tip of his last one. He blows a smoke-ring which drifts away and expands to frame the no-smoking sign. He strings out the moment. “Your old mate. Tin-Tin Choudhury.”