The Dark Winter dam-1

by David Mark

  ‘Fuck,’ says McAvoy, and, without giving a damn about who sees, reaches for his phone. Pulls over on the inside lane of the bridge and switches on his hazard lights. Hears the blare of horns as drivers of the vehicles behind him let him know he’s a wanker.

  Helen Tremberg answers on the third ring.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ she says, and there’s not much humour in her voice.

  ‘Really?’ he asks, and winces.

  ‘You bet. Me and Ben are having a little wager as to who’s going to kill you first. Pharaoh, Colin Ray, or ACC Everett.’

  ‘Everett? Why?’

  ‘Wouldn’t like to say. Just came stomping into the incident room about tea time and asked where you were. Didn’t look happy. Even less so when one of the support staff asked him who he was.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Indeed. Where have you been?’

  ‘Long story. It doesn’t matter. I just heard the headlines on Humberside …’

  ‘Yeah, Colin Ray’s really fucked up. Sorry, Sarge, I mean …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says, and means it.

  ‘This bloke him and Shaz brought in. All just a hunch. Ray’s gut feeling. I don’t know what happened when they got him in the interview room but he came out of there with his nose bleeding and puke on his shirt. That’s according to the desk sergeant, any road. Apparently Pharaoh turned up and all bloody hell broke loose. The bloke’s still in the cells but they don’t seem to know what to do with him.’

  McAvoy feels his heart racing. Sees the headlines. Wonders how much of this almighty fuck-up can be attributed to him buggering off in the middle of the day to follow up on a feeling.

  ‘And the fire? At Hull Royal?’

  ‘We’re here now,’ says Tremberg. ‘It was out almost as soon as it started but the second the fire crews ventilated the room and the smoke cleared, we got the call.’

  ‘Why us? I mean, why you?’

  ‘Deliberately started, no question. Top brass reckon there’s no point having a serious crimes unit and then using the whole team on one case. Me and Ben were knocking off when the city DCS phoned and asked us to attend personally.’

  McAvoy screws his face up. Feels the car rock as a lorry thunders by, paying no heed to the weather warnings.

  ‘But one little fire? Sure, it’s in the new unit but a uniform could clear it up with half a dozen witness statements and the CCTV …’

  ‘Sarge?’ Helen Tremberg sounds confused.

  ‘Why use us? For a fire?’

  Realisation dawns. ‘Didn’t they say on the radio? It’s a fatal, sir. A murder. The man from the house fire on Orchard Park last night. Somebody broke into his room and finished the job.’

  *

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ says Pharaoh, in a voice that sounds like steam escaping from a high-pressure pipe. ‘You take more looking after than one of my kids.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Will you please cut out that “ma’am” bollocks, McAvoy. It makes me feel like Juliet fucking Bravo.’

  McAvoy nods. Lets her outstare him. Turns away.

  They’re standing in the corridor outside the incident room at Queen’s Gardens. The central heating system has decided to make up for past mistakes by altering its modus operandi. The individual rooms are now as cold as the grave, while the hallways are warmer than hell.

  ‘Do you know the kind of day I’ve had?’

  McAvoy nods again.

  It’s 9.41 p.m. Twelve hours since they stood in this same spot and she told him he was her office manager. Told him to keep an eye on things while she went out to catch a killer.

  And now they’re back. Each having had a day they’d rather forget; their minds overflowing with information and none of it much good.

  Like a naughty schoolboy, McAvoy fixes his gaze on something other than her angry eyes. Takes a keen interest in the door to the incident room. Somebody had pinned a sign saying ‘Pharaoh’s Palace’ on the door earlier today, but it has been torn by the edge of a gunmetal-grey filing cabinet, and now lies in two neat halves by the skirting board. He can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign in itself.

  ‘If I ask you to give me the bare bones on this, you’ll listen to me, won’t you? You won’t get the wrong end of the stick and spend the next hour giving me a headache?’ She suddenly sounds more weary than cross.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry. Yes.’

  So he tells her. Tells her why he left the incident room. Where he’s been. What he’s discovered. Tells her about Fred Stein and his important sister. Keeps it brief and doesn’t look at her properly until he’s finished. It takes about three minutes, and sounds so lame and fruitless that he almost runs out of energy before the end.

  ‘That’s it?’ she asks, although it’s a genuine query rather than an attack.

  ‘Yes.’

  She purses her lips and breathes out. ‘Interesting,’ she mutters, and raises her eyebrows. Her face has returned to a more natural colouring.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Come with me.’

  She turns and leads him to the end of the corridor. Pushes open an office door, seemingly at random, and holds it open as he steps inside.

  At a desk, lit by a green reading lamp, a man of around sixty is sitting with his feet up; a crystal glass tumbler full of whisky in one palm and a battered notebook in the other.

  ‘Hi,’ says McAvoy, and it comes out as bewildered and hapless as he feels.

  ‘Tom’s letting me share his excuse for an office until we get back to Priory,’ says Pharaoh, pushing the door closed behind him. He feels her body smear against him as she angles herself into the only space not currently occupied by equipment.

  McAvoy stands, unsure of himself, in the centre of the tiny room. It’s not much bigger then a broom cupboard. The desk stands lengthways at the far end, home to a monitor, keyboard, hard drive and an assortment of typed and handwritten paperwork, all bathed in the eerie green light, which makes Tom Spink, in his white collarless shirt and neat white hair, seem oddly angelic.

  ‘Now then, son,’ says Tom, looking up and clearly pleased to see them. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  ‘Tell Tom what you just told me,’ says Pharaoh, nodding. ‘About what Everett asked you to do.’

  McAvoy tells the man in the granddad shirt, cardigan and soft cords all about what he has been doing these past few days. Watches unspoken signals flash in his eyes and tries to read meaning in the glances the older man throws at Pharaoh.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ asks Pharaoh, when McAvoy finishes.

  ‘It’s interesting,’ says Spink, nodding and folding his lower lip back over his bottom teeth. He’s addressing Pharaoh, and not looking at McAvoy. ‘Intriguing, anyway. This is what we do, after all. I can see why the boy would be interested.’

  ‘Sir, I-’

  ‘It’s Tom, son,’ says Spink, turning to him. ‘I’m retired.’

  ‘Tom used to be my boss,’ says Pharaoh, suddenly realising that all this must seem quite peculiar to her sergeant. ‘Back in the good old days. He’s all sorts of things now. Runs a little B and B on the coast. Does a bit of work for a private investigator, when he feels like he might be in danger of getting to heaven. And because he’s got a nice turn of phrase and knows the funny handshakes, he’s got himself a commission writing a history of Humberside Police for the bigwigs, which means I can keep him where I can see him, and he can tell me all about the days when a truncheon was designed for ease of insertion.’

  ‘Good times,’ he says, smiling. ‘Nefertiti here was always hard as nails. Never took any crap from an old lech like me.’

  ‘Nefertiti?’ McAvoy can’t help but repeat.

  ‘Egyptian queen,’ says Spink, with a sigh. ‘Pharaoh? Get it? Honestly, and she tells me you’re one of the bright ones.’

  ‘I know-’

  ‘That’s what I thought until you buggered off,’ says Pharaoh, pointedly. ‘I was calling
you a few names earlier on, my boy. Thought I’d pegged you wrong. Thought you were being the political animal some of the lads and ladies have got you pegged as. Sucking up to the ACC. Leaving us to do the real work. Seems I was right in the first place. ACC’s more pissed off with you than I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Had a call from some bigwig on the Police Authority. Apparently his wife’s in a right state. Some big Scottish lump has got her thinking her brother might have been murdered.’

  McAvoy wants to cry. ‘I never-’

  ‘That’s life, sunbeam. Get used to it. Nice to see I haven’t lost it. I can still pick “natural police”.’

  ‘Natural police?’

  ‘Get a feeling and follow it through. Listen to the little voice inside themselves and damn the consequences.’

  Despite the chill in the office, McAvoy’s face flushes scarlet. He realises he’s being praised and wonders what the penance will be.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Spink and Pharaoh both laugh. ‘It’s not an asset, matey. It’s a bloody curse. It means you’re going to piss people off for the next thirty years and there’s a better than average chance you’ll lock up quite a few of the wrong people. But you’ll catch some wrong ’uns, too.’

  McAvoy feels his legs growing weak. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and feels suddenly empty and vulnerable. Perhaps it shows in his face, as Pharaoh looks at him with suddenly more affectionate eyes.

  ‘This Stein case,’ she says. ‘You think it’s important?’

  ‘It feels wrong,’ he replies. ‘I can’t explain it, really. I know today was a dead end with Chandler, but I just can’t see this old boy planning all this. I mean, to take your own life is one thing, but to plan it down to such elaborate detail?’

  Spink and Pharaoh exchange another glance. Spink gives the slightest of nods, as if he has been asked a question.

  ‘Stick with it, then,’ says Pharaoh, reaching down between her legs and pulling a half-full bottle of whisky from the drawer. She tops up the glass and takes a drink. ‘I’ll trust you. Like you say, it might be nothing, and the Daphne case takes priority. I won’t stop you looking into something you believe is wrong but just don’t dick me about. I’ve got enough of that with Colin bloody Ray.’

  McAvoy breathes a sigh of relief. He’s not sure that he actually asked for permission to keep looking into the Stein case, but he’s pleased that it hasn’t been denied.

  ‘What’s the situation with all that, ma’am?’

  She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. ‘Neville the sodding Racist,’ she says, and needs a drink before she can compose her features into anything other than a snarl. ‘Colin thinks he’s natural police. Thinks his gut is what’s leading him. But it’s not. It’s a load of prejudice and arrogance wrapped up in this unshakeable self-belief. According to Colin and his mini-she, this bloody old fool decided to off the first black person he took a dislike to and pin it on some tribal feud. The daft thing is, even though it sounds like nonsense, he’s got some good arguments. Neville can’t account for his whereabouts at the time of the attack. He’s got a history of violence. He’s spent time in the army so he’s not going to be a slouch physically. And we’ve seen his temper first hand. Him and Colin had a right set-to in the interview room. Was almost another bloody murder. We’ve got him locked up until I decide what to do with him. Charged him with assaulting a police officer, so at least he’s not an official murder suspect, but when I had to go and explain where we’re at to the top brass, I got the distinct impression they wouldn’t be averse to us sticking it on Neville.’

  McAvoy’s face says it all.

  ‘I know, son,’ says Tom Spink. ‘I know.’

  As McAvoy gulps painfully on his dry throat, there’s a faint knock at the door. Logistically, he wonders if there’s actually room in here to open it.

  ‘Get that, Hector,’ says Pharaoh wearily.

  McAvoy turns the handle and pulls open the door, stepping back into the room and trying not to register the faint connection that his backside makes with Pharaoh’s stockinged knee.

  Helen Tremberg stands there, looking surprised to see him. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘He’s just the bouncer,’ comes Pharaoh’s voice from behind him, and McAvoy hears her stepping down from the desk. She appears at his side, her warm body pressed fully against his. Her perfume and whisky breath make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  ‘Boss,’ Tremberg says, relieved. ‘The ID’s come back on the body at the hospital.’

  ‘That was quick,’ says Pharaoh.

  ‘Called in a favour, boss. Bloke in forensics doesn’t take much sweet-talking to rush through a quick fingerprint and DNA sample. Still waiting for dental records, but the ID makes sense.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Trevor Jefferson,’ says Tremberg. ‘Thirty-five. Last known address was a flat on Holderness Road. Bedsit, really. Over the bookie’s.’

  ‘So how did he end up in the house on Orchard Park?’ Pharaoh asks, and in her voice McAvoy fancies he hears the faint hope that there will be an easy answer.

  ‘That’s the weird bit,’ says Tremberg. ‘He used to live on Orchard Park. Wife, two kids and a stepson. Just a stone’s throw from where he was found.’

  McAvoy feels a constriction in his chest. It is almost as if he knows what Tremberg is about to say.

  ‘So what, he got pissed and forgot where he was? Thought it was still 2003? Let himself in at the first house that looked habitable, fell asleep on the sofa with a fag in his mouth and cooked himself. Somebody heard about it, thought it was a good way to settle some old feud, and finished the job off in hospital?’ The optimism in Pharaoh’s voice sounds forced.

  ‘I haven’t got to the weird bit,’ says Tremberg, pulling a face.

  ‘Go on,’ says Pharaoh with a sigh.

  ‘The reason he left Orchard Park was because his house burned down. His wife and kids in it. He was the only one who got out alive. The Fire Service thought it was arson, though nobody ever got caught.’

  McAvoy looks at the floor as Trish Pharaoh stares hard at the side of his face. Somehow, he gets the impression she feels this is his fault.

  ‘McAvoy?’ Her tone of voice demands explanation.

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  She turns to Spink. He raises his hands in a shrug, simply relieved that he’s not really involved. That he’s only in Hull to write a book and that soon he’ll be able to get the fuck out of here.

  ‘Stein will have to wait,’ she says eventually. ‘McAvoy, you and Tremberg have got this. I want to know chapter and verse on those fires. On the suspects. On this victim. The homeowners. Helen, get McAvoy up to speed on what you know and get out to Orchard Park.’

  Tremberg looks crestfallen. McAvoy realises she thinks she’s being taken off the Daphne Cotton case. Perhaps she is.

  ‘Boss, I’m swamped with the Cotton case already …’

  ‘I know, Helen,’ says Pharaoh, reaching around McAvoy to give her a squeeze on the arm. ‘But I need somebody I can trust. Keep an eye on this lump, will you?’

  Tremberg lets herself be pacified and nods. Manages a toothless smile. It’s at Pharaoh, nobody else. She won’t look at McAvoy. He wonders if she’s angry with him, or just too disappointed to be civil.

  ‘Right,’ says Pharaoh, looking at her watch. ‘It’s gone ten, which means my kids will either be putting themselves to bed, or they’ll have taken over the neighbourhood and young Ruby has installed herself as queen. I know which scenario my money’s on.’

  McAvoy takes the hint. Steps out of the office with an almost imperceptible nod and feels the heat of the hallway add another veneer of colour to his glowing cheeks. The door closes behind him, and through the wood he simply hears Pharaoh say ‘fucking hell’.

  ‘The coffee shop on the corner of Goddard,’ says Tremberg, over her shoulder as she walks back down the corridor. ‘Seven thirty a.m. We’ll start knocking on doors while t
hey’re still snoring.’

  McAvoy watches her depart.

  Stands still, unsure which of the many emotions swirling in his gut to focus on.

  Wonders if it’s wrong to be excited.

  And sinks into a sensation of delight that tonight, he’ll be home in time to make love to his wife, and tell her that today, somehow, he did something important. That he is natural police. And that deep inside, a little voice is telling him that all this is connected, and the only man who can join the dots is her husband.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘They haven’t released him yet,’ says Tremberg, by way of greeting.

  Her hair is damp, her face pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Neville the Racist,’ she adds, in a voice still half-asleep. ‘Duty solicitor’s going bloody mental.’

  She begins to take off her waterproof, and then changes her mind. Shrugs herself back into it and sits down on one of the padded, plastic-backed chairs that face the Formicatopped table. ‘You mind? I only got out the shower twenty minutes ago. Haven’t had a drink yet.’

  She reaches across and wraps her hand around the large chipped mug of builder’s tea that stands, half-empty, in front of McAvoy. Raises it to her lips and takes a loud gulp. Pulls a face. ‘Sweet enough for you?’ she asks, and her mood is far friendlier than last night.

  They are the only two customers in the Pigeon Pie Cafe, a white-painted, glass-fronted building on the corner of Goddard Avenue. It’s a proper greasy spoon, complete with laminated menus and ketchup dispensers in the shape of tomatoes. The dish of the day tends to be sausage, bacon or both, and the place is a Mecca for anybody who thinks that culinary evolution peaked with the combination of brown sauce and baked beans.

  McAvoy would have loved nothing more than to order a sausage and fried-egg sandwich when he walked through the door ten minutes ago, but Roisin had knocked him up a breakfast of scrambled egg and smoked salmon on homemade rye bread before he left the house, and he knows how she would pout if she knew it had barely touched the sides of his appetite. He’d settled for tea.