by David Mark
“Have you heard from him today?” asks Tom conversationally. “Your warrior poet?”
Pharaoh sticks her tongue out at him and takes a slurp of coffee. “He doesn’t have to check in with me every five minutes, you know. I’m not his mum. Or his wife.”
“No,” says Tom. “No, you’ve squirreled his wife away and won’t tell him where she is.”
Pharaoh plays with the bangles on her right wrist and keeps her eyes on Tom’s. “I’ve not squirreled anybody. I’ve responded to a legitimate threat.”
Tom nods. He enjoys needling her, but wonders if this may be a topic about which she does not have a sense of humor. “How did he take the news about Big Bruno?”
Pharaoh rests her coffee cup against her head and shields her eyes, suddenly tired.
“You know how he is. Just thanked me for telling him and asked if I was okay. He was never going to start cheering.”
“Did he ask about the ramifications?”
Pharaoh preens. “That was precisely the word he used, yes. He wanted to know the ‘ramifications’ for Roisin. What could I tell him? I don’t know the bloody ramifications. We’re going through Bruno’s possessions and trying to access the hard drive on his home computer. We’ve got his mobile phone in the tech unit. We’re trying to make some sense of what we found.”
Tom finishes his cup of tea and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “You think it was Bruno who took the picture of her in the hospital bed? You think he was the one who was making the threats?”
Pharaoh pushes her hair back from her face. “You know I don’t think that. I’ve never thought that. Bruno was muscle. He was a thug. He was nothing to the Headhunters. The message I got was clear. Roisin has got a bull’s-eye on her back. Somebody wants her dead.”
“But a copper’s wife? Why go to so much trouble?”
Pharaoh shrugs. “Maybe because she’s a copper’s wife.”
McAvoy and Pharaoh have never had much of a conversation about how Roisin came to the Headhunters’ attention, but Pharaoh has pieced it together. She took some money from one of their dealers when he threatened her friend. She embarrassed him. And when he came to exact vengeance he ballsed it up and blew himself to bits. That cost the Headhunters. It inconvenienced them. It made them look amateurish. And for an organization run like a business, it made for unacceptably poor publicity.
“So she can’t come home until you’ve brought the whole bloody empire to its knees? At some point you have to come up with a plan B, Trish.”
Pharaoh breathes out heavily through her nose. “How did she take it about Bruno?” she asks. “Roisin?”
Tom chortles. “Bit more enthusiastic about it than her husband. Asked if Bruno suffered and seemed pleased to know that he had. Then she started asking about Aector. Usual stuff.”
For the past three months, Roisin McAvoy has been living in an apartment in Sheffield owned by a landlord friend of Tom’s. Tom has been pretty much her only contact with the outside world. He takes food for her and baby Lilah. Takes them out for the occasional directionless and uncomfortable drive. Reminds her daily of the importance of keeping her head down and not contacting her husband, no matter how badly she wants to. Promises her, time and again, that Aector and Fin are okay. Missing her, loving her, but okay. And then he drives back to East Yorkshire, feeling the worst kind of bastard.
“You could let her come home,” says Tom into the silence. “Not every threat has to be taken seriously. You could put a uniform on the door for a couple of weeks. And Aector would be a reliable guard dog, don’t you think? He wouldn’t sleep.”
Pharaoh gives a tiny nod. She knows that she can’t keep Roisin hidden away much longer. She should either make the arrangement official and have her taken into witness protection permanently, or she should let her return to her husband. But Pharaoh believes in the threat to Roisin’s life. There had been something unequivocal about the way it had been made. Somebody high up in the organization wanted her dead. And even the posh-voiced man at the other end of the line had been unable to dissuade them. He had given Trish a chance to keep her safe. And she had taken it.
“How’s he getting on, anyways?” asks Tom. “Rob Roy. This old case he’s on.”
Pharaoh rolls her eyes. Tom has a thing for nicknames. Has called her “Nefertiti” ever since meeting the young WPC Patricia Pharaoh. He had refused to let her change her name when she married. Said it was far too fabulous a moniker to be meddled with.
“He’s doing his thing, I think. Talking to little old ladies. Being polite and blushing a lot. Bumbling his way along.”
“Bumbling?”
“You know what I mean. He’s too big to be unobtrusive. He’s a bull in a china shop, but he’s an apologetic bull. He knocks stuff over and offers to pay for the damage.”
Tom chuckles. “What does the Home Office really want, do you think?”
Pharaoh shrugs. “They want him to say that the officers did a good job back in the bad old days but, with the passage of time, the likelihood of securing a conviction without a confession is zero. They can tell that to their boss. He can feel better and salve his conscience. And Peter Coles can slip from memory.”
“They’d let him go?” asks Tom, surprised.
“He’s never been convicted of murder. He’ll go into some halfway house. Get a new name, no doubt. Social services will keep an eye on him, and as long as the papers don’t get wind of what’s going on, nobody will be any the wiser.”
“And if the papers do get wind of it?”
Pharaoh pulls a face. “That could be complicated.”
Tom licks some butter from his thumb and straightens the dirty plates in front of him. “So Aector’s on a bit of a hiding to nothing. He can’t really come out of it ahead, other than by giving them exactly what they want. He’ll just have to hope that really is the truth of the matter.”
Pharaoh nods. “It was nearly fifty years ago. People’s memories get hazy. If Peter Coles didn’t do it, whoever did will probably be long gone.”
“That’s still a bit shit for Peter Coles, though.”
“Yeah,” says Pharaoh. “But shitty stuff happens to people a lot of the time.”
“That’s good enough for you and me, Trish. It won’t be good enough for him.”
“For Peter Coles?”
“For Aector.”
They sit, not speaking for a while. Pharaoh watches the other patrons of the large, single-story pub and tries to identify with them. A group of mums with strollers and wriggly toddlers are juggling knives, forks, spoons, and offspring as they chat and gossip and spoon scrambled egg into their tired-looking faces. Two workmen in blue overalls sit opposite each other, reading matching copies of the Hull Daily Mail and shaking their heads at some story on page five about further delays in the city’s pothole-improvement scheme. The fat woman with the tower block of hash browns is looking at the dessert menu. Pharaoh doesn’t see criminals and victims. She just sees people. Good, bad, and indifferent. Any one of them could lose their temper and become a murderer. Any one of them could say the wrong thing at the wrong time and end up on a slab, tagged at the toe. She doesn’t see an end to any of it. Doesn’t know if there should be one.
This is life, she thinks. And a lot of it’s shit.
“The photo of the meeting room in London,” says Tom. “That took some balls. Have you shown it to Breslin yet?”
Pharaoh shakes her head. “I need to think on it.”
“If he knows you’ve waited . . .”
“I’ll get shouted at again. I get shouted at a lot. I shout back.”
“What are you thinking?” asks Tom. “One of the other officers in the room? Any candidates?”
Pharaoh pulls an electronic cigarette from her bag and takes a puff. She lets out her breath in a sigh.
“I think there’s a North East connecti
on. But the lad from Newcastle seemed legit. I don’t want to start slinging mud.”
Tom nods. It’s a hard position to be in. Pharaoh phoned him last night to update him on her day and ask for some help following the phone call from the Headhunters. The message had come through half an hour after Pharaoh had hung up on their representative. She now knows what they want in return for keeping Roisin McAvoy out of the gunsights. They want to know about the assets of Francis Nock. Specifically, properties registered in his name, and in the names of his associates. They would be very grateful. Tom worked in the North East for a spell. He makes a living as a researcher and writer. He is also Trish Pharaoh’s friend. He had been happy to agree to a spot of breakfast and a quick briefing on his knowledge of the old boy who has been the boss of bosses in his corner of England for fifty years.
“You think they’re having difficulties? The Headhunters?”
Pharaoh seems pleased. “I get the impression their usual modus operandi isn’t working this time. You know how they work. They get into the lives of the coppers who are chasing them. They offer cash, reward, or threat. We’ve seen what they can do. But if Mr. Nock is really the legend I’ve been hearing about, then perhaps the cops up there aren’t playing ball. Maybe they’re saying no. That’s why the Headhunters have come to me.”
“But why do they expect you to play ball?”
Pharaoh gives a joyless laugh. “Because I’m losing, Tom. We’ve given them a few kicks but barely hurt them. They know we need to be seen to be making progress. They know my team is scattered to the four winds. They think I’ll play nicely because not playing nicely is going very badly.”
Tom thinks it over. “Could you even get them what they asked for? If there was any internal inquiry it wouldn’t take much to find out who had been snooping and who hadn’t.”
“I know,” says Pharaoh. She winces and looks at her friend. “But a writer could make a few phone calls without it being seen as too out of order . . .”
Tom gives a bark of laughter. “I’ve already got Roisin McAvoy hidden away for you, Nefertiti. I don’t know how many more times I can lie to the missus about where I’m going. She already thinks I’ve got a fancy piece.”
“You?” asks Pharaoh. “You’d wear out the knees in your cords. C’mon, Tom, you know you’re interested.”
The retired detective lets out a breath. “You do know that Francis Nock is old-school, don’t you? I mean, proper old-school. You hurt him, you disappear. You try to rob him, they find bits of your body all over the North East. He doesn’t mess around.”
“He’s in his eighties, Tom. How much trouble can he be causing these people?”
“They tried to get one of his top men to turn on him and Nock found out. You told me they found the poor sod’s arm! You don’t think that’s a bit of a warning to anybody else thinking of having their head turned by the new boys? Francis Nock used to dine with the big boys, Trish. He may have gotten old but he’s never changed. And if he’s still got his monster . . .”
“Mahon,” says Trish, nodding. “They mentioned him at the briefing. I looked him up on the PNC database. Interesting record. Not much of a looker.”
“No,” says Spink. “Only met him the once when I was up in Newcastle. I was a detective sergeant. There had been a glassing at a snooker hall. We went to speak to the owner and Mahon was there. I’d never seen a face like that on a human being before. And his skin. Jesus. It looked like pink meringue. He was very polite. Just told us that the previous owner was no longer working at the establishment. Didn’t have a forwarding address. Asked me for a card and promised to pass on my details. I had to crane my neck to look up at him and then it was an effort not to look away. He was a terror, Trish. I don’t scare, y’know that. But he chilled you to the middle.”
“The snooker hall belonged to Mr. Nock?”
“No,” says Tom, shaking his head. “It belonged to a city councillor. On paper, Nock was nothing to do with the place. But it was clearly under his protection. Mahon was that protection.”
“And the manager?”
“Never did track him down. He’ll have been removed from the picture. Shouldn’t have allowed trouble in a place under Nock’s supervision.”
Pharaoh takes another puff on the electronic cigarette. “So we’re not giving up a saint if we give the Headhunters what they want,” she says.
“But you must know why they want it.”
“Of course I do,” says Pharaoh in a hiss of temper. “They want to find the old bastard. They’ve tried to have him removed politely. They sent one of their boys to turn Lloyd’s head and he’s gone AWOL. Lloyd’s dead. They’ve got internal problems and they like things to run smoothly. Now they want to get rid of him the old-fashioned way. They just don’t know where to look.”
“And you’d give them a place to start? Truly?”
Pharaoh looks away, angry and frustrated. “I don’t know. It would just be a list of properties. Half of it would be in the public domain anyway. You could ask a few old pals. Tell them you’re doing a book on the time the Geordies turned away the London gangsters, or something. Play to their egos. Get a bit of juice.”
Tom sucks on his lower lip. “Word would get back to him. He’d know people were trying to find him.”
Pharaoh opens her arms, palms exposed. “Exactly! So if we can trade a bit of information for a bust or two and some harder information on the threat to Roisin, we use it. And Nock’s people know to move him somewhere not on the list.”
Tom has bent a few rules in his career. He’s a pragmatist. Doesn’t hold too much of a moral code but knows right from wrong. This doesn’t feel terribly wrong, in the grand scheme of things.
“You couldn’t tell him,” he says gently. “Your prince. If it led to her coming home, he could never know the cost . . .”
Pharaoh looks down into the bottom of her empty coffee cup and gives a sad smile.
“He’d agree,” she says with a conviction she almost believes. “For her, he’d do whatever it took.”
Tom shakes his head, uncertain. “But what about you? You’re the straightest copper I’ve ever met. You’ve never left yourself open like this, Trish. This could cost you . . .”
She returns his stare, then looks away. Thinks of the way her reflection swims in McAvoy’s big, sad eyes and how it would feel to be protected in those huge arms.
“I’d do whatever it took as well, Tom.”
“For her?”
“For him.”
TEN
MCAVOY ARRIVED EARLY for his chat with John Glass. Early enough to be considered rude. Left his car on the opposite side of the wide, green space and walked, as slowly as he could, toward the swings and slides at the far end of the park. Spent a minute watching a squirrel fighting a magpie at the base of a knobbly tree. Managed to step in a puddle that soaked his left foot up to the ankle. Watched as a Polish family sat and shivered in the rain; the children slipping from the wet climbing frames into the soaking wood chips as their parents silently passed a sandwich back and forth.
He leans against the railing. Shakes more water from his sock. Pushes his damp hair back from his face and looks up at a sky that looks like muddy snow.
He’s still got a few minutes to kill. Doesn’t want to hang around the park for too long. It’s a nice enough area, on the edge of the Avenues. It’s the sort of place where residents will ring the police to report a suspected pedophile rather than just chase him down the street with a stick, but McAvoy could do without having to deal with either option.
He walks around the duck pond. He was last here a year ago. The water was frozen over and a group of teens were daring one another to run across it. Fin had asked Daddy whether he was going to tell them off. McAvoy had been mulling over whether it was his duty to save them from themselves, when Roisin sprinted across the surface of the ice without leaving a foot
print. She gave a bow as she put her feet on the concrete. Got a round of applause from the teens.
McAvoy plods past the little brick hut that sells ice cream in the summer months. Watches leaves fall from the high sycamores. Kicks through a carpet of gold and brown to the gray footpath and checks his watch.
Pearson Park is only a mile from the city center, in an area that prides itself on being a little more sophisticated and cosmopolitan. It has wine bars. Some nice restaurants. The pubs sell olives and nibbles and put together charcuterie platters on big wooden chopping boards. It’s an area where people take their recycling seriously and dinner parties are competitive things. The Liberal Democrats do well here. Students and immigrants take the flats in the grand Victorian properties that line the nearby streets. Web designers and marketing consultants take the houses. Children with names like Emily and Frederick sit down to evening meals of tagliatelle in homemade pesto.
McAvoy looks around him. At the properties that ring the park. No two are the same. They’ve been adapted and extended, pulled down and redesigned. Some have been turned into apartments and others remain detached properties, hiding behind leylandii trees and big, gravel drives. The poet Philip Larkin lived at number 32 while a librarian at the University of Hull. He wrote of the “palsied old step-takers” and “hare-eyed clerks” who jerked erratically around the park as they shrugged off the toad of work. McAvoy fancies that the great poet would have something equally unpleasant to say about those who inhabit it today. He wonders what Larkin would make of him. Mincemeat, probably.