Taking Pity

by David Mark

  He would have missed the gap in the brickwork were it not for Fin yelling his dad’s name. The sudden noise makes him turn his head up toward the hole he fell through. His eyes flick over something metallic. Pipes, protruding from a ventilation shaft above his head. A tiny, enclosed space above the main body of the chamber.

  McAvoy stands on tiptoes. Reaches inside.

  Later, he would say that he half expected to find the shotgun. Perhaps he imagined a length of rope or the rotting remains of a stepladder.

  But he is not wholly surprised when his fingers close around bone.

  McAvoy opens his hand. Retrieves it from the gap.

  His thoughts are spinning. He needs light. Needs more police officers. Needs a camera and a thousand evidence bags. Needs Trish Pharaoh.

  Carefully, he extends his hand back into the gap. Angles his phone’s camera in his outstretched hand. Takes a dozen pictures of the body above his head; decomposing and dissolving in this place below the ground.

  He puts his phone away. Concentrates on breathing. Returns to the middle of the bunker and looks up. Shouts up to Fin and is rewarded with a relieved shout.

  McAvoy looks around him. Bin bags, full of clothes. Tunnels, leading into the damp earth. A crumbling bunk bed. A high, tight shaft of old bricks and greasy stone.

  He starts tearing open the bin bags. Starts tying trouser legs to jumper sleeves and scarves to designer shirts.

  “Fin! Can you catch?”

  Twenty minutes later, he is slithering back onto the forest floor. He is feeling Fin’s tough little arms around him and unfastening his makeshift rope from the trunk of the big oak. He is kicking it back into the darkness and pulling the stone back across the hole. He’s covering the whole thing with leaves and sinking back to his knees.

  “Dad?”

  And then they are back through the branches; pushing themselves through a thousand grabbing wooden hands—stumbling over the low stone wall onto the soft wet grass at the back of the churchyard.

  Only then does McAvoy look at his son.

  “What did you find?” asks Fin.

  McAvoy screws up his face and feels like giving in to a sob as his son reaches up and pulls a leaf from his hair.

  “This man,” says McAvoy, pulling the battered piece of newspaper from his pocket and showing it to his boy. He points at the short man in the front of the picture. “This is Francis Nock,” he says, as if the name should mean something. “And this man, here, with his face covered—he and his brother did some very bad things in London. They were famous.”

  “So who are the other two?” asks Fin, eager to please.

  “This is Vaughn Winn,” says McAvoy softly. “The philanthropist. The do-gooder. He’s with them!”

  Fin looks confused but presses on. “And him?”

  “That’s the monster,” says McAvoy, suddenly exhausted to his bones. “I think that’s the one who did all this.”

  “And you’re going to catch him?”

  McAvoy closes his eyes. Hopes that when he opens them he’ll be in bed with the woman he loves, listening to his children playing happily in the neat, tidy little room next door.

  He opens his eyes to soft rain and black skies, to clouds like falling masonry.

  “I’m going to try.”

  NINETEEN

  11:06 P.M. RAYWELL, EAST YORKSHIRE.

  Helen finds it hard not to let her jealousy show on her face as Ray turns the car down the long gravel track that leads to DI Shaz Archer’s home. It’s a luxurious ground-floor apartment set in one of the converted outbuildings at the back of an imposing mansion house, sitting on a hill and overlooking a sloping woodland carpeted with bluebells and wild garlic. It feels like something out of a Brontë novel and makes Helen’s own little bungalow in humble Caistor seem like the sort of place that Archer’s chimney sweep should live in. Helen has never been a fan of her senior officer. Archer is extraordinarily attractive, but Helen has come to the conclusion she is a cold, manipulative, and arrogant bitch who was not smacked enough as a child. She makes Helen feel clumsy and undesirable. As they approach her home, Helen feels an overwhelming desire to change into something with a few more designer labels and, if possible, marry a doctor and win the lottery.

  “Nice,” says Helen sourly as the car bounces up the pitch-dark track. “She must have saved up her pennies . . .”

  Ray scoffs nastily. “Daddy bought her it,” he says. “Bought her another one in Turkey and the two cars in the double garage at the back.”

  “Lucky lady,” says Helen, trying to keep her voice neutral. “My dad got me my first car. Citroën Saxo. Couldn’t do much over fifty miles per hour without bits starting to fall off, but I still felt like Ayrton Senna.”

  “Shaz wouldn’t know what to do with anything that cost less than thirty K. Used to the finer things in life.”

  Helen turns her head and looks at the stone pallor of Ray’s ratty face. She and Ray have shared something tonight. They’re in this together now. They’re a team she never expected to be a part of. She’ll never get a better time to ask.

  “You make an unlikely double act,” she says diplomatically. “You and DI Archer.”

  Ray parks the car in a courtyard covered with smooth pebbles and built around a pretty water feature. Tall trees cast moon shadows onto its oily surface. Ray kills the engine and turns to Helen. He doesn’t speak at first. Just sees off his cigarette and scratches his balls. He seems troubled. Unsure of himself. They have argued all the way back from Sheffield. Helen wants to ring Pharaoh. Ray has urged caution. Tried to explain the problems they will cause themselves if they go straight to the top dog. Shaz is the obvious person to take their findings forward. It’s suddenly become too big for just the two of them. They need Piers Fordham properly investigated. They need to come up with a convincing cover story as to how they came to suspect him. They need to make it official. Ray has vouched for his protégé and Helen has acquiesced.

  “She’s okay, y’know,” he says with a shrug of one shoulder. “I know she can be a stroppy cow, and she needs to learn to keep her legs together, but she’s got a good brain and she’s tougher than any lass I’ve ever known.”

  Helen can’t hide her surprise. She has never thought of Archer in those terms.

  “She was a detective constable when I was a DI. Couldn’t help but show us she was from money. Designer handbags and high heels and stories about polo club—that should have been enough to fast-track her on its own. But she wanted to learn. She liked catching villains. I’ve never seen anybody who would be willing to do so much to succeed.”

  Helen raises an eyebrow at that. She has heard the stories.

  Ray shrugs again. “So she unbuttons her blouse to get a confession. So what? You think the victims of crime feel cheapened by that? They get justice. They get somebody locked up. How is it worse than slapping the shit out of somebody until they sign what you put in front of them? Shaz cares, y’know. She’s just got this streak. She’s been a bit spoiled. When people upset her she takes it to heart. She doesn’t forget.”

  “I’ve never upset her,” says Helen defensively. “And she’s always been a bitch to me.”

  Ray smiles at that, his face filling with real warmth.

  “You picked Pharaoh as a role model, love. You hurt Shaz’s feelings.”

  Helen flicks her hair behind her ear. Looks through her own reflection at the tasteful, U-shaped building with its sliding doors and expensive blinds and gorgeous designer furniture. She sees the door open and looks at her detective inspector. She’s wearing a silk nightdress and has a cashmere blanket wrapped around herself. Her hair looks perfect at the front but artfully messed up at the back. She has bare feet, and though she is too far away to tell, Helen knows in her heart that each toenail will be perfectly painted and pedicured.

  “She’s hard to like,” says
Helen, pointing at her. “Too perfect by half.”

  “By morning, she’s going to think bloody highly of you, too,” says Ray. “Look, I’ll go give her the lowdown. You best stay here. Have a kip or something. I’ll try not to be too long, though she does tend to open a bottle of something posh when I call around . . .”

  He starts to groom himself. Rubs his cuffs across his teeth and pushes his hair back. He looks nervous and excited, as though about to see somebody whose company he enjoys and whose opinion matters.

  Helen watches as he steps from the car and crosses the courtyard. Archer leans in and gives him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Ray starts forward, as though expecting to be invited in. Archer continues to bar his way. They talk for a few minutes. Archer disappears on one occasion and comes back with paper and pen. She scrawls down Ray’s words and the pair talk as if Ray is a door-to-door salesman and Archer some dowager countess.

  Helen takes in the rest of her surroundings. Admires the sleek silver Mercedes parked a little off to her left. Wonders if Archer has neighbors or whether Daddy bought the whole fucking place.

  The sound of raised voices comes to her. Ray is speaking more animatedly now—shaking his head and gesturing wildly. Then he kicks at the gravel and stomps back across the courtyard. He climbs into the vehicle in a fury and slams the door, his chest panting and hair sticking up.

  “Spoiled cow,” he says, ripping open a new packet of cigarettes. “Biggest case of her fucking career, handed to her on a plate, and she’s more concerned with getting her jollies . . .”

  He turns the key and reverses across the stones with a sound like the deaths of a billion beetles.

  “Got a man, hasn’t she? Some perfumed ponce. Stinks like a bloody sales rep, if you ask me. Not ready to introduce him yet, she says. Wants it to be the right time. He’s sleeping. Best not wake him up . . . couldn’t it wait until the morning . . . Fucking bitch!”

  Helen says nothing. Ray looks hurt. She suddenly realizes how lonely he is. How much he needs somebody to care about and to perhaps give a little shit about him in return. He had expected gratitude and enthusiasm. Had expected his protégé to squeal and hug him as if he had just bought her an expensive new car. Instead, she had kept him on the doorstep. Kept him at arm’s length. Taken his hard work and given him nothing more than a kiss on the cheek.

  “We’ll make up,” he says to himself. “Always do. I’m just . . .”

  Helen doesn’t know whether she should put an arm on his shoulder—make a gesture of kindness. “Hurt?” she says cautiously.

  Ray turns and snarls at her as the car emerges from the driveway and back onto the main road.

  “Fuck off.”

  • • •

  THURSDAY, 2:10 A.M.

  Pharaoh has been asleep for around forty minutes. She’s in bed with her daughter Sophia, still wearing her dress and boots. She’s curled up behind her daughter with an arm around the teenager’s cool, bare shoulders. Has her nose against the back of Sophia’s neck.

  Trish’s mobile flashes green. Beeps and vibrates in her hand.

  Trish wakes up, confused and plastered with sweat. Her jolt wakes Sophia, who grunts with the instant grumpiness of disturbed sleep.

  “Mum?”

  “Shh, it’s okay. I’m going to my own bed . . .”

  Pharaoh slides out from under the quilt and rubs her eyes. She feels her mascara, dry and brittle, turn to powder against her skin. Pushes her hair behind her ears and winces at the stickiness on her flesh as her thighs rub and squeak. She steps, off balance and half pissed, between little islands of clothes, books, and shoes. Finds her way to the corridor in the darkness. Pulls out her phone.

  “Well, well, well . . .”

  Pharaoh slaps her face a couple of times and shakes some life into herself. Slowly she lets the happiness move from her eyes to her mouth. Grins in the half-light and leans back against the wall of the hallway.

  The message doesn’t contain any words. Just a registration plate and the letters PoR. It’s more than enough. She makes her way downstairs and finds her laptop. Fires it up at the kitchen table and switches the kettle on. Roots around in the fridge while the water boils and shushes at her computer when it announces its readiness with a fanfare. She eats cooked ham from the packet and drinks milk from the carton. Drops a tea bag in a mug, then forgets about it.

  Pharaoh sits down at the table and creates a new e-mail. Addresses it to the head of CID and copies in Assistant Chief Constable Everett. Deliberately excludes the head of the Drugs Squad, Aidy Russell, and praises, in particular, the actions of DC Ben Neilsen and Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy in securing the information. She’ll work out later what they are supposed to have actually done.

  She loses herself in the sound of her fingers hitting keys.

  After half an hour, Pharaoh pours herself a glass of wine. She sends the message, picks up her phone, and places a call to her contact at Border Force.

  “You’re sure?” he asks sleepily.

  “I promise,” she says.

  They chat for a few minutes. He knows better than to ask where the information came from. She knows better than to ask what he will do with it. But in the morning, if she has played this right, the local papers will be boasting of a major drugs seizure at Hull Docks, and the government’s anti-smuggling agency will be getting pats on the back. So will she, her boss, and the top brass. Trish has been a copper a long time. She knows how to play this game.

  By a little after three a.m., Pharaoh has done a day’s work. She should go back to bed, really. Should get some rest before a busy day of bollockings and praise. She’s tired enough to sleep but can’t bear the thought of only getting three hours of unconsciousness before her alarm goes off. Decides to just wait until the sun comes up. She watches some TV and plays a game on her phone. Eats a chocolate bar and puts some school dresses in the washing machine. Makes the girls their packed lunches alongside an extra peanut butter sandwich for herself.

  The dawn is still a long way off when the phone rings. She recognizes the number.

  “She’s sorted,” says a gruff Scottish voice. “Asleep. Little one, too. Nobody followed us. Nobody saw. She’s not speaking much, but we’re like that. It’s okay.”

  Pharaoh gives a warm, soft chuckle.

  “It’s so good of you to do this—” she begins.

  He cuts her off, brusque and baritone. “He’s okay, yeah? Aector?”

  Pharaoh sighs. “He’s doing good work. And we’re getting there. He just needs them home.”

  “He doesn’t. He needs them gone.”

  “You can’t say that,” she says, bristling. “They make him whole. They make him what he is . . .”

  “They make him vulnerable,” he says. “Too much heart, that one. He doesn’t know what to do with it. She’s a good enough girl and I’ll keep her safe. But don’t you go thinking she’s a sweetheart. She’s trouble, Superintendent. You don’t know the half of it.”

  Pharaoh stares at the phone after he hangs up. Wonders whether she should give his words some attention or whether they will just give her another headache. She decides not to think about it. Decides to finish her wine and her sandwich, and make the girls some breakfast like a proper mum.

  She wonders if she should call Aector. Reassure him. Explain why she has done what she has done.

  Decides to leave it. There will be time enough soon. Time enough for apologies and reasoning.

  She stops her imagination before it can hand her the picture it is painting. A picture of Aector McAvoy, white-faced and accusing; furious and crushed. She knows how he will react. Knows that he will drive through the night to his wife and child and bring them home, were he to learn that Roisin and Lilah are staying on the family croft with the father he has not spoken to in years.

  • • •

  THE VIEW IS MAG
NIFICENT. The water is crushed diamonds and sapphires; the sun a burnished pocket watch against an unruffled blue silk. The sand is untouched. Unsullied. As pristine as the white walls and the glass chandeliers and the night-light that offers a view of stars that shine like sugar crystals on a canvas of black velvet.

  Piers Fordham purses his lips, as though admiring the curves of a pretty girl. Looks at the little red stripe on the corner of the image that fills the computer screen: SOLD.

  In a little under a year, it will be home. Islas de las Perlas. He will have a home in paradise, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. His days will be about rum, grilled fish, and shoulder massages from brown-skinned girls in too few clothes. Hull will be a memory. A cold cloud of drizzle and piss that he will be happy to push into the deepest recesses of his mind. He hates this city. Hates the weather and the accent and the washed-out nobodies who roll cigarettes with one hand while mopping up bean juice and fried bread with the other. This country, this county, this city—they have all cost him. Cost him women. A business. Liberty, for a time.

  But this year has brought Piers Fordham ample compensation. He has come to view his time in prison as a networking opportunity unlike any he has enjoyed in his legal career. He has seen how criminals work. Spotted the flaws in their reasoning and exploited their fears. He has done as he has been asked and demanded far more of others. He has made the boss of the Headhunters very rich indeed, and he has pocketed enough to keep himself comfortable for the rest of his life. There is no reason for anybody to kill him. Precious few know who he is, and those who do are glad to have him on the payroll.

  Tonight, he extinguished a minor blaze. A man like him shouldn’t have had to deal with such little details, but he’d taken a personal interest in Roisin McAvoy and felt some degree of compulsion to see it through. He’d done the job as well as he could be expected to. Cut off the oxygen to the one problem that has been causing him disquiet. He’d enjoyed sending the text to Pharaoh. Enjoyed the clean precision of keeping his word and chopping the head off the snake that had been threatening to drag the Headhunters down. It’s all coming together. And he can’t help but feel pleased with himself.