by David Mark
McAvoy is shaking his head, as much to stop temptation as to say no.
“Raymond Mahon,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “I’m arresting you—”
Mahon’s hands move with such speed that McAvoy doesn’t even feel pain until he’s already on the ground, clutching his throat. He looks up through watery eyes and sees Mahon retrieve his phone from where it has fallen. He tries to move. Tries to stand or get control of his legs. He can do neither. The blow to the throat had been so precise it seemed to cripple him upon impact.
McAvoy tries to focus. Sees Mahon examine the picture on the cracked screen. Of the dark-haired Romany girl and the son and baby daughter in her arms. Mahon stops still. Chews his coat collar. He retrieves another phone from his pocket and checks the screen. Puts it to his ear and listens to the message left half an hour before. Doesn’t recognize the voice. Doesn’t care. Mr. Nock has been found wandering on the cliff top. He has been released into the care of a CID woman by the name of Pharaoh. She’s taking him back to the chalet he managed to give them as his address. Piers Fordham, the mouthpiece, is dead. And both Nock and the copper are going to die . . .
McAvoy gulps down air. Finally manages to get some life in his legs. Falls against the seawall and bumps his head, feeling as though there is a boot on his throat.
Mahon looks at the big Scotsman. The grim determination. The scars and muscles and the fractured soul. He has no other allies. No help he can call upon. No heavies for a hundred miles. He hauls McAvoy to his feet. Takes his arm and drags him toward the car.
“Your wife. Your child. Your fucking boss. You can have them all,” says Mahon as the rain begins to pummel the ground.
He pulls a gun from his pocket and thrusts it into McAvoy’s ribs. Turns desperate eyes on him and rips the glasses and scarf away from his own face. Throws his hat into the sea. Stands on the path with his rotten skull and twisted features scowling into the face of the gale.
“Help save his life and I’ll give you mine.”
TWENTY-FOUR
PHARAOH LOOKS AT THE MAN who has ruled the North East for more than half a century. Finds herself holding her breath. He’s in good nick. All designer labels and fancy aftershave. No rogue eyebrows or tufts of wiry hair in his earholes and nostrils. He’s taken care of himself, this one. Just doesn’t know who he is today. Awakened a stranger to himself. Looks frightened and cold. Only found his way here because some sweet old dear with a terrier had seen the police car and wondered if she could help. Told them about the newcomers in the white chalet and the big man she kept seeing on the cliff top. The keys in the old boy’s pocket had fitted a treat.
She pushes the mug of hot chocolate toward him. Urges him to drink it.
“Poisoned,” says Nock, turning suddenly furious eyes upon her. “Fucking cops. Fucking cops!”
Pharaoh rubs her face with her hands. Pushes herself out of the armchair and takes the mug back to the kitchen. It’s dark beyond the glass. If she squinted she would just about be able to make out where the sky stops and the water begins, but Pharaoh has no interest in such things. She’s mildly intrigued by the size of the gulls. Hasn’t seen any this big before. It’s like the sky is full of dragons. Their black, twisted shapes pass in front of the yellow moon, casting shadows on the cliff top that stretches away to the rear of the little chalet. She suppresses the urge to shiver. Wonders what the fuck to do next.
Pharaoh came to get answers. Had driven up the coast on a whim. Entertained notions of gift-wrapping a career criminal for her colleagues in the North East and securing another high-profile conviction for her unit. Instead, she had found a living corpse. Nock may have been a powerful man once, but right now she is only staying with him because she is too afraid for his safety to leave him on his own. She has no doubt that the dementia is genuine. Briefly, she had thought that perhaps he was acting senile as part of some elaborate con. But the look in his eyes is too real for that. He’s lost himself. There’s a wire come loose in his head and he can’t find the people who care for him. His enforcer is nowhere to be found. Nock has reacted with venom and swearwords when questioned on the man’s whereabouts. Pharaoh has asked him if there was anybody else she could call. Told him that bad men might be trying to hurt him. Told him she was a policewoman and that she was concerned for his safety. He made the noise of a police car then spat down her dress.
She searches the cupboards for something stronger to drink than tea. Finds an old bottle of brandy behind the bleach and furniture polish. Takes a swig from the bottle and feels the pleasing burn. Turns her attention back to the window and watches the rain batter against the glass. She can’t get a signal on her phone here. Will have to pull on her coat and battle down to the end of the road if she wants to call the two uniforms who released Nock into her care. She doubts they will be pleased to hear from her. Doubts they will have the manpower to come and sit with Nock until she can think of what to do with him. Wonders whether she might be better off calling McAvoy. He and Fin could drive up. They’d be here in an hour. Could keep her company and have a giggle. Make an adventure of it. Play happy families . . .
Pharaoh tuts at herself. Feels sick at the thoughts that creep up on her unbidden. Wonders what the fuck she is thinking. She’d be willing to put a child in the firing line, just to spend time with his daddy . . .
Over the noise of the gale and the rain, Pharaoh hears the low, throaty hum of a large vehicle. It’s a 4×4 of some kind with a V8 engine. It sounds a little like one of the force’s BMWs. Could the local bobbies be checking in? She’d love nothing more than to climb into her sports car and get back to civilization. She returns the brandy bottle to the cupboard and walks through the living room to the wooden front door. Throws it open and tells the young policeman on the doorstep that she’s delighted to see him and that he should get his arse inside and out of the rain.
The young constable moves to the side.
And Mark Oliver hits her in the head with a police baton.
“Pharaoh,” he says as she drops to the floor. “You’re thinner than you look on the telly. But I was watching in widescreen.”
Pharaoh is unconscious. The blow was so hard that a back tooth was dislodged on impact and has wedged in her throat.
She begins to choke.
Oliver tuts and uses a polished shoe to roll her into the recovery position. Uses the point of the baton to lift her dress and poke around.
“Granny pants, Patricia? I’m disappointed.”
Three men step over her body as they make their way into the living room.
Oliver closes the door. Pulls down Pharaoh’s dress and examines her exposed breasts. He shrugs, tucks them away, then reaches into her mouth to remove the blockage.
“We’re going to have such fun.”
• • •
A MILE AWAY, McAvoy is sitting in the passenger seat of Mahon’s pickup. The heavy rain and deep black of the night sky make it almost impossible to see the curves in the road but Mahon seems to know when to turn the wheel. McAvoy, with his keen eyes, sees only the occasional flash of a living room light or the white flick of a rabbit’s tail as they career through potholes and rutted tarmac, mud, puddles, and spray.
“Answer,” says Mahon into the phone as he tries to ring the chalet one more time. “Please!”
McAvoy has never seen desperation like this. Mahon seems unhinged. The thought of not being there to protect Mr. Nock seems to have caused something to come apart inside him. He no longer has the gun trained on McAvoy. No longer gives a damn what happens to him or when. He just wants to see Mr. Nock through safely to an end that suits him. That is all he has ever wanted.
Were he so inclined, McAvoy could open the door and jump out into the damp grass at the roadside. But through Mahon’s stuttered madness and unintelligible grunts, he has learned that Pharaoh is in danger. Learned, too, that the Headhunters have been
watching his wife and child. They know where she is. And only Pharaoh knows how to get in touch with her.
McAvoy has been afraid before. He is no stranger to terror. But this is something different. He cannot feel his body properly. Can hear his own blood in his ears. Doesn’t seem to be able to get his words out or stop the trembling that threatens to shake his teeth loose.
“Please,” he says through clenched teeth and shivering lips. “Please.”
Neither man knows what they will find at the chalet on the cliff top. But both know that, tonight, there will be blood.
• • •
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” asks Oliver.
He is gloating, arms outstretched, looking at his men for approval as they lounge against the walls of the tiny room.
“You’re the great Mr. Nock? You look like you’ve just been dug up! You’re older than my fucking granddad, and he’s dead! Jesus, no wonder you stay out of the limelight. Anybody who saw you would laugh their tits off.”
In the little armchair behind him, one of Oliver’s men gives a high-pitched titter. He’s a young lad. Big-boned and fleshy, with his blond hair cut short on top but with a straggly little ponytail down his neck. He’s all jogging pants and white sneakers, knockoff T-shirts, and sporty cars that boom out drum-and-bass. He’s doing well for himself, considering. Couldn’t earn this kind of money legitimately. Couldn’t get a job with an arrest record like his. He likes working for Oliver. Likes being allowed to hit and hurt and terrify. Knows that tonight he’s going to get to fuck a copper. Can’t keep the excitement out of his laugh.
“I hope your monster isn’t going to be as much of a disappointment,” Oliver says, lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter. “I have to say, today is proving to be full of ups and downs.”
On the sofa, Mr. Nock gives a little laugh. “Monster,” he says. “Funny.”
From the hallway comes the sound of Pharaoh coughing. She retches. Wheezes. Falls back to the floor.
“For fuck’s sake,” says Oliver, turning his back on the old man. “Stay still. It will be your turn soon enough . . .”
Oliver puts his fingers into Pharaoh’s mouth again. Turns around to say something witty to his men.
Pharaoh bites down. Crunches through flesh and bone.
• • •
“THEY’RE HERE,” says Mahon desperately as he stops the car and the headlights illuminate the two vehicles parked on the cliff top. “Fucking cops, too.”
He turns to McAvoy, as if seeking guidance. Feels wind and rain on his face as the door swings open. Watches as McAvoy runs through the gale toward the tiny property, tearing off his coat as the gale whips at its tails.
Mahon’s shout of warning is lost on the wind. Never reaches McAvoy’s ears.
And McAvoy never reaches the house.
The door of the police car swings open.
And the first of the bullets start to fly.
• • •
THE SCREAM AWAKENS something inside of Mr. Nock. The fog of his thoughts is pierced by a bright white light of clarity. He’s at Flamborough Head. Raymond is away, taking care of business. These men mean him harm. And some sexy cop has just bit the fingers off a slick cunt who reminds him of some dead-eyed greaser from the good old days.
The men in the room haven’t even bothered to draw their guns. One has a shotgun inside his coat but none are paying the old man any attention. Mr. Nock moves quickly. Slides his hand down the side of the sofa in the hope that there will be a gun or a blade. He finds a pen. It’s not much, but in the right hands it can be lethal. Mr. Nock possesses such hands.
He moves so fast that the nearest man doesn’t even turn his head in his direction before the Biro has been plunged into his jugular vein. Blood sprays upon Mr. Nock’s face, and he finds himself coming to life.
Finds himself alive and energized, clearheaded, and very, very pissed off.
• • •
“YOU BITCH! You fucking bitch!”
Oliver is clutching his bleeding hand. His face has gone an unhealthy gray. He’s trying to wrap a handkerchief around his hand but can’t do that at the same time as fending off the venomous blows that Pharaoh is thumping into the side of his head.
“Shoot her!” he’s screaming. “Shoot her!”
Pharaoh takes a handful of the slick bastard’s greasy hair and smashes his face against the wall. She can taste his blood. Still has a chunk of his skin stuck in her back teeth. She can feel him trying to push her backward but knows that if she lets go of him the men in the other room will cut her in half with their shotguns. So she holds him tight. She bites and claws and hits punch after punch after punch . . .
• • •
THE FAT LAD in the jogging pants fumbles with his gun as the spray from the other man’s wound gushes across his hands and face. He recoils in shock and instinctively closes his eyes, finger jerking at the trigger. The gun bucks and a bullet flies high and reckless. A tall man in a leather jacket ducks in the act of pulling out his shotgun. Only Mr. Nock remains unfazed by either the blood or the firing pistol. He kicks out at the man with the shotgun and his old, bony knee mashes into his balls. Mr. Nock takes the shotgun from his grasp. Lunges with the barrel into his open mouth; mangling teeth and lips and enjoying every second of it. He cocks the weapon and prepares to blow the bastard’s head off. Feels a hot, searing pain as a bullet takes a chunk out of his hip. He staggers back, knocking pictures from the wall. Pulls the trigger and takes the whole left side off the fat lad’s face. Slides himself along the wall and into the corridor. Watches as the tall, good-looking man tries to pull a pistol from his own pocket to use on the curvy, dark-haired woman with the bleeding mouth who is ramming her fist into his eye . . .
Mr. Nock raises the shotgun. Doesn’t give a fuck who he hits.
• • •
MCAVOY TURNS at the sound of the gunshot. Sees a young man in police uniform standing by a police car, dripping with rain. He holds a shotgun in his hands. Wisps of smoke are rising from both barrels.
Both barrels . . .
McAvoy charges toward him. Hits him with all the combined rage and frustration and heartbreak of these last weeks and months and years . . .
Feels the satisfaction of a punch perfectly thrown and a jaw perfectly broken.
Turns back to the house. Spins at the sudden roar of an engine.
And watches as Mahon drives his truck at sixty miles per hour into the side of the chalet.
• • •
MR. NOCK’S SHOTGUN blast tears a hole in the ceiling just as the pickup truck demolishes the wall. Oliver and Pharaoh both throw themselves to the right. Oliver’s hand finally closes on his gun. He drags the chalet door open. Tumbles out into the wind and the rain and the darkness, shooting behind him as he flees.
Amid the rubble and the dust and the falling beams, Mahon sits in the driver’s seat and looks through the shattered glass at the scene before him.
Sees the bullet go straight through Mr. Nock’s middle.
Watches the old man look down at the wound with some surprise, and then fold in on himself.
Inside Mahon, something dies. He stumbles out of the pickup. Collapses on his knees in front of Mr. Nock and sees the spirit leave the old man’s body and the light leave his eyes.
He stands. Opens his jaw wide and feels the flesh tear.
Staggers to the door and sees the slick bastard running for his car.
Sees McAvoy standing there, motionless, his face a mask of confusion as he squints through the storm.
Mahon is an old man but he channels all the strength he has into a sprint across the cliff top.
Oliver doesn’t hear him approach. Thinks that the scream is that of gulls and gale.
Only turns at the last possible moment.
Mahon picks him up as if carrying a straw man.
They go over the cliff edge as one.
• • •
PHARAOH STANDS in the doorway of the ruined house. Spits and gags and falls to her knees.
And then McAvoy is holding her in his arms and stroking her hair from her face.
“You knew,” she says through bleeding lips. “You came.”
McAvoy holds her close, expecting sobs. None come. She just clings to him, and breathes him in.
There will be time for everything else later. Time to fix this and make it work.
All that matters is the nearness of somebody who cares.
Someone whose face swam in her mind when she thought she was about to die.
TWENTY-FIVE
SATURDAY, 11:14 A.M., CLOUGH ROAD POLICE STATION.
An upstairs office, furnished with thoroughly modern appliances and painted a shade of peach so sickly that its occupant worries it will affect her calorie count.
Pharaoh is at her desk. Her gums have stopped bleeding and she has an appointment to have an implant fitted into the hole. She thinks she may have swallowed the original tooth. Has no interest in its retrieval.
The fact she is at work at all is a cause of much appreciative comment in the canteen downstairs. Pharaoh is known to be tough. But last night she got caught up in a gunfight when some men tried to kill an old gangster at his hideaway on the East Yorkshire coast. According to her report, she’d tried her best to save him. If one of the local coppers hadn’t turned up, she might even have saved the old boy. As it was, she’d had to go and help the young uniformed officer. He’d been knocked out cold by one of the intruders. Pharaoh had saved his life. Lost a tooth and got a kicking for her troubles but had hit back twice as hard. Had stayed and supervised the scene and the initial stages of the investigation. Called her sergeant up at home and got him there inside the hour. Would be looking after the investigation herself. Pharaoh has her pick of the jobs for now. Her star has never shined brighter. Should enjoy it, while it lasts . . .