Original Skin

by David Mark

  “And the animal team?”

  The WPC snorts, herself momentarily horselike. “Having a very helpful meeting in the back of their unit. Lots of flicking through guidelines and phoning vets. I’m not expecting much in the way of action. I’m backing the big fella.”

  This last she says with a genuine smile.

  “Big fella?”

  She turns herself to Tremberg. Smiles in a way that the detective is starting to recognize. “Scottish bloke from your unit. The one who . . .”

  “McAvoy?” Tremberg’s eyebrows shoot up and she looks around as if he may be watching.

  “Yeah. One of the lads gave him a ring. Said he knew about animals. Farmer’s boy, or something, isn’t he? Just turned up a minute ago. Don’t know where he parked his car but I think he ran here.”

  “And what’s he doing?”

  The officer takes off her hat and gives an appreciative little shake of her head.

  “About to start playing tug-of-war with a horse.”

  • • •

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT Aector McAvoy spent his first months in plain clothes taking the title literally. He all but camouflaged himself in khaki-colored trousers, hiking boots, and cheap, mushroom-hued shirts, tearing them fresh from polythene packets every Monday. The disguise never worked. At six foot five inches, and with red hair, freckles, and a Highlander mustache, he is always the most noticeable man in the room.

  It was his young wife, Roisin, who put a stop to his attempts to blend in. She told him that, as a good-looking big bastard, he owed it to himself not to dress like “a fecking Bible-selling eejit.” Roisin has a way with words.

  Despite his objections, he had let her style him like a child playing with a dolly. Under her guidance, and blushing at every alteration to his wardrobe, McAvoy had become known within the force as much for his smart suits and cashmere coat, for his leather satchel and cuff links, as for his detective skills and scars.

  Now, flat on his back, staring up at the swollen clouds, with mud and stallion spit on his lapels and horse shit streaking one leg of his dark blue suit, he wishes he were back in khaki.

  McAvoy tries to ignore the cheers of the onlookers and climbs back to his feet.

  “Right, you bugger . . .”

  He had been on his way to the Police Authority meeting when the call came through. One of the constables tasked with corralling the escaped animals had lost his temper after being dragged into the side of a bottle-bin by one of the mares, and had decided it was time for some specialist help. The officer had worked with McAvoy only once, up on the Orchard Park estate. They had been tasked with guarding the door to a crime scene until the forensics van turned up, and had not been made welcome by the locals. He and McAvoy had tolerated the abuse and even the first few bottles and cans, but when the snarling pit bull had been let loose with instructions to see them off, it had been McAvoy who stood his ground while the junior officer tried to persuade a brick wall to absorb him. The giant Scotsman had dropped to his knees and met the dog face-on, turning his head and opening his eyes wide, showing his broad, flat palms to the creature and flattening himself to the cracked pavement, submissive and unthreatening. The dog had stopped as if running into glass, and was on its back having its tummy tickled by McAvoy’s great rough hands by the time backup appeared and the crowd were chased away. The young PC had taken McAvoy’s number, having the foresight to realize that such a man was worth knowing. Today he had figured the big man was worth a call.

  McAvoy, who would have agreed to a head-butting contest with an escaped antelope if it meant taking his mind off the impending Police Authority meeting, had been only too glad to dump his car and sprint to the scene.

  He limbers up. Stretches his arms and cracks his neck from side to side. There are a few hoots from the watching motorists, and from the corner of his eye, McAvoy is appalled to see that many of those watching are recording the footage on their camera phones.

  “Just shoot it,” comes a voice from somewhere in the hubbub. It is a suggestion met with murmurs of approval by some.

  “Can’t you tranquilize it?”

  “I’ve got a tenner on the big man!”

  McAvoy tries to ignore the voices, but the laughter and groans that rang out when he was knocked flat by the charging stallion have turned his cheeks the color of crushed cranberries.

  “You shoot that horse, I’ll fecking have your eyes.”

  The voice, its accent unmistakable, causes a momentary silence, and McAvoy turns. The man who has spoken stands to his left, leaning against the bonnet of a blue Volvo. The car’s owner has adopted the peculiarly English expedient of pretending he cannot see the large, daunting traveler who is pressing his buttocks into the bonnet of his car.

  The gypsy is squat and balding, with a round face and shiny cheeks. Despite the cold and gathering clouds, his arms are bare. His flabby gut and torso are not flattered by the white sleeveless T-shirt or too-blue jeans.

  “Yours?” asks McAvoy, with a nod toward the horse.

  The man answers with a shrug, but the length of rope in his hand suggests he had been about to try and reclaim his property before he saw McAvoy take the burden upon himself.

  “In season?”

  The man nods again. “Horny as a Cornishman, first day out the mine.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  He’d nearly had him moments ago. The stallion had only been a few feet away, tearing some daffodils from a grass verge of one of the side streets leading off the busy thoroughfare. McAvoy’s soft voice and gentle movements had allowed him closer to the animal than anybody else had managed since this unexpected carnival had begun, but as the beast swished its head back and forth, one of the passersby had loudly shouted encouragement, and the burst of noise had spooked it, sending McAvoy, and his expensive clothes, into the dirt.

  “Got a name?”

  “Me or the horse, sir, me or the horse?”

  “The horse.”

  “Fecked if I know. Try Buttercup.”

  Slowly, taking care to keep his feet steady on the tarmac, McAvoy moves toward where the animal now stands. Wild-eyed, muddy, and sweat-streaked, it has moved into the garden of one of the nice detached properties set back from the road. Its occupants are staring out of the large double-glazed front windows. With no car in the driveway and the horse showing no apparent interest in their magnolia trees, they are enjoying the show.

  “Easy, fella,” breathes McAvoy, as he spreads his arms and moves toward the open driveway. “Trust me.”

  He knows what will happen if he fails. Vets will try and get near with a tranquilizer. They will fail, going in mob-handed and merely scaring the animal. Then some well-intentioned farmer will turn up with a tame horse in the hope of attracting the stallion to within range. The stallion will get overexcited. Damage cars. Damage itself. Eventually a marksman will be called and the horse will be hit with as many bullets as it takes to get the city moving again. McAvoy doesn’t want that to happen. The call from the young PC had informed him that the horse had escaped from land where travelers had set up home. In his experience, travelers love their animals, and this one, though gray and with shaggy forelocks that put him in mind of traveled boots, looks like it has been looked after as well as worked hard.

  “Easy, boy. Easy.”

  McAvoy closes the gap. Raises his hand, palm out, and whispers, soft hushes and gentle songs, in the animal’s ear. It whinnies. Begins to pull away. McAvoy tilts his head. Exudes both the size and the gentleness that so define him; locks brown eyes with the confused, frightened animal . . .

  The horse barely shies as he slips the rope around its neck. He carries on singing. Whispering. Crooning the only traveler song he can remember and wishing he had the same soft voice that his bride uses when she softly hums it into his neck.

  This time the cheer from the crowd has little eff
ect on the horse. It allows itself to be led out of the driveway, its unshod hooves making a pleasing clip-clop on the pavement.

  McAvoy looks up and sees smiling faces. His cheeks burn and he struggles to keep his face impassive as the motorists give him a little round of applause, delighted to know they will soon be in fifth gear and hurrying toward jobs they hate, to tell the story of this morning’s fun and games.

  “Good job, sir. Good job.”

  The traveler has detached himself from the crowd. Unasked, he crosses to the far side of the animal and gently takes it by the ear, leaning in to nuzzle the animal’s neck and call it a “great eejit.”

  McAvoy enjoys the display of affection. The man knows animals. Loves horses. Can’t be bad.

  Together, they wind their way through the cars and toward the playing fields. Three uniformed officers are leaning, exhausted, against the bonnets of two parked patrol cars. They look ragged and worn out. They nod their thanks as McAvoy passes by. The young constable who called him raises a fist of triumph and leans in to say something to a colleague. There is a burst of laughter and, instinctively, McAvoy presumes himself to have been the butt of the joke.

  “We’ll tie ’em up, sir,” says the traveler. “We thought the fence went right round. Gave me a fright when I saw them gone, so it did.”

  McAvoy, getting his breath back, looks over the horse’s wiry mane at the man. “It’s not a campsite, sir. It’s a football pitch. You know you can’t camp here.”

  “Ah, would yer not show a little leeway?” the traveler asks, fixing bright blue eyes on McAvoy and suddenly exuding a twinkly, impish charm. “We’ve had a bit of a barney, me and one of the families up there. Not welcome. Just a night or two, put it to bed, make friends again.”

  McAvoy isn’t really listening. This isn’t his call. He’s just going with it for now. He was asked to round up an escaped horse and has done so. The excitement is over. Now he has to try and make himself presentable enough for a meeting with the new-look Humberside Police Authority, and try to explain to the new chairman why his unit should be preserved, and exactly why the violent crime statistics are on the rise. It is a prospect that has kept him awake as efficiently as his three-month-old daughter, and its sudden reemergence at the forefront of his mind brings a wave of nausea to his stomach.

  A gust of wind brings with it the scent of frying bacon and hand-rolled cigarettes. He raises his head, eager for a breath of cleansing fresh air. Opens his eyes. Stares into a sky the color of a black eye, rain just seconds away.

  They approach the semicircle of caravans. There is a whoop that McAvoy traces to one of the women sitting on the sofas outside the nearest caravan. She is in her forties, with curly blond-brown hair, and is wearing a white tracksuit two sizes too small.

  “Ah, yer a good lad,” she shouts as they get nearer. She puts down her mug of tea and levers her small, curvy frame off the sofa. “Knew it was all reet, didn’t I?”

  She shouts this last at the two teenage girls who sit on the opposite sofa, each in pink nighties under gray hooded tops. One is perhaps a year older than the other, but both have sleek black hair cut in the same side parting, and wear an equal amount of hooped gold at their throats and earlobes.

  McAvoy hands the rope to the man, who gives a genuine bow of thanks. “You’re a good man, sir. A good man. Scotsman, ye’ll be, yes?”

  McAvoy nods. “Western Highlands.”

  “No kilt?” he asks, with a grin.

  “I get enough funny looks.”

  The traveler laughs louder than the joke deserves. Claps McAvoy on his broad forearm. “By Christ, but you’re a big one.”

  McAvoy’s blush threatens to return to his cheeks, so he just gives a nod. Returns to business. “Keep him tied up. Buttercup. It’s not fair.”

  “Aye, sir. Aye.”

  McAvoy looks around him. At sofas, the generators, and toilets. At the faces emerging from behind spotless net curtains at the windows of the caravans, as interested in what is happening on their doorsteps as the faces behind the glass in the four-bedroom detached properties that ring the fields.

  He can’t help but picture his wife. She lived like this when they first met. Wasn’t much older than the girls on the sofa; her eyes just as distrustful, her world just as small . . .

  “McAvoy!”

  He turns to see Helen Tremberg and Inspector Ken Cullen walking swiftly across from the adjacent football pitch. He gives a wave, not quite sure whether he is to be treated as a hero or interfering fool.

  “McAvoy, is it? Is that what she said?”

  There is something in the way the old traveler repeats his name. Something that tells McAvoy he is known.

  He gets no chance to press the man. The clouds that have been slung low, like damp laundry, finally split. Rain thunders down. Tremberg, not given to squealing, emits a shriek and stops short, pulling up the hood of her jacket. The travelers emit a cacophony of swearing, and McAvoy’s new friend barks orders in an accent so thick it could be a different language. Half a dozen young men appear from inside caravans, and the sofas are quickly dragged under tarpaulins and windows pulled fast shut.

  “Christ,” says Tremberg, beginning a swift retreat to her vehicle. “They really are ninjas!”

  McAvoy doesn’t follow her. He’s standing, arms wide, letting the downpour soak him to the skin. He knows that he will be tried and tested at this morning’s meeting. Knows it will be a painful experience. And knows, too, that he will make life slightly easier for himself if he turns up merely damp, rather than covered in manure.

  9:31 A.M. HIGH STREET, OLD TOWN.

  BLADES OF RAIN, scything down from a pewter sky. A narrow row of handsome old mercantile palaces. Of insurance brokers and solicitors, art galleries and museums. Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy, running through the rain—committee papers clutched inside his sodden jacket, rain splashing from his lips and nose.

  Up the steps, feet slipping on the mosaic which serves as the welcome mat to the Police Authority headquarters, a rose picked out in red and white tiles, beneath an archway of expensive wood and glass.

  He flashes his warrant card at the security guard on the desk, and then bounds up the stairs three at a time.

  Assistant Chief Constable Everett is waiting outside the meeting room. He is immaculately turned out, his blue uniform crisp and freshly laundered.

  “Good Lord, Sergeant!”

  Everett looks aghast at the sight before him. Aector McAvoy has come to serve as his pet symbol of the modern face of Humberside Police. Educated, polite, supremely computer literate, and respectful of every new guideline dreamed up by the powers that be, he has served the assistant chief at endless committee meetings and public engagements.

  “Look at the state of you! I needed you at your best, man!”

  Strictly speaking, there is no need for a detective sergeant ever to appear before the Police Authority, but ACC Everett is expecting difficult questions from the authority’s new chairman, and has managed to ensure that McAvoy is there to answer them. He is pinning his hopes on McAvoy’s absorbing the worst of the barrage.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” gasps McAvoy, trying to catch his breath. “There was a horse . . .”

  Everett, a thin-faced and ratty-looking man who managed to rise to the second top job in the force without appearing to be any good at anything, grabs McAvoy’s coat and forcibly strips it off his shoulders. Before McAvoy can protest, Everett is pulling out a comb from his back pocket and reaching up to comb his junior officer’s hair.

  McAvoy backs off. Takes the comb.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He does what he can. Slicks back his hair and wipes the moisture from his mustache with finger and thumb. Catches his breath. Fastens his suit jacket and secures his tie inside it. Wrings out his cuffs, and straightens the creases with his palm.

  Foll
ows Everett into the meeting room.

  More than a dozen men and women sit around a number of tables arranged in a vague U shape. The surfaces are covered in jugs of water and empty glasses, notepads, and official-looking papers. At the back of the room, a large pink-and-blue painting of a Manhattan skyline covers one wall. It was a gift to the authority from a previous chairman, and nobody has been impolite enough to take the monstrosity down.

  “Bloody hell, Everett, are you making your officers swim here?”

  The booming Yorkshire voice emanates from the large, bearded man at the head of the table.

  Everett gives a false little laugh as he and McAvoy take a seat at the nearest empty desk. “Sorry, Mr. Chairman, Sergeant McAvoy was called away to deal with an important development in the case you have shown such an interest in.”

  Tressider waves his hand, dismissively. He looks at McAvoy.

  “Important development, eh? You sure you weren’t helping a bunch of gypsies round up their horses?”

  McAvoy colors instantly. Can feel steam rising from his damp hair.

  “Oh, bugger, can’t say gypsies, can I?” Tressider turns to the secretary, busy jotting down the minutes of the meeting. “Scribble that out, would you, love?”

  The other members of the authority exchange glances, but nobody says a word. Tressider dominates the room. He has a remarkable presence, and enough personality to dominate any environment, even without the benefits of his broad frame and deep Yorkshire accent.

  He’s a man on the up, is Peter Tressider. One to watch, with coattails worth riding.

  Now in his mid-fifties, he was already famous as a businessman before taking his first steps into public office on the Conservative ticket a couple of decades back. His family runs a timberyard, distribution company, and a couple of property agencies, as well as investing heavily in various safe-bet start-up companies. He was elected onto the East Riding Council in 1997, and was moved up to the authority’s cabinet soon after, holding high-profile positions on committees responsible for crime prevention, education, and social inclusion.