Original Skin

by David Mark

  “I phoned for an ambulance.”

  “But you didn’t call the police?”

  “No.”

  Suzie has tried to hold McAvoy’s gaze, but gives now. Looks at the moon.

  McAvoy considers her for a moment. There is dried blood on her chin. One arm is protectively tucked against her bruised ribs. She had refused to go to hospital in the police car or the ambulance that both arrived within minutes of McAvoy’s call. A unit from the Holderness Policing Team has taken Melissa to Priory Road Police Station, where tomorrow she will most likely be charged with anything from sexual assault to attempted murder. The young man who had been receiving the passenger-seat BJ needed the ambulance. He had attacked McAvoy while he was trying to restrain Melissa. McAvoy had shrugged him off. The shrug had been enough to cut him down and snap a tendon in his ankle. McAvoy has not yet had time to worry about the repercussions, or to hate himself properly for how much he longed to slam Melissa’s head on the bonnet of his car as she struggled in his grasp and he fumbled for his radio.

  “You’re not what I was expecting,” he says at length.

  Suzie looks up at him and there is a flicker of warmth in her eyes. “Did you think I’d be in a corset and clear heels?”

  “I should be so lucky,” he says, and, unable to help himself, wipes the dried blood from her chin.

  “Thank you,” she says, and then impulsively, desperately, grabs his hand with hers. She holds it against her cheek. Closes her eyes. Allows herself to feel a moment of safety. Of solace. Builds comfort and secure into the sensation of this touch.

  “Simon Appleyard,” McAvoy says as he slowly withdraws his hand. “Your friend. He was murdered.”

  Suzie nods.

  “You knew?” he asks.

  “I think I always knew.” She seems to consider it. Shivers and moves back a little into the car. “Maybe I didn’t.”

  “But you’re convinced now?”

  She pulls down her scarf. Shows him the ligature mark. “I’m next,” she says.

  McAvoy crouches down. Examines the marks. When he looks at her again, his face is only inches from hers. Her reflection swims in his eyes, and in this mirror the girl who looks back is lovably pretty.

  “Last night,” she says. “Party. Somebody tried to strangle me. Hurt somebody else.”

  McAvoy’s face changes. He begins rooting in pockets for bits of paper. Pencil. “I’ll need the details.”

  She shrugs it all away. “I’m tired,” she says, and the statement is completely accurate.

  McAvoy seems to realize that he is missing an opportunity to crowbar some proper police procedure into his investigation. The notion is tantalizing. He feels like a maverick, a private investigator hiding in the police force who is very much at odds with the man he has always been.

  “I can take you to hospital now. We can talk on the way.”

  “No, not yet. Let me enjoy the breeze.”

  McAvoy narrows his eyes. Tries to understand this girl. To better appreciate her reluctance to go to hospital. To talk to the uniformed officers. To leave his side. It occurs to him what may be going through her mind. “Suzie, you’re not going to get arrested. You’re not going to prison.”

  “I have a record. Simon and me. We had this idea. Watched a film where this girl tattooed a man who was mean to her. We decided to do it. He was still texting me, my ex. Treated me like shit, but still thought I’d come running for sex. I don’t know whose idea it was to persuade him to be tied up. But he liked it. And then, when he was under me, I don’t know. I had the blade. He was crying. Squealing. I felt sick. Made a couple of scratches and then ran. I was frightened to untie him. I went and got Simon. He came back with me and untied him. He went for Simon, and Simon fought back. We ran. It was a mess. It wasn’t like we planned.”

  “He called the police?”

  She nods. “They took his side.”

  McAvoy looks again at this plumpish, bizarrely dressed girl, and finds it hard to reconcile the details on the charge sheet with the person in front of him.

  “He must have really hurt you,” he says at last. “Your ex. For you to get into all . . . this.”

  “I needed to be something more than I was. Needed to be more than this timid, downtrodden little girl.”

  “There are other ways. You know, you would both still be in prison if the victim had given evidence, don’t you?”

  “And maybe Simon would be alive.”

  McAvoy nods. Sighs. Lowers himself to the ground and sits cross-legged: Lilah across his knees.

  “You look like one of those Scottish kings,” says Suzie, sniffing. “Like you should have one of those big swords and be on a throne of skulls.”

  “Did Scottish kings have thrones of skulls?”

  “I would.”

  McAvoy laughs. Shakes his head.

  “Who do you think killed him? Who is trying to kill you?”

  “I just know he can spell.”

  McAvoy stiffens. “Pardon?”

  Suzie hands over her mobile phone. Shows him how to navigate to the string of messages. Tells him how her admirer came into her life and what he has cost her.

  “You did this? That’s why you were here?”

  McAvoy is reading the man’s instructions. Trying to work out why she would debase herself to please a stranger.

  “It’s a game.”

  He looks her in the eye and tries to let concern instead of contempt fill his face. “It’s not.”

  “No,” she says, holding his gaze. “I know.”

  For a time he thinks about lecturing her. Telling her that her lifestyle killed her friend. But he is not convinced of the truth of the accusation, and already likes her too much to hurt her this way.

  “He knew you would be at the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve had no more messages? Just his temper tantrum?”

  “I’ve been thinking about texting him . . .”

  McAvoy clamps his lips together. Considers. “Not yet,” he says. “We need to know more.”

  “What do you actually know?” asks Suzie, and though there is no accusation in her voice, McAvoy implants his own.

  “I think Simon might have been killed because he saw someone, or met someone, who does not want it known how they spend their spare time.”

  Suzie nods. “Some people are like that. They’re ashamed.”

  “Are you?”

  She considers it. “I didn’t think I was. I thought I was empowered. I’m not sure.”

  “Simon was your protector, yes? He kept you safe while you played?”

  “He was my everything.”

  McAvoy nods. Readjusts Lilah and puts his smallest finger in her mouth as he thinks. “The parties you attend. The people you met. Do you have any kind of record? Any diary? Any way of identifying people?”

  Suzie shakes her head. “People take care. It’s all false names and personal e-mail addresses and pay-as-you-go mobiles. People go to the other side of the country to shag a stranger so the wife doesn’t find out. It’s not like dating.”

  McAvoy stands. The movement seems to pain him. He hands Lilah to Suzie, who takes her without thinking, and passes her back without comment.

  “If I showed you some photographs, would you be able to remember whether they are people you may have come across in your private life? Whether they are people Simon knew?”

  Suzie nods. “Tonight?”

  McAvoy shakes his head. “Tomorrow. I have to go home. Put the little one to bed. Explain to the wife why I’ve been up at a dogging spot . . .”

  He colors as he says it, afraid he has offended her. Suzie merely smiles.

  “Not a nice word, is it? I don’t even like dogs. Puppies, yes. But puppying sounds wrong.”

  McAvoy realizes that wh
en he gets in the car and starts the engine, he will be taking this young, confused girl to hospital and pretty much dumping her. Knows she will be getting a taxi back to her cold and lonely flat. Is not sure he can allow that.

  “How are your ribs?”

  “Sore.”

  “My wife’s a healer.”

  “A doctor?”

  “No. She’s just good at making people feel better.”

  Suzie grins. Realizes she does not want to leave this man’s side. “You’re a good pair.”

  MONDAY, MIDMORNING.

  A GRASSY AREA set back from a quiet country road, shielded by high hedges and cherry blossoms.

  They sit side by side. Arms resting on the damp, bowed wood of the sagging picnic table.

  A storm in the air.

  Pharaoh sucks an inch off her black cigarette. Sips at her takeaway coffee and is angered to discover the polystyrene cup is empty. She reaches across for McAvoy’s bottle of lemonade. Takes a swig and grimaces.

  “Did you get crisps and candy, too? Packet of cola cubes and a caramel shortbread? It’s amazing you’ve got teeth.”

  McAvoy takes back the lemonade. Puts it down on the bench beside him, away from her reach. Tries one more time to get an answer he can work with.

  “Guv, do you think he could have killed Simon?”

  Pharaoh throws her cigarette butt onto the ground, then stares at its glowing tip. “Why did I do that? There were three drags left.”

  “Guv . . .”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Aector, yes. Okay? Yes, he could have killed him. Happy? Anybody could have killed anyone. People act oddly. For instance, I’ve got this giant fucking idiot of a detective sergeant who works for me. He let a suspect in a murder case sleep at his house last night. Then he invited me for a picnic.”

  McAvoy allows himself the tiniest of glances at her chest. It is not the shade of crimson that it goes when she is truly cross, nor is there a sheen of perspiration at her temples or on her upper lip, so he knows her temper is not as intense as she is making out.

  “She had nowhere to go. She was hurt. She’s got nothing . . .”

  Pharaoh looks at him so intensely that he has to turn away. For a moment it feels as though she is reading the back of his skull.

  Finally she rubs her hands through her hair and gives a stretch that comes with no accompanying yawn. “You know the reason we don’t carry guns in this country, Aector? It’s because, if we did, I’d shoot you.”

  “Dead?” he asks, as though this will make a difference.

  “No,” she says, thinking about it. “Just sore. I’d maybe just hit you with it.”

  He smiles. “Thanks, guv.”

  She smiles at him, maternal again. Seems about to beckon him close for a cuddle.

  “How is she?”

  “Sore. Achy ribs. Nasty bruise.”

  “Not her. Roisin.”

  McAvoy pulls a face. “Okay, I think. Says she’s okay. Was making her breakfast when I left.”

  “Anything nice?”

  “Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. Fresh chives.”

  “What kind of toast?”

  “Not sure. I can ring if you like . . .”

  Pharaoh gives in to laughter. “Fucking hell.”

  McAvoy cannot work out which of his indiscretions he should feel most ashamed of. For a long time he wondered whether other people were given a handbook in childhood outlining what is acceptable and what is not. He is never truly sure.

  “She likes helping people.”

  She looks at him. Pulls a face. “Yeah, I’d imagine she’s big on lost causes.”

  Pharaoh wishes she hadn’t said it as soon as the words are out of her mouth. Curses when she sees the impact on his face. Pain and uncertainty pass across his face like a ripple on a still pond. He absorbs it and then it is gone.

  “He was okay with you?” McAvoy asks, his voice catching. “Tressider.”

  “Professional. Decent guy, really. Inasmuch.”

  “Yeah. Inasmuch.”

  McAvoy is staring at the damp grass. Watching a cherry blossom that has become trapped in the wooden supports of the picnic table. Wants to free it so that it can join its friends and dance on the breeze, but fears more contempt.

  “This is something now, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. “It really is a murder.”

  Pharaoh seems about to argue, but loses enthusiasm. She nods.

  “Are we going to take it to the top brass? Start the investigation? Do things properly?”

  Pharaoh shrugs. Sips again at her empty coffee. Reaches into her handbag and retrieves another black cigarette, which she holds but does not light.

  “It’s my first day back, Aector,” she says to the side of his face. “As far as the brass know, my team is looking into the drugs. The petrol bombing. Alan Rourke and the ginger runt. That’s what we’re doing. And we’re not doing it particularly well. Simon Appleyard doesn’t figure on anybody’s radar.”

  “One phone call,” he says, looking at her. “We make it happen.”

  Pharaoh looks up at the sky. There is still some blue up there, but the dark, rain-swollen clouds are rolling back. Their undersides hang low, as if waiting to be sliced open with a blade. They seem oppressive. Ominous. They could just as well be as full of black eels as rain.

  “It’s not me you have to convince,” she says. “I can’t say I’m relishing telling people that Peter Tressider needs to be formally interviewed in connection with a murder inquiry, but I’m willing to do it. What I need before we do is something more than a few concidences, some intuition, and a big leap of faith.”

  “Suzie,” says McAvoy, reaching down and freeing the cherry blossom, then letting it go on the next gust of wind. “She’ll tell them what has been happening to her.”

  “And she’s a reliable witness, is she? A swinger with a record.”

  “She was attacked.”

  “She was at a dogging pit and a sex party.”

  “She’s a victim.”

  “She’s a tart.”

  “That’s not fair. All she’s been through . . .”

  Pharaoh throws the cup down on the wooden table. It bounces and rolls onto the grass. “These aren’t my words, Aector. They’re what I’ll be hearing.”

  They sit in silence for a time. McAvoy has much to say but cannot find the right order for his words. Sits wondering instead whether Roisin is angry with him. Pharaoh, in her turn, lets her mind drift to less confusing thoughts. Looks at her black patterned tights and wonders whether she should have shaved her legs before putting them on. Whether she will have a bruise in her armpits from the underwire of her ill-fitting bra. Whether she should have eaten the brownie McAvoy bought her, or gone for a piece of fruit instead . . .

  “Ray didn’t seem pleased to see me,” she says resignedly. “Didn’t get much from the interviews, did he? But there was a look in his eye.”

  “If he’s got something, he has to tell you. That’s the chain of command.”

  “Oh, aye,” she says, sarcastically. “We’re all about procedure.”

  The blue sky darkens a shade. The bellies of the clouds sag farther. They watch a sparrow flutter down to a neighboring picnic table and peck at a discarded bottle top before flying away.

  “Pretty here,” says Pharaoh. “Suzie would like it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Secluded,” she says, by way of explanation. “You can get up to all sorts.”

  McAvoy half turns to her, but realizes he is already mid-blush, so stops and continues staring ahead.

  “You know what we should do,” he says quietly. He takes a breath. Lets the color bleed from his face. Turns, at last, to meet her gaze. “You know it will work.”

  Pharaoh places the cigarette in her mouth and flicks the filter w
ith her tongue. It waggles in her mouth as she thinks.

  “She’d be putting herself in harm’s way.”

  “I’d be there.”

  “Would she do it?”

  “I think so.”

  Their nods are imperceptible, their acquiescence unspoken. They simply accept the truth of what must happen.

  “We need more,” says Pharaoh at last. “If it comes to trial, we’ll need to demonstrate we had just cause . . .”

  McAvoy reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. “If it’s not him . . .”

  “I’ll be delighted,” says Pharaoh. “That’s the worst bit of all of this. If we’ve just been off the reservation but come back with a killer, we’re on easy street. If we come back with the chairman of the Police Authority in handcuffs, we’re making the wrong kind of headlines.”

  In the open air, better able to pick up the signal, McAvoy’s phone rings. He mouths, “Excuse me,” and takes the call.

  Quietly, discreetly, one of the civilian support workers has been jockeying the database. At McAvoy’s request, she has been working through the log, putting together a list of all cars reported lost, stolen, or abandoned within a five-mile radius of Simon Appleyard’s flat between November of last year and March of this. Pharaoh called McAvoy’s suggestion an “informed hunch” but green-lighted his use of resources.

  He has been awake most of the night, Lilah dozing contentedly on his chest and Roisin’s warm back and buttocks against his side. He listened for a while to Suzie’s soft crying, and wondered whether he should take her a blanket or a glass of warm milk before tiredness robbed him of enthusiasm for the trip downstairs. Instead, he thought about the taxi ride. About why a killer would take a cab from a murder. Why he would order one to pick him up from a brightly lit, bustling supermarket. He tried to put himself in the killer’s shoes. Manipulative. Intelligent. Cunning. He would have driven to the scene, no question. Perhaps parked a couple of streets away from Simon’s home, just to be safe. But why the taxi? Why not drive away? The answer hit him as he considered his current car. Its tendency to stall in second gear. Its leaking radiator and shot A/C. Suzie’s car, too, had groaned painfully as it took the sharp left at the entrance to his estate.