by David Mark
‘Who broke the news to mum?’
‘Military police,’ says Ben promptly. ‘She’ll be looked after. She did say she thought Ava was getting things together. New job. Seemed a bit more content. Played a song down the phone to her a few days ago and it was less dark than the stuff she used to write when she was cutting herself.’
‘The suicide attempt? The financial problems?’
Neilsen nods, consulting his notes again. ‘Mum had helped her out. Stepdad too. But if they transferred her five hundred quid she’d go and get a tattoo or buy six pairs of shoes. Her mum thought the suicide attempt was a cry for help, but she was adamant that help was always forthcoming.’
‘When did she last see her?’
‘Christmas,’ Neilsen replies. ‘They came to London for a few days and she went to see them there. Had a nice dinner. Nice day, so it seems. Nothing to worry her mum, anyway.’
‘Stepdad?’
‘Engineer. Glowing record. Seemed to think of her the way a stepdad should. Did his duty.’
McAvoy purses his lips. He feels a pressure in his chest. Wonders if he should force himself to eat. Whether he should call Roisin. Text Pharaoh. Drive out to Reuben Hollow’s place and shake his hand. Finds himself scowling, and wonders what the team make of it. He starts to turn red and snaps his head in the direction of a young civilian officer when she opens a can of pop that has been shaken in her handbag. Sighs above the curses and the hiss of spilled cola as it soaks into the dirty grey carpet among a million other stains . . .
‘We’ll regroup at two p.m.,’ says McAvoy. ‘PME will be in by then. We’ll know a damn sight more than we do now, which, let’s face it, won’t be difficult. The boss will be back too, so let’s give her something to smile about, eh? And if anybody forgets to ask any witnesses about Hannah Kelly, I will give their name to the boss, whose mood today should not need explaining.’
There are glances and mutterings among the assembled officers. There is no secret about Pharaoh’s current whereabouts. Most of them will have watched Reuben Hollow’s appearance on Look North last night. All will have read the newspaper articles tearing her apart for incompetence. They know that, even now, she’s sitting in the Chief Constable’s office with representatives of the CPS and Police Federation, looking over their options if Hollow decides to take legal action against the force. Pharaoh doesn’t want to be there. She looked as if she was going to drive straight off the Humber Bridge when the call came through this morning, demanding her presence at HQ. She wants to be here, looking for Ava’s killer. And McAvoy knows that they have a better chance of catching the murderer with Pharaoh in charge than with him.
McAvoy turns away as the hubbub returns to the room. The team spin back to their desks. Bottles of Lucozade hiss open. There is the rattle of fingers on keyboards and the rustle of fists being stuffed into crisp packets. He crosses back to the window. Tries to find pleasure in the pink among the grey, but feels as though something is squeezing his lungs. When he looks at the blossom he sees only the certainty of death. Knows that within days, the petals will be mulched beneath feet and tyres, rotting in pitiful little drifts at the side of the road.
Angry at himself, he turns back into the room.
Locks eyes with Ava Delaney.
With Hannah Kelly.
Makes another promise to the dead.
Chapter 9
Trish Pharaoh looks at the palm of her left hand. Peers, intently, at the grooves and lines. Tries to make out a shape. The curve of a neck, perhaps. The angle of a jawbone. The hard, firm bullet of a nipple.
She looks again at the wooden sculpture she holds between the finger and thumb of her right hand. Wonders if she really looks like that. Hopes to God she does.
She takes a deep, angry drag on her black cigarette. She has smoked it down to the filter and uses the last burning ember to light another before inhaling so deeply that stars appear and explode before her eyes. It improves the view a little. She’s leaning against the dirty glass of the smoking shelter at the rear of the Police HQ on Clough Road. The building is a thoroughly modern construction, painted in bright colours and designed to look like a cross between a community centre and an office for a funky marketing company. It hasn’t got much character. Pharaoh likes old police stations, buildings that smell of the role they were built for. She likes a police station to carry with it the tang of tears and disinfectant, spilled whisky and a billion cigarettes. It’s a comforting smell. She wouldn’t wear it as a perfume but it has always made her feel at home. Here, in this palace of pastels, lumbar-support swivel chairs and ergonomic desk placement, she feels like a tramp in the lobby of a posh hotel. This is just about the only place she can stomach. A glorified bus shelter in a car park full of Audis and Land Rovers; the vehicles of the senior officers and the shiny, well-groomed people who hold their coat-tails.
She looks at the tip of the cigarette. Wonders if she should grind it out on the little wooden figurine. Knows, immediately, that she will not. She already owes it a favour or two. It kept her quiet in the meeting. Gave her something to focus on as the menfolk spouted shit and the cold stones in her chest turned white-hot with temper. She squeezed her wooden likeness until it almost burst the skin. Focused all her energy on crushing herself. It was a strange, voodoo-like experience, but it helped. She will come through this storm as she has come through others. For now, she has to just take whatever is thrown her way. She’s a career officer. She’s made it higher in her profession than any other woman in the history of Humberside Police. Might be Head of CID before the end of the year. Could be Assistant Chief Constable by fifty, though she doesn’t like the idea of wearing uniform again. Or she could retire on a half-decent pension and spend her time being a mum. The idea seems appealing, sometimes. But she’s fought too hard and too long for what she’s got. She likes catching criminals. Doesn’t trust anybody else to do it properly. She judges herself by how many murderers she has put away and she’s pretty proud of her ratio. Besides, she doesn’t want to give the top brass a sacrificial lamb to slaughter. Let one of them take the heat for a change. Let the CPS admit that they were the ones pushing for the prosecution. Let ACC Mallett admit that he knew about the link between the victim and the sergeant who nicked Reuben Hollow. Pharaoh had only come to the case at the last. Why the hell wasn’t Shaz Archer at the meeting? And it wasn’t even as if Hollow was threatening legal action against the police. He had every right to feel aggrieved. Had every right to show the world what a good man would do to protect the people he loves.
Pharaoh lets her thoughts turn to the man of the hour. Bites her lower lip and grinds out her cigarette. Catches sight of a nice-looking Volvo and wishes she’d ground it out on the bonnet instead.
Reuben bloody Hollow.
Pharaoh looks again at the figure he carved for her. They have been arriving for the past six months. He’s got good at recreating her. He didn’t have particularly good tools or wood to work with when he was inside but he still managed to craft something beautiful out of a nub of chair leg. It had arrived at work, delivered by a big, embarrassed-looking drug-dealer who had been released from Full Sutton the day before. He dropped it off at reception and muttered something about it being from a friend. Pharaoh had opened it in secret. Hadn’t known whether to be flattered or furious. Chose to ignore it. They kept coming. Half a dozen figurines, one every few weeks. They started out in the outfit she had worn during her interviews with Hollow. By the last one, she was fully naked. Hollow had let his imagination run away with him but she would be lying if she said she didn’t look forward to seeing his creations. It felt like a very slow seduction; her disrobing done a piece at a time and each step immortalised. His hands had caressed that wood. He had freed her. Found her likeness within the grain and moulded her into something enduring and beautiful. He had found a way to communicate with her that required no words. And he had slipped into her thoughts like blood beneath a door.
What the hell had he been thinki
ng? He had talked about her on TV. Complimented her. And he had come to her house! He’d given a naked sculpture to her daughter. Sophia even had the good grace to blush when she explained what had happened the night before. He’d seen off a couple of tearaways. However he’d imagined the evening working out, it hadn’t gone according to plan. She’d barked at him as if he were a vagrant who had wandered into her kitchen and started making a sandwich. She’d tried to focus on tidying up Sophia but her daughter would only allow Roisin to come near her. McAvoy had stood there like a great bloody lemon, no doubt dying a little on the inside because his perfect little wife had gone all doe-eyed at the sight of Reuben’s cheekbones. She’d all but kicked Hollow out. Told him that he was trespassing and that it was a criminal offence. She appreciated his help but didn’t need it, or want it. Told him he was a fool for coming here. What if there had been photographers? What was he thinking!
Pharaoh tuts at herself and makes a mental apology to the McAvoys. Roisin was a diamond last night. Cleaned up. Gave hugs where they were needed. Made everybody a drink and a bite to eat. She could tell she’d upset Hector but he was doing his best to hide it. He looked even more cow-eyed than usual. Pharaoh hadn’t known whether to hit him or give him a cuddle. She settled on neither. Went to bed with a bottle of Zinfandel and dreamed about Jez Gavan and his fat wife. The latest figurine was on her pillow when she woke. There was a cup of strong black coffee on the bedside table. Sophia’s apology, she hoped.
Pharaoh knows she has to go back in. Has to sit there while they push around shit like so many scarab beetles in uniform. She’s not even dressed for the occasion. Had thrown on a black dress from the laundry hamper as she came down the stairs at 6 a.m. Was pulling on her biker boots when she realised Aector was still in her home. Briefly thought about pretending she had forgotten, and walking in on him while wearing just bra and tights. What was happening to her? She felt like she was losing control of some vital piece of herself.
Pharaoh looks around her and feels the fog drawing in. It would be nice to just let it take her. Would be nice to turn away from the station and disappear into the curtains of damp air. Already some of the vehicles on Clough Road are switching their headlights to full beam. The cloud has stooped to take Hull in its embrace. She can barely see the brightly coloured gym that stands next to the police station, or the discount furniture store across the road.
She squints.
Sees him.
Reuben Hollow is leaning against the wall at the back of the police station, across the car park from where Pharaoh stands and smokes and snarls at herself.
He’s been here a while. Saw her emerge from the building and stamp between the cars to the dirty glass and metal construction where the smokers have been exiled to.
He watched her fumble with her lighter, suck smoke into her lungs and breathe out a cloud of black and grey. It coiled around her. Touched her hair and skin. Drifted away, to mingle with the fog and the cold damp air.
He cannot see what she is looking at so intently but hopes it is the sculpture he made for her. He hopes she isn’t offended by the creations he has diverted himself with. She has been on his mind ever since she first came to his house and consented to drink his home-made sloe whisky. She smoked the cigarettes he rolled for her. They talked about children. About loss and duty. He thought he had made a friend, and then she arrested him for murder.
He bears her no ill will. He has never wanted to hurt her. He wants to protect her, from that which is within her and also without. He likes to take women under his wing. Likes to be there when they need him, like last night. He doesn’t know who the men were but it was right to hurt them. He’s sure she’ll tell him everything, soon enough. They’ll become confidants. Friends, even. He sees something in her that he wants.
She’s crossing towards him now; angry, surprised.
‘What the hell are you doing, Hollow? You can’t be here. This is stalking.’
He raises his hands placatingly. He’s dressed the way he likes, in old jeans and a collarless shirt, leather jacket and flat cap. He’s holding a copy of the Hull Daily Mail.
‘Ava,’ he says, pointing to the front page. ‘I might be able to help. My daughter . . .’
Pharaoh stops. Scowls. Pats her pockets for her cigarettes then reaches up and takes the hand-rolled one from between Hollow’s lips.
She looks at him with eyes that are almost as blue as his. Almost as tired, too.
‘You have information pertinent to the case?’
He shrugs. ‘It may be nothing. But I thought if we could talk . . .’
Pharaoh looks at the object clutched in her palm. Her lips become a thin line but there is no disguising the smile she is trying not to give in to.
‘Why don’t you come back to mine? We can talk. We have so much to talk about, Trish.’
Pharaoh says nothing. She looks, for a moment, as though she is about to fob him off. To tell him she can’t just leave work in the middle of the day and that she doesn’t have the time. She seems to catch herself before she can do so. Seems to make a decision that here, now, she doesn’t give a fuck.
And then she follows him through the fog to his car. Climbs inside the battered old Jeep, and lets him drive her away.
Chapter 10
10.16 a.m.
The police station on Grimsby’s Victoria Street. A long, two-storey building in three different shades of brown, bordered by the magistrates’ court on one side and a supermarket on the other. It’s a busy road, and all the buildings around here are occupied. There’s a little retail park, down towards the old docks. An all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. An electrical retailer and a tile warehouse. A furniture shop for people who don’t buy their sofas on credit and don’t baulk at paying £500 for a coffee table. A Kwik Fit and a JobCentre are neighbours to the snooker club and the car wash. A couple of solicitors have offices in the older buildings at the top of the street, just before the crossroads that lead on into Grimsby’s town centre and its chain pubs and sandwich shops. If there were room for a brothel and a place to buy fried chicken, it would be a masterclass in urban planning.
In a drab office painted the colour of sour milk, Helen Tremberg sits at her desk and holds the telephone so tightly that there is a danger of leaving grip marks in the plastic.
‘So what was the actual point, then?’ she asks, through gritted teeth. ‘I should have been in on it! I’m not made of glass. Am I part of this or not? No . . . look . . . of course I appreciate that . . . of course . . . Yes, I’m grateful . . . it does make things easier, yes, and . . . no, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Look, I’m sorry I snapped. Yes, yes I’ll let you know. Thanks. Thanks. Bye.’
She bangs the phone down hard in the cradle. Does it twice more for effect. The two civilian officers with whom she is currently sharing an office have popped out for a cigarette so there is nobody to see the tear of frustration that betrays her and spills from her tired eyes. She sniffs. Rips open a bag of Cadbury’s Buttons and stuffs a handful in her mouth. She swallows without tasting. Imagines, for a moment, what it would feel like to sit on Shaz Archer’s chest and hit her repeatedly in the face. Knows, without question, it would be bloody lovely.
Finally, she takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Lets them flutter back open, like butterflies coming back to life. Stares out of the window . . .
As part of her return from maternity leave, Helen is allowed to work the majority of her shifts from Grimsby HQ, rather than over the water in Hull with the rest of the Drugs Squad. It makes life easier in terms of childcare and travel-to-work time, and keeps her out of Shaz Archer’s way. Normally, that means her working day is relatively peaceful and she can at least get away at a sensible hour. She’d also fooled herself into believing that she was making a valuable contribution to the team.
This morning’s edition of the Hull Daily Mail has made a mockery of that.
Last night, DCI Sharon Archer led a series of raids on three properties on the Presto
n Road estate. She and her team confiscated cocaine, heroin, cannabis and cash. They arrested six people. It was described in the press as a ‘crisp, clean and efficient’ operation. The pictures showed a short, tubby man with bad skin and short hair being led away in handcuffs and aiming a boot in the direction of the camera.
The reporter had clearly enjoyed being invited along for the ride.
Helen was not extended the same invitation.
She had managed to read to the fourth paragraph of the article before her temper bubbled over. The death of Raymond O’Neill had been the lead item on page five.
It took an hour of increasingly insistent demands before Archer returned her phone call.
All happened last minute, she said.
No time to contact you.
We needed you dealing with the O’Neill case.
It wasn’t lying. I don’t lie . . .
Helen rubs her hands through her hair. She should have been on the damn raid. Should at least have known about it. Christ, Archer must have been laughing her perfect bloody tits off. That was why the cow hadn’t come to the O’Neill murder. That was why it had landed with Helen. Archer had been too busy planning her latest media masterclass. She had told Helen she had a polo match. A bloody polo match! And all she’d had to say in response to Helen’s work on the murder was that it didn’t sound like one for her team and should probably be bounced over to Pharaoh. Helen had wanted to pull Archer through the phone by her hair extensions and beat her unconscious with her expensive shoes.
She takes another breath. Looks at the photo of Penelope on her desk. It’s a sweet picture. Penelope with a headband pulled down over her eyes so it looks as if she has been blindfolded, gummily grinning at the unexpected darkness. She’s wearing a Top Gear T-shirt declaring ‘I Am The Stig’.
Right, bloody calm down.