Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy)

by David Mark

  Helen cannot find it in her heart to disagree.

  Chapter 18

  Assistant Chief Constable Bruce Mallett pulls aside the curtains. Sees his own head staring back at him. Stares through himself into a bleak sea of swirls and spits, blurs and nothingness. Hates Hull to his bones.

  The fog is so thick that it seems as though a steam train has chugged past the window, belching swirls of grey-black cloud. Mallett can barely see the blue lights. Can only just make out the outline of the white tent that the science officers have erected around the floral cart where Hannah Kelly lies, dumped atop the peonies, petunias and gerberas like compost.

  ‘We’re quite sure?’

  ‘It’s her, sir.’

  ‘There’s no room for doubt?’

  ‘It’s her. I know her face as well as I know my children’s. I stare into her eyes every time I close my own. It’s her, sir.’

  He turns back into the little living room. McAvoy is standing to attention, his face the colour of fog. His wife is sitting on the arm of the sofa, lips pressed together into a bloodless line. She hasn’t looked at him since he arrived. Doesn’t seem to like coppers. He’d been at a function at Beverley Polo Club when the call came in. Had been enjoying champagne and vol-au-vents; the plunging necklines and sparkly dresses. Had been enjoying the smell of Shaz Archer and the absence of his wife. He’s still wearing his dinner suit. He unfastened his bow-tie on the drive over, chewing on extra-strong mints and barking angry orders into his mobile phone.

  ‘Sit down, for God’s sake, McAvoy.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Mallett plonks himself down on the sofa. Roisin immediately stands. She crosses to her husband. Takes his hand. McAvoy begins to colour.

  ‘It’s appreciated, love,’ says Mallett. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing out there. Should be a uniform here soon with some proper clothes for me and then I’ll be out of your hair. Another cup of coffee would be a treat.’

  Roisin’s smile falls well short of her eyes. She is doing her duty. Playing the good hostess. Speaking when spoken to. She doesn’t like this man. He’s big and loud and rude and can’t keep his eyes off her chest. He makes her husband feel uncomfortable and is stopping them from doing what they want to do, which is cuddle up and have a good cry.

  ‘There’s lemon meringue pie, if you’re hungry,’ she says, taking his cup.

  Mallett’s eyes dart down her top. He gives her a big smile, all capped teeth and pastry crumbs. ‘Best not, love. Watching my figure.’

  Roisin gives a courteous smile. Heads to the kitchen. Wonders if she should pretend they have a proper coffee machine. It would give her a cover story if overheard hawking up spit.

  ‘Great one you’ve got there,’ says Mallett as Roisin departs. ‘Worth their weight in gold, a good wife. That’s what I’m told, anyway. I don’t think there’s enough gold in the world to equate to my wife but that’s because she’s a fat bitch.’

  McAvoy doesn’t smile. Can’t. If he parts his lips he fears he’ll be sick. His mind is full of her. Full of Hannah, gift-wrapped and laid out for him just a few feet from his home. He can still smell her. Knows his children can too. He’s lit candles in their bedroom and sung them a lullaby; told them that sometimes bad people do bad things but that they are safe and should not be afraid. They believed him. He wishes he had their conviction. He doesn’t know how anybody can believe themselves safe. Doesn’t know why they accepted his kisses as he tucked them in. They should be turning away from him, disgusted that their big, strong, policeman daddy could do nothing to stop a beautiful, innocent young woman being butchered. He hopes they’re asleep dreaming of better places and happier times. Knows they won’t be. They’ll be sitting at their bedroom windows, watching the swarm of men and women in luminous coats and white overalls cordoning off the area from their row of houses down to the waterfront.

  ‘Second wife, actually,’ says Mallett, trying to make conversation. ‘First one was nice enough. I was the problem, I think. Couldn’t get used to just one woman, that was the trouble. Maybe we married too young. I don’t know. Cow took the kids with her when she left. I don’t see much of them. Youngest’s a wild one. Seventeen now. Where does the time go, eh?’

  McAvoy nods. Tries to look at his watch but realises he can’t do it without it seeming obvious. He looks to the door, wishing himself selfish enough to have allowed Pharaoh to drive over here when it was clear she was in no fit state. He hates being around anybody from the upper strata of the force. Mallett may have a reputation as a decent, old-school copper but McAvoy knows that if he had to, he’d throw any one of his officers to the wolves. He knows from personal experience that promises count for nothing in the glare of the media spotlight. Men like Mallett made McAvoy a pariah. They safeguarded a corrupt officer’s pension and legacy and let him swan off without a stain on his permanent record, while McAvoy was labelled a grass and encouraged to quit. Pharaoh had saved him. Believed in him. Convinced him he was a good copper and a better man. He’d almost started to believe it himself.

  ‘You think it’s coincidence?’ asks Mallett, hopefully. ‘The killer may not have known you lived here.’

  McAvoy shakes his head. ‘She was left for me to find,’ he says, teeth still clamped together. ‘Me and my children. Somebody who knows that I’m investigating her disappearance.’

  ‘So you must have interviewed her killer,’ says Mallett, crossing his arms over his fat belly.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That won’t look good,’ says Mallett thoughtfully. ‘Has anybody followed you? Have you given anybody your home phone number? Are you listed in the phone book?’

  ‘We’re not listed. A few people have my home phone number. I haven’t noticed anybody following me.’

  ‘Could you relax a little, McAvoy?’ asks Mallett, exasperated. ‘You look like the central pole in a circus tent.’

  McAvoy relents. He slumps down in the armchair where Fin usually sits to pretend he is a king. He feels a vibration in his pocket and pulls out his phone. Another message from Pharaoh. Another query about his wellbeing. She would be here had McAvoy not insisted she stay home. He does not need Mallett to see her in the state he knows she will be in by this time of night. He needs to safeguard her reputation, even if he leaves himself rudderless without her.

  ‘The business with the girl in the Old Town,’ says Mallett, thoughtfully. ‘You think it’s linked?’

  McAvoy stares at the picture above the fireplace. Loses himself in woods and sunsets for a moment. Balls his fists as he speaks.

  ‘There are two ways of looking at it,’ he says, in little more than a whisper. ‘Either it’s the same killer, and he got tired of waiting for us to find Hannah’s body so made it easier by dumping her outside my house. Or we have two killers. Hannah’s murderer displayed her as a rebuttal to the Ava Delaney killing. Showed whoever it is they’re trying to impress that he’s the real sick bastard and the murder in the Old Town is the work of some amateur.’

  ‘Or it could be coincidence,’ says Mallett.

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘No.’

  Mallett is about to speak when Roisin returns. She hands him a coffee and a smile.

  ‘Cappuccino? Lovely.’ Mallett takes a large swallow and then sighs. ‘Where are you at with Delaney?’ he asks. ‘The Press Office will be here in a bit and they’ll need something useful. Can you help with the statement?’

  ‘Of course, sir. We do have a suspect. Jez Gavan. Dealer. Bit of a villain.’

  ‘An arrest would be a help. Bit of good news to wrap around the bad, eh?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Pharaoh has a good relationship with him,’ says McAvoy, improvising. ‘We can bring him in first thing. Press him. But I would urge caution on suggesting we’ve got our man. I don’t think Gavan did it.’

  Mallett pulls a face. ‘That’s not for you to decide. We build a case an
d see what happens.’

  McAvoy can’t help himself. Lets his irritation show.

  ‘DSU Pharaoh did that, sir. She built a case against Reuben Hollow. The CPS decided to prosecute. And now she’s having her name blackened all over the news.’

  Mallett looks briefly affronted. Then he regains his composure. ‘Pharaoh’s a big girl in a senior role, Sergeant McAvoy. It comes with the territory. If you want promotion you’ll learn to take a few lumps for the team.’

  A hiss emerges from behind Roisin’s locked teeth. ‘A few lumps? Have you seen what he looks like when he takes his shirt off? He’s got more scars than a fecking lion-tamer! And he’s not the only one. Do you know what his being a copper has cost us? Do you? You sit in our house and drink our coffee and talk about taking your lumps? What was the last lump you took?’

  McAvoy begins to put a restraining hand on Roisin’s arm but pulls himself back. He’s horrified to hear her saying these things to his boss but can’t bring himself to make her stop.

  ‘Mrs McAvoy, don’t think we’re not grateful for the contribution your husband has made in one or two investigations . . .’

  ‘One or two investigations? Get your fat arse out of my house while you have the fecking legs to carry you! When I come back I want you gone. I’m going to check on my kids. You want another coffee you can wear it.’

  She turns her back and storms from the room, slamming the door behind her. Mallett and McAvoy sit in silence. McAvoy’s face is stone, though there is the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth. He has kept Roisin away from his fellow officers. He feared their prejudices and remarks. It never occurred to him that it was his bosses who should be scared.

  ‘She’s under a lot of pressure,’ says Mallett to himself. He sits back on the sofa and adjusts the front of his shirt. He looks embarrassed. Scolded.

  ‘It wasn’t very nice for any of us,’ says McAvoy. ‘She knows how much it mattered to me to find Hannah alive. She knows what it means that the body was left here. It means there’s a personal element to this, and we’ve been through things like that before. It’s hard. Hard for us as a family.’

  ‘No apology necessary,’ says Mallett. He checks his watch. ‘Where’s that bloody uniform, eh?’

  They sit in silence, listening to the muffled voices of the officers on the path beyond the front door. There is no laughter. Just workmanlike conversation and the occasional shout when one of the local journalists tries to breach the cordon.

  The door opens and Savannah-Jackson enters the living room. He is still clad in his white suit and his face-mask has been pushed up onto the top of his head. He looks red and tired. He nods at Mallett but addresses himself to McAvoy, who pulls himself out of the chair.

  ‘Nice place,’ he says, looking around the small room and giving a nod of appreciation at the tasteful pictures and spotless skirting boards. His eyes linger on the collection of horse brasses on the mantelpiece and the sculpture of a horse’s head on the marble fireplace. ‘Exceptional craftsmanship,’ he says, indicating the horse. ‘Are you an equestrian family?’

  McAvoy is thrown by the sudden enquiry. He shakes his head. ‘My wife used to ride. The brasses are hers. My father sculpted the horse.’

  Jackson-Savannah purses his lips as though looking at a Caravaggio in a gallery. ‘A gifted man. Is he an artist?’

  ‘He runs a croft and works as a caretaker in the village hall,’ says McAvoy. ‘He just has a knack for this kind of thing.’

  ‘People would pay good money for pieces like that.’

  ‘Not where he lives they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do you sculpt?’

  McAvoy lets his confusion show on his face. ‘Not really. A bit. When I was younger.’

  Jackson-Savannah purses his lips. Claps his hands, as if returning to business. ‘Dead for over six months,’ he says dispassionately. ‘Multiple stab wounds to the face and torso. We’ll be able to count them when we get her washed. She’s been buried for months too. We’re taking soil samples.’

  ‘The armpits,’ says McAvoy, dry-mouthed. ‘Were they . . . ?’

  ‘Scalped,’ says Jackson-Savannah. ‘Same as the other girl.’

  ‘Christ,’ says Mallett, standing up. ‘So it’s one killer?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Who’s co-ordinating?’ asks Mallett. ‘McAvoy here’s raring to go. Is the house-to-house under way?’

  Jackson-Savannah gives the Assistant Chief Constable a haughty glare. ‘I am a Home Office pathologist, not a police officer. But if you expect me to answer your every query I will be glad to do so. The duty CID inspector is bumbling his way around. Tim Graves. He was making noises about DSU Pharaoh’s unit no doubt cherry-picking this one as well. Shall I inform him he is to be vindicated in his suspicions?’

  Mallett smiles at the pathologist’s pomposity. He turns to McAvoy. ‘Your team is already on the Delaney case. This is coming under that banner. It will take some careful management of the press but I’m sure you can handle that. And when your boss has the grace to show up you can tell her I want a full précis of where we’re at. Get this Gavan chap arrested. I’m going to go and find out where my bloody uniform is.’

  He nods at the pathologist and winks at McAvoy. Opens the door and lets in the cold and the fog.

  ‘The sculpture,’ says Jackson-Savannah, nodding again at the creation on the fireplace. ‘Gift, was it?’

  ‘We stayed with him last summer,’ says McAvoy, distracted. ‘He gave it to us as we were leaving.’

  ‘Was it a whittling knife he used?’

  ‘Just a regular knife,’ says McAvoy, frowning. ‘He’s had it years. You’re not properly dressed up there unless you’ve got a pocket knife. Why?’

  ‘I need a comparison for the weapon,’ he says, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s hard to see but I’d suggest the wounds on Hannah’s body were made with a small blade. A knife sharp on both sides, with a hilt. Perhaps four inches long. It’s hard to tell but one particular wound is almost textbook. I think the weapon could be missing a portion of its tip. Not a rare weapon, by any means. The sort of thing one uses for whittling.’

  McAvoy stares at the sculpture. Wonders just how many other things he cares about will be tainted with the blood of others before his work is done.

  ‘It should set the cat among the pigeons, that’s for certain,’ says Jackson-Savannah, chattily. ‘A political nightmare, I imagine, and not one that will look good for your DSU Pharaoh. She should be careful whom she insults. She won’t have many friends when the news gets out.’

  McAvoy nods, then realises he has only been half listening. He turns angry eyes on the pathologist.

  ‘What news? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The report should be in your inbox, Detective Sergeant. I am not your secretary.’

  ‘What report, Doctor?’

  Jackson-Savannah gives a last glance at the sculpture and then turns and walks out of the room. McAvoy stands alone, eyes closed, wondering what the hell to do next.

  Slowly, as if diffusing a bomb, he looks at his phone. Finds the report sent from Dan in the lab.

  Skin cells and trace DNA have been discovered on a handkerchief stuffed in the pocket of Ava Delaney’s little black leather jacket.

  The knife used to scalp her armpits was perhaps four inches long with a double-sided, hilted blade, commonly used in wood carving.

  McAvoy feels his heart fold in on itself as he reads the name at the bottom of the report.

  Reuben Hollow.

  Chapter 19

  ‘About 6 foot tall, medium build. Good-looking, yeah. Blue eyes, nice smile, smelled like, I don’t know, like my granddad’s garden shed used to, if that makes any sense . . .’

  Helen is just past Lincoln, on the windy road that will have her home in around forty minutes. If not for Penelope she would have stayed overnight in the pretty town where she spent the evening. Stamford, in south Lincolnshire, is the sort of place Helen would like
to retire to. It’s all manor houses, mullioned windows, ancient stone bridges and quaint little shops. She spent a weekend here a few years ago, testing the limits of the four-poster bed in some boutique hotel with a married man who made her feel desirable and exciting for about five hours, and then ashamed of herself for the next two days. She’d like to come here with Penelope when she’s a little older. Would like to sit down for a five-course dinner somewhere posh, to make her daughter giggle by calling the waiter ‘my good man’. She imagines Penelope, swilling Tango around her mouth and testing its piquancy as she imitates a connoisseur.

  Helen grins in the darkness. Turns on her fog lights as the first whispers of cloud stream past the windscreen. Turns her thoughts away from her daughter and towards the purpose of her lengthy round trip.

  She had left Yvonne to her tears and her wine. Managed to inveigle the most half-hearted of physical descriptions out of her before she did so. She acted like it really wasn’t important. But her mind was sizzling with possibilities by the time she got back to her car and followed the spark of an idea through to its conclusion. She called the other names on her list as she drove. Spoke to the sister of the barmaid attacked by the thug who wound up dead in his swimming pool in Turkey. The sister was a chatty, bubbly Irish girl who was thrilled to be talking to a police officer, even if it was about such a horrible thing. Yes, she’d been delighted to hear about the death of her sister’s attacker. No, she didn’t recognise the physical description. But her mother might. Helen had called the number she gave her. Spoke to a tired-sounding and wheezy woman in her fifties, asked her the same questions and got the same replies. She’d been about to hang up when the woman had said something that she should have bitten down on. Was he in trouble? Would he be okay? Helen had hung up. Made a note to contact the Garda and get somebody to take a more formal statement first thing in the morning. Then she’d driven to Stamford to speak to the ex-copper who arrested Dennis Ball for menacing the closest thing the pretty little town had to a rough estate. Ball had grabbed her. Pinned her down and forced her mouth open with his dirty hands before spitting down her throat and grabbing great fistfuls of her thighs, buttocks and chest. He’d looked into her eyes and grinned. Licked her face and pulled out a lump of her hair. He was only prevented from raping her when the other officer from her patrol car caught them. They were behind a skip outside an electrical store. Nine months later, Ball’s body was found in the same spot; his skull smashed to pieces. The officer had quit the force by then and was trying to make a new start. She’d told a lot of people what had happened. Maybe the guy that Helen described was among them but she didn’t know or care. And if he’d been involved in hurting Dennis Ball, he should get a bunch of flowers and a trophy.