by David Mark
Foley scrunches his face, as if struggling with algebra.
‘Her fella? Her fella’s the cripple.’
‘Don’t ask me to explain the politics of it all,’ says Roisin, waving a hand. ‘She’s more of a carer for her husband. She leads her own life. She’s been seeing Reuben for as long as I’ve known her. He’s an okay bloke. You wouldn’t know it to look at him but he’s worth a bloody fortune. He’s an artist. Made the statue in the square that you passed. I think Victoria Beckham owns one of his pieces. He could pay any debt with the fluff from his bloody pockets and you let him slip through your fingers. If I was your boss and I heard that, I’d be bloody livid.’
Foley and Teddy exchange a glance. Slowly, Teddy whispers in the ear of the younger man, who flashes a look of defiance.
‘You know him well, do you?’ asks Teddy, slyly.
Roisin shrugs. ‘Well enough. Like I say, he’s okay. My husband knows him better than me. I’m not sure you saw my husband, did you? He’s a detective sergeant, though that’s not really the point. He’s what you might call massive. Pussycat to me and the kids, of course. Loveliest man you could wish to meet. But very protective. Fierce, you might say.’
‘Am I supposed to be scared?’ asks Foley, taking a step forward.
‘No, you’re supposed to be sensible. Reuben Hollow. That’s the name. Lives east of Hull. Little place in the middle of nowhere.’
Teddy has his phone out, swiping his fingers over the surface.
‘Hollow,’ he says, half to himself. His lips move as he reads. ‘Says here he’s been inside. Just got out. Manslaughter. Says your mam’s the one who put him away.’
Roisin gives an indulgent smile. ‘I’d have thought a clever man like you could read between the lines. How do you think they met? How do you think he got out? Do the sums, mate. How much money do you think he got for being falsely imprisoned? He got a settlement from Humberside Police that would make your eyes water.’
Foley flicks a glance at his colleague. They are both thinking the same thing. Thinking about how much traction a decent score would buy them with their potential new employers. They could make some serious waves. They could catch the eye. hey could be Headhunted by morning.
‘We’ve found you once, we could find you again,’ says Foley, spitting on the ground in front of Roisin. ‘You say a word and I’ll cut that baby’s fucking throat.’
For the first time, Roisin’s façade falters. Her lower lip trembles and she has to make fists to stop her hands from shaking. With an effort she forces a smile.
‘You want money, I want an easy life. Seems simple to me. If I were you I’d have fucked off already.’
Teddy has the good grace to smile. Foley blows her a kiss. A moment later, the double doors are banging and the two men have disappeared down the stairs.
For a full minute, Roisin stares at the doors. Then she turns away and crouches down in front of Lilah, stroking her soft, pink face. When she stands up, there is a tiny tear running down the side of her nose and onto her lip. She pays it no heed. Just looks up at Sophia and stares, hard, into her eyes.
‘I’ll tell your mum,’ says Roisin. ‘She can tell Hollow. This is what she does. It will be okay.’
‘You were making it all up as you went along,’ says Sophia, her voice cracking. ‘I thought they were going to . . .’
‘I was thinking on my feet,’ says Roisin, and is surprised to hear her own voice so steady. ‘Look, I’ll take you home. Phone in sick this afternoon, yeah? I’ll call your mum now.’
Sophia says nothing as she lets herself be put in the passenger seat of the little car. She’s white-faced. Paler than an emo, drained of blood.
Outside the vehicle, Roisin talks quietly into her phone. Trish isn’t picking up. Neither is Aector. She tries them both again and again. Eventually, she decides to leave the briefest of messages. Leaves Pharaoh a voicemail, asking her to call her; telling her it’s important. Some bad men threatened her and Sophia. She might have let them think Reuben Hollow had money. She might have put him in a spot of bother.
Roisin ends the call. Starts to count to ten but is calm before three. She climbs into the driver’s seat and places her phone on the dashboard, hoping it will ring. Hoping that she can unburden herself. Hoping that she has not just placed a man she barely knows directly in the firing line.
As she drives out of the car park, the phone seems to mock her.
Dark.
Black.
Silent.
Chapter 23
It’s quiet in the main reception of Hull Royal Infirmary. The fog is keeping visitors away. The handful of people who do linger in the Chez HEY café are staff and patients. McAvoy sits at a round table, sipping hot chocolate from a cardboard cup. Two porters in blue T-shirts are waiting in line for bacon sandwiches, chatting with the short, wire-haired woman who operates the till, and who gave McAvoy his drink at staff discount prices because she liked the look of him. An old woman in a floral dressing gown is reading a novel at another table, pulling faces when she gets to the juicy parts. She has a healthy colour in her cheeks and seems sprightly enough. McAvoy wonders what’s wrong with her. Can’t help wondering if she’s faked some mystery illness so she can have a few days looking at a different set of walls to the ones she’s grown tired of at home.
McAvoy wipes the chocolate from his moustache. Has to make an effort of will not to recoil at the chemical smell on his hands. His mind becomes a mouth, biting down hard on the memory that floods his vision. He checks his phone. Stares at the picture of Roisin, Fin and Lilah, smiling at him from behind the date, time and the jolly little icons that tell him just how many messages are awaiting his attention. He opens the file of pictures. Scrolls through until he finds Hannah Kelly. Stares into her eyes and smile and tries to use it to wipe out the scene playing in his imagination. Fails, utterly.
McAvoy managed to stay for the first ten minutes of the autopsy. Remained quiet, clad in his white coveralls, plastic shoe-covers and face-mask. Kept his own counsel as Dr Jackson-Savannah combed the dirt from Hannah’s hair onto a long sheet of white paper. Kept his lips locked as the mortuary assistants took sample after sample and washed her down. Endured the sight of Jackson-Savannah massaging her joints so he could move her into a position that would allow him to begin cutting her up. He stood, back to the wall, the smell of meat and dirt and chemicals in his nostrils, telling himself that he could do this – that it was his duty. He left the moment that Jackson-Savannah took the circular saw to her head and began cutting the top off her skull. It had felt like watching the dismantling of one of his own children. The sight had grabbed his heart and lungs and squeezed something from him that he would never get back.
He takes another sip of his hot chocolate. Looks up at a commotion by the double doors. A family, rushing in. Trainers squeaking on linoleum. Hurrying to the front desk and relaying what little they know. A name. Vague details of a collapse. They’d been told to come. Feared they would crash in the fog. What’s happening? Please, what’s happening . . . ?
McAvoy isn’t sure he can stand it. Doesn’t know how the blonde, friendly lady on reception manages to spend her days shepherding people to the floors and wards where their loved ones wait, wrapped in green sheets and hooked up to drips and machines; clinging to life or preparing for death.
His phone beeps. A message from Roisin. He gives a tiny smile as he reads it. She loves him. Can’t wait for him to come home. She has stuff to tell him when he has a moment. Would love to spend some time with him if he can slip away . . .
She’s spelled penguins with a “w”. Has put an entire screenful of kisses on the end.
The words give him a little strength. Galvanise him. Help him do what he must.
McAvoy reads his emails. Nods as he processes the information and rings a number he knows by heart.
‘Sarge? You still at the mortuary? Don’t know how you stand it.’
Ben Neilsen’s voice is reverential, as if he’s talking in ch
urch.
‘I didn’t stay for all of it,’ says McAvoy, using the voice of the confessional booth and barely moving his lips. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Who could?’ asks Neilsen. ‘Is it over, then? What have we got?’
‘Professor Jackson-Savannah has sent a brief note of his findings. There will be a fuller one across in due course.’
‘And?’
McAvoy takes a breath. Closes his eyes.
‘Seventeen separate stab wounds,’ he says, cupping his hand over the phone to cover his mouth. ‘Mostly to the face and chest. The tip of the knife broke off in the bone beneath her left eye.’
‘Jesus,’ breathes Neilsen.
‘Patches of skin removed from beneath both arms,’ continues McAvoy, swallowing. He can’t stop now. Needs to share some of this before the weight of it overwhelms him.
‘She’s been buried in manure. Horse dung. Has been for months.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Been dead as long as she’s been missing. We were never going to find her.’
‘Sexual assault?’
McAvoy drops his head to his hands. ‘She was a virgin,’ he says.
Neilsen says nothing for a while. Finally, he asks his boss if he’s all right.
‘He can’t say whether she was still alive when the skin was removed,’ says McAvoy, ignoring the enquiry. ‘She may have still been breathing but would have been largely unaware. There are scratches on her back and legs consistent with a struggle taking place in woodland. The samples have been sent off for analysis, as has the tip of the blade.’ He stops, composing himself before passing on the last line of the professor’s brief email. ‘There was a ladybird found in her throat.’
Neilsen pauses before speaking. ‘He doesn’t mean it was put there on purpose, does he?’
‘No,’ says McAvoy, his throat closing up. ‘It probably crawled in as she lay on her back.’
There is silence on the line for a spell. Eventually Neilsen clears his throat.
‘We’re in to Ava Delaney’s email account,’ he says, when it seems enough time has elapsed to move on to the next dead girl. ‘Financial records, too.’
‘Yes?’
‘Messages to friends. Occasional line or two to family. Going back, she forwarded quite a few sexy pictures to her ex, David Belcher, when they were still starting out. She also sent a couple of messages to an Outlook email account. [email protected]. I’ve Googled it. Got nothing. We requested the user details from the provider but it’s all fake. Registered in the name of Brian Jacks. I’ve Googled that, too. He was a judo champion. Hero in the eighties, apparently – I’ve never heard of him. It’s a fake address, anyway.’
McAvoy screws up his face. ‘What do the messages say?’
‘They’re asking for money. I’ll read you one. Hang on. “I’m so grateful for all you’ve done for me but I can’t have a happy ever after with nothing to my name. I would never threaten the person who has done so much for me but if you could consider the financial implications of being young and alone, you would see why I have no option but to request a little monetary assistance. I appreciate the difficulty, but a person of your abilities should be able to resolve such an issue without too much delay.” She’d swallowed a dictionary, by the sound of things. That was the first one she sent. February of this year. Sent two more a week later, a little nastier. I’ve cross-referenced the dates with her bank records. Nine hundred and ninety pounds was deposited at the Whitefriargate branch of HSBC the day after the third message. Two ten p.m. I reckon she got a grand in cash, and kept a tenner for her tea.’
‘Any more?’ asks McAvoy.
‘Last Monday. Same again. “I’m thrilled things seem to be working out so well for you. I would hate for anything to spoil what must be a great time for you. Sadly, my own wellbeing remains stymied by financial troubles. I am behind on my rent and have several debts mounting up. If you could see your way to assisting, you would find me extraordinarily grateful and willing to show my appreciation however you so desired.” Like I say, Sarge, she was wordy. Anyway, this email contained an attachment. Taken with her mobile in the bathroom of the flat. One hand behind her head. She’s topless but her breasts aren’t in shot. One armpit is, though, and she’s not shaved for the photo shoot, I can tell you that.’
McAvoy controls his breathing. Wonders at the arrogance of youth.
‘Whoever did this, they did it because she was a pain in their arse, Sarge,’ says Neilsen, as tactfully as he can. ‘And before you ask, I’ve rechecked all of Hannah’s emails. She’s got no connection to that email address, though the computer geeks are trying to find the ghosts of any she may have deleted. We’ll do the same with Ava’s.’
McAvoy looks around him. The old lady in the dressing gown has gone. The cashier is cleaning the complicated metal tubes of the coffee machine. The porters are sitting at a table, reading matching copies of the Sun as they finish their breakfasts.
‘Sophie has spoken to Sabine Keane,’ says Neilsen. ‘She’s the psychologist.’
McAvoy screws up his eyes. Has a memory of his mandated sessions with the unkempt, straggly therapist who tried to take him apart and put him back together a couple of years ago. Remembers how their sessions ended. He doesn’t doubt her competence, though her integrity came with some grey areas.
‘Some interesting insights,’ says Neilsen. ‘Like we thought, this could be about one-upmanship. Hannah’s killer may have laid her out to get our attention in the wake of Ava’s murder. And the way she was laid out suggests reverence. Tenderness. But the manner of her death and the taking of the armpits would seem to be a crime of anger. And if you’re saying she was buried in horse shit for months, then he can’t have been thinking about her particularly reverently. Dr Keane was interested in the flowers. Said it could be a symbolic act.’ Neilsen lets a little eagerness bleed into his voice. ‘Horse shit is used for roses, isn’t it? You think there’s something in that? He planted her. Was trying to see what grew?’
McAvoy shakes his head. Gives a small growl of dissent. ‘What about Ava? There was no tenderness there.’
‘That’s what Sabine said. Have you heard from the boss? She’s had no end of phone calls. A few from the National Crime Agency, though those buggers can keep on waiting, if you ask me. They’re not taking this one off us, are they? A lot of people have invested a lot of themselves . . .’
McAvoy manages a smile. Reassures his constable. Ends the call without a goodbye.
The world seems a little unsteady. McAvoy cannot work out what he actually thinks. The team remain unaware of the cases that Helen has been digging into, unaware that on top of everything else, they may be hunting a vigilante. He kept the information from them at the briefing this morning. Knew what Pharaoh would say if he opened his mouth about his suspicions. He has never questioned Pharaoh’s abilities before but cannot bring himself to let go of his concerns about her judgement. She seems to have a blind spot. Her head is full of Reuben Hollow. He knows the man is attractive and charming but Pharaoh has never allowed anybody to get the better of her. And yet she’s behaving as if she’s smitten. Won’t listen to reason. Hollow’s DNA was found at the Ava Delaney crime scene. That alone should be reason enough to bring him in.
McAvoy plays with his empty cup. Tries to order his thoughts about Hollow. The DNA is compelling but proof of nothing. Hollow had already told Pharaoh about his brief connection with Ava Delaney, so it would not be difficult for him to say that his DNA got onto her handkerchief at that brief meeting. If the investigation were being conducted without any media glare it would be enough to haul him in and ask him some searching questions. But Hollow has Humberside Police in the palm of his hand. McAvoy forces himself to think calmly. Does he truly believe Hollow capable of killing a string of bullies and bastards, and then killing two innocent young women as well? McAvoy studied some psychology at university before switching to computer sciences and eventually dropping out. He cannot imagine one
person capable of such disparate crimes. He can just about believe Hollow capable of killing men who have abused women, but a whole different set of motivations would be involved for whoever killed Ava Delaney and Hannah Kelly. Despite the brutality of its execution, Ava’s killing was a crime of expedience. She was becoming a nuisance; asking for money. And Hollow was still in prison when she died, on the verge of his triumphant release at the Court of Appeal. Could he have received email messages inside? It’s possible. It’s not hard to get hold of a mobile phone if you know the right people. Could he have sent somebody to do his dirty work for him?
He tries to clear his head. Starts at the beginning again. Hannah Kelly used to own the horse that was killed in a road traffic accident. She visited the site where it died. Laid some flowers at the scene. She received a video message from the phone of David Hogg. Hogg was almost certainly driving the car that hit the horse. He was attacked shortly afterwards. Brutally beaten . . .
McAvoy runs his hand through his hair. It comes away damp.
He is staring at the plastic tabletop when he feels a presence looming over him. Looks up into a face he halfway knows. He’s early sixties but looks older. Big. Scruffy polo shirt, jogging trousers and shoes. Old-fashioned glasses and iodine tattoos on bare arms. Thick white hair, formed into wedges at front and back, as though made of bubble-bath. His face is the colour of old paper and there is a tiny groove in his lower lip where his teeth have bitten down hard. He is extending his large right hand.
‘Sergeant McAvoy,’ he says.
‘Mr Kelly,’ McAvoy replies, looking into the face of Hannah’s dad.
McAvoy begins to stand as he takes the older man’s hand. Les waves him back down. Stays still for a moment, then sits down on the plastic chair to McAvoy’s right. He pulls a leather pouch from the pocket of his trousers. Says nothing. Stares at it for a moment and then begins rolling a cigarette. Licks it shut and places it on the table. Starts making another.
‘I feel like lighting this,’ says Les, nodding at the roll-up. ‘Feel like causing a scene. You think the security guards would come and throw me out? I’d love that. I’d love to smash my fist into somebody’s head.’