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

by David Mark

  Teddy shrugs. Lights himself a cigarette. ‘Must be money here somewhere. You know how country folk are. Won’t redecorate for fifty years but then they go and buy a Range Rover with the change they found down the back of the sofa. Country folk with country ways.’

  ‘Cuntish folk,’ broods Foley.

  ‘Touché, my friend.’

  Foley presses play again. Lets the music fill him. Reuben Hollow’s Jeep is parked a few feet away. The small cottages which overlook this quiet road are lost to fog. There’s little risk of anybody seeing what they have planned for the man who humiliated them when they were getting ready to enjoy themselves with Sophia. Even if the boss hadn’t given the go-ahead they’d have been tempted to come back for him. They can dress it up any way they want; he got the better of them.

  ‘How was he?’ asks Foley, opening the window.

  ‘The boss? Harassed.’

  Foley sniffs. Seems about to say something, then decides against it.

  ‘He says he’s got something else for us as soon as we get back,’ says Teddy, half interested. ‘Babysitting job. Somebody the boss is looking after for his new friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Foley manages to make the word sound like an insult. ‘They’re riding him like a bitch.’

  Teddy raises his eyebrows. ‘Easy, lad. He’s your meal ticket.’

  ‘He’s finished.’

  ‘Yeah? Why we doing his bidding, then?’

  ‘How do you know we are? This new outfit could have his balls in a vice for all we know.’

  ‘I’ve known him a while. He doesn’t scare.’

  ‘Who’s this prick we’re supposed to babysit?’

  Teddy shrugs. ‘They’ve been moving him house to house. Christ knows how long they want him for but I don’t reckon he’s enjoying himself. Some Russian connection, that’s all I could get out of him. We can hurt him but not kill him. And he needs his medicine three times a day.’

  Foley picks his nose. Inspects the back of his finger and rubs it on his trousers. ‘I’m not touching that horrible shit. Rots you from the inside out.’

  They sit in silence. They don’t know how long Hollow will be. He’d been climbing out of his vehicle when they pulled up. Had taken a bag of tools and a camera bag with him into the church. Had a key to let himself in. Pushed open the great double doors and walked inside its cool stone embrace. Even took his cap off as he did so. It seemed to Teddy and Foley as if he gave a shit about such things. They have already speculated whether or not he will call for God when they get him back to the isolated farm building they pinpointed early on in their trip north. It’s a quiet, out-of-the-way sort of place, where human screams will be lost amid the screeching of the nearby pigs.

  ‘And the boss was happy, yeah? This bloke’s been in the papers a lot. On the telly. If he’s been screwing a copper and ends up dead there’ll be a hell of a racket.’

  ‘The money’s what matters. If we do it right, everybody’s happy. Well, maybe not Hollow, but the people that matter. We take enough to clear the debt and a little more besides, and we show the new outfit that we can move with the times. The boss understands. He’s the one who mentioned the nailgun.’

  ‘It’s not his style, though. You’re sure he wants it done like that?’

  ‘That’s what he said. We nail his hands to his knees then have a party with the blowtorch. Dump him where we like but it has to be in plain sight.’

  Foley pulls a face. ‘I’d rather just kick him to death.’

  Teddy shrugs. ‘I’m sure we can put the odd boot in, my friend.’

  ‘Were they serious, you reckon?’ asks Foley. ‘I mean, that’s horrible shit.’

  ‘Boss said if we didn’t do it there would be another team up here before the day was out. Said they might not be as squeamish.’

  ‘Squeamish? Fuck that.’

  ‘You’ll show them, lad. You’re staunch, I know that.’

  Foley seems mollified. Stares through the fog at the row of Tudor almshouses that serve as the first and last properties in this one-road town on the way to nowhere. They haven’t seen another person since parking up. They’re getting uncomfortable and cold in the nondescript car.

  Ten minutes later, the two men hear the sound of footsteps on stone. The hinge of the wrought-iron gate creaks and through the fog, the figure of Reuben Hollow emerges. He’s a slight man. Unremarkable, from this distance. Doesn’t seem like the answer to so many riddles.

  ‘Quietly,’ says Teddy, as he eases open his door. ‘Show him the gun and get him in the car.’

  Foley looks like he is about to protest but eventually gives a little nod. He tucks his chain inside his black jumper, pulls his cap down low, springs from the vehicle and walks forward with the gun held out straight in front of him.

  ‘Stand the fuck still,’ hisses Foley, when he is half a dozen steps from his target. Hollow freezes. There is silence, save the sound of Teddy moving quickly behind his prey. He doesn’t have a gun, content with the length of pipe he holds in his right hand. He isn’t worrying. Has done this more times than he can count.

  ‘Thought you’d fucking put me down, did you?’ spits Foley. ‘Fuck you, pretty-boy. It was dark. Do your fucking worst.’

  Hollow’s face is half in shadow. The peak of his cap obscures his blue eyes, though the hand-rolled cigarette wedged in his mouth glows bright red as he sucks on its filter.

  ‘It’s light now,’ he says, quietly. ‘You won’t have any excuses. Give me a whirl.’

  Behind him, Teddy moves into position. Sticks his fingers into the small of Hollow’s back. ‘Don’t be trying that shit. Get your hands behind your back.’

  Hollow keeps his eyes locked on Foley’s. The cigarette points upwards as Hollow gives a tiny smile.

  ‘This your dad?’ he asks, nodding over his shoulder at Teddy. He slowly begins to raise his hands, still holding the toolbag. ‘He keeping you safe? Poor lamb.’

  Hollow winces as Teddy hits him sharply on the back of the head. ‘None of that. Give me your wrist. You’re not getting out of this shit.’

  Foley is looking at his target down the barrel of the handgun. His eyes almost glow with venom. He flicks his glance towards Teddy, pleading, and receives an imperceptible shake of the head in return.

  ‘C’mon, Teddy, let me fight him, he’s a fucking pansy. We can do the blowtorch shit later.’

  Teddy throws a glare at his partner. Loosens his grip on Hollow’s wrist for a fraction of a second. It’s long enough. Hollow spins, bringing up the toolbag. The leather sack full of hammers, chisels and a score of blades slams into the side of Teddy’s head and sends him flying backwards, clattering down hard against the stone. Foley gasps a curse and brings the gun up but Hollow has ducked back and the fog has closed around him like water. Foley starts forward. Slips on something. Looks down and finds the strap of the camera bag under his trainer. Raises his head and realises he has fucked up. Hollow is somewhere nearby. Teddy isn’t saying a damn word. Inside him, fear and rage slosh against one another like two tides. He moves to his right and sees the church looming through the grey. Shivers as the gravestones come into focus. Turns back in the direction of the car, deciding that enough is fucking enough.

  He screams as the water splashes his face. In an instant his eyes feel like they are ablaze. He raises his hands to his face and suddenly his ears are ringing and the world is a place of dizzying echoes. He realises he has discharged the gun right next to his head. Something warm trickles down his jawline as he tries to cover both eyes and one ear with two hands.

  Foley does not have the problem for long. A moment later, he is on his back and Reuben Hollow is sitting on his chest, knee upon his throat and a fist holding a handful of his short hair.

  Hollow still has his hand-rolled cigarette. He doesn’t look like his heart rate has increased by more than a beat or two.

  ‘Well,’ says Hollow, smiling down at the squirming, half-blind figure beneath him. ‘You sure fucking showed me.’<
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  ‘I’m okay at this, for a beginner,’ he continues, bringing the back of Foley’s head down on the road with a sickening crack. ‘You think maybe I’ve done it before?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ hisses Foley, feeling the blood begin to run behind his collar.

  ‘No, thank you,’ says Hollow, lightly. ‘That would be wrong. It would be an aggressive, bullying act, and I hate bullies. Hate them like most people hate cancer and fruit flies. You don’t get to behave like this. You’re the one who tried your hand with Trish’s daughter, aren’t you? Thought so. She wouldn’t have liked that. I have my rules and I do tend to wait to be asked, but I don’t reckon there would be much opposition to me spreading your head all over the ground. You’ll thank me for it. You’re blind now. That’s chilli oil in your eyes, if you were wondering. Stings, eh? I’ve never seen anybody look as if they’re enjoying it. I don’t use it as some kind of torture, you understand. It’s just really helpful for quietening people down when their blood’s up . . .’

  Hollow looks up suddenly at the sound of running footsteps. Sees the metal pipe only a second before it crashes down on his skull.

  He falls upon Foley to form the shape of a perfect cross; face upon the wet road and gravel sticking to his skin.

  Teddy looks down at his partner. Wonders if there is anything to be done to save him. Locks eyes with the dying man and regrets all the things unsaid, and some of those that were.

  He opens the car doors and begins to drag Hollow towards the vehicle, enjoying the soft shush of flesh being pulled over concrete.

  It is more than twenty minutes before the first patrol car turns up. It contrives to run over Foley’s legs as it comes to a halt outside the church in this quiet hamlet where nothing ever happens.

  Foley doesn’t say a word. The neural receptors that identify pain are usually found at the base of the skull. Foley’s aren’t. They’re all over the road.

  Chapter 26

  Jez Gavan is shouting. He’s been shouting for the past twenty minutes. His hollow face has gone a kind of rust colour and there are two blobs of greenish spittle at the corners of his mouth. He is still more attractive than his living room.

  ‘Do you think I’m further away than I actually am?’ asks Pharaoh, quietly. ‘I can hear you. Dial it down. Your eyes are going to explode.’

  Gavan turns to spit on the floor then seems to realise he’s in his own house. Swallows down whatever he’s just hawked up. Swills it down with the last of his lager and then crushes the can with fingers like tattooed spider’s legs.

  ‘It’s harassment,’ he says, a little softer. ‘Fucking harassment.’

  ‘Yes, Jeremy. You said.’

  Gavan throws himself down on an armchair and glares at Pharaoh. She’s sitting opposite him, smiling sweetly. She’s smoking a black cigarette and she has the arm of her sunglasses down her cleavage. She’s applied make-up. Brushed her hair. Smeared the hem of her skirt across her teeth and put perfume on. Gavan can’t help but leer. She’s a good-looking lass. Maybe a little mumsy, but sexy with it. Confident, too. They’re alone in the house and he’s a known criminal who likes his women plump. He doesn’t think she should be feeling so bloody cocksure. She should be feeling nervous. Shouldn’t be looking at him like she could smash his face in any time she so chose.

  ‘Don’t call me Jeremy,’ he says, opening another can of lager. He looks at her and raises an eyebrow. ‘You want one?’

  Pharaoh seems momentarily conflicted. Seems about to nod. Pulls a face and shakes her head. Gavan makes a mental note: the bitch likes a drink.

  ‘You don’t always have to be so aggressive,’ says Pharaoh, sighing. ‘I know you feel that conversations are for the weak, but if you’d just tell me the truth in an indoor voice, I could be on my merry way.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth!’ shouts Gavan. Then he drops the volume to a more cordial growl. ‘I met Ava in the Lambwath. Helped her out. She wanted more than I could give her and eventually I told her to fuck off. That’s that. I’m sorry the poor cow’s dead but I don’t know any more than that.’

  Pharaoh grinds out her cigarette. Shakes her head.

  ‘You’ve been in her flat.’

  Gavan shakes his head, eyebrows bunching together.

  ‘Your phone has her wifi network stored as one of its recognised connections.’

  Gavan pulls a face. Blusters a little. ‘She lived down the Old Town. I have a drink in a couple of pubs down there. My phone will just have picked it up. I’ve no bloody clue about technology.’

  ‘And what about your prints? We’ve found all sorts of things in her flat, Jez.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ blusters Gavan. ‘You’re fishing.’

  ‘You’ve done time. You can handle prison. But do you want to handle it for the next twenty years? Longer, maybe? You think your lovely wife will wait that long?’

  ‘She’d wait forever,’ hisses Gavan, spit landing on his chin. ‘But she won’t have to. I’m not going back inside. I haven’t done owt.’

  Pharaoh stares at him, tongue wedged in her cheek. She’s considering him the way a scientist would look at a new species of toad.

  ‘Jez, I’m going to talk for a couple of minutes and I want you to listen. I mean, really listen. Okay? Look, I’m tired. I’ve had a shitty few days. There’s stuff swirling around in my head that would make most people fall over and start blubbering. Now, I’m just a normal lass from Mexborough. I’ve got four kids. My husband’s mentally handicapped after having a fucking massive stroke. He lives in a room in the garage that we had converted for him. I have to put ointment on his bed sores sometimes, and once in a while I try and do what the doctors advise me to do, which is to go in there and talk to him. But I don’t like doing it, you see. He was a bit of a shit to me and the girls. He was a real flash sod and I used to love him, but you can only get punched in the belly so many times before you start to go off a person. And if he hadn’t had the stroke, I’d have probably divorced him. I’d maybe be married to somebody else by now. Or not. I don’t really know.’

  Gavan looks confused. He keeps jerking his head upwards as though invisible hands are yanking his hair. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I’m being honest with you, Jez,’ says Pharaoh with a sigh. ‘I’m treating you with common courtesy. I’m sharing because I want you to understand the person you’re dealing with. I’m not a brilliant person, or a terrible one. I’m a normal person. But I’m a normal person who will stop at absolutely nothing to find out who killed Ava Delaney, and maybe Hannah Kelly too.’

  ‘Hannah Kelly?’ barks Gavan, spilling his lager. ‘The lass from the paper?’

  ‘We mentioned her last time, remember? Her body was found outside my sergeant’s home last night. You remember my sergeant. Big man. Ginger hair. Muscles on him like a pop-sock full of melons. He’s a sensitive soul. He’s taken Hannah’s disappearance very seriously. He’s understandably pissed off that his kids had to smell her. Now, you might not realise it, but McAvoy’s probably the scariest bastard I’ve ever met. Don’t let the sad eyes fool you.’

  Gavan takes a gulp of lager. Tries to act the hard man.

  ‘You trying to threaten me?’

  ‘No, Jeremy, I’m trying to protect you. You see, if you don’t become a little more helpful, I’m going to call for backup. Three or four patrol cars will turn up. When they get here, I’ll be looking like somebody who is trying their very best not to cry. And the hairy-arsed coppers who come barging through that door will know in a flash that you’ve been trying it on. And they’re going to let their emotions get the better of them. Eventually, you’ll be handcuffed and taken to the station. You might dislocate your shoulder a couple of times on the way. A long while later, we’ll have our first interview. You’ll tell us your version of events. Then you’ll go back to your cell. The second interview will be a little more intense, where you tell us your story again. And then the third interview will be where we start picking holes in your story and
laying on the pressure. None of this sounds much fun to me. But the thing you have to worry about most is the fact that McAvoy will be present for all of it. And he’ll be looking at the side of your face for the entire time. He’ll be looking through your skin and your muscle and your bone and into the very centre of your brain and if he doesn’t like what he sees in there, he’s going to express himself. I’m probably not exaggerating when I say that there aren’t enough coppers in the station to hold him back when his temper’s up. They call him “Psycho” at his old precinct, though not loud enough for him to hear.’

  Gavan starts rolling himself a cigarette. Manages to light it. Makes a noise like a child who can’t think of a reply to an insult.

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch,’ he says at last.

  ‘And you’re a ratty little fucker. But you’re not a murderer.’

  Gavan brightens. ‘So you know it wasn’t me? What about the fingerprints?’

  ‘I never said we found your fingerprints. I said we found all sorts of stuff. Don’t leap to conclusions.’

  ‘You’re a bitch,’ Gavan says again, but it sounds as though he means it as a compliment.

  Pharaoh looks him up and down. ‘If you shagged her, Jez, I won’t judge you. I’ll probably be quite impressed.’

  He shakes his head, dragging deep on his cigarette and scratching at his spotty, shapeless arms. ‘She were a kid. I don’t fancy them that young. Or that Goth-looking.’

  ‘So why did you go to her flat?’

  Gavan sighs. Looks up to the ceiling.

  ‘I’ve had my team speak to the bar staff at the Lambwath,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Gone right through the CCTV. You never got talking to a girl matching that description.’

  ‘I did!’ says Gavan, though he is looking at the backs of his hands as he says it.

  Pharaoh raises a hand. Presses a knuckle to her nose. Breathes in perfume and the light scent of wildflowers and woodsmoke. Scratches her head. Clicks her false tooth distractedly, as if making a decision. With a sigh, she reaches down into her handbag and pulls out the previous day’s copy of the Hull Daily Mail. She tosses it across to Gavan, who drops his cigarette as he catches it.