Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (19 page)

Pharaoh looks around her as she climbs from the vehicle. The breeze is cool and the sweat on her skin turns instantly chill. She shivers, but hides it. Concentrates on recalling the details of the complex family tree. Professor Fox’s daughter, Marissa, was living here when she met Reuben Hollow. She was thirty-five. Bohemian. Had travelled the world and not learned very much about it. She made a living selling home-made jams and flavoured oils, though in truth, it was the last of Daddy’s money that paid the bills. She had two children. Delphine was just two when the twenty-two-year-old Reuben entered her life. Aramis was a year younger. Pharaoh pictures a feral little thing in biodegradable nappies and hand-knitted romper suits that made his skin itch. Reuben had just left art college. He’d got a decent enough degree. Didn’t know what he was going to do with it. Agreed to spend a summer working for the family of a friend from university. Bumped into Marissa in a pub in Old Ellerby and found her captivating. Wooed her. Wed her. Nursed her when she got ill. Raised her children. Took what work he could and put his own stamp on the house. Marissa died of cirrhosis of the liver when Delphine was eleven. Reuben was both mum and dad from then on.

‘This way,’ says Reuben, sticking his hands in his pockets. A hand-rolled cigarette is smouldering between his lips.

Pharaoh lights one of her own black cigarettes. Looks around her again and wonders how she would have felt growing up here. It’s not quite sinister but it does have a timeless, otherworldly quality. The world could end and the residents of this ramshackle house would likely experience no interruption to their lives. It’s completely sheltered from the road. A thousand trees stand sentinel between its residents and the nearest neighbours. It’s a cool, quiet, secluded place. A person could either find peace here, or lose their fucking mind.

The gypsy caravan is a red-painted, bow-topped affair. It looks like something from a painting. The shafts for the horse are a gaudy yellow and the net curtains across the leaded windows are brilliant white.

Pharaoh has seen all this before. Hollow walked her around the crime scene months ago. Showed where he was when Wayne Mathers attacked him. Showed where he fell. He’d expected it all to go away soon after. Had never thought he would go to prison.

‘We’re not going in the house?’ asks Pharaoh, as Hollow opens the doors at the rear of the caravan and starts filling the old tin kettle from the tap that sticks out of the leaf-covered ground.

A tip of logs and twigs is already made up at the centre of a circle of blackened stones.

‘Delphine will be doing homework,’ says Hollow, as he strikes a blade against a piece of flint and lights a piece of bog cotton that he has taken from his pocket. It smoulders in his hand. He places it at the base of the twigs and blows on it gently. The fire comes to life.

‘She’s an angel,’ says Pharaoh, unsure whether to sit, stand or walk home.

‘Can I get you tea? There’s loads of old wine from Marissa’s dad’s time. Or I have lager, if that’s your thing.’

‘Tea will be fine. No, fuck it. Lager, please.’

Hollow reaches into the wagon and grabs a small bottle of lager from the tub of cold water beneath one of the sofa beds. He rubs the moisture off the side onto his shirt. Chucks it to Pharaoh. She catches it and opens it in a frothy spray. Takes a deep swallow. Looks at him, sitting there on the steps of the caravan with a fag between his lips and an earring in his ear and that bloody twinkle in his eyes. She wonders if she’s being charmed. Hates that she might be.

‘What am I doing here, Mr Hollow?’ she asks. ‘Really.’

He looks at her for a long moment. Stares into her so intensely that she wonders if he is viewing her thoughts like a show-reel. She burns under his gaze. Feels like she is trying to out-stare the sun.

‘I’ve wanted to talk to you properly since we met,’ he says, taking a long pole from the rusted wheel of the gypsy wagon and poking at the fire. ‘Come and sit down. You’re safe. I promise.’

‘I know I’m safe. Do I strike you as a scared person?’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yeah, just for the laugh.’

‘Not scared, no. Sad, maybe. Overwhelmed, perhaps. How’s your daughter?’

‘Sophia? Fine. Shaken up. I should say thanks.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Fuck off. I saw blood on your hand. You hit one of them, didn’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t be able to say.’

‘Well, thanks. But please, don’t come to the house. My husband . . .’

‘Yeah, you keep him quiet.’

‘I didn’t have any reason to tell you about him.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He had an aneurysm. Pressure of work. Pressure of a lot of things. I don’t like talking about it.’

‘He’s a lucky man, to have you care for him.’

‘I don’t care for him.’

‘He lives with you.’

‘He lives in the garage. He doesn’t even try to get better. He’s not my husband.’

‘You used to love him.’

‘Love’s a funny thing. It’s just a word, isn’t it? I’ve locked up a lot of people who’ve killed for love.’

‘Why don’t you boot him out, then?’

‘He’s the girls’ father. But it’s more than that. Duty, maybe. He gave us a good life, once.’

‘He was kind?’

‘Generous, maybe. Not kind, no.’

‘Tender?’

‘Exciting.’

‘Loving?’

‘What is this?’

‘Did he ever hurt you?’

‘Fuck off, Hollow.’

‘There are tears in your eyes.’

‘It’s the smoke from the fire. I’m not a scared person, whatever you think. I can give as good as I get.’

‘Nobody should have to suffer from bullies. Least of all people that matter.’

‘Everybody matters.’

‘You don’t believe that. Nobody believes that.’

‘He’ll never be an old man. This isn’t forever.’

‘How often do you check on him in the hope he’s stopped breathing? How often do you pray for him to just switch off?’

Pharaoh feels something buzzing around her head. Feels like she is being attacked by bluebottles and ladybirds. Feels herself swaying slightly. It’s all too green, out here. Too natural. Too organic. She feels like if she lay down she would be eaten by the earth.

‘You’re a cruel fuck,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Take me back to the station.’

‘You’ve just got here. We’re just talking. I want you to meet Delphine. I’ll show you where I work. I’ve been making something . . .’

Pharaoh finds herself desperate for a drink. Imagines pressing a cold can to her forehead, chest and neck. For all that she wants him to stop digging into her mind, she does not yet want to leave. This place seems timeless, somehow. Feels hot and lethargic and far removed from all the shit of the everyday. She hasn’t yet got what she came for, and is not even sure she knows what that is.

‘Give me another lager then.’

‘You haven’t finished that one.’

‘I’m planning ahead.’

‘Tell me everything. You know me and I know so little about you. All I see is a beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman who’s held her burdens alone for so long. That big guy with the red hair and the muscles. He’s your friend?’

‘He is.’

‘He has feelings for you.’

‘You don’t stop, do you?’

‘And that was his wife? The little one? Who wants to be you?’

‘Wants to be me?’

‘You can see it. She envies you – your looks, your success. You should be flattered. But she should stop now. She’ll never be you. There’s only one you.’

‘Does this work on your pathetic women, does it? I’ve read the statements. You’re a charmer. You’ve got women across the parish all wet for you. I’m not one of them.’

‘I don’t want that from you. I just want to get to know you. Here. This is pear brandy. Take it slow, it’s potent . . .’

‘The sculptures. How do you know how I look naked?’

‘I imagined it. I have a good imagination.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Whatever you’re willing to give.’

A curtain twitches at an upstairs window. Delphine Hollow watches through the stained glass as the curvy, dark-haired woman drinks brandy from the bottle. She’s the copper. The one he likes. The one who arrested him and took him away.

Delphine watches her father reach down and take the copper’s hand.

He pulls her up onto the step of the gypsy wagon.

After a time, the copper leans her head upon his shoulder. They smoke and drink and watch the fire. He looks happy. She looks unsure. Flushed. She seems to have lost a piece of herself somewhere on the drive.

Delphine is seventeen. She’s tall, with red hair and freckles. She’s wearing a towel and a pair of flip-flops and the heat of the shower has raised red patches on her pale skin.

She picks up a pot of moisturiser from the bedroom dresser and begins to rub it into her skin.

She’s smiling as she watches the lady try and kiss her father. He’s so
good
at this . . .

Delphine realises she is being rude. Turns away from the window. She knows what’s about to happen and it would be unfair on both of them to have a witness.

She walks, damply, to the big double bed. Lies down and stares up at the familiar pattern on the ceiling.

Puts her hands over her ears as the shouting starts and a solitary bird rises up from the swaying, silent trees.

Chapter 13

Helen can see her own face reflected back in the screen of the laptop. Can see herself swimming on top of the crime scene photos, her hands with their long, chubby fingers, coated with salt from the packet of crisps, hovering over the keys like the legs of some great hairless spider. She can see the mirror image of the sickly green paint and big windows behind her. Sees the gathering fog: an unwashed lace curtain bunched in rumpled and unruly folds.

She scowls at herself and feels the beginnings of a cold; a pressure across her sinuses and behind her eyes.

She looks up as McAvoy enters the canteen. He pulls at the door for a moment. Remembers he’s meant to push. Pushes too hard. Stumbles into the wide, nearly empty, brightly lit room. He’s red-faced. His ginger hair is dark with sweat at the temples. He’s still buttoned up to the throat; old school tie knotted in a perfect double-Windsor. Grey waistcoat and trousers. Crisp white shirt. He’s not wearing his suit jacket but Tremberg knows that he will not have removed it until somebody told him he was allowed.

‘Helen,’ he says, making his way over to the table. He looks for a moment as if he is about to offer a handshake. The notion of a hug and a kiss seem to flicker over his big, broad face. Eventually he manages a smile and stands there, looking uncomfortable.

‘Sarge,’ says Helen. She realises he’s waiting for permission to sit. He would never dream of doing so without being invited. He will stand up again when she rises. He’d still be pulling her seat out for her had Pharaoh not told him to stop a couple of years ago. ‘Sit down, please.’

‘You’re looking well,’ he says, lowering himself into the seat opposite. ‘Motherhood agrees with you.’

Helen releases a grin. It comes out with a little snort of laughter.

‘She’s sleeping through at last. Got a good appetite. Like me.’

McAvoy nods. ‘She must miss you during the day.’

Helen feels a flash of annoyance. She is sensitive to any suggestion that she is failing in her duties as a mother by going back to work. One of the desk sergeants at Scunthorpe told her he thought it was a disgrace that she had returned to her career. She was a mother now. Should act like one.

‘Fin and Lilah must miss you too,’ says Helen flatly.

McAvoy nods, not spotting the challenge. ‘They do,’ he says, sadly. ‘Not as much as I miss them.’

Helen looks into his deep brown eyes and reprimands herself for doubting him. He would never criticise her for returning to work. He’s helped her do so. He’s been there whenever she has needed him and not even asked her who the father is. He respects her decisions. His own wife may not have a career but he would support her if she chose to. He’s proud that she’s a mum. If she suddenly decided to become a table dancer, McAvoy would carve grips in her stiletto heels so she wouldn’t slip.