Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) (25 page)

‘You didn’t think he might have done something to Corden?’ asks Helen, as gently as she can.

Yvonne shakes her head. Makes a face. ‘That’s typical, isn’t it? A nice man does a nice thing and the next thing he’s the bad guy. I wish I hadn’t told you now.’

Helen changes her expression. Tries to win her back round.

‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. You’re right, sometimes people come along and they just make things better. I didn’t suggest anything else. Just for argument’s sake, though, do you think you would know him again? For our records . . .’

Yvonne looks at the wine bottle. Seems to shrink a little when she realises it is empty.

‘I hope I was helpful,’ says Yvonne. ‘Two accidents, that’s all. Toni died and the man who killed her ended up with his brains all over the ground. Maybe there is a different kind of justice than the one you get in courts, but I tell you what, if there is, I hope you don’t do a damn thing to stop it.’

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 and 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?’