Original Skin (2 page)

“Got a name?”

“Me or the horse, sir, me or the horse?”

“The horse.”

“Fecked if I know. Try Buttercup.”

Slowly, taking care to keep his feet steady on the tarmac, McAvoy moves toward where the animal now stands. Wild-eyed, muddy, and sweat-streaked, it has moved into the garden of one of the nice detached properties set back from the road. Its occupants are staring out of the large double-glazed front windows. With no car in the driveway and the horse showing no apparent interest in their magnolia trees, they are enjoying the show.

“Easy, fella,” breathes McAvoy, as he spreads his arms and moves toward the open driveway. “Trust me.”

He knows what will happen if he fails. Vets will try and get near with a tranquilizer. They will fail, going in mob-handed and merely scaring the animal. Then some well-intentioned farmer will turn up with a tame horse in the hope of attracting the stallion to within range. The stallion will get overexcited. Damage cars. Damage itself. Eventually a marksman will be called and the horse will be hit with as many bullets as it takes to get the city moving again. McAvoy doesn’t want that to happen. The call from the young PC had informed him that the horse had escaped from land where travelers had set up home. In his experience, travelers love their animals, and this one, though gray and with shaggy forelocks that put him in mind of traveled boots, looks like it has been looked after as well as worked hard.

“Easy, boy. Easy.”

McAvoy closes the gap. Raises his hand, palm out, and whispers, soft hushes and gentle songs, in the animal’s ear. It whinnies. Begins to pull away. McAvoy tilts his head. Exudes both the size and the gentleness that so define him; locks brown eyes with the confused, frightened animal . . .

The horse barely shies as he slips the rope around its neck. He carries on singing. Whispering. Crooning the only traveler song he can remember and wishing he had the same soft voice that his bride uses when she softly hums it into his neck.

This time the cheer from the crowd has little effect on the horse. It allows itself to be led out of the driveway, its unshod hooves making a pleasing clip-clop on the pavement.

McAvoy looks up and sees smiling faces. His cheeks burn and he struggles to keep his face impassive as the motorists give him a little round of applause, delighted to know they will soon be in fifth gear and hurrying toward jobs they hate, to tell the story of this morning’s fun and games.

“Good job, sir. Good job.”

The traveler has detached himself from the crowd. Unasked, he crosses to the far side of the animal and gently takes it by the ear, leaning in to nuzzle the animal’s neck and call it a “great eejit.”

McAvoy enjoys the display of affection. The man knows animals. Loves horses. Can’t be bad.

Together, they wind their way through the cars and toward the playing fields. Three uniformed officers are leaning, exhausted, against the bonnets of two parked patrol cars. They look ragged and worn out. They nod their thanks as McAvoy passes by. The young constable who called him raises a fist of triumph and leans in to say something to a colleague. There is a burst of laughter and, instinctively, McAvoy presumes himself to have been the butt of the joke.

“We’ll tie ’em up, sir,” says the traveler. “We thought the fence went right round. Gave me a fright when I saw them gone, so it did.”

McAvoy, getting his breath back, looks over the horse’s wiry mane at the man. “It’s not a campsite, sir. It’s a football pitch. You know you can’t camp here.”

“Ah, would yer not show a little leeway?” the traveler asks, fixing bright blue eyes on McAvoy and suddenly exuding a twinkly, impish charm. “We’ve had a bit of a barney, me and one of the families up there. Not welcome. Just a night or two, put it to bed, make friends again.”

McAvoy isn’t really listening. This isn’t his call. He’s just going with it for now. He was asked to round up an escaped horse and has done so. The excitement is over. Now he has to try and make himself presentable enough for a meeting with the new-look Humberside Police Authority, and try to explain to the new chairman why his unit should be preserved, and exactly why the violent crime statistics are on the rise. It is a prospect that has kept him awake as efficiently as his three-month-old daughter, and its sudden reemergence at the forefront of his mind brings a wave of nausea to his stomach.

A gust of wind brings with it the scent of frying bacon and hand-rolled cigarettes. He raises his head, eager for a breath of cleansing fresh air. Opens his eyes. Stares into a sky the color of a black eye, rain just seconds away.

They approach the semicircle of caravans. There is a whoop that McAvoy traces to one of the women sitting on the sofas outside the nearest caravan. She is in her forties, with curly blond-brown hair, and is wearing a white tracksuit two sizes too small.

“Ah, yer a good lad,” she shouts as they get nearer. She puts down her mug of tea and levers her small, curvy frame off the sofa. “Knew it was all reet, didn’t I?”

She shouts this last at the two teenage girls who sit on the opposite sofa, each in pink nighties under gray hooded tops. One is perhaps a year older than the other, but both have sleek black hair cut in the same side parting, and wear an equal amount of hooped gold at their throats and earlobes.

McAvoy hands the rope to the man, who gives a genuine bow of thanks. “You’re a good man, sir. A good man. Scotsman, ye’ll be, yes?”

McAvoy nods. “Western Highlands.”

“No kilt?” he asks, with a grin.

“I get enough funny looks.”

The traveler laughs louder than the joke deserves. Claps McAvoy on his broad forearm. “By Christ, but you’re a big one.”

McAvoy’s blush threatens to return to his cheeks, so he just gives a nod. Returns to business. “Keep him tied up. Buttercup. It’s not fair.”

“Aye, sir. Aye.”

McAvoy looks around him. At sofas, the generators, and toilets. At the faces emerging from behind spotless net curtains at the windows of the caravans, as interested in what is happening on their doorsteps as the faces behind the glass in the four-bedroom detached properties that ring the fields.

He can’t help but picture his wife. She lived like this when they first met. Wasn’t much older than the girls on the sofa; her eyes just as distrustful, her world just as small . . .

“McAvoy!”

He turns to see Helen Tremberg and Inspector Ken Cullen walking swiftly across from the adjacent football pitch. He gives a wave, not quite sure whether he is to be treated as a hero or interfering fool.

“McAvoy, is it? Is that what she said?”

There is something in the way the old traveler repeats his name. Something that tells McAvoy he is known.

He gets no chance to press the man. The clouds that have been slung low, like damp laundry, finally split. Rain thunders down. Tremberg, not given to squealing, emits a shriek and stops short, pulling up the hood of her jacket. The travelers emit a cacophony of swearing, and McAvoy’s new friend barks orders in an accent so thick it could be a different language. Half a dozen young men appear from inside caravans, and the sofas are quickly dragged under tarpaulins and windows pulled fast shut.

“Christ,” says Tremberg, beginning a swift retreat to her vehicle. “They really are ninjas!”

McAvoy doesn’t follow her. He’s standing, arms wide, letting the downpour soak him to the skin. He knows that he will be tried and tested at this morning’s meeting. Knows it will be a painful experience. And knows, too, that he will make life slightly easier for himself if he turns up merely damp, rather than covered in manure.

9:31 A.M. HIGH STREET, OLD TOWN.

BLADES OF RAIN,
scything down from a pewter sky. A narrow row of handsome old mercantile palaces. Of insurance brokers and solicitors, art galleries and museums. Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy, running through the rain—committee papers clutched inside his sodden jacket, rain splashing from his lips and nose.

Up the steps, feet slipping on the mosaic which serves as the welcome mat to the Police Authority headquarters, a rose picked out in red and white tiles, beneath an archway of expensive wood and glass.

He flashes his warrant card at the security guard on the desk, and then bounds up the stairs three at a time.

Assistant Chief Constable Everett is waiting outside the meeting room. He is immaculately turned out, his blue uniform crisp and freshly laundered.

“Good Lord, Sergeant!”

Everett looks aghast at the sight before him. Aector McAvoy has come to serve as his pet symbol of the modern face of Humberside Police. Educated, polite, supremely computer literate, and respectful of every new guideline dreamed up by the powers that be, he has served the assistant chief at endless committee meetings and public engagements.

“Look at the state of you! I needed you at your best, man!”

Strictly speaking, there is no need for a detective sergeant ever to appear before the Police Authority, but ACC Everett is expecting difficult questions from the authority’s new chairman, and has managed to ensure that McAvoy is there to answer them. He is pinning his hopes on McAvoy’s absorbing the worst of the barrage.

“I’m sorry, sir,” gasps McAvoy, trying to catch his breath. “There was a horse . . .”

Everett, a thin-faced and ratty-looking man who managed to rise to the second top job in the force without appearing to be any good at anything, grabs McAvoy’s coat and forcibly strips it off his shoulders. Before McAvoy can protest, Everett is pulling out a comb from his back pocket and reaching up to comb his junior officer’s hair.

McAvoy backs off. Takes the comb.

“Thank you, sir.”

He does what he can. Slicks back his hair and wipes the moisture from his mustache with finger and thumb. Catches his breath. Fastens his suit jacket and secures his tie inside it. Wrings out his cuffs, and straightens the creases with his palm.

Follows Everett into the meeting room.

More than a dozen men and women sit around a number of tables arranged in a vague U shape. The surfaces are covered in jugs of water and empty glasses, notepads, and official-looking papers. At the back of the room, a large pink-and-blue painting of a Manhattan skyline covers one wall. It was a gift to the authority from a previous chairman, and nobody has been impolite enough to take the monstrosity down.

“Bloody hell, Everett, are you making your officers swim here?”

The booming Yorkshire voice emanates from the large, bearded man at the head of the table.

Everett gives a false little laugh as he and McAvoy take a seat at the nearest empty desk. “Sorry, Mr. Chairman, Sergeant McAvoy was called away to deal with an important development in the case you have shown such an interest in.”

Tressider waves his hand, dismissively. He looks at McAvoy.

“Important development, eh? You sure you weren’t helping a bunch of gypsies round up their horses?”

McAvoy colors instantly. Can feel steam rising from his damp hair.

“Oh, bugger, can’t say gypsies, can I?” Tressider turns to the secretary, busy jotting down the minutes of the meeting. “Scribble that out, would you, love?”

The other members of the authority exchange glances, but nobody says a word. Tressider dominates the room. He has a remarkable presence, and enough personality to dominate any environment, even without the benefits of his broad frame and deep Yorkshire accent.

He’s a man on the up, is Peter Tressider. One to watch, with coattails worth riding.

Now in his mid-fifties, he was already famous as a businessman before taking his first steps into public office on the Conservative ticket a couple of decades back. His family runs a timberyard, distribution company, and a couple of property agencies, as well as investing heavily in various safe-bet start-up companies. He was elected onto the East Riding Council in 1997, and was moved up to the authority’s cabinet soon after, holding high-profile positions on committees responsible for crime prevention, education, and social inclusion.

Tressider was popular in the press from the off, making headlines for his plain speaking, his witty comebacks, and his anti-bullshit stance. He was censured several times for swearing during committee meetings, and reveled in the public perception of him as a proper Yorkshireman who says what he likes, and likes what he bloody well says.

He was elected to the Humberside Police Authority a couple of years back, and set about making it his own. The role suited him. In 2005 Tressider was among the councillors who refused to enforce the home secretary’s order that the then chief constable be suspended after Humberside Police’s record keeping was found to be dangerously flawed. He gained favor in many quarters for telling the politician to “keep his nose out” of local affairs. Always good for a sound bite, the local papers are having a ball imagining the fun he will have if he is chosen by the Conservatives to stand as an MP at the next general election.

“Anyway, glad you could make it, Sergeant. We have things to discuss.”

Tressider pulls his papers toward him and peers at an agenda item. Then he raises his eyes and examines McAvoy more closely. “The
Yorkshire Post
says you’re the face of sexy policing.”

There is a titter from the other committee members, who all turn their attention to McAvoy.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman?”

“Here,” he says, and locates a photocopied piece of paper among the documents on his desk.

McAvoy recognizes the piece. Feels his heart sink.

Tressider clears his throat, theatrically.

“‘Some might say they represent the “sexy” side of detective work. They’re the men and women who delve into the very heart of the most high-profile murder cases, using skills and expertise that will eventually jail killers and make the streets a safer place.’”

Tressider looks up. Smiles.

Continues: “‘It is a role that spawns images of fictional detectives like Morse, Rebus, and Thorn.’”

Moves his finger along the page before him, enunciating every word.

“‘But in a humble room next to the canteen at Courtland Road Police Station on Hull’s Orchard Park yesterday, the scene was a far cry from a TV detective show.

“‘The
Yorkshire Post
had been invited to meet a team formed last year with a Home Office grant, which is helping to change the way major incidents are investigated, both locally and nationally. They are the Serious and Organized Crime Unit—the force’s murder squad. The team at Courtland Road represents one strand of a hundred-strong pool of civilian and police officers on both banks of the River Humber, which investigates all suspicious deaths and other serious crimes. Many of the civilians are themselves retired police officers, who sift through the mountains of information that pour into the Major Incident Room. They are using decades of experience that the force is reluctant to lose through retirement.’”

Tressider stops. Gives McAvoy a grin.

Reads on.

“‘Detective Superintendent Patricia Pharaoh, senior investigating officer, said, “We’re trying something a little different, and the assessment so far is that it’s working. The volume of documents alone requires such careful and meticulous flow to the right people and our processes are very rigid. It’s hard to quantify the successes in the past few months but we know this squad is making a difference. We hope that, even in the face of budget constraints, people realize how important this unit is.”’”

There is muttering from some of the other committee members.

“Nicely done,” says Tressider with a nod. “There’s more, by the way. Shall I?”

McAvoy says nothing. Wonders if he will get the blame for the newspaper article as well as everything else.

Tressider continues. “‘Even though the force now uses the Holmes computer system, much of an investigation is still paper-based. The Serious and Organized Crime Unit receive all the information. Every item goes to a receiver, who reads it and decides how it will be dealt with. The indexers then put the information into the system before it is read by a dedicated document reader. This person rereads every document that comes in and decides on any other work that needs to be done. The action manager then allocates work to action teams, based on whether the work is high, medium, or low in conjunction with policy. This all then comes back to the office manager, who gives the final signature on all actions and is responsible for the Major Incident Room running as it should.’”

Tressider stops. Raises his head and gives a mock yawn. “I, for one, was bloody enthralled.”

McAvoy looks up, changes his mind, and turns his attention to ensuring his cuffs are the right length. The material squelches between his fingers.

“Sexy, Sergeant?” Tressider gives him a mock once-over. “I’m not sure I can judge. You might be the wife’s type!”

He turns to his vice-chair: a gray-haired and nervous woman in a twinset and pearls. “What you reckon, Noreen? Sexy policing?”

The lady gives an embarrassed giggle, which seems to somehow disappoint Tressider. It’s clear how the big man became chairman with such ease. Clear, too, what an asset he will be to his party if they give him the nod and jockey him to Westminster the way so many are predicting.

“Good publicity, anyway,” says Tressider, picking at his teeth with a large finger. “We’ll be looking at your unit in time, Sergeant. Looking at budget usage across the board. But I don’t mind headlines like these. Don’t mind at all.”

McAvoy looks at his papers. Tries to unfold them and finds they are too soggy to come apart. “The reporter made the request for access through the official channels,” he says. “I was just there on the day . . .”

Tressider waves him into silence with his paw of a right hand. Sits forward in his chair.

“To business,” he says, and there is a general murmur from the assembled committee members.

They represent the great, the good, and the interfering bastards from the local community. The authority consists of seventeen members. Half are elected councillors from the area’s four councils, and the others are independents. They are the top bosses. The men and women who make the big decisions and appoint the top brass. And there’s not a copper among them.

“Detective Sergeant McAvoy is here to address your particular questions about the increase in violent crime, Mr. Chairman.”

Tressider fixes Everett with a withering look. “I believe it was your presence I requested about that, Everett.”

Everett squirms. “McAvoy is a key member of the team currently investigating that particular issue, and . . .”

Tressider nods. Turns his attention to McAvoy.

“Vietnamese, I’m told,” he says brusquely. “Always been a bugger for the cannabis, ain’t they? But it seems to be getting nasty. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

McAvoy takes a breath. Wonders where to start.

For the past five years the local cannabis market has been run by Vietnamese gangs, setting up farms in disused warehouses and abandoned buildings, quietly cultivating their crop and then selling on through a network of dealers. Things ran smoothly. The people who got hurt had usually rocked the boat, and Humberside Police paid little attention to the cultivation of a drug they expected to be legalized within the next parliamentary term.

Then a year or so back the Drugs Squad began to hear rumors that, on this coast at least, the Vietnamese were being outmuscled and outgunned. Somebody else was moving in, and their methods of persuasion were not pretty.

A few months ago two Asian men were found unconscious on the shingle at Hessle Foreshore. Their faces showed marks of sustained beating, but it was the injuries to the rest of the two men’s bodies that caused the paramedics to gasp.

Naked, fetal, their hands had been nailed to their knees.

Strips of flesh on their torsos and backs had been melted to the color and consistency of burned jam.

There was every indication that a nail gun had been used to drive in their restraints, and a heated paint-stripping tool used to inflict the damage.

The men were alive purely because the message their attackers wished to send was made more potent by their mutilation.

Neither spoke a word of English, but their eyes told a story in a universal language.

A couple of months later a terraced house in the west of the city was burned to the ground—the occupants still inside. The smell that billowed out from the smashed windows put firefighters and officers in mind of a community barbecue. Half of the neighborhood got high on the fumes as a massive amount of fresh-picked cannabis went up in smoke. It could not quite mask the reek of burning flesh.

Despite the protestations of Detective Superintendent Adrian Russell on the Drugs Squad, a decision was taken to make the investigation into the assaults the priority, and Trish Pharaoh was given command.