Original Skin (9 page)

11:13 A.M. COURTLAND ROAD POLICE STATION ON THE ORCHARD PARK ESTATE. A PRETTY NAME FOR A SHITHOLE.

USED TO BE
a decent area, this. Still is, in places. Still a few home owners who give a damn and scrub their front step and pick up the crisps packets and empty beer bottles that roll onto their well-tended front lawns. Still people who give a damn, and who believe that once the empty high-rises are torn down and the druggies move on, this community of tiny terraces and low-rent flats will be an address to brag about.

For the time being they’re grateful for the nearness of the cop shop.

The Major Incident Team operates from the second floor: a cramped warehouse of grimy computer terminals and coffee-streaked desks; of overstuffed files, bulging in-trays, and mucky cups. A room joyless as a cell, decorated with crime-prevention posters, with overlapping memos and codes of practice, all spreading out from a streaky whiteboard where the names of active cases are scrawled illegibly in red marker pen.

Broken blinds fail to blot out the rain and the view. Strip lights buzz overhead and turn this oppressively quiet room the color of gone-off milk.

McAvoy looks up from his borrowed desk.

Biker boots thudding on the thin blue carpet.

A waft of Issey Miyake perfume strong enough to catch the back of his throat.

Bangles jangling as if their wearer were rattling a tambourine.

Hair swishing sensuously against the collar of her leather jacket . . .

McAvoy feels disloyal for even thinking it, but Trish Pharaoh does not have a natural gift for covert surveillance. The other senses announce her presence long before the eyes take her in.

“Aector, my boy. Mummy needs a hug.”

She plonks her backside down on his desk, creasing the computer printouts he is carefully going through with a ruler and highlighter. She leans forward and puts her head on his shoulder, then proceeds to trundle it back and forth. “I hate them all,” she says.

McAvoy looks around. There are three civilian support staff sitting at nearby desks, but there are no other police officers in the room. He lets himself smile.

“They being mean, guv? The brass?”

“They are being wankers, Aector.”

“Wasn’t it you that told me not to expect too much of people? That when an idiot is an idiot, it should not arouse surprise?”

Pharaoh removes her head from his shoulder and pulls a face. “Did I say that? I don’t think I said ‘idiots.’”

“You said ‘tossers,’ I think.”

“Yeah, it’s coming back.”

Pharaoh has spent the morning with the head of CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Andrew Davey. His underlings call him “the accountant,” though they occasionally drop a vowel. In truth, he’s a decent enough career officer in his late forties whose life seems to involve nothing but form filling, committee reports, and a desperate and futile succession of spreadsheets designed to keep the holiday schedules from clashing. He does not tend to interfere in the running of the various CID teams. A small-framed, smartly dressed man with chronic indigestion and glasses that leave grooves in the sides of his long nose, he looks to McAvoy like a man who needs a good cry.

“How did it go?”

Pharaoh rolls her eyes. Her lashes momentarily stick together, and she pulls them apart with chewed fingernails that, though bitten to the quick, have been painted red.

“I’ve got a ‘watching brief,’ whatever that means. Shaun’s murder’s going to regular CID, but under my supervision, though they made it clear they wouldn’t trust me to supervise the boiling of a kettle at the moment. They seem to think Leanne’s at the root of it, but you and I both know that’s bollocks. Davey made it plain that they think she set us up, and Shaun, too, but that’s just the way she is. You know that. I know that. She’s either so bloody frightened she’s gone to ground, or they’ve got her, too . . .”

McAvoy accidentally meets her eyes and quickly looks away.

“We’ll catch them,” he says. “Nail Gun and Blow Torch. They can’t just . . .”

“They sound like a tag team, Aector. Or really shit superheroes.”

“And the third man,” McAvoy carries on. “It doesn’t feel right. None of it does. They’ve done these things to send a sign. We need to send one back. You will get them, guv.”

Pharaoh smiles. “We will,” she says. “Well, somebody will. I won’t. I’m being shunted sideways a little. Out of harm’s way for a bit. They’re asking me to look at some of the ‘peripherals’ of the case, which has to be one of my favorite phrases of the day.”

McAvoy closes his eyes. Shakes his head.

“Colin Ray?”

Pharaoh smiles ruefully. “He’s taking over as lead. Taking a fresh look at what we’ve done so far. I’ve got Daniells and a list of errands. Ray’s the fresh pair of eyes this case needs, apparently.”

“You fought it, though,” says McAvoy, appalled. “I know you fought it.”

Pharaoh holds up a hand and extends the index finger. “I think I left a nail in his desk.”

McAvoy doesn’t know what to say, so just stares at the carpet. Eventually Pharaoh gives a sigh and then straightens herself up. “Come on,” she says brightly. “It won’t have much to do with you. You shouldn’t be so wary of Ray anyway. He’s a good copper, he’s just a twat. You’ve got bigger things to worry about, like writing a report saying I’m ace and the MIT is rubbish and that they should give me more resources and money, and a daily bottle of Zinfandel.”

McAvoy rubs a hand over his face as he gives in to a grin. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’m not even going to ask you how it’s looking,” she says, clearly asking. “We’re expensive, aren’t we? The unit? You know we’ll be the first to go in the budget cuts, no matter what the new chairman is saying. And we’ve had a couple of high-profile fuckups these last few days.”

“You weren’t to blame,” he says and means.

She looks through the glass at the rain-lashed car park. Manages a smile.

“Thanks, Aector, but it wasn’t my finest hour. Shouldn’t have committed to the raid without being one hundred percent. I fought my corner, mind. Told them the pressure on us for results is going to lead to these balls-ups. They don’t get it, though. They’re too far removed. They don’t know much more than they read in the papers, and, according to the tabloids, Hull’s going to hell.”

“It’s never been paradise,” says McAvoy, trying to make her smile. “They exaggerate. That’s what they do. It’s a power struggle over a drug that will be legal in a few years. People are flexing their muscles. Somebody’s trying to prove they’re a big man, and people are getting hurt.”

“We could have had them,” says Pharaoh despairingly. “Could have wrapped it up.”

“You don’t really think these thugs are in charge, do you? They’re just muscle. We catch them, there’s still whoever is giving them their orders to worry about. And we know they must be serious. The Vietnamese don’t play nicely. Whoever’s taken over their operation must be one heck of a player.”

“That’s not for us to think about,” says Pharaoh moodily. “They may just be the hired thugs, but they’re the ones we want. They’re torturers. Now they’re murderers. In the public’s opinion, they’re the ones we want off the streets—not the ones who have a fortune in the bank from farming bloody cannabis. It’s not a drugs operation anymore. Not really. It all has to be accounted for, Aector. Has to be on the right fucking spreadsheet . . .”

McAvoy nods. Realizes just what a balancing act it is to chase criminals without offending the other specialist units. Some of this investigation should be in the hands of the Drugs Squad. But Pharaoh, for now at least, is keeping their hands off it—much to the dismay of Detective Superintendent Adrian Russell, who has made his displeasure known. He’s good at displeasure. He causes a lot of it.

“They could have killed us,” she says. “They could have wedged the doors shut and burned us to death.”

“Don’t think like that, guv.”

“I’m not being morbid, Aector,” she says. “I’m confused. These bastards don’t think twice about nailing people’s hands to their kneecaps, and they get a chance to cook a van full of cops and don’t take it?”

McAvoy considers. “Maybe they didn’t want that level of interest. Maybe it was a warning. There would have been uproar if anybody had been badly hurt.”

Pharaoh shrugs again. “We’ve got a few leads to follow up, that’s the main thing. The car park at Peter Pang’s picked up their registration plate. Reported stolen from a high-class car showroom in Doncaster the day of the raid.”

“Donny?”

“Yeah, apparently people in South Yorkshire can afford fifty-thousand-pound cars. Who’d have thought?”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, there’s a partial fingerprint recovered from the glass bottle they threw at us. Belongs to a bloke with a record long as your arm. Your arm, not mine. GBH. Embezzlement. Did years for armed robbery. Real piece of work.”

“Name?”

“Alan Rourke.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell . . .”

“Bad sort,” she says. “Connected to some real villains . . . Aector, look sharp!”

She jumps off his desk and stands up straight, dragging him to his feet by his collar and bodily spinning him to the door. Peter Tressider, the chairman of the Police Authority, has just entered the room and is waving a hand in the general direction of Detective Chief Superintendent Davey, who is trailing behind him with a look of uncontrolled panic on his face.

Tressider looks around the room, completely ignoring whatever it is Davey is trying to say in his ear. He spots McAvoy, and his mouth opens in pleasant surprise. He crosses the room with his arms outstretched, and for a second McAvoy fears he is about to be taken into a bear hug.

“Sergeant,” he says warmly, and pumps McAvoy’s hand with a vast, fleshy paw. “Good to see you again. Heard about last night’s excitement. Fun and games, eh? My word, I know we gave you a grilling, but we didn’t expect you to go and risk your life over statistics. Still, sometimes you have to rush in headlong, eh? I think I read that in a book about the samurai, now I think on it. Excellent read. I’ll lend you it. You ever read
The Art of War
? Fascinating stuff. Think I’ll give it another once-over if I do make it to Westminster, eh? No shortage of bloody enemies there!”

McAvoy has to stop himself from physically recoiling in the face of the big, bearded politician’s enthusiasm. “It was a difficult operation, sir, but there are plenty of positives to take . . .”

Tressider waves a hand. It appears to be a habit of his. McAvoy wonders what political commentators will make of it should he get to the House of Commons. Whether they will applaud his earthy brusqueness or dismiss him as an impatient dinosaur.

The chairman turns to Pharaoh. “You must be the boss, yes? Pharaoh?”

Pharaoh smiles. Takes his hand. Manages not to wince as her palm is squeezed. “Afraid so, sir.”

“Delighted you’re still with us. Delighted! No shortage of people who would have taken a month off for stress, and yet here you are! Back at work and ready to lead. Impressive. Inspiring!”

Pharaoh gives a little half-laugh, unsure how to deal with this onslaught of optimism.

“I just want to catch the bastards,” she says, deciding to just be herself. “Hope the powers that be let me do that.”

Tressider gives a nod of understanding. Taps his nose with a plump finger. “We never spoke,” he says, winking. “This conversation never happened. But don’t you worry. I like your style.”

There is a moment’s silence. “Can we help you with something, sir?”

Tressider gives them both a warm smile. “No, no, was just here for another meeting and thought I would show my face. Wanted to check you were all fit and healthy and raring to go. I hope I can trust you to keep me informed, and you can trust me to keep my nose out, yes?”

Both officers smile, and he shakes their hands again, even more vigorously than before. McAvoy glances over his shoulder at where Detective Chief Superintendent Davey is a picture of bewildered misery. As he looks back, he sees that the chairman’s eyes have swiveled toward McAvoy’s computer screen.

“Interesting?” he asks, nodding at the screen. “A lead?”

McAvoy finds himself doing an odd thing with his mouth. Licks his lips. Twitches. Colors instantly. Remembers why he never plays poker.

“Just something I thought was worth checking out . . .”

“Show me.”

He clicks on the story he had tried to cover up when he sensed Pharaoh’s approach. The
Hull Daily Mail
article on the death of Simon Appleyard. Pharaoh, as in the dark as Tressider, reads halfway down and turns to McAvoy. He meets her eye purely through fear that, were he to look anywhere else, his view may take in her cleavage.

“Pet project?” she whispers.

McAvoy opens his mouth. Closes it again. Hangs his head. “It’s just something that doesn’t feel right.”

He had found the story during a halfhearted Google search on his midmorning break. It made him sad. The telephone’s owner has an identity now. McAvoy has been reading the words of a real person. A loving, gregarious, confused young man who wrapped a cord around his neck and squeezed his own life away.

“The way he writes . . .”