– and replayed almost constantly across the news channels – showed four officers standing around chatting while the lad took his last, rasping breaths on the cold, tiled floor at Queen’s Gardens nick.
‘So, this is goldfish-bowl time,’ concludes Pharaoh. ‘We need this solved quickly, but we need to remember we’re being watched. We’re talking national news. People don’t like having their Christmases ruined by murder, and they need us to make them feel safe again. This happened about nineteen hours ago, and that gives this murderous fucker a good head start. The public appeal will be on the news by nine, which means a lot of you will have the fun and games of answering the phones. The calls will be coming through to this room. And yes, the tech monkeys will be wiring them up within the next half hour. There’ll be no shortage of nutters, people, but every piece of information is important. Every name needs to be checked.’
She stops her flow momentarily, and her eyes seek out McAvoy. She gives him a nod.
‘Now I know you’re all technical wizards, but on the off-chance that you’re not, McAvoy here is going to show you how his brand-spanking-new database works.’
There are groans. A chorus of swear words.
‘Now now, children,’ she smiles. ‘I’ve been on inquiries where the floor has caved in under the weight of paperwork, so if McAvoy’s system helps us keep a better track of what we’re doing, then it’s something we need to be using. Personally, I feel like I’ve got something of a head start, given that I once got to level three on Sonic the Hedgehog, but the rest of you might need a catch-up course.’
McAvoy joins in the laughter. Looks up and gets a grin and the tiniest of winks from Pharaoh.
‘Don’t forget,’ she adds, ‘McAvoy has seen this bloke. He could have been a victim himself, if he hadn’t used his forehead to block the blow.’
There are more laughs, but they feel somehow more warm and inclusive, and McAvoy is almost tempted to take a bow and add a witticism of his own. Pharaoh interrupts before he can.
‘Right, you should all know what you’re doing for the next couple of hours. We need witness statements. We need CCTV footage of every inch of that square. Where did he go when he left the church? And most important, we need to know everything there is about Daphne Cotton. We need to unpick her life. We’ll have the PME results by lunchtime, toxicology by tonight. Just bring your A-game, people. None of us want to live in a city where you can chop up a girl in church and get away with it. It’s Christmas, after all.’
She gives the troops a grin. And then she’s barging back out of the room, a dervish of perfume and jangling jewellery, her soft palms touching shoulders and forearms, investing faith and belief in her team.
They sit in silence for a moment, each officer lost in his or her own thoughts.
Eventually, DCI Colin Ray turns and opens the blinds. It’s night-time black beyond the glass, and the window reflects a shambolic semi-circle of squatting, lounging, disordered men and women; scratching heads and blowing through steepled palms.
The officers get a glimpse of themselves; a sharp, unexpected vision of who and what they are. Each sees the truth of themselves: their imperfections, their one-dimensional, cold, crumpled, actuality.
Of all the men and women staring into their own faces, only Aector McAvoy feels no compulsion to look away.
They have been answering phones for six hours now. Beyond the dusty, grime-encrusted windows, the sky has almost completed its subtle transition from deep grey to soft black. Above, the clouds continue to hang low and fat, but the worst of the snow is another few days away. They might get a white Christmas this year, though McAvoy, who experienced nothing else in his youth, is only excited by the prospect because he knows it will make his wife and child smile.
He and Helen Tremberg are the only two actual
‘So, this is goldfish-bowl time,’ concludes Pharaoh. ‘We need this solved quickly, but we need to remember we’re being watched. We’re talking national news. People don’t like having their Christmases ruined by murder, and they need us to make them feel safe again. This happened about nineteen hours ago, and that gives this murderous fucker a good head start. The public appeal will be on the news by nine, which means a lot of you will have the fun and games of answering the phones. The calls will be coming through to this room. And yes, the tech monkeys will be wiring them up within the next half hour. There’ll be no shortage of nutters, people, but every piece of information is important. Every name needs to be checked.’
She stops her flow momentarily, and her eyes seek out McAvoy. She gives him a nod.
‘Now I know you’re all technical wizards, but on the off-chance that you’re not, McAvoy here is going to show you how his brand-spanking-new database works.’
There are groans. A chorus of swear words.
‘Now now, children,’ she smiles. ‘I’ve been on inquiries where the floor has caved in under the weight of paperwork, so if McAvoy’s system helps us keep a better track of what we’re doing, then it’s something we need to be using. Personally, I feel like I’ve got something of a head start, given that I once got to level three on Sonic the Hedgehog, but the rest of you might need a catch-up course.’
McAvoy joins in the laughter. Looks up and gets a grin and the tiniest of winks from Pharaoh.
‘Don’t forget,’ she adds, ‘McAvoy has seen this bloke. He could have been a victim himself, if he hadn’t used his forehead to block the blow.’
There are more laughs, but they feel somehow more warm and inclusive, and McAvoy is almost tempted to take a bow and add a witticism of his own. Pharaoh interrupts before he can.
‘Right, you should all know what you’re doing for the next couple of hours. We need witness statements. We need CCTV footage of every inch of that square. Where did he go when he left the church? And most important, we need to know everything there is about Daphne Cotton. We need to unpick her life. We’ll have the PME results by lunchtime, toxicology by tonight. Just bring your A-game, people. None of us want to live in a city where you can chop up a girl in church and get away with it. It’s Christmas, after all.’
She gives the troops a grin. And then she’s barging back out of the room, a dervish of perfume and jangling jewellery, her soft palms touching shoulders and forearms, investing faith and belief in her team.
They sit in silence for a moment, each officer lost in his or her own thoughts.
Eventually, DCI Colin Ray turns and opens the blinds. It’s night-time black beyond the glass, and the window reflects a shambolic semi-circle of squatting, lounging, disordered men and women; scratching heads and blowing through steepled palms.
The officers get a glimpse of themselves; a sharp, unexpected vision of who and what they are. Each sees the truth of themselves: their imperfections, their one-dimensional, cold, crumpled, actuality.
Of all the men and women staring into their own faces, only Aector McAvoy feels no compulsion to look away.
They have been answering phones for six hours now. Beyond the dusty, grime-encrusted windows, the sky has almost completed its subtle transition from deep grey to soft black. Above, the clouds continue to hang low and fat, but the worst of the snow is another few days away. They might get a white Christmas this year, though McAvoy, who experienced nothing else in his youth, is only excited by the prospect because he knows it will make his wife and child smile.
He and Helen Tremberg are the only two actual
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