river, before disappearing from the map somewhere near Drypool Bridge. A team of uniformed officers have walked the route, but found nothing save a footprint in the snow that matched the location given by one of the more believable witnesses. There was no sign of the murder weapon. The uniforms’ best guess was that he’d ditched it in the Hull. When Pharaoh had heard that snippet of information she had slammed her hands down so hard that one of her bangles had snapped.
The phone on his desk begins to ring. He picks up the beige, Bakelite receiver.
‘CID. Major Incident Room.’
A woman’s voice is at the other end of the line. ‘I’d like to speak to somebody about Daphne. About Daphne Cotton,’ she says. And then, unnecessarily, even more shakily, adds: ‘The girl who was killed.’
‘You can talk to me. My name is Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy—’
‘That’s fine,’ she says, cutting him off. With the tremble in her voice it’s hard to place her, but McAvoy would class the speaker as around his own age.
‘Do you have information …?’
She takes a breath, and McAvoy can tell she has been rehearsing this. She wants to get it out in one go. He lets her speak.
‘I’m a supply teacher. A year or so ago I did some shifts at Hessle High. Daphne’s school. We hit it off. She was a lovely girl. Very intelligent and thoughtful. She was a very keen writer, you know. That’s what I teach. English. She showed me some of her short stories. She had real talent.’
She pauses. Her voice cracks.
‘Take your time,’ says McAvoy softly.
A breath. A sniff. A clearing of a throat blocked with tears.
‘I’ve done some voluntary work in the part of the world she’s from. Seen some of the things she’s seen. We got talking. I don’t know, but I suppose I became a sort of outlet for her. She told me things that she kept hidden. There were things in her stories. Things a young girl shouldn’t know about. She was very shy when I questioned her about it, so I started setting her writing assignments. Helping to get out the stuff that was inside her.’
McAvoy waits for more. When nothing else is forthcoming, he clears his throat to speak.
Then she blurts it out.
‘This has happened to her before.’
CHAPTER 7
He spots her as soon as he pushes open the glass doors of the trendy pub and steps into the warm blue-black light. She is seated on her own at a small round table by the radiator near the bar. There are empty sofas and loungers near by, but she seems to have chosen the seat nearest the heater, and is all but pressing herself against its white-painted surface. She is staring at the wall, ignoring the other customers. McAvoy cannot see her features, but there is something that makes her seated form seem burdened and sad.
‘Miss Mountford?’ asks Aector, as he approaches her table.
She looks up. Her deep brown eyes are framed with red and seem to float in darkness. The bags beneath her eyes are dark, almost bruised black by tiredness. There is a silver stud in her left nostril, but her other features do not match the mental picture McAvoy had painted when he had arranged to meet her here, in this most inappropriate setting. She is short and plump, with frizzy brown hair that has been inexpertly pushed behind her ears to leave two misshapen curls running down her cheeks. She is not wearing make-up, and her short, fat fingers end in nails that are bitten almost tonothing, while her clothes – a black cardigan over a white vest – speak of a need for comfort over style. She wears no rings, though a large, ethnic wooden bangle has been wedged onto a chunky freckled wrist.
Vicki Mountford nods timidly and makes to stand, but McAvoy gestures that she should remain seated. He takes the chair opposite her and, with some ceremony, removes his coat. He notices her glass. It is a straight tumbler and contains the dwindling remains of half a dozen ice-cubes, melted to the size and shape of sucked
The phone on his desk begins to ring. He picks up the beige, Bakelite receiver.
‘CID. Major Incident Room.’
A woman’s voice is at the other end of the line. ‘I’d like to speak to somebody about Daphne. About Daphne Cotton,’ she says. And then, unnecessarily, even more shakily, adds: ‘The girl who was killed.’
‘You can talk to me. My name is Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy—’
‘That’s fine,’ she says, cutting him off. With the tremble in her voice it’s hard to place her, but McAvoy would class the speaker as around his own age.
‘Do you have information …?’
She takes a breath, and McAvoy can tell she has been rehearsing this. She wants to get it out in one go. He lets her speak.
‘I’m a supply teacher. A year or so ago I did some shifts at Hessle High. Daphne’s school. We hit it off. She was a lovely girl. Very intelligent and thoughtful. She was a very keen writer, you know. That’s what I teach. English. She showed me some of her short stories. She had real talent.’
She pauses. Her voice cracks.
‘Take your time,’ says McAvoy softly.
A breath. A sniff. A clearing of a throat blocked with tears.
‘I’ve done some voluntary work in the part of the world she’s from. Seen some of the things she’s seen. We got talking. I don’t know, but I suppose I became a sort of outlet for her. She told me things that she kept hidden. There were things in her stories. Things a young girl shouldn’t know about. She was very shy when I questioned her about it, so I started setting her writing assignments. Helping to get out the stuff that was inside her.’
McAvoy waits for more. When nothing else is forthcoming, he clears his throat to speak.
Then she blurts it out.
‘This has happened to her before.’
CHAPTER 7
He spots her as soon as he pushes open the glass doors of the trendy pub and steps into the warm blue-black light. She is seated on her own at a small round table by the radiator near the bar. There are empty sofas and loungers near by, but she seems to have chosen the seat nearest the heater, and is all but pressing herself against its white-painted surface. She is staring at the wall, ignoring the other customers. McAvoy cannot see her features, but there is something that makes her seated form seem burdened and sad.
‘Miss Mountford?’ asks Aector, as he approaches her table.
She looks up. Her deep brown eyes are framed with red and seem to float in darkness. The bags beneath her eyes are dark, almost bruised black by tiredness. There is a silver stud in her left nostril, but her other features do not match the mental picture McAvoy had painted when he had arranged to meet her here, in this most inappropriate setting. She is short and plump, with frizzy brown hair that has been inexpertly pushed behind her ears to leave two misshapen curls running down her cheeks. She is not wearing make-up, and her short, fat fingers end in nails that are bitten almost tonothing, while her clothes – a black cardigan over a white vest – speak of a need for comfort over style. She wears no rings, though a large, ethnic wooden bangle has been wedged onto a chunky freckled wrist.
Vicki Mountford nods timidly and makes to stand, but McAvoy gestures that she should remain seated. He takes the chair opposite her and, with some ceremony, removes his coat. He notices her glass. It is a straight tumbler and contains the dwindling remains of half a dozen ice-cubes, melted to the size and shape of sucked
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