handful of the Vietnamese workforce around the various properties, where they have been reduced to virtual prisoners. He knows nothing about the muscle side of the business. Doesn’t know where the orders come from. Even in drink has confided little in Leanne about his employers, save that they are white and scary as hell.
“I’m not a snitch,” says Leanne, and it is a mantra she has repeated endlessly in their meetings. “I know he’s been a bad lad. But he wouldn’t do that. He’s not a violent person, not really. I don’t know why they’re pinning it on him . . .”
Pharaoh coughs, trying to move the conversation on. She knows McAvoy disapproves of the fact that she is letting Leanne think her boyfriend is in the frame over the torture of his two associates. In truth, he is not a suspect. Through an interpreter, the victims had given only the sketchiest of details about their attackers, but they made it clear that the men who hurt them were higher up the food chain than the man who drove the van. The descriptions they had given were sketchy. Big. White. Well built. Acting under the instruction of a smaller man, who seemed to be enjoying it all far too much . . .
“Do you think we could have a fresh start?” asks Leanne suddenly, putting her dumbbell down to concentrate on her cigarette. She looks at McAvoy. “Do you think you can start again?”
McAvoy tries his best to summon up an encouraging smile. Tries not to let his eyes linger on her paltry possessions, or the signs of frailty and abuse that are starting to creep into her physique.
“We’ll take care of you,” he says. “I promise.”
The words somehow seal it.
Leanne nods.
“The warehouse next to the Lord Line building,” she says. “St. Andrew’s Quay. Where they used to fish from. Near the memorial.”
McAvoy holds Leanne’s gaze as Pharaoh begins dialing a number in her mobile phone. He pictures the location. The darkness. The nearness of the Humber and its cold depths.
Sees, in his mind, an area that has witnessed death enough times to make the waters run red.
6:24 P.M. THE CAR PARK AT PETER PANG’S.
RED GLASS LANTERNS clink and sway, disappear, and then reemerge from the shadow of the pagodalike roof.
McAvoy looks. Listens.
Sees.
The sound of waves slapping wood and stone beyond the gray seawall; the broad, brown Humber fading into cloud and drizzle.
The morning’s storms have not blown themselves out, but instead hang heavy and threatening in a headstone-colored sky. The river, swollen by the cloudburst, slaps against the rotting timbers of St. Andrew’s Dock. Dead flowers and plastic memorial cards skitter and tumble on the wind. Flowers are often left here. This dock was home to the Hull fishing fleet. It is the last glimpse of home that thousands of dead trawlermen ever saw.
On Pharaoh’s orders, McAvoy has switched off his phone, but after two hours in this cramped vehicle with nothing to look at but car bonnets and brick, he needs to do something to keep himself alert.
The phone bleeps into life at the push of his thumb. Two hands shake on the blurry, liquid crystal screen. A moment later it vibrates to alert him to three new text messages. One is from Roisin, telling him she loves him and will be wearing nothing but the red leather jacket he bought her for Christmas when he gets home. The other two are from Pharaoh, telling him first that she is BORED, and second that she needs a pee. He presses his lips together to stop himself from laughing.
“Lemon chicken,” says DC Andy Daniells, sniffing the air. “Maybe prawns in oyster sauce.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Black bean, definitely. Not satay.”
McAvoy drags his eyes from the distant bulk of the warehouse, looks across at his colleague.
Daniells, who had told him within the first ten seconds of shaking hands that the double L in his surname was originally Scandinavian and not Welsh, is new to the unit. He’s an affable, likable lad in his late
“I’m not a snitch,” says Leanne, and it is a mantra she has repeated endlessly in their meetings. “I know he’s been a bad lad. But he wouldn’t do that. He’s not a violent person, not really. I don’t know why they’re pinning it on him . . .”
Pharaoh coughs, trying to move the conversation on. She knows McAvoy disapproves of the fact that she is letting Leanne think her boyfriend is in the frame over the torture of his two associates. In truth, he is not a suspect. Through an interpreter, the victims had given only the sketchiest of details about their attackers, but they made it clear that the men who hurt them were higher up the food chain than the man who drove the van. The descriptions they had given were sketchy. Big. White. Well built. Acting under the instruction of a smaller man, who seemed to be enjoying it all far too much . . .
“Do you think we could have a fresh start?” asks Leanne suddenly, putting her dumbbell down to concentrate on her cigarette. She looks at McAvoy. “Do you think you can start again?”
McAvoy tries his best to summon up an encouraging smile. Tries not to let his eyes linger on her paltry possessions, or the signs of frailty and abuse that are starting to creep into her physique.
“We’ll take care of you,” he says. “I promise.”
The words somehow seal it.
Leanne nods.
“The warehouse next to the Lord Line building,” she says. “St. Andrew’s Quay. Where they used to fish from. Near the memorial.”
McAvoy holds Leanne’s gaze as Pharaoh begins dialing a number in her mobile phone. He pictures the location. The darkness. The nearness of the Humber and its cold depths.
Sees, in his mind, an area that has witnessed death enough times to make the waters run red.
6:24 P.M. THE CAR PARK AT PETER PANG’S.
RED GLASS LANTERNS clink and sway, disappear, and then reemerge from the shadow of the pagodalike roof.
McAvoy looks. Listens.
Sees.
The sound of waves slapping wood and stone beyond the gray seawall; the broad, brown Humber fading into cloud and drizzle.
The morning’s storms have not blown themselves out, but instead hang heavy and threatening in a headstone-colored sky. The river, swollen by the cloudburst, slaps against the rotting timbers of St. Andrew’s Dock. Dead flowers and plastic memorial cards skitter and tumble on the wind. Flowers are often left here. This dock was home to the Hull fishing fleet. It is the last glimpse of home that thousands of dead trawlermen ever saw.
On Pharaoh’s orders, McAvoy has switched off his phone, but after two hours in this cramped vehicle with nothing to look at but car bonnets and brick, he needs to do something to keep himself alert.
The phone bleeps into life at the push of his thumb. Two hands shake on the blurry, liquid crystal screen. A moment later it vibrates to alert him to three new text messages. One is from Roisin, telling him she loves him and will be wearing nothing but the red leather jacket he bought her for Christmas when he gets home. The other two are from Pharaoh, telling him first that she is BORED, and second that she needs a pee. He presses his lips together to stop himself from laughing.
“Lemon chicken,” says DC Andy Daniells, sniffing the air. “Maybe prawns in oyster sauce.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Black bean, definitely. Not satay.”
McAvoy drags his eyes from the distant bulk of the warehouse, looks across at his colleague.
Daniells, who had told him within the first ten seconds of shaking hands that the double L in his surname was originally Scandinavian and not Welsh, is new to the unit. He’s an affable, likable lad in his late
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