twenties, with a bald head and a healthy, ruddy complexion. In the month since Daniells moved across from regular CID, McAvoy has only ever seen him in one outfit. He had clearly decided in his youth that he would never look better than in rumpled navy chinos, a pale blue shirt, and a striped red tie, and had decided to stick with it.
The windscreen wipers squeak inelegantly across the glass of the Corsa, smearing the drizzle into streaks. McAvoy winds down the window, reaches out, and uses the cuff of his jacket to try to make the glass better equipped for surveillance.
“You think this place has got owt to do with it?” Daniells asks, nodding in the direction of the restaurant.
McAvoy, pleased to be back on more familiar ground, gives a shake of his head. “No, we’ve spoken to the owner. Clean as a whistle. Making a mint and wouldn’t want to risk it. Did you know John Prescott’s a regular here? Once got in trouble for parking in a disabled bay. Was in the papers . . .”
“Prescott. Deputy prime minister, wasn’t he?” asks Daniells, without any hint of embarrassment.
McAvoy pauses for a moment, wondering whether he should instruct the detective on the importance of sound political and local knowledge, but decides that the cheerful, chatty young man will probably pick it up as he goes along. He’s only lived on this coast for a year or so, and his Midlands accent remains strong.
“Yeah, he was Blair’s number two.”
“Must have done a lot for this city, then . . .”
“Yes, you’d think.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and McAvoy, who has never felt comfortable in one-on-one situations with colleagues, begins to feel self-conscious. He goes back to his notes, shuffles through the papers in his lap, and checks his watch again.
“Late,” says Daniells, lifting his left arm from the steering wheel and showing McAvoy his cheap watch. “She said six.”
McAvoy bristles. Can’t help himself. “She?”
“Pharaoh. She said six.”
McAvoy’s mouth becomes a tight line. “Do you mean Detective Superintendent Pharaoh?”
“Yeah,” says Daniells, not detecting the warning note in McAvoy’s voice. He laughs suddenly, at a memory. “Did you see her trying to get the stab vest on? Could put that on YouTube . . .”
“I beg your pardon, Constable?”
This time, Daniells spots the danger. “Wouldn’t want to mess with her, though,” he says hurriedly. “Great boss.”
“Yes. She is.”
He stares out of the window across the gloomy car park.
Spots the rear tire of the surveillance van. McAvoy tries to picture the scene inside: Trish Pharoah, Helen Tremberg, Ben Neilsen, and half a dozen uniformed officers, all sitting cramped and anxious in the half-light, extendable batons greased and palmed, jumping with each crackle of the radio . . .
“We’ve got movement.”
The voice on the radio belongs to Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray, the second in command of the unit. He’s a gangly, goggle-eyed, rat-faced man with a fondness for pin-striped suits. Pushing fifty, and with a greenish pallor to his skin, he is at once feared, respected, and reviled. In the event of impending apocalypse and the collapse of the rule of law, he would find himself getting punched in the face by a lot of colleagues.
McAvoy tries to heighten his senses. Hopes Daniells will do the same.
A black Land Rover glides into the car park, its tires making an expensive-sounding swish on the wet tarmac.
Daniells appears to be about to duck his head below the steering wheel, but a warning hand from his sergeant holds him steady.
No sudden movements
, suggests McAvoy with his eyes. Nothing to alert the occupant.
“Is it our guy?”
This time the voice is Pharaoh’s.
“Too dark. Can’t say.”
“Fuck.”
McAvoy can hear the frustration in his boss’s voice.
“This them, d’you think?”
Daniells’s voice sounds excited and nervous. McAvoy wonders how many of these operations the young
The windscreen wipers squeak inelegantly across the glass of the Corsa, smearing the drizzle into streaks. McAvoy winds down the window, reaches out, and uses the cuff of his jacket to try to make the glass better equipped for surveillance.
“You think this place has got owt to do with it?” Daniells asks, nodding in the direction of the restaurant.
McAvoy, pleased to be back on more familiar ground, gives a shake of his head. “No, we’ve spoken to the owner. Clean as a whistle. Making a mint and wouldn’t want to risk it. Did you know John Prescott’s a regular here? Once got in trouble for parking in a disabled bay. Was in the papers . . .”
“Prescott. Deputy prime minister, wasn’t he?” asks Daniells, without any hint of embarrassment.
McAvoy pauses for a moment, wondering whether he should instruct the detective on the importance of sound political and local knowledge, but decides that the cheerful, chatty young man will probably pick it up as he goes along. He’s only lived on this coast for a year or so, and his Midlands accent remains strong.
“Yeah, he was Blair’s number two.”
“Must have done a lot for this city, then . . .”
“Yes, you’d think.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and McAvoy, who has never felt comfortable in one-on-one situations with colleagues, begins to feel self-conscious. He goes back to his notes, shuffles through the papers in his lap, and checks his watch again.
“Late,” says Daniells, lifting his left arm from the steering wheel and showing McAvoy his cheap watch. “She said six.”
McAvoy bristles. Can’t help himself. “She?”
“Pharaoh. She said six.”
McAvoy’s mouth becomes a tight line. “Do you mean Detective Superintendent Pharaoh?”
“Yeah,” says Daniells, not detecting the warning note in McAvoy’s voice. He laughs suddenly, at a memory. “Did you see her trying to get the stab vest on? Could put that on YouTube . . .”
“I beg your pardon, Constable?”
This time, Daniells spots the danger. “Wouldn’t want to mess with her, though,” he says hurriedly. “Great boss.”
“Yes. She is.”
He stares out of the window across the gloomy car park.
Spots the rear tire of the surveillance van. McAvoy tries to picture the scene inside: Trish Pharoah, Helen Tremberg, Ben Neilsen, and half a dozen uniformed officers, all sitting cramped and anxious in the half-light, extendable batons greased and palmed, jumping with each crackle of the radio . . .
“We’ve got movement.”
The voice on the radio belongs to Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray, the second in command of the unit. He’s a gangly, goggle-eyed, rat-faced man with a fondness for pin-striped suits. Pushing fifty, and with a greenish pallor to his skin, he is at once feared, respected, and reviled. In the event of impending apocalypse and the collapse of the rule of law, he would find himself getting punched in the face by a lot of colleagues.
McAvoy tries to heighten his senses. Hopes Daniells will do the same.
A black Land Rover glides into the car park, its tires making an expensive-sounding swish on the wet tarmac.
Daniells appears to be about to duck his head below the steering wheel, but a warning hand from his sergeant holds him steady.
No sudden movements
, suggests McAvoy with his eyes. Nothing to alert the occupant.
“Is it our guy?”
This time the voice is Pharaoh’s.
“Too dark. Can’t say.”
“Fuck.”
McAvoy can hear the frustration in his boss’s voice.
“This them, d’you think?”
Daniells’s voice sounds excited and nervous. McAvoy wonders how many of these operations the young
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