does not yet see a killer.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he says, to Robb.
Pharaoh scoffs. ‘He can’t drive, remember?’
‘Let’s check that, eh?’
‘And we’d better tell the boys in the tech unit to remotely access his hard drive. Make sure nothing gets deleted in the next few days.’
McAvoy manages to keep the look of confusion off his face. Pharaoh knows nothing about computers, but has a quality poker face and knows how to scare a suspect.
They turn away from the snivelling man on the floor and head for the door. Halfway across the living room, McAvoy turns back.
‘Are you sorry she’s dead?’
Robb raises his head. There is nothing but sorrow in his face, though most of that seems to be for himself.
‘Did she suffer?’ he asks, at length.
McAvoy nods. ‘More than anybody should.’
Robb drops his head. The only sound in the room is the soft snuffling of a fat man crying into his T-shirt, and the distant peal of children laughing beneath the crashing of the waves.
5
3.28 p.m. Courtland Road Police Station. Hull.
A three-storey building, all bare brick and dirty windows, painted the colour of storm clouds, shielded from the estate it watches over by bent silver railings and untended grass.
First floor. Home of the Serious and Organised Crime Unit.
Flickering monitors, overstuffed folders and cardboard boxes cluttering the pathways between desks. Home Office posters on the walls and every window pushed open as far as it will go. Phones, answered with coughs and grunts; fingers bashing inexpertly on keyboards that are missing letters and patterned with crumbs. Bluebottles buzzing helplessly on dirty windowsills varnished in coffee stains and smudges of printer ink.
Helen Tremberg, wrist-deep in a packet of crisps, salt sticking to her damp fingers and chipped nails, sweat on her upper lip, fringe twisting itself in knots every time the fan turns in her direction and the edges of her paperwork lift their skirts.
She types, one-handed, on a keyboard that sits in front of a monitor garlanded with Post-it notes. They contain reminders. Phone numbers. Her passwords.
She’s hunched. Furtive. Trying to stay below the plastic barrier that divides her desk from DC Ben Nielsen’s. There is a tiny smile on her face.
Helen has been officially single for three years. She had two serious relationships before that, with men she was pretty sure she loved. Each ended within a year of them moving in together. In both cases, it was the men who made the decision to go, and Helen who had done nothing to change their minds. She enjoyed cohabiting, liked the intimacy of it all: the foot-rubs during the movie; the unexpected cups of tea; the feeling of slipping on a man’s big cosy jumper to pad downstairs in the middle of the night and having somebody warm to spoon up beside when she worked a late shift. It was the other side of it that caused the rifts. Bills. Sensible stuff. Which electricity supplier to use. Getting the broadband to work properly. Whether to do a big shop once a month for freezable stuff, or pop out every night for perishables. Them, forgetting to keep the shower curtain inside the bathtub and soaking the floor. Her with her stubbornness. Her refusal to compromise. Even to be guided. Steered. Told. Sitting there with her fingers digging into the leather of the sofa as some great interloper held the remote control for her TV and decided what they should watch. Both of her failed relationships were so similar in their pattern and make-up that sometimes she forgets which was which, and has to consider the length of her hair in each snapshot of memory to know which lover she went where with, and when.
While she has enjoyed the company of a few blokes over the last few months, she has lacked any real enthusiasm for taking things further. She likes her own space, her own company. Has a few mates, both inside and outside the police service, and has years left before her biological clock starts
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he says, to Robb.
Pharaoh scoffs. ‘He can’t drive, remember?’
‘Let’s check that, eh?’
‘And we’d better tell the boys in the tech unit to remotely access his hard drive. Make sure nothing gets deleted in the next few days.’
McAvoy manages to keep the look of confusion off his face. Pharaoh knows nothing about computers, but has a quality poker face and knows how to scare a suspect.
They turn away from the snivelling man on the floor and head for the door. Halfway across the living room, McAvoy turns back.
‘Are you sorry she’s dead?’
Robb raises his head. There is nothing but sorrow in his face, though most of that seems to be for himself.
‘Did she suffer?’ he asks, at length.
McAvoy nods. ‘More than anybody should.’
Robb drops his head. The only sound in the room is the soft snuffling of a fat man crying into his T-shirt, and the distant peal of children laughing beneath the crashing of the waves.
5
3.28 p.m. Courtland Road Police Station. Hull.
A three-storey building, all bare brick and dirty windows, painted the colour of storm clouds, shielded from the estate it watches over by bent silver railings and untended grass.
First floor. Home of the Serious and Organised Crime Unit.
Flickering monitors, overstuffed folders and cardboard boxes cluttering the pathways between desks. Home Office posters on the walls and every window pushed open as far as it will go. Phones, answered with coughs and grunts; fingers bashing inexpertly on keyboards that are missing letters and patterned with crumbs. Bluebottles buzzing helplessly on dirty windowsills varnished in coffee stains and smudges of printer ink.
Helen Tremberg, wrist-deep in a packet of crisps, salt sticking to her damp fingers and chipped nails, sweat on her upper lip, fringe twisting itself in knots every time the fan turns in her direction and the edges of her paperwork lift their skirts.
She types, one-handed, on a keyboard that sits in front of a monitor garlanded with Post-it notes. They contain reminders. Phone numbers. Her passwords.
She’s hunched. Furtive. Trying to stay below the plastic barrier that divides her desk from DC Ben Nielsen’s. There is a tiny smile on her face.
Helen has been officially single for three years. She had two serious relationships before that, with men she was pretty sure she loved. Each ended within a year of them moving in together. In both cases, it was the men who made the decision to go, and Helen who had done nothing to change their minds. She enjoyed cohabiting, liked the intimacy of it all: the foot-rubs during the movie; the unexpected cups of tea; the feeling of slipping on a man’s big cosy jumper to pad downstairs in the middle of the night and having somebody warm to spoon up beside when she worked a late shift. It was the other side of it that caused the rifts. Bills. Sensible stuff. Which electricity supplier to use. Getting the broadband to work properly. Whether to do a big shop once a month for freezable stuff, or pop out every night for perishables. Them, forgetting to keep the shower curtain inside the bathtub and soaking the floor. Her with her stubbornness. Her refusal to compromise. Even to be guided. Steered. Told. Sitting there with her fingers digging into the leather of the sofa as some great interloper held the remote control for her TV and decided what they should watch. Both of her failed relationships were so similar in their pattern and make-up that sometimes she forgets which was which, and has to consider the length of her hair in each snapshot of memory to know which lover she went where with, and when.
While she has enjoyed the company of a few blokes over the last few months, she has lacked any real enthusiasm for taking things further. She likes her own space, her own company. Has a few mates, both inside and outside the police service, and has years left before her biological clock starts
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