the table, mouth ajar, concentrating on every minute detail, breathing life into wooden toys.
‘Was there a letter?’
‘Just the usual,’ says Roisin, not looking up. ‘Hopes he’s getting big and strong. Eating his vegetables. Being a good boy. Hopes to meet him one day soon.’
McAvoy’s father addresses all of his correspondence to the boy. He has not spoken to his only son since a falling out around the time Roisin fell pregnant, and McAvoy knows him to be stubborn enough to go to his grave without ever making amends. Were he to think unkindly of his father, he would wonder who the daft old sod thought was going to read the letters to his four-year-old grandson, but he has trained himself to blink such traitorous thoughts away.
McAvoy feels the toy’s smooth edges. Tries to soak up some of the wisdom and experience of the old man through the things he holds in his hand, but no answers come. He hands it back to his son, who runs away again. McAvoy watches him go, then turns to Roisin, his eyes full of guilt.
‘You went towards the screams, Aector. You did what you would always do.’
‘But what does it say about me? That I would seek out a stranger rather than protect my son?’
‘It says you’re a good man.’
He stares around his living room. It’s all he wants. His wife in his arms, his child playing at his feet. He breathes heavily and slowly, savouring every mouthful of these moments. And then he catches the scent. The tang. Faint. Almost imperceptible among the spices and soap of his family, his home. It’s like a moth fluttering at the very edge of vision. That whiff. Of blood. For an instant he imagines Daphne Cotton. Tries to get an image of what her father will be enduring. Lets his heart reach out. To feel a connection and offer up warmth.
He raises his arm and pulls Roisin back down into an embrace.
Hates himself for the warmth that spreads through him: for being damnably happy, as an innocent girl lies dead on a slab.
CHAPTER 6
8.04 a.m. Roper’s old room at Queen’s Gardens.
Buttocks perched on desks; feet on swivel chairs, backs lounging against bare walls. A collection of untucked shirts and two-for-one supermarket ties. Nobody’s smoking, but the room smells of nicotine and beer.
McAvoy, in the middle, sitting properly on a hardbacked seat, notebook on his lap, tie tight at a throat scrubbed pink and raw by vigorous, punishing hands.
Trying to keep his feet still on the threadbare carpet. Listening to a dozen conversations at once and finding none he would know how to join.
Six hours’ sleep and a good breakfast that wouldn’t go down.
It’s still sitting there; a weight in his chest; every breath a wheeze that tastes of scrambled egg and granary bread. There’s a flask of hot water and peppermint leaves in the bag at his feet, but he’s afraid to unscrew it in this cramped, busy room, for fear of releasing the aroma. He could not stomach the comments. Could not stand to be remarkable. Not here. Not now.
He glances at his watch.
‘Right, boys and girls,’ says Pharaoh, clapping her hands as she enters the room. ‘I’ve been up since five, I’ve had no fucking breakfast and in a minute I’ve got a press conference with a bunch of wankers who want to know how we’ve allowed a teenage girl to be killed at Christmas. I would like to be able to tell them that the person who did it is a nutter and that we’ve caught him, but I can’t. We haven’t caught him, so that’s not going to happen. Nor do we know that he’s a nutter.’
‘Well, I know I wouldn’t ask him to babysit, ma’am.’ This from Ben Nielsen, to laughs and nods.
‘Nor would I, Ben, but I’d pick him before you. Remember, I’ve got a teenage daughter.’
Laughs and whoops. A polystyrene cup chucked at a grinning Ben Nielsen.
‘What I mean,’ continues Pharaoh, pushing her hair out of her eyes, ‘is that we don’t know this was random. We don’t know if it’s somebody who hates the church, somebody with a grudge against the clergy. We don’t know if Daphne Cotton was the intended victim. Why did he wear a balaclava? Why disguise himself if he were just a random attacker? And the weapon. What’s the significance of the machete?’
‘Are we thinking race hate?’ This from Helen Tremberg, to an accompanying chorus of moans.
‘We’re thinking everything, my love. We haven’t flagged it as race hate, but the very fact that it was a black girl means that it has to be considered.’
‘Fucking hell.’
Colin Ray speaks for all of them. They know what this means. Race crimes are a recipe for headlines and headaches. It’s kid gloves and placards all the way; the clamour for a resolution comes not just from the public and the pressure groups, but from the top brass, still sensitive about a decade of bad publicity spawned when a black prisoner died in the custody suite. The video footage aired at the subsequent investigation — 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.
