They’re standing in the corridor outside the incident room at Queen’s Gardens. The central heating system has decided to make up for past mistakes by altering its modus operandi. The individual rooms are now as cold as the grave, while the hallways are warmer than hell.
‘Do you know the kind of day I’ve had?’
McAvoy nods again.
It’s 9.41 p.m. Twelve hours since they stood in this same spot and she told him he was her office manager. Told him to keep an eye on things while she went out to catch a killer.
And now they’re back. Each having had a day they’d rather forget; their minds overflowing with information and none of it much good.
Like a naughty schoolboy, McAvoy fixes his gaze on something other than her angry eyes. Takes a keen interest in the door to the incident room. Somebody had pinned a sign saying ‘Pharaoh’s Palace’ on the door earlier today, but it has been torn by the edge of a gunmetal-grey filing cabinet, and now lies in two neat halves by the skirting board. He can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign in itself.
‘If I ask you to give me the bare bones on this, you’ll listen to me, won’t you? You won’t get the wrong end of the stick and spend the next hour giving me a headache?’ She suddenly sounds more weary than cross.
‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry. Yes.’
So he tells her. Tells her why he left the incident room. Where he’s been. What he’s discovered. Tells her about Fred Stein and his important sister. Keeps it brief and doesn’t look at her properly until he’s finished. It takes about three minutes, and sounds so lame and fruitless that he almost runs out of energy before the end.
‘That’s it?’ she asks, although it’s a genuine query rather than an attack.
‘Yes.’
She purses her lips and breathes out. ‘Interesting,’ she mutters, and raises her eyebrows. Her face has returned to a more natural colouring.
‘You think so?’
‘Come with me.’
She turns and leads him to the end of the corridor. Pushes open an office door, seemingly at random, and holds it open as he steps inside.
At a desk, lit by a green reading lamp, a man of around sixty is sitting with his feet up; a crystal glass tumbler full of whisky in one palm and a battered notebook in the other.
‘Hi,’ says McAvoy, and it comes out as bewildered and hapless as he feels.
‘Tom’s letting me share his excuse for an office until we get back to Priory,’ says Pharaoh, pushing the door closed behind him. He feels her body smear against him as she angles herself into the only space not currently occupied by equipment.
McAvoy stands, unsure of himself, in the centre of the tiny room. It’s not much bigger then a broom cupboard. The desk stands lengthways at the far end, home to a monitor, keyboard, hard drive and an assortment of typed and handwritten paperwork, all bathed in the eerie green light, which makes Tom Spink, in his white collarless shirt and neat white hair, seem oddly angelic.
‘Now then, son,’ says Tom, looking up and clearly pleased to see them. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
‘Tell Tom what you just told me,’ says Pharaoh, nodding. ‘About what Everett asked you to do.’
McAvoy tells the man in the granddad shirt, cardigan and soft cords all about what he has been doing these past few days. Watches unspoken signals flash in his eyes and tries to read meaning in the glances the older man throws at Pharaoh.
‘What do you reckon?’ asks Pharaoh, when McAvoy finishes.
‘It’s interesting,’ says Spink, nodding and folding his lower lip back over his bottom teeth. He’s addressing Pharaoh, and not looking at McAvoy. ‘Intriguing, anyway. This is what we do, after all. I can see why the boy would be interested.’
‘Sir, I-’
‘It’s Tom, son,’ says Spink, turning to him. ‘I’m retired.’
‘Tom used to be my boss,’ says Pharaoh, suddenly realising that all this must seem quite peculiar to her sergeant. ‘Back in the good old days. He’s all sorts of things now. Runs a little B and B on the coast. Does a bit of work for a private investigator, when he feels like he might be in danger of getting to heaven. And because he’s got a nice turn of phrase and knows the funny handshakes, he’s got himself a commission writing a history of Humberside Police for the bigwigs, which means I can keep him where I can see him, and he can tell me all about the days when a truncheon was designed for ease of insertion.’
‘Good times,’ he says, smiling. ‘Nefertiti here was always hard as nails. Never took any crap from an old lech like me.’
‘Nefertiti?’ McAvoy can’t help but repeat.
‘Egyptian queen,’ says Spink, with a sigh. ‘Pharaoh? Get it? Honestly, and she tells me you’re one of the bright ones.’
‘I know-’
‘That’s what I thought until you buggered off,’ says Pharaoh, pointedly. ‘I was calling you a few names earlier on, my boy. Thought I’d pegged you wrong. Thought you were being the political animal some of the lads and ladies have got you pegged as. Sucking up to the ACC. Leaving us to do the real work. Seems I was right in the first place. ACC’s more pissed off with you than I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Had a call from some bigwig on the Police Authority. Apparently his wife’s in a right state. Some big Scottish lump has got her thinking her brother might have been murdered.’
McAvoy wants to cry. ‘I never-’
‘That’s life, sunbeam. Get used to it. Nice to see I haven’t lost it. I can still pick “natural police”.’
‘Natural police?’
‘Get a feeling and follow it through. Listen to the little voice inside themselves and damn the consequences.’
Despite the chill in the office, McAvoy’s face flushes scarlet. He realises he’s being praised and wonders what the penance will be.
‘Thank you.’
Spink and Pharaoh both laugh. ‘It’s not an asset, matey. It’s a bloody curse. It means you’re going to piss people off for the next thirty years and there’s a better than average chance you’ll lock up quite a few of the wrong people. But you’ll catch some wrong ’uns, too.’
McAvoy feels his legs growing weak. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and feels suddenly empty and vulnerable. Perhaps it shows in his face, as Pharaoh looks at him with suddenly more affectionate eyes.
‘This Stein case,’ she says. ‘You think it’s important?’
‘It feels wrong,’ he replies. ‘I can’t explain it, really. I know today was a dead end with Chandler, but I just can’t see this old boy planning all this. I mean, to take your own life is one thing, but to plan it down to such elaborate detail?’
Spink and Pharaoh exchange another glance. Spink gives the slightest of nods, as if he has been asked a question.
‘Stick with it, then,’ says Pharaoh, reaching down between her legs and pulling a half-full bottle of whisky from the drawer. She tops up the glass and takes a drink. ‘I’ll trust you. Like you say, it might be nothing, and the Daphne case takes priority. I won’t stop you looking into something you believe is wrong but just don’t dick me about. I’ve got enough of that with Colin bloody Ray.’
McAvoy breathes a sigh of relief. He’s not sure that he actually asked for permission to keep looking into the Stein case, but he’s pleased that it hasn’t been denied.
‘What’s the situation with all that, ma’am?’
She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. ‘Neville the sodding Racist,’ she says, and needs a drink before she can compose her features into anything other than a snarl. ‘Colin thinks he’s natural police. Thinks his gut is what’s leading him. But it’s not. It’s a load of prejudice and arrogance wrapped up in this unshakeable self-belief. According to Colin and his mini-she, this bloody old fool decided to off the first black person he took a dislike to and pin it on some tribal feud. The daft thing is, even though it sounds like nonsense, he’s got some good arguments. Neville can’t account for his whereabouts at the time of the attack. He’s got a history of violence. He’s spent time in the
