the table and plucks the roll-up from the other man’s mouth.
‘Chandler,’ he says again.
Algirdas looks to Pharaoh. He seems to lose his temper. ‘Barry. Bouncer. He tell me police want to see me, I come. He says nice lady, big tits. I say no problem. I come here. I talk to you. I think it Angie. I think, maybe witness statement, yes? Not Chandler. Not murder.’
‘You were the one who mentioned his name to me,’ says McAvoy, slowly dismantling the cigarette and returning it to its component parts on the wet, sticky table top. ‘You heard me on the phone. You heard me say his name. And you asked me about him. That’s why we’re here.’
Algirdas sucks at his lips. Starts biting his lower one. He reaches inside his shirt and pulls out a dull metal pendant on a chain. He puts it in his mouth like a pacifier.
‘Your saint?’
Algirdas snorts. ‘Change from my first English pint,’ he says. ‘Two pence. Nine years ago. In a bar like this one.’
‘Touching,’ says McAvoy, and takes the sudden moment of pressure against his leg as a sign from Pharaoh that he should step off.
Algirdas finishes his drink. He looks to Pharaoh. He appears to be wrestling with something, then gives a little growl of acceptance. ‘I not illegal,’ he says. ‘I have papers. I have right to be in Grimsby.’
Pharaoh pops the last pork scratching in her mouth. ‘I couldn’t give a damn about all that, matey. Anybody who wants to be in Grimsby must be fleeing something bloody terrible. You’re welcome as far as I’m concerned.’
Algirdas nods, as if having come to a decision.
‘I meet Chandler in bar like this. Southampton, yes? Five years? Six? We drink. We talk. He listen my story. He writer. Great writer. He tell me.’
‘He going to write your story, was he? Make you famous?’
Algirdas hits the table again, and it’s hard to tell if he is angry or excited. ‘In Lithuania, I singer. I make record. Big hit. Not just my country.’
Pharaoh seems to be trying not to laugh. ‘You on Lithuanian
‘I on TV. Radio. Posters on bedroom wall. Big star.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. I good.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Fucking politics. I want more money. They not pay. I think I star. They not. I walk out. Wait for phone to ring. Take real job. Pay bills until all get better. Never got better. Real job become real life.’ He stares at the table top with eyes that contain bitterness and regret.
‘And Chandler …?’
‘He love story. Say there could be book. Say could be hit. Tell my story. How pop singer become dock worker in Southampton. Then I hurt my arm. Chandler visit me. Says it make book more real. More human, he says. Says he call. Arrange interview. Speak to publisher.’
‘And he called?’
Algirdas looks away. ‘He start writing other book. Always writing. Always working. Sometimes drinking, yes. Likes the drinking.’
‘So what brought you up to Grimsby?’
‘I come for work. I have friend here. Offer me job. Not many choices for onearmed man.’
McAvoy pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘He contacted you again, though, yes? Recently.’
Algirdas nods. ‘He call, maybe month ago. Find my number. Say he has book in mind. Not forgotten me. Wants to meet.’ He closes his mouth, unsure if he should continue. McAvoy soundlessly pushes his only drink across the table and the Lithuanian takes it hungrily.
‘But first …’
‘He need favour for friend. Friend moving Iceland. Need booking on container ship. Asks can I arrange it …’
‘And you could?’
Algirdas shrugs. ‘Docks busy places. I got friends. Know system.’
‘And Chandler knew that?’
‘He must remember. I tell him. Tell him how easy to get people in and out. How police, how security, no fucking point. People come and go as they please.’
Pharaoh turns to McAvoy, but he doesn’t look at her. Keeps staring at the man who, any moment now, is going to tell him how Fred Stein ended up dead in a lifeboat.
‘And you said yes?’
‘Chandler tell my story. Show people who I used to be.’
McAvoy understands this overwhelming need to be appreciated, how a miserable little scribbler like Russ Chandler could pour honey in the ear of stronger, more capable men.
‘What were you asked to do?’
‘Chandler’s friend call me. Say he need container to stay shut. Need on bottom deck. No inspection. No sealed behind other. No top of stack. I book for him.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Short call. Two minutes. Matter-of-fact. You know this phrase? He to the point. I think talking hurt for him. Voice sound like he being strangled …’
McAvoy closes his eyes. He can smell blood and snow.
‘I wait for Chandler to ring …’
‘Has the phone rung?’
‘No,’ he says quietly, and then suddenly raises his head. ‘But he in jail, you say. He not ring me. How he write book now? Chandler not killer. He small man. One leg. Drunk. How he kill anyone?’
McAvoy’s temper flares. ‘He didn’t, you stupid gullible bastard. And he’s never written a book. Not a proper one. He’s a miserable little failure who’s just got his hands on a bloody best-seller!’
Running his hands through his hair, McAvoy stands up, knocking his chair over and bumping the glasses. Suddenly standing at his full height, Algirdas looks up at him as if he is a giant. His mouth opens and closes like he’s a dying fish. Pharaoh reaches up to put a hand on her sergeant’s arm, but he shakes her away and storms from the pub, oblivious to the stares and the meaningless words of the bouncer.
The cool air hits him like a slap.
He hears Pharaoh’s heels clatter on the wet pavement. Realises she’ll have to sprint to catch him, so slows his pace to allow her to talk him out of storming off.
‘McAvoy!’ she shouts. ‘Hector.’
He turns, face flushed, hair damp, sweat pooling in the well at the base of his neck.
‘McAvoy, I don’t understand …’
‘No,’ he snaps. ‘You don’t.’
‘But it all points to Chandler, doesn’t it? I mean, it looks like he’s guilty …’
‘Oh, he’s guilty,’ he says, tipping his head back to stare up at a sky utterly devoid of stars. ‘Guilty of playing games with people. Guilty of preying on people’s conceits and fears. Guilty of a huge amount of anger. But pulling the trigger? Stowing away on a bloody boat with a welding torch and a lifeboat? Hacking up Daphne in a crowded church? Putting me down twice? No, that’s not his style.’
He feels Pharaoh’s hand on his forearm and this time he doesn’t shake her off.
‘So what is his style? Tell me.’
McAvoy breathes out. Looks down the deserted main road with its random constellations of blinking neon lights and broken shop-signs.
‘He can tell you himself,’ he says angrily. ‘We’re going to see him.’
Pharaoh looks up at him. Her breasts are heaving with the exertion of running, and her smell is ripe in the small pocket of air that seems to contain them both.
He pulls back.
