Fire of Lies Read online

  ‘She Irish, is she?’ asks Mattie.

  Alan laughs. ‘You’re a fucking moron. She’s almost a fucking leprechaun.’

  Shania sprays Diet Coke into a glass and takes a swig. When she breathes in, it sounds loud and tremulous inside her head.

  ‘Least we know she’s not a copper,’ says Mattie. ‘She came in selling flowers from a bucket. I thought I was going to piss meself when she took a look at us lot. Not many people out on romantic dates in here – that’s what I told her. Said I’d buy a rose for you but I’d left my wallet in the flat and you won’t tell me the combination to the till. Then the big man took a look at her. Bought her a drink. Got her eating out the palm of his hand.’

  ‘That’s not what he’s after eating out,’ says Alan, and burps, unashamedly.

  ‘Lay off, Alan,’ barks Ronnie, spinning around. ‘Lady present.’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ says Alan, chastened.

  Shania slides on to the stool behind the bar, dangling her bare feet into an open box of crisps. She feels a sudden swell of affection for her son. She picks up her phone and texts him.

  Come on down. Spend some time with me. Sorry I was grumpy. Love you. XX

  She sends the message and feels better for it. A moment later she hears the creak of movement upstairs. She hopes he behaves the way he used to – bright and precocious and inquisitive. The lads used to adore him, with his questions and confidence. Gave him the change in their pockets and bought him knock-off DVDs and bootleg video games. Liked the dog, too. Bigger than him but with a personality that was pure sloth.

  ‘Another for the lady,’ says Ronnie, waving his empty pint glass. He turns away from her and grins as his attractive companion puts her hand on the small of his back.

  One little favour, he said. Nobody will know . . .

  It was a favour that would end with Paul Rouse’s body being pushed into a beer keg and her on her hands and knees, scrubbing blood and brain and bone from the tatty wooden floor of the bar she had once dared to think of as home.

  Chapter Five

  McAvoy sits on the low grey wall beside slow-moving brown water and listens through an earpiece as his wife tells an armed robber he has muscles she would never get tired of biting. He doesn’t know whether to keep his face inscrutable or allow himself a little smile of perverse pride at Roisin’s ability to play whatever role is asked of her. He likes knowing that, in Pharaoh’s eyes, Roisin is one of the team’s most useful assets. She would be the SOU’s best confidential informant if she allowed herself to be officially registered as such. But that would make Roisin a grass and the label is considered grotesque in the community where she was raised. She doesn’t mind helping her husband catch bad men – she just won’t do it for financial gain.

  He’s only a hundred feet or so from the Trawl, with its ugly face and its black timbers and its roof that seems to be made of half a dozen randomly assembled triangles. A century ago this spot would have been thriving: a raucous waterside community built on hard work and trade. Today Stoneferry is a near-wasteland – empty warehouses, litter-strewn footpaths and graffiti-daubed walls. The Trawl is one of the last remaining pubs to survive in the ghost town which was once home to hostelries with splendid old names like the Grapes and the Blue Ball.

  McAvoy stares at the water and thinks about death. He has seen much of it. Has witnessed pain and brutality and been present at the precise moment a human heart turns to stone through the sheer enormity of grief. He has seen how one simple act of violence can annihilate the soul. He doesn’t weigh one murder against another. He cannot allow himself to think of the murder of a child or a pensioner as somehow more appalling than that of a drug dealer stabbed to death or an abuser burned alive. He lives by the credo that it is wrong to take another life. He doesn’t doubt that if he’d met Paul Rouse he would have found him objectionable but if that were a sin worthy of execution, Hull would be an empty place. Nobody deserves to be half beheaded with a shotgun and then sealed in a beer barrel and dumped into the River Hull. He knows few things with any certainty but he is aware, to his bones, that it’s his duty to provide redress for the wronged.

  ‘You look like you’ve been a bad boy in your time,’ says Roisin, in his ear, cooing at the big man. ‘Tell me your war stories. You been inside?’

  McAvoy bites his lip. There is a tight knot in his stomach. He has never ever attempted to tell Roisin what she can and cannot do. She’s good at this and she might help the team catch a killer. It isn’t his responsibility to stop her putting herself in danger. She experienced more peril and violence as a young woman than he, for all his scars and broken bones, has ever endured. He has no more right to tell her to stay at home with the children than she has to make him stop being a policeman. They are who they are. He adores her bravery and spirit and she stares at him in turn with the wide-eyed awe of a woman who married her hero. He has only fleetingly wondered whether it is her absolute certainty that he will come to her aid that makes her so resolutely fearless.

  In front of him, a pigeon and a seagull are fighting over a discarded packet of crisps. He watches them for a while. He’s already read all the graffiti on the wall, topped with barbed wire, which divides the riverside walkway from the cocoa factory. He has no doubt that whoever wrote Connor Is a Liar on the grey brick has long since forgiven his indiscretion.

  John PrewJ

  There is a sudden vibration from within McAvoy’s long cashmere coat. In the right-hand pocket Roisin’s conversation is being recorded straight on to a sleek digital Dictaphone. He retrieves his phone and removes the earpiece. He recognises the number.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ asks Pharaoh, without a hello.

  ‘Been inside more than an hour,’ he says. ‘Flowers worked a treat.’

  ‘And she’s made friends with the big man?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Had enough practice, I suppose.’

  McAvoy says nothing. He wants to stay professional, even while his boss is sitting in his living room looking after his children while his wife flirts with an armed robber. Roisin has two objectives. She needs to ascertain the pay-as-you-go mobile number currently being used by Ronnie Bond and, if possible, she has to find out which of the regulars are left-handed. Through some seemingly random snippets of information she has already alerted McAvoy to the fact that Bond is not one of them. The news was disappointing. Bond ticks every box. But without actionable evidence, the CPS and the top brass are reluctant to drag him in for further questioning for fear of being seen to harass the poor thuggish bastard.

  ‘I’ve chased up Larsson on the ballistics,’ she says, and he hears her inhale, picturing the end of her e-cigarette glowing blue.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the private sector doesn’t like taking calls on a Sunday but once you explain how much money they’re receiving for a report I should have had days ago, they become surprisingly placid.’

  McAvoy kicks a stone. It makes a small splash and then drops without a trace. He finds himself wondering how long the beer keg stayed in the mud and silt of the river bed before the currents pulled it free and sent it spinning into the waters of the Humber and on down the coast.

  ‘The initial report was correct,’ says Pharaoh. ‘The gun was placed no more than an inch from Rouse’s neck and he got both barrels from a twelve-gauge. And yes, I know that Bond used a twelve-gauge. There’s no way of comparing shotgun pellets, other than to say that the same type was fired into the ceiling at one of the Post Office raids, which means nothing at all.’

  ‘And?’ asks McAvoy. He knows she must have rung for more than this. He hears her grin.

  ‘We did strike lucky on the sample analysis,’ she says, stringing out every word. ‘Bit of an unexpected find.’

  ‘Yes?’ he asks, impatiently. He wants to put the earpiece back in and listen to his wife. Bond could have confessed to the whole thing by now.

  ‘In among the carnage at the bottom of the keg. Teeth, shattered bone, brain
fragments – the whole All-Bran of gore . . .’

  ‘Something useful?’

  ‘They’ve been making a computer model of Rouse’s head. A real contender for world’s nastiest jigsaw puzzle. Matching the fragments to pictures and coming up with a pretty serviceable replica of what he looked like before he died. And there was one tooth too many. They sent it for analysis and it came back as non-human.’

  McAvoy, who has been pacing up and down, suddenly stops. His mind fills with the images he has pored over in recent days, trying to acquaint himself with every drinker and drinking den within a three-mile radius of Rouse’s last known whereabouts. He pictures the boy, Shania’s son, with his huge, docile dog.

  ‘Deano,’ says McAvoy, at the same time as his boss.

  ‘Yep,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Looks like he’s not just a big pussycat after all. He went for Rouse. What we don’t know is why. Or quite how a dog managed to use a shotgun . . .’

  ‘The gun could have been Rouse’s. It could have turned nasty in there – he pulls a gun, the dog defends its master, everything goes wrong and they have to tidy up.’ He frowns, displeased with his own theory. ‘But guns are hard to come by and if he had one he’d have shown everybody. And they’re a tricky thing to carry around on a bike. And then there’s the dog. We don’t know anything about his character.’

  ‘Look, you’re the animal lover,’ says Pharaoh, nonchalant. ‘I’m not wasting any of the budget on a psychological assessment for a bloody canine. I’m more interested in why Rouse would get both barrels. And here’s a thought – did the dog snack on Rouse after he was already down?’

  McAvoy rubs his face, thinking hard. He has no doubt that a dog would defend its master. But what sort of danger could the lad have been in? He considers everything he knows about Rouse. Loudmouth. Gobshite. Always showing sick clips on his phone and trying to impress. Had he crossed the line? Done something that Deano took as a threat? And if he’d gone for the man, what would the other drinkers have done? Would they feel enough loyalty to an animal to lie to the police and risk jail time over it? He finds that hard to believe. But for one another, for Shania, the landlady of their local, they would put their necks on the block. He pictures Shania. Fleshy. Scared. Gone to seed, with acne and blackheads and burst capillaries, her cheap tattoos and her scars . . .

  ‘Shania,’ says McAvoy, abruptly. ‘If she tried to chuck him out and he turned nasty . . . if Jay tried to help his mum . . .’

  ‘Is she left-handed?’

  ‘Roisin’s trying to find out.’

  ‘And the boy?’ asks Pharaoh.

  McAvoy closes his eyes. He hates where his thoughts are leading him.

  ‘Keep listening,’ says Pharaoh.

  She ends the call without a goodbye. McAvoy collects his thoughts and controls his breathing. He puts the earpiece back in his ear. Hopes he hasn’t missed too much . . .

  Chapter Six

  ‘Another, please,’ says the quiet man, from his table. Shania glances at him. He’s staring at the doorway, where Jay and his faithful dog Deano have appeared.

  ‘Now then, lad!’ says Alan, enthusiastically. ‘Good to see you. And your beast! You want a pop? Or is it a double whisky these days?’

  Jay tries to smile but it’s little more than a twitch. His face is pale. Shania finds herself glancing at his lower half, hoping to God that he doesn’t suddenly piss himself the way he’s been doing two nights out of three for the best part of a year.

  ‘Double vodka and Coke, was it?’ asks Shania, turning to the pretty girl.

  ‘Aye, that’d be grand,’ says the woman, smiling in a way that Shania finds it difficult not to return.

  ‘On the slate, is it?’ she asks Ronnie, who nods and rubs his nose. He’s gone a little jittery. Shania recognises the signs. She starts counting down from five to one, knowing with absolute certainty what he is about to say.

  ‘Popping to the bogs,’ he announces. ‘Back in a sec.’

  Shania says nothing. She’s stopped caring about the powder he shoves up his nose in the toilets. He didn’t learn his lesson when Dave Albert crashed his car. She doesn’t expect him to alter his ways just because of her.

  ‘Crisps, son?’ Shania asks Jay. He nods. His eyes find hers and she can almost taste his fear. He hates this room now, with its bad memories and its falsehoods. She wants to grab his hand and run; throw a match into a puddle of petrol as she leaves.

  Deano lies down at his master’s feet – a colossal shaggy rug forming a moat between Jay and everybody else.

  Shania is about to ask the woman some gentle questions about herself when the door to the Gents bursts open. Ronnie is standing in the doorway, an angry expression on his face and white powder crusting both nostrils. The young woman turns at the noise and Shania realises, with a mix of relief and dread, that it’s the traveller who has somehow earned his displeasure.

  ‘You’ve had my phone, you thieving bitch,’ he yells, chest out and head back. His face is red and the tendons in his neck stand out.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart?’ asks the woman. If she’s afraid she doesn’t show it.

  ‘Don’t fucking sweetheart me. My phone. You’ve had it.’

  ‘Your phone?’ she asks, voice soft. ‘Why would I want your phone? Come and sit by me, my beautiful man. Take the temper off you a little.’

  Mattie stands up straight, looking at his friend and then back to the traveller girl. ‘Easy, Ronnie . . .’ he begins.

  ‘No, fuck that. She’s had me phone. Who are you, anyway?’ He locks his teeth and stamps in her direction. On the floor, Deano raises his head and opens an eye. Jay starts to stand. Shania sees the fire and fear in his expression.

  ‘You invited me!’ says the woman. ‘Feck, if you’re gonna stay in a temper I’ll be off. I’ve better things to do than be called a thief.’

  ‘You’re more’n a thief,’ spits Ronnie. He is only a pace or two away from her, baring his teeth. ‘What are you? You come in here, sticking your tits in my face . . .’

  ‘That’ll do, Ronnie.’

  Everybody turns. The quiet man raises his head from his Racing Post. He looks hard at the huge bodybuilder towering over them all.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Ronnie barks. ‘Think you’re something, do you? Think you’ve got me scared just ’cause you showed a bit of something when these pussies were pissing their pants. Fuck you. Fuck all of you!’

  Instinct takes over. Shania has thrown dozens of angry men out of her pubs and never allows herself to hesitate when violence suffuses the air. She throws open the hatch and hurries towards Ronnie, waving her arms, smiling like this is all a mistake.

  ‘Leave off, big man, we’ll help you look, she won’t have nabbed anything – not in here. You’re Ronnie Bond, everybody knows you. Nobody would dare. Let’s see if it’s down the side of the chair, yeah . . .?’

  Ronnie isn’t listening. He’s high on the cocaine, amphetamine and steroid mix that once caused him to stamp on the face of an elderly woman and which fuelled him through a dozen different Post Office raids alongside his old mate Dave Albert. He sees only targets. Enemies. He turns to Shania and shoves her in the chest. She yells, surprised, and begins to fall back. Jay stands up, angry, indignant, and Ronnie roars at him to stay where he is.

  Ronnie spins back to the traveller girl and wraps a huge, tattooed hand around her throat, lifting her off the floor up to him so that their faces are squashed together as if against glass . . .

  There is a sudden roar as Deano transforms. The animal that was little more than a slumbering lump of contentment becomes a slavering, furious devil-hound. The growl in his throat turns into a furious cacophony of deep, guttural barks. Ronnie twitches towards the new sound. His face creases into an ugly smirk and he pulls out a switchblade. In a flash of dancing metal he flicks the handle into his palm and holds the blade out, ready to hack at the animal, or the traveller bitch, or anyone who dares cross him . . . ready to stick Paul Rouse’s knife through flesh and b
one and into the warm caress of heart, liver, spleen . . .

  The door seems to explode inwards.

  Aector McAvoy comes through it like a train.

  Chapter Seven

  Three hours later . . .

  The quiet man sits on the bunk in a holding cell at the police HQ on Clough Road. He feels oddly at peace. These past few months have disrupted his sleep and caused his ulcer to flare up. He half imagined that acting the way he did in his youth would somehow re-energise him. If he’d thought about it, he would have presumed that he’d wake up feeling youthful and vibrant the day after he blew Paul Rouse’s head apart. He would have been wrong.

  On the bunk, laces removed from his shoes, belt and tie gone from his neck and waist, the quiet man thinks about the day’s events. The big copper went through Mattie like a car through long weeds. The imbecile went for the Scotsman with a glass and McAvoy slammed his head into a table hard enough to buckle the legs. Even the dog paused, slinking back to Jay while Ronnie squared up to the newcomer and told him what he would do if he didn’t get out of his face. McAvoy looked at the traveller girl, standing there with a little smile on her lips, and the quiet man understood at once. When Ronnie came for McAvoy, the traveller gave him the slightest of nods – tacit permission, a gesture of assurance. Ronnie put the knife in his left hand and threw a punch with his right. It was a good one, solid and vicious, just like the man who threw it. It connected with the policeman’s jaw. He simply looked at Ronnie. Looked right through him as if he’d been struck with a soft toy. Then he grabbed Ronnie by his too-tight T-shirt and threw him – literally hurled him – across the pub. Ronnie landed so hard it sounded like he’d fallen from the roof. McAvoy hit him only once after that. It was a short, open-handed slap but it knocked Ronnie out cold and made him piss his pants – eyes rolling back in his head and one leg broken at the knee. McAvoy glanced at the traveller and she reached out and squeezed his hand. Then he surveyed the wreckage. Sized them all up. Looked at the quiet man – and knew.