alerted the team?’
She nodded. ‘We don’t know what it means, but it’s something to look into. Such a tiny number of people knew about it, it could be a horrible coincidence, but I find that hard to believe. Colin Ray gobbled it up like a pork-pie. As soon as I mentioned it, he’d made up his mind. This was some African refugee, finishing what they started. Went out of here grumbling about foreigners finishing their dirty business inYorkshire. I don’t think he really got the right end of the stick.’
McAvoy kept quiet. The same idea had occurred to him.
‘According to the toxicology reports, she had no more alcohol in her system than a sip of communion wine. She had a bit of a cold. And she was a virgin.’
She’d turned away, then, unable to keep it up. ‘It’s incident room phones for you,’ she said over her shoulder, heading for the stairs. ‘Call yourself office manager if you like. Just make sure the PCs and the support staff don’t say anything stupid. I’ve got to go back and see the family, then the
Hull Daily Mail
want a chat. Chief Constable wants a briefing at three. Like I’ve got anything to fucking tell him. There’s a load of CCTV to go through, if you get five minutes.’ Then, more like a wife than a superior, she’d turned, given him a smile and said: ‘You got compliments on the info. Thought you might like to know.’
That had been two hours ago, and the morning has been dire. The first three phone calls he’s taken have done little to lift his spirits.
His thoughts drift to Fred Stein. There is something about all this that seems not just peculiar but almost eerie. He understands guilt. Knows how it feels to survive an attack when others have been less fortunate. But to redress the balance in such a dramatic, almost contrived manner? To tag along with a film crew? To bring your own lifeboat? He doesn’t know enough about Fred Stein to assess his personality, his capacity for self-hatred, but in his experience ex-trawlermen are not usually given to such extravagance.
He slips out into the corridor and leaves a message forCaroline Wills – the documentary-maker who had managed to lose the star of her show seventy miles off the Icelandic coast.
He walks back to his desk. The incident room is taking shape. The filing cabinets have been lined up against the far wall, the desks arranged in neat twos, like seats on a bus, and the map stapled to the board by the grimy window has more pins in it than yesterday. Definite sightings, possible sightings and best-guesses. One uniformed officer is talking softly into a telephone but from his body language, it doesn’t look like an exciting lead. McAvoy has received a dozen texts from Tremberg, Kirkland and Nielsen keeping him apprised of their movements. Nielsen is finishing off the witness list, and losing patience. They saw, but didn’t see. Heard, but weren’t really listening. Witnessed the aftermath, but couldn’t say where the killer had come from, or where he went.
Sophie Kirkland is up at the tech lab, working her way through Daphne Cotton’s hard drive. So far, she’s found that she liked to visit websites featuring Christian doctrine and Justin Timberlake.
He’d be loath to admit it, but McAvoy is bored. He can’t get on with any of his usual workload because the files are back at Priory Road, and despite his reservations, the officers are using the database in the manner he had hoped, so there’s not even any cleaning up to be done on the system.
The mobile phone rings. It’s a withheld number. McAvoy sinks into his chair and answers with a palpable air of relief.
‘Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy,’ he says.
‘I know, son. I just rang you.’ It’s DCI Ray.
‘Yes, sir.’ He sits up straight. Adjusts his tie.
‘I take it Pharaoh’s still busy?’
‘I think she’ll be preparing for her interview with the
Hull Mail
at the moment …’
‘Ready for her close-up, is she?’
McAvoy says nothing. The
She nodded. ‘We don’t know what it means, but it’s something to look into. Such a tiny number of people knew about it, it could be a horrible coincidence, but I find that hard to believe. Colin Ray gobbled it up like a pork-pie. As soon as I mentioned it, he’d made up his mind. This was some African refugee, finishing what they started. Went out of here grumbling about foreigners finishing their dirty business inYorkshire. I don’t think he really got the right end of the stick.’
McAvoy kept quiet. The same idea had occurred to him.
‘According to the toxicology reports, she had no more alcohol in her system than a sip of communion wine. She had a bit of a cold. And she was a virgin.’
She’d turned away, then, unable to keep it up. ‘It’s incident room phones for you,’ she said over her shoulder, heading for the stairs. ‘Call yourself office manager if you like. Just make sure the PCs and the support staff don’t say anything stupid. I’ve got to go back and see the family, then the
Hull Daily Mail
want a chat. Chief Constable wants a briefing at three. Like I’ve got anything to fucking tell him. There’s a load of CCTV to go through, if you get five minutes.’ Then, more like a wife than a superior, she’d turned, given him a smile and said: ‘You got compliments on the info. Thought you might like to know.’
That had been two hours ago, and the morning has been dire. The first three phone calls he’s taken have done little to lift his spirits.
His thoughts drift to Fred Stein. There is something about all this that seems not just peculiar but almost eerie. He understands guilt. Knows how it feels to survive an attack when others have been less fortunate. But to redress the balance in such a dramatic, almost contrived manner? To tag along with a film crew? To bring your own lifeboat? He doesn’t know enough about Fred Stein to assess his personality, his capacity for self-hatred, but in his experience ex-trawlermen are not usually given to such extravagance.
He slips out into the corridor and leaves a message forCaroline Wills – the documentary-maker who had managed to lose the star of her show seventy miles off the Icelandic coast.
He walks back to his desk. The incident room is taking shape. The filing cabinets have been lined up against the far wall, the desks arranged in neat twos, like seats on a bus, and the map stapled to the board by the grimy window has more pins in it than yesterday. Definite sightings, possible sightings and best-guesses. One uniformed officer is talking softly into a telephone but from his body language, it doesn’t look like an exciting lead. McAvoy has received a dozen texts from Tremberg, Kirkland and Nielsen keeping him apprised of their movements. Nielsen is finishing off the witness list, and losing patience. They saw, but didn’t see. Heard, but weren’t really listening. Witnessed the aftermath, but couldn’t say where the killer had come from, or where he went.
Sophie Kirkland is up at the tech lab, working her way through Daphne Cotton’s hard drive. So far, she’s found that she liked to visit websites featuring Christian doctrine and Justin Timberlake.
He’d be loath to admit it, but McAvoy is bored. He can’t get on with any of his usual workload because the files are back at Priory Road, and despite his reservations, the officers are using the database in the manner he had hoped, so there’s not even any cleaning up to be done on the system.
The mobile phone rings. It’s a withheld number. McAvoy sinks into his chair and answers with a palpable air of relief.
‘Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy,’ he says.
‘I know, son. I just rang you.’ It’s DCI Ray.
‘Yes, sir.’ He sits up straight. Adjusts his tie.
‘I take it Pharaoh’s still busy?’
‘I think she’ll be preparing for her interview with the
Hull Mail
at the moment …’
‘Ready for her close-up, is she?’
McAvoy says nothing. The
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