as he looked at her curling, girlish handwriting and her songs about love, desire and loss. She owned candles and nice wine glasses. Her tea-towel matched her coffee jar. She was somewhere between adult and child; trying to make a home and then letting it tumble into teenage squalor. He pities the forensics officers who must catalogue and test every last fibre of her flat, from the tiny hairs on her razor to the lump of rock on her windowsill.
Pharaoh has been talking. Making comments, under her breath, about the colour of the carpet. Asking whether the yellow stain on the ceiling is from cigarette smoke blown upwards, or piss that has dripped down.
And then Jez Gavan makes his entrance.
House and master suit one another immaculately.
He is dressed in jogging pants and a decade-old Man United shirt stretched so tightly over his gut that McAvoy wonders whether it is painted on. He is every bit as fat as his woman, though where she at least has a face capable of more than one expression, his is so scrunched up and sour McAvoy wants to show him off to Fin and tell him that the old saying is true about what happens when the wind changes. All of his features are gathered together in one little lump in the centre of his bulbous face. It looks like a full English in the centre of a serving platter.
Jez greets them by belching loudly and scratching his short hair so vigorously that it causes a brief halo of dandruff to form around his crown. There is darkness under his eyes and a cigarette paper hanging, unrolled, from his lower lip, like a Post-it note that nobody has taken the time to fill in. He throws himself down on an armchair, sending up a cloud of dust, then sticks both hands down his trousers. He treats both coppers to a smile. Looks appreciatively at Trish Pharaoh’s tits. Gives McAvoy the once-over and clearly decides that the big bugger has muscles like an elephant but all the killer instinct of a dishtowel.
‘What you bastards want?’ he asks, picking up an expensive smartphone from the floor and playing with the buttons. ‘Why’s it always me, eh? Why can’t you find some other poor bastard? How many times do you lot want to fit me up? I ain’t done owt. I’m just an easy collar. I told you before, I’m never speaking to coppers again. I was honest with you. Well, not you. But coppers, yeah? I didn’t even know what I was doing. I was so pissed I couldn’t see. Went in the wrong fucking house, didn’t I? Door was bloody open. Fell asleep on the sofa. No harm done. Silly bitch should lock her door, shouldn’t she? Shouldn’t have come to court. I’ve got fuck all to say to you.’
Pharaoh is patient with him. Gives him a chance to vent a little spleen. She’s never met Gavan before but his record suggests that he knows how this game is played.
‘Can I stop you there?’ she asks, holding up her hands and standing up. ‘You seem to think we’re here to cause you grief. The truth is, we’re not. We’re here because Ava Delaney used to be registered as living at this address. And Ava Delaney is now dead. So stop all this bollocks and start paying us some bloody respect, or you’ll be down the cells and bleeding from the nose quicker than you can count to three, which in my estimation is about twenty fucking minutes.’
Jez looks at Pharaoh like a moped driver who has just pulled up at the traffic lights next to three Hell’s Angels on Harley-Davidsons. His unhealthy yellow face turns a shade of grey and his tattooed hands turn to fists as he scratches at the arms of his plastic chair. Eventually, he manages to find the enthusiasm for a strange kind of gulped smile, then barks an order at his woman. A moment later, she brings him a battered metal tin. He rolls a cigarette with dirty fingers. It’s prison-thin; the habit of a man used to conserving his tobacco. It betrays Gavan’s history, his years in a variety of category C prisons and one brief stretch in a category A. He was the least
Pharaoh has been talking. Making comments, under her breath, about the colour of the carpet. Asking whether the yellow stain on the ceiling is from cigarette smoke blown upwards, or piss that has dripped down.
And then Jez Gavan makes his entrance.
House and master suit one another immaculately.
He is dressed in jogging pants and a decade-old Man United shirt stretched so tightly over his gut that McAvoy wonders whether it is painted on. He is every bit as fat as his woman, though where she at least has a face capable of more than one expression, his is so scrunched up and sour McAvoy wants to show him off to Fin and tell him that the old saying is true about what happens when the wind changes. All of his features are gathered together in one little lump in the centre of his bulbous face. It looks like a full English in the centre of a serving platter.
Jez greets them by belching loudly and scratching his short hair so vigorously that it causes a brief halo of dandruff to form around his crown. There is darkness under his eyes and a cigarette paper hanging, unrolled, from his lower lip, like a Post-it note that nobody has taken the time to fill in. He throws himself down on an armchair, sending up a cloud of dust, then sticks both hands down his trousers. He treats both coppers to a smile. Looks appreciatively at Trish Pharaoh’s tits. Gives McAvoy the once-over and clearly decides that the big bugger has muscles like an elephant but all the killer instinct of a dishtowel.
‘What you bastards want?’ he asks, picking up an expensive smartphone from the floor and playing with the buttons. ‘Why’s it always me, eh? Why can’t you find some other poor bastard? How many times do you lot want to fit me up? I ain’t done owt. I’m just an easy collar. I told you before, I’m never speaking to coppers again. I was honest with you. Well, not you. But coppers, yeah? I didn’t even know what I was doing. I was so pissed I couldn’t see. Went in the wrong fucking house, didn’t I? Door was bloody open. Fell asleep on the sofa. No harm done. Silly bitch should lock her door, shouldn’t she? Shouldn’t have come to court. I’ve got fuck all to say to you.’
Pharaoh is patient with him. Gives him a chance to vent a little spleen. She’s never met Gavan before but his record suggests that he knows how this game is played.
‘Can I stop you there?’ she asks, holding up her hands and standing up. ‘You seem to think we’re here to cause you grief. The truth is, we’re not. We’re here because Ava Delaney used to be registered as living at this address. And Ava Delaney is now dead. So stop all this bollocks and start paying us some bloody respect, or you’ll be down the cells and bleeding from the nose quicker than you can count to three, which in my estimation is about twenty fucking minutes.’
Jez looks at Pharaoh like a moped driver who has just pulled up at the traffic lights next to three Hell’s Angels on Harley-Davidsons. His unhealthy yellow face turns a shade of grey and his tattooed hands turn to fists as he scratches at the arms of his plastic chair. Eventually, he manages to find the enthusiasm for a strange kind of gulped smile, then barks an order at his woman. A moment later, she brings him a battered metal tin. He rolls a cigarette with dirty fingers. It’s prison-thin; the habit of a man used to conserving his tobacco. It betrays Gavan’s history, his years in a variety of category C prisons and one brief stretch in a category A. He was the least
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