Unwin had been arrested for disorderly conduct at 3:15 p.m. the previous day, even as Pharaoh and her team sat planning the raid at St. Andrew’s Quay. He had been knocking back drinks in the Mission. Sparked up a cigarette and refused to put it out. Swung a punch at the barman and smashed his forearm into the Plexiglas frontage of the jukebox. Made a prick of himself, and told the owners that if they didn’t like it, they should call the cops.
He didn’t run when the police turned up. Seemed to give himself up without any of his usual aggression.
The constable who made the arrest said he could get nothing out of Unwin. Had got no reply when he, like so many others, tried to find Leanne Marvell to inform her of her partner’s arrest.
McAvoy closes his eyes. Last night’s bust was doomed to failure from the start. Leanne had told her boyfriend that she had told the police. He had gone and got himself banged up, and whether intentional or not, that news would have rung alarm bells with the gang who paid him. Calls would have been made. The cannabis relocated. And then some bastards in a Land Rover dispatched to deliver a flaming warning to the coppers who had thought they were dealing with the usual class of scum . . .
His phone rings. Wincing in advance, he answers as quickly as he can.
“Guv?”
“I already know,” says Pharaoh, shouting above the noise of her sports car on the noisy road that leads from her home across the water up to the Humber Bridge. “Fucking idiots. Have you tried the house? He’s just thick enough to go back there.”
“No, guv. I came straight to Queens Gardens . . .”
“Right. Well, fucking run. Why do these people think they can think? If he wanted to be out of the way, Leanne could have asked us. We could have planned it another way. He could have had nothing to do with any of it. To be sitting in the cells while we were sitting waiting for him—what does he think his bosses were going to think?”
The doors swing open as McAvoy walks back out into the cold. The rain is still holding off, and his feet are steady on the slick pavements as he jogs back across the gardens and over Parliament Street, down onto Whitefriargate, with its shuttered chain stores and its full gutters stuffed with dead leaves, empty bottles, and polystyrene takeaway cartons.
He makes his way across Trinity Square and onto Dagger Lane.
Answers his phone as it vibrates against his thigh.
“Well? Anything? Shaun?” A pause. A note of real concern. “Leanne?”
The street is deserted. The light from the streetlamps shows up the haze of moisture in the gray air, and McAvoy instinctively shivers as he looks at his coat and sees that somehow, despite the absence of rain, he is soaked through.
A voice in his ear: “McAvoy?”
“Nearly there, guv.”
“She’ll be okay. You’ve seen her. She’s hard. It’s not her that told. They just put it together themselves . . .”
They both attempt to persuade themselves into happier, more positive thoughts. They fail.
“Not a sound, guv. He wouldn’t come here, though, and we’ve been trying Leanne all night . . .”
McAvoy stops.
Swears.
“Aector?”
The door to Leanne’s terraced house is an inch ajar.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
“The door’s open, guv.”
“Fuck, Aector. Right, I’m on my way. Call for uniform immediately.”
McAvoy eyes the doorway. Reaches out a hand and touches the wet wood. Pushes it open and steps inside.
“Aector, I’m not far off the bridge. I can be there in twenty-five minutes maximum. Don’t you even think about going in there.”
McAvoy nods, steps back.
Then he smells it. Smells the soft, earthy scent of suffering: of tears and pain. It is an infusion in the air, a whisper of a taste. It catches in his nostrils and stuffs its fingers down his throat.
“Guv, there’s somebody inside.”
McAvoy says no more. Ends the call and then switches off his phone. Moves, as if trying not to
He didn’t run when the police turned up. Seemed to give himself up without any of his usual aggression.
The constable who made the arrest said he could get nothing out of Unwin. Had got no reply when he, like so many others, tried to find Leanne Marvell to inform her of her partner’s arrest.
McAvoy closes his eyes. Last night’s bust was doomed to failure from the start. Leanne had told her boyfriend that she had told the police. He had gone and got himself banged up, and whether intentional or not, that news would have rung alarm bells with the gang who paid him. Calls would have been made. The cannabis relocated. And then some bastards in a Land Rover dispatched to deliver a flaming warning to the coppers who had thought they were dealing with the usual class of scum . . .
His phone rings. Wincing in advance, he answers as quickly as he can.
“Guv?”
“I already know,” says Pharaoh, shouting above the noise of her sports car on the noisy road that leads from her home across the water up to the Humber Bridge. “Fucking idiots. Have you tried the house? He’s just thick enough to go back there.”
“No, guv. I came straight to Queens Gardens . . .”
“Right. Well, fucking run. Why do these people think they can think? If he wanted to be out of the way, Leanne could have asked us. We could have planned it another way. He could have had nothing to do with any of it. To be sitting in the cells while we were sitting waiting for him—what does he think his bosses were going to think?”
The doors swing open as McAvoy walks back out into the cold. The rain is still holding off, and his feet are steady on the slick pavements as he jogs back across the gardens and over Parliament Street, down onto Whitefriargate, with its shuttered chain stores and its full gutters stuffed with dead leaves, empty bottles, and polystyrene takeaway cartons.
He makes his way across Trinity Square and onto Dagger Lane.
Answers his phone as it vibrates against his thigh.
“Well? Anything? Shaun?” A pause. A note of real concern. “Leanne?”
The street is deserted. The light from the streetlamps shows up the haze of moisture in the gray air, and McAvoy instinctively shivers as he looks at his coat and sees that somehow, despite the absence of rain, he is soaked through.
A voice in his ear: “McAvoy?”
“Nearly there, guv.”
“She’ll be okay. You’ve seen her. She’s hard. It’s not her that told. They just put it together themselves . . .”
They both attempt to persuade themselves into happier, more positive thoughts. They fail.
“Not a sound, guv. He wouldn’t come here, though, and we’ve been trying Leanne all night . . .”
McAvoy stops.
Swears.
“Aector?”
The door to Leanne’s terraced house is an inch ajar.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
“The door’s open, guv.”
“Fuck, Aector. Right, I’m on my way. Call for uniform immediately.”
McAvoy eyes the doorway. Reaches out a hand and touches the wet wood. Pushes it open and steps inside.
“Aector, I’m not far off the bridge. I can be there in twenty-five minutes maximum. Don’t you even think about going in there.”
McAvoy nods, steps back.
Then he smells it. Smells the soft, earthy scent of suffering: of tears and pain. It is an infusion in the air, a whisper of a taste. It catches in his nostrils and stuffs its fingers down his throat.
“Guv, there’s somebody inside.”
McAvoy says no more. Ends the call and then switches off his phone. Moves, as if trying not to
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