wake a child, back within the embrace of the house.
His feet make no noise as he takes the stairs. He moves slowly, but takes the steps three at a time so as to cut down on the likelihood of one creaking.
He sniffs: a great stag checking the morning air for predators. For prey.
He finds himself moving toward what he presumes to be the bedroom. The door, white-painted and featureless, has been pushed to but not fully closed. He inches toward it. Pulls the extendable baton from his pocket, and then puts it back. He has never swung the weapon. Has seen what it can do. Does not want to add his name to the list of officers who have found themselves disciplined or guilt-ridden after allowing their adrenaline to overtake them while armed with something so deadly.
He pushes open the door.
Shaun Unwin has been tie-wrapped by the ankles to a hard-backed chair. He is naked. His hands are palms down upon his knees, a gory mimicry of a well-disciplined schoolchild.
The room smells of blood. Of lighter fuel. Of burning flesh.
The skin on Shaun’s torso has been melted down to bone.
His feet sit, unmoving, in a puddle of blood that runs down from where the nails have been driven through the backs of his hands and deep into his kneecaps.
His head lolls forward: lifeless.
McAvoy crosses the room. Lifts Shaun’s head. Recoils as he stares into the slack-jawed ruination of the man’s mouth. At the stumps of broken teeth. The blue-black blood. The perforations in his gore-lacquered cheeks.
Shaun’s mouth has been filled with a fuel-soaked rag and then set on fire. His tongue is melted black.
McAvoy, fighting his instincts, reaches out a hand and presses his fingers to Shaun’s neck.
Moves back to the wall and retrieves his phone.
Pharaoh answers before he can speak.
“He’s dead, isn’t he, Shaun. I bet the fucking idiot walked straight in the front door.”
“They hurt him, guv,” says McAvoy, softly. “Must have worked on him for a time. I can’t see Leanne. Fuck, what a mess . . .”
A sound behind him makes him stop short.
Shaun would have been home by around five a.m. It’s just after seven a.m. now. It would have taken time to do this. Could they still . . .
This time the noise is unmistakable. The bang of wood on brick, and then feet on cobbles.
McAvoy sprints across to the window. Peers left and then right, frantically searching for the source of the sudden sounds.
He catches a glimpse of three figures. A flash of black leather and bristled, porcine skin. Of broad backs and raised collars. A flash of auburn. An insinuation, in the chaos of the picture, of a smaller, more delicate form, quicker than the others, a blur of color and a flash of white.
And they are gone.
McAvoy finds himself alone in a missing informant’s flat. Finds himself sinking to his knees, bringing himself level with the ruined body of a man tortured to death for allowing his woman to open her mouth.
“Nobody here,” says McAvoy, into the phone, and the words seem to make his tongue swell—make bile rise in his mouth.
He stops himself. Bites back the lies.
“Guv, I’m so sorry . . .”
HOME AGAIN. Tired and guilty, aching and sick.
It’s not your fault. They were playing with bad people. It happened. Leanne could still be okay . . .
He has heard lots of soothing words in the past few hours, but none has helped him feel any better or cleansed his senses of the stench of Shaun’s skin.
Pharaoh has taken over. A murder investigation has been launched, but the top brass have yet to decide whether it is to be folded into Pharaoh’s existing investigation, or handed over to a separate CID team. McAvoy believes any attempts to remove it from Pharaoh’s grasp would be madness, but knows, too, that his opinion counts for nothing. He’s just the cop who found the body. The cop who has spent all day giving statements and having his clothes bagged by forensics officers because he went into the flat without a white
His feet make no noise as he takes the stairs. He moves slowly, but takes the steps three at a time so as to cut down on the likelihood of one creaking.
He sniffs: a great stag checking the morning air for predators. For prey.
He finds himself moving toward what he presumes to be the bedroom. The door, white-painted and featureless, has been pushed to but not fully closed. He inches toward it. Pulls the extendable baton from his pocket, and then puts it back. He has never swung the weapon. Has seen what it can do. Does not want to add his name to the list of officers who have found themselves disciplined or guilt-ridden after allowing their adrenaline to overtake them while armed with something so deadly.
He pushes open the door.
Shaun Unwin has been tie-wrapped by the ankles to a hard-backed chair. He is naked. His hands are palms down upon his knees, a gory mimicry of a well-disciplined schoolchild.
The room smells of blood. Of lighter fuel. Of burning flesh.
The skin on Shaun’s torso has been melted down to bone.
His feet sit, unmoving, in a puddle of blood that runs down from where the nails have been driven through the backs of his hands and deep into his kneecaps.
His head lolls forward: lifeless.
McAvoy crosses the room. Lifts Shaun’s head. Recoils as he stares into the slack-jawed ruination of the man’s mouth. At the stumps of broken teeth. The blue-black blood. The perforations in his gore-lacquered cheeks.
Shaun’s mouth has been filled with a fuel-soaked rag and then set on fire. His tongue is melted black.
McAvoy, fighting his instincts, reaches out a hand and presses his fingers to Shaun’s neck.
Moves back to the wall and retrieves his phone.
Pharaoh answers before he can speak.
“He’s dead, isn’t he, Shaun. I bet the fucking idiot walked straight in the front door.”
“They hurt him, guv,” says McAvoy, softly. “Must have worked on him for a time. I can’t see Leanne. Fuck, what a mess . . .”
A sound behind him makes him stop short.
Shaun would have been home by around five a.m. It’s just after seven a.m. now. It would have taken time to do this. Could they still . . .
This time the noise is unmistakable. The bang of wood on brick, and then feet on cobbles.
McAvoy sprints across to the window. Peers left and then right, frantically searching for the source of the sudden sounds.
He catches a glimpse of three figures. A flash of black leather and bristled, porcine skin. Of broad backs and raised collars. A flash of auburn. An insinuation, in the chaos of the picture, of a smaller, more delicate form, quicker than the others, a blur of color and a flash of white.
And they are gone.
McAvoy finds himself alone in a missing informant’s flat. Finds himself sinking to his knees, bringing himself level with the ruined body of a man tortured to death for allowing his woman to open her mouth.
“Nobody here,” says McAvoy, into the phone, and the words seem to make his tongue swell—make bile rise in his mouth.
He stops himself. Bites back the lies.
“Guv, I’m so sorry . . .”
HOME AGAIN. Tired and guilty, aching and sick.
It’s not your fault. They were playing with bad people. It happened. Leanne could still be okay . . .
He has heard lots of soothing words in the past few hours, but none has helped him feel any better or cleansed his senses of the stench of Shaun’s skin.
Pharaoh has taken over. A murder investigation has been launched, but the top brass have yet to decide whether it is to be folded into Pharaoh’s existing investigation, or handed over to a separate CID team. McAvoy believes any attempts to remove it from Pharaoh’s grasp would be madness, but knows, too, that his opinion counts for nothing. He’s just the cop who found the body. The cop who has spent all day giving statements and having his clothes bagged by forensics officers because he went into the flat without a white
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