Original Skin by David Mark Page B

suit on and contaminated the crime scene.
    He shakes his head, hating everything. Wishing he had listened a little harder. That he had run faster. Caught even one of them. They have nothing to go on. His description is even weaker than that given by the Vietnamese farmers who suffered the same injuries months before. The initial reports on the nails driven into Shaun’s knees suggest they came from the same weapon as that used in the first attack, and the doctor’s initial impression is that Shaun endured an hour of abuse before his heart gave out.
    He has never been as grateful to leave the station. Never wanted to hold Roisin more.
    She is upstairs now. Changing Lilah. Pleased to have her husband home early and hoping his presence in the house will allow her a few hours of proper sleep.
    McAvoy should be enjoying it, too. Should be up there, making them all giggle. Should maybe be getting his boots on and wandering around to pick up Fin from school. Should be reveling in the look on his son’s face, the pleasure and pride at having the biggest dad in the playground.
    With no instructions to follow or any other ideas about where to look for Leanne, McAvoy had decided to have one last little look at the contents of the mobile phone he had fished out of the mud of the River Hull. He entertained a hope that by looking at it again he would satisfy his curiosity and be able to sling the damn thing away. Would be able to get focused. Get busy. Make amends.
    He plugs the phone into his laptop. Begins to play.
    Opening the contacts box, he scrolls through the dots and numbers, whorls and compressed digits. He squints as he tries to make out something intelligible. Mc? MC2? Me?
    McAvoy gets up and grabs a piece of paper from the pad by the landline and writes down the half-dozen variations that the numbers may be making up. He crosses back to where his laptop is plugged in, and sits down in his armchair, his computer’s battery pleasantly warm on his bare legs.
    He logs on. Types in the first number that could vaguely fit with the jumble of numbers. Finds nothing but a string of serial numbers for a courier firm. Tries the next: 07969 . . .
    Bingo.
    There are three hits. The phone number is linked to a trio of sites.
    McAvoy clicks on the first.
    “Black cat, three years old, lovely temperament, missing from Anlaby area since last Sunday. If found, please call . . .”
    McAvoy, hoping the animal turned up, clicks on the second link.
    “New line-dancing club. All ages and abilities welcome. Experienced instructors and fun atmosphere. Every Wednesday at St. Mark’s Church Hall, Anlaby Common. Call Simon, 07969 . . .”
    McAvoy nods. He is building a picture. Starting to care.
    The third link takes him to playmatez.co.uk. He stares at the white screen, its gaudy purple banner; thumbnail pictures of women in fishnets, and men showing off bare torsos, exposed genitals.
    The Number 1 Hook-up Site on the Web! Swing When You’re Winning!
    McAvoy turns from the screen. Looks at the door. Prepares an explanation in case Roisin walks in.
    Turns his attention back to the laptop, unsure whether he is prying or being a policeman.
    He scrolls down until he finds the phone number.
    FILL ME UP. MAKE ME YOUR SLAVE. YOUNG, SLIM, OH-SO-EAGER MALE SEEKING DOMINANT MAN. ANLABY AREA. Call 07969 . . .
    “Has somebody hurt you?”
    His words are said under his breath, but they are laden with the weight of a growing unease.
    McAvoy copies the posting. Creates a file on his desktop and saves the link and the words. Does the same with the lost-pet forum and the line-dance club. Wonders why this matters. Why he needs to know. Why he doesn’t just put the phone in the bin and agree that it’s none of his business unless a crime has been committed. Wonders just how he has convinced himself, with such certainty, that this warrants his time.
    “You want to help me?”
    The voice floats down the stairs with none of its usual music. Roisin is