Original Skin (27 page)

“Nice one,” she says, smiling. “Go on, then. Show me.”

McAvoy navigates them onto the discussion forums as Pharaoh brushes past and heads back to the bar for more fuel. In her absence he checks his phone. He has a missed call from a withheld number, and an “I love you soooo much xxxx” from Roisin.

“What’s he got to say for himself?” asks Pharaoh, sitting back down. “He leave any messages saying he was bummed then strangled to death by three local politicians?”

McAvoy takes another sip of beer. He can feel it doing him good. Types Simon’s user name into the forum to see what he has posted on. Pulls a face when he gets nothing back.

“Not very chatty,” says Pharaoh.

“I’ll try some of his areas of interest.”

They try line dancing. Hull. Anlaby. Dominance.

All bring up discussion threads but none that Simon contributed to.

McAvoy drops his head to the table and gives a moan as Pharaoh takes over on typing duty.

“The spelling is shocking. I suppose it can’t be easy to care when you’ve only got one hand to spare.”

McAvoy listens as his boss murmurs ideas. Feels the vibration in his forehead as her fingers thunder on the keys. “Hey, Aector, I’ve got a message. Wahey, somebody loves me!”

He looks up. In the corner of the screen is an icon indicating the arrival of new mail.

“Open it,” he instructs.

Pharaoh reads: “‘No picture? You tease. Bet you’re pretty in the flesh. Want to meet?’”

McAvoy shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Dunno,” muses Pharaoh. “Sounds quite nice.”

“Click that one,” says McAvoy suddenly, looking at a discussion title. “Go on.”

Pharaoh does as she is told. The discussion is titled “All talk, no action—left me lying.”

“Scroll down. Click that. There.”

They read it together. It is little more than a chat between two members, with occasional comments from observers. The first posting was made in August of last year: a missive from a member called Adams71 furious at having been led on by a potential partner, only to be left wanting. A reply, from RedKen1960, details a similar experience.

“‘Was so embarrassing,’” reads Pharaoh, from the screen. “‘Days of texts, getting me so horny and hard, I did everything he wanted, and he just left me there.’”

“‘Ditto, mate,’” reads McAvoy. “‘Feel sick thinking about it. Just took a look at me and left. I thought it was part of the game.’”

“He’s online now,” says Pharaoh suddenly. “Look.”

A red icon is flashing on the screen. RedKen1960 is logged on.

“Let me,” says McAvoy, grabbing the laptop. Quickly, he types: “Hey you. Read about your problems with that no-show tease. What happened? xx.”

They say nothing for a moment. Just stare at the screen. Tap their fingers on the table. Inhale, in unison, ahead of the dejected sigh that will come if there is no reply.

“There,” says Pharaoh, first.

She clicks the message icon. Opens it up. Reads aloud.

Still fuming about it! Met some teases but that was just cruel. Even thought about reporting him, but he’d closed down his profile by the time I came back on the site to give him a telling off. Spent the day e-mailing me, getting me so horny, all these things he wanted to do to me. So kinky. Wanted me naked, waiting for him when he got there. Was just going to take me without a word. Even asked me to get a belt so he could tie my hands. Did everything he wanted, he came in the room, and then just sodded off without touching me. Soooo embarrassing. Anyway, was his loss. Am over it now. Wot about you? See we’re into the same things. You got any playmates you can recommend?

Pharaoh pushes herself back from the table so she can look at McAvoy without his face going blurry through nearness. As expected, he has his eyes shut.

“I can think and keep my eyes open at the same time, y’know,” she says sweetly. “Multitasking, they call it.”

His eyelids flick open. He sees her staring at his face and looks away. When he finds the courage to return her gaze, she is looking back at the computer screen.

“He was looking for Simon,” says McAvoy quietly. “He wanted to see if they had tattoos. When they didn’t, he left. When he found the right man, he killed him.”

Pharaoh sucks in her cheeks. Blows out. Crosses her legs, then lifts one by the ankle and angles it across the other. The material of her clingy dress shows the shape of her thighs, and McAvoy has to fight the impulse to commit the image to memory.

“Am I replying?”

Pharaoh nods. “Tell him to see if he can find the original user name of the person he got in touch with. We need the messages, too. If we do take this further, we’ll need it all to give to the website administrator.”

“If?” asks McAvoy.

Pharaoh nods, openly. “Yeah, if. At the moment this is just Aector McAvoy’s intellectual exercise. It’s not a murder investigation. It’s you and your boss knocking theories about and trying to decide whether there’s enough here to take it further.”

McAvoy widens his eyes. Shows his frustration. He feels as if he is running over breaking ice. “I thought you agreed with me.”

Pharaoh smiles indulgently. Puts her hand on his knee, as if he were an angry teenager refusing to accept her advice. “I do agree with you. I agree CID didn’t look into this when they should have and I agree there is a bloody good chance Simon Appleyard was murdered. But the lad has been cremated. The only evidence we have are some knackered mobile phones and some theories. I’ve got to think about the likelihood of a conviction. If not, there’s just another unsolved murder on the books.”

McAvoy turns his face to her. He is flushed and prickling with sweat across his back and shoulders. “So what does that make us? If we’re more concerned with numbers than justice, then who holds it all together? What are we here for?”

He has raised his voice more than he intended, and Pharaoh’s face turns angry. “Don’t count me in with the number crunchers, boyo. When somebody does something wrong, I want them caught and I want them punished. When somebody has been hurt, they deserve to know that there has been some kind of payback.”

“And when somebody has been murdered?”

“We catch who did it,” she says, then adds, “if we can.”

They sit in silence, looking past each other, unsure of whether to make up or take the argument further.

“What next?” asks McAvoy.

Pharaoh shrugs. “Next, we take a step back. We see what else Dan can find on the phone laptop. We wait for a description of the taxi passenger. We try and find out why they took a cab. We learn more about Simon. Then we have a think.”

McAvoy nods sullenly. He can see the sense in the suggestion.

“What if he’s trying to hurt somebody else?” he asks.

“You said it yourself, he was after Simon. He’s got him.”

McAvoy cannot meet her gaze, so turns back to the computer screen. Starts flicking through Simon’s details again. Looks at the
FRIENDS
section of the site.

“You think any of those are Suzie?” he asks Pharaoh, highlighting some of the female contacts that Simon has listed on his page. “Should I e-mail them? See how they knew him?”

Pharaoh nods. “Good idea,” she says.

“It’s a whole world we don’t know about,” says McAvoy thoughtfully, as he plows through the endless profiles. “People must be so lonely.”

Pharaoh looks at him as if he’s from outer space. “Not everybody has what you have,” she says at last. “People need excitement. Some people drink. Some smoke. They gamble. They meet strangers for sex. They put themselves in the hands of a sadist because it makes their heart beat faster. Life’s so tame sometimes, Aector. People just need badness sometimes.”

McAvoy wishes he had something else to drink. “I just can’t imagine spending my evenings having sex in the back of a car with a stranger.”

“You wouldn’t fit in a car. You’d need to go dogging in a van.” McAvoy takes no notice of her words. He just hears “dogging” and has a moment’s flash of inspiration. He clicks out of the website and finds a search engine. Types “dogging, East Yorkshire” into Google. “Good job your missus doesn’t check your search history,” says Pharaoh.

Moments later, he is on a website called swingingheaven.co.uk. He scrolls through dozens of postings left by members with names like luvbstolik and trev69, until he sees one that mentions East Yorkshire. Opens up the discussion thread and finds a score of messages mentioning the A46, Coniston rest stop.

He goes back to Google. Types in the road name. Is taken straight to a story on the
Hull Daily Mail
website.

MAN HURT AT EAST YORKSHIRE REST STOP

A 44-year-old man is in intensive care after being involved in a suspected hit-and-run at an East Yorkshire beauty spot.

The man, visiting the area on business and said to be from West Yorkshire, was found by motorists at Coniston rest stop on the road to Bridlington late on Tuesday night.

Detectives are keen to talk to the person who made a 999 call from a nearby telephone box shortly after the incident. Anyone with information should call Humberside Police on 0845 6060222, or Crimestoppers, anonymously, on 0800 555 111.

As he turns to Pharaoh, her sigh is powerful enough to tickle his damp fringe. “Guv?”

She pulls out her phone. Rings through to control. Asks which uniformed officer dealt with the incident and whether he is working today. As she waits for an answer, she mouths “I hate you” at McAvoy, who scowls and then gives a nervous laugh.

“Really? I think I know him, yeah. Radio through and ask him to ring me on this number. Thanks.” She hangs up. Turns to McAvoy. “It’s gone up to Tony Laws at Bridlington. Control are asking him to get in touch.”

“Why don’t we know about this?” asks McAvoy.

“We’re just a little unit,” says Pharaoh. “We look after very specific crimes. You remember the regular CID workload, Aector. You can’t keep track of it. And nobody knows you and I are doing this. We’re supposed to be finding out which bastards nailed lots of people’s hands to their knees. They probably don’t think we have time for dogging.”

Her phone rings. She answers politely.

“Tony, hi. Yeah. No, I know. I won’t keep you. Forget all that ma’am stuff. Guv will be fine. Or Trish, once you’ve bought me a drink. Look, Coniston rest stop, I’m told somebody got a bit carried away . . .”

McAvoy listens as his boss learns more in five minutes of charm and chat than he has in days of solo grandstanding and analysis.

She hangs up, having made a new friend.

“Right,” she says as he looks at her expectantly. “Victim was one David Stoneleigh. Letting agent from Morley. It’s near the Ikea roundabout, before you ask. Leeds way. Over here looking to link up with another letting firm, or at least that’s the story. Tony Laws reckons he came all this way to meet somebody up the rest stop. Apparently it’s endless up there. They ignore most of it. Do the occasional sweep of the area but tend to turn a blind eye. Anyway, they got a call last week from a phone box in the next village. Female voice, told ambulance to get to the rest stop. Somebody badly hurt. Police were alerted automatically. Patrol car arrived. Found this bugger flat on the ground, pants around his ankles, legs smashed in and hips broken. Death’s door. Got him to hospital and he was unconscious for two days. Operated on Friday and he’s lost his spleen, but he’s conscious again. Not talking very much. Probably shitting his pants trying to think of something to tell the wife. She’s used to it, mind. He was cautioned for curb crawling in Bradford in 2003.”

McAvoy digests it all. “Nasty business. But I don’t see any connection.”

“No, neither did I. Was about to go back to being sensible and doing this cautiously. Then he gave me the other news.”

“Yes?”

“They’ve fingerprinted the bonnet of his car. His own prints, and another set.”

McAvoy looks at her expectantly.

“Susan Devlin. Twenty-six. Arrested two years ago for an attack on her partner. Criminal damage. Attacked her boyfriend when he was tied up. Sex thing.”

McAvoy tries to link the information, but cannot put it together. Pharaoh is smiling.

“Received a suspended sentence when it went to magistrates’ court. So did her co-accused.”

“Co-accused?”

Pharaoh grins. “Simon Appleyard.”

7:17 P.M. WELTON.

COUNCILLOR
Peter Tressider’s big white house: screened by leylandii trees and tall black railings, so as to be almost invisible from this wide, quiet street.

Trish Pharaoh, pulling in to the driveway in her two-seater sports car, sucking two extra-strong mints and smoking a black cigarette.

She looks up at the property. Gives a grudging nod. It seems tailor-made for an aspiring politician. It suggests wealth without pretentiousness, success without pomposity. Pharaoh would use the word
tasteful
, if asked.

She steps out of the car. Checks her reflection in the window. Ensures there are no errant herbs between her teeth, and then grinds her cigarette out with the heel of her boot. She’s been home. Changed into a lemon-yellow blouse and black skirt. Put a scarf around her neck and brushed her hair. Slipped into her biker boots and pulled on a suit jacket, which she has since discarded and thrown on the passenger seat. It was a long drive, just to make herself presentable. Sixty-mile round trip, over the bridge and back. But she’s pleased she made the effort. Feels less self-conscious about her bandaged cuts and scars now that she is dressed for her day job.

A slight pause. A breath and a moment of darkness, hiding behind her eyelids. Then up to the front door. Two taps with the brass knocker, followed by a ring of the bell.

Five seconds. Ten.

She tries the handle. Nothing. Listens for sounds from inside the property. Fancies she can hear activity somewhere past the glass conservatory that marks the western boundary of the long, brick-built property.

Pharaoh crunches over the gravel and onto the deep green grass. Is silent as she moves to the back of the house. Pushes open a wooden side gate and emerges in a long, well-tended garden. A raised patio area gives way to a hundred yards of landscaped lawn. At its center is a Chinese-style pagoda, overlooking a large, teardrop-shaped pond. On a raised platform above, water shoots from an ornamental fountain to splash merrily across polished, colored rocks.

Peter Tressider is sitting with his feet in the pond. He is wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with a jumper folded like a cape about his neck. His trousers are rolled up and he is reading from a sheaf of A4 papers while sipping beer from a can.

“Councillor Tressider, sir?”

He looks up, eyebrows knitting together, as Pharaoh crosses the grass. He’s a burly, square-shouldered chap with a dark, thick beard that looks as though it would regrow within the hour if shaven.

“No, no, this is my private residence, I’m afraid I . . .”

He starts getting up, pulling a pale, fleshy right foot out of the water and bracing his hands on his thigh to lever himself into a standing position. He recognizes her as she gets closer.

Gives a show of surprise.

“Pharaoh, isn’t it? Aector’s mate?”

She nods, happily accepting the description. “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry to intrude . . .”

He waves a hand. Lowers himself back down.

She stands at the water’s edge, watching her reflection being distorted by the water falling from the fountain. Catches sight of a large, orange-and-white carp moving slowly in the depths of the pond.

“You’re welcome to have a dip,” he says warmly, pointing at the pond. “Wonderfully refreshing once you get used to the cold. I used to go for a dip every New Year’s Day at Bridlington, y’know. Very bracing. Don’t think the heart would stand it now. Will settle for getting chilly to the ankles.”

Pharaoh notices a wooden fold-up chair in the gazebo and brings it down to the side of the pond. She erects it and sits down carefully.

“You okay with that chair?” he asks. “I notice you’ve hurt yourself.”

“Bit of a scrap with a couple of dogs,” she says matter-of-factly. “They came off worse.”

Tressider frowns. “Are you the officer involved in the gypsy case?” He catches himself. Looks around, feigning guilt. “I can’t say that, can I? Gypsy? What’s the politically correct term for them? It was you, though—yes? A suspect set his dogs on you and another officer? Am I right in thinking it’s all linked to the drugs business? Yes, yes. Goodness, how you keep it all in one head I’ll never know. You’re having quite a time, aren’t you? All this just to keep the spreadsheets looking pretty. It’s a world gone mad. Can’t wait to change it! Glad you’re back on your feet.” He stops. Looks suspicious. “This isn’t about compensation, is it?”

Pharaoh pinches her nose and sits forward in her chair. It’s nice here, with the tumbling water and the lowering sky. She looks back up at the house. There is a lot of glass and expensive-looking pleated curtains. She fancies that from the balcony you would be able to see down to the Humber from the second floor.

“It’s actually quite a delicate matter, sir,” she says, conspiratorially. “I’m sorry for intruding and turning up here unannounced, but I was keen to be as discreet as possible.”

A half smile plays at the corner of Tressider’s mouth. He takes a sip from his can of beer. “Now I am intrigued,” he says, and stifles a burp. “Pardon me. Goodness, my insides are disintegrating. Can you overdose on antacids? I’ve taken about twenty today.”

“I used to suffer,” says Pharaoh companionably. “Too much white wine. Doctor put me on pills that made me feel like I was full of polystyrene. Decided just to live with it. Friend of mine’s wife knocked up an herbal potion for me, actually. Don’t know what was in it. Tastes of cardamom and wet dog, but it does the job when you’re struggling.”

“Sounds like a good friend to have,” says Tressider. “Could use something similar myself. I’m ninety percent bile.”

Pharaoh tries to steer the conversation back where she had intended it to go. “Councillor . . .”

“Peter, please.”

“Councillor, I’m looking into a case from last year. Some questions have been raised. I’m talking about the death of Simon Appleyard, a man in his twenties who was found strangled in his flat in Anlaby last November.”

Tressider looks at her, open-faced, awaiting more. “I know that name. Aector was having a ponder, wasn’t he? On his computer screen when I popped in at Courtland Road? Small world, eh? Right, yes, well, what else?”

“The coroner recorded an open verdict because there was no suicide note. But evidence has since come to light that suggests Mr. Appleyard may have been murdered.”

She has Tressider’s full attention, but his expression still shows nothing more incriminating than intrigue.

“Councillor Tressider, this is not a proper investigation yet. We’re just taking a look. And out of courtesy I wanted to tell you face-to-face.”

Tressider wrinkles his brow, confused. “Well, I know I asked you to keep me in the loop, but I trust CID to investigate cases as they see fit. You don’t need to worry about the authority peering over your shoulder . . .”

Pharaoh looks down into the deep, dark water. “Councillor, I’m not talking to you in your role as chairman of the authority. I’m here to ask you some questions about your own knowledge of the case.”

There is silence for a moment. Tressider’s brow is so creased as to be almost knotted.

“I’m sorry, am I somehow a suspect in all this?”

His voice is quiet. There is no menace. Just a genuine inquiry. He looks confused. Bewildered. Lost.

“Councillor, we have evidence that suggests you took a taxi on fourteen November last year. It took you from Morrison’s in Anlaby to your own front door. The mobile phone that called for that taxi belonged, as far as we can tell, to Simon Appleyard.”

Tressider’s face pales. “I don’t have a bloody clue what you’re talking about,” he says, and throws himself angrily backward from the water—hauling himself into a standing position.

Pharaoh stands. “Councillor, I wanted to talk to you here, privately like this, so we could clear up any misunderstandings. As I said, this is not an investigation. Not at this stage.”

Tressider is windmilling his arms now. Looking around him as though expecting more enemies to jump out of the bushes.

“You’ve made a big mistake here. A big bloody mistake. Is this the best they’ve got?” He steps close to Pharaoh, face right in hers. “Do you think I’m a bloody idiot?”

Pharaoh holds her ground. Her heart is beating hard, but she is careful to remain calm. Professional.

“Councillor Tressider, did you take that taxi? Did you know Simon Appleyard? He was a practicing homosexual. Was involved in online dating. We believe he was known to one or two of your colleagues over on Hull Council.”

Tressider turns away. Drops his head to his palm. Appears to be tugging at his hair.

“I’m not having this,” he says when he spins back. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ve only been chairman five bloody minutes. The selection process for the next candidate doesn’t start until next year. Who’s so bloody scared of me they have to resort to this? I told him and I’ll tell you, I don’t even know if I want the nomination.”

“Told who, Councillor?” asks Pharaoh, reaching out to put a gentle hand on his arm and not letting go when he tries to shake her off.

“That slimy bastard. Cocker, or whatever. Upset Paula. Made me look a prize berk.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cocker,” he says again, angrily. Then he screws his eyes closed and throws himself back down to the grass, thrusting his feet back in the water.

“Cocker is the political fixer, yes? Guy who checks for skeletons in the closet of party members?”

Tressider rustles around in his top pocket. Pulls out a couple of receipts and then a business card. Hands it to Pharaoh. She takes it and looks at the logo, and Ed Cocker’s name and job title. “What did he want?”

Tressider casts around with his hands. Picks up his empty beer can and tries to find a drop of comfort. He looks exhausted suddenly.

“Stephen bloody Hepburn,” he says, and it almost pains him to say the words. “Cocker seems to think he’s a story. Could ruin my chances at the election. Not the authority one, that’s a done deal. The real election. If I stand. If they let me. If my heart doesn’t pack it in first. The git turned up here last Saturday . . .”

“Hepburn?”

“Cocker. Knocked on my door, bold as brass. Told Paula he wanted to speak to me. She said I wasn’t home. So he started on her. Asked her if she knew Hepburn. Whether she had any knowledge of his business dealings. Whether she knew that I had invested significantly in his club . . .”

“The gay bar? In Hull.”

“It’s bollocks,” he says dejectedly. “I never invested in any bloody gay club. I loaned a business associate some money to assist with the marketing of a new club he was buying into. It happened to be Hepburn’s.”

“Much money?”

“Fifteen thousand pounds. A pittance, really.”

“Who was this friend?”

“That’s not important. It’s all there in this paper trail Cocker says he’s got. It’s enough to bugger things up for me. Enough to give the party the jitters about me. Cocker’s the guy who will see if there’s enough there to be scared of.”

Pharaoh pulls a face. “Councillor, I don’t think that’s a story. Not these days. I don’t think anybody would care.”

Tressider looks up at her. “He upset Paula. I called him when she told me. Tried to be polite, but I lost my temper. Told him to leave us alone. Said I had done nowt to be ashamed of and they either wanted me or they didn’t. But he’s on good money to do this stuff. Has a job to do, so he says. A report to write. Reckons there are enough positives about me to make me worth digging a little deeper into . . .” He pauses. “Flattered me, I guess. I mellowed a bit. Said I didn’t like his methods but that I was listening.”

“How did he take that?”

Tressider looks down into the pond. Raises his feet and looks at his toes, as though confirming he is real.

“He seemed confused, I suppose. Said he wanted to explain properly. Wanted to meet up.”

“And?”

“And then he started asking questions about my family life. Even about Paula. Told me it was common practice to compile reports like these—about prospects and their partners. I lost my temper. I put the phone down. Tried to forget about it. And now you’re on my bloody doorstep.”

Pharaoh feels suddenly sorry for the man. She cannot explain it, but there is something about the tenderness with which he describes his wife that she connects with. She squats down next to him.

“You’re going to have to get used to people prying, Councillor. If you’re going to be an MP. If you’re this rising star . . .”

Tressider snorts. “I’m fifty-six,” he says. “I go to the toilet three times a night. I’m not on the bloody rise, love. I’m a decent councillor. I’m a good businessman. I could be a good MP, and I promise you I’ll be a good chairman. But I don’t know how much of it I actually want.”

They sit in silence for a spell.

“Simon Appleyard,” says Pharaoh at last.

Tressider looks away. Turns back to face her with his eyes still closed. “I don’t know anything about that, love. I don’t know the name. I haven’t taken a taxi in bloody ages. I don’t shop at Morrison’s. I’ve got one mobile phone and it’s in my pocket. You can look if you want. I’ve had the same number for years.”

He fumbles in his trouser pockets, and his wallet falls to the ground. Pharaoh picks it up. It has fallen open, and the front flap shows a picture of a smiling blond middle-aged woman holding a glass of wine and with candlelight catching in her blue eyes.