Original Skin (28 page)

“She’s stunning,” says Pharaoh, though in truth the woman is little more than well groomed.

Tressider looks at the picture. “He really upset her,” he says, almost to himself.

“Is she home?” asks Pharaoh. “We could ask her if she wants to make a harassment complaint . . .”

Tressider blusters. Brushes it away. “She’s a tough lass. She can take it. We breed them hardy. She’s from Lancashire, to begin with, but I don’t hold that against her. One of ours now.”

Pharaoh considers him for a moment. Wonders how far to push it. Whether all she has succeeded in doing is alerting him that they are investigating a murder that he may have his fingerprints all over.

“I’m sorry to have troubled you, Councillor,” she says at last. “You can imagine how difficult it was to know how to proceed . . .”

Tressider nods, lips thin, eyes glassy and dark. “You have a job to do,” he says. “I appreciate your being so discreet.”

Pharaoh stays crouching for a moment longer. Then she extends her hand. Shakes the one that is offered in return, and while doing so, scoops up one of the receipts that has fluttered to the damp grass. She slips it into her boot.

She turns and begins walking across the damp grass.

“Simon,” he says suddenly. Pharaoh spins.

“Pardon, sir?”

“The boy,” he says. “Did he suffer much?”

Pharaoh considers it. Looks up. Clouds are rolling in. Against the darkening sky they turn the heavens into a muscled back.

“I think he always suffered,” she says. “But his death was no relief. It was murder.”

From this remove, she cannot see the councillor’s expression. But she can tell that his head has dropped, and his feet, in the water, are still.

9:43 P.M. TRANBY RISE, ANLABY.

A POLICE VAN,
swaying erratically past nice middle-class houses and neat lawns.

Two angry Rottweilers making a racket in the back. Two animals in the front, hungry for blood . . .

“Shut the fuck up!”

Colin Ray twists in his seat and instantly regrets it. Pain grips his ribs; a bony handful of flesh and bone. He winces, then covers it up. Curses. Hopes Tanner didn’t see.

“Fucking gyppo,” through gritted teeth.

He hopes the pain is muscular, left over from his tussle with Ronan. He likes pain to be the result of something tangible. An impact or collision. He can understand the notion of cause and effect. Illness perplexes him. He is disquieted by syndromes. He wants his rib to be broken because that would explain why it hurts so much. The alternative diagnosis involves his heart, and he does not believe there is good news to be found in that line of inquiry.

“You okay, boss?”

“Little git definitely potted a rib. Thought it would have worn off by now.”

“You should get yourself on sick. Have a few months. Bit of compo.”

“And who’d look after you lot, eh?”

Ray looks across at his traveling companion. Malcolm Tanner is a sergeant in the dog section of Humberside Police. He is a round-faced and affable man, with thinning brown hair and a tendency to swallow his top lip with his lower one when smiling. The habit makes him look a little like a sock puppet, and as such, he answers to Socko around his football buddies. He’s a better man than his presence here suggests. He has drunk too much, and recklessness has made him willing and cruel.

Ray considers his friend and for once he is grateful that he is not in the company of Shaz Archer. She’s busy tonight. Up to no good with one of her pretty boys. He’ll want details from her in the morning, and she’ll be willing to oblige. He’ll be glad to have her back by his side. Tremberg was happy enough to get stuck in, but if he needed some feminine wiles to get the Vietnamese to talk, he’d have been better off slipping into a dress than asking that fucking brontosaurus to act sexy.

Tanner’s good company, even if he’s not much to look at. For tonight’s adventure he has changed back into his uniform, but the collar of his goalkeeper jersey is poking out above his white shirt, and his knees are grass-stained and muddy beneath his creased navy-blue trousers.

They are sitting together in the front of a dog van, two streets from the home of Alan Rourke. They have the radio up high in a bid to drown out the Rottweilers’ incessant barking. The noise of the animals is muffled by the panel that closes off the driving area from the back, but the dogs are in a fury and the noise cannot be completely eclipsed.

Ray is almost grateful for the din. It keeps him angry. Keeps him looking forward to the moment, mere minutes from now, when he can put the gun barrel against the first dog’s skull, pull the trigger, and watch a lying gypsy bastard cry.

He looks down at the object in his lap. Enjoys its shape and heft. Its sleekness. Its clarity of purpose.

“It’s called a captive-bolt stunner,” Tanner had said beerily as he reached under one of the panels in the back of the van and pulled out an object wrapped in a burlap bag. “Most humane thing there is.”

Ray had looked the man in his eyes to see if he was taking the piss. “Why you got one of these, lad? You’re meant to be a fucking animal lover.”

“That’s why,” he’d said, removing the gun from the bag. “You know the places we get called to. You seen animals screaming, boss? Did you know animals can scream? Sometimes you can’t wait for the vet. Just can’t listen. They’d have my warrant card if they knew, but I’m not the only one. Quick blast with this, it’s over.”

“And you can do that, can you?” Ray had asked. “These dogs aren’t dying, son. They just belong to a cunt who needs to talk.”

Tanner had laughed off the suggestion he would not be up for whatever was required.

“They went for a copper, boss. And, besides, it’s you who’ll be pulling the trigger, if it comes to it.”

Ray feels the stun gun’s weight in his hand. He has absolutely no doubt about his willingness to make good on the threats he is about to make. Can feel bile and venom rising up his chest as they get nearer to the target. Can already see Rourke’s face in his mind’s eye, pleading for his dogs’ lives and giving them chapter and verse . . .

They move off, quickly, slewing right as Tanner pulls onto one of the quiet side streets and narrowly misses a parked Mercedes.

“Fucking Italians,” says Ray.

“German, aren’t they? Mercs.”

“Dunno.” Ray considers it. Tries to remember whom he is mad at. “Make good cars.”

Both men are too drunk to be driving. A couple of hours ago, furious at the command from on high that both Ronan and his uncle be released due to lack of evidence and the insinuation that Ray had broken plenty of rules in dealing with the younger prisoner, this had all seemed a superb idea. They had sunk half a dozen pints of dry cider apiece as they celebrated their team’s 5–2 victory over Bridlington. The rest of the lads had called it quits after a pint or two, sloping off home to watch a period drama with the missus or pick up a curry and a six-pack ahead of a night in front of a DVD. Ray and Tanner had shown no such compunction. Ray has nobody to go home to. Dad of three, Tanner merely doesn’t want to go home.

If asked, neither man would be able to decide accurately which of them had taken credit for their current course of action. The idea was born around teatime, in a pub called the Coach and Horses on the road back from Bridlington. It’s only a short drive from an area known to be popular with swingers and doggers looking to get their kicks, and where an out-of-town businessman was nearly crushed to death while cruising for sex a few nights ago.

Alan Rourke’s Rottweilers are due to be returned to him tomorrow. His solicitor presented an emergency petition to the city magistrates, who ruled there was insufficient reason to have the animals destroyed. Rourke’s brief said the dogs had never harmed anybody before and were only defending their owner. What’s more, they had been responding to an order to kill given by a third party. The magistrates had taken mere moments to rule that the dogs be returned to their owner from the police-approved kennels where they were being held.

Ray had told the story to his goalkeeper over their celebratory ciders. Some time later they decided to take the dogs. They drank more alcohol. Talked about gypsy bastards and ginger cunts. And then Tanner had told him about the little tool he kept in the back of the van in case of emergencies. And Ray had risen from the pub table like a monster, teeth clamped and finger already twitching to caress the trigger.

The van pulls in to Tranby Rise. Behind thick curtains, tasteful lighting and TV screens glow. This middle-class street of bungalows and wind chimes smells of roast-beef dinners and family get-togethers. It is a place for families who all have the same surname. Colin Ray does not like the fact that it is home to Alan Rourke.

“That one. Like a bloody cartoon house, isn’t it?”

They park on the road, blocking the driveway and crushing two well-tended bushes that bloom beside the neat lawn.

The dogs, perhaps sensing themselves near home, double their frenzied barking. Listening to their angry, frothing cries, Ray wonders that they were able to get the dogs in the back of the van without losing important body parts. He had marveled at the way Tanner had corralled the snarling animals into the specialist vehicle, using only a long pole with a slipknot noose, and some well-placed swear words.

Ray steps down from the vehicle. Arches his back and winces again at a second stab of pain.

“Tasteless bastard,” he mutters, looking at the large bungalow and the two large Honda four-by-fours parked on the redbrick drive.

“Bet he’s got chandeliers,” says Tanner, appearing at his side. “They always bloody do.”

A light comes on beyond the frosted-glass door of Alan Rourke’s home. The door swings inward. Rourke is silhouetted on his step, a can of beer in his hand, wearing only tracksuit trousers and leather slip-on shoes.

“Them my dogs?” he asks, advancing down the drive. “Jesus, but you’ve got them worked up. That you, Mr. Ray?”

They have left the vehicle lights on, and the glare of the headlights means Ray and his friend are hard to see. Rourke raises an arm as he approaches and squints his eyes.

“Mr. Ray? Jesus, I didn’t expect personal service, sir. My brief said to just go pick them up tomorrow meself. My, you’re a grand fella, so you are.”

Ray runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He feels angry and sick. It is a feeling he is used to. He suffers from stomach ulcers that would be enough of a reason for retirement. He sometimes feels as though his insides are decaying. When he is drunk and melancholy, the gases that belch up into his throat are rank with the taste of corruption. Of the grave.

“Couldn’t expect you to put yourself out, Mr. Rourke,” says Ray, sneering. “That’s what we’re here for, lad. To serve people like you.”

Rourke stands in front of them, hand veiling his eyes. He looks from one to the other with a half smile on his face that fades a touch when it is not returned. Both men are looking at him coldly. His excitement at being reunited with his dogs begins to fade.

“You want to reverse into the drive so you can let the animals straight in the back?” he asks chattily. “May be easiest, eh? They’ll be overexcited, and we don’t want to wake this snooty bunch up, eh?”

His attempt at making the two men warm to him gets nowhere, so he shrugs. Returns to the sullen unhelpfulness he exhibited throughout his interviews.

“The lad wrapped up warm, is he?” asks Ray.

“Ah, Ronan will be out with his pals, sir,” says Rourke. “I’m not his jailer. He’ll be home soon enough, and pleased to see my dogs back safe and sound.”

Ray hopes that Rourke can smell the beer on their breath. Hopes he can tell how they feel about him. The stun gun is in his pocket, cumbersome but reassuring.

He turns to Tanner. “Nice night for it, eh, Tanner? Would love to be out for a wander with my pals. Having a drink or two. Packet of fags. Fingering some tart round the back of the skips. Christ, he’s living the life, eh? Must be great coming to stay with Uncle Alan.”

“Uncle?” asks Tanner, as if they have prepared the exchange.

“Oh, not his real one. Friend of the family, like. Isn’t that right?”

Rourke spits. Shrugs. Has heard enough. Wants his dogs.

“He’s got an uncle, though, hasn’t he? Godfather, or whatever these godless bastards call them.”

Rourke’s jaw tightens. He sips from his can of beer, then throws it into his garden.

“Scary bastard, from what I’ve heard,” says Tanner quietly.

“Aye, he is that. Big man in Ronan’s world, though. Big name.”

“What was it again, boss?”

Ray cocks his head. Looks skyward. Appears to be thinking. “Italian sounding, I reckon. Can’t bring it to mind. You want to help me out, Mr. Rourke?”

Rourke considers the pair. Looks back up to the warmth of his own front door.

“You got any more you want to get off your chest, or can I have my dogs?”

Ray gives a tight-lipped smile. “That’s the thing, son. That’s the thing.”

Rourke considers the detective. Looks closely at the fifty-year-old man in his disheveled black raincoat over soft cords and golfing jumper. Looks again at the face that has snarled at him across an interview-room table time and again these past days. There is nothing new about the distaste and contempt he sees in the policeman’s eyes, but tonight, away from the police station and accompanied by the sound of enraged barking, it is an undisguised malevolence.

“The magistrates—”

Ray laughs. “You hiding behind the law now, boy? You bomb a police van. You set your dogs on an officer. You spend days making me look a prick . . .”

“Sir, I told you what I knew, and it was nothing . . .”

Ray is shaking his head now, getting angrier. He does not know what he truly expected to happen when they arrived.

“You made me look a prick, lad. But that’s going to change.”

“Give me my dogs.” Rourke’s voice is rising.

“I’m going to appeal to your better nature.”

“My dogs, sir.”

“I’m going to ask you the same questions I’ve asked you all fucking week . . .”

“Ask what you like!”

“And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to kill your fucking dogs and throw them in the river. And if anybody asks what happened to them, we’ll say it was gypsies.”

Rourke’s face twitches. He shows teeth. Pushes his hair back from his face. “You okay, girls?” Shouts this last at the side of the van, and is rewarded with a cacophony of barking.

Ray has had enough. He pulls the gun from his pocket and Rourke instantly backs away.

“Don’t you worry,” says Ray through a grimace. “It’s not what you think it is. I’m not going to put a bullet in your knee, though God knows I’d fucking love to. No, this is for your little darlings. You seen one before?”

Rourke is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking in turn at the officers and the weapon in Ray’s hand.