Free Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) by David Mark

anybody steady but Antoaneta has seen a few people come and go from the flat.’
    McAvoy points in the direction of the front door, where a shapeless wraith in a white suit is dusting the grimy wood for prints while two uniformed constables start placing cigarette butts into clear plastic bags, neatly labelling each one and grumbling at the enormity of the task.
    ‘There’s no intercom, you see,’ he says. ‘Can’t buzz yourself up. So most people just give out the code to the door and people can let themselves in, if they’re expected. A lot of people seem to have had Ava’s code.’
    Pharaoh makes a clicking noise with her tongue, as if mentally compiling a list of a thousand different things that are wrong with today’s world.
    ‘Work?’ she asks.
    ‘We found payslips from Rocky’s, the clothes shop in Princes’ Quay. We’ve put a call in to their manager but no answer yet. Probably enjoying the bank holiday.’
    Pharaoh nods. She turns away, looking at the overflowing bins and the soggy cigarette butts; the damp brick and clogged, loose gutters. She seems about to speak when her phone vibrates. She grumbles a little and looks at the incoming message. Gives a puzzled sort of laugh then puts it away. For a moment, it looks as though a blush is rising in her cheeks, but she manages to suppress it.
    ‘Keyholder?’ she asks.
    ‘One of the landlords. She had two. They let the place through an agency. He came to talk to her about overdue rent. Bit of an erratic payer, but he said she was no better or worse than anybody else. He shouldn’t really have let himself in but she’d been ignoring his calls and texts for a week. He’s got the number of a bloke she gave him when she moved in as sort of a guarantor. He’s contacted him a couple of times but got nowhere. Jez Gavan, he’s called. Lives up on Ings. Record going back years.’
    ‘Nicely played,’ she says, approvingly. ‘First stop for you and me, I think. It’s also pretty clear she has a phone. What’s the wifi hub for this building? Did she have an account?’
    ‘Got a broadband account that comes up as “Avascave” and which is still working, so she must have paid the bills. And according to her landlord she was a formidable texter,’ says McAvoy. ‘Not backwards in telling people what she thought. He showed me some of her messages explaining that she’d been going through a difficult time and would appreciate his empathy and patience and that she intended to make recompense.’
    The two share a look.
    ‘Recompense?’
    ‘That was her word. All correctly spelled. She was a clever girl. Plenty of books in the apartment too. Poetry. Art critiques. A few crime novels.’
    Pharaoh nods and waves a hand at the bins. ‘We’re bagging this up, yes? Every last scrap. If the person who did this is as thick as most murderers he’ll have dumped the phone in the first bin he saw.’
    McAvoy cocks his head and gives her a look. ‘He?’
    Pharaoh opens her palms, indicating that it’s bloody obvious.
    ‘That’s a murder that screams “hate”,’ she says, gesturing back towards the apartment. ‘That much hate comes from love, or at least some obsessive version of it. It’s a man.’
    ‘What happened to your rule about foregone conclusions?’ asks McAvoy, and is only half keeping it light.
    ‘I’m having one of those days. Maybe it’s because I picked my daughter up from a party full of boys,’ says Pharaoh, through gritted teeth. ‘And every problem in my life seems to have been caused by somebody with a penis.’
    McAvoy looks hurt but can find no way of expressing it that would not lead to a blush so intense he could lose his eyebrows.
    ‘But you’re probably right,’ says Pharaoh, resignedly. ‘We rule nothing out. We need to know her. Family. Friends. Need her bloody phone more than anything else. Is Dan pinging it?’
    ‘Getting the paperwork now,’ says McAvoy. He has a sudden mental picture of the technical wizard, with