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

cold glare that Pharaoh has instructed him to practise at home in front of a mirror. ‘Interesting CV.’
    ‘I won’t hold the past against you,’ says Pharaoh, staring at Jackson-Savannah. ‘We all make mistakes. You’ve made yours. But I warn you, it would be a mistake of fucking epic proportions to presume I run my investigations like Doug Roper. I don’t want to tell you what to put in your report. I don’t want corners cutting. I want a cause of death and a time of death and I want your every finding to be completely bloody bullet-proof.’
    Jackson-Savannah pulls a face, growing cross at the very suggestion that he might not oblige. He is about to speak when Pharaoh jabs her thumb at the figure to her left, who is standing bolt upright and looking at him with a thoughtful intensity, like a child wondering whether to keep watching the ant squirm under the heat of the magnifying glass, or kill it quickly with a rock.
    ‘The man beside me is Detective Sergeant Aector McAvoy,’ she says brightly. ‘You’ve probably heard of him. He doesn’t like you. I can see that in his eyes. And McAvoy likes everybody. Thinks the best of them. I’ve only ever seen him respond this way to people who said mean things about his wife, and Robert Mugabe. So I’d do your best not to upset him. The girl’s called Ava. And you’re going to be very, very respectful with her body.’
    Pharaoh is about to speak again when her phone vibrates. She sighs and takes the call. She looks puzzled for a second then tells the caller she has no idea why they think she would be interested. Informs them of her rank and advises them to piss off. Then she hangs up. Composes herself. Turns away. Stubs her cigarette out on the brick and deposits the butt in her leather jacket.
    From the street comes the sound of more cars arriving. More hails and hellos from officers who know this is going to be a long night. McAvoy hears his own name, and Pharaoh’s. Hears grunts and jeers and wonders if they are from his colleagues or the drunks who are gathering at the end of Bowlalley Lane and craning their necks for a glimpse of dead flesh.
    Jackson-Savannah looks about to protest but finds McAvoy still staring, hard, at the side of his head. He turns and bustles away towards the front door.
    ‘Wanker,’ says Pharaoh, looking up at McAvoy. ‘You’re getting good at that dead-eyed look, you know. Proper scary, if people don’t know you’re a pussy cat.’
    ‘Roisin says I’m about as scary as a chinchilla,’ says McAvoy, who has never felt comfortable using his size to intimidate. He has the personality of a much smaller man and would probably be working alongside Dan in the tech unit were it not for the fact that test tubes seem to break in his hands and his great big fingers press the wrong keys whenever he tries using one of the fancy tablet computers that Dan seems unable to live without.
    Pharaoh considers him. ‘Even chinchillas get rabies,’ she says. ‘And I’ve seen you foaming at the mouth. It just takes a lot to get you there.’
    McAvoy stares upwards through the tunnel of brick into a darkening sky. He sniffs the air. Hull cannot expect to enjoy the good weather in which the rest of country is bathing. A sea fret is set to roll in, thick and grey. There has been a warning to the ships that churn through the waters of the Humber. The fog is going to close over the coast like a corpse’s hand. The thought makes him shiver and think of Hannah, and her unknown grave: somewhere among the bluebells and the daffodils in a place that she adored. He feels the weight of it all settle in his gut. Feels the need to bring some kind of balance to things. He hates what people do to one another.
    ‘We’re taking this, yes?’ asks McAvoy, turning back to his boss. ‘With Hannah we haven’t got a body. Not yet. But we can link it. A crime against an attractive young woman. We can say that we’ve got the resources and a potential