Roisin, his eyes full of guilt.
‘You went towards the screams, Aector. You did what you would always do.’
‘But what does it say about me? That I would seek out a stranger rather than protect my son?’
‘It says you’re a good man.’
He stares around his living room. It’s all he wants. His wife in his arms, his child playing at his feet. He breathes heavily and slowly, savouring every mouthful of these moments. And then he catches the scent. The tang. Faint. Almost imperceptible among the spices and soap of his family, his home. It’s like a moth fluttering at the very edge of vision. That whiff. Of blood. For an instant he imagines Daphne Cotton. Tries to get an image of what her father will be enduring. Lets his heart reach out. To feel a connection and offer up warmth.
He raises his arm and pulls Roisin back down into an embrace.
Hates himself for the warmth that spreads through him: for being damnably happy, as an innocent girl lies dead on a slab.
CHAPTER 6
8.04 a.m. Roper’s old room at Queen’s Gardens.
A commotion of cops
.
Buttocks perched on desks; feet on swivel chairs, backs lounging against bare walls. A collection of untucked shirts and two-for-one supermarket ties. Nobody’s smoking, but the room smells of nicotine and beer.
McAvoy, in the middle, sitting properly on a hard-backed seat, notebook on his lap, tie tight at a throat scrubbed pink and raw by vigorous, punishing hands.
Trying to keep his feet still on the threadbare carpet. Listening to a dozen conversations at once and finding none he would know how to join.
Six hours’ sleep and a good breakfast that wouldn’t go down.
It’s still sitting there; a weight in his chest; every breath a wheeze that tastes of scrambled egg and granary bread. There’s a flask of hot water and peppermint leaves in the bag at his feet, but he’s afraid to unscrew it in this cramped, busy room, for fear of releasing the aroma. He could not stomach the comments. Could not stand to be remarkable. Not here. Not now.
He glances at his watch.
Late
, he thinks.
‘Right, boys and girls,’ says Pharaoh, clapping her hands as she enters the room. ‘I’ve been up since five, I’ve had no fucking breakfast and in a minute I’ve got a press conference with a bunch of wankers who want to know how we’ve allowed a teenage girl to be killed at Christmas. I would like to be able to tell them that the person who did it is a nutter and that we’ve caught him, but I can’t. We haven’t caught him, so that’s not going to happen. Nor do we know that he’s a nutter.’
‘Well, I know I wouldn’t ask him to babysit, ma’am.’ This from Ben Nielsen, to laughs and nods.
‘Nor would I, Ben, but I’d pick him before you. Remember, I’ve got a teenage daughter.’
Laughs and whoops. A polystyrene cup chucked at a grinning Ben Nielsen.
‘What I mean,’ continues Pharaoh, pushing her hair out of her eyes, ‘is that we don’t know this was random. We don’t know if it’s somebody who hates the church, somebody with a grudge against the clergy. We don’t know if Daphne Cotton was the intended victim. Why did he wear a balaclava? Why disguise himself if he were just a random attacker? And the weapon. What’s the significance of the machete?’
‘Are we thinking race hate?’ This from Helen Tremberg, to an accompanying chorus of moans.
‘We’re thinking everything, my love. We haven’t flagged it as race hate, but the very fact that it was a black girl means that it has to be considered.’
‘Fucking hell.’
Colin Ray speaks for all of them. They know what this means. Race crimes are a recipe for headlines and headaches. It’s kid gloves and placards all the way; the clamour for a resolution comes not just from the public and the pressure groups, but from the top brass, still sensitive about a decade of bad publicity spawned when a black prisoner died in the custody suite. The video footage aired at the subsequent investigation
‘You went towards the screams, Aector. You did what you would always do.’
‘But what does it say about me? That I would seek out a stranger rather than protect my son?’
‘It says you’re a good man.’
He stares around his living room. It’s all he wants. His wife in his arms, his child playing at his feet. He breathes heavily and slowly, savouring every mouthful of these moments. And then he catches the scent. The tang. Faint. Almost imperceptible among the spices and soap of his family, his home. It’s like a moth fluttering at the very edge of vision. That whiff. Of blood. For an instant he imagines Daphne Cotton. Tries to get an image of what her father will be enduring. Lets his heart reach out. To feel a connection and offer up warmth.
He raises his arm and pulls Roisin back down into an embrace.
Hates himself for the warmth that spreads through him: for being damnably happy, as an innocent girl lies dead on a slab.
CHAPTER 6
8.04 a.m. Roper’s old room at Queen’s Gardens.
A commotion of cops
.
Buttocks perched on desks; feet on swivel chairs, backs lounging against bare walls. A collection of untucked shirts and two-for-one supermarket ties. Nobody’s smoking, but the room smells of nicotine and beer.
McAvoy, in the middle, sitting properly on a hard-backed seat, notebook on his lap, tie tight at a throat scrubbed pink and raw by vigorous, punishing hands.
Trying to keep his feet still on the threadbare carpet. Listening to a dozen conversations at once and finding none he would know how to join.
Six hours’ sleep and a good breakfast that wouldn’t go down.
It’s still sitting there; a weight in his chest; every breath a wheeze that tastes of scrambled egg and granary bread. There’s a flask of hot water and peppermint leaves in the bag at his feet, but he’s afraid to unscrew it in this cramped, busy room, for fear of releasing the aroma. He could not stomach the comments. Could not stand to be remarkable. Not here. Not now.
He glances at his watch.
Late
, he thinks.
‘Right, boys and girls,’ says Pharaoh, clapping her hands as she enters the room. ‘I’ve been up since five, I’ve had no fucking breakfast and in a minute I’ve got a press conference with a bunch of wankers who want to know how we’ve allowed a teenage girl to be killed at Christmas. I would like to be able to tell them that the person who did it is a nutter and that we’ve caught him, but I can’t. We haven’t caught him, so that’s not going to happen. Nor do we know that he’s a nutter.’
‘Well, I know I wouldn’t ask him to babysit, ma’am.’ This from Ben Nielsen, to laughs and nods.
‘Nor would I, Ben, but I’d pick him before you. Remember, I’ve got a teenage daughter.’
Laughs and whoops. A polystyrene cup chucked at a grinning Ben Nielsen.
‘What I mean,’ continues Pharaoh, pushing her hair out of her eyes, ‘is that we don’t know this was random. We don’t know if it’s somebody who hates the church, somebody with a grudge against the clergy. We don’t know if Daphne Cotton was the intended victim. Why did he wear a balaclava? Why disguise himself if he were just a random attacker? And the weapon. What’s the significance of the machete?’
‘Are we thinking race hate?’ This from Helen Tremberg, to an accompanying chorus of moans.
‘We’re thinking everything, my love. We haven’t flagged it as race hate, but the very fact that it was a black girl means that it has to be considered.’
‘Fucking hell.’
Colin Ray speaks for all of them. They know what this means. Race crimes are a recipe for headlines and headaches. It’s kid gloves and placards all the way; the clamour for a resolution comes not just from the public and the pressure groups, but from the top brass, still sensitive about a decade of bad publicity spawned when a black prisoner died in the custody suite. The video footage aired at the subsequent investigation
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