Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) by David Mark Page A
Authors: David Mark
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chauvinists – conveniently forgetting that they wouldn’t have bothered giving her any publicity if she hadn’t been all fake tits and shiny teeth.
Helen lets her distaste show on her face. ‘I think I’ll be doing the legwork here,’ she says, icily. ‘DCI Archer is having a bikini wax in the morning and needs time to emotionally prepare.’
Vicki gives a confused smile. Looks disappointed and trembly-lipped.
Helen has her pen poised over a page full of notes she scribbled on the drive over from North Lincolnshire an hour ago. She found plenty of information online about O’Neill. The local papers were full of him last February and the reports about his trial were a useful précis of his criminal life to date. Helen already feels as though whoever killed him has not robbed the world of one of its great thinkers.
Raymond’s extended family was the terror of the Preston Road estate. At his last court hearing, he revealed that he was the father of seventeen children (that he knew about) by eleven different women. The jury heard details of thirty-eight previous convictions, for everything from drunk and disorderly to heroin dealing. At fifty-eight, he had spent a total of fourteen years in various prisons. He had never worked, but somehow managed to own a house, a luxury static caravan and a speedboat. He also had a newborn baby, which was the reason he was spared jail for his latest misdemeanour. He had broken the wrist of a woman who tried to intercede while he was in the process of stamping on his girlfriend’s stomach outside a pub on Priory Road. He told the court he was too drunk to remember what had happened but that he had ‘probably just lashed out’.
The victim was only twenty-four, a classroom assistant who had just put a deposit on her first home. She was two years older than O’Neill’s girlfriend, who refused to give a statement or make a fuss about her own injuries. Such things were par for the course. The judge showed unexpected leniency to O’Neill, who pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and had been expecting a stretch inside. His family erupted with delight when the judge declared he was going to suspend his prison sentence and allow him home to help care for his child. The cries of the victim’s family were lost among the roar from the collected O’Neills, and while the local papers went crazy with indignation, the national press treated him like some sort of celebrity. He posed for photographs with as many of his kids as could be gathered together and revelled in his role as a cheeky scoundrel who had beaten the system.
This morning, O’Neill’s body was found in a boarded-up house on Ryehill Grove. The door was kicked open by PCSO Vicki Fry. She found Raymond O’Neill laid out on his belly with so many cracks in the back of his bald head that it looked like crazy paving. The stench climbed down her throat like fingers of fog.
‘Why were you there?’ asks Helen, and tries to keep her tone inquisitive rather than accusatory. ‘He’d never been reported missing.’
Vicki looks down at her feet. A blush creeps out of the collar of her uniform. It reminds Helen of McAvoy. Most things do.
‘There was a bit of talk on the estate that he’d done a runner but his family weren’t the sort to call the police. But from the state of him he must have been there for weeks. Months, maybe. We certainly hadn’t heard from him since the end of February when he got free. What’s that – fifteen months? He must have been there the whole time. House hadn’t been occupied in a good couple of years.’
Helen stops writing. Indicates she should slow down and start from the beginning.
‘I’d worked the night shift,’ says Vicki, taking a breath. ‘A few of us have volunteered to do some of the less sociable shifts. We go out with the regulars. I finished at eight this morning. Midway through the shift, a patrol car radioed to say there was a drunk lass on Southcoates Lane, puking in
Helen lets her distaste show on her face. ‘I think I’ll be doing the legwork here,’ she says, icily. ‘DCI Archer is having a bikini wax in the morning and needs time to emotionally prepare.’
Vicki gives a confused smile. Looks disappointed and trembly-lipped.
Helen has her pen poised over a page full of notes she scribbled on the drive over from North Lincolnshire an hour ago. She found plenty of information online about O’Neill. The local papers were full of him last February and the reports about his trial were a useful précis of his criminal life to date. Helen already feels as though whoever killed him has not robbed the world of one of its great thinkers.
Raymond’s extended family was the terror of the Preston Road estate. At his last court hearing, he revealed that he was the father of seventeen children (that he knew about) by eleven different women. The jury heard details of thirty-eight previous convictions, for everything from drunk and disorderly to heroin dealing. At fifty-eight, he had spent a total of fourteen years in various prisons. He had never worked, but somehow managed to own a house, a luxury static caravan and a speedboat. He also had a newborn baby, which was the reason he was spared jail for his latest misdemeanour. He had broken the wrist of a woman who tried to intercede while he was in the process of stamping on his girlfriend’s stomach outside a pub on Priory Road. He told the court he was too drunk to remember what had happened but that he had ‘probably just lashed out’.
The victim was only twenty-four, a classroom assistant who had just put a deposit on her first home. She was two years older than O’Neill’s girlfriend, who refused to give a statement or make a fuss about her own injuries. Such things were par for the course. The judge showed unexpected leniency to O’Neill, who pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and had been expecting a stretch inside. His family erupted with delight when the judge declared he was going to suspend his prison sentence and allow him home to help care for his child. The cries of the victim’s family were lost among the roar from the collected O’Neills, and while the local papers went crazy with indignation, the national press treated him like some sort of celebrity. He posed for photographs with as many of his kids as could be gathered together and revelled in his role as a cheeky scoundrel who had beaten the system.
This morning, O’Neill’s body was found in a boarded-up house on Ryehill Grove. The door was kicked open by PCSO Vicki Fry. She found Raymond O’Neill laid out on his belly with so many cracks in the back of his bald head that it looked like crazy paving. The stench climbed down her throat like fingers of fog.
‘Why were you there?’ asks Helen, and tries to keep her tone inquisitive rather than accusatory. ‘He’d never been reported missing.’
Vicki looks down at her feet. A blush creeps out of the collar of her uniform. It reminds Helen of McAvoy. Most things do.
‘There was a bit of talk on the estate that he’d done a runner but his family weren’t the sort to call the police. But from the state of him he must have been there for weeks. Months, maybe. We certainly hadn’t heard from him since the end of February when he got free. What’s that – fifteen months? He must have been there the whole time. House hadn’t been occupied in a good couple of years.’
Helen stops writing. Indicates she should slow down and start from the beginning.
‘I’d worked the night shift,’ says Vicki, taking a breath. ‘A few of us have volunteered to do some of the less sociable shifts. We go out with the regulars. I finished at eight this morning. Midway through the shift, a patrol car radioed to say there was a drunk lass on Southcoates Lane, puking in
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