officers into a joyless and compact living room. It contains a floral two-seater sofa, a cheap coffee table covered in pouches of tobacco and rolling papers, and a huge flat-screen TV. The old-fashioned stone fireplace that is set into the far wall contains no fire: just two wires gaffer-taped to the stone. The walls are papered in a swirl of peaches and pinks, and the only picture that stares down at them is hanging askew. It shows a younger, fitter Leanne, flexing in a purple bikini and fake tan, collecting an award from a man with a shaved head and too many teeth.
“Shaun’s not expected?” asks Pharaoh, taking off her coat and hanging it over the back of the sofa, then reaching into her handbag for a hairbrush, which she uses to slick back her hair.
“Not for hours,” says Leanne to McAvoy. “You taking yours off, Sergeant?”
“I’m fine,” says McAvoy, refusing to catch Pharaoh’s eye.
“Sit down, Leanne. Tell us what we’re doing.”
Leanne perches on the edge of the coffee table. She reaches under the sofa and pulls out a formidable-looking dumbbell. Begins to perform curls with her right arm. If the effort pains her, she does not show it.
“Tonight,” says Leanne, looking down at the dirty white sneakers on her feet and the dirtier carpet beneath. “I promise. It’s going to be there tonight.”
“You sure?”
“I read his phone. He was passed out. I’ve been reading it all the time. I feel like I’m spying on him.”
“You are, love.”
“I know, but I don’t like the feeling.”
“He doesn’t know? He’s got no idea?”
“He trusts me.”
“And you’re sure? Really sure you want to go down this road?”
“I’ve got no choice.”
Pharaoh nods. Leanne has already made her decision. She made it months ago while leaning, wet-faced, against the wall of Hull Royal Infirmary, with blood on her clothes and Trish Pharaoh’s cigarette at her lips.
Leanne has fallen far since the days she represented her country in weight-lifting championships and landed rosettes and trophies for her bodybuilding. She’s one of the Old Town’s more colorful characters. Sober, she’s caring, thoughtful, and considerate. A good friend. A decent neighbor. Drunk, she’s a demon. She’s a ferocious ball of anger, who lost her two kids to social services and her job to her criminal record. She has convictions for dealing, possession, wounding, and only escaped a charge of attempted murder when an ex-boyfriend refused to press charges.
McAvoy has read and reread her file, and always found it difficult to reconcile the flirty, friendly woman with the photos of the damage she has caused when the steroids in her bloodstream exploded into rage.
It was temper that brought her to Pharaoh’s attention. The night that the two Vietnamese drugs farmers were found at Hessle Foreshore, Leanne was in Accident and Emergency with her boyfriend, Shaun, handcuffed to two different police officers, having been arrested for attacking her partner with a corkscrew. She had managed to get the weapon halfway into his ear, and twice into his chest, before he managed to wriggle free by braining her with a brass ashtray. Quite what they had been arguing about they had been unable to tell the uniformed officers who broke their door down and carted them off to hospital. But it had clearly been important.
As they were being dragged into reception at Hull Royal, Pharaoh was standing at the nearby coffee bar, listening as one of the junior doctors gave her his appraisal of the condition of the two Vietnamese men. She had been scowling into her latte, wincing at the calmness with which he described the nail-gun wounds to the victims’ hands and knees, to the burns on their backs and torsos. A paint stripper, he had speculated. Turned the skin to jelly . . .
The doctor had recommended both victims be taken immediately to a specialist unit in Wakefield, where their wounds could be better treated. Pharaoh had acquiesced.
“Shaun’s not expected?” asks Pharaoh, taking off her coat and hanging it over the back of the sofa, then reaching into her handbag for a hairbrush, which she uses to slick back her hair.
“Not for hours,” says Leanne to McAvoy. “You taking yours off, Sergeant?”
“I’m fine,” says McAvoy, refusing to catch Pharaoh’s eye.
“Sit down, Leanne. Tell us what we’re doing.”
Leanne perches on the edge of the coffee table. She reaches under the sofa and pulls out a formidable-looking dumbbell. Begins to perform curls with her right arm. If the effort pains her, she does not show it.
“Tonight,” says Leanne, looking down at the dirty white sneakers on her feet and the dirtier carpet beneath. “I promise. It’s going to be there tonight.”
“You sure?”
“I read his phone. He was passed out. I’ve been reading it all the time. I feel like I’m spying on him.”
“You are, love.”
“I know, but I don’t like the feeling.”
“He doesn’t know? He’s got no idea?”
“He trusts me.”
“And you’re sure? Really sure you want to go down this road?”
“I’ve got no choice.”
Pharaoh nods. Leanne has already made her decision. She made it months ago while leaning, wet-faced, against the wall of Hull Royal Infirmary, with blood on her clothes and Trish Pharaoh’s cigarette at her lips.
Leanne has fallen far since the days she represented her country in weight-lifting championships and landed rosettes and trophies for her bodybuilding. She’s one of the Old Town’s more colorful characters. Sober, she’s caring, thoughtful, and considerate. A good friend. A decent neighbor. Drunk, she’s a demon. She’s a ferocious ball of anger, who lost her two kids to social services and her job to her criminal record. She has convictions for dealing, possession, wounding, and only escaped a charge of attempted murder when an ex-boyfriend refused to press charges.
McAvoy has read and reread her file, and always found it difficult to reconcile the flirty, friendly woman with the photos of the damage she has caused when the steroids in her bloodstream exploded into rage.
It was temper that brought her to Pharaoh’s attention. The night that the two Vietnamese drugs farmers were found at Hessle Foreshore, Leanne was in Accident and Emergency with her boyfriend, Shaun, handcuffed to two different police officers, having been arrested for attacking her partner with a corkscrew. She had managed to get the weapon halfway into his ear, and twice into his chest, before he managed to wriggle free by braining her with a brass ashtray. Quite what they had been arguing about they had been unable to tell the uniformed officers who broke their door down and carted them off to hospital. But it had clearly been important.
As they were being dragged into reception at Hull Royal, Pharaoh was standing at the nearby coffee bar, listening as one of the junior doctors gave her his appraisal of the condition of the two Vietnamese men. She had been scowling into her latte, wincing at the calmness with which he described the nail-gun wounds to the victims’ hands and knees, to the burns on their backs and torsos. A paint stripper, he had speculated. Turned the skin to jelly . . .
The doctor had recommended both victims be taken immediately to a specialist unit in Wakefield, where their wounds could be better treated. Pharaoh had acquiesced.
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