have hay fever when they don’t. Gives you runny eyes, a stuffy nose …’
‘You seem fine.’
‘I’m not allergic to it. Penicillin and coconut, that’s me.’
‘Yeah?’ Pharaoh takes a handkerchief from her bag and tries to blow her nose. ‘Fuck, one nostril’s blocked.’
‘Sea air will help.’
‘So will a vodka.’
A minute later they are drifting through the centre of Hornsea, a seaside town half an hour from the outskirts of Hull. It’s not really a resort. Holidaymakers head for Bridlington and Scarborough, and though the place does have a few guest houses and some amusement arcades jangle and bleep on the seafront, they’re more for listless local teens than to satisfy any deluge of tourists. It’s a presentable, quiet place that’s doing okay for itself and doesn’t make much noise. It’s a jumble of coffee shops, curiosity shops and estate agents, with ornate awnings andVictorian roofs, huddling together between the new all-night mini-supermarkets and chain pubs.
McAvoy parks outside a strip of attractive townhouses, opposite a large white Art Deco building with huge bay windows. He can tell they’ll offer awesome views of the bay. Having spent the past few weeks mired in real-estate dealings, he instinctively wonders how much the view adds to the asking price.
‘He’d better be bloody in,’ says Pharaoh, getting out of the car.
McAvoy purses his lips, blows out a stream of silent concerns, closes his eyes, and becomes a detective again as they walk up to the red-painted front door. Darren Robb lives in Flat 3, and works from home as a website designer. Elaine has given them a brief sketch of his background; told them he’s a bit of a useless lump who likes computer games and crisps. A quick search of the police database has come up with nothing exciting in his file. He once got a caution for urinating in a side street off Holderness Road, but having been to Holderness Road, McAvoy finds it hard to think of that as much of a crime.
It is Pharaoh, as the senior officer, who is allowed the honour of leaning on the doorbell. She does so for a full ten seconds. McAvoy turns back to the street. There are houses both to his left and right, but directly in front of this building is a swathe of stubby grass. The view to the sea is unimpeded. Some kids are kicking a football around. A mum with a pushchair is lying on the grass reading a magazine. The kids who were leaning by the sea wall are now squatting in a rough semicircle, eating chips from polystyrene cones. Normal people, normal day …
‘Hello.’
The voice is made tinny by the intercom.
‘Mr Robb?’
‘Aye.’
‘This is the police. Can we come up?’
There is a pause.
‘I didn’t do it.’
Pharaoh gives a little laugh. Rolls her eyes.
‘Okay then, we’ll be off.’
After a moment, the door clicks open, and both officers step into the wide hallway. The corridor is bare brick and linoleum, leading down to a ground-floor flat with a black front door. To their left is a set of stairs with a black handrail.
‘Up,’ says McAvoy, needlessly, and begins to climb.
Darren Robb is standing in the doorway of Flat 3. He’s shaking with so much nervous energy that he puts McAvoy in mind of a stationary car with its motor running. The information they have on him suggests that Robb is forty-one years old, but there was nothing in the files about him having put on a stone each birthday. The man is enormous. Grotesquely fat. He’s wearing grey jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt which is stretched almost to breaking point over fleshy arms, tits and belly. His skin has the mottled, waxy hue that makes McAvoy think of bodies pulled from water. His round head is bald on top and close-cropped at the back and sides, while his face, locked as it is in a mask of worry and annoyance, is all fleshy lips and blackheads. McAvoy briefly pictures Elaine, and wonders how the hell she fell for this monstrosity. Pharaoh is clearly thinking
‘You seem fine.’
‘I’m not allergic to it. Penicillin and coconut, that’s me.’
‘Yeah?’ Pharaoh takes a handkerchief from her bag and tries to blow her nose. ‘Fuck, one nostril’s blocked.’
‘Sea air will help.’
‘So will a vodka.’
A minute later they are drifting through the centre of Hornsea, a seaside town half an hour from the outskirts of Hull. It’s not really a resort. Holidaymakers head for Bridlington and Scarborough, and though the place does have a few guest houses and some amusement arcades jangle and bleep on the seafront, they’re more for listless local teens than to satisfy any deluge of tourists. It’s a presentable, quiet place that’s doing okay for itself and doesn’t make much noise. It’s a jumble of coffee shops, curiosity shops and estate agents, with ornate awnings andVictorian roofs, huddling together between the new all-night mini-supermarkets and chain pubs.
McAvoy parks outside a strip of attractive townhouses, opposite a large white Art Deco building with huge bay windows. He can tell they’ll offer awesome views of the bay. Having spent the past few weeks mired in real-estate dealings, he instinctively wonders how much the view adds to the asking price.
‘He’d better be bloody in,’ says Pharaoh, getting out of the car.
McAvoy purses his lips, blows out a stream of silent concerns, closes his eyes, and becomes a detective again as they walk up to the red-painted front door. Darren Robb lives in Flat 3, and works from home as a website designer. Elaine has given them a brief sketch of his background; told them he’s a bit of a useless lump who likes computer games and crisps. A quick search of the police database has come up with nothing exciting in his file. He once got a caution for urinating in a side street off Holderness Road, but having been to Holderness Road, McAvoy finds it hard to think of that as much of a crime.
It is Pharaoh, as the senior officer, who is allowed the honour of leaning on the doorbell. She does so for a full ten seconds. McAvoy turns back to the street. There are houses both to his left and right, but directly in front of this building is a swathe of stubby grass. The view to the sea is unimpeded. Some kids are kicking a football around. A mum with a pushchair is lying on the grass reading a magazine. The kids who were leaning by the sea wall are now squatting in a rough semicircle, eating chips from polystyrene cones. Normal people, normal day …
‘Hello.’
The voice is made tinny by the intercom.
‘Mr Robb?’
‘Aye.’
‘This is the police. Can we come up?’
There is a pause.
‘I didn’t do it.’
Pharaoh gives a little laugh. Rolls her eyes.
‘Okay then, we’ll be off.’
After a moment, the door clicks open, and both officers step into the wide hallway. The corridor is bare brick and linoleum, leading down to a ground-floor flat with a black front door. To their left is a set of stairs with a black handrail.
‘Up,’ says McAvoy, needlessly, and begins to climb.
Darren Robb is standing in the doorway of Flat 3. He’s shaking with so much nervous energy that he puts McAvoy in mind of a stationary car with its motor running. The information they have on him suggests that Robb is forty-one years old, but there was nothing in the files about him having put on a stone each birthday. The man is enormous. Grotesquely fat. He’s wearing grey jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt which is stretched almost to breaking point over fleshy arms, tits and belly. His skin has the mottled, waxy hue that makes McAvoy think of bodies pulled from water. His round head is bald on top and close-cropped at the back and sides, while his face, locked as it is in a mask of worry and annoyance, is all fleshy lips and blackheads. McAvoy briefly pictures Elaine, and wonders how the hell she fell for this monstrosity. Pharaoh is clearly thinking
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