the World Cup that year or spent the evening by the fire with a book, refusing to acknowledge the cheers from the English sailors who docked their warships in Loch Ewe and headed into the towns and villages like marauders.
McAvoy rubs crumbs from his fingers and ponders the name of the church mentioned in the top report. St. Germain’s. It seems familiar. Had he heard about this case when he first moved to the area a few years back? Had he taken a trip to the remote patch of Holderness with Roisin? Did it have some significance to his studies? His training?
He nods, pleased to have remembered.
Andrew Marvell.
When he moved to Hull as a uniformed constable, McAvoy had been single and lonely and had spent his spare time reading up on the area’s history. Andrew Marvell was one of the city’s most revered sons. He represented the city as MP for more than thirty years and became one of the closest confidants of Oliver Cromwell, before making himself equally invaluable to the restored monarchy under King Charles II. More than that, he was a poet who epitomized the metaphysical ideals. And he had been born at Winestead and baptized in St. Germain’s Church, where his father was rector.
McAvoy is pleased he has not had to say any of this out loud. Pharaoh makes fun of his ability to recall odd facts and dates. Reckons he would be a pub-quiz champion if he would just let himself cheat on the questions about popular culture. Laughs at the idea he would be fine on the rounds about astrophysics and literature but would let himself down on
EastEnders
.
McAvoy winds down the window and breathes in the cold, damp air. He needs to order his thoughts. Needs to lay out every piece of paper on a bare wall and input every fact into a database. Needs to see which pieces of data are incontrovertible and which need to be reassessed and validated. But more than anything, he needs to feel a connection. Needs to see where this family met their deaths.
It will take him around forty-five minutes to get out to Holderness. Through the city and on into nowhere. He will learn nothing he can put in a database. Will find nothing of forensic evidential benefit. But he will at least feel something. For these past months, the only pain he has felt has been his own.
He turns the key. Feels the wind on his face.
Drives, through the wind and the rain, to a murder scene built on bones.
FOUR
9:18 A . M . The chain pub opposite Hull Crown Court.
Traffic nose to tail, turning the leaves in the gutters into a paste of orange and gold.
Solicitors and coppers, criminals and clerks, hurrying through the sideways rain; illuminated by the reds and yellows of headlights and streetlamps.
Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray sits on one of the high bar stools, looking out through rain-lashed windows. Watches as the driver of a white van beeps his horn at the tall black woman crossing between the motionless cars, dragging a briefcase on wheels that were not designed to deal with the potholes and cobbles of Hull’s city center. Watches as she jumps at the sudden noise, then gives a nervous wave to the fat prick behind the wheel.
Ray spoons up a last mouthful of hash browns and scrambled egg. Takes a sip of wine and wipes the grease off the rim of the glass with the end of his tie. Takes a look behind him at his fellow diners. It’s mostly men. Old boys. Retired trawlermen with missing fingers and chapped faces. Workmen in luminous yellow jackets and steel-capped boots. A shaky-looking bloke holding a tall glass of gin and orange is leaning on the bar. His shoes are polished to a shine and his blue suit is neatly pressed, but his right leg is shaking in a way that suggests he is due before a judge this morning and is sinking his drinks like somebody who is not expecting to get the chance to do so again for a while.
No new faces,
thinks Ray.
Same shit. Same pricks and nobodies. Same friends
.
He takes in his surroundings. Up, at the exposed air-conditioning
McAvoy rubs crumbs from his fingers and ponders the name of the church mentioned in the top report. St. Germain’s. It seems familiar. Had he heard about this case when he first moved to the area a few years back? Had he taken a trip to the remote patch of Holderness with Roisin? Did it have some significance to his studies? His training?
He nods, pleased to have remembered.
Andrew Marvell.
When he moved to Hull as a uniformed constable, McAvoy had been single and lonely and had spent his spare time reading up on the area’s history. Andrew Marvell was one of the city’s most revered sons. He represented the city as MP for more than thirty years and became one of the closest confidants of Oliver Cromwell, before making himself equally invaluable to the restored monarchy under King Charles II. More than that, he was a poet who epitomized the metaphysical ideals. And he had been born at Winestead and baptized in St. Germain’s Church, where his father was rector.
McAvoy is pleased he has not had to say any of this out loud. Pharaoh makes fun of his ability to recall odd facts and dates. Reckons he would be a pub-quiz champion if he would just let himself cheat on the questions about popular culture. Laughs at the idea he would be fine on the rounds about astrophysics and literature but would let himself down on
EastEnders
.
McAvoy winds down the window and breathes in the cold, damp air. He needs to order his thoughts. Needs to lay out every piece of paper on a bare wall and input every fact into a database. Needs to see which pieces of data are incontrovertible and which need to be reassessed and validated. But more than anything, he needs to feel a connection. Needs to see where this family met their deaths.
It will take him around forty-five minutes to get out to Holderness. Through the city and on into nowhere. He will learn nothing he can put in a database. Will find nothing of forensic evidential benefit. But he will at least feel something. For these past months, the only pain he has felt has been his own.
He turns the key. Feels the wind on his face.
Drives, through the wind and the rain, to a murder scene built on bones.
FOUR
9:18 A . M . The chain pub opposite Hull Crown Court.
Traffic nose to tail, turning the leaves in the gutters into a paste of orange and gold.
Solicitors and coppers, criminals and clerks, hurrying through the sideways rain; illuminated by the reds and yellows of headlights and streetlamps.
Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray sits on one of the high bar stools, looking out through rain-lashed windows. Watches as the driver of a white van beeps his horn at the tall black woman crossing between the motionless cars, dragging a briefcase on wheels that were not designed to deal with the potholes and cobbles of Hull’s city center. Watches as she jumps at the sudden noise, then gives a nervous wave to the fat prick behind the wheel.
Ray spoons up a last mouthful of hash browns and scrambled egg. Takes a sip of wine and wipes the grease off the rim of the glass with the end of his tie. Takes a look behind him at his fellow diners. It’s mostly men. Old boys. Retired trawlermen with missing fingers and chapped faces. Workmen in luminous yellow jackets and steel-capped boots. A shaky-looking bloke holding a tall glass of gin and orange is leaning on the bar. His shoes are polished to a shine and his blue suit is neatly pressed, but his right leg is shaking in a way that suggests he is due before a judge this morning and is sinking his drinks like somebody who is not expecting to get the chance to do so again for a while.
No new faces,
thinks Ray.
Same shit. Same pricks and nobodies. Same friends
.
He takes in his surroundings. Up, at the exposed air-conditioning
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