Contents ( 48)
- PAST LIFE
- David Mark
- PART ONE
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Guv?’
Pharaoh, who has spent ten years enjoying the services of a bagman who does what she wants before she’s even ordered it, gives a low growl. ‘I just said. Whatever they’ve eaten, we need back.’
Grover, his face still grey, attempts a laugh. Pharaoh fixes him with a look. Even from behind the face mask, she has a penetrating stare. ‘I mean it, detective inspector. One of the vermin is digesting evidence. I don’t know her family yet but one of the poor sods is going to have to identify her.’
‘Oh,’ says Grover, nodding. ‘The eye’s upstairs. Windowsill.’
Pharaoh nods. Sighs. ‘That’s a bonus,’ she mutters, then eases her way past the body and into the kitchen. McAvoy is staring through the darkened windows at nothing very much, watching as a smudge of pinkness begins to take shape, separating the sky from the sea. He turns, sensing Pharaoh. Feels her give his arm a squeeze. He’s grateful for it. Hopes she can’t feel the way he is using every ounce of self-control to stop himself from trembling.
‘Three days at least,’ says Pharaoh.
‘Guv?’
‘I read somewhere that it takes that long before your skin’s loose enough for them to get their teeth in.’
McAvoy shakes his head. ‘At least four days – you can see from the milk. But the face thing? The elasticity of the skin? No. Back home there was an old widow who fell and broke her hip. Lived alone in a croft on the road past Slaggan. Drifted in and out of consciousness for twenty-four hours. Came to when her cat started eating the fat of her hand. They’ll go for you once they’re hungry.’
Behind the mask, Pharaoh makes a face. ‘That wasn’t one of your prettier “You Should Come to Scotland” pitches, Hector. That was downright bloody horrible.’
‘Sorry.’
They stand in silence. McAvoy feels as though there’s a weight in his gut: a kernel of something hard; unyielding. He knows what he has to say. Knows that if he doesn’t, there’ll be no way back. She’ll find out – there’s no hiding anything from Pharaoh. She tells her officers the same thing whenever they get themselves in trouble. It’s burned into the frontal lobes of every officer who has joined her team. Learn to lie, and lie well, but don’t lie to me. I’ll protect you, I’ll cover for you, I’ll lay down in traffic for you, but I need to know everything. Lie to me, and I’ll rip your tongue out …
‘Laptop’s still here at least,’ says Pharaoh, pointing at the grubby silver computer that sits open on the wooden table. ‘Christ, I think we’re about the same age, Hector. Did you see the blood on her chin? I saw some slides at a conference, years back: drug dealers out in banjo country in West Ireland. Had a penchant for taking the tongues of informants. The blood pooled just like that.’
McAvoy feels his phone begin to vibrate. Can’t decide whether to silence it and tell her what he must, or thank God for the distraction.