‘Paw prints,’ says Pharaoh, absently, as she slowly gives the room a once-over. There’s a mess of four-pronged imprints around the wreckage of licked-clean feeding bowls. She narrows her eyes. Considers the pile of soiled papers and empty containers that have been raked through by three frantic cats, searching for food. Moves past McAvoy, and peers among the debris. ‘Phone,’ she says, quietly.

McAvoy does as instructed. Cancels the call from Roisin without even thinking. Passes her the mobile and watches as she reels off several shots. Then she extracts her sunglasses from under the papery hood of the suit, and uses the arm to slide free the colourful square of card deposited among the refuse.

McAvoy swallows, hard. He knows what it will be even before the gaudy colours and tattered edges align themselves into a picture.

It’s an Oracle card. A gaudy, blood-soaked specimen from a fortune-telling deck favoured by those with some Gypsy in their blood. There is a hole through its centre, hemmed with dried blood. Despite the destruction, the central image remains clear: a childish depiction of a fluffy black-and-white cat: dazzling eyes and a curling question mark of tail.

‘Falseness,’ says McAvoy automatically. ‘A liar’s card.’

Pharaoh looks up at him. Pulls aside her face covering so he can see her piercing blue eyes.

‘You know this because of Roisin?’ she asks, quietly, lest Grover be listening at the door.

‘Sort of, I don’t know … it’s something from before, from when we met – I think … look, I should probably tell you this right away …’ says McAvoy, and the words tumble out in a rush: a disjointed mess.

Pharaoh tries to shush him. To calm him. To get him to make sense.

She is standing with her hands on his forearms when Grover pokes his head into the kitchen. His own face covering is pulled down, and there are two spots of colour on his cheeks. He’s out of breath, but whatever it is, can’t wait.

‘Guv, I’ve just heard from one of the old boys works in collating at Beverley nick. Word travels fast, doesn’t it? Anyway, you’ll never guess. Turns out this has happened before.’

Pharaoh gives McAvoy a hard stare. Drops her arms to her sides.

A growl in her voice as she mutters, ‘You don’t fucking say.’

SEVEN

Twelve years ago

A coal-dark street, pummelled by sharp, slanting rain.

Lamplight spilling from tatty bay windows, held captive in a million raindrops, slick atop dirty puddles – shattered glass pixels glittering on the slick metal of cars parked nose to tail.

This is Exmouth Street, at the shabbier end of the Hull neighbourhood that calls itself the Avenues. For the past four months, Aector McAvoy has been living in the bland, brick property at the end of the terrace. It’s demonstrably fine. He can think of a better description. That’s what he tells the family, when they ask. Says it’s all ‘fine’. The house, the city, the job, the people he’s getting to know. He can think of no better way to put it. This will do, for now. He can’t ever imagine calling this place ‘home’. He arrived in the city just as austerity was starting to bite chunks out of the police budget. At around the same time as he was being offered the job with the Community Policing Team, Humberside Police was deciding it could no longer afford to maintain accommodation for its officers. He has tried not to take it too personally. He’s stumbled into a house share with a colleague, and is pretty confident he can stick it out here for the foreseeable. He doesn’t trouble himself unduly with home comforts. He just needs somewhere to sleep, to read, to feed himself, and the rest of the time he can devote to acquainting himself with this rough-hewn, mercurial city.