‘Could she have contacted them? If she were able?’

‘She’d have to be in a hell of a way to think about that,’ muses Red. ‘Padua – he’s done time for rape. His brother, he’s the real fucking nutter. But they’re handy people. And to answer your next question, she’d be a bloody fool to come to the halting site. As many loyal to the Heldens as the Teagues, and most with no fucking idea about any of it. There’s a curse on that girl, I swear to the Blessed Virgin. Always a touch of the sight about her, according to her ma.’

‘Could you not stay another five minutes?’ asks McAvoy, his mind racing. He can feel the tug of responsibility; the need to do something that he really doesn’t want to. ‘Names?’ he asks. ‘The half-brothers … and Cromwell? What’s his real name?’

Red pauses. Considers. ‘An diabhal,’ she says, then crosses herself. ‘That’s to us. Other languages, other names.’

McAvoy looks at her, confused.

‘The devil,’ she says, quietly, then turns and walks away.

EIGHTEEN

7.57 a.m.
Sunk Island, Holderness

‘What do you mean he headbutted you, Andy? I know we have a policy of believing the victim, but the fact that you’re alive and still have a head suggests that there may be bits missing from this story.’

Daniells looks up at Pharaoh, grimacing in advance of what he knows will be a difficult exchange. ‘I didn’t say he headbutted me, I said we clashed heads. He was all jittery. You know, distracted, a bit all over the place.’

‘He’s McAvoy,’ says Pharaoh, her mouth turning down at the corners and her nostrils starting to flare. Her officers have grown used to reading such subtle indicators when trying to gauge her mood. Right now, she’s frustrated, and getting cross. When her lower teeth protrude past the top row, the team know that it’s time to run.

‘Boss?’

‘He’s always jittery. It comes with being ten feet tall and suffering from the only physical deformity that people are still allowed to make fun of!’

‘The big hands?’ asks Daniells, grasping.

‘The ginger!’ growls Pharaoh, pulling her half finished cigarette from her mouth and tossing it into the long grass. ‘Get somebody to pick that up before Forensics bag it,’ she growls, shaking her head.

‘Look, he went past me like he had a rugby ball under his arm. Took the car and shot off. I’m telling you so I don’t have to worry about it anymore.’

Pharaoh runs her hands through her hair. They come away damp. She can’t tell if it’s rain or sweat.

‘Not sure if you need to hear this, but the dad of that anarchist – the one who’s missing – he was on Radio Humberside last bulletin, saying you weren’t doing enough, that you didn’t care …’

‘Of course he was,’ says Pharaoh, softly. ‘His boy’s missing. It might be useful in jogging some memories, getting some witnesses forward. Remind me later to tell them to keep an eye on the message forums on that urban explorer site, would you? They all know each other, though they’ve got daft bloody names and talk like they’re about to start a revolution by breaking into old buildings. He was into all that, from what I remember.’