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eagerly, gesturing to the door with her head. ‘Ben Nielsen’s on his way here to oversee interviews. We’ve got child specialists en route to interview the choirboys. They probably had the best views, poor sods …’
    As McAvoy starts walking towards the door, the phone rings in his inside pocket. A tremor of anxiety floods him. He should have called in. Should have logged this straightaway with the top brass. Stamped his brand on the case. But he was lying on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, letting an inexperienced DC run the show.
    ‘Detective Sergeant McAvoy,’ he says, and stops walking, already letting his head drop.
    ‘McAvoy. This is ACC Everett. What’s going on down there?’ The voice of the Assistant Chief Constable is tense and stern.
    ‘We’re on top of things, sir. We’re on our way to see the family now …’
    ‘We?’
    ‘DC Helen Tremberg and myself, sir …’
    ‘Not Pharaoh?’
    McAvoy hears himself gulp. It feels as though he’s swallowed ice water on an empty stomach. His guts start to cramp.
    ‘Detective Superintendent Pharaoh is on a course this weekend, sir. I’m duty senior officer …’
    ‘Pharaoh phoned in, McAvoy. Cancelled the course the second she heard. This is a murder, Sergeant. In the city’s biggest, most historic church. The church where William Wilberforce was baptised. A teenage girl, hacked up by a lunatic in front of the congregation? This is all-hands-to-the-pump time, man.’
    ‘So do you want me to fill her in after I’ve spoken to the girl’s family?’
    ‘No.’ There is a finality to Everett’s voice that makes a mockery of his own belief that this could be his investigation.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ he says defeatedly, like a schoolboy told he has not made the team. Beside him, Tremberg turns away, popping two pieces of gum into her mouth and chewing angrily as she realises what is happening.
    ‘No, I was ringing about the other matter, McAvoy. The one I telephoned about earlier,’ Everett continues with barely a pause.
    ‘Yes, sir, I got the message but—’
    ‘Well, never mind that now. Other things have come up. But now you’re free of having to lead the investigation you can do something else for me. A favour, actually.’
    McAvoy’s eyes are closed now. He’s barely listening.
    ‘If I can, sir.’
    ‘Excellent. I’ve had a call from a pal of mine at Southampton. It seems an old chap from their neck of thewoods has had an accident while making some documentary out at sea. Terrible. Terrible. He’s from this area originally. Still got family. A sister, out at Beeford. Normally, a uniform would drive by and break the news, but this lady, well …’ Everett starts to stumble over his words. He sounds like a shy man making a speech at a wedding. ‘Well, look, she’s the wife of the Police Authority vice-chair. A very important lady. She and her husband are big supporters of a lot of the initiatives the community policing programme are hoping to see through over the next few years. And you always have such a fine way with people …’
    There is a rushing sound in McAvoy’s ears. His heart is thudding. He can smell his own blood in his nostrils. He opens his eyes to see Tremberg walking away from him, an air of contempt to her gait. She’ll find her way into Pharaoh’s team.
    Do what you do best, McAvoy. Be the gentle, decent soul. Do Everett’s bidding. Keep your head down. Get on with your job. Earn a wage. Love your wife …
    ‘Yes, sir.’

CHAPTER 3
    McAvoy slows down to 20mph. Squints into the darkness as the wheels of the boxy saloon throw up muddy streaks against the spray-jewelled glass. His eyes are eerily keen, but the December gloom enfolds him in a damp fist. Concentrating, he glimpses the eyes of song thrushes roosting in the lower reaches of the hedgerows. Can see the dead, rotting stems of cow-parsley and flaxweed sticking out like broken spears from the muddy, tyre-worn boundary of the road. Fancies that a rabbit is