Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) by David Mark Read Free Book Online Page B

sick . . .

Chapter 3
     
     
    6.11 p.m. The Freedom Centre on Hull’s Preston Road
     
    Millions of pounds in regeneration money has been thrown at this estate but it’s still got more anti-social behaviour orders per square mile than anywhere else in the city and a fair number of weddings and christenings are planned around court dates. It’s a place where the only way to get rid of unwanted furniture is to put it in the garden with a ‘for sale’ sign.
    Helen Tremberg rubs a hand over her face. She smells talcum powder, antiseptic wipes, egg mayonnaise and bleach. Her olfactory bulb is used to such assaults but today’s battering veers close to grievous bodily harm. She shudders. Unearths a packet of extra-strong mints and crunches through two like a horse with a sugar lump, allowing the aroma to fill her head and numb her tongue. She rummages in the pocket of her suit jacket and finds her vanity mirror. Flips it open and gives herself the once-over. Passable. Still not pretty but far from undesirable. Brown bobbed hair, broad shoulders and gentle eyes. Tiny silver studs in her ears. A baggy roll-neck jumper hiding her shape. She’s still conscious of the baby-weight. Probably always will be.
    Helen is sitting at a round table in the deserted bar. The place shouldn’t be open but she spotted the caretaker and persuaded him to let her inside. He’d been happy for the company. Happy to help the police. Happy to tell her that while a lot of people on this estate thought all coppers should be burned alive, he would definitely piss on one if they were on fire.
    ‘I’m sorry about that. It was just, you know . . . not something I ever thought I’d see . . .’
    Helen looks up into the pale, pinched face of the young police community support officer. She can’t be much more than twenty-five. Frizzy ginger hair, Celtic skin and freckles. Red eyes and nose from the cold and the tears. She’s sorted herself out a little in the toilets of this glorified community centre but there is no mistaking the fact that she looks shaky and scared.
    ‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ says Helen, patting the chair opposite and pushing the packet of mints towards her. ‘It would be more worrying if it didn’t upset you. Bloody hell, you saw something awful. There’s no training can prepare you for that. I just wish I could tell you that you’ll never see anything like it again. I’m afraid by the time you retire you’ll be able to eat a full fried breakfast from a tray while watching a post mortem.’
    The PCSO manages a smile. Her name is Vicki. She wanted to be a social worker when she left university but didn’t quite get the grades and couldn’t seem to get her foot in the door. Worked in a bar of an evening and an office during the day before her mum showed her an advert in the paper. Reckoned she would make a good PCSO. Reckoned it was perfect for her. It’d allow her to help people and build up her confidence. The advert had been placed to attract people with ‘excellent communication skills and experience of dealing with difficult situations’. Vicki wasn’t sure she qualified on either front, but telling her mum she was too nervous to apply led to one of those difficult situations, and the experience of it led Vicki to fill in the damn form. She hadn’t been entirely sure she even wanted the job when she went for the first of the interviews but has now been in the role for over a year and is enjoying it, truth be told. She likes the uniform and the camaraderie. She’s making some headway with the local teens. Some of the mums know her by name. It was the proudest moment of her life when a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl sought her out and asked her advice on what to do about the baby she thought she might be carrying. Vicki didn’t know what advice to give, but she knew that by asking, the girl was demonstrating that Vicki was, in some way, a person whose opinion might count. That felt good. She’s