Read Dead Pretty: The 5th DS McAvoy Novel (DS Aector McAvoy) for Free Online Page A

courts have written off the family’s debts. Her husband borrowed money from somebody who wants it back. The letters have been civil and straightforward, sent to her solicitor from a law firm in London. They speak of a client who loaned her husband a considerable sum some years before. They mention the bankruptcy and the debtor’s limited means, and ask that Trish, as his representative, make a sensible offer of restitution. Trish has made an offer but it was not accepted. The creditor was not interested in either a Mars bar or the opportunity to go fuck themselves.
    She pushes open the front door and proceeds through to the lounge. It’s not a bad house. The walls could do with a lick of paint and there is an assortment of stains on the pink carpet but the furniture came with them from their old house and is worth a damn sight more than Pharaoh put down on the forms when she listed the family’s assets. She certainly didn’t mention the fact that the painting of the tall man in the bowler hat, which hangs above the fireplace, is an original by the Beverley artist Fred Elwell, and worth more than she earns in a year. The rest of the wall space is taken up with family photos and various certificates of achievement. Olivia’s diploma from last summer’s drama school almost covers the huge red spray on the wall by the door, wine flung by Pharaoh at her disappearing daughter as the stroppy cow stormed out of the house a few weeks before.
    The middle two girls are on the sofa, staring wide-eyed at the laptop, mesmerised by a succession of teenagers falling off trampolines or bouncing over hedges. ‘All good?’ Pharaoh asks them, warily. ‘I’m not going to find any intestines in the bread bin, am I? And please tell me that Olivia isn’t trying to make a mace again. I’ve told you before, a tin of beans in a sock is dangerous. And besides, chopped tomatoes are cheaper.’
    Pharaoh gets the grin she hoped for, and a grunt about everything being fine now. Olivia is making herself a drink in the kitchen and there is no sign of Sophia, or blood, so Pharaoh treats herself to a sigh of relief and plonks herself down in the armchair. Picks up the remote control and switches on something mindless.
    Oh fuck.
    Him .
    He’s sitting on the comfy chair that the BBC wheels out whenever somebody famous or particularly interesting agrees to appear on Look North .
    His name is Reuben Hollow, and he’s the reason why Trish Pharaoh’s life has recently turned to shit.
    Pharaoh has to admit he looks good. Prison must agree with him. He was never exactly portly but during his time inside he has slimmed down even further and now he has the sort of cheekbones that most teenage girls would sell their parents for. He’s still got the stubble that he kept running his hand through during their interview sessions. Still got the gold earring too, though he’s taken off the flat cap that Pharaoh had presumed was stapled to his head. He’s wearing a collarless shirt and tweedy waistcoat and there is a pendant of some kind peeking through his dark chest hair. His eyes haven’t lost their fire. They’re still an almost unnatural blue; glinting like Arctic water as it captures the sun. Christ, he’s a handsome bastard, thinks Pharaoh.
    And then to herself, don’t you bloody dare .
    The interviewer is doing his best to keep the camera focused on himself but he’s fighting a losing battle. Reuben Hollow is more than photogenic. Pharaoh can almost hear the drool oozing from the interviewer’s earpiece as the directors order the camera to stay fixed on the man who was freed last Thursday when his murder conviction was quashed by the Court of Appeal.
    ‘You must be feeling very relieved,’ says the interviewer, as the camera pans back to let him have his moment. He’s a weaselly-looking thing. Skinny, with a head too big for his body and hair that looks like it was stuck on at a factory.
    Reuben half smiles. Nods. Closes his eyes, as though