by John Harvey
“Now, in silence, let us each remember Deirdre in our own way, and let us pray for her soul, now and everlasting …”
Lorraine and Michael, standing there together: Michael staring upward, the ceiling blurred by tears; Lorraine bent forward, eyes closed, long fingers winding restlessly in and out, sobbing. Happy.
Six
“I’ve already fucking told you,” Billy Scalthorpe insisted, his voice a raw whine against the backdrop of overlapping conversations. “How many more fuckin’ times?”
Carl Vincent shifted his weight on to his other foot. “How about once more?”
“Okay. Mark’s walkin’ out, right? Me and Adam, we’re arguin’ the toss up at the counter, Adam wants Coke without ice, and what they’ve give him is Coke with ice. Anyway, I turn me head, gonna shout to Mark to hang on, right? And there’s these two blokes come at him from both sides and before you can fuckin’ do anythin’ they’ve shot him in the fuckin’ head. Legged it out of here like they was in the fuckin’ Olympics.”
“Into a car, yes? There was a car waiting?”
Scalthorpe shook his head. “I didn’t see no car.”
Three different witnesses had spoken of a black four-door saloon, a Ford, most probably an Escort.
“But you saw them, the pair who attacked him?”
“Course I fuckin’ saw ’em.”
“You recognize them?”
“What?”
“These two, you knew who they were?”
“’Course I never.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Never seen them before?”
“I dunno.”
“Then you might have?”
“Yeh, I might. S’pose I might.”
“But you claimed not to have recognized them.”
Scalthorpe shook his head in amazement. “They was fuckin’ runnin’ away. All I saw was the backs of their fuckin’ heads, wa’n it? Fuckin’ baseball caps, arse to front, like they all wear.”
“All?”
“You know what I mean.”
Scalthorpe held Vincent’s stare for a moment, then blinked. A rosary of tiny white spots circled his mouth, mingling here and there with wisps of fledgling mustache. Vincent smiled: the two attackers were black, most probably a similar shade of black to himself. Yes, he knew what Scalthorpe meant. And if a leading sports commentator could claim, without embarrassment, not to be able to distinguish between one black soccer player and another, what else could he expect?
“You did get a good look, though,” Vincent said, “at what they were wearing?”
“The one that shot him,” Adam Bent was saying, “he had on this silver jacket, short, you know? Padded, maybe. Yeh, I think it was padded. Blue jeans. Trainers. Nike, maybe, I’m not sure. Blue. Blue and white.”
“And a cap,” Naylor prompted him, glancing up from his notebook. “You said something before about a cap.”
“Oh, yeh. Dark blue with some sort of logo. Letterin’, you know?”
Naylor nodded. “And his mate?”
“Sports gear. Green and white. Cap, too. Pulled back. Washington Redskins. I know that ’cause I used to have one meself. Lost it down Forest, larkin’ around after the match. You don’t go to Forest, do you?”
Naylor shook his head.
“Used to be a lot of your lot down there, Sat’days. Hanging round, outside the ground. Still, have to be in uniform, I s’pose, do something like that?”
Naylor nodded again. “The one who did the shooting,” he said, “how much of a chance did you get to look at his face?”
Either side of Burger King, a section of Upper Parliament Street was cordoned off with yellow tape. Traffic had slowed to a single line, snail-like, in each direction. A small crowd, mostly women and small children, had gathered outside the Disney shop opposite and stood gawking.
Millington switched off his mobile and went outside to where Resnick was standing on the pavement, talking to Sharon Garnett.
“Just spoke to the hospital,” Millington said. “In surgery now, Ellis. Stable. That’s all they’ll say.”
Resnick nodded. “Sharon’s got a witness, woman who was passing, reckons she got a good look at one of them when they ran out to the car. Almost knocked her over. She’s going to take her round to Central, take a look at some pictures.”
Millington nodded. “Photofit, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
They were still standing there when a bulky man, dark-haired, wearing a leather jacket that might have fitted some years before, ducked under the tape and clasped Resnick by the shoulder.
“Charlie.”
“Norman.”
“It’s a bugger.”
“You could say.”
“Bastards shooting one another in broad daylight.”
“Yes.”
Norman Mann was the head of the city’s Drug Squad, a square-shouldered man with a reputation for calling a spade a fucking spade. He and Resnick were around the same age, had worked their way up through the Force more or less together, and treated each other with more than a little bonhomie and a careful respect.
“Let’s talk, Charlie.”
“Right.” Resnick looked round at his sergeant. “Graham?”
“You get off. I’ll hang on here.”
They sat in the small bar of the Blue Bell, Mann with a pint of best and Resnick a tomato juice liberally laced with Worcestershire Sauce.
“This kid, Ellis,” Mann said, “we’ve had our eyes on him for a while. Bits of low-level dealing, Clifton estate mostly. Out at Bulwell. Amphetamines, Es. Once in a while, a little heroin. I thought you should know.”
Resnick nodded. “You’ve never pulled him in?”
Mann supped his ale. “A little chat, nothing more. If he’s dealing heroin, any quantity, he’s got to have a line through to Planer, but we haven’t figured out yet what it is.”
Resnick knew there were two main suppliers in the city, Planer and Valentine. Something else Resnick knew: Planer was white and Valentine was black. With Planer, it was mostly pills and heroin; Valentine’s fancy was more for marijuana, crack cocaine. But there was a lot of leeway in between. The pair of them had been targeted, questioned, arrested, grudgingly allowed back out on to the streets. Several of their minions had been successfully charged and convicted, and were now serving time. But not Planer, not Valentine.
“You think that’s what this might be about?” Resnick said. “Drugs?”
Mann shifted his head to one side in a lazy shrug.
“There was a stabbing out at Jimmy Peters’s place,” Resnick said, “early hours of the morning.”
“I heard.”
“Youth as came off worse, Wayne Feraday. He’s come your way too, I think.”
“Rings a bell.”
“Ellis, the one you’ve had an interest in-he was involved.”
“You brought him in?”
Resnick nodded.
“And then let him walk?”
“Nothing to hold him.”
Mann smiled with his eyes. “That’s all right, Charlie. I know how it goes.”
Resnick reached up to loosen his tie, but it had worked loose already. “Ellis, he was still under surveillance?”
“Like I say, Charlie, we had our eye on him, but no more than once in a while. Small potatoes. Nothing worth shelling out serious overtime.”
“Beyond the obvious, you think there could be a connection between him and Feraday? Something as makes this shooting more than tit for tat.”
Mann gave it some thought. “I suppose it’s a possibility.”
“Nothing more?”
“Like I say, both of them pretty small beer. But, yeh, I’ll ask around.” He lit a cigarette. “Likely you’ll do the same. Keep each other in the picture. That’s why I came looking for you, soon as I heard.”
“Right,” Resnick drained his glass and slid it aside.
“Last thing we want, Charlie, that bitch from Major Crimes finding
an excuse to muscle in.” He winked. “Let’s keep this one tight to ourselves.”
Walking back down the street, the Theatre Royal at his back, Resnick thought about what Norman Mann had said. That bitch, as he called her, was Helen Siddons, the Detective Chief Inspector recently appointed to head the Major Crime Unit based in the city. When the post had been advertised, one of only three in the county, quite a few of Resnick’s friends and colleagues had argued he should throw his name in the ring. But in the end, partly through a sense of loyalty to his existing team, partly a distaste for the whole appointments rigmarole, he had declined and Siddons had been offered the post.
One of her first actions had been to poach Lynn Kellogg, possibly Resnick’s best officer, who had recently passed her sergeant’s boards and was waiting for an opening.
Siddons was a high-flier, ambitious, hard as anthracite. Whatever Norman Mann wished to the contrary, if she wanted her squad involved in what was going on, when push came to shove, there was little he-or Resnick-could do about it.
Seven
Evan knew about wakes. His father-born and raised a Protestant in the midst of the Republic-a shining light, as he liked to put it, in the morass of that Catholic bog-had seen to it that the family kept the tradition alive wherever they happened to settle in England. Port Sunlight, Wolverhampton, Chester-le-Street, Wandsworth. Oh, not the weeping and wailing kind, four generations of toothless women in black, caterwauling like cats in heat; and not the fiddle tune and whiskey free-for-all that ended in fisticuffs and tears. No, what Evan’s father advocated was a dignified coming together, serious not somber, never drunken but certainly not teetotal; a chance for all those mourning the deceased to recollect, remember, spin their favorite stories, raise their glasses in a dignified toast to the recently departed. It was how it had been when Evan’s father had passed on three years before, sideswiped by a lorry plowing down the motorway in heavy rain, his father having pulled over to help someone who’d broken down and kneeling too near the edge of the hard shoulder, struggling to free the nuts on the rear wheel.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Wesley said, the two of them standing off to the one side, himself and Evan; Preston, his right arm secured again to Wesley’s left, making the party up to three. Preston with his back turned toward the pair of them, as if the conversation they were heatedly engaged in was about somebody else and not himself.
“You know the instructions,” Wesley was saying. “Straight up and back.”
“Escort the prisoner to his mother’s funeral and return him safely forthwith.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s your problem?” Evan asked.
Preston was watching Lorraine and Derek as they stood outside the chapel, talking to the vicar, doubtless thanking him. Lorraine conscious her brother was looking in her direction and not responding, trying not to, back in control of herself now, allowing just the single glance. Sandra and Sean watching him, too; fascinated, afraid to come too close. This man who was the uncle they’d never seen. Who’d killed their grandad. Killed him. It didn’t seem possible.
When Preston took a half-pace toward Sandra and smiled, she turned away, head down, pushing Sean in front of her.
“My problem is …” Wesley began, at pains to spell it out, as much for the prisoner as for Evan “… there’s nothing there about taking him off to some bloody reception.”
“Wake.”
“What?”
“It’s a wake.”
“Whatever you want to call it, it’s none of our concern.”
Evan shaking his head, feeling his temper rising, but keeping it all under control. “Think of it this way, Wesley, the funeral, it’s in two parts, right? The first, here at the crematorium, the second back at the house.”
“Bollocks,” Wesley said. “You’re talking bollocks.”
“Well, then, Wesley …” Evan moving close now, lowering his voice. “I don’t give a monkey’s what you think, we’re taking him anyway. So either you come with us or find something else to keep you occupied. Sit in the back of the car, maybe, and floss your teeth?”
The two reception rooms on the ground floor were separated by a pair of stripped-pine doors set into a wide arch, and these had been fastened back, allowing people to move freely between them. Glasses, borrowed from the off license, Derek and Sean had arranged on the low shelf unit, bottles alongside them-white wine, Lorraine had thought, along with some soda water in case anyone cared to make themselves a spritzer; orange juice, quite a few beers, cans of Coke and Fanta for the kids; no spirits, not in the middle of the day. The food, Sandra helping, Lorraine had set out on a long table near the French windows, which were open out into the garden.
It was one of those early summer days that had started off bright and fresh, then threatened to cloud over as it wore on; any breeze had dropped and now it was becoming decidedly muggy. Even though she’d taken off her suit jacket, Lorraine could feel her blouse sticking to her when she moved.
Preston’s handcuffs had been removed as soon as they had arrived at the house and one or two people had come over to him, made a few remarks about his loss, then hurried away again, never pausing long enough for conversation. Sandra bravely brought over a plate of sausage rolls and held it out to him, avoiding his eyes; the moment he had taken one, she spun away, his thank you strangely gentle to her ears. Young Sean spent an age hovering, daring himself to ask questions that, in the end, remained unasked.
Lorraine aside, it was only Derek’s sister, Maureen, who seemed at all comfortable in Michael’s presence, leaning back against the wall after offering him a cigarette and encouraging him to tell her what it was like inside, being locked away like that with no, you know, women-Maureen flirting with him almost, that was how it seemed.
“Clock that?” Wesley said, nodding toward where Preston and Maureen were standing, Maureen laughing a little now, arching back her neck.
Evan nodded. He’d seen women like that before, visiting days, some bloke’s reputation as a hard nut getting their hormones all in a tizzy.
“Keep that up,” Wesley said, “get more’n she’s bargained for.”
Evan wandered across the room and fetched a couple more sandwiches. “You know your name?” he said. “Wesley.”
“What about it?”
“I was thinking, are you named after Wesley Snipes or what?”
“Christ, man,” Wesley exclaimed with a laugh. “You know how old I’d have to be to have been named after him? How long you think that guy’s been around, huh? White Men Can’t Jump. Nobody heard of him before that.” He shook his head and laughed. “Wesley Snipes, my black arse!”
“So then, who?” Evan asked, unfazed.
“You know Wes Hall?”
Evan shook his head.
“Cricketer. Fast bowler, man. The best. Wes Hall and Charlie Griffiths. Played for the West Indies a long time back. Wes, he’s from Barbados. Like my old man.” Wesley laughed again. “These guys today, you think they quick, well, you slow to get your head out the way when Wes Hall bowl you a bouncer, wave your head goodbye.”
Evan standing there, staring at him, eyes becoming glazed.
“You into cricket, Evan, or what?”
“Bunch of grown men standing round for days trying to hit a small red ball, that’s what my dad used to say.”
“Never mind your dad for once, it’s you I’m asking. You appreciate the finer points of the game or not?”
“Not.”
“Missing a lot, man. Grand game, cricket. Sport of kings.”
Evan thought that was horse racing, but he saw no sense in arguing.
“Where’s he gone?” Wesley said suddenly, pushing himself away from the wall.
“What? Who?”
“Preston, he’s not there any more.”
Evan staring at the spot where their prisoner had been moments before; no Maureen, no Michael Preston, just an empty glass on the floor.
He hadn’t gone past th
em into the garden, they were sure of that; they checked the kitchen, then doubled back along the hallway, heading for the stairs. The first two doors were open, the kids’ bedrooms, the third was locked. Evan hammered upon it with his fist. “Preston? You in there?”
“Yes, course I’m in here.”
“Open the door.”
“I can’t.”
“Open up now.”
There was a shuffle of movement, followed by the small click of the bolt being pulled back and the door opened to reveal Preston standing there, underpants hoisted back up, but trousers still midway up his thighs, shirt flapping down.
“What’s all the fuss about? I didn’t know I had to ask permission to take a crap. Or maybe you just want to wipe my behind?”
Grim-faced, Evan closed the door firmly in Preston’s face, far from appreciating the amusement in the man’s eyes.
When he emerged five minutes later, Preston had recombed his hair and was smelling of somebody else’s cologne. Evan was still standing outside the door, more or less to attention, Wesley sitting on the top stair, nursing a can of Coke and wishing it were Carlsberg.
“Thought I was doing a runner,” Preston said.
“You were told to stay downstairs, within sight.”
“Call of nature.”
“I don’t care.”
“So okay, won’t happen again.”
“I know.” Evan held out the cuffs and moved toward him.
“Look,” Preston said. “There’s a favor I got to ask.”
“Forget it. No more favors.”
“My sister, I just want to talk to her.”
“You’ve been talking to her.”
“No, alone.”
Evan shook his head. “You heard what I said.”
“Come on,” Preston said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You got family of your own, right? Close. How’d you feel in my shoes?” He stared at Evan until Evan dropped his shoulders in a shrug.
