by John Harvey
“But you can’t think …”
“What?”
“Michael, you can’t … You can’t think we can just …”
“Can’t what? Can’t nothing. We can do anything.”
He believed it; she could see it in his face. “Oh, God!” She moved away and he caught her by the wrist, and she looked back at him through tears. “Michael, it’s just not … it’s crazy, that’s what it is. Insane.”
He kissed her eyes and then her mouth, the slow fleshy warmth inside his lips and then the thrust of his tongue, forcing her. His hands moving her back against the wall, clumsy on her breasts, not the way she remembered them, pushing too hard, kneading. Needy. Edging her legs apart with his knee, a hand between her legs.
“No-o!” She bit down on the thickness of his tongue and when he pulled away she tasted blood. Her eyes suddenly fiery, threatening.
“All right. Okay.” Michael, one hand out, backing away. “I know we can’t … just like that … it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have rushed.” He wiped his hand across the corner of his mouth. “I know it’s gonna … it’s going to take time. It’s just, you know, thinking about you all this time. Banged up. Inside. Thinking about you so long.” He was moving slowly back toward her. “Lo, believe me. I understand. I do.”
She covered her face with her hands.
“Lo?”
“Oh, Michael, you don’t understand anything.”
“I can’t hear you, what you’re saying.”
“You don’t understand anything. At all.”
Silence, the room, the whole house wrapped in cotton wool.
Michael standing there, waiting for her to look at him again. “Derek,” he said. “You don’t love him. I doubt you ever did. You told me. And you do love me. You know you do. You always have.”
“Michael, that’s not …”
“Not what?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Of course it’s the fucking point!”
She stumbled back, frightened by the anger, the intensity of his voice.
“What else d’you think it’s all about. What else has it always been about? What I did, then. What I’m doing now. It’s for you. Us. That’s all that matters. All that counts.”
Tears running down her face, she leaned toward him and he held her in his arms, allowing himself to cry now, laugh a little, yes, that too, but crying most of all. The two of them like great kids, grinning through their tears.
“Come over here,” he said. “Come on over here and sit down while I tell you. I’ve got it all worked out, all planned. Passport, everything, it’s all fixed. Turkey, that’s where we’re going first. Travel separate, of course. No way round that. After, we can go anywhere. Anywhere we want. Just about. Send for the kids. You see, they’ll love it. Sandra, specially. She’s lovely, isn’t she? A sweetheart.”
“Michael …”
“Just a couple of things I’ve got to take care of first, couple more days and then we’re away. Out of here.” His face so serious, naive. “All you have to do, be ready, you know, ready to move. I’ll let you know, as much notice as I can. Okay? Okay, Lo, okay?”
She let him kiss her then, her face, neck, tips of her fingers, palms of her hands. Lorraine unable to look at him, afraid she’d be blinded by the joy on his face, the light in his eyes.
As soon as she felt she could, she pulled away. “Michael, listen. I’ve got to go, get back. The kids. And Derek. I said I’d not be long. They’ll worry. Come round. You don’t know Derek. He’ll have Sandra and Sean in the back of the car and be round here, double quick.”
Pushing herself to her feet, she brushed her hands down the front of her clothes, straightening herself out as best she could. Her hair would need a comb through it and then some. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.
“Lo, you’re okay, right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m fine.” She smiled and he smiled back, doing that thing with his eyes.
Lorraine turned toward the door.
“A couple of days, Lo. Three at most.”
“Yes, yes, all right.”
He followed her out into the hall, but when he went to kiss her again she moved her head aside. “You’d best stay away from the front door,” she said. “No point in risking being seen.”
“Round here?” Michael grinned. “That’s a laugh.”
But he stood well back, and when Lorraine turned the catch he said, “I do love you, you know.”
“I know.”
Her hands were shaking so much it was all she could do to fit the car key into the lock, switch on the ignition.
Thirty-four
Carefully, methodically, Millington and Naylor had been questioning Gary Prince, Ben Fowles sitting in, listening and learning. And as they went through incident after incident, one set of stolen goods after another, Prince had talked himself into corners from which it was more and more difficult to escape. The one thing he hadn’t admitted, nor even come close to, was selling a weapon to Valentine.
“Look on the bright side, Graham,” Resnick said. “There’s a dozen burglaries, more, some of them going back years-all those files marked closed. Do wonders for the crime figures.”
“Aye, happen you’re right.”
They were stealing twenty minutes’ sunshine, sitting on a bench in the tiny rectangle of public gardens at the end of Newcastle Drive.
“Besides, most likely thing,” Resnick said, “’less the gun’s at the bottom of the Trent, it’s been sold on a couple of times by now.”
Millington shook his head. “We’ve had feelers out and plenty, no word.”
“Not to worry, Graham. Be thankful for what we’ve got.”
Millington considered a cigarette, then thought better of it. “Raymond Cooke,” he said. “Took over that place Bobbers Mill way when his Uncle Terry killed himself.”
Resnick nodded. “What about him?”
“Name’s come up a couple of times. Jobs we thought Prince might’ve had a hand in. One in particular-break-in out at the Science Park. Computer stuff up the wazoo.”
“And he’s suggesting Ray-o was involved?”
Millington shook his head. “Not directly. Fenced the stuff, that’s all. Think there might be something to it?”
“Possible, Graham. Depends how closely he’s following in Terry Cooke’s footsteps.”
Millington snapped the spent match in half. “Often thought about that, you know. That whole business. Cookie topping himself the way he did. That girlfriend of his …”
“Eileen.”
“Yeah, right next to him in the bed.” He decided to light up after all. “Stripper, wasn’t she? What? Twenty-three, twenty-four? No dog, either.” Millington held in the smoke, then exhaled slowly. “You’d have thought, something nice like that alongside you, last thing you’d want to do, put your brains all over the pillow.”
Resnick stood and stretched. “I might take a walk down there, Graham. Haven’t had a word with young Ray-o in a while.”
Millington grinned. “One of your waifs and strays, isn’t he? Along of the Snapes.”
“Time to be getting back, Graham,” Resnick said.
“That social worker you went out with a while,” Millington said, smiling broadly. “Five or so years back. Rachel, was it? Left her mark on you and no mistake.”
But Resnick, striding away, was no longer listening.
At lunchtime, Lorraine left work and was crossing toward her car when she saw Evan, smoking a cigarette, over by the dividing wall. For just a moment, she stopped in her tracks and Evan dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the underside of his shoe. Lorraine put her keys back in her bag and headed straight for him. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
“I told you yesterday …”
“And I told you. If you don’t keep away from me, stop following me …”
“Tell me what I need to know.”
“You need to know nothing.”
“Listen,” Lorraine said, not wanting to make a scene, conscious that someone else from her work could come out at any moment. “Listen, there’s this law. Stalking.” She jabbed a finger against Evan’s chest. “You keep this up and I’m going to the police.”
Evan looked hurt. “But that’s not what …”
“Not what?”
“What I’m doing.”
“What else would you call it?” She rounded on her heel and strode toward her car. Before getting there, she turned again and headed back to Evan. “Which is yours?”
“Huh?”
“Which is yours?” Her head was half turned toward the line of other vehicles.
Evan didn’t answer, but she could see where he was looking: a Vauxhall Carlton, dark blue, a hire car with last year’s registration.
She took a pen and a slip of paper from her bag and made a show of writing down the number. “Okay, Evan, I’m telling you this. If I see either you or that car, anywhere near me, here or at home, I am going to call the law.” And she stared at him till he lowered his head and scuffed his feet on the floor.
When she caught sight of him in her rearview mirror, he was still standing there like some overgrown kid in the playground, stubborn and close to tears.
Raymond hadn’t been back in the shop much more than half an hour when Sheena Snape waltzed in. Sheena with her hair tied back, one of those skimpy sweaters that buttoned up the front and stopped several inches above the navel, black jeans that clung to her like a second skin. When she spoke, a smear of red lipstick shone bright on her front teeth.
“Ray-o, listen, I’ve been thinkin’.”
“Yeh?”
“What we was talkin’ about yes’day, you know.”
“Yeh, what about it?”
“I was thinkin’ maybe I should never’ve come here, right? Maybe I should’ve gone to someone else all along.”
“Why? What …? What you on about? What …?”
Sheena looking around at the second-hand tumble-driers, third-hand fridge-freezers. “I mean, you know, I don’t want to be rude, Ray-o. Insulting. But, you know, somethin’ like this, it’s a bit out of your class, know what I mean?”
“Bollocks!”
“Charming.”
“I can handle it,” Raymond said, puffing himself out. “No problem, you see.”
Sheena stood looking at him squarely: the watery eyes that never seemed quite true, the pallid skin that was always damp with sweat. “You got a buyer, then? That what you’re saying?”
“Yeh.”
“Yeah?”
“Almost.” Raymond held up finger and thumb to illustrate how close he had come. “I was talking, just now, just before you come in. This bloke, dead interested. Exactly what you’ve got. Exactly.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeh.”
“Two hundred.”
“At least.”
“So when you seeing him?”
“Couple of days, tops. Relax.”
Sheena sucked at her bottom lip; she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. But when she’d tried talking to the others about it, Diane had been preoccupied with Melvin, who was throwing up all over everywhere, and Lesley-Lesley was so far out of it, she didn’t even know who Sheena was. Which left Sheena herself walking round town with a handgun that could, in all probability, be tied into a shooting, even attempted murder.
“Sure I can trust you, Ray-o? You’re not winding me up, stringin’ us along?”
“Course not.”
“Here. You’ll be needing this, then.”
She had unsnapped her bag and lifted out the Beretta and was passing it across into Raymond’s willing hand, when Raymond saw, in the corner of his eye, Resnick briskly crossing the street toward them.
“Fuck!”
“What? What’s up? What?”
Raymond barely had time enough to tuck the weapon underneath the loose flap of his shirt, down inside the back of his jeans, before the bell above the door rang and Resnick walked in.
Seeing him, Sheena’s face set like sour milk.
“Sheena. Ray-o.” Resnick smiled, sniffing the air between them.
“Mr. Resnick,” Raymond stumbled, balance shifting from one foot to the other.
Sullen, Sheena said nothing.
“Didn’t know you two knew one another,” Resnick said pleasantly. “Though if I’d thought about it, I suppose I should.”
“Sheena was just looking for something for her mum,” Raymond said. “For the kitchen, like.”
Sheena’s look cut him off at the knees.
“How is Norma?” Resnick asked.
“Fine,” Sheena managed. “Better wi’out seein’ you.”
“I dare say.”
“You reckon the microwave, then?” Raymond said. “This one over ’ere.”
“Sod off, Ray-o,” Sheena said, turning toward the door. And, with a parting look at Resnick, “I don’t know what he’s on about. I was passin’, that’s all.”
The shop door closed with a slam and left Resnick and Raymond staring at one another, Raymond aware of nothing as much as the cold metal hard against his spine.
“Nice lass,” Resnick said.
Raymond carried on staring, open-mouthed; he had to be taking the piss.
“Seeing one another, are you?”
“Am I buggery!”
Resnick shrugged easily. “Just a thought.”
“Slag like that.”
“She wasn’t in here for the microwave, then, not like you said?”
Raymond could feel himself beginning to blush. “She were, yeh. ‘Course she were. What she said, just, you know, showin’ off.”
Resnick smiled benevolently.
“Girls.” Raymond laughed. “Who can fathom ’em, eh?”
“You wouldn’t have anything in the way of computer software?” Resnick asked. “Fresh in. Top-of-the-range stuff, mostly. Adobe Photoshop. QuarkXPress.”
Raymond blinked, backpedaling. “Not my thing, Mr. Resnick. Dixons, Curry’s, that’s where you want to try. That place along Castle Boulevard, never can remember the name.”
“You’re sure of that, Raymond? You’ve got nothing?”
“Yeh, dead sure.” He was beginning to breathe more easily now, the color in his cheeks starting to fade. That break-in out by the University, the Science Park, that’s what this was about. He’d been offered the gear, sure enough, but had turned it down.
Resnick wandered over toward the boxes of CDs. He’d picked up a few things here before, some Charlie Parker, a Chet Baker set recorded in Milan, Baker singing as if he were wearing somebody else’s teeth. Now all that tempted him was a Mills Brothers compilation with Ella on one track, Louis on another.
“Third off to you, Mr. Resnick,” Raymond said encouragingly. “Fair close to givin’ it away.”
“Okay, Ray-o, you’ve got a deal.” He handed over a five-pound note and told him to keep the change.
“You know pretty much what’s going on, Raymond,” Resnick said, stuffing the package down into his pocket. “Keep your ear to the ground.”
“Don’t know ’bout that.” Raymond said hesitantly. Was that what this was all about? Resnick trying to turn him into one of his snouts?
“You’ve not heard of anyone trying to sell a pistol, a Berretta, last few days?”
The barrel was burning a hole into Raymond’s back.
“Raymond? Ray-o?”
“No, no. Nothin’ like’ that, I swear.”
“But if you did, you’d give me a call?”
Raymond wiped his palms down the sides of his jeans and nodded. “Okay, yeh. Yes, sure.”
Resnick took a card from his top pocket and placed it alongside the till. He could have as easily reached round behind Raymond and lifted the Beretta out from underneath the tail of his shirt.
“Any complaints with the disc,” Raymond said, “full refund,
right? No questions asked.”
Resnick pulled the door open and, with a final glance back at Raymond through the glass, began to walk toward the bridge.
Thirty-five
The first thing Resnick did, after bending to scoop up the post, was sneeze. And sneeze again. It could have been the beginning of an unseasonable cold, far more likely a reaction to cat hairs and dust. He’d tried paying a woman to come in and keep the place under control, clean and tidy; had tried several times, in fact, without avail. If they’d been any good they’d soon moved on to more profitable things, less than good and he would swear when he looked around the house was in more of a state than it had been before. And they lost things, moved things, broke a cup that had belonged to his grandfather and which had survived the journey from Poland, snapped an arm from a statue of Duke Ellington his favorite uncle had given him for his twenty-first.
So Resnick kept the dirt at bay as best he could; his favored method being to wait until the dust had collected itself into wispy balls in the room corners and along the skirting boards, then reach down and snag them as he passed.
On the way home, he’d stopped off at the deli and bought a small container of sun-dried tomatoes, a larger one of marinaded aubergine. He dipped a finger into the oil at the bottom of the latter and brought it to his mouth-coriander, garlic, and something else he couldn’t immediately identify.
A swig of beer and he cut two slices of rye bread and covered each lightly with mayonnaise; scorning a fork, he laid the slippery flesh of the aubergine across one of the slices and several of the skinny strips of tomato here and there over that. Licking his fingers clean, he ferreted around for what else he could find. There was a thickish piece of smoked ham, from which he stripped away the fatty edge; the fat he shared with Bud, the smallest of the cats, the rest of the meat he smeared with mustard before placing it on the second slice of bread. From various and sundry chunks of cheese, he selected a soft Taleggio, cutting away the orange rind before setting the cheese on top of the ham. The rind he dropped on to the floor, where it was argued over by the cats.
All Resnick’s sandwich needed now was something crunchy at its center and he cut a dill pickle in two, eating one piece there and then before placing the other on top of the cheese and swiftly pressing the whole thing together. Holding it together with one hand, he cut the sandwich in half with the serrated edge of the bread knife and carried it on a plate into the front room.
