by John Harvey
Among the stacks of black and brittle 78s Resnick’s uncle had allowed his young nephew to browse through whenever he had visited the house, along with others by Dinah Washington, Billie Holiday, the Ink Spots, and Ella Fitzgerald, there had been several records by the Mills Brothers. “Dinah,” “Swing it, Sister,” “You Always Hurt the One You Love.” Resnick had liked the smooth sweep of their voices, had been intrigued by the way they mimicked the sounds of instruments with their mouths.
He set the CD he’d bought from Raymond to play and was biting into the second half of the sandwich and listening to “Paper Doll,” when the phone started to ring. Twisting in his chair, he could just reach the receiver.
It was Hannah. She was going to the eight-thirty performance at Broadway and wondered if he’d like to join her. A film some friends from school had seen and said was a lot of fun. Big Night, that’s what it was called. Two brothers trying to keep their Italian restaurant going despite the competition. You’ll love it, Charlie, great food scenes, apparently. Music, too. If he hadn’t already eaten, they could go across to Mama Mia’s afterwards for a little supper.
Resnick couldn’t think of a reason for saying no.
There was time for a drink in the Café Bar before taking their seats. The movie was warm, funny, an unalloyed delight. Sandwich or no, the constant shots of food made Resnick’s mouth water, his stomach rumble. And the music-the music was by Louis Prima, another who’d featured in his uncle’s collection. Louis Prima and Keely Smith with Sam Butera and the Witnesses. “Just a Gigolo,” “Buona Sera,” “Come Back to Sorrento.”
When it was over, they crossed the street to Mama Mia’s and Resnick, thinking he would drink espresso while he watched Hannah eating, ordered lasagna and finished every mouthful. On the pavement outside, Hannah kissed him and he kissed her back and without questioning he drove with her back to her house in Lenton, where they divested themselves of most of their clothes before reaching the upper floor and bed.
How is it, Resnick remembered thinking just before falling asleep, life can sometimes be as easy, as joyous as this?
Lorraine had gone out into the kitchen to stack the dishes midway through the evening and seen the hire car parked across the street, Evan’s shape behind the wheel. Derek and Sandra were laughing together at something on the television; Sean was upstairs, getting ready for bed.
Evan wasn’t going to listen to reason; and sooner or later he might stumble on the truth.
She thought about carrying out her threat and contacting the police. Remembered Resnick, his bulk as he stood against the French doors looking out into the garden; tried to imagine herself telling him and failed. Suppose he talked to Evan, took him seriously-she didn’t want to be responsible for getting Michael captured again. Returned to prison.
Out in the hall, voice hushed, she called Maureen and asked to speak to Michael. Listen, she said, and gave him the address of Evan’s hotel, the number of the car. Her hands were shaking when she hung up the phone.
Resnick was suddenly awake and for that instant uncertain where he was. Then he heard Hannah’s breathing, low and even beside him, and he settled down again against her warmth, her hand opening in sleep to take his as his arm curled round her body. “Charlie,” she said, not waking, and he fell back to sleep at the sound of his name, the smile still on his face.
Drew Valentine was sitting in the Caribbean restaurant run by one of his aunties and her ex-wrestler boyfriend, his back angled toward the wall. The doors were locked, the blind pulled down, the kitchen still open. Two of his acolytes sat across the narrow aisle, drinking rum cocktails and sharing a spliff. Valentine had already polished off a plate of salt cod and ackee, and now he was tucking into jerk chicken and festival dumplings with okra on the side. A little Red Stripe to wash it down. After, he wouldn’t mind another smoke himself. Get properly relaxed.
A tall blonde, not so many pounds this side of anorexic, came through the curtains at the rear and clicked toward him on brittle heels. She was wearing a shiny blue dress that shimmered as she walked. Valentine could have closed one of his hands around her thigh and touched finger to thumb. When she sat opposite him and smiled, there was white powder frosted across her gums.
“Eat,” he said, pushing the plate of chicken toward her, but she shuddered and reached for her pack of Marlboro Lights.
Sooner or later, Valentine was thinking, he would have to get around to facing down Anthony Planer and he needed to be sure he’d figured all the angles right. Too many stories of other dealers getting ripped off after doing business with Planer; smiles and handshakes in the upstairs room of that fancy gaming club he fronted, champagne cocktails and cigars, and back out on the street it was cars and guns, and someone else making off with both drugs and money.
“Tell you what, Anthony,” Valentine had said. “You an’ me, we been doin’ business all this time, how come you never invited me out to that place of yours? Southwell, i’n’t it? Near the Minster. What you say? Meet the wife and kids. Catch a glimpse, you know, how the other half live.”
Planer smiling as he shook his head, smiling with his lips, eyes hard and staring, understanding what it was Valentine was saying, the threat that he was making. Anything happens, we know where to reach you, how to hurt you, and we will. And Planer not caring, throwing it back at him, “How would you like it, Drew, eh? Me coming waltzing into hearth and home. No. Not right, is it? Not on.” Planer, the smile on his face like a cheap shirt from the market.
“Just ’cause we’re forced to do some of our business in the gutter, doesn’t mean we want to open our doors to it, watch it ruining the Wilton.”
Valentine bit into a piece of chicken, wiping the juice from around his mouth. He wasn’t afraid of Planer; Planer would learn to be afraid of him. Delicately, he spat a piece of chicken bone down into his hand before depositing it on his plate. If only things had gone right out on the Forest, if that uppity nigger Jason hadn’t stuck him just as he was pulling the trigger, then Jason Johnson would be good and dead, and a clear message to Planer and anyone like him. And now there was this kid, Raymond Cooke, Ray-o he believed they called him, sneaking round whispering in corners, sending messages, something he’d got that Valentine wanted, worth paying good money for. Okay, so he’d send a message back, an invitation, you want to do business, fine, bring the merchandise, let’s see what it’s worth. The kid had the balls to walk in there, face to face, maybe they could do a deal.
Valentine checked the clock on the wall against his Rolex: not like Paul Finney to be late for an appointment.
Neither of them had bothered with the blinds, and when Resnick woke again a low level of light illuminated the room. The green digits on Hannah’s clock radio read 5:47. Above the even sound of her breathing, he could hear birds, busy between the trees bordering the recreation ground. He would have to go back to his own house before reporting for work. The level of Hannah’s breathing changed and he realized that she was stirring awake, peering at him through partly opened eyes. His hand moved across to rest on her thigh and with a small smile Hannah lowered her face down on to his chest.
“Charlie …”
“Mmm?”
“It’s good that you’re here.”
He thought they might make love again, but the moment passed, as these moments do. Before the hour, Hannah was slipping out of bed to use the bathroom and Resnick, in boxer shorts and barefoot, was padding down to the kitchen to make coffee.
They sat in Hannah’s small back room eating toast and some of Hannah’s mother’s homemade marmalade, runny and sweet.
“How was she?” Resnick asked. “When you told her about your dad. Marrying again.”
Hannah shook her head. “At first, I didn’t think she’d heard. Or understood. But then, when I mentioned it again later, she almost bit off my head: I know, you’ve already told me once-do you think I’m totally stupid or merely deaf? I found her later in the garden, pretending to deadhead some flowers. She was cry
ing. She said it made her feel old, dried-up. I hated to leave her there, drive back.”
“I had half a thought you might have called round.”
“I did.”
Resnick looked at her.
“There was another car, parked outside. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Resnick smiled. “It was only Lynn.”
“Only?”
“Her father, there’s been some kind of relapse. She’d just heard.”
Hannah cut the last piece of toast in two. “I thought the treatment had been successful. I thought he was all right.”
“Yes, so did she.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.” He didn’t know where he’d left his watch. Jacket pocket? Upstairs beside the bed? “Look, it’s probably time I was going.”
There was no more than a hint of resignation in Hannah’s smile. “I know. The cats.”
“And other things.”
At the door she said, “Maybe next time you’ll call me?”
“Yes. Okay. I will.” He kissed her on the cheek, close alongside her mouth.
“Charlie …”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Take care. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
She didn’t watch him walk to the end of the narrow strip of path, turning where it broadened out and met the road. Back inside the house, she busied herself with clearing away.
Resnick all the way home thinking about two men, two fathers, Lynn’s and Hannah’s, close in age; the one seriously ill, possibly dying; the other rejuvenated, living a new life in a new country, about to remarry. By the time Resnick arrived back at his own house, the cats were clamoring to be fed and the telephone was ringing insistently. Some things didn’t change.
Thirty-six
“Catch!”
Maureen spun round in time to see her keys come arching through the room; at the second attempt, she held them fast.
From the doorway, Michael Preston grinned. “It’s time.”
“What for?”
He winked. “Me to move on.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Her mouth was dry and, as Preston began to come toward her, something caught hold of her stomach and twisted it hard.
Close to, he could read the pain, the fear in her eyes. With the knuckles of his right hand, he brushed her cheek. “If I thought …”
“Yes?
“If I thought for one moment you were going to open this gorgeous mouth …” His index finger pressed against her mouth. “You know what I’d do?”
“Yes.”
“What I’d come back and do?”
“Yes.”
“Even after I’ve gone. Really gone.” The finger slid between her lips. “I’ve got friends. They’ll know. If you talk, tell anyone. Anything. They’ll know.”
Maureen’s eyes were wide; the sweat she could smell was her own.
“And you know what they’ll do?”
She nodded; made what sound she could.
Smiling, Preston hooked his finger inside her mouth, then pulled it free with a pop. “Good girl,” he said. “Good, good girl.”
Even after the front door had opened and closed, she stood there for a long time, not bothering to stem the tears that ran down her face.
Lynn’s voice on the telephone had been scraped bare: her father’s condition had worsened, she was driving over straightaway. Resnick had wished her the best, without knowing what that was.
Entering the CID room, he glanced at the clock. A little after ten; given clear roads, she would be there now, there or thereabouts.
Sharon Garnett intercepted him on his way to his office. “Jack Dainty, you wanted me to ask around. That allegation, tampering with evidence, the other officer involved, it was Finney right enough.”
Resnick smiled.
“There’s more. Just before Dainty resigned, there was another allegation; a case they were working on together, him and Finney. According to the rumors, Dainty went to question a prisoner in Lincoln, promised him a supply of dope if he gave them the answers they wanted. Grade A cannabis resin. Worth a small fortune inside.”
“And Finney was involved? Directly?”
Sharon shrugged. “There’s no proof. Dainty was on his way out anyway, let the blame fall on himself.”
“Okay, Sharon, thanks.”
Inside his office, he dialed Helen Siddons’s number.
“You bloody psychic, Charlie, or what? I was just about to phone you. Anil was tailing Finney last night. Two o’clock, something after, must have been feeling peckish. Stopped off at a restaurant near Hyson Green. Cassava. Know it?”
Resnick didn’t.
“According to Anil, looked like the place was closed. Finney knocked on the door and they let him in. Anil hung around and forty minutes later Finney comes out and who’s he with?”
“I don’t know,” Resnick said, thinking she was going to say Dainty.
“Anthony Drew Valentine.”
Resnick whistled. “Anil’s certain?”
“Positive. Saw them talk together a few minutes on the pavement, then they shake hands, the pair of them, laughing away. Valentine pats Finney on the back and off they go.”
“Together?”
“Separately.”
“Anil followed him?”
“What do you think?”
“Where to?”
“Home. Semi-detached in Sherwood. Wife and three kids.”
Resnick was trying to arrange his thoughts. “Are you going to have him in, question him?”
“Not yet.”
He heard the sound of Siddons drawing on her cigarette.
“D’you want me to have a word with Norman Mann?” Resnick asked. “See if he can shed some light?”
“And risk Finney being warned off? No, thanks, Charlie. Not on your life. We’ll watch Finney a while longer, see where he leads us. Lucky enough, just might be able to nab him and Valentine together, heads down at the same trough.”
The address Cassady had given him was a nondescript house in Cinderhill, within easy reach of the motorway. Get there and wait. Preston waited.
The place was sparsely furnished, no pictures or photographs, nothing personal, only a two-year-old calendar tacked to one of the downstairs walls; it smelled of damp and when he first ran the water it came out a sludgy brown. In one of the rooms, there were a small television and a VCR, along with a pile of duff videos. In the kitchen, there were a radio cassette player and a few tapes, Queen, Van Morrison, the Chieftains. Preston had thought there might be Guinness, too, but there were only cans of cheap supermarket lager. There was bread in a paper bag, a carton of tea bags, frozen pizza, milk in the fridge.
Preston was watching a scratchy kung-fu movie when Cassady arrived bearing gifts-a bottle of Black Bush and two Melton Mowbray pork pies. “Tonight,” he said, breaking the seal on the bottle.
“What about it?”
Cassady blew the dust out of two glasses and tipped in the whiskey. “We do it. What else, sure?”
“How about this other business?” Preston asked, a sip or two later.
“What business is that?”
“That bastard prison officer, sticking his nose in.”
“Oh, that,” Cassady said casually. “That’s sorted.”
The man standing in the doorway of Raymond Cooke’s shop needed to stoop several inches to avoid banging his head on the lintel. His shoulders were so wide, Raymond thought he might have to lean, first to one side, then the other, so as not to collide with the frame as he came through. His name was Leo: it was stitched in crimson lettering, high on the right side of his cobalt-blue Tommy Hilfiger jacket; he was wearing loose gray warm-up pants and Converse basketball boots. There were two gold studs in his left ear, one in his right; a heavy gold chain around his neck. His hair had been shaved till he was completely bald.
“Ray-o? You the one they call Ray-o?”
And with a grin, he stepped into th
e shop. Raymond didn’t think he was there to buy a reconditioned microwave oven.
“Ray, yeh, that’s me. Ray or Ray-o, doesn’t matter.”
“This your business, huh?”
“Yeh, yeh.” Raymond watched as Leo wandered between the piles of second-hand or stolen goods. He wiped the palms of his hands down his jeans; already he was patched with sweat.
“What can I …? I mean, was there anything special …? Maybe something you want to get shot of? Sell?”
Leo spun faster than Raymond could follow and a finger longer than any he’d ever seen poked hard against his chest. It was all Raymond could do not to stumble backward.
“That’s a joke, yeh. You’re jokin’, right? Get shot of. Got to be a joke, yeh? Clever bastard.” Each syllable of the last two words was accompanied by a jab of the same finger at his chest.
Raymond just looked back at him, open-mouthed; he hadn’t realized what he’d said.
“You the one,” Leo said, “been spreading the word, want to see Valentine? Got something special for him, that you?”
“Yes.” Raymond blinked and blinked again. The sweat was running into his eyes. “Yeh, that’s me.”
“Fine.” Leo’s face was suddenly all smiles. “You know Cassava? That eatin’ place?”
Raymond couldn’t picture where it was and then he could. “Yeh. Least, I think so. Never been in, mind. But, yeh.”
“Tonight. Two-thirty. Drew, he see you there. Bring what you got to sell. Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. Course. Half two.”
Still smiling, Leo pointed his index finger at him, crouching in the doorway. “What you want to get shot of.” And, aiming at Raymond’s heart, he fired the finger like a gun, lifting it toward his mouth so that he could blow away the smoke before stepping back out into the street.
Thirty-seven
Valentine was high. Why wouldn’t he be? The Dutchman had shown up as arranged half an hour before and was, right then and there, at the back of the room talking weights and training regimes with Leo. And the two cases he and his brother had brought with them, slightly battered and leather-bound, were right there under the table, close against Valentine’s feet. Two kilos of cocaine, all handily separated out into clear bags with a resale price of five hundred each; which would be broken down farther by Valentine’s crew; fifty-pound bags that the small-time scufflers like Jason Johnson would peddle on street corners, in pubs and clubs, on high-rise walkways and through the iron railings of schools.
