Living Proof r-7

by John Harvey

  When Miller and I were divorced, she took it pretty well.

  "Everyone," she said, 'is allowed one false start. " Since when, despite the fact that in child-rearing terms, the years are no longer exactly on my side, she has continued, optimistically, to wait.

  As, I suppose, had I. Oh, you know, a dinner date here, a concert ticket there, but pretty much I'd laid low, let my work carry the load, kept my powder dry while making sure my underwear was always clean just in case.

  Diane had been a columnist for the Chronicle when I met her, women's issues mostly, date rape, who has the key to the executive wash room, the right to choose, you know the kind of thing. Her byline and a photograph (not flattering) and five bucks a word. Someone had persuaded her, with all the women Pis appearing on the bookracks, she should do a piece on the real thing.

  Diane rang me and after a couple of false 64 starts we finally got to meet in a bar out by the ocean in Santa Cruz. We hadn't shaken hands before my stomach was bun gee jumping and. well, you're pretty sophisticated or you wouldn't have stuck with it this far, so you can guess the rest. That was almost a year ago almost, hell! – it-was eleven months, five days and around seven hours, and still, first thing I do once I've made sure my charge is seated safely at her table, is phone Diane's number just to hear her voice on the answer machine.

  If that kind of thing happens in Kansas City – and I'm sure it does, both in Kansas City, Kansas and Kansas City, MO then I'm sure my mother doesn 't know about it. For now, for at least as long as Diane and I go on maintaining separate apartments, I intend to see it stays that way.

  Right now I check my watch against the clock on the dash and they both tell me it's fifteen minutes shy often o'clock. The coffee the woman at the reservations desk organised for me is long reduced to a residue of cold grounds and, even in the expanse of my extravagant rental, my legs are beginning to cramp up and feel in need of a stretch.

  At the desk the woman remembers me and says again, if I'd care to take a seat at the bar. But I assure her I'm fine and while she sends a waiter nimbly down the carpeted stairs in search of a fresh cup of coffee. I move close enough to the stained wood balustrade to see the young woman whose safety I am charged with protecting. She's sitting at a table, center room, pretty blonde head inclined towards the pretty young man who is her dinner date, a poet from Seattle and a pretty serious one. A first collection already published by Breitenbush Books of Portland (he happened to have a copy with him and was kind enough to show me) and another from Carnegie Melton on the way. They seemed to have reached the dessert stage, so we could be on the road by ten thirty.

  "They make a lovely couple, don't they?" The receptionist has come to stand next to me and I nod in agreement.

  "Yes, they do."

  "Do you work for Mr Reigler?" she asks.

  "Sort of," I say.

  By then the waiter has returned with my coffee so I thank them both and carry it outside, back into the parking lot. The air is warm enough for me to be only wearing a light sweater and even though we're close to the lake, it isn't too buggy. I stroll for a while between the cars, remembering the morning Reigler asked me to his office. It was only the second or third time I'd seen him since resigning from his law firm; the first time since his stroke. It had left him with some paralysis down the right side, not so bad that he couldn't stand, with help, and, although it was necessary to concentrate, he could speak and make himself understood. Once out of hospital and through his period of convalescence, he had insisted on coming to the office every day. Much of the time, I guessed, he just sat there and they ran things past him, playing up to the formality that all decisions were his.

  What Reigler had wanted to talk to me about was a series of threatening calls, someone, anonymous, who felt their life had been 66 ruined by some case or other Reigler's firm had handled.

  "Now it ain't worth doing anything to you, you sorry bastard," the last one had said, 'but you best watch out for your family, 'cause they can get hurt and there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop it.

  "

  Aside from notifying the police, one thing Reiglerdid was to hire me.

  His daughter April was, {suspected, the one true love of his life.

  She was a beauty, of a fragile kind; she was bright, dutiful enough, but stubborn. She was prepared to humor her father by agreeing I could drive her places, keep an eye out, but made it clear this wasn't going to be like the secret service and the President.

  "Besides," she reminded her father, a little, I thought, unkindly, 'what could they do when Kennedy was shot? Reagan? "

  Reluctantly, April agreed that I could go along on her trip to Tahoe. as long as I didn't get too close. This evening she has made it clear that any ideas I might have of sitting alongside herself and her poet while they share beautiful thoughts and a lobster and mango salad are not going to pan out. And in all honesty the only danger I suspect she might be a prey to in the midst of that crowded and fashionable restaurant rests in the depths of the poet's brown eyes.

  Another turn of the parking lot and I'm back at the Chevy and there they are, April and her own Byron or Keats, stepping through the restaurant door. I set my empty cup down on the roof of the car and head towards them.

  Seeing me, April's face breaks into a genuine smile and I am touched.

  She is a lovely girl.

  "How was dinner?" I ask.

  "Wonderful!" she enthuses.

  "Wasn't it. Perry?" And she turns to where he has stopped, a pace behind as if suddenly uncertain of the etiquette of dating young women who have personal bodyguards. Which is when the shot rings out and April screams as she is catapulted into my arms and I know what is clinging to my face and hair, most of it, is blood, and at that precise moment I don't know if it is April's blood or mine and, in all honesty, right then and there, I don't care.

  Aside from one of the cats purring somewhere out of sight, it was quiet The record had long finished. Half the sandwich lay uneaten on its plate. Resnick sat where he was for several minutes more before closing the book, placing it on the arm of the chair, getting up and leaving the room.

  Fourteen "I read your book. Dead Weight."

  You did? What did you think? "

  "Well, maybe I didn't read all of it. Not yet. I'm sure I will."

  Cathy Jordan was looking at Resnick with amusement, her head tilted a little to one side, waiting for the truth. They were having breakfast at her hotel, sharing the decanted orange juice produce of several countries the pineapple chunks and the already solidifying scrambled eggs with a scattering of executives and Japanese tourists.

  The majority of visitors to the festival were saving their pennies elsewhere.

  "The first few chapters," Resnick said.

  "One last night, the others earlier this morning."

  "I didn't think earlier than this existed."

  Resnick shrugged.

  "The older I get…"

  "I know, the less sleep you need. With Frank it's the opposite. I swear that man'd sleep twenty hours of any twenty-four if you'd just let him."

  "And Frank is…"

  "My husband. But stop evading the issue what did you think of the book?"

  "I liked it."

  "You did."

  "Yes. You sound surprised."

  She smiled with her eyes.

  "No, but I figured you might be."

  Resnick cut his sausage, skewered a section with his fork and dabbed it in the mustard at the side of his plate. He knew she wasn't about to let him off the hook.

  "It's direct, isn't it?" he said after a little chewing.

  "Like you like you talking."

  Cathy was pointing at him with her knife.

  "Not a good mistake to make. Annie isn't me. A long way from it."

  "All right, then. Somebody who sounds like you."

  "Who'll talk with her mouth full over the breakfast table and threaten her guest with sharp implements?"

  "Exactly."

/>   She laughed: okay.

  "I suppose," Resnick said a few moments later,

  "I was expecting something more-I don't know wordy. More description, is that what I mean?"

  "Probably. Three quarters of a page detailing the stained glass window over the door, a couple more pages describing what our suspects are wearing, from the make of their brogues to the pattern on their pocket handkerchiefs, that kind of thing?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Potential clues."

  Yes. "

  "Well, if that's the kind of writer you want…" Cathy was pointing her knife towards an elderly woman, slightly stooped, grey hair pulled back into a bun, waiting while a younger man in a navy blue blazer pulled out her chair. "Dorothy Birdwell," Cathy said, 'spinster of this parish. "

  "She's a writer?" Resnick asked.

  Cathy arched an eyebrow.

  "Rumour has it."

  The waitress, a student on a six-month visit from Lisbon to learn English, offered them more coffee; Cathy Jordan spread a hand over the top of her cup, while Resnick nodded and smiled thanks.

  "Toast," Cathy said to the waitress, 'we could use more toast. " And then, to Resnick,

  "One literary novel when she was at Cambridge or Oxford or wherever it was. Love between the wars; unrequited, of course. After that, nothing for a decade. More. Up to her scrawny armpits in academia. Then, out of nowhere, comes A Case of Violets and everyone's frothing at the mouth about the new Allingham, the new Marsh, the new Dame Agatha. Right from then till practically what? – ten years ago, everything she wrote was guaranteed, gilt-edged bestseller."

  Resnick watched as the man in the blazer and light grey trousers carefully eased Dorothy Birdwell's chair into the table, bending low to enquire if she were all right before taking his own seat.

  "Who's that?" Resnick asked.

  Cathy lowered her voice, but not by very much. "Marius Gooding. Her nephew. Or so she says. Of course, we like to think he's something more." Cathy laughed, quietly malicious.

  "Can't you see them, every night after she's taken her teeth out, getting at it like monkeys, swinging off the chandeliers?"

  Resnick could not. Marius seemed fastidious, slightly effete, his moustache daintily trimmed. Resnick watched as he leaned forward to tip a quarter-inch of milk into Dorothy Birdwell's cup, before pouring her tea. Marius was possibly forty, Resnick thought, though he contrived to look younger the kind of man you expected to find hovering around the edges of Royal Ascot, the Henley Regatta, though since Resnick had never been to either, that was a mixture of prejudice and conjecture.

  "Dorothy Birdwell," he said.

  "What did puncture her career ten years ago?"

  Cathy Jordan laughed.

  "We did. Women. Marcia Muller, Paretsky, Grafton, Patsy Comwell. Linda Barnes. Julie Smith. A whole bunch of others. Took old Dottie's space on the book-racks and wouldn't give it back."

  "Just because you're women?"

  "Some say. Pretty much."

  "Dorothy Birdwell'sa woman."

  "Another rumour. Nothing proven."

  Resnick smiled but continued.

  "These authors you mentioned, they're all American? Is that the reason?"

  "Maybe it used to be. Part of it, anyway. But not any more. Liza Cody, Val McDermid, Sarah Dunant – you've got people of your own, doing pretty good."

  "So what is the reason?" Resnick asked.

  "Why the big change?"

  Cathy pressed butter onto her toast and shattered it into a dozen brittle pieces.

  "Okay. Pact: most crime readers are women. Fact: we give them protagonists they can identify with. Heroines. Never mind old biddies purling two and two together or chief inspectors with aristocratic leanings and patched tweed jackets, this is the age of the female PI. Smart, sassy, full of spunk, as likely to lay you out as get laid. On her terms. And enjoy it' " So she's out of date? BirdweU? "

  "She was always out of date; that was the attraction. The thing is, now she's out of fashion. Which doesn't mean she doesn't still have her readers, just less of them and they're getting older all the time." Cathy leaned closer.

  "Rumour has it, her agent's on the hunt for a new publisher; after twenty years with one house. Something's hurting."

  Resnick set down his coffee and glanced round again at Dorothy Birdwell.

  "You don't think, if she's got reasons to be jealous…?"

  Dorothy? Behind those letters? I'd like to think she had it in her.

  But, no, not a chance. Malicious looks at thirty paces, that's her mark. " Cathy reached out and lifted up Resnick's tie, the end of which had been mopping up what remained of the mustard.

  Resnick nodded and sat back, drawing the copy of Cathy's schedule from his pocket.

  "This afternoon, you're 72 signing books at Waterstone's; early this evening, introducing a film at Broadway…"

  "Black Widow, d'you know it? No? Great little movie. Sexy. Debra Winger doing mouth to mouth with Theresa Russell, then busting her for murder."

  "After that?"

  "There was something about a bunch of us going out to dinner. This director they've dug up. They're screening one of his films after mine. You should come. Some place called Sundays? David promised the food was pretty good."

  "Sonny's," Resnick said.

  "And, yes, it is."

  "Then you'll be along?"

  "Maybe. I can't promise."

  "The policeman's lot…"

  "Something like that."

  "Suit yourself."

  "How about earlier?" Resnick asked.

  "The signing. Would you feel happier if I had someone there? Just keeping an eye?"

  Cathy smiled.

  "The author who got stabbed with a poisoned dagger behind the mystery shelves? Sounds too much like something out of a Dorothy Birdwell to me."

  "Okay. As long as you're sure." Resnick checked his watch, then pushed back his chair and reached for his wallet.

  "Don't bother," Cathy said.

  "It's covered."

  "No, I don't think I can…"

  She covered his hand with hers.

  "You're my guest It's charged to the room. Which gets charged to the festival. Relax. It's not a crime.

  Not a bribe. Honest. Besides, young Mollie would be thrilled at the idea of buying you breakfast. "

  "I doubt it."

  Cathy's half-snort, half-laugh was loud enough to turn heads.

  "What?" Resnick said.

  "You may be good at your job1 hope to hell you are but you sure know shit about women!"

  Flushing, Resnick tried for a smile.

  "I'm sorry," Cathy said, taking his hand again and giving it a squeeze.

  "I didn't mean to be insulting."

  "That's okay."

  "Or just another brash American."

  'You're not' She held his gaze before replying. She liked the way the skin crinkled around his eyes when he smiled.

  "Good. I'll look forward to seeing you tonight."

  "If I can," Resnick said.

  "I'll try."

  He was conscious of Marius Gooding watching him all the way to the dining room door only one reason he didn't stop and look back at Cathy before passing through. He would check the roster, have a word with Skelton, see if they couldn't send somebody down to the bookshop in their lunch hour just the same. As for later, the invitation to the restaurant, he didn't know, though the last time he'd been to Sonny's, he remembered, on the occasion of his friend Marian Witczak's fortieth birthday, he'd had the rack of lamb and it had been very tasty, very sweet "Listen," Divine was saying into the telephone. Not saying, shouting.

  "No, listen. Listen. Listen up a minute. Bloody listen!"

  Most of the CDD room did exactly that; stopped whatever they were doing to stare at Mark Divine, standing beside his desk, brown hair pushed back from his forehead, blue shirt, dark trousers, tie twisted round, anger reddening his cheeks in ragged circles, telephone tight in his hand.

&nbs
p; "For once in your life, just listen."

  Whoever was at the other end of the line chose to ignore the advice.

  Connection broken, Divine stared at the receiver in frustration before slamming it back down. "Stupid tossing woman!"

  "Nice," Lynn Kellogg remarked.

  "No wonder you're so successful at pulling. All that suave sophistication."

  Divine mouthed an everyday obscenity and kicked his chair back against the wall, stuffed both hands deep into his pockets and slouched out.

  "Must be," Lynn said, enjoying a little tit-for-tat retribution, 'his time of the month. "

  "Time you weren't here, isn't it?" Millington said from the far end of the room.

  "One of your snouts, give you a lead on those break-ins, didn't he?"

  Lynn lifted notebook and ball-point from her desk and found space for them inside her shoulder bag. She was almost at the door when Resnick walked in, breathing a little heavily after hurrying up the hill from Cathy Jordan's hotel, patches of mustard yellowing nicely on his tie.

  Off far? "

  Lynn shook her head.

  "Dkeston Road."

  "How long d'you reckon?"

  "An hour. Hour and a half."

  "Think you could get yourself into the city centre, middle of the day? Waterstone's, corner of Bottle Lane…"

  "And Bridlesmith Gate. Yes, I know it. Why?"

  "This American author who's over. Jordan, Cathy Jordan."

  "Sleeping Fools Ue. 1 " Sorry? "

  "One of her books. I read it last year."

  Resnick was quietly impressed. Aside from anything else, where did she get the time?

  "There've been a few threatening letters. Offering her harm. Doesn't seem to take them too seriously herself and I'm not sure how far we should, but it might be no bad idea, to have someone around. She's doing some kind of book signing, one o'clock. Don't want to stick a uniform in there, scare people off."

  "Okay, fine. Be interesting to meet her, I should think."

  "Pop back in on your way down, I'll fill you in."

  Lynn nodded and was on her way.

  Resnick beckoned Millington closer.