by John Harvey
“Inspector Resnick?”
The girl who came towards him from the doorway had to be nineteen, possibly twenty, but looked younger, fair hair pulled loosely back, wearing a cream shirt under faded dungarees; the eyes with which she regarded Resnick were alert and half-amused; the hand she offered was smooth and small-boned inside his.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Resnick looked at her again. “You’re Stephanie?”
“Not a bad try. Actually it’s Stella. But I still don’t think you really remember.”
Resnick shook his head.
“You came here with Dad. I think I was eleven, something like that. Maybe twelve. I remember pestering you about how you got to be a policewoman. On and on. It’s all I wanted to be at the time, all I could think of, and Dad, well, he wouldn’t talk about it. Said it was the last thing in the world I should do. No job for a girl, that’s what I remember him saying, it’s not a job for a girl.” She looked across at Lynn. “Do you think he was right?”
“It depends.”
“What on?”
Lynn realized she wasn’t certain. If there was an easy answer, she couldn’t call it to mind. “I suppose it depends what kind of a woman you are. But then we all have different ideas, don’t we? About what work should be.”
“And women,” Stella said.
Lynn looked back at her, saying nothing. There was a clear smile at the sides of Stella’s mouth, the corners of her eyes.
“But you do like it?” Stella asked. “You enjoy what you do?”
“Most of the time, yes.”
“Good. It must be terrible, stuck in some job you can’t stand. Boring, nine to five.”
“Well,” Lynn smiled. “This certainly isn’t that.”
“Is it something you’re still considering?” Resnick asked. “Coming on the Job?”
Stella laughed. “I think all my dad’s propaganda must have worked.” Almost apologetically, she looked at Lynn. “He thought it was man’s work, I’m afraid. Men of six foot and over.” She smiled a little wistfully. “Bit of a traditionalist, Dad, where gender roles are concerned.”
Resnick looked into her face for a sign of what she was feeling, talking about her father as she was; she was forcing herself to do so, he thought, making herself talk that way in order to keep him alive.
“What are you doing?” Lynn asked.
“I’m at agricultural college.”
“You’re going to be a farmer?”
Stella shook her head. “Trees. That’s what I’d like to do eventually. Get into forestry. Grow trees. Hundreds of them. Thousands.”
Lynn was grinning broadly.
“What?” Stella asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering where that came on the list of traditional women’s jobs. Not very high, I don’t suppose.”
“Dad said I’d grow out of it.” Stella laughed again. “A phase I was going through. Bless him, he didn’t really understand. Not that or a lot of other things.”
She was smiling at Lynn as her mother walked into the room. “All that jollity,” Margaret Aston said, “I wondered what on earth was going on.”
Stella stepped back, guiltily silent; the smile disappeared. As Resnick moved forward to greet her, Margaret’s good intentions evaporated and her brave front collapsed in tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said, again and again, as Resnick hovered, uncertain, awkward, offering her a handkerchief which she refused. “I kept telling myself I wouldn’t do this, create a scene.”
“Mum,” Stella said, “it’s okay to cry.”
Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a wad of damp tissue, blew her nose, pushed automatically at the ends of her hair. “Time enough for that later. It’s not what Charlie’s here for, is it, Charlie?” She sniffed. “I’m sure there are questions to be asked, isn’t that right. Work to be done.”
“Mum …” Stella started.
“No. It’s what your father would have wanted. Eh, Charlie? It’s what Bill would have wanted done.”
They had gone out into the garden, the house too cramped for Margaret, too confining, too full of her husband’s memory, her grandson’s shrill laughter and sudden tears. She had told them all that she could remember, most of what they wanted to know. Bill’s early-morning swim, the journeys they had made together to the supermarket and then to the garden center, later in the day. The letter from Nuneaton, inviting Bill to preach on Sunday fortnight; the phone calls from Stella and from their middle child, the son out in Australia, and the call that Bill had taken in the hall, somebody who’d rung him and he’d phoned them back, talked for quite a while, something else to do with his Church work, she supposed, Bill hadn’t said.
Standing now near the bottom hedge, the three of them, Margaret, Resnick, and Lynn, they were for that moment a silent tableau, while around them, the electric hum of an unseen lawn-mower rose up and merged with the dulled roar of a passing plane.
“He was angry, Charlie, you can understand that. These last few years. He felt he’d been passed over; he’d given them everything he had and they didn’t want any more, so they hid him away in that wretched place. Offices with closed doors.” She smiled. “You knew him, Charlie, better than most. He wanted to be out there, doing things. Real things. Work that mattered. That’s what he believed in. He thought that it mattered, what he did. That it made a difference.” She half-turned away, shaking her head. “That doesn’t mean anything though, does it? Not any more. Not now. What you feel. That’s old-fashioned. Belief. Values. He was a dinosaur, Bill. That’s what he was; he embarrassed them.”
“Margaret, no …”
“He embarrassed them and that’s why they shut him away and waited for him to die.”
“Margaret …”
“And now this …”
“Of course, we …”
“All this …” She was facing him again, eyes raw not with loss but anger. “All this performance, this great paraphernalia, all of you like headless chickens running around. Who did this? Who did this? Isn’t it tragic? Terrible? Of course, it’s terrible. He was my husband. But it’s what you wanted all along.”
“Margaret, you know that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Not you, maybe. You personally. But the rest of them, all those smart young men—and women—with their smart young attitudes and sociology degrees. They don’t care about him, none of them. Not a one.”
“Mrs. Aston,” Lynn said, “we’ll catch whoever did this, we will.” Margaret Aston looked at her long and hard, this young woman who could almost have been her daughter, so earnest, believing what she said. “And if you do,” Margaret said, “what difference will that make? What difference will that make now?”
Resnick waited till they were back in the car. “That call, the one unaccounted for. Have it checked out, the number. Just in case.”
Twenty-six
It turned out that John Anthony Lawrence St. John had walked away from a place on the second year of an undergraduate course in applied mathematics at Bristol University—outside of Oxford and Cambridge, one of the most difficult to get into. His tutor had been convinced John Anthony Lawrence was on his way to a first; one year for his masters and then the Ph.D. A research fellowship for the asking. Before that, he had left his secondary school in Buckinghamshire—a grammar school, that county being just about the only one in which they still had a right to exist—with four high-grade A levels and ten Os. Glory, glory all the way.
“What buggers me,” Divine said, “he’s got all that going for him, all those brains, what’s he doing, chucking it all away?”
Divine was in the canteen with Graham Millington, tucking into bacon, double egg and chips, and beans, his earlier purloined sausage having sharpened his appetite more than a touch. Opposite him, Millington was slowly forking his way through a meat-and-potato pie that had spent too long in the microwave and whose contents now bore a startling affinity to slurry.
“Fancy it yourself, then, do you?” Millington asked. “Groves of Academe?”
“Bollocks.”
“Well,” Millington said. “I suppose that’s a point of view.”
Divine dashed a large mouthful of egg and beans down with a quick swill of tea. “The way I see it, he’s so much sodding cleverer than me, he should be out there using it, making a whole lot more money, right? Sight more’n you or me. Instead of which, here am I, bringing in little enough as it is, all those deductions, national insurance, tax, some of which is going to keep him on the dole ‘cause he’s too fucking lazy to work.”
“His choice,” Millington said.
“Live off you and me? Yeh, thanks a lot!”
Millington pushed his plate aside and reached for a cigarette; one of life’s little miracles, he was thinking, no matter how much radiation or whatever you zap those pies with in the microwave, there were always those few bits of gristle left intact, like pearls. “Only thing need interest us,” he said, “what he told us about finding Aston, it all holds up. Thank him for his help and kick him free.”
“Aye.” Divine nodded his head. “More’s the sodding pity.”
The river police had two divers working off their launch, searching the Trent either side of the bridge for a possible weapon or weapons. So far they had come up with two stools of the type frequently used by fishermen, several discarded rods, the rusted frame of a Raleigh bicycle, one picnic hamper, four nasty-looking knives, one of which had several triangular sections chipped out of the blade, a child’s tricycle, roller skates, assorted pots and pans, a filing cabinet still containing fifty or so manila files, most likely rolled down the slope from County Hall by a disgruntled clerk, and a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun, which was proving of great interest to the detectives investigating a three-month-old robbery at a bank on Gregory Boulevard. Nothing that might have been used in the attack on Bill Aston.
Forensic had recovered sufficient splintered fragments from the dead man’s skull and face to be certain that the weapon involved had been a varnished implement, most likely a baseball bat of some kind. Even in this country where the game was comparatively rarely played, that was more and more the norm.
And blood: quite minute, difficult at first to detect, there were small samples of a second type, mixed in with Aston’s. As soon as it was properly isolated, it could be checked against the recently established, steadily growing national DNA bank for comparisons.
Support Department had gone over the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Dog turds, cigarette ends and discarded cigarette packets, fast-food containers, used condoms and the like notwithstanding, they had come up with only two items which held potential interest: a D90 TDK audio cassette tape, unlabeled, which seemed to hold a fairly arbitrary selection of home-taped heavy metal, and a large-sized left-hand leather glove, well-worn, scuffed around the fingers’ ends and smooth in the palm. Both of these items were undergoing further tests.
Scene of Crime had presented Naylor with evidence, mostly partial, of twenty-seven sets of footprints within the immediate vicinity of the attack. A chart showing the positioning of these was still in the later stages of completion, but seemed to suggest that of this twenty-seven, nine were strongly present close to where the body had fallen; of that nine, five seemed to have partly circled around it. The impressions of three of these had been made by some kind of running shoe; one by a heavy work boot, the last, most likely, came from a regular, rubber-soled walking shoe.
After being successfully stalled by Phyllis Parmenter’s secretary for the best part of a day, Khan had installed himself in the outer offices of the local authority inspectorate, and settled himself down with a copy of Vikram Seth’s one-thousand-and-five-hundred-odd-page novel, intent upon a long wait.
The WPC walking away from Cossall had an arse on her like a pregnant duck. Cossall’s words, though he kept them to himself and supped his pint; all this questioning—publicans and bar staff—it gave a man a thirst. And besides, where women on the force were concerned, nowadays it paid to keep your mouth closed.
He knew a sergeant at one of the out stations, not so much above a month back, who had chanced to make some innocuous remark about a female officer within her hearing and, within an hour of her lodging an official complaint, the poor sod had been suspended from duty, pending an investigation. A sure sign of the way it was going, Cossall thought, the writing on the menstrual bloody calendar.
Only that morning, he had read in the paper, the first ever woman chief constable had been appointed in Lancashire. A few years shy of fifty and, wouldn’t you know it, a graduate from the Open University. And what was her degree in? Psychology. Cossall had read she’d be bringing in over seventy thousand a year salary. Seventy thousand. And a budget of close to a hundred and fifty million to dispose of. How much of that was going to go on setting up crèches, that’s what he’d like to know? Counseling sessions? Hiring some poncey interior designer to put in soft furnishings and curtains in the interview rooms, create a more trusting atmosphere.
Still, what had she been quoted as saying? It’s never been a man’s world, they only think it is. Yes, well, that’s where she was wrong: Cossall didn’t think, he knew. At least until he chucked it all in, threw in his hand with one of them home security firms, it was his world still.
And if that WPC ever made it to the top they’d have to buy her a specially reinforced chair. Not that, he reflected, he’d say no to charvering it from behind. Nice tits, too, sort of stretch Dunlopillo, wouldn’t mind spreading himself over those. He’d thought that when she had first walked in looking for him ten minutes before, Cossall lubricating his tonsils between visiting the pubs along London Road, spaced out between Trent Bridge and the city. Football pubs, most of them; big trade of a Saturday whichever side was at home, Forest or County.
“So what are you telling me, love,” Cossall had asked, “the landlord won’t talk to you, is that it?”
“He’ll talk, right enough. Talk the hind legs off that donkey. It’s what he won’t say bothers me.” No hesitation, coming right back to him, giving as good as she got, Cossall liked her for that. Local, too. That accent. Mansfield, somewhere roundabout. “Take, for instance, there’s a couple of windows broken, right? Stuck together with tape, like he’s waiting for them to be properly fixed. Well, that’s recent, right? And when I had a shufti round back, there’s a couple of chairs there, broken, slung out. But when I tried to ask him about them, any of that, he wasn’t having any, just wasn’t saying. I thought you might get more out of him.”
Cossall nodded. “Right, thanks. I’ll get right along.” And winked. “I’d get you a drink, love, only you’re on duty.”
She lowered her voice so no one along the bar would hear. “If I weren’t, I’d buy one for myself. But thanks, love, all the same.”
Cossall held back his grin until she had turned away and then watched her all the way to the door, an arse on her like a pregnant duck.
He walked off the street into the main bar of the pub; two men in working clothes were sitting off by the back window, Irish, Cossall could tell without knowing them, something about their complexion, broad, high brows, the natural wave at the front of the hair. An Irish pub, is that what this was?
He eased one of the high stools far enough out from the bar to sit down. Through in the side room, he could see a black youth in white T-shirt and dreadlocks, long baggy shorts and hi-top trainers, playing himself at pool. No, an equal opportunity pub, that’s what it was.
“What’ll you have?” the landlord asked, appearing at the end of the bar and coming slowly towards him. He was a tall man, rangy, with a flattened face that was more like a child’s drawing than the real thing.
Cossall told him and watched the man draw a pint, showing him his warrant card when he set the glass before him. With a generous movement of his hand, the landlord waved Cossall’s money away.
“I had one of your lot in here earlier,” the landlord said.
Cossall nodded. “Tell me about Saturday night.” He could see the windows the officer had spoken of down towards where the two men were sitting, glass cobwebbed over with brown tape.
“I told her.”
Cossall tasted the beer, grimaced, and shook his head. “If you’d told her, you wouldn’t be standing there looking at me. If you don’t tell me, tonight you’ll be looking at two others like me; and tomorrow there’ll be four, and so it goes.” He set the glass back down. “That’s not what you want.”
The landlord forced a laugh. “All this over a pane of broken glass and a few lousy chairs?”
Cossall leaned far enough forward for the man to feel his breath on his face. “We had an officer killed, not a few hundred yards from here. Saturday night.”
“But that was nothing to do with this.”
“Why don’t you,” Cossall said, “let me be the judge of that?”
The landlord pushed a glass against the optic and gave himself a large Jameson; sipped at it before, elbow leaning on the bar, he spoke. “These youths come in sometimes, you know, match days. Skinheads, mostly. Lot of noise, swearing and that, but they spend well, so most times I let it go. But this week, one of them gets into an argument with one of the Paddies that use the place all the time. Regulars, like. Well, one thing these lads can’t stand, more than the blacks, even, it’s the Irish. Just hate them. IRA truce or no truce, it doesn’t matter a damn. And this gives them an excuse. One minute these two are squaring up to one another, a bit of pushing and shoving, you know how it goes; next thing, this skinhead’s mates start in and before you know it the whole pub’s like the last round of a Frank Bruno fight with no holds barred.” He drank a little more of the whisky and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I doubt if it lasted more than ten minutes at most.”
