by John Harvey
Matthews looked at him and read the lie. “It doesn’t matter, not now.”
“Paul,” Naylor began, “we wanted to ask you …”
“I held him, you see. I did that. I held him. Against me, like this.” He spread his arms from his body and then folded them back carefully through space, enfolding the imaginary boy with tenderness to his chest. “He was still warm.”
Naylor glanced across at Khan. “He was still alive?” he asked.
Sobs choked from Matthews’s mouth and nose as he shook his head from side to side more and more vigorously, rhythmically, as if dangling from a rope. “I don’t know,” repeating over and over. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Embarrassed, Naylor fished out a pocket-sized pack of Kleenex and gave one to Matthews, then another, Khan inside ordering more tea, sweet this time, three sugars.
Ten minutes later they were walking, Khan alongside Matthews, Naylor several paces behind. This is the sort of place I should come with Debbie, Naylor was thinking, get her mum to baby-sit one weekend somewhere like this, right away from everything, it’d be different here. Relaxed.
“Elizabeth Peck, she was on duty that evening?” Khan was asking. “The two of you together, right?”
“Yes, of course. We went through all of this. You know.”
“And she was the one who called emergency services, I think that’s what you said?”
Matthews nodded, yes, yes.
They were starting to climb again, the path well-trodden, earth at the field edge almost white.
“You haven’t any idea, Paul, have you, why she might have got in touch with Inspector Aston? At home. Privately, you know.”
Matthews had stopped walking and Naylor, still partly day-dreaming, almost bumped into him from behind.
“Elizabeth, you don’t know what she would have wanted to talk to him about?”
Matthews seemed dazed, out of focus. Off to the west a group of gulls was noisily baiting a lone crow. “She did that?”
“Yes. Quite a conversation, apparently. Whatever it was, they found a lot to say. We wondered if you had any idea what she might have talked to him about?”
“I think,” Matthews said, “I should go back now. I can’t walk too far. I’m not well, you understand, I’ve not been well. The doctor … that’s why I’m here. My aunt …”
He started to walk, back the way they had just come; Naylor standing there, not hurrying to move aside.
“What did she know, Paul? About what happened to Nicky? Something she hadn’t told anyone before, that’s what it must have been.”
Matthews shook his head and made an ineffectual attempt to move past, but sharp to his left there was the cliff edge and the other way was Khan, arms folded, smiling.
“Paul?”
“What? I …”
“You can tell us. Whatever Elizabeth would have talked to Inspector Aston about—tell us now, Paul. What would she have said? What did she know?”
Matthews stepped back, back towards the sea. One foot skidding the coarse grass, arm flailing, he was arching over as Naylor caught him, low about the waist and swinging him inland, snatching him, almost out of the air, the pair of them falling, bodies awkwardly intertwining across the edge of the path, the first stubby growth of the year.
“Good catch,” Khan said to Naylor, and then, to Matthews, helping him gingerly to his feet, “You okay? You need to be a bit more careful, narrow paths like these. One foot in the wrong place and then …”
There were tears in Matthews’s eyes again, clinging there, refusing to fall.
“Come on,” Khan said. “What d’you say? Why don’t we go back down?”
It was, as Reg Cossall would say later over a pint of Shippos, one of those fine spring days when to describe the stink of stale farts and cheap lager breath which greeted them in every doorway would have beggared even the sodding poet laureate’s invention.
Exactly so.
Their questions were answered with deviousness, vulgarity, polite lies, numberless requests for them to fuck off out of it and mind their own bleedin’ business, and, on one occasion, by a bucket of what startlingly resembled warm piss descending from an upstairs window in a virulent stream.
At least Chaucer could have dealt with that one.
Or Divine.
Divine, who suffered a long harangue from an out-of-work twenty-one-year-old, living with a seventeen-year-old woman and their two kids in a council house in Kirkby-in-Ashfield. “You,” he said, jabbing a finger towards Divine’s face, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you know that? Goin’ round, roustin’ blokes just ‘cause they show a bit of patriotism, right? Not afraid to stick up for their fuckin’ country, right? You know what I’m saying? I mean, you look around you, look around you, okay? Every fuckin’ business, who owns it? Pakis, right? Pakis and niggers everywhere you fuckin’ look. And the Irish … honest to Christ, I hate the fuckin’ Irish. Treacherous, murderin’ bastards. I mean, look, this country, this country used to be great, right? Look at a map, look at a fuckin’ map some time, we used to own half this soddin’ world, three-quarters of it and now we’re nothing. Less than nothing. And me, blokes like me, we’re the only ones standing up, makin’ ourselves fuckin’ heard. ’Cause we care, right? About this fuckin’ country. It’s your fuckin’ pride, okay? We care and we ain’t afraid to let it show and you, you and your mates, as should be standing up with us, side by side, make this country what it once was, what it could be, without all the nignogs and the Pakis and the jews, all you do is come round hassling us, right? Ought to be fuckin’ ashamed!”
Eyes alight, he hawked up a thick gob of spit and unleashed it on the ground some yards wide of Divine’s feet. Divine listening, thinking, though he wasn’t about to say so, that one way or another, the bloke had a point.
Lynn Kellogg and Sharon Garnett had almost given up trying to rouse anyone from this house, the last but one in the road, what remained of the front lawn blackened with engine oil. Sharon was giving Lynn the thumbs down and turning away, when there were footsteps and a muffled voice from the other side of the front door.
It was a runty little man in a singlet and jeans, scratching himself and yawning, blinking at the light.
“Sorry to wake you,” Sharon said, identifying Lynn and herself. “We’re looking for Gerry Hovenden. That wouldn’t be you, by any chance.”
Unaware, possibly, that he was now standing there scratching energetically between his legs, the man shook his head. “Not by any chance. That’s the boy you’re wanting and he’s away.”
“Away where?
“Buggered if I know.”
But the sound of a motor bike approaching provided all the answer they needed, Hovenden, moments later, swinging his leg over the rear of the machine, Shane already standing there, helmet in hand, thinking fucking law, what in fuck’s name they after now?
It was soon clear.
“Can you tell us, Gerry,” Lynn asked, “where you were last Saturday evening?”
“Home,” he replied, without hesitation.
“Last Saturday,” his father said dismissively. “I never saw hide nor hair of you all evening.”
Colored brightly from his neck, Hovenden shook his head. “Home round Shane’s, that’s what I mean. Couple of videos and a curry, eh, Shane?”
“That’s right,” Shane said. “All evening.”
“You’re sure about that?” Lynn said, moving a touch closer and fixing him with her best stare.
But Shane was not about to be intimidated. “I said, didn’t I? Sure.” Those hard, brittle eyes, daring Lynn to call him a liar.
“Well, in that case,” Lynn said, “we’d best have your name and address, too. You never know when we might want to check.”
“Shane Snape,” Resnick said, “that’s interesting.” Lynn and Sharon had reported back to Reg Cossall initially and then to Resnick direct. The three of them were in his office, the sky through the window slowly dark
ening towards evening.
“Came up on the back of the bike, large as life,” Lynn said.
“Yes,” Sharon said. “Gave this Gerry Hovenden his alibi.” Resnick looked at the two officers, one to another. “And you didn’t believe him?”
Sharon shook her head.
“Not Hovenden, certainly,” Lynn said. “Lying to his back teeth, if you ask me. Covering up about something, I’d bet on that.”
“And he’s on the Branch list? Political?”
Lynn made a face. “Marginal, really. Not a member of any extremist group, as far as is known. Hangs about with them, that’s all. Spotted up a couple of times at rallies. Nothing criminal recorded.”
“Right, let’s follow it up. Once we’ve got some more information in, check Hovenden’s contacts with the rest, see if he fits in with anyone else that looks interesting.”
“And Shane Snape?” Lynn asked. “Do you want us to process him as normal, or …”
“I might go round myself,” Resnick said. “Have a word.”
“Right.” Lynn hesitated at the door after Sharon Garnett had passed through. “About the other night,” she said quietly. “All those things I was saying … I know it’s difficult, I’ve probably made it difficult, but it’s not going to get in the way … I mean, we can work together, it hasn’t stopped that?”
“No,” Resnick said, “of course not, it’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
Resnick’s phone rang and as he reached towards it, Lynn slipped out through the door and closed it behind her.
Thirty-five
It was a little after seven in the morning when Resnick realized he was thinking about Hannah, that he had been doing so for several minutes, ever since hoiking a recalcitrant Dizzy from the center of the most comfortable armchair and sitting down with his second cup of coffee of the day. He could see her sitting on that bench in the Arboretum, face angled towards him, fixing him with that serious stare as she delivered her lecture on rejection and how not to take it. The schoolteacher in her, he thought; those earnest, serious eyes. And then the phone rang and it was her. Resnick felt uneasy, as if somehow thinking about Hannah had made it happen.
“Charlie, it’s not too early …?”
“No, no, I’ve been up a while.”
“Good. Only … look, dinner on Friday. You haven’t already booked somewhere have you?”
Air sucked cold through Resnick’s stomach: she’d changed her mind. “No, not yet,” he said cautiously.
“Oh, good, because …”
“Something else has cropped up.”
“No. Yes. Well, not exactly.”
Resnick fought to keep the disappointment out of his voice. The last thing he wanted was another lecture on rejection. “Not to worry, maybe some other time.”
“No,” Hannah said, “it’s not that, Friday’s still fine. It’s just … well, I feel stupid after making such a fuss about you being the one to decide …”
“That didn’t matter, it’s okay, I …”
“The thing is, there’s this film, at Broadway …”
It would be, Resnick thought.
“… it’s something I really want to see and Friday’s the only chance I’ve got.”
“Look,” Resnick said, the soul of reason, “that’s all right, you go and see your film. We can meet another evening.”
“I was thinking more that you might come with me.”
“Ah.”
“We could get something to eat afterwards; we could eat there even, the food’s not bad.” She drew breath, waiting for a response, which didn’t come. “What do you think?”
“This isn’t,” Resnick asked warily, “another film from Tunisia about—what was it?—silence?”
Hannah laughed, just a little. “No, you’re quite safe. It’s in English. Well, American. Vanya on 42nd Street.”
A memory jostled deep inside Resnick’s brain. “That’s the Marx Brothers, isn’t it?”
Hannah laughed. “Not exactly.”
“Oh.”
“More Chekhov, I think.” And before he could say anything else, “If that’s okay, why don’t we meet there? In the foyer. A quarter past eight.”
“All right.”
“See you then. And Charlie?”
“Mmm?”
“Next time I will let you choose, I promise.”
When he looked back across the room, Dizzy had taken the chance to nip back into the chair and lay there curled, one paw tight across his eyes.
“This carries on, Dizzy, my friend, the way she feels about cats, your days could be numbered.”
When Norma got back from her morning stint of cleaning, there was Sheena, feet up in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette while Peter boiled eggs for his breakfast, his or Sheena’s, it was difficult to tell. At least father and daughter were in the same room together and, if not exactly talking, not shouting either.
“That place,” Norma said, shucking off her coat and dropping it onto the back of a chair, “don’t know if the bitter was off last night or what, but the state of that Gents this morning, floor were like a bad night in the scuttering abattoir.”
“Thanks, Mum,” grimaced Sheena, stubbing out her cigarette. “For sharing that with us.”
“Yes, thanks, love.” Peter grinned. “Just what I need to give me an appetite for these eggs. P’raps I should have them scrambled after all.”
Sheena leaned over the side of her chair and mimed being sick.
“What I could do with …” Norma began, lighting up herself.
“Is a fag and a nice cup of tea.” Peter began it and with Sheena joining in, they finished in unison.
“You two seem perky,” Norma said, filling the kettle at the sink.
“Been getting on all right, haven’t we, Sheena?”
“Okay, yeh.”
“Then I’d best not ask you, young lady, why you’re not at work, had I? Spoil this grand mood you’re in.”
“Leave her be,” Peter urged, bending forward and carefully spooning the first of his eggs from the pan.
“Or where,” Norma went on, “you got another new jacket from? And don’t waste your breath telling me it’s borrowed. Or that you bought it from what you’ve earned, ‘cause the number of hours you’ve been working lately, it’s you that’ll be owin’ them instead of the other way round.”
“Norma, love, leave it.”
“’S all right for you, you’ll be off out of here soon enough. I’m the one whose pocket’ll hurt if she gets her cards.”
“Yeh, well,” said Sheena with a sniff, “shows what you know, ’cause I already did.”
“What! You soft cow, what’s the matter with you? What d’you want to go and do that for?”
“I didn’t do it, did I? It were done to me.” Sheena swung her legs round from the seat of the empty chair, revealing a new pair of ankle-length black boots, still bright from their first shine.
“You what? And what about those shoes?”
“What about them?”
“You nicked them, that’s what. No two ways about it. You and those fancy new friends of yours. You want to watch out, my girl, else you’ll end up inside.”
“Yeah? Well, a fucking lot you care.”
Norma coming to stand over her now: “I’ve told you before, don’t use that language to me.”
“No?” Sheena on her feet, face jutting forward into her mother’s. “I’ll use what language I sodding like. You don’t own me, you know.”
“Is that right?” Norma swung her arm wildly, and if she hadn’t ducked into it instead of away, Sheena would never have got hit. As it was, the heel of her mother’s hand caught her hard alongside her mouth and she stumbled away, bleeding from her lip.
“You bitch!” Sheena yelled. “You bloody bitch!”
Norma let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a howl and weighed into Sheena with both hands, Peter saying, over and over, “Sheena, Norma, cut it
out” and doing his best to drag Norma back; Sheena covering her face with her arms and Norma crying now, Norma and Sheena both crying. “Sheena, Norma, stop it now.” Peter carrying on till Norma turned on him and pushed him clear across the kitchen. “Stop whingeing on, you pathetic little shit. You get on my nerves something rotten, you sodding do.”
Sheena seized her moment and ran from the room, up the stairs into the bathroom, where she locked the door and sat on the loo seat, arms gripped to her sides, shaking with anger and fear.
She hadn’t stolen the boots, Diana had, from Dolcis the other afternoon. And as for the jacket, there they’d been, the whole gang of them, walking down through the city center by Debenham’s, when this girl came down the street in the opposite direction and Janie had reached out and grabbed her by the hair and told her to take off her leather jacket, she was having it, and the girl, of course, she said, no way, so Janie pulled her hair tighter, then pushed her hard up against the wall and when she bounced back smacked her in the face with the heel of her shoe and told her to take off the fucking jacket, which now, no problem, the girl did, Janie bowing and laughing and saying, how kind, thank you so very much, and, now that her shoe was back on, giving the girl a good kick before carrying on across the street, not running or nothing, jacket round her shoulders; top of the street, Janie’d stopped and looked at herself in the mirror, crap, she’d said, I look like fucking crap in this, and she’d tossed it over to Sheena, here, you have it, it’d look all right on you, and pranced on across the street in front of the traffic, expecting it to stop for her, which, of course, it did.
Awesome, Sheena had thought. Fucking awesome!
And she still thought the same now, sitting there on the loo, almost able to feel the bruises coming out on her arms and neck.
Khan and Naylor stood respectfully across from Resnick’s desk and told him about their conversation with Paul Matthews; told him and then waited patiently for his response. It was interesting, Resnick had thought as he listened, how the pair of them were seemingly alike in some ways, yet different: with Naylor, you felt the deference was natural, in part a product of a lack of confidence, whereas Khan seemed to be reining himself in, not wanting to seem pushy or overbright.
