Easy Meat

by John Harvey

  “Your job?”

  “I work for an investment company, pensions and loans.”

  “And this side of your life, no one else knows?”

  Avoiding Resnick’s eyes. “That’s correct.”

  “The person who attacked you,” Resnick asked, “can you describe him?”

  Cheshire shook his head.

  “Not in any way at all?”

  The silence was long. “He was strong,” Cheshire finally said. “Very strong. I thought, of course there is no way to be sure, but I thought he might have been under the influence of drugs.”

  “Because?”

  “His strength seemed so unnatural, and his anger. I think—I thought—he wanted to kill me. That was what he really wanted to do. And instead he … he … he tried to cause me all the pain he could.”

  Cheshire’s glasses fell from his hand and he cried. Fingers meshed across his face, he cried. After some moments, Vincent went over and stood close beside him, resting a hand across his shoulders. Only when Cheshire had begun to recover himself did Vincent move away to his own chair and sit back down. Resnick fetched a glass of water and Cheshire sipped at it, then gulped, choked a little, thanked him, wiped at his glasses with his damp handkerchief, set them back on, took them off again.

  “There’s one more thing,” Vincent said quietly, “I wonder if I could ask you, about what happened.”

  Cheshire nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Penetration, when it took place …”

  “A bottle,” Cheshire said, eyes clenched shut, remembering. “He used a bottle and then smashed it on the railings when he was through.”

  Forty-three

  If Hannah had woken earlier than usual that morning, and looked out from her upstairs window, she would have seen several men in overalls down on their hands and knees among the bushes which grew along the railings separating the Recreation Ground from the Promenade. She would have wondered exactly what, with their reinforced gloves and careful manner, they were looking for.

  Up early himself, scarcely able to sleep, Resnick had driven out there and stood, hands in pockets, while the officers were making their search. He was present when one of the men, triumphantly, uncovered one section of bottle, a piece broken away from near its mouth and now wedged full of something dark, excrement or earth or both. Inside a curved oval of glass, there were dried streaks of what was almost certainly blood.

  Just to contemplate what had happened, how these things could have come to pass, was enough to make Resnick drive the ends of his fingers hard into the palms of his hands. He used a bottle and then smashed it on the railings when he was through. Who, Resnick wondered, did the person who could perform such an act hate most, his victim or himself? Who was suffering the most pain?

  He walked down towards the small row of terraced houses nearest to the church. No lights showed on the ground floor of Hannah’s house; one only, burning high towards the roof. He thought of knocking, but knew he would be waking her for nothing; there was precious little time for anything approaching conversation and there was nothing he might say at that moment that he could imagine her wanting to hear.

  Resnick got back in his car and drove the short distance along Derby Road towards the station. Millington and Carl Vincent were sitting at one side of the CID room, Lynn Kellogg standing close behind them. The latest list Jane Prescott had supplied from Intelligence was on the computer: names of those cautioned for violent behavior during recent Gay Rights rallies in the city center. Four charged with various breaches of the peace, 1993, charges dropped before coming to court; six officially warned, three charged, 1994, charges dropped; four warned, two charged, 1995, charges dropped.

  “Really got behind these in a big way, didn’t we?” Vincent said, sarcasm soft but clear in his voice.

  “Evidence,” Millington said, “not prejudice. Look at the figures for loonie lefties trying to break up right-wing meetings and I’ll bet it’s just the same.”

  Vincent gave the sergeant a wry smile, unconvinced.

  “Notice anything interesting here,” Lynn said, pointing at the screen, then scrolling it round. “Miller, Frank. Three years out of three, a perfect score.”

  Resnick had come over to stand with them. “Miller, that’s who Hovenden went to see.”

  “Last night,” Lynn said, “right.”

  The door to the office opened and a sleepy-looking Kevin Naylor walked in, followed by Divine, who from somewhere had unearthed a slice of cold pizza and was eating it with gusto.

  “Okay,” Resnick said, “all the names on this list, they’ll be matched with the ones we’ve already had from Special Branch, checked out today. The assumption we’ve got to go on is that what happened to Farrell and to Cheshire likely weren’t isolated cases. It took six months for Cheshire to come forward; there’ll be others who never will.”

  “And we’re still thinking,” Millington said, “these incidents and Aston’s murder, they’re linked?”

  “Other than the fact,” Lynn said, “that all the victims are gay?”

  Resnick nodded. “That’s what I feel. So what we’re going to do is move in fast, follow up on those we know. Snape—Hovenden—Miller, that’s the chain and Hovenden, he might be the weak link. Lynn, you and Carl come with me, we’ll catch him on the hop if we can. Graham, take Kevin and Mark, see what this Miller’s got to say for himself; we still don’t have a satisfactory alibi for him at the time Aston was killed.” He looked round the room. “Questions, comments?”

  “Only,” Vincent said, “in case it was someone in here, I’d like to thank whoever put the condoms and Vaseline in my locker. One small point of sex education, though—small but important—Vaseline with condoms isn’t really safe, it has a bad effect on the rubber. KY jelly …” and he winked at Divine “… now that’s the thing.”

  Kevin Naylor laughed uncertainly; Lynn shook her head in dismay.

  “This isn’t the time,” Resnick said, “but any repetition of incidents like that and I’ll make it my business to find out who was responsible and have them out of here too fast for their feet to touch the ground.”

  Expressionless, Divine dumped what was left of his pizza into the nearest bin.

  Resnick was in the back, Lynn driving; fast, northwest out of the city. Vincent was sitting alongside Lynn, half-turned towards the rear of the car.

  “Local gay organizations,” Resnick said, “they’ll be informed as a matter of course. Encouraged to ask members to come forward.”

  “Problem there is,” Vincent said, swinging farther round, “most of the men likely to have been involved won’t be on that scene anyway. And even if they were …” He shook his head. “There’s still a lot of distrust.”

  “Well,” Resnick said, “we can step up patrols around toilets and open spaces …”

  Vincent laughed. “That should fetch a few of the gay community out on the streets, protesting a violation of their civil rights.”

  “What right’s that?” Lynn asked sharply. “The right to go out and put yourself at risk?”

  “Hey!” Vincent smiled, backing along the seat. “Don’t get at me. I didn’t say that was my point of view.”

  Lynn swung wide to overtake a milk float, smoothly changing gear. “What is your point of view, then, Carl?”

  “About cottaging you mean?”

  “Uh-hum.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not what I would want to do, not for myself. Not doing the job that I do. But I can understand why people feel the need.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not me, no. Least, not any more.”

  None of them spoke again until Lynn signaled left and slowed the car to a halt. “That’s the house, over there.”

  Millington glanced down at his watch: it was still shy of seven o’clock. It was quiet in the street. Here and there among the lines of dilapidated houses, the odd one had been spruced up with a lick of bright paint, louvered shutters fitted across the upstairs windows, ne
w doors with brass knockers which shone. Not here. He read the notice inviting callers to go round to the back.

  “Let’s keep it quiet now. No sense waking him till we have to.”

  There was a sour-sweet smell seeping across the backyard like blocked drains. Divine, ever hopeful, eased his hand against the rear door and to his surprise it slid open. Eyebrow raised, silently he questioned Millington and the sergeant nodded. Divine pushed the door all the way back and took a step inside. A tap was dripping against the clutter of pots that threatened to overflow the sink. They could hear clearly now, the sound of snoring, harsh and a-rhythmic, from the adjoining room.

  Curtains pulled to, Miller had fallen asleep on the settee where he lay, a flotilla of empty cans adrift on the stained carpet, stale tobacco flat and thick in the air. Miller’s T-shirt had worked loose from his jeans and was wrinkled up across the hump of his belly, jeans belt unfastened, zip partway down. He was on his back, one foot touching the floor, one arm thrown back, face to one side close against the cushion, mouth open.

  Content they had not disturbed him, Millington pointed to the stairs, back out into the garden to the lean-to shed that was more falling than leaning. After all, the door had been open and Miller hadn’t voiced any objections to their looking round.

  Late for the early shift, Gerry Hovenden’s father had been leaving the house as Resnick and the others approached. “Inside,” he said brusquely, scarcely slowing to examine Resnick’s ID, “out the bath-room by now, if you’re lucky.”

  “What the bloody hell’s this?” Hovenden emerged into the postage stamp of a hallway, hair wet, an old Forest away shirt hanging over his sagging boxer shorts, bare feet.

  “Inspector Resnick, CID. DC Vincent. I believe you know DC Kellogg already.”

  Lynn gave him a quick smile, not her best.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Hovenden blustered, “but you can sod off out.”

  “Why not pop upstairs,” Vincent said politely, “put a few more clothes on. Time you’re back down, I expect we’ll have figured out where the kettle is. Coffee or tea?”

  Millington had been standing in the kitchen, idly leafing through Miller’s well-thumbed copy of Above All, Courage, and wondering what exactly possessed someone to go off and join the SAS, when Naylor beckoned him outside. There in the corner of the shed, soles thick with mud, stood a pair of Caterpillar work boots, size ten.

  “Been doing a spot of gardening,” Millington observed.

  “Looks like.”

  Divine appeared in the doorway behind them. “Seems as if he might be coming round.”

  Millington grinned. “Let’s give him a hand.”

  The Saxon CD was still in the machine. Divine turned the volume up to full and pressed play. Miller, startled, tried to push himself up, overbalanced, and rolled off the settee to the floor.

  “Morning, Frank,” Millington mouthed, waving his warrant card in front of Miller’s incredulous face, “this is your wake-up call.”

  Hovenden had pulled on a pair of jeans, wore old trainers, unlaced, on his feet. Carl Vincent had made tea in mugs that Lynn had carefully rinsed under the hot tap.

  “Must have a bit of trouble,” Resnick said innocently, nodding towards Hovenden’s feet, “always finding shoes to fit.”

  Hovenden sat awkwardly and said nothing.

  “Elevens, are they?” Resnick asked.

  “What?”

  “Size? I said, elevens, twelves?”

  “What sodding difference?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “Elevens, for fuck’s sake! They’re elevens, satisfied?”

  Resnick smiled.

  “You know,” Lynn said, “we’ve been talking to your friend, Shane?”

  “What of it?”

  “He had some interesting things to tell us, that’s all.”

  “Oh, yeh? About me, I suppose?”

  Lynn looked at him, her head angled to one side. “Now what d’you think he could have had to tell us about you?”

  “Sod all!”

  Lynn nodded. “Just about that credit card.”

  “What credit card’s that?”

  “Oh, the one he sold to Sally Purdy.”

  “Who?”

  “Sally Purdy,” Resnick said. “She was the one who told us she bought it from Shane.”

  “What bloody credit card you on about?”

  “Inspector Aston’s,” Resnick said.

  “You know,” said Lynn. “The police officer who was killed.”

  “The night,” Resnick said, “you seem to be confused about where you were.”

  Hovenden pushed himself clumsily back in his chair. “Which night’s this?”

  Lynn said, half-smiling: “You see what we mean?”

  “No, look. Look.” Hovenden not looking, not at any of them, not at the table, not at the floor. “That night, I told you, right? Before. I was home.”

  “Is this a different story, Hovenden?” Resnick asked. “Because if it is …”

  “Shane’s, I was round Shane’s. That’s what I meant.”

  “By home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not here?”

  Hovenden stared around. “This shithole?”

  “Shane, then,” Vincent asked, leaning close over him, “he’s what? Like your brother?”

  “Yes. I s’pose, yeh.”

  “Not being very brotherly, then, Shane,” Vincent said. “Some of the things I hear he was saying yesterday.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Not exactly brotherly love, dropping you in it the way he did.”

  “You’re lying!” Hovenden’s face was almost white with strain.

  “What would you say,” asked Lynn, “if I told you he claimed he got Inspector Aston’s credit card from you?”

  Hovenden scrambled to his feet, knocking back his chair, face thrust forward. “I’d say you were a lying cunt!”

  Vincent clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth twice. “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Resnick was standing now, time to move on. “Had all you want of this tea, Gerry? Or d’you want to finish it before we leave for the station?”

  “Turn off,” Frank Miller had shouted, “that fucking noise!”

  “Worried about the neighbors, Frank?” Millington said. “That’s nice. World could do with a few more like you.”

  “Saxon, though,” Divine said, flicking open the drawer and removing the CD, “always did like them. DeMontfort Hall, oh, must be six or seven years back now. Go down and see them, did you? My ears were ringing for days.”

  Miller turned to stare at him: what the fuck was all this about?

  “But then that’s the way you like ‘em, isn’t it? In the ears? Fact, I think we might’ve found a tape of yours a while back. That had quite a bit of Saxon on it, good too.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Miller said, zipping up his jeans, “there’s any way you lot of comedians’d crawl back out the way you crawled in?”

  “’Course, Frankie,” Millington agreed. “Just as soon as you’re ready.”

  Miller snorted and scratched his left armpit energetically. “Oh, yeh? What is it now?”

  “Someone’s been putting themselves about among our friends in the gay community,” Millington said. “Looking at your record, you’ve done a bit of that in your time.”

  “Poofs? Yeh, why not? It’s what they fuckin’ deserve.”

  “You don’t need a coat,” Millington said, leading the way, “but if I were you I’d lock this back door. Never know who might come waltzing in.”

  Forty-four

  Khan had woken that morning with Jill’s leg hooked over one of his own, her hip pressed against his. It had been light enough in the room to see the inward curve of her spine, the swell of her buttocks when he slipped back the sheet. Fifteen minutes before he had to be getting ready for work, twenty at a push. Experimenta
lly, he tensed himself against her body and felt pressure in return. He knew there were two things he could do and one of them was to bend forward and kiss her lightly between the shoulder blades, slide his leg free, and swing out of the bed. He looked at the way she was stretching, legs parted, and knew how warm she would feel if he were to move his hand a little higher along her thigh. She gave a sleepy, satisfied moan when he did this and that was that. Twenty minutes, he thought, would be fine.

  In fact, it was closer to fifteen. Khan stood buttoning his pale-blue shirt, fading a shade now, the one his last girlfriend had bought him at Next.

  “I swear,” Jill said, sitting up higher in the bed, “you only wear that to annoy me.”

  Reaching for his tie, silver with a blue stripe, Khan laughed. “Have to get some kind of reaction, don’t I?”

  She threw a pillow and he ducked low, reaching for the end of the duvet.

  “No!” Jill shouted. “Don’t you dare!”

  Which was when the phone rang and Khan, chuckling, went to answer it. Paul Matthews’s voice was nervous yet unmistakable, a smile broadening across Khan’s face as he listened. “All right,” he said finally, “give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.”

  Back in the bedroom, he kissed Jill languorously on the mouth: five minutes, he was thinking, more than I gave you.

  Given the seriousness of the crimes concerned, the weight of evidence, circumstantial at best, had been enough to argue the necessary search warrants. They had twenty-four hours, plus a possible extra twelve, within which either to charge Miller and Hovenden or let them go. Under new regulations, they were allowed to take samples from all suspects in order to establish their DNA; these samples would then be checked against the new national database in Birmingham. Comparisons with the DNA from the blood found on Aston’s body would be crucial. But it would not be quick.

  “This can’t be right,” Frank Miller had said to his solicitor. “There’s no way they can make me agree to this.”

  The solicitor was sorry, but under the new law indeed they could.

  “And if I won’t stand for it?”

  “We’ll have to find ways,” Divine had grinned hopefully, “of taking your legs from under you. Nothing to stand on.”