by John Harvey
“He’s done it before, hasn’t he? He’s on probation.”
“That was ages ago, what happened.”
“A year.”
“But he’s changed. Gary’s changed.”
“Has he?”
Karl was rocking backwards and forwards as, on the screen above him, a fading football manager vouched for the splendors of British Gas.
“That’s your little boy?” Lynn asked.
“Karl. Yes.”
“What happened to his face?”
Divine thanked the sister from Intensive Care and replaced the receiver: Mr. Raju had returned from Recovery, was sleeping, sedated, his condition critical yet stable. It was unlikely he would be strong enough to speak with anyone until the morning.
“You’ve not changed your mind, then?” he said, as Naylor crossed the room behind him.
“About what?”
“Bringing Debbie along tonight.”
Naylor dropped two folders on to his desk: transcripts of interviews pertaining to the taxi driver’s assault. Several thousand words and still no clear identification. Two youths in boots and jeans, much like many others. “Why should I?” he said.
Divine’s grin was broad as a dirty joke and about as subtle. “Last chance for a bit of spare this side of the stuffing.”
“Forget it, Mark, why don’t you?” Naylor flipped open the first file and began to read. It had taken all of his persuasion getting Debbie to agree to come with him. “You don’t want me there,” she’d said, “getting in the way. You’ll have a lot more fun on your own.” Times were, back when things were going wrong with their marriage, Naylor would have been the first to agree. Jumped at it, the chance for a night out on his own, with the lads. Now it was different; he felt it was different. “All right,” he had told her, “if you don’t want to go, I’ll stay home.” That had done the trick.
Now he looked at his watch, the workload on his desk; best give Debbie a quick call.
Lynn was sitting in Resnick’s office, telling him about her visit. Earlier, Resnick had interviewed first Gary James and then Nancy Phelan, conversations in still, airless rooms with the tape machine ticking digitally across the long afternoon. Gary had been alternately contrite and angry, constantly bringing things back to rotting wood and sagging doors and damp that ran down the insides of walls.
“You realize,” Resnick had said, “behaving the way you did, it’s not going to do your case any good.”
“No?” Gary had said. “Then tell me what is.”
Unable to answer, Resnick had handed him over to the custody sergeant and now he sat sulking in one of the police cells.
Nancy Phelan was adamant that Gary had done nothing to really hurt her, she had never felt in any actual danger. It had simply got out of hand.
“Then he didn’t strike you?” Resnick had asked.
“No.”
“Never as much as touched you?” A pause and then, pressing her fingers to her scalp, “I suppose he did grab my hair.”
“And you weren’t frightened?”
“No, he was.”
Resnick thought about that as he listened to Lynn describing the marks on the boy’s face, the swelling that had all but closed one eye, the bruise coming out strongly, yellow and purple and darkening.
“She said, the mother, that he’d fallen,” Resnick said. Lynn nodded. “Running out the back door. The door was actually off, I don’t know, she and Gary, they were putting it back on when the boy came running. Went smack into it.”
“It’s plausible, surely?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t believe her?”
Lynn crossed and recrossed her legs. “In different circumstances, I might. But this Gary James, his record …”
“Nothing to suggest any violence towards the children.”
“Something must have got him in a state before he got to the Housing Office. Something more than simply having to wait.”
“Well …” Resnick got to his feet, walked round from behind his desk. Through the glass he could see Divine speaking into the telephone, Kevin Naylor painstakingly making notes, the pen in that awkward-seeming grip he used, as if it were an implement he was still struggling to control. … “Best have a word with social services.” He checked his watch. “If they’ve knocked off early for the day, you can try the emergency duty team.” Though not for long, he thought, rumor was that with the next wave of cuts they were to be axed. Which would mean the likes of Karl waiting till past Boxing Day.
Lynn paused at the door. “James, sir, are we keeping him in?”
Resnick made a face. “Christmas. I’d not want to, not if it can be avoided.”
“But if the boy’s at risk?”
“I know. Let’s get someone round there, get him to a doctor, have him properly examined. Till then young Gary James can kick his heels.”
“Right.” Lynn stepped out into Divine’s raucous laughter and the sound of an ambulance going past outside, another victim of the festivities on the way to Queen’s. She paused near her desk and turned back towards the open door to Resnick’s office. “I don’t suppose there’s any good trying to talk to his probation officer? Might throw some light, one way or another.”
“You could always try,” Resnick said. His expression suggested she would probably be wasting her time. Relationships with the probation service were not the most trusting, either way; and this wasn’t the most propitious of times.
“I’ll check anyway,” Lynn said over her shoulder, “see whose client he is.”
“Pam Van Allen.”
Lynn was looking at him.
“I gave Neil Park a call. Earlier.”
“But you’ve not spoken to her, sir, Van Allen?”
Resnick shook his head.
“You don’t mind if I …”
“You go ahead.”
Back at his desk, for a moment Resnick closed his eyes; he could see her walking out of sight, Pam Van Allen, a meeting that had turned out badly, her hair glinting silver-gray against the light. “Pressure, Charlie,” her senior, Neil Park had said later. “Male, high-ranking, used to telling people what to do and expecting them to do it. She resented it.” Resnick didn’t think he would have any luck there. If Lynn could talk to her, so much the better. Even so, he found himself staring at the phone, part of him wanting to call.
“Sir,” Lynn knocked on his door and pushed it wide enough for her head to lean in. “She’s gone home for the day. For the holiday.”
“All right,” Resnick said, “we’ll hang on, see what social services have to say. Oh, and Lynn …”
“Yes?”
“This business at home-whatever it is-if you need to talk about it …”
For the first time in a while, she found something close to a smile. “Thanks.”
Back across the CID room her phone once again was ringing. Someone was humming “Silent Night.” From somewhere, Divine had acquired a paper hat, red and green, and he was wearing it as he read off an entry from the VDU, a sprig of mistletoe poking hopefully from his breast pocket.
Six
“So what was he like?” Nancy’s flatmate, Dana, asked, her voice blurred beneath the rush and splatter of the shower.
“What was who like?”
“Your kidnapper, who else?”
Nancy pulled her head clear from the spray of water. Opaque, through the thick, flowered plastic of the curtain, she could see Dana on the loo, all but naked, taking a pee. Six months ago, when they had started sharing, Nancy would have been, well, not shocked, but certainly embarrassed. Neither would she have felt comfortable doing what she was doing now, turning off the shower and pulling back the curtain, stepping out on to the tiled floor to dry herself down.
“So?” Dana said, glancing up. “Was he sexy or what?”
Nancy gave a wry smile. “Hardly.” She remembered the patchy hair, faint around his mouth, the way he had perspired, the nervous jerki-ness of his hands, hollow of his
eyes. “Besides, situations like that, sexiness doesn’t come into it.”
“Doesn’t it?” Dana said. Pulling off a length of toilet paper, she folded the sheets again and then again before dabbing between her legs. “Somehow I thought it did.”
Nancy was vigorously toweling her hair. “That’s because you think it comes into everything.”
Dana laughed and sent water flushing round the bowl. “What was he like then?” she said.
“A boy. A kid.”
“So?” Dana arched a camp eyebrow and laughed some more.
The time Nancy had come home unexpected and found her flatmate grappling with a seventeen-year-old on the living-room carpet had been, in more ways than one, a revelation. “He’s advanced for his age,” Dana had explained. “Two A-levels already. Working hard for his Cambridge entrance.”
“I noticed,” Nancy had said. What she’d noticed were the marks on the youth’s back as he’d pulled his Simple Minds T-shirt on over his head.
“Didn’t I tell you,” Nancy said now, “this Gary, we went to the same school?”
“No, really?”
“Yes, two years below me.”
“And that’s his name? Gary?”
“Uh-hum.”
“And you remembered him?” Dana was standing slightly on tiptoe before the bathroom mirror, examining her breasts.
“Not at all.”
“Then he remembered you.”
Nancy wound the first towel around her head and reached for another. “I used to go out with this boy, he was a friend of Gary’s big brother.”
“You see, it all makes sense. There he was, Gary, adoring you from afar and you never as much as noticed him. The stuff that pimply wet dreams are made of.”
Nancy grimaced and laughed and pretended to throw up over the toilet bowl.
“You don’t think this is a lump, do you? Look, here?”
Serious, Nancy stared at her friend’s left breast. “I don’t know. I can’t see any …”’
“Feel.”
Nancy reached out a hand and Dana took it, guiding it to the right spot.
“Well?”
Pressing down with her fingertips, Nancy rolled the flesh across and back; there was something there, the smallest knot of muscle possibly, not a lump. “No,” she said, “I think you’re fine. Nothing to worry about at all.”
“Of course not,” Dana smiled. Another of her friends, just thirty-five, was due in hospital for a mastectomy first thing in the new year.
“Can I borrow your hairdryer?” Nancy asked. “Mine’s on the blink.” And then at the bathroom door-“This do tonight, we don’t have to get too dressed up, do we?”
Dana’s smile was genuine this time. “Only to the nines.”
What might have helped, Nancy thought, on her way to the bedroom, if this afternoon had been more of a fright than actually it was, it might have done something to bring me on, get this blasted period of mine moving.
Martin Wrigglesworth no longer considered his working days in terms of good or bad; simply, they were gradations of the latter-bad, less bad, badder, baddest. A classical education not entirely gone to waste. There were days, he thought, his ail-but clapped-out Renault Five stalling at the Noel Street lights, when the whole of Forest Fields should be swept into care. Why stop there? Hyson Green. Radford. The lot. Wheel everyone over sixty into residential homes for the aged; whisk children under eleven into the welcoming arms of foster parents, twelve-to-seventeen-year-olds into youth custody. Anyone left could be swept on to a massive Workfare program and work for their dole, performing useful services like cutting the grass on the Forest with nail clippers through the daylight hours. Those were the thoughts that got Martin through his less bad days.
At home in Nuthall at weekends, repainting the bathroom, waiting to collect the boys from swimming, helping his wife fold the washing in from the line, he tried to recall the exact moment, the feeling that had drawn him into social work, a good and honorable profession.
And what, Martin thought, turning into another narrow street in a warren of narrow streets, could he do? What honorable course might he take? Brutus would happily have fallen on his sword, of course, being an honorable man, but so far the mortgage and the pension plan and the irredeemable dream of renovating a dilapidated farmhouse in the South of France had kept any such thought firmly in Martin’s scabbard.
“Martin,” his wife would say wearily over her marking, “if it’s making you feel so low, why don’t you hand in your notice? Resign. You’ll find something else.” With over three million out of work, he knew only too well what be would find. Instead of resigning he was resigned.
Number 37, he said to himself, checking the hastily scribbled note on the seat beside him. A row of two-story, flat-fronted houses, front rooms opening out onto the street. Locking the car, he crossed the narrow, uneven pavement towards the chipped paint of the door. A late referral from a police officer fearful for the safety of a child: Lord knows what he would find on the other side. Not so long ago, here in the city, a young mother had dipped her two-year-old son’s penis in hot tea and spun him round inside a spin dryer.
“Hello,” he said, as Michelle opened the front door. “Ms. Paley? Martin Wrigglesworth, Social Services …” Showing her his card. “… I’ve called round about your son, er, Karl. I wonder if we might talk inside?”
“How do I look?”
Nancy was standing in the entrance to Dana’s room in a silver crochet top, short black skirt, silver-gray tights with a pattern of raised silver dots, leather ankle boots with a slight heel. When Dana had asked her, back in mid-November, if she would like to go along to her firm’s Christmas dinner and dance, it had seemed like a good idea. “Terrific,” Dana enthused. “You look terrific.”
“I feel ten feet tall.”
“Better than five feet wide like me.” Dana looked as if she had dived into her wardrobe head first and emerged swathed in color, bright yellows, purple, and green. Nancy was reminded of a parakeet with cleavage.
“No, seriously, I feel stupid.”
“You look wonderful. Every man in that room is going to take one look at you …”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“… and be falling over themselves asking you to dance.”
Nancy was looking at herself in Dana’s full-length mirror. “I look like I’m auditioning for principal boy in Aladdin.”
“So, fine. You’ll get the part.”
Nancy recrossed the room, trying to walk small. She’d met one or two of them already, architects and such, they hadn’t seemed too bad. More interesting than the people she worked with herself. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t go at all. They’re your friends, people you work with, I shall hardly know a soul.”
“You’re my friend. And besides, I’ve told them all about you …” Nancy placed one hand over her eyes. “… and one more thing, there’s no refund on the price of your ticket.”
“All right,” Nancy said, “you talked me into it. I’m coming.”
Dana lifted her watch from the dressing table and, held it closer to her face. “Taxi’s here in twenty minutes.”
“I thought we didn’t have to be there till eight?”
“We’re meeting first for a drink at Sarah Brown’s.”
“Won’t it be terribly crowded?”
“All the better. Rub shoulders with the rich and nearly famous.”
“All the same,” Martin Wrigglesworth was saying to Michelle, “I think, just to be certain, I’d be happier if we could just pop him along to the doctor, let someone have a proper look at him.” From somewhere he dredged up a smile. “Better safe than sorry.”
“You don’t mean now?” Michelle asked. “You want to take him to the doctor now?”
“Yes,” Martin said, clipping his biro into his top pocket. “Now.”
The taxi arrived almost fifteen minutes early and the driver wanted to charge them
waiting time, but Dana soon disabused him of that. Nancy had changed out of her black skirt into a pair of loose-fitting black trousers and then back into her skirt again. She had borrowed one of Dana’s topcoats, bright red wool, a regular bull’s delight.
“You’ve got your ticket?”
Nancy patted the sequined bag she held in her lap.
“Condoms?” Dana laughed.
Nancy stuck out her tongue. “It isn’t going to be that kind of night.”
Dana, sitting back in the corner of the cab, smiling. “You never know.”
Nancy did: what she had in her bag, ever hopeful, were three Lillets.
The cab swung out of the Park, into incoming traffic on Derby Road. They were approaching Canning Circus when Nancy suddenly leaned forward, asking the driver to stop.
“What’s the matter?” Dana asked. “What’ve you forgotten?”
“Nothing.” Nancy opened the nearside door. “I’m just popping into the police station, that’s all.”
“Whatever for?”
“It doesn’t matter. You go on. I’ll meet you at the hotel. Go straight there. Bye.”
Nancy pushed the cab door closed and stood a moment, watching the vehicle pull away, Dana’s face, perplexed, staring back through the glass.
The officer on the duty desk had phoned Resnick’s office to inform him he had a visitor, not quite able to keep the smirk out of his voice. It wasn’t until Nancy Phelan walked in through the door to the deserted CID room that Resnick understood why.
“Inspector …”
“Yes?”
“I was here earlier today …”
“I remember.” Resnick smiled. “Not dressed like that.”
Nancy gave a half-smile in return. She had unbuttoned the borrowed red coat walking up the stairs and now it hung loose from her shoulders. “Christmas Eve, you know how it is. Everyone out on the town.”
While Kevin Naylor held the fort, Resnick had nipped home to feed the cats, brushed his best suit, ironed a white shirt, buffed his shoes, scraped a few fragments of pesto sauce from his tie. The one night of the year he tried to make an impression. “I’ve got changed myself,” he said pleasantly.
“Sorry,” Nancy said, “I hadn’t noticed.”
