by John Harvey
Rogel’s father was a retired army colonel, not someone to be toyed with. He made it clear they wouldn’t as much as think of handing over a penny without proof. He also immediately contacted the police.
Nothing happened for three days.
On the fourth, the Rogels drove to the nearest supermarket to do their weekly shopping and when they returned, someone had jimmied open one of the small windows at the rear of the house. Naturally, they thought they’d been burgled, looked anxiously round but found nothing obviously missing. What they did find, folded neatly inside tissue paper in one of the drawers in the spare bedroom, the room that had been Susan’s when she had lived at home, was one of her blouses, the one she had been wearing when she was last seen, filling her car with petrol at a garage on the Wells road.
The family wanted to pay the ransom, asked for time to find the money; they were given another three days. Instructions were given about leaving it in the courtyard of a pub high on the Mendips. All of this information was passed immediately to the police. On the morning the drop was to be made, the location was carefully staked out, it would have been difficult to be more discreet.
“What happened?” Resnick asked.
“Nothing. The money was left in a duffel bag by the outside toilet of the pub. No one came near it. Not many vehicles came over the tops that day and all that did were checked. Nobody suspicious.”
“He got scared then? What?”
“There was one final call to the Rogels the following day. Angry with them for trying to trick him, get him caught, going to the police. There was no attempt at contact after that.”
“And Susan Rogel?”
Helen Siddons was standing against the window, outlined against the white strips of blind. “No sign. No word. If she did simply run off, if the ransom note was somebody’s bluff, she’s never resurfaced, never been back in touch with anyone in her previous life. Husband, lover, parents, not anyone.”
“And if it was real?”
Helen smoothed one hand down the leg of her dress. “This was almost two years ago. If someone kidnapped her, it’s difficult to believe she’s alive now.”
“You double-checked everyone in the area of the pub that day?” Skelton asked.
“Double, triple.” Helen shook her head. “No way we could connect any of them with Susan Rogel or the way she disappeared.”
“How easy would it have been for this person to find out you and her parents were hand in glove?”
Helen Siddons lit another cigarette. “I was the liaison officer. Any meetings we had were well out of the way, never the same location. Phone calls call box to call box, never to their house or the station. No mobile phones used because they’re more susceptible to being tapped. If he found out, rather than guessed, that wasn’t the weak link.”
“Have you any idea what was?”
She gave a quick shake of the head. “No.”
“Near enough two years back,” Skelton said, looking at Resnick. “Time to lay low, move maybe, try again.”
“Blouse aside,” Resnick said, “there’s not much says this case is the same.”
“Not yet, Charlie.”
“Wait till Nancy Phelan’s parents get the morning post,” Helen said. “Special delivery.”
“And if they don’t?”
Helen blinked and looked away.
Skelton tipped the last of the bottle into the three mugs. “So, Charlie, what d’you think? If this is a runner, where does that leave young Hidden in the scheme of things?”
“Between Dana Matthieson leaving the flat and our bringing Robin Hidden in for questioning, he had time and plenty to get round there and leave those clothes. And he knew the layout of the flat well, remember, in and out in no time.”
“I thought you had your doubts about Hidden for this,” Skelton said. “That was the feeling you gave. Now you want to keep him tied in.”
“One way or another, he already is.”
Skelton looked thoughtful, sipped his scotch. “Helen?” Skelton said.
“I think we should make good and sure,” she said, “the minute anyone contacts the Phelans, we know about it. And by the time they do, we know how we’re going to respond.”
“Charlie?” Skelton said.
“That only makes sense,” Resnick said. He was uncomfortable with the knowledge that he was bridling inside every time Helen Siddons said we, at the way she seemed to be edging herself more and more into the heart of things.
“I’ll give you a lift then, Helen,” Skelton said, hopefully holding her coat.
Resnick knocked back the last half-inch of whisky, rinsed out the mug from which he had been drinking, and wished them both goodnight; whatever was going on there, as long as it didn’t get in the way of the task in hand, it didn’t have to concern him.
“Night, sir. Happy New Year, sir,” said the young constable at the desk.
Resnick nodded in reply and stepped out on to the street; it wasn’t clear if someone had wiped the blood away or whether it had been trodden clean by a succession of passing feet. Above, the sky had cleared and there were stars, clustering close to the moon.
In little more than minutes he was standing at the far end of Newcastle Drive, hands in pockets, looking up at the blank windows to Dana’s flat. If she had decided to stay, he hoped by now she would be safely asleep. For several long moments he allowed himself to recall the warmth of her body, generous beside him in her bed.
“If I did stay here, would you come back? Later?”
By the time he had crossed town, avoiding the raucous celebrations continuing in and around the fountains of the Old Market Square, and arrived at the Polish Club, almost the last of the cars was turning out of the car park, exhaust fumes heavy in the air. Those that remained belonged to the staff. There was a taxi idling at the far side of the street, but Resnick didn’t linger to see who it was waiting for. He would call Marian tomorrow, make his apologies with a clear head.
Dizzy was sitting on the stone wall at the front of the house when Resnick arrived, stretching his legs and trotting along the top of the wall beside him, tail arched high in greeting.
Happy New Year.
Thirty-two
Michelle opened her eyes to see Karl staring down at her, his face close enough to hers for her to feel the faint warmth of his breath. How long he had been standing there she didn’t know. Through the gap at the top of the curtains, the street light shone a muted orange. Karl started to speak but she shushed him and smiled and pressed her finger lightly against first his lips and then her own. As usual, Gary had fetched up close beside her in the bed and Michelle eased herself sideways, slipping out from beneath the weight of his arm and leg.
“I not sleep,” said Karl on the stairs. “Cold.”
Michelle tousled the tangle of hair on his head and shooed him into the living room. Natalie had bunched herself sideways along the top of her cot. When Michelle reached under the covers to move her she was shocked by the child’s coldness. Natalie stirred, whimpered, fell back to sleep.
“Come on,” she whispered to Karl, “let’s go and make the tea.”
Even with slippers and two pairs of socks, the damp seemed to seep up through the kitchen floor. While she watched, Karl took two slices from the packet of sliced bread and placed them on the grill to toast; once she had swilled almost boiling water around the pot and emptied it down the sink, he lifted two tea bags from the box and dropped them inside.
“Good boy,” Michelle said encouragingly.
“’ood boy.”
“Soon be able to do all this by yourself. Bring me and Gary breakfast in bed.”
Karl looked uncertain. The swelling at the side of his face had mostly gone down and even the bruise was beginning to fade.
Michelle caught herself yawning and when she moved her hand to her mouth she realized she was nursing a headache. She and Gary had been to the pub last night, along with Brian and josie. Where Brian got the money from to spend on
drink she couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to know. Generous, though, she’d say that for him. Even if, when he’d had his fair share, he wasn’t above pushing his leg against hers under the table, once or twice sliding his hand along her thigh. Michelle had mentioned it to Josie when they were on their own and Josie had just laughed. Brian having a bit of fun. Gary wouldn’t laugh, not if he knew, she was certain of that. Gary saw him as much as put his little finger on her and he’d kill him for it.
She pulled out the grill pan just in time before the toast started burning. “You’re supposed to be watching that,” she said. “What d’you want? Marmalade or some of that strawberry jam?”
Pam Van Allen was at work early, earlier than usual; only her senior’s Escort was in the car park ahead of her, right-on slogans occupying a goodly proportion of its rear window. Although no more than thirty yards from the entrance Pam wrapped her scarf around her neck before reaching to the rear seat for her briefcase and Guardian, and locking the car door. Chilly again this morning, but at least it was bright.
Neil Park was in his office, leafing through reports on green and yellow paper, sipping at the first of many cups of Maxwell House. He called a greeting as Pam walked past reception and while she was making coffee for herself, he came out and joined her.
“Some offices,” Pam said, “have a decent coffee machine. Real coffee.”
“But we have biscuits,” Neil said, offering her the tin. Inside were a couple of plain digestives, the wrong half of a coconut cream, a Rich Tea, and a lot of crumbs.
“Good night last night?” Pam asked, opting for one of the digestives.
“Terrific, Mel and I fell asleep in front of the TV. Woke up and it was next year.”
Pam smiled. After failing to interest any of her friends in joining her in a search for something to eat, she had settled for a chicken and black-bean takeaway and the remains of a bottle of white wine. It had been the ideal opportunity for watching those programs she’d taped about the lives of women between the wars. These were so depressing, she had found a documentary about the Sequoia National Park and watched it through twice.
“Who’ve you got today?” Neil asked. “Anyone interesting?”
“Gary James, first thing.”
“Oh, well,” Neil said, wandering off with the last half of coconut cream, “start as you mean to go on.”
Gary was close to fifteen minutes late, par for the course in his case, though less than desirable. Old Ethel Chadbond was out there already, spilling herself and her belongings across three seats in the waiting area and already imbuing everything with a healthy smell of methylated spirits and Lysol.
Pam restrained herself from looking too pointedly at her watch. “Gary, take a seat.”
He slouched sideways, soccer shirt, jumper, jeans jacket, jeans. Gave her that look that said, so, what do we do now?
“That interview I arranged for you, at the training center.” Pam picked up the sheet of notepaper as if it were relevant. “You didn’t go.”
“No.”
“You mind me asking why?”
On and on for a further fifteen minutes, Pam’s questions, remarks, suggestions, all of them fielded with the same sullen indifference; part of a ritual both knew they had to go through. God! Pam thought, sliding open a drawer for something to do, coming close to slamming it shut, was this the first day of a new year? Another three hundred and sixty four days of this?
“Gary!”
“What?” He sat bolt upright, eyes wide open and she realized she had shouted, startling him.
“Nothing, I’m sorry. It’s just …”
It’s just you’re getting your monthlies, Gary thought.
“It’s just we seem to be going over the same ground, you know. Over and over.”
He breathed heavily and leaned back in his chair: what d’you expect me to do about that?
“The house,” Pam asked, “have you made any more progress finding somewhere else?” She knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth it was the wrong thing to say.
“That poxy fucking place,” Gary said. “Ought to be against the fucking law bringing up kids in there.”
“Gary …”
“You know how cold it was this morning when I got out of bed? D’you know? Put my hand on the baby’s face and I thought she was fucking dead! That’s how cold it was.”
“Gary,” Pam said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve told you before, that’s not really my province. That’s the Housing department’s responsibility, it’s not …”
He was on his feet so fast, the chair skittered backwards beneath him and collided with the wall. His fists were so close to her face, Pam let out an involuntary shriek and covered herself with her hands.
“You know what fucking happened when I went to the fucking Housing. You know about that, don’t you? Eh? One of these bits of bloody paper’ll’ve told you all about that.” With a sweep of his arms, he cleared everything from the desk: pens, paper, diary, telephone, paper-clips. Pam was on her feet, backing away, staring at him. There was a panic button underneath the ledge of her desk, but no way now could she reach it. “You and that tart up at Housing, that dirty cow as used to spread her legs for my brother’s mates every chance she got, you think you can shit on me like I’m nothing, don’t you? Eh?” He walked on into the table and it jarred sideways off his thigh. “Nice Gary, good Gary, here Gary, good dog, Gary.”
He snorted at her in his anger, took another step towards her before moving suddenly sideways to the door. “You wouldn’t treat one of your pets the way you treat ‘Chelle an’ me.” He wrenched at the handle and pulled the door wide open. Neil Park was standing anxiously outside, wondering whether he should intervene. “None of you.”
Neil Park had to step back quickly to get out of Gary’s way.
“You all right?” he said finally, walking into Pam’s room.
“Terrific.”
“Here, let me give you a hand with this,” he said, taking hold of one end of the desk.
“Tell Ethel Chadbond I might need a few more minutes,” Pam said, when most things had been rescued from the floor.
“You want me to see her?”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.”
Once Neil had gone and she had closed the door, Pam sat for some little while thinking about the abrupt violence of Gary’s anger, the nature of the remarks he’d made about Nancy Phelan, that tart, that dirty cow, wondering whether or not she should telephone Resnick, tell him about this latest outburst.
Thirty-three
Resnick had woken full of good intentions. He would write a note to Marian, apologizing for last night, wishing her all the best for the New Year. On his way to work, drop in at the market and order some flowers, arrange for them to be delivered. Three attempts at the brief letter and when he’d almost got it right, a thick splodge of apricot jam slid between the cream cheese of his breakfast bagel and obliterated Marian’s name and half the first sentence. Sitting at the coffee stall later, he changed his mind about the flowers; a bouquet, over-dramatic, open to misinterpretation. Besides-sipping his second espresso-flowers arranged in that way always made him think of his father’s funeral. The coffin laden with them: and afterwards, laid out near the rose garden at the back of the crematorium. “Don’t let them do that to me, Charles. A priest and a requiem mass. A coffin for my ashes to wither away in.” At the end, when so many people come to God, his father had lost his faith. “A bit of fertilizer, let me do that much good at least.”
Resnick walked away from the market with a heavy heart and indigestion. He would give Marian a quick call from the office, maybe later in the day. Or tomorrow.
Divine’s fascist night out had been a shade disappointing. No major rucks, no riots, not even many arrests. Most of the evening, bad music and easily shepherded bands of youths wearing BNP badges and off-the-peg Nazi regalia; the worst Divine had thrown at him, taunts and a half of warm lager. On the plus side, be had found himself cheek by jowl with a
couple who answered the descriptions of Raju’s and Sandra Drexler’s attackers to a T: fair, sandyish hair, St. George and the Dragon tattoo.
Along with six or so other officers and a couple of dogs, Divine had stopped a dozen or so likely lads passing by outside the Town ground and ordered them back against the wall to be searched. Three blades, two lengths of chain, a piece of two-by-four with a nail protruding from it, one manky sock stuffed with sand, a handful of pills. Nothing spectacular.
The youth with the tattoo had been in the middle of the group, combat trousers and jeans jacket, mouthing off about police harassment. Divine had chanced to kick him in the back of the calf, pure accident. Instinctively, the youth had rounded on him, fist raised.
Bingo!
The noble St. George, lance at the ready, right before Divine’s delighted eyes. Not enough to prove anything on its own. But when, at Divine’s polite inquiry as to whether he’d taken any good taxi rides lately, the youth and his mate panicked and tried to do a runner, well, dead giveaway, wasn’t it?
Shame was, in the ensuing scuffle, Divine didn’t get to land as much as a solid punch. The lads, though, had spent a mournful night in Mansfield nick and were on their way down to the city that morning. Positive identification and they’d be up in front of the magistrate without a leg to stand on. Trouble was, instead of getting banged up, doing some real time, more than likely some soft sod on the bench would give them all of six months’ community service, a supervision order, be good boys and talk politely once a week to your probation officer.
