Cold Light cr-6

by John Harvey

  By the time he walked into the kitchen for his second White Shield, Resnick’s mind had been reclaimed by other things: Harry and Clarise Phelan, awake in bed in their hotel, waiting to hear if their daughter were still alive; Lynn, driving back from Norfolk after taking her father to the hospital, alone in the night with what news?

  Michelle was halfway down the stairs when she heard Gary outside. At least, she presumed it was Gary. All she could make out at first were voices raised in anger, muffled and harsh. She hugged the baby to her and Natalie whimpered; lowering her face into the fine wispy hair, Michelle shushed her and hurried towards her cot. She was sure it was Gary now. Brian, too. What on earth was going on? Gary and Brian, best mates for years.

  She was tucking Natalie’s blanket around her when Gary lurched through the door.

  “Gary, I wondered what was …”

  At the sight of the blood, she stopped. A line of it, bright, like a Christmas streamer on the side of Gary’s face.

  “Gary, what’s …?”

  With the back of his arm, he pushed her away.

  “Gary, you’re bleeding.”

  “Think I don’t fucking know that?”

  At the sound of their raised voices, Karl rolled over in his makeshift bed on the settee, Natalie began to cry. Michelle followed Gary to the bathroom and stood in the doorway, watching.

  “Bastard!” Gary said, as he looked in the mirror. “Bastard!” wincing as he touched his cheek.

  “Gary, let me …”

  With a snarl, he slammed the door in her face.

  She lay in bed, listening to the sound of the rain, clipping off the loose slates on the roof; the sound of her own breathing. Outside on the landing, where the water was coming through, it dripped in rhythm into a plastic pail. Natalie had gone off again and Karl, thank God, had never really woken. After he’d finished in the bathroom, she’d heard Gary banging around in the kitchen, presumably making a cup of tea. She thought he might switch on the tele, curl up next to Karl, and fall asleep, until she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  “Michelle?”

  Soft thump of his jeans on the threadbare square of carpet, lighter fall of his sweater and shirt.

  “’Chelle?”

  His hand on her shoulder was cold and she jumped.

  “I’m sorry. I am, you know.”

  Face against her back, his fingers reached round and found her breast.

  “Shouldn’t ’ve lost my temper, not with you. Weren’t nothing to do with you.”

  Michelle rolled away, freeing herself from his hand. “What happened then? Tell me.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. Really. Just me and Brian, messing around.”

  “It didn’t sound like you was messing around. And this …” He flinched as she stretched towards him, but allowed her to touch the place just below the hairline where he had been cut.

  “We was just foolin’ about, that’s all. Got a bit silly. You know what Brian’s like after a few pints.”

  Again Michelle stopped herself from asking, whereabouts is he getting all this money?

  “Still,” Gary said, “over now, eh? What’d my mum say? Spilt milk.” He lifted his hand back to Michelle’s breast, shocking her with his gentleness, stroking her lightly until, through the thin cotton of the T-shirt, he felt her nipple harden against his thumb.

  Thirty-nine

  How long someone had been tapping on the window, Lynn didn’t know. Opening her eyes, she groaned, gritted her teeth, and looked out. The car had come to rest close against a farm fence, the nearside wing buckled by a concrete post. Gloved, the hand knocked again. Oh, shit! thought Lynn. My head hurts! In the rearview mirror, she could see the sidelights of the car that had pulled in behind her, faint through the blur of rain. A man’s face now, bending close to the glass, words she could read without hearing: “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Traffic continued to swish by, unconcerned.

  She turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered momentarily and died.

  He looked to be in his forties, clean-shaven, hair plastered dark to his head by the rain. The shoulders and arms of his jacket were soaked through and Lynn wondered how long he had been standing there, anxious to help. She wound the window down a few inches, enough to be able to talk.

  “I saw you come off the road, ahead of me. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Thanks. I think I’m fine.”

  The right side of her mouth was numb and when she touched the tip of her tongue to her lip she could tell it was swollen. Wiping away steam from the mirror, she could see a swelling over her left eye, already the size of a small egg and growing.

  “You were lucky.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Lynn knew she should get out and look at the car, examine the extent of the damage. Even supposing she did get the engine to start, it might not be possible for her to drive away. The man, standing there, kept her where she was.

  “You haven’t got a phone in your car?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Neither, in this car, did she.

  “Look,” Lynn said, winding down the window a little farther. “It was good of you to stop, but, really, I’ll be all right now.”

  He smiled and began to back slowly away. Lynn took a deep breath and got out into the rain. The rear of the car seemed to have collided with a pile of gravel as it left the road, then spun forward into the gate. Somewhere, out in the semi-dark, were the shapes of cattle, hedges converging. Lynn pulled up her collar and squatted near the front wheel. The metal of the wing had been forced back sharp against the tire and the tire was flat. The headlight was a tangle of silvered metal and broken glass. Maybe she could pull the metal out and change the wheel, but even then she doubted if she’d get far.

  “Why don’t you let me give you a lift?” He had come back and was standing back beyond her left shoulder, looking on. The wind had relented a little but not much. “Just as far as the nearest garage.”

  Lynn shook her head; she wasn’t about to compound one stupidity with another.

  “There’s one six or seven miles down the road. I think it’s open twenty-four hours.”

  Lynn looked directly at his face, forcing herself to make judgments. In the circumstances, she thought, what else was she going to do? Walk and risk getting sideswiped by a passing car? Stick out her thumb and hope for the best?

  “All right,” she said. “Just as far as the garage. Thanks.” Rain brushing his face, he smiled. “Fine.”

  Lynn retrieved her handbag, locked the offside door, and, hurrying to the man’s car, got into the back seat.

  “Michael,” he said over his shoulder. “Michael Best. My friends call me Pat.”

  Lynn smiled, more of a grimace than a smile. “Lynn Kellogg, it was good of you to stop. Really.”

  “Brownie points up there, I suspect,” smiling back at her, nodding towards the roof of the car. “Few good ones to set against the bad.”

  Clicking on the indicator, he waited until there was a clear gap before swinging out into the traffic, not wishing to take unnecessary chances now.

  The signs were not good. Michael turned into the forecourt and parked behind the pumps, but the main lights inside the adjoining building stubbornly refused to come on. Only the safety light burned, illuminating faintly the usual collection of motoring maps and engine oils, packaged food and confectionery, on sale audio cassettes by forgotten groups, and a special offer in troll dolls with purple hair.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I could have sworn this place stayed open all night.”

  “Not to worry,” Lynn said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I travel this road quite a lot, though. I should know.”

  “Me, too. I had half an idea you were right.”

  “Perhaps it closes at twelve?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Lynn felt a little stupid now, sitting in the back the way she had. Ther
e was this man, perfectly nice, out of his way to help her, and there she was sitting in the back like Lady Muck.

  “So what …?”

  “What …?”

  Their words collided and simultaneously they laughed.

  “Had I best run you back to your car, then?” Michael asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you’re heading for Derby.”

  “Nottingham?”

  “Fine.”

  Lynn leaned back in her seat. “Thanks,” she said.

  It was warm in the car, cocooned from the cold and rain. For a time, Michael chatted about this and that, his words half lost in the swish of other wheels, the rhythmic beat of the wipers arcing their way across the windscreen. Ten years ago he had left a steady job, started a small business of his own, following a trend; two years back it had gone bust, nothing spectacular about that. Now he was picking himself up, starting from scratch: working for a stationery suppliers, there in the East Midlands, East Anglia, glorified rep. He laughed. “If you’re ever in the market for a gross of manila envelopes or a few hundred meters of bubble wrap, I’m your man.”

  As they reached the outskirts of the city, sliding between pools of orange light, the rain eased, the wind dropped. Life shone, dull, through the upstairs nets of suburban villas as they approached the Trent.

  “Whereabouts?” Michael asked. They were slowing past the cricket ground, the last customers leaving the fast-food places opposite with kebabs or cod and chips.

  “Anywhere in the center’s fine.”

  “The square?”

  “You could drop me off in Hockley. The bottom of Goose Gate, somewhere round there.”

  “Sure.”

  Shifting left through the lanes as they went down the dip past the bowling alley, he drew into the curb below Aloysius House. A small group of men stood close against the wall, a bottle of cider passing back and forth between them.

  “Thanks,” Lynn said, as Michael pulled on the hand brake. “You’ve been really great.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be out there now, probably. Condemned to spend a night on the A52.”

  “Oh, well …”

  Lynn shifted across the seat to get out. “Goodnight.”

  “I don’t suppose …”

  She looked at him.

  “No, it’s all right.”

  “What?”

  “It’s late, I know, but I don’t suppose you’d have time for a cup of coffee or something? What d’you say?”

  Lynn’s hand was on the door and the door was opening and she knew the last thing she wanted to do, right then, was walk up that street and turn the four corners that would take her to her flat, walk inside, and see her reflection in the mirror staring back.

  “Okay,” she said. “But it’ll have to be quick.”

  The all-night cafe was near the site of the old indoor market, opposite what had once been the bus station and was now a car park and The World of Leather. The only other customers were taxi drivers, a couple, who from the look of their clothes were on their way to Michael Isaac’s night club up the street, and a woman in a plaid coat who sang softly to herself as she made patterns on the table with the sugar.

  They ordered coffee and Michael a sausage cob, which, when it arrived, made Lynn look so envious, he broke off a healthy piece and insisted she eat it.

  “I’m in the police,” she said. The first cups of coffee had been finished for some time and they were starting on their second.

  He showed little in the way of surprise. “What branch? I mean, what kind of thing?” His eyes were smiling; in truth, they had rarely stopped smiling the past half hour. “You have a uniform or what?”

  “God!” she said and laughed.

  “What?”

  “Why is it that’s always the first thing men ask?”

  “Is it?”

  “Usually, yes.”

  “Well, do you?”

  Lynn shook her head. “I’m a detective. Plain clothes.”

  “Is that so?” He looked impressed. “And what do you detect?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “Even murder?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Even murder.”

  The couple across from them were laughing, well-bred voices as out of place as good china; the girl was wearing a long button-through skirt in what might have been silk and it lay open along most of her thigh. From time to time, carelessly, the young man stroked her with his hand. They were probably nineteen.

  “What’s the matter?” Michael said.

  Lynn realized she had started crying. “It’s nothing,” she said, unable to stop. A couple of the cabbies were looking round.

  “It’ll be the accident,” Michael said. “Delayed reaction. You know, the shock.”

  Lynn sniffed and shook her head. “I was crying when it happened. That’s what did it.”

  “But why,” said Michael, leaning forward. “Why were you crying then? What was it all about?”

  She told him: everything. Her father; fears: everything. In the middle of it he reached across and took her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, when she’d finished. “Really, truly sorry.”

  Lynn released her hand, ferreted in her bag for a half-dry tissue, and gave her nose a good blow.

  “Shall I not walk you home?” he said, out there on the street.

  “No, it’s all right.”

  “I’d feel happier.”

  “Michael …”

  “Young woman such as yourself, doesn’t do to be walking home alone at this hour … Heavens, is that the time?”

  “You see.” Lynn laughing, despite herself. Tears gone.

  “Come on,” he said, taking her arm. “Show me the way.”

  She slipped free of his hand, but let him walk with her nonetheless, up past the Palais and into Broad Street and the new Broadway cinema, where she kept meaning to go without quite making it.

  “The Vanishing” Michael said, looking at the posters. “Did you ever see that?”

  Lynn shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s a fine film,” he said.

  At the entrance to the courtyard, she turned and stopped. “This is it.”

  “You live here?”

  “Courtesy of the Housing Association, yes.”

  Slowly, he reached for her hand. God, how I hate this part of it, Lynn thought. Deftly, she moved towards him, kissed him on the cheek. “Goodnight. And thanks.”

  “Will I see you again?” he called after her, voice echoing a little between the walls.

  She turned her head for a moment towards him but didn’t answer and Michael didn’t mind: he knew he would.

  Forty

  The assistant chief constable’s last words to Skelton: “However else this little lot turns out, Jack, keep track of the bloody money.”

  “Enough here,” Graham Millington had said thoughtfully, weighing one of the duffel bags in his hand, “to keep the Drug Squad in crack till next year.”

  Skelton’s instructions had been clear, hands strictly off, keep your distance, no diving in: watch and wait, the name of the game. As he came down the stairs after the briefing, the strain on his face clearly showed.

  “If this bastard’s tossing us around, Charlie,” Reg Cossall said, “jolly Jack there’s going to be scraping the shit off his boots for weeks.”

  Resnick and Millington had charge of the A17 team, Helen Siddons and Cossall were north on the A631. “Big chance, eh, Charlie,” Cossall had laughed, “me and Siddons, parked off for a few hours, chance to find out what the old man’s getting his Y-fronts in a state about. Taking precautions, mind.” He winked, and pulled a leather glove from his side pocket. “Not be wanting to catch frostbite.”

  Two officers had been installed in each Little Chef since the previous night; cameras with infrared film and the kind of zoom lenses normally used
for spying on Royals were trained on both parking lots and entrances. The pairs elected to make delivery sat with the ransom behind them on the rear seat, joking about how they were going to pull a switch themselves, take off for a month to the Caribbean, the Costa del Sol. Intercept vehicles, radio linked, were stationed at intervals along all major routes leading away from the restaurants. Once their quarry showed, he would be followed in an inter-changing pattern until finally he went to ground. All in all, resources from three forces were involved.

  Watch and wait: the clock ticked down.

  Divine sat on a packing case in the storage area, feet on a carton of oven-ready chips. Four in the afternoon, but he was eating his second Early Starter of the day. In between, he’d tried the gammon steak, the plaice, and a special helping of those hash browns that went with the American Style breakfast, just four with a couple of eggs. All in all, he thought the Early Starter was best.

  “Ought to get something down you while you can,” he called across to Naylor, who was over by the small rear window, peering out. “Not every day it comes free.”

  “Soon won’t be able to see a thing out here,” Naylor said. “Not a bloody thing.”

  “D’you hear what I said?” Divine asked, biting down into a sausage.

  “Another half hour and he could come from those trees over there, right across this field, and none of us would see a thing.”

  “Jesus!” Divine exclaimed. “Might as well talk to your chuffing self.”

  Naylor came over and took a piece of bacon off the plate.

  “Get your own!”

  Naylor shook his head. “Like my bacon crispier than that.”

  “Yeh? I can see Debbie fancying everything well done, eh?”

  Naylor gave him a warning look, shut it!

  Divine wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “Gloria, though, out there waiting tables, got her eye on you. Play your cards right, you could be away there. Quickie down behind the griddle.”

  The storeroom door swung open and Gloria came in, a big woman from King’s Lynn whose white uniform needed extra safety pins to keep it in place. “Feet off there,” she snapped, looking at the oven chips. “People got to eat those.”

  “Kevin here was just letting on,” Divine said, “how he could really fancy you.”