by John Harvey
“I know. I’m sorry, I …” He had looked back at her, helplessly. He still hadn’t found the way to cry.
“You stay there,” Lynn had said. “I’ll nip down to the corner shop and get some.”
By the time she had come back, the tears had been there, clear in his eyes. They sat in the airless room, drinking tea, while he told her about the first time he had met Nancy, the time he got a cramp during his run; the first time and the last.
“I should have g-gone after her,” he said. “Instead of letting her walk off the way she did.” Panic and guilt jostled in his voice. “If I’d r-run after her it wouldn’t have happened.”
“You weren’t to know that.”
“But if I had.”
“Look, it was her choice. She didn’t want to be with you. Not any longer. If you’d gone haring after her, she wouldn’t have thanked you.”
Tears tumbled down Robin Hidden’s face. “N-now she would.”
When he sobbed, she’d gone and stood beside him, patting his shoulder, telling him it was okay to cry, feeling genuinely sorry for him at the same time as she sneaked glances at her watch.
“Don’t you think,” Lynn had said later, pieces of tissue wadded and damp on the floor, “it would be a good idea if you got out of here? Went away somewhere. You’ve got family.”
He hung his head. “I don’t want to go there.”
“Friends, then. Isn’t there this friend …?”
“Mark.”
“Yes, Mark. Couldn’t you go and stay with him? Give him a ring.”
“I suppose … Yes, I suppose I sh-should.”
“I would. If I were you. Climbing, isn’t that what you do?”
“Yes.”
Lynn had looked back once from behind the wheel of her borrowed car, half expecting to see him looking down, but between the half-drawn curtains the window had been bare. “How am I ever going to get used to it?” Robin Hidden had said. “The fact that I’ll never s-see her again. Not ever.”
Lynn realized, as she released the plug and climbed out of the bath, that she had been thinking of her father all that time; then and now. When it came to it, how would she get used to never seeing him again? At least, not alive. “Dream, dream, dream,” sang the Everly Brothers. Reaching out, Lynn switched off the radio. She was still drying herself, one foot on the side of the bath, when the doorbell rang.
Michael was standing outside, a bottle of wine wrapped in green tissue paper balancing in the palm of one hand. “I thought you’d have had a busy day. Time to relax, maybe, wind down.”
Lynn had pulled on her terry-cloth dressing gown, belted tight. She could see his eyes, quick to where it hung open a little at her breasts. That look.
“If it’s not convenient, I’ll just leave this and go, why don’t I? Early as it is, you could be ready for your bed.”
She stepped back and let him inside. “Wait a sec while I get dressed.”
Michael smiled.
“There’s a corkscrew in the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder, moving to the bedroom. “Drawer to the left of the sink.”
She put on blue jeans, a cream sweater over a cotton roll-neck, sports shoes on her feet. Michael was sitting on the two-seater settee, leafing through that evening’s Post, two glasses of red wine stood on the low table before him. “Amazes me,” he said, “the way people open themselves up like this.” The front page held a picture of a weeping Clarise Phelan being led towards a waiting car by her husband. MY AGONY by murdered girl’s mother. “I mean, wouldn’t you want to keep those feelings private?”
Lynn took her glass over to the easy chair angled towards the small, rented TV.
“I expect, though, you’ve seen some progress now, what with the poor girl’s body and all.”
“Oh, yes,” Lynn said, “as a matter of fact, we have. Quite a few new leads just today.”
“And you,” Michael tasting his wine, “you’re more at the center of things?”
“In a way, yes, I suppose I am.”
He put down his glass and crossed the room, not hurrying, smiling all the time with his eyes. As he leaned down towards her, Lynn instinctively braced herself, a vestige of fear. His mouth was strangely soft and his lips as they slid over hers were pleasantly warm and curranty from the wine. His tongue pushed gently and she let it in.
“I’ve been thinking about that for the longest time,” he said. He was sitting on the arm of the chair, leaning across her, face pressed close against her neck. “Really, the longest time.”
“A few days, that’s not so long.”
“Oh, no. Longer than that.”
She shifted her head away till she could see his face.
“You didn’t recognize me, did you?” Michael said.
Not taking her eyes from him, Lynn shook her head.
“And you don’t now?”
“No.”
His hand was stroking her arm, fingers beneath the sleeve of her sweater. “It was the monkey suit …”
“The what?”
“Dinner jacket, evening dress, black tie. I’ve noticed it before, the way it changes a man.” He smiled again and she noticed for the first time a chip of green in the gray-blue of one eye. “Moss Bros, cheaper than a trip to your local neighborhood plastic surgeon.” The smile widened. “‘Let me get those.’ Remember?” He took a twenty-pound note from his top pocket and passed it in front of her nose. “You were wearing a blue dress. Such beautiful shoulders. And your hair, your hair was pushed up at the back like this …”
She caught hold of his wrist and held it fast; his pulse she could feel beating against her ear.
“You do remember now, don’t you? Or did I make that poor an impression?”
What she remembered was the black suit, smart, one face amongst others, ranged along an overcrowded bar. The voice, pursuing her away, offering to buy her a drink later, but surely the voice was not the same?
“That policeman you were with then, wasn’t that him I saw being interviewed this evening on tele? The one talking about the body?”
Lynn nodded. “My inspector. Resnick.”
“Good, is he? At his job. What would you say, a good copper?”
“Yes, that’s what I’d say.”
Michael made to move his hand from her hair and she let it go. He brought down his face to kiss her again and just before he did she said, “Meeting me on the road that evening, when I almost crashed the car-was that a coincidence or what?”
His mouth brushed against her lips. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any such thing as blind coincidence, do you? I prefer to think it’s all pre-ordained, part of some wider plan. Whatever …” Kissing her again, “… will be, will be.” More strongly, she kissed him back. “No songs,” Michael sighed, “like the old songs.”
“I think I’d better go.”
They had slid to the floor between the chair and the settee, Lynn’s sweater was bunched up by her neck, the belt loosened at the top of her jeans. Michael lay with one leg between hers, not looking at her, tips of his fingers making small circles on her skin.
“You’re sure?” Lynn said.
“I think so.” Still not looking at her, strange for a man who usually did nothing but. “Early start tomorrow, busy day.”
Lifting his leg, Lynn rolled away from him; sitting up, she smoothed her sweater into place. “Me, too,” she said.
“Catching up with your man.”
“Could be.” On her feet, she tightened her belt. “We can always hope.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Can’t we?”
Lynn leaned forward to kiss him, but he slid his face away. She picked up the wine glasses, one from the table, one from the floor.
“Here,” Michael said, “let me take those. I need a drink of water. Trouble with red wine, leaves you with such a thirst.”
While he was in the kitchen, Lynn slipped into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, ran a comb through her hair. She was more than ordinarily
flushed.
“Till I see you again, then,” said Michael, over by the door.
Lynn turned the handle to let him out. “Phone me, next time. I don’t always want surprises. Phone me first.”
He kissed her deftly on the cheek and stepped outside. “You best get back in quickly, you don’t want to be letting in the cold.”
She could hear his footsteps echoing down the stairs as she locked and bolted the front door. Resnick picked up his phone on the seventh ring; faintly, in the background, Lynn could hear music playing. “Hello,” she said. “It’s me, Lynn.”
“It’s not your dad,” Resnick said. “Nothing’s happened?”
“No. It’s the investigation.”
“Nancy Phelan?”
“Mmm.”
“What about it?”
“I could explain easier if we met somewhere. It’s not too late for a drink.”
“The Partridge?”
Lynn glanced at her watch. “Twenty minutes.”
“Done.”
She set the phone back down and it was some sixth sense, a split second before she heard the sound, that swung her round.
When Michael had gone into the kitchen for a glass of water, he had slipped the catch on the window that led on to the walkway. “Now I wonder,” he said, “exactly what you and your colleague were going to talk about. Over your friendly pint.” He had an old-fashioned tire jack in his hand, wrapped around with rubber and cloth; if he could avoid it, he didn’t want to damage her face. Not unless he had to: not yet.
“Michael …” she began.
“No,” he said, smiling even as he made that slow shake of the head. “Don’t waste the words.”
She made a lunge past him but his arm was fast and the jack struck her twice, the first time high on the shoulder, hard enough against the bone to make her scream; the second blow was to the back of her head as she fell, face first, unconscious, to the floor.
“Well, now, Mr. Resnick,” Michael said towards the telephone, “let’s see how good a good copper you really are.”
Forty-nine
Resnick had not been in long when Lynn rang, back from a couple of hours at Marian Witczak’s house in Mapperley, listening to her account of New Year’s Eve at the Polish Club. She had dropped a note through his door earlier, inviting him, and Resnick, partly through guilt at having let her down, partly to avoid another evening frustratedly anticipating the glories of his Billie Holiday box set, had accepted. In Marian’s drawing room, comfortable in armchairs guarded by ornate antimacassars, the ghost of Chopin hovering around the grand piano, Resnick had sipped plum brandy and listened to what he had missed-the politics, the polkas, the member who had drunk his way through fifteen flavors of vodka before clambering on to one of the tables and re-enacting the Polish cavalry’s defense of Krakow down to the last despairing fall.
He had walked home with lengthening strides, head clearing rapidly in the cold air. Time enough to find a little supper for an insistent Dizzy, grind and brew coffee, before answering the telephone and hearing Lynn’s voice. Going back out again, especially for another drink, was close to the last thing he wanted, but he knew she wouldn’t be suggesting a meeting unless it were important. Resnick dialed the DG taxi number from memory and lifted his topcoat from where it hung in the hall.
Both bars of the Partridge were fairly full and Resnick checked them carefully, right and left, before settling for a half of Guinness and a seat between an elderly man whom Resnick knew by sight, nursing his last pint of mild for the night, and a group of four who were still arguing their way through last Saturday’s match, ball by ball. When his own glass was more or less empty and there was still no sign of Lynn, Resnick went to the phone and dialed her number. No reply. He checked with the station to see if, for whatever reason, she had gone there. No one had seen her since early evening. Resnick finished his drink and picked up another cab, across the street by the clock from the old Victoria station.
No lights showed through the windows of Lynn’s flat, no response to knock or bell. When he peered into the glass and saw his own face reflected there, he saw a fear that so far he could only feel, not understand. The door had not been double-locked and he considered gaining access with the credit card that otherwise he rarely used, but noticed, when he looked again, the catch on the kitchen window was unfastened. No difficulty hauling himself up and through the space, flicking on the light.
“Lynn?”
Two glasses stood on the metal drainer, freshly rinsed. A corkscrew, cork still attached, lay beside a sheet of crumpled tissue. Resnick found the bottle in the main room, unfinished, on its side; a little wine had spilled out on to the carpet and made a stain, still damp. The coffee table had been shunted aside, the chair pushed at an odd angle against the wall. There was a second cluster of stains, darker and less sweet; Resnick touched the tip of his finger against the carpet and lifted to his nostrils the unmistakable taint of blood.
Graham Millington was at the head of the stairs, talking with two of the uniformed men they’d pulled in from routine duties. One of those nights when club brawls would either peter out of their own account or end in more than tears. Millington had been asleep in front of the television when the call had woken him, his wife tucked up already with a cup of Horlicks and a biography of Henry Moore. “What d’you call that?” he’d asked, looking over her shoulder at a photograph of one of Moore’s sculptures. “Hole in heart patient?” “Isn’t there football on, Graham?” she’d asked, long-suffering. She had been right: Wolverhampton Wanderers and Southend United. Millington had felt his eyes going before the first yellow card.
“They don’t appreciate being dragged away from their shut-eye,” the first constable was saying.
“I don’t give a bugger what they appreciate,” said Millington, “not till we’ve something more than nothing.”
It was Divine, not a happy man himself, called out just three short moves away from maneuvering last year’s Miss Ilkeston past checkmate, who came up with the first witness. His knock brought Corin Thomas to the door of his flat, smelling more than slightly of beer, overcoat on, chip pan in his hand. “Soddin’ central heating’s packed up again,” Thomas said. “Too much to hope you’ve come to fix it?”
Divine told him it was. “You’re dripping oil,” he pointed out, “all over the lino.”
“Better come in, then.” Once the chips were starting to sizzle, Thomas told him what he had seen, a man and a woman, pretty much clinging to one another, going down the stairs past him and staggering over towards a parked car.
“Didn’t occur to you to report it?” Divine asked.
“Love it, wouldn’t you, if, I jumped on the old phone every time someone round here got half-pissed.”
“Is that what you thought they were?”
“She was, no mistake. Hardly keep her feet at all, if he hadn’t been half-carrying her. All but went over, the pair of them, more than once.”
“The woman,” Divine asked, “you recognize her?”
“Oh, yes. That one from lower down. Kellogg. One of your lot, isn’t she? What all the hoo-ha’s about, I suppose.”
“What about the man?” Divine asked. “Ever seen him before?”
Corin Thomas shook his head.
“Sure?”
“Yes. It was dark, but, yes, there’s lights enough down there. Good enough to make out someone you know.”
“You could describe him, though?”
Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t exactly stare. Minding me own business, like. But, yes, the bloke, he’d be closer my height than yours. Five seven, eight. Far as I remember, darkish hair. Forties, maybe. Didn’t get that good a look at his face.”
“Recognize it if you saw it again?”
Thomas thought about it as the chip fat bubbled. “I might. Couldn’t say for sure.”
“Shame,” Divine said, “but you’re going to have to have your chip butty another time.” Reaching across, he
turned off the gas. “I know you’ll want to help; do whatever you can.”
Resnick and Skelton were leaning on the balcony outside Lynn’s flat, while Scene of Crime operated the proverbial fine-tooth comb. Most of the windows were lit up around the courtyard. Men and women, uniformed and in plain clothes, moved with purpose from door to door, up and down stairs. Breaths of both men blurred white on the air.
“No good, Charlie,” Skelton was saying. “No way we can be even close to sure. She rings you, wants to talk about Nancy Phelan. Sometime in the next-what? — forty-five minutes, she’s disappeared.”
“And you don’t think there’s a connection?” Resnick was experiencing difficulty keeping his voice under control.
“We don’t know there was any connection. Whatever happened, could have been sheer coincidence …”
“We don’t have to know there’s a connection, we can work it out for ourselves. Making those kind of connections, that’s what we do. Or have you forgotten we’re supposed to be bloody detectives?”
Skelton fidgeted his wedding ring round his finger. “Charlie, you’re not in danger of letting your feelings get the better of you here?”
Resnick gazed, amazed, around the room. His breathing was ragged and loud. “We’re not supposed to think, now we’re not supposed to feel, what the hell are we supposed to do? Other than keep fit and wear a clean sodding tie!”
“Charlie.” Skelton laid a hand on Resnick’s arm, lowered his voice. “Charlie, I know what you’re feeling. Think a lot of her, I understand that. All I’m saying, what we mustn’t do, go off at half cock. Wasted time, wasted effort, she’d not thank us for that.”
Resnick hung his head. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Forget what I said.”
“Most likely has to be,” Skelton said, “either she had someone round for the evening, few drinks, got nasty, out of hand. Either that, or someone broke in, there was a struggle …”
“I can’t buy that. Why wouldn’t he just take off soon as he got the chance?” Resnick looked Skelton in the eye. “The first, maybe, yes, possible.”
“But you still think it’s more?”
