by John Harvey
As Lynn cut the engine, she heard the sound of shouting, raucous and angry; chanting, like a soccer crowd baying for blood.
‘Control, this is Tango Golf 13. I’m on Cranmer Street at the scene. A gang of fifteen or twenty youths fighting.’
Lowering her window she heard a scream, urgent and shrill, the one followed almost immediately by another.
‘Control, this is Tango Golf 13. I’m on top of the incident and shall have to intervene. Immediate backup required.’
‘Control to Tango Golf 13, advise—’
But she was already out of the car and running towards the crowd.
‘Police! Police, let me through.’
As she pushed her way into the circle, an elbow struck Lynn in the ribs and an outflung hand caught her high on her cheek, a signet ring breaking the skin.
A few of those standing at the front turned to see what was happening and she was able to force her way to the centre. Faces, all shades, stared at her, showing everything from indifference to pure hate. Young males mostly, wide-leg jeans slung so low it seemed as if their crotch hung somewhere down between their knees. More than a few wearing black and white, Radford colours. A gang thing, is that what this was?
‘Fuck off, bitch!’
A head arched sharply back then jerked forward and the next second she was wiping a gobbet of spittle from her hair.
Jeers. Laughter.
More shouts, more threats.
The two young women – girls – who’d been at the heart of the fighting had broken apart when Lynn pushed her way through.
Fifteen, she guessed, sixteen at best.
The one closest to her – thin white face, head close-shaven like a boy’s, leather jacket, black-and-white scarf, skintight black jeans – was bleeding from a cut high on her left cheek, a slow trickle of blood running down. There was another cut on her arm. Her adversary, facing Lynn, was most likely mixed race, dark hair tied back, denim jacket and jeans, a short-bladed knife in her hand.
Lynn took a step forward, focusing on the girl’s eyes.
‘Okay, put the knife down.’
Two steps more, then three. Slow, measured, as assured as she could be. Somewhere in the middle distance, the sound of a police siren coming closer. Overhead, the street lights seemed to be getting brighter with each second.
‘Put it down.’
The girl’s eyes were bright, taunting, only the merest flicker of fear. Of doubt.
The crowd almost silent, scarcely moving.
‘Down.’
Another half-step and the expression on the girl’s face changed, her shoulders seeming to relax as she shifted her hold on the knife and lowered it to her side.
‘On the ground,’ Lynn said quietly. ‘Put it on the ground.’
The girl began to bend as if to obey, Lynn reading too late the widening of her eyes, too slow to counter the movement, lithe, as she sprang past, the blade slashing at the right side of the other girl’s face and opening it like a ripe plum.
The girl screamed.
Lynn pivoted on her left foot, seizing the attacker by the sleeve and swinging her hard round, one knee coming up into the small of her back, her fist chopping down on the girl’s elbow and the knife tumbling to the kerb, the girl continuing to struggle all the same.
The police siren was closer still, the sound of an ambulance in its wake.
Lynn had forced the girl’s right arm high behind her back when, from the corner of her vision, she saw the youth step forward from the retreating crowd, arm raised. Time enough, as she swung towards him, to note the black-and-white bandana wound tight around his head, the pistol held almost steady in his hand, the contempt in his eyes. The force of her movement took the girl round with her, propelling her forwards, the first shot striking Lynn in the chest and seeming to lift her off her feet before sending her stumbling back, legs folding beneath her, falling away even as the girl, still standing, free hand outstretched as if to ward off what was to come, took the second bullet in the neck, immediately above the gold chain she wore with her lover’s name engraved, a wash of blood arcing over the mottled ground and into Lynn’s mouth and eyes.
2
Early evening. A & E at the Queen’s Medical Centre housed the usual miscellany: elderly ladies who had lost their footing on slippery, uneven pavements and taken a tumble, bruising a coccyx or fracturing for the second time an already pinned hip; disorientated men of uncertain years with voices like rusted industrial saws, whose clothes stank of stale urine and hostel disinfectant; distraught mothers with babies who would simply not stop crying or fractious toddlers with badly grazed heads and gashed knees; a scaffolder who had stepped, helmetless, out into the air from the roof of a four-storey building; a trainee chef with the first two joints of his middle finger safe in a plastic bag of slowly melting ice; a young Muslim girl of twelve who had just started her first period; a cyclist who had been sent somersaulting high into the road by the outflung door of a Cherokee Jeep; a charmless fourteen-year-old boy, alarmed and obese, who had been taunted into swallowing the dregs of a bottle of toilet cleaner: each and every one waiting.
Later, when the clubs had spilled out on to the streets and the pubs had finally called last orders, there would be the usual motley collection of barely walking wounded, drunk many of them, drugged, loud and angry and all too ready to strike out in frustration, bleeding from encounters with brick walls or nightclub bouncers, or injured in scuffles that had set off for no better reason than an ill-judged look, a nudged shoulder, a drink sent flying; and this being Valentine’s Night there would be a slow procession of discarded lovers, for whom the occasion had led to bitter accusations, confessions of infidelity, sudden realisations, overdoses, stabbings, attempted suicides, broken relationships that would be mended tearfully, some of them, there amongst the crowded chairs with dawn approaching.
The triage nurse barely looked up as Resnick approached, tall, bulky, his shirt crumpled, jacket unfastened.
‘Lynn Kellogg,’ Resnick said, ‘she was brought in twenty minutes ago. Half-hour at most.’
The name rang no obvious bells.
‘She’s a police officer,’ Resnick said, persevering. ‘She was shot.’
The nurse looked up then, little more than a glance, enough to read the anxiety in his eyes. ‘And you’re what? The father?’
Resnick bridled, reining back his anger. ‘No, I’m . . . we live together.’
‘Right.’ She looked at him again. One of the buttons on his jacket, she noticed, was just hanging by a thread.
‘Look . . .’ Resnick fumbled in his wallet. ‘I’m a police officer too. Detective inspector.’
The nurse handed him back his warrant card. ‘Go down that corridor, third cubicle on the left.’ And went back to her list.
Lynn was lying on a narrow bed, pillows at her head and back, wearing a flimsy hospital gown. Her own clothes were neatly folded on a plastic chair.
He had been standing there for some moments before she opened her eyes.
‘Hello, Charlie.’
Her voice was faint, like something passing on the wind.
‘How you feeling?’ he asked, reaching for her hand.
She made an effort to smile. ‘Like I’ve walked into a ten-ton truck.’
‘She’s a little woozy,’ the doctor said, appearing at Resnick’s shoulder. ‘Something we’ve given her for the pain.’
He was young, late twenties Resnick reckoned, little more, and spoke with an Australian accent, not too strong. Australia or New Zealand, he could never be sure.
‘How is she?’ Resnick asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Lynn said from the bed.
‘A lot of bruising around the point of impact,’ the doctor said. ‘Tender certainly. Could be a fractured rib or two. We’re going to run her down to X-ray, get that checked.’
‘Nothing more?’ Resnick asked. ‘Internal?’
‘Not as far as we can tell. I’ve had a good listen to the lungs and
they seem to be functioning properly.’
Resnick was still holding Lynn’s hand and he gave it a squeeze.
‘Up and around in no time,’ the doctor said cheerfully. ‘Chasing down the bad guys.’
Lynn said something neither of them could properly hear.
‘Back in two shakes,’ the doctor said, leaving them alone.
Resnick lowered himself on to the edge of the bed, careful of her legs.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lynn said.
‘What for?’
‘Dinner. We were meant to be having dinner.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Your card . . .’
‘I saw the card. Thank you. It was lovely.’
There were tears at the corners of her eyes.
‘What?’ Resnick said.
‘I should have waited, shouldn’t I?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Back-up. I should have waited for back-up instead of going blundering in . . .’
‘You didn’t blunder.’
‘I made a mistake.’
Resnick shook his head. ‘You did what you had to do.’
‘And nearly got myself killed.’
Resnick breathed out slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said and folded both of her hands in his.
‘The girl,’ Lynn said. ‘The one who was shot . . .’
‘I don’t know. Touch and go, I think.’
‘You’ll find out.’
‘Yes.’
‘You could go now.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll wait. A few minutes won’t make any difference, either way.’
‘What about the other one?’ Lynn asked. ‘The other girl. Her face was badly cut.’
‘Here now, as far as I know. Getting stitched up.’
The curtain was pulled to one side and a nurse came through with a wheelchair. ‘Time to take you for a little ride,’ she said cheerily.
Resnick leaned over carefully and kissed Lynn on the cheek.
‘Here,’ she said, holding out one hand, loosely closed into a fist.
‘What is it?’
When she opened her fingers, there was his loose button, snug in her palm. ‘Take care of it. I’ll sew it back on when I get home.’
‘Promises,’ Resnick said, and grinned.
The officer outside Intensive Care hastily dropped his newspaper to the floor, the crossword less than a quarter done.
‘Sorry, sir. I . . . the girl, Kelly, they’ve taken her down. She’s being operated on now. I thought it best to stay here.’
‘The family?’
‘In the cafeteria, waiting. I said I’d contact them if there was any news.’
‘Kelly, you said the girl’s called?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He checked his notebook. ‘Kelly Brent.’
Resnick nodded. The name meant nothing to him. Not until that moment.
‘I’ll be down in A & E,’ he said. ‘You hear anything specific, any change, find me, let me know.’
Lynn was sleeping, her face, devoid of any make-up, young and pale. A thin dribble of saliva ran down on to the pillow from one corner of her partly open mouth and Resnick wiped it away.
‘She’s lucky,’ the doctor said. ‘No fracture, as far as I can tell. Heavy bruising around the third and fourth ribs, close to the sternum. Breathing’s going to be painful for a while, and she’ll likely be tired, sleepy, but otherwise she’ll be okay.’
‘How long before she’s up on her feet?’
‘On her feet? As long as she’s sensible, nothing too strenuous, a matter of days. Fully operational, though, if that’s what you’re asking, I’d say a couple of weeks.’ He nodded back towards Lynn. ‘You two, you’re an item?’
An item, Resnick thought. He supposed they were, that at least.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Word to the wise,’ the doctor said, and winked. ‘These next few weeks, take your weight on your elbows, okay?’
Home, she slept.
Resnick, fearful of accidentally knocking into her, dismissed himself to the spare bed, where he lay fitfully, staring at the ceiling, getting up finally at two and mooching from room to room, unable to stop his mind from playing over what might have been.
Lucky, the doctor had said.
Nearly got myself killed.
If Lynn hadn’t been in too much of a hurry to get home and still wearing the bulletproof jacket, she would likely have been where Kelly Brent was now, in the operating theatre, fighting for her life.
Resnick poured himself another Scotch and looked again at the Valentine’s card Lynn had given him, a simple heart, red against a pale background. Written inside, in her sloping hand: Still here, Charlie, against all the odds. All my love. Then kisses, a small triangle of them, pointing down.
When Lynn had first moved in with him, the best part of three years before – and this after a plethora of overnights and occasional weekends, holidays, periods when they were close and others when they pulled apart, unable to decide – a friend of hers had sent her a CD by a singer called Aimee Mann, the title of one particular track, ‘Mr Harris’, highlighted in green. The story of a younger woman falling in love with an older man, despite her mother’s best advice. A father figure, the song goes, must be what she wants.
When they had first slept together, made love, himself and Lynn, it had been soon after her father’s funeral, dead from cancer at not so much more than Resnick was now. A blessing, in a way, that he went when he did. Better than it dragging on. The pain. Death. Sooner or later, it came to us all.
I suppose, Resnick thought, we’re programmed to think the oldest die first, fathers before daughters, mothers before sons. It’s the way it most usually is. Anything else seems wrong. Aberrant. Yet in a split second yesterday, the time it takes to squeeze back on the trigger, propel a bullet from a gun, that could all have changed.
Lucky?
Resnick turned and looked around the room. A magazine Lynn had been reading left on the floor by where she normally sat. Her bag hung over the back of a chair. A painting that she’d bought in a charity shop – a landscape of hills, bare trees and snow – brought home and hung on the wall alongside the stereo. A photograph of her parents, leaning on a farm gate, looking out. A pair of slippers on the floor. Reading glasses. A glove. Clutter. Stuff. A life they shared.
This house he’d lived alone in for years, some of the rooms unused and thick with dust. Must rattle around in there, Charlie, like a pea in a drum. Find somewhere smaller, why don’t you? Nice little flat. Take in a lodger, at least.
No, he’d say, I’m fine. Suits me just as it is.
And it did.
Until the day – the afternoon – he had heard her car, recognised the sound of the engine as it pulled up outside – the interior jam-packed, barely room for her to squeeze behind the wheel. Just a few boxes, Charlie, I’ll go back later for the rest.
Now it was different: it was this.
Lucky?
At twenty-one minutes past three that morning, sixteen-year-old Kelly Brent, sixteen years and nine months, was declared dead at the Queen’s Medical Centre, two operations unable to successfully repair the lacerated tissue and stem the bleeding, or to restore the flow of blood to the brain.
Lucky for some.
Resnick stood for a while at the bedroom door, listening to Lynn’s breathing, before settling back into the spare bed and, against the odds, falling almost immediately to sleep.
The phone rang at twenty to seven, startling him awake: Detective Superintendent Berry from the Homicide Unit.
‘Breakfast, Charlie? That Polish place up on Derby Road, still a favourite of yours? Thought we might have a little chat.’
3
Five years Resnick’s junior, Bill Berry was a hard-edged Lancastrian who had settled in the Midlands some twenty or so years before, without ever losing an accent that had been honed close to the Pennines, or an abiding interest in the fortunes of Lancashire County Cricket Club and Preston North
End.
Much like Resnick himself, Berry had worked his way up through the ranks, the difference being that where Resnick’s career had stalled, in part through his somewhat curmudgeonly resistance to change, Berry’s had elevated him to the rank of detective superintendent.
Not without it being earned.
He was, in the old-fashioned argot of the trade, a good copper.
He had a full head of hair, a chiselled face and, since his last promotion, a taste for tailored suits that sat a touch uneasily on his rawboned, angular body. He was already at the table, leafing through the morning paper, when Resnick arrived.
‘Charlie,’ he said, half-rising. ‘Good to see you.’
The two men shook hands.
‘In the news again for all the wrong sodding reasons.’
Resnick grunted agreement. However hard the public-relations staff at Reputation Nottingham tried to put a positive spin on things, the public perception of the city these past years had changed. And not always for the better.
When it had been announced that London had won the bid for the 2012 Olympics, the joke had been that with several of the events being outsourced, the rowing would be at Henley, the horse riding at Badminton and the shooting would be in Nottingham. Robin Hood had now, it seemed, abandoned Lincoln green for upmarket sportswear, developed a taste for crack cocaine, and, instead of his trusty bow, had a 9mm automatic tucked down into the back of his jeans.
Unfair or not, mud stuck.
‘How’s the lass?’ Berry asked.
‘Lynn? Well enough. Bruised ribs, nothing worse.’
‘Young bones,’ Berry said with a wink. ‘Soon mend, eh?’
‘Something you wanted to see me about,’ Resnick said.
‘You didn’t catch local TV this morning, any chance?’
Resnick shook his head.
‘Brent family out in force, bigging it up for the cameras. Breakdown in law and order, too many guns on the streets, police failing in their duty, the usual malarkey.’
‘They’re angry.’
‘Course they’re bloody angry. And looking for someone to blame, I can see that. Schools, teachers, the courts, the council, probation, you and me – everyone except them-bloody-selves. Anything other than accept responsibility. Fathers, especially. No, easier to go off and raise a petition, start a campaign. Come Sunday there’ll be a minute’s silence out on Slab Square and everyone’ll go off feeling better about themselves, but what flaming good does it do? By evening kids’ll be back out on the streets and it starts all over.’
