Cold in Hand

by John Harvey

  Resnick smiled. ‘You know who I am then?’

  ‘Smelt you when you come through the door.’

  The smile disappeared. ‘The day your sister was killed, where were you?’

  Wearily, Marcus told him: exactly as his mother had said.

  ‘If I get in touch with the college, someone will confirm that?’

  ‘Try it and see.’ He lay back down and yanked the covers over his head.

  ‘Nice meeting you,’ Resnick said. He closed the door and went back downstairs.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Tina Brent said.

  ‘Michael, where’s he live when he’s away?’

  ‘Some student house in Camberwell.’

  ‘Best let us have the address, just to keep things tidy.’

  Catherine Njoroge wrote it down. Resnick thanked Tina Brent for her time.

  Howard Brent was on the pavement outside, smoking a cigarette. Flowers, most, but not all, wrapped in cellophane, rested up against the low wall, along with several teddy bears and a cloth doll. Expressions of sympathy on small, decorated cards. Never forgotten. Luv Always. Kelly – U R the Greatest. Rest in Peace. Others, in plenty, had been left at the site of the shooting.

  Brent looked at Resnick with a taunting sneer. ‘Word is, you and the cop who was shot, you’re like this, yeah?’ And he ran the index finger of one hand slowly back and forth through the cupped palm of the other.

  For a big man, Resnick moved with surprising speed, fists raised.

  ‘Come on,’ Brent said. ‘Take a swing, why don’t you? Here.’ And he thrust out his jaw. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Boss,’ Catherine Njoroge said quietly from just behind him. ‘We should go.’

  She turned and started to walk away and, after a moment, Resnick fell into step beside her, Brent’s mocking laughter following them down the street.

  5

  Shortly after she’d moved in, Lynn had come home one afternoon with a pair of bird feeders and a bag of mixed seeds.

  Resnick had taken one look and laughed. ‘The cats’ll love you,’ he said.

  Only a few days before, Dizzy had dragged the mangled body of a robin through the catflap and laid it at Resnick’s feet, purring proudly, tail crooked and raised, for all the world as if he were still a quick young hunter and not a fading champion with a half-chewed ear and burgeoning arthritis in his hind legs.

  But Lynn remembered with pleasure the birds that had gathered in her parents’ garden in Norfolk – the middle of the country, admittedly – and had bided her time. Early the following spring, by dint of standing, tiptoed, on a chair, she had attached the feeders high on the trunks of two fruit trees that stood towards the back of the garden, close against the wall; an apple tree, whose fruit was small and somewhat sour, and a pear whose blossom promised more than it delivered.

  For the first few mornings she saw nothing and wondered if she had sited the feeders wrongly, or if the mere presence of the cats – just three, now that one had wandered off and failed to reappear – was sufficient deterrent.

  But then, suddenly, there was a blue tit on the apple tree; perching on an overhanging branch at first, before darting down to take a seed, then skittering away. Five minutes later, it was back, and this time not alone. Within the space of a week there were great tits, a pair of blackbirds, robins, a wren, and once, a goldfinch, with its red-banded head and the fierce yellow of its wings.

  Occasionally, either Dizzy or Pepper would gaze wistfully upwards, attracted by the quick flutter overhead, but other than that, they seemed to pay little heed.

  ‘Happy now?’ Resnick had said one morning, stopping behind her as she stood at the kitchen window, looking out.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, twisting her head to give him a kiss. ‘Reminds me of home.’

  ‘I thought that’s what this was,’ Resnick said.

  She turned it over in her mind now as she had then: how long did it take, living with someone, living in their house, before you felt that you belonged?

  Lynn walked out into the garden, shoots already appearing here and there, fresh buds on the roses well ahead of their time, the pink flowers of the camellia scattered over the ground. New growth enough on the lawn for it to need a trim. Careful not to lean too heavily on the wall, loose bricks shifting slightly beneath her hand, she looked down on to the allotments of Hungerhill Gardens and watched for a moment as a man wearing an old, patched tweed jacket, grey trousers tied above the ankle with string, paused in his digging long enough to lift his grey herringbone cap from his head, wipe an arm across his brow then replace his cap before resuming digging. The man sufficiently like her father to make her catch her breath.

  The last time she had seen him, almost five years ago now, he had been sleeping, oblivious, thankfully, to pain, to everything, his skin a murky bilious yellow, the cancer eating into his liver, kidneys failing, a mask of hard unforgiving plastic over his mouth and nose.

  ‘No heroic measures,’ the doctor had said. ‘He’s lived a good life. You have to let him go now, in peace.’

  And she had continued to sit, holding her father’s hand, talking every now and then, saying the first things that came into her head, not supposing the words mattered, if anything now did, other than the sound, perhaps, of her voice.

  Once or twice, he had moved his head, as if to speak, and she had lowered her face close to his and, for a moment, lifted away the mask, but all there had been was a faint, dry gurgling deep in his throat and the smell of rot and decay: his teeth, yellow and crooked, and the parched skin flaking back from his lips.

  Had he squeezed her hand before the end or had that been her imagination, her need?

  They had buried him on a cold day with the wind eddying the shallow topsoil into dusty circles and the rooks loud and restless in the trees.

  In the allotment below, the man had set his spade aside while he rolled a cigarette.

  A good life, the doctor had said. Well, yes, good perhaps, hard certainly, but not enough. Barely scratching sixty when it was over. These days, when so many continued, relatively fit, into the eighties, it was no life at all.

  And her mother, who had married him at twenty, the only man she had ever seriously been out with, had been left bereft by his death. Age claiming her, too, before its time. Her face, her body shrivelling, closing in upon themselves as her life shrank down to the few daily tasks she performed now more or less by rote.

  Lynn felt guilty that she did not visit more often, that she begrudged, sometimes, her mother’s regular Sunday-morning calls, the enquiries after her and Charlie’s health, the regaling of news that was the same as it had been the week before.

  At the sound of the doorbell, Lynn went back into the house.

  The woman on the doorstep was wearing a green tabard top with the same name embroidered on one side as had been painted on the van standing at the kerb.

  ‘Miss Kellogg, is it?’

  She was holding up a large bouquet of flowers, cellophane wrapped.

  ‘Yes,’ Lynn said, her face breaking into a smile. It wasn’t like Charlie to go for broke like that, but she was glad that he had.

  Thanking the woman, she took the flowers back inside. Red, yellow and white roses, some barely out of bud, surrounded by wisps of decorative grass and fern. Beautiful.

  Pulling off the small envelope attached to the wrapping, she ran water into the washing-up bowl and slid the stems down into it until they were well covered. They could rest there until she’d unearthed a suitable vase.

  Her nail was long enough to slide under the envelope corner and tear it across.

  It was the usual cream-coloured card with embossed flowers around the edge. The writing was small yet distinct. Not Charlie’s at all.

  Hope you’re recuperating well. Next time remember to duck!

  Stuart D.

  PS. Maybe you should come and work for us instead.

  Stuart D.? Stuart D.? For no good reason, the skin at the back of her arms went cold. She couldn’t thi
nk who it was and then she could.

  Stuart Daines.

  Stuart D. Tall, stepping towards her, smiling. Holding out his hand.

  It had been at a SOCA conference she had attended the previous November. SOCA: the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, set up to combat various kinds of high-level national and international crime and mostly staffed by ex-police and ex-Customs and Excise. Tobacco smuggling, people trafficking, the illegal transit and sale of weapons. On paper, it had all sounded quite buzzy and attractive, but none of the speakers, with the possible exception of one, who had talked enthusiastically about the need for closer cooperation at grass-roots level, had been particularly convincing.

  And speaking, in one of the breaks, to a former detective inspector from the West Midlands, who had joined up and rapidly become disenchanted, had further convinced Lynn to steer well clear. Too many training courses, too much internal wrangling, not enough practical, hard-headed investigation.

  She had just finished talking to him and was heading back towards the conference room, when the speaker who’d impressed her cut across her path.

  ‘Our friend from Sutton Coldfield bending your ear?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Not a happy bunny.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Thought it was going to be all James Bond,’ he said, smiling. ‘Finds out it’s hard graft instead.’

  Lynn found herself smiling too.

  ‘Stuart,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Stuart Daines.’

  ‘Lynn Kellogg.’

  He nodded. ‘Notts force, right? DI. Major Crimes – or is it Homicide these days?’

  ‘Homicide.’

  ‘You thinking of transferring? Giving SOCA a go?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Shame.’

  Daines was close to six foot, an unstructured cotton-linen suit hanging easily from his lean body, dark hair prematurely greying at the sides. Late thirties, Lynn thought? Maybe forty. One brown eye had a chip of green at the far corner, like a flawed stone.

  ‘I enjoyed your talk earlier,’ she said.

  ‘One of the few, then.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Speak about liaising with local forces, setting up viable targets in the provinces, and most of this lot don’t want to know. Anything fifty miles out of London, they think everyone’s going to be wearing loincloths and painting themselves with woad.’

  Lynn laughed. ‘Nottingham city centre on a Friday night.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  He was looking at her in a way that made her feel less than comfortable.

  ‘You staying down?’

  Lynn shook her head. ‘Back up on the seven-thirty train.’

  ‘A pity. We could’ve had a drink, gone for a meal.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she said.

  When she got to the conference-room door, she quickly turned her head and he was still standing in the same spot, looking directly at her.

  Stuart Daines.

  Too fond of himself by half.

  She slipped the card back into its envelope and slid it between two jars on the shelf. There was a vase standing empty in the living-room fireplace that would do.

  For a few moments the goose pimples returned to her arms. How had he known where to send the flowers? How had he known where she lived?

  She set the kettle to boil for some tea and thought about calling Resnick at work, but realised she’d not be thanked. Earlier, she had been debriefed at length by two of Bill Berry’s officers, after which she had done her best to prime a sketch artist into drawing a likeness of the young man who had shot Kelly Brent – who had shot her – but her sighting of him had been too fleeting to produce anything other than a generic stereotype. Nice try, the artist said jovially, but no cigar.

  Tea made, she switched on the radio for the news.

  There had been another fatal shooting, this time in Manchester.

  A government minister was speaking. ‘What we must remember is that incidents such as these, though they cause extraordinary grief and agony in particular communities, are, nonetheless, isolated occurrences. And what we must do, as a government, is to think again about the nature of those communities which are most affected, and how we can best intervene to tackle gang culture, and work with families and voluntary organisations so as to combat that culture and make the communities themselves more resilient.’

  Lynn turned off the radio.

  Her book was in the front room. After twenty or so minutes of reading, she felt her eyes beginning to droop and the pain in her chest, coincidentally, to return. She would take another couple of painkillers and lie down on the bed, maybe close her eyes. Just for a little while.

  When she woke it was dark.

  In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, wincing as she raised her arms, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. She’d wanted to get dinner going before Resnick got home, a task that was more usually his. There were some chicken thighs in the fridge, onions, garlic, rice, a few carrots starting to go soft, frozen peas. She was halfway through chopping the second onion, tears pricking at her eyes, when she heard the front door.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Resnick asked, coming into the kitchen.

  ‘Nothing, why?’

  ‘You’re standing there with your apron on, crying, that’s why.’

  Lynn smiled. ‘Onions, that’s all.’ She tilted up her face to be kissed.

  Resnick cast his eyes over the assembled ingredients. ‘Sure you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘I dare say I’ll manage.’

  ‘Don’t forget to brown—’

  ‘I said, I’ll manage.’

  Resnick backed away. ‘In that case, I’ll have a quick shower.’

  ‘Time enough for a bath, if you want.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Chicken sizzling away in the pan with the garlic and the onions, she took him up a glass of Scotch and set it on the edge of the bath.

  ‘I can’t see any wine,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a couple of bottles of White Shield, if you fancy beer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She took a quick glance at herself in the mirror, but it was clouded with steam.

  Forty minutes later, having remembered to warm the plates, she was about to serve up when she heard Resnick’s voice from the other room.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘Flowers. Roses.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  Lynn carried the plates through to the dining table. Resnick had set a compilation of West Coast jazz he’d picked up cheaply playing on the stereo.

  ‘Got a secret admirer then?’ Resnick said, grinning.

  ‘No secret,’ she said, and showed him the card.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Resnick asked, having read it. ‘Stuart D.?’

  ‘You remember that SOCA conference I went to last year?’

  ‘Uh-hum.’

  ‘He was one of the speakers. Stuart Daines.’

  ‘And he sent these?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘“Maybe you should come and work for us instead”?’

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘Funny way of recruiting.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s altogether serious.’

  ‘A lot of roses for someone who isn’t serious.’

  Lynn’s turn to grin. ‘Not jealous, Charlie, are you?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I just don’t remember you saying much about him at the time, that’s all.’

  Lynn cut off a piece of chicken. ‘There wasn’t much to say.’

  ‘Good-looking, is he?’

  ‘I suppose so. In a pared-down George Clooney sort of way. A bit taller, probably.’

  Resnick nodded. ‘Nothing special, then?’

  ‘Not really.’

  For several minutes they ate in silence. C
het Baker faded into something more sprightly, Bob Brookmeyer and Jimmy Giuffre playing ‘Louisiana’, an old favourite Resnick hadn’t listened to in years.

  The youngest of the cats was hovering hopefully beneath the table, rubbing its back from time to time against one of the legs.

  ‘This is good,’ Resnick said, indicating his plate.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you should be.’

  He poured what was left of the White Shield into her glass.

  ‘Preliminary forensic report came through from Huntingdon as I was leaving. Gun was firing home-packed bullets using discarded empty rounds. Lethal enough, but they don’t have the same power.’ He pointed at her with his fork. ‘Hence the bruised, not broken, ribs.’

  ‘Didn’t help Kelly Brent.’

  ‘No. No, it didn’t.’

  ‘How about the make of gun?’ Lynn said. ‘Anything on that?’

  ‘Converted air pistol, most likely.’

  ‘Brocock?’

  ‘That’s what they’re thinking.’

  ‘Cheaper than chips a while back. Could well be.’

  Resnick nodded. It was just such a weapon that young Bradford Faye had used to avenge his sister, a Brocock ME38 Magnum, his for a hundred and fifteen pounds, the deal set up in the back room of a pub, money changing hands there and then and the weapon handed over in the car park later that evening, by a kid who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. With a mandatory minimum sentence of three years for sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds found carrying guns, underage gun runners were being used more and more.

  ‘Seconds?’ Lynn asked, indicating Resnick’s virtually empty plate.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘You sure? There’s another piece of chicken. Some more rice.’

  ‘Oh, go on then.’

  ‘How’s the rest of it going?’ Lynn asked, when she came back in.

  ‘Falling out over a lad at the heart of it. DJ called Brandon Keith. According to Joanne Dawson, he’d dumped Kelly for her a week or so back and Kelly’d taken it badly. Said a few things about Joanne which were, shall we say, less than charitable, some of them finding their way on to a few walls near where Joanne lives. As a result of which – and, again, this is Joanne’s version – she suggested herself and Kelly meet and have a little chat, clear the air, so to speak.’