Lonely Hearts

by John Harvey

  “Off at casualty, sir. Suspected broken collarbone.”

  “And you?”

  Millington shrugged. “Bumps and bruises, sir. I’m okay.”

  “You’ve seen the doctor?”

  “No need.”

  Millington had a swelling on his left cheek, flakes of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. His clothes looked as if they’d been round in the dryer without being washed first.

  “See him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I just had a word with the custody sergeant. He said it needed four of them to get Sloman into a cell.”

  “He caught hold of the radiator and wouldn’t let go. Nearly wrenched it out of the wall.”

  “His colleague’s got a nasty cut over his eye. I take it your report will account for how that happened?”

  “No problem, sir. Sloman did it.”

  “Sloman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try telling that to Civil Liberties.”

  “No, it’s right. What happened, Divine and I walked in on them, well, I had no idea it was going to be that pair, how could I? Course, they knew me straight off from the other business. Sloman panics, turns fast with a cassette deck in his arms, and catches Jilkes smack in the face. He’s down and moaning and Sloman goes for the door like he’s bouncing off the ropes and looking for a knock-down. It was all Divine and I could do to hang on to him. I mean, sir, he may not be in training any more but he’s still a big lad.”

  “Talking, though, I understand?”

  “Reams of it, sir. Once he’d calmed down in the cells for a bit he couldn’t stop. Sounds like this garage of his has got enough in it to restock Lasky’s.” Millington touched his cheek gingerly. “Tell you what did come out, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “All those records that were nicked—you remember, that James Brown. He kept them at his place. Priceless, he says. Original American pressings some of them. Worth a bomb.”

  “Don’t forget to see the doctor, Graham.”

  “No, sir. Oh, and, sir, there was a call for you.”

  “Man?”

  “No, sir, female. Name of Chaplin. Said she’d ring back later, either that or she’d catch you at home this evening.”

  Resnick turned away quickly but not quickly enough to hide the look of pleasure that had come to his face. The randy old sod! thought Millington. He is having it off after all.

  Thirty-Five

  The first call came when Rachel was still in the office. Carole had left to accompany a new young worker on a difficult client visit and Rachel was trying to bring the accumulation of papers on her desk down to acceptable proportions.

  “Hello, Rachel Chaplin.”

  She had a bundle of photocopied articles for filing in her other hand, expectation in her voice because she thought it was probably Resnick getting back to her at last.

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that Rachel?”

  “Yes, this is Rachel Chaplin. I’m sorry, who is this?” Whoever it was, it wasn’t Charlie. For a moment she remembered him calling her in the middle of a busy meeting, asking her to meet him for a drink.

  “I wondered if you were still free tonight, but maybe I’m already too late.”

  “Look, what’s going on here? Is this some kind of joke, because…?”

  “I understand, you’re already fixed up, is that it?” The voice was low, insinuating, something about it that encouraged Rachel to picture the speaker’s slow leer into the receiver. “Or there’s somebody else there in the office, am I right?”

  “No, there’s…” Mouth open, Rachel’s breath caught and stopped.

  “You’re tied up, already catered for, I do understand, believe me. No surprise, the way you put yourself across…”

  “The way I what?”

  “I thought as soon as I read it, this is a woman who knows a lot about marketing…”

  “As soon as you read…Read what, for God’s sake? Tell me!”

  “In fact if the girl on your switchboard hadn’t said Social Services, that’s the kind of job I would have thought you had.”

  Rachel pushed her chair away from the desk, phone gripped so tightly in her hand that her fingers were beginning to ache. “Listen, for the last time, I want you to tell me what you are talking about, because I honestly do not have any idea what is going on. Right?”

  “Right. You’re under a lot of pressure now. That’s why you need to unwind, be relaxed. If you’ve got someone to help out tonight, I’ll call again.”

  “You…!”

  “Hey, Rachel! There’ll be other nights. Lots of them. And you don’t have to worry about the office number any more—I’ll get you at home.”

  The connection clicked dead.

  Gradually, Rachel became aware that below her hips her body was mostly numb; her chest was cramped. It took her more than a minute to be able to lower the receiver and when she did, her palm slithered with sweat. Slowly, she stood up and rested both hands on the surface of the desk by her fingertips. Rachel stayed there feeling the blood beginning again to flow around her veins.

  You’re under a lot of pressure now.

  She looked over at Carole’s empty chair, stood for a while at the window, cool of the glass against her forehead.

  …as soon as I read it…

  She wanted to ring Resnick, but he must be busy otherwise he would have called her himself. Besides, what could he do other than listen sympathetically, and was that what she wanted from him? Or herself? Leaning on him the first time anything went wrong? How could she say, Charlie, this is moving too far too fast, I think we have to back away a little, and, at the same time, Charlie, I need you?

  Rachel went back to the telephone, stared at it for some seconds, and finally picked it up.

  “Jane, you put a call through to me a short time ago. A man.”

  “Yes, Miss Chaplin.”

  “He didn’t give you, he didn’t say his name, I suppose?”

  “No, Miss Chaplin, I’m sorry.”

  “All right, Jane, and thanks. Oh, look, I know it’s not policy, but there’s no chance you gave him an outside number for me?”

  “No, Miss Chaplin. You know we never give out home numbers to clients.”

  “I know, but did he ask?”

  “No, Miss Chaplin.”

  “Thanks, Jane. I’m leaving soon, so no more calls, okay?”

  But when she replaced the phone, Rachel continued to sit there, hearing the voice, over and over, something in it laughing at her, teasing, and something else, some quality of speech that she could not define yet which kept prompting her memory.

  If you’ve got someone to help out tonight, I’ll call again.

  “CID. Resnick.”

  Why was it there was invariably a call just as you were about to go off shift?

  “Yes, I know her. Yes.”

  He had been leaning sideways in his chair, one knee resting against the edge of the desk, but now, instantly, he was straight and alert, free hand prising the top from a pen as he listened.

  “Yes, understood,” Resnick said. And then: “How serious?”

  His mouth tightened and, for a moment, still listening, he squeezed the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed.

  “Is she…can she talk? I mean…Got it. Yes, I’ll be right there. Ten minutes, fifteen at most. Thanks.”

  He dropped the receiver back on to its cradle, grabbed his coat from the back of the door. Lynn Kellogg was typing up the report of an interrogation she’d been involved in that afternoon, each laborious page initialed and signed.

  “Lynn!”

  “Sir?” she answered, getting to her feet.

  “City Hospital. Intensive Care. Let’s go.”

  Carole’s car was not outside, so she obviously hadn’t got back from her visit as early as she’d hoped. Rachel had wanted to talk to her, but the prospect of taking a drink and soaking in a hot bath appealed to her almost as much.r />
  The phone was already ringing when she slipped her key into the lock. Against logic, the back of her throat went dry. Shutting the door, she bolted it. Stupid! What was she getting so paranoid about? Sliding back the bolt, she settled for the chain instead, then smiled at herself. Good old liberal half-measures!

  At the far end of the hall, the telephone was mounted on a bracket, a small hessian-covered pinboard beside it, a pad on a circular table below, pencils and biros in a hollow donkey marked “A present from Skegness.” A joke, Carole had explained.

  Rachel stared: whoever it is; they can’t ring for ever.

  Carole, Charlie, whoever it is.

  When she had steeled herself to answer it regardless, the tone stopped and the suddenness of the silence shocked her. The house was so quiet. Rachel checked in the kitchen and the living room and she was right, Carole didn’t have any vodka. Well, okay then, a large gin and tonic with ice and a slice of slightly decaying lemon, and maybe she could start to unwind, relax. Rachel made her drink and then hurried upstairs to run the bath. Five minutes later she had perched the glass between bottles of shampoo and conditioner, dropped her clothes on the chair by the door, and lowered herself into foaming, hot water, steam already beginning to frizzle the ends of her dark hair.

  …that’s why you need to unwind, be relaxed…I’ll call again.

  Phones rang and were answered.

  Resnick showed his warrant card at reception and he and Lynn Kellogg were pointed towards another door, a corridor, a lift.

  “When was she admitted, sir?” Kellogg asked. “Early hours of this morning.”

  Their feet clicked loud on the tiled floor.

  “Why did it take them so long to contact us?”

  “Sounds as if notification went out, but nobody made the connection to us. It wasn’t until she said herself…”

  “Still took her a long time, sir. Likely more than twelve hours.”

  “Who knows?” Resnick said, pushing the lift button. “Who knows what state she’s in?”

  There were double doors at the entrance to the intensive care ward, the first of which was kept locked. They rang and waited for a nurse to take them through.

  Wrapped inside two towels, Rachel came down with care: the heat and the alcohol had made her a little dizzy. A cup of coffee was what she needed and by then Carole should be home, it was surprising she wasn’t there already.

  As Rachel was crossing the hall, the phone began to ring and, by instinct, she picked it up.

  “Hello, Carole?”

  “Feeling better now, away from the rigors of the working day?”

  Rachel slammed the receiver against the wall, struck it, twice, against the cradle before finally forcing it down into place.

  “Bastard!” she yelled. “You bastard!”

  She ran back up the stairs, nearly losing her footing once; pulled on her clothes, rubbed at her wet hair; downstairs again, she picked up the local paper she had stepped over earlier, folded inside the front door. Squatting there she rifled the pages: Cars for Sale, Household Goods, Funeral Services, there, Lonely Hearts. Shaking, her finger traced down the column.

  “Oh, God!”

  Rachel swallowed.

  Attractive Professional Woman wants to hear from imaginative men with interesting ideas to help her unwind. Rachel.

  She tore at the paper, pummeled it, beat at it with her hands.

  Between the bandages and the widths of tape, between the carefully arranged pillows and the sheet, it was difficult to see much that was recognizable as Sally Oakes. Where her jaw had been broken, it was clamped in a wire frame.

  Only the eyes were clear, but closed.

  The doctor stood with Resnick at the foot of the bed; Lynn Kellogg sat as close as the drips would allow, glucose and blood.

  “She was found in the road. Taxi driver on his way back to base. Said she stumbled out and collapsed right in front of him, all he could do not to run her over. He picked her up and brought her into casualty. Better if he’d left her there and phoned for an ambulance, of course, but it’s always easy to see clearly after the event.

  “Then again, he had no way of knowing the extent of her injuries. Blood about the face and clothing, there must have been a lot of that, but I suppose he thought, you know, falling, drunk. Naturally, there would have been no way, simply by looking, of knowing about the internal injuries, their extent.”

  Listening, looking, Resnick said nothing.

  The cats had come running the instant they heard the key turn in the lock. Dizzy—he would be the first—Pepper, Miles, and—what was the scrawny one called?—Bud. Rachel pushed the door to and bent down, favoring Bud with an especial stroke. Dizzy showed her his backside and headed for the kitchen.

  Rachel hung the keyring Resnick had given her from her index finger and followed, the other cats sliding in and out of her feet. It struck warm inside the house and she felt something about it that was immediately welcoming, quite different from Carole’s home which was always oddly vacant when Carole herself wasn’t there—like a place that had been sold a long time ago and was still waiting for the new owners to move in.

  This, though, was different. She felt—understanding what she was feeling, the seductive danger of it—more at home here. Remembering where the cat food was kept, Rachel spooned some into their respective bowls. There was only an inch of milk in the fridge, Charlie would probably bring some in with him when he arrived. Dizzy had bolted most of his own food already and was stealing Bud’s; when she tried to budge him away, he arched his back at her and hissed. Oh well, Rachel thought, not my business. She opened the nearest cupboard and put the keys inside.

  The sergeant on duty at the station told her he was sorry but there was nobody in CID at the moment, he could transfer her to Central Police Station if she wanted. Inspector Resnick was who she wanted. The sergeant didn’t know if the inspector would be back, but if he came in then the message would be relayed. Good evening, madam.

  Rachel left the phone off the hook.

  “Sir! Sir!”

  The yellowing eyelids flickered, stilled, flickered again; finally, Sally Oakes’s eyes stayed open and slowly tried to focus.

  “You must be careful,” the doctor warned, touching Resnick’s arm as he went forward. “She’s in a critical condition.”

  Resnick nodded. He sat opposite Lynn Kellogg, both of them watching anxiously as Sally Oakes’s eyes fixed first on one, then the other. Recognizing them, she began to cry.

  Rachel was leaning back on the settee, stroking Bud and reading through some typed pages she had found on the table, somebody’s notes about Professor Doria, an explanation, of sorts, of a lecture he had given at the university.

  Excess is essential in literature, in art as well as society, because of its power to challenge from the inside and help to dismantle traditional and hidebound structures. It is for this reason that Repression, with its opposition to Excess, is always to be fought against and denied.

  She felt the cat tense against her hand and a moment later the knock at the door.

  Oh, come on, Charlie! Give me your spare keys and then forget your own.

  “Excuse me, little one,” Rachel said, depositing Bud on the back of the settee, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The slight hesitation of warning that Rachel felt as she was turning the handle was too little and too late.

  “Miss Chaplin. Rachel. Such a surprise.”

  “Professor.”

  He already had one foot across the threshold. “I called to speak with the inspector.” His eyes were reaching past her. “He’s here?”

  “Is it important?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m afraid it is. Otherwise…” He placed his hand against the frame of the door. “…one doesn’t like to call unannounced.”

  Rachel’s mind was racing too fast for her to think with any clarity. “If you wouldn’t mind call back later. An hour perhaps.”

  Doria’s face slid into a
lingering smile. “An hour, Rachel. What difference would an hour make now?”

  “We were just going to eat.”

  “He’s here then. Call him. No need for good food to go cold and spoil.”

  Rachel brought the door back towards her and then pushed it forward fast, throwing all her weight against it. Doria’s arm braced and slowly started to straighten: he was surprisingly strong.

  Resnick knew that within minutes the doctor would insist on their leaving and there would be nothing he could do to resist. A nurse sat with her arms behind one of the pillows, holding Sally so that her back was clear of the bed. Lynn Kellogg held a notebook in front of her, Resnick steadied the pencil as she struggled to write.

  Sounds came intermittently from behind the wired jaw but unintelligibly. All they could do was share the girl’s pain as she forced letters through their crazed journey across the page.

  The first Resnick understood immediately, watched with impatience as Sally’s fingers forced down on the book.

  DORIA

  She began to write her own name then, partway through, the pencil slipping with a thick stroke diagonally across the page. Her eyes found Resnick’s, willing him to understand. He nodded, waiting for her to continue. Again a line through her name, an emphatic dropping of her head that made her moan and had the doctor stretching past Resnick with concern.

  “You’ll have to leave.”

  “One more minute.”

  “Tomorrow, when she’s rested.”

  “Look, there. She wants to say something.”

  Sally tapped pencil against paper, her eyes moved imploringly towards Lynn Kellogg, the doctor, back to the paper. Falteringly, her fingers shifted their grip and began another word.

  R

  Me, Resnick thought, she’s going to write my name?

  RA

  What’s going on?

  RACH

  “Rachel!” Resnick said, face close to hers. “Is that it, Rachel?”

  Sally Oakes’s eyes moved up and down inside their sockets, saying, yes, yes.

  “What about her, Sally? What about her?”

  “Inspector! You must leave the girl alone.” Resnick shrugged away the doctor’s hand. Sally Oakes was willing him to look at the pages on which she had written. Her eyes were beginning to close though. The doctor signaled to the nurse, who carefully began to lower the pillow back down against the others.