Cold Light

by John Harvey

“Yes?”

  “Like I said, nothing really happened, to me I mean. It wasn’t, you know, this big traumatic thing or anything.”

  “But it’s on your mind all the same.”

  “Is it?”

  Resnick shrugged large shoulders. “You’re here.”

  “Yes, but that’s not because of me. It’s him.”

  “Him?”

  “James. Gary James.”

  “What about him?”

  Nancy fidgeted her feet on the office floor. “I’m not sure. I suppose … All it was, I had this thought, like, when I was passing, literally, going past outside … I didn’t want to think that he was cooped up in here, in some cell over Christmas because of me.”

  The social worker had contacted Lynn Kellogg after the doctor had carried out his examination: Karl’s injuries were not inconsistent with the explanation that his mother had given—he had run headlong into a heavy wooden door. Social Services would keep a watching brief and if there was any further cause for concern … Gary James had been released a little over half an hour ago, warned as to his future behavior, and made to understand there was a possibility charges might still be brought.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Resnick said. “We’ve let him go.”

  Nancy’s smile was a delight to behold. “And that’s the end of it?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “But …”

  “There are other things, other issues involved.” Resnick moved towards the door and she followed him, the worn carpet muffling the clip of her heels.

  “You won’t be needing me again then? Testimony in court or anything?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. It’s unlikely.”

  Somehow, close in the doorway, she seemed taller, her face only inches from his own.

  “Well, Merry Christmas, I suppose,” Nancy said, and for one absurd moment Resnick thought she was going to breach that distance between them with a kiss.

  “Merry Christmas,” Resnick said, as she walked down the corridor. “And tonight, have a good time.”

  At the head of the stairs, Nancy raised her hand and waved. “You too,” she said.

  Resnick turned back towards his office, started putting out the lights.

  Seven

  How it worked was this: large-scale bookings were given a banqueting room of their own, smaller parties were encouraged to share. Either way the format was the same—long lines of tables on opposite sides of a central dance floor, a DJ in a cream suit waiting to slip Elvis’ “Blue Christmas” in between Abba and Rolf Harris doing terrible things to “Stairway to Heaven.” Plates of food were bounced down in efficient relays; soup, egg mayonnaise, a blue ticket brought turkey, a pink, salmon; the fruit salad came with cream or without. Two bottles of wine every eight people, one red, one white; any further drinks you fetched yourself from the cellar bar. If that became too crowded, it was always possible to cross the courtyard into the main body of the hotel, pass between reception and the wide armchairs of the foyer, and use the bar there.

  “All right now!” the DJ overpitched into his mike above the final scraping of plates and the rising tide of conversation. “Who’s gonna be the first ones on the floor?”

  “What d’you say, Charlie,” Reg Cossall barked into Resnick’s ear, “we get ourselves out of here and get a real drink?”

  “Later, maybe, Reg. Later.”

  Cossall scraped back his chair, pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be across the other side for a bit, if you change your mind. Then, likely, I’ll head down the Bell.”

  Times long past, Resnick had closed too many bars with Reg Cossall to forget the mornings after. He’d stick where he was for another half hour or so, long enough to show willing, then slip away and leave them to it. He could see Divine revving up already, on his feet a couple of tables down, trying to encourage one of the new WPCs on to the floor, offering to pull her Christmas cracker.

  “Come feel the noize!” called the DJ, turning the volume up on Slade and letting the decibels bounce off the ceiling.

  Jack Skelton was wearing a dinner jacket, a midnight-blue bow tie; he was standing against the side wall, deep in conversation with Helen Siddons, recently promoted DCI and using the city as a stepping stone on her fast track to the top. They made an elegant pair, standing there, Siddons in an ankle-length pale green gown.

  From his seat, Resnick glanced around, concerned that Skelton’s wife might be sitting in need of company. What he saw were Kevin Naylor and his wife Debbie, smiling into one another’s eyes, holding hands. Second honeymoon, Resnick thought, and not before time. Like a lot of marriages in the force, this one seemed to have been disintegrating before his eyes. It was more than a sign of the times; even when families had seemed more stable and relationships didn’t come with their own sell-by date, police divorce figures had been high. How many times had Reg Cossall bought the CID room cigars and signed his name in the registrar’s book? Two? Three? And rumor had it he was trying for one more. Resnick sat back down. Either you were like Reg or you tried once and when that was over, shut the doors and threw away the key.

  Which is it with you, Charlie?

  He could see Skelton’s wife Alice now, three rows down, tilting back her head as she finished her wine, reaching out to refill the glass, tapping a cigarette from the pack on the table before her, small gold lighter from her bag, the head tilting back again as she released a swathe of gray smoke, feathering past her eyes.

  “Alice?” He stood alongside her, waiting for her to turn.

  “Charlie. Well … how nice. A social call?”

  Resnick shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “I saw you …”

  “On my own? A damsel in distress. Alone and palely loitering.”

  There was a whoop from the dance floor, an attempt at a Michael Jackson going badly out of control, legs and arms akimbo.

  “For heaven’s sake, sit down, Charlie. You’re like a spare prick at a wedding.”

  Resnick took the chair beside her, calculating how much she had likely drunk, how soon before leaving she’d got started. In all of their infrequent social meetings, stretching back ten years, he had never heard her raise her voice or swear.

  “Send you over, did he, Charlie?”

  Resnick shook his head.

  “Keep an eye on me. Get me talking. Do me a favor, Charlie, keep her happy. Give her a bit of a spin, out on the floor.”

  “Alice, I don’t know—”

  Her hand, the one not holding the glass, was on his knee. “Come on, Charlie, don’t play naive. We know what it’s like, all boys together, doesn’t matter how old. You cover my back, I’ll cover yours.” She drank and exchanged the glass for her cigarette. “That’s what it all comes down to, Charlie. In the end. The covering of backs.”

  Smoke drifted slowly past Resnick’s face. At the edge of his vision he could see Jack Skelton leaning lightly against the farthest wall, Helen Siddons turned towards him, both heads bowed in conversation. As Resnick watched, Skelton’s hand moved towards his jacket pocket, inadvertently brushing the DCI’s bare arm on its way.

  “Aren’t you drinking, Charlie?” Alice Skelton held the bottle towards him.

  Resnick nodded back to where he’d been sitting. “I’ve got one over there.”

  “Abstemious, too. Abstemious and loyal. No wonder Jack’s so keen to keep you where you are.” She emptied the bottle into her glass, little more than the dregs.

  “I’ll get you another …”

  Her hand had moved from his leg but now, as he made to rise, it was back. Resnick was starting to sweat just a little; just as some would be clocking Skelton and Siddons, how many were noticing himself and Skelton’s wife, putting the numbers together to see how well they fit?

  “Alice …”

  “What you have to see, she’s not just fucking him, Charlie, she’s fucking you too.”

  “Alice, I’m sorry …” He was on his feet, but she still had hold of him, fingers pressing hard be
hind the knee. Squeezing past on the other side of the table, one of the civilian VDU operators laughing on his arm, Divine caught Resnick’s eye and winked.

  “What do you need to know, Charlie?” He had to bend towards her to catch what she was saying above the noise; didn’t want her raising her voice any further, shouting it out. “Rules of evidence. How much proof d’you need? Catching them doing it, there in your bed?”

  “I’m sorry, Alice, I’ve got to go.”

  He prized away her hand and pushed his way between the backs and chairs, the laughter, all the huddled promises and thoughtless betrayals hatching on the night.

  Lynn Kellogg was wearing a strapless dress, royal blue, and had done something to her hair Resnick had not noticed before. The man in the dress suit, between them at the crowded bar, was clearly taken. “Let me get those.” Smiling, twenty-pound note in his hand. “No, thanks. You’re all right,” Lynn said, turning away. “Later, then?” “What?” “Let me buy you a drink, later.” She shook her head and pushed through the crowd.

  Resnick watched her go over to where Maureen Madden was standing, Maureen wearing a dark frock-coat and jeans, looking more like a country singer on the loose than the sergeant who supervised the rape suite. Reg Cossall was shouting at him from the far end of the bar and waving his empty glass.

  “A pint of whatever he’s drinking,” Resnick said to the white-coated barman, “and a large Bells to go with it. Bottle of Czech Budweiser for me, if you’ve got it.”

  He had. Resnick pushed his way along and listened for a while to Cossall laying down the law about the unemployment rate, young offenders, overpriced imported beer, Brian Clough, the social benefits of castration. Half a dozen younger officers stood around, drinking steadily, gleaning wisdom. Resnick remembered when he and Cossall had been like them, eager to ape their elders and betters; back when you had to be six foot to get on to the force and either it was draught Bass, draught Worthington or you didn’t bother going back for more. Twenty years before.

  When he’d heard enough, Resnick moved away and found Lynn Kellogg and Maureen Madden, sitting now on the stairs near the entrance to the lounge.

  “Quite an admirer back there,” Resnick said to Lynn, nodding back towards the bar.

  “Oh, that. He’d been drinking. You know what it’s like.”

  “I wish you’d stop doing that,” Maureen said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Putting yourself down. Assuming that for some man to fancy you he has to be half-pissed.”

  “It’s usually true.”

  “Don’t you think she looks great?” Maureen asked Resnick, craning her neck to look up at him.

  “Very nice,” Resnick said.

  Lynn felt herself starting to blush. “Have you been out on the floor yet?” she asked, covering her embarrassment.

  Resnick shook his head.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Maureen teased.

  “More like waiting for them to turn the volume down,” Resnick said. “Play a waltz.”

  “Now that’s not true,” Lynn said. “My first year, you were out there bopping till everyone else dropped. ‘Be-bop-a-hula,’ stuff like that.”

  Despite himself, Resnick smiled: something attractive about the idea of Gene Vincent in black leathers and a grass skirt, strumming away at an Hawaiian guitar.

  “Well,” Maureen announced, setting her empty glass on the floor, “I’m in the mood. What d’you say, Lynn? Game? Before your admirer over there comes and asks you.”

  The man in the dress suit, glass in hand, was sitting in one of the easy chairs in the lounge, making no pretense of not looking in their direction.

  “Come on,” Lynn said, getting to her feet “Let’s get out of here.” Maureen was already on her way. “Coming with us?” Lynn asked.

  “You go ahead,” Resnick said.

  With a last look back, Lynn followed Maureen Madden towards the main door.

  “Like watching ’em leave the nest, Charlie?” Reg Cossall said at Resnick’s shoulder.

  “How d’you mean?”

  “You know, young ones, fledglings …”

  “She’s scarce a kid, Reg.”

  “No matter.”

  “Old enough to be …”

  Cossall’s hand squeezed down firm on Resnick’s shoulder. “You can be a literal bugger sometimes, Charlie. When it fits your purpose.” Cossall treated Resnick to his best philosophical stare. “Kids. Families. Can’t get ’em one way, we get ’em another. More’s the bastard pity.”

  He lit a small cigar and cupped it in his hand. “Not on for one in town, I suppose?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please yourself, then. You always bloody do.”

  Resnick turned back to the bar and prepared to wait his chance to order a final beer.

  Back in the Friar Tuck Room, things were throbbing towards some sort of climax. Whitney Houston, Rod Stewart, Chris De Burgh, the Drifters—hands clutched shiny buttocks that were not their own. Divine, tie forsaken, shirt all unbuttoned, was executing a limbo dance to “Twist and Shout,” sliding his legs beneath a line of brassiere straps linked together. Off to the side of the room, Skelton and Helen Siddons scarcely seemed to have moved, the same urgent conversation, heads angled inwards; one strap of Helen’s dress had slid from her shoulder. Lynn and Maureen Madden were dancing with a group of other women, laughing, clapping their hands in the air. Oblivious of the tempo, Kevin Naylor and Debbie were dancing cheek to cheek, bodies barely moving. Resnick couldn’t see Alice Skelton anywhere and was grateful.

  “Five minutes to Christmas,” the DJ announced. “I want to see you all in a big circle, holding hands.”

  Resnick slipped out through the door.

  “Inspector?”

  He glanced up and saw long legs, a sequined silver bag, a smile.

  “I didn’t know we were partying in the same place,” Nancy Phelan said.

  Resnick half-smiled. “So it seems.”

  “How’s it been?” Nancy asked. Resnick was aware of a car on the curve of the courtyard, waiting. “You been having a good time?”

  “Not bad, I suppose.”

  “Well …” Smiling, she gestured outwards with open hands. “Merry Christmas, once again. Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year,” Resnick echoed, as Nancy walked out of his vision and, hands in pockets, he turned left and crossed the cobbled courtyard to the street.

  Eight

  For Christmas, Resnick had bought himself The Complete Billie Holiday on Verve, a new edition of Dizzy Gillespie’s autobiography, and The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, LP and Cassette. What he still had to acquire was a CD player.

  But there he’d been, not so many days before, sauntering down from Canning Circus into town, sunshine, one of those clear blue winter skies, and glancing into the window of Arcade Records he had seen it. Among the Eric Clapton and the Elton John, a black box with the faintest picture of Billie on its front; ten CDs and a two-hundred-and-twenty-page book, seven hundred minutes of music, a numbered, limited edition, only sixteen thousand pressed worldwide.

  Worldwide, Resnick had thought; only sixteen thousand worldwide. That didn’t seem an awful lot of copies. And here was one, staring up at him, and a bargain offer to boot. He had his check book but not his check card. “It’s okay,” the owner had said, “I think we can trust you.” And knocked another five pounds off the price.

  Resnick had spent much of the morning, between readying the duck for the oven, peeling the potatoes, and cleaning round the bath, looking at it. Holding it in his hand. Billie Holiday on Verve. There is a photograph of her in the booklet, New York City, 1956: a woman early to middle-age, no glamour, one hand on her hip, none too patiently waiting, a working woman, c’mon now, let’s get this done. He closes his eyes and imagines her singing—“Cheek to Cheek” with Ben Webster, wasn’t that fifty-six? “Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.” “We’ll Be Together Again.” The number stamped on the back of
Resnick’s set is 10961.

  So much easier to look again and again at the booklet, slide those disks from their brown card covers, admire the reproductions of album sleeves in their special envelope, easier to do all of this than take the few steps to the mantelpiece and the card that waits in its envelope, unopened. A post mark, smudged, that might say Devon; the unmistakable spikiness of his ex-wife’s hand.

  The duck was delicious, strongly flavored, fatty yet not too fat. Certainly Dizzy had thought so, up on to the table with a spring before Resnick had noticed, enjoying his share of breast, a little leg, happy finally to be chased off down the garden, jaws tight around a wing.

  Resnick sliced away the meat from where the black cat had eaten and shared it amongst the others, Miles rearing up on his hind legs, Bud pushing his head against Resnick’s shins, Pepper patient by his bowl.

  As well as those he had set to roast around the bird, Resnick had cooked potatoes separately and mashed them with some swede, sprinkled that with paprika, poured on sour cream. Sprouts he had blanched in boiling water before finishing in the frying pan with slices of salami, cut small. Polish sausage he had simmered in beer until it was swollen and done.

  He had not long finished foraging for his second helping when Marian Witczak called him on the phone. “Charles, how are you? I have been meaning all day to wish you a merry Christmas, but, I don’t know, somehow it has all been so busy.”

  Resnick pictured her, alone in the extravagant Victoriana of her house across the city, drinking Christmas toasts to long-departed Polish heroes, pale sherry in fragile crystal glasses; sitting down, perhaps, to play a little Chopin at the piano before taking some general’s memoir or some book of old photographs down from the shelf.

  “So, Charles, you must tell me, my presents, what did you think?”

  They were still on the hall chest, neat in their snowy paper, white and red ribbon tied with bows.

  “Marian, I’m sorry, thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You really like them?”

  “Of course.”

  “If only you knew how much time I spent deciding, well, I think you might be surprised. But the colors, the design, it had to be just right.”