Cold in Hand cr-11

by John Harvey

  After all, get you out of the office, that's what Bill Berry had promised, bit of real police work for a change. Well, the real police work, Resnick knew well enough, that was slow, laborious routine, check and double-check, two steps up, most often, and three steps back. But out and about, interviewing suspects and the like, that was, some might say, the icing on the cake.

  Lynn couldn't shake it out of her mind. It didn't matter how many times she told herself to forget about it, just someone hogging the spotlight, venting his spleen.

  Used my daughter as a shield. A human shield.

  Sacrificed my daughter's life for her own.

  She had been taken through it in the debriefing yesterday: had replayed the incident, time after time, in her mind.

  Two girls facing each other at the centre of a rough circle, one of them, Kelly, armed with a knife. As Kelly jumped past her to attack Joanne, Lynn had grabbed hold of her sleeve and then her arm, applying pressure, forcing her arm upwards, Kelly all the while struggling, kicking, lashing back with her free hand-and then the youth with the gun stepping out from the crowd as Lynn, catching sight of the movement from the corner of her eye, had swivelled towards him, the movement taking Kelly with her, the gun aiming in her direction, the youth's eyes focussed, at that moment, on her. Her, and not Kelly, close alongside her? She couldn't be sure.

  How possible was it that the gunman had been shooting indiscriminately into the crowd? How possible that both bullets had been intended for Kelly Brent rather than for her?

  It had all happened so suddenly, so fast, Kelly and herself so close together. And then the impact of the bullet sending her staggering back, falling, arms flailing, leaving Kelly standing, exposed, in her place.

  Used my daughter as a shield.

  Consciously, unconsciously, could that have been what she had done?

  Sacrificed my daughter's life for her own.

  In the bathroom, bent low over the toilet bowl, Lynn retched until her throat was dry, each movement jarring her chest with pain.

  Sombre suit, dark tie, Resnick sat uneasily on the thin cushions of the settee, Catherine Njoroge in a plain black trouser suit alongside him, the jacket with three-quarter sleeves and wide lapels; her hair tied back with purple ribbon, hands clasped in her lap.

  Facing them, so close in the small room they could have reached out, almost, and touched, Kelly's mother, Tina, sat pinch-faced, stiff-backed, dark lipstick smudged across her pale face, alternately toying with the small silver crucifix that hung from her neck or picking at skin around her fingernails that was already plucked raw. The father, Howard, leaned back into a leather chair, legs crossed, sleeves of his grey sweatshirt pushed back above the elbow, a pair of ice blue Converse All Stars, unfastened, on his feet.

  No one spoke.

  A framed photograph of Kelly, head and shoulders, smiling, had pride of place on the tiled shelf above the fireplace, smaller family photographs to either side. There were others on the side wall and balanced on top of the wide-screen TV: Tina and the children, Kelly and her two older brothers, Michael and Marcus; Michael, the elder boy, the more prominent of the two.

  Everything in the room was neat, dusted, in its place.

  A home.

  The last time Resnick had been in such a home, it had been to talk to a mother whose daughter had been killed in a drive-by shooting and one of whose sons was now in prison for avenging her murder.

  Stories that repeated themselves too many times.

  Tina Brent brought her finger to her mouth and bit away a piece of fraying skin.

  It was quiet enough to hear the flat tick of a clock from one of the other rooms, the rattle of someone skateboarding past outside, the distant bass beat from a stereo along the street.

  Contempt in his eyes, Howard Brent's gaze went from Catherine Njoroge to Resnick and back again.

  "What she doin' here?" he said. "Make us feel good, yeah? One of us. Token nigger. Token black." He leaned sharply forward, feet to the floor. "Girl, how that make you feel?"

  Unruffled, head turning slowly on her long neck, Catherine Njoroge looked back at him calmly through dark almond eyes. "I feel for you in your loss," she said. "Both of you."

  "I bet you do," Brent said, leaning back.

  Catherine's eyes flickered once.

  One of Resnick's hands gripped the arm of the settee, the other, resting on his leg, had formed into a fist, which he willed to relax.

  "Mr. Brent," he said, speaking deliberately, "so far, apart from one brief instance, you have refused to allow the Family Liaison Officer into the house. You declined to take part in the official press conference, choosing instead to make a statement of your own, in which you made a rash and wholly unfounded accusation against a member of this Force. In fact, you've shown much more interest in talking to the press than you have to the police. And now you insult one of my officers with what could only be described as racist remarks."

  "Yeah, well-" Brent said.

  "Well, what?" Resnick said sharply. "You want us to find your daughter's killer or not?"

  "What sort of stupid question's that?"

  "The one I'm asking."

  "Fuck you!" Brent said, just beneath his breath, and, rising, quick to his feet, he turned and left the room, slamming the door in his wake.

  Tina Brent winced and shrank even smaller into her chair. Brittle, she was close to tears, close to collapse.

  Catherine Njoroge looked quickly towards Resnick, a quick nod telling her to go ahead.

  "Mrs. Brent," Catherine said, "Kelly was wearing a gold chain with the name 'Brandon.'"

  "So?"

  "That would be Brandon Keith?"

  "Yes."

  "He was her boyfriend?"

  "Yeah."

  "And she was still seeing him? Brandon?"

  "Far as I know, yeah."

  "She hadn't said anything about them breaking up, some kind of a row, nothing like that?"

  "Not to me, no."

  "And she would have talked to you? If it had been anything serious?"

  "She might."

  "Only we think Kelly might have gone to Cranmer Street because of some kind of argument over Brandon, with another girl."

  Tina Brent reached down into her bag for her cigarettes. "I don't know nothin' 'bout that."

  "Joanne Dawson," Resnick said, "does that name mean anything to you?"

  A quick shake of the head.

  "Mrs. Brent?"

  "No."

  "You never heard Kelly mention her name?"

  "I just said."

  Using a disposable lighter, she lit her cigarette.

  "The afternoon that Kelly was killed, she and Joanne Daw-son were fighting."

  "I don't know nothin' 'bout that, I said."

  "Kelly attacked her with a knife."

  "Says who?"

  "There are witnesses."

  "Some people, they'll say anything." She drew the smoke down into her lungs, held it there, and then released it slowly from the corners of her mouth.

  Catherine Njoroge picked up Resnick's glance. "Mrs. Brent, do you know if Kelly had a knife?"

  "What knife?"

  "You didn't see her, that day, with a knife in her possession?"

  "'Course I didn't. What would she be doin' with a knife?"

  "Perhaps she thought she needed it," Catherine said. "For protection."

  "She didn't have no knife. How many more times?" The cigarette was trembling in her hand. "What the fuck's it matter, anyway, she had a knife or not? My daughter, shot with a fucking gun and you're sitting there asking me about some stupid, sodding knife."

  Ash fell across her lap and she brushed it away, smearing grey across her skirt.

  "What we're trying to do," Resnick said patiently, "is establish the reason for Kelly being there that day so that we can find out just why she was killed."

  "Why she was killed?" Tina Brent's eyes were suddenly bright. "We know why she was killed. One of you lot, that's why. Th
at's what got my Kelly killed."

  Angrily, she stubbed out her cigarette. There were tears at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away with her sleeve.

  "Your daughter," Resnick said evenly, "was killed because someone that afternoon was in illegal possession of a firearm, which they discharged into the centre of a crowd of people."

  "So what? Some kind of soddin' accident, that what you're saying now?"

  "What I'm saying, Mrs. Brent, is we don't yet know. We don't have all the facts that will tell us exactly what happened. We don't know if your daughter was deliberately targeted, or if her death was a terrible accident. But it's our business to find out-and we can do that better with your cooperation, yours and your husband's."

  Tina Brent took a quick sideways glance towards the door. "You'll get no cooperation from him, I'll tell you that now."

  "But you can help us," Resnick said.

  She nodded and lit another cigarette. The bass sounds from down the street were louder now, more insistent.

  "Brandon Keith," Catherine Njoroge said. "Have you seen him recently?"

  Tina Brent shrugged. "Maybe."

  "Can you remember when you saw him last?"

  "Yeah, matter of fact I can. Last weekend. He come round for her. Sat'day, it'd be. That motor of his. Some fancy bloody thing."

  "You saw him?"

  "Like I said."

  "How about the other day? The afternoon Kelly was shot. Did you see him then?"

  Tina Brent's face tightened. "No."

  "You're sure?"

  "Sure." She wafted cigarette smoke away from her face. "'Sides, he wouldn't've had nothin' to do with this. Kelly hangin' out with her mates an' that, he don't like it. Told her so, I heard him."

  "And you don't know where he might be now?"

  "Brandon? No. Sleepin', most likely. Works nights, don't he?"

  "Works where?" Resnick asked.

  "DJ, i'n he?"

  "You know where? Where he DJs?"

  Tina Brent shrugged. "All over. Golden Fleece, maybe. The Social?"

  The front door closed firmly. Howard Brent leaving or someone else coming in?

  "Your boys-two, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, what of it?"

  "They around?"

  A shake of the head. "Michael, he's down London."

  "Working?"

  "No, university, i'n he?" As if daring him to contradict. "King's College, studying law." For a moment, pride lifted her head and added resonance to her voice.

  "The youngest boy," Resnick said, "Marcus, is it?"

  "How 'bout him?"

  "He still lives at home?"

  "What of it?"

  "That wouldn't have been him coming in just now?"

  "No, still sleepin', i'n he? Lazy sod. Anyway, no point talkin' to him. That day, he weren't even here."

  "Oh?"

  "Work experience, from the college. South Notts. Bunch of 'em. Wellingborough somewhere. Got the train down that morning. Didn't get back here till… till after it happened."

  "You won't mind if we have a word? Just to check?"

  For a moment, it looked as if she were about to protest, but then she slumped back against her chair. "Suit yourself. Upstairs, back."

  Marcus Brent's room was small and dark, the curtains closed. It smelt of tobacco and dope and unwashed clothes. Posters of rap stars, nude women, and Premiership footballers filled the walls. A stereo, a bunch of CDs, PS3 and a small TV. Jeans across the foot of the bed, T-shirts on the floor. Several pairs of trainers, Adidas, Nike. A crumpled can of Coke.

  Marcus stirred when Resnick entered the room and pulled the covers farther over his head.

  "Marcus," Resnick said.

  A grunt and nothing more.

  With a quick movement, Resnick pulled the covers away. "Rise and shine."

  "What the fuck?"

  "Lovely day. Time you were up and about. Besides, haven't you any classes, lectures?"

  Marcus pushed himself up onto one elbow. "What you gonna do? Arrest me? Skippin' off?"

  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 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.

  Five

  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 cat flap 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 grab 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 upwards wistfully, 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 twisted 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, fr
esh 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 every- thing, 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 their 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.