Cold in Hand cr-11

by John Harvey

  Lynn felt guilty that she did not visit more often, that she begrudged, sometimes, her mother's regular Sunday-morning calls, the enquiries after hers 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 tunic 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's face broke 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 sink 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 think 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, the buzzwords had all sounded quite attractive, but none of the speakers, with the possible exception of one, who had talked enthusiastically about the need for closer cooperation at grassroots 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, hardheaded 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 work instead."

  Lynn found herself smiling, too.

  "Stuart." He held 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 fleck 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 blue."

  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 7:30 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. 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, they 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, 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 daresay 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 tub.

  "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 dinner 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 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. Chet 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 indicated 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?115, 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 gunrunners were being used more and more.

  "Seconds?" Lynn indicated 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 onto 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."

  "And brought along a few friends for company."

  "Yes. And Kelly did the same."

  "Radford versus St. Ann's. Nice."

  "Still, from what Joanne said, what started out as a lot of verbals turned nasty when Kelly produced a knife. Thirteen stitches to one side of her face to prove it, to say nothing of another seven or eight in her arm."

  "And we're thinking it was one of her crew had the gun?"

  "Likely. Long way from what she's saying, though, Joanne." Resnick eased back his chair. "Claims no one she knew was carrying a gun. Didn't really see the shooter, no idea who he was. Not one of her mates, she's certain of that."

  "You'll talk to her again?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "How about this Brandon?"

  "On his way down to Bristol when it happened, spot of DJing in a club down there. Really cut up about what happened to Kelly, close to tears talking about it to Anil, apparently."

  "He backed up Joanne's story, though? The row between her and Kelly."

  "After a fashion. 'Joanne Dawson,' he said. 'That skank. I only did her 'cause she was beggin' for it.'"

  "Nice man."

  "Charming."

  "You want apple pie? There's some left from last night."

  "Why not?"

  After washing up and clearing away, they read the paper, watched television; Resnick listened to some more music, reading for the second time a book by Bill Moody about Chet Baker, while Lynn took a bath. She was just coming back into the room in her dressing gown when the phone rang.

  "Probably another of your well-wishers," Resnick said as Lynn lifted the receiver.

  "Watch your back, bitch." And the line went dead.

  Six

  He waited till mid-morning, the first time he could really get away, anger still simmering inside him. When he arrived at the house, it was empty, no one answering the door. He was just leaving when a neighbour looked up from cleaning his car and told him where they were. Resnick thanked him and went across the street, walked a little way down and waited some more.

  It wasn't long till he saw them: the Brent family making their way back from a two-minute silence at the spot where Kelly had been killed.

  Several dozen friends and neighbours walked behind them in a slow procession, teenage friends of Kelly's clutching stuffed animals and bouquets of flowers, a local councillor and the minister from the Baptist church bringing up the rear.

  Howard Brent was immaculate in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, his only adornment a diamond stud in his left ear. His wife, Tina, walked beside him, head down, the spirit drained out of her. Behind them, the two sons, Michael and Marcus, stared ahead, serious-faced. Michael, with his glasses and his small goatee, reminded Resnick of photographs of a young Malcolm X.

  If Brent noticed Resnick amongst the bystanders who were standing here and there along both sides of the street, watching the procession file past, he gave no sign.

  Resnick waited until they had arrived at the house, Tina and the younger boy going immediately inside, while others stood shaking Brent's hand and offering a few last words of condolence and sympathy.

  Within minutes, only a dozen or so, including the Baptist minister, remained, spreading from the pavement out into the street. Most of the onlookers had drifted away.

  As Resnick walked towards them, Michael Brent detached himself from the group and stood directly in front of him, blocking his path.

  Automatically, Resnick reached for his warrant card. "I'm-"

  "I know who you are," Michael said, cold contempt in his eyes.

  "I need to talk to your father."

  "My father is busy. This is not the right time." The young man's voice was loud and firm.

  "I still need-"

  Marcus pushed past his elder brother. "What? You deaf, i'n it? Not the right fuckin' time."

  "Marcus!" Howard Brent's voice stopped the youth in his tracks. "Get inside."

  "I-"

  "Inside. Now."

  Marcus scowled and slouched away.

  "Now," Howard Brent said, moving to stand at his elder son's shoulder, "what seems to be the trouble?"

  "I've told him he's not welcome here," Michael Brent said.

  "Two minutes," Resnick said. "That's all I need."

  "And I said no."

  "Michael." Brent placed a hand on his son's elbow. "It's all right. Please go back into the house."

  "Yo
u know you don't have to-"

  "Michael, please. Look to your mother."

  The young man stared hard at Resnick, then walked away.

  "This so important you have to come here now?" Brent glanced round. "My family, my friends."

  "Last night," Resnick said, "you made a call."

  "I what?"

  "You called my house and left a message. A message for the person I live with."

  "I dunno what you talkin' about," Brent said.

  "You don't remember what you said?" The colour was rising on Resnick's face, his body tense. "'Watch your back, bitch.' That's what you said."

  "You're crazy." Brent began to turn away. "Crazy."

  Resnick stopped him with a hand against his chest. "Three years, wasn't it? What you went down for? Aggravated assault. Beating some poor bastard within an inch of his life."

  A smile crossed Brent's face, as if remembering what he had done. "He asked for it," he said. "And that was a long time ago. Another life, you understand?"

  Resnick moved closer. "Lynn Kellogg. You come near her, try to speak to her, you as much as walk down the same side of the street, I'll have you inside so fast, your feet won't touch the ground."

  "What charge?"

  "Any charge I like."

  "You threatening me?" Brent said. "In front of all these people, you're threatening me?"

  "A warning, that's all."

  For a long moment, Brent held his stare. "We done here?" he said then, stepping back. "'Cause I got friends waiting. The minister, come to pay his respects."

  Smile replaced by a sneer, he turned away.

  "For God's sake, Charlie, what were you thinking?"

  They were facing one another in Bill Berry's office, the room untidy, impersonal, as if the Detective Superintendent had merely borrowed it for the afternoon.

  "What the hell got into you? Accusations without a shred of proof. Threats in front of a dozen witnesses. Like some cowboy."

  Resnick shrugged heavy shoulders.

  "Letting your feelings run amok."

  "He needed telling," Resnick said.

  "There are ways."

  "That was my way."

  "Jesus, Charlie! Conflict of interest, remember? You and Lynn." Berry pushed both hands up through his hair and sighed. "Sit down, for Christ's sake."