by John Harvey
"Your inspiration, was he, Mike?" Karen sounded amused. "What made you want to join the Force?"
"Get out of it! Sweeney, that's what did it for me. Jump in the motor, chase some villain halfway 'cross London, bang him up against the wall, get a couple of good whacks in when he tries to run. 'Right, son, you're nicked.'"
"I can just see it. But just for now, if you could see your way to doing something more pedestrian, why not get on to Dixon for me. Central Task Force. See if he'll agree to a meeting."
Ramsden whistled. "Playing with the big boys."
"They handle most firearms trafficking. Won't hurt to see what he's got to say, even if it means Daines finding out we're going behind his back. If he has got anything to hide, it even might shake him up a little. Gets panicky, he might always do something foolish, give something away. And if not-well, a few bruised feelings, soon smooth over."
"Okay, I'll get to it." At the door, Ramsden paused. "Resnick," he said, "now he's passed along this latest brainstorm of his, you really think he's going to sit back and let us get on with it?"
Karen didn't answer.
Thirty-five
Resnick met Ryan Gregan at the same spot in the Arboretum as before, but the continuing downpour soon drove them into the bandstand, and then, with the wind whipping the rain almost horizontally against their legs, farther downhill to stand huddled up against the wall, taking what shelter they could from the overhanging trees.
"Some old weather, eh?" Gregan said, something of a gleam in his eye. "Reminds me of Belfast, when I was a kid. Manchester, too. Followin' me round, d'you think?"
Resnick had already asked him if he'd picked up any scuttlebutt about Brent, anything that tied him into Lynn's death, but Gregan had heard nothing. Rumours, sure. There were always those. There was one, for instance, going round that Howard Brent had put a price on Lynn's head-five K according to one, ten another-but all that, Gregan assured him, was nothing more than fanciful talk.
"You're sure of that? Positive?"
Solemnly, Gregan made the sign of the cross over his heart.
Resnick asked him about the gun.
"Baikal, is it? Baltic somewhere. Lithuania? Gas pistols, that's all they are. Till some bright spark does a bit of remodelling. Lethal then."
"Any around on the street?"
"Here? I don't think so. Manchester, before I left, a few on sale there. Not cheap. Six, seven hundred each. Be more now." He grinned. "Natural rise in inflation. Like the bloody rain."
"You're certain you've not seen any here, in the city?"
"Said so, didn't I?"
"Nor talk of any?"
Gregan gave him a look. "Is this the gun that…" He let the question dribble free.
"Yes," Resnick said.
"I'll do what I can, Mr. Resnick. There's one or two people owe me favours. I'll see if I can't call them in."
"You've got my number?"
"Mobile, is it?"
Resnick nodded.
"Then I have." Gregan pulled his coat collar up higher against his neck and stepped out into the full force of the rain.
Resnick turned and walked back along the path that would take him to the Mansfield Road; his trousers were sticking, cold, to his legs and his coat was sodden: getting wetter wasn't going to make any difference. There was a slender band of light on the horizon, but, as yet, the rain showed little sign of slackening. Not for the first time, he was grateful he lived on higher ground. Those with houses down close by the Trent would already have their cellars full of water and be taking their best pieces of furniture to the upper floors.
Out on the main road, he saw a taxi approaching and raised a hand and the driver, after a hasty glance, swerved to a stop at the kerb, sending a wash of water spraying up around Resnick's legs.
Home, he stripped off all his clothes and stood a good five minutes under a hot shower before drying himself briskly down and dressing. Some of his wet things he draped over the tub, others he hung inside the airing cupboard; his shoes he stuffed with old newspaper. For once, he fancied tea, not coffee. From the shelves, he fished out an album of Kansas City jazz, upbeat and bluesy, his friend Ben Riley had once sent him from the States. Between the cupboard and the fridge, there were the makings of a serious sandwich.
Howard Brent putting out a contract on Lynn, a price on her head-did he believe that? No more than Ryan Gregan did, he thought. Aside from anything else, if it were true, then news of it would have got back to Karen Shields and she would surely have told him.
Then again, perhaps not.
He rang Anil Khan's number, but the line was busy; the same with Michaelson. Catherine Njoroge answered promptly. If she had any doubts about talking to Resnick concerning the investigation, they didn't show. He told her what Gregan had said about Howard Brent, and she said, no, no rumours of any kind of contract had come her way; she could ask some of the squad to check with their informants, but, like Resnick, she thought if there were anything to it, it would have surfaced before now. Perhaps Gregan had pulled it out of thin air, she suggested, something to keep Resnick interested.
"Yes," Resnick said, "I expect you're right."
There was a small silence, and then Catherine asked if he had a date yet for the funeral.
"Three days' time," Resnick said. "Friday."
"I'd like to come if I could. If I can arrange the time. I didn't know her well, Lynn, but-"
"Of course," Resnick said. "That'd be fine. She'd have been pleased."
Air caught in his throat and he swallowed hard.
"I'll be in touch," Catherine said and rang off.
Resnick found another topcoat and a dry pair of shoes.
The rain had petered to a slow drizzle, little more than a misting in the air, and there was a vestige of a rainbow, faint over the city. The gutters were awash with running water, the pavements slick underfoot. By the time he'd reached the centre, he was ready for coffee and bought one from Atlas in a takeout cup. In the music shop, Marcus stood chatting to two black youths sporting ear studs and gold chains who took one look at Resnick and, sussing him for what he was, left without another word.
Marcus recognised Resnick right off from the time he'd interrupted the procession and mumbled something barely audible as he moved back behind the counter.
Resnick rested his coffee cup on a stack of CDs and flipped through one of the adjoining racks, lifting a CD out with finger and thumb, glancing at it and letting it slip back down.
"There's a sign," Marcus said abruptly, coating his nervousness with belligerence. "There. On the door. No food or drink."
"I'm sorry," Resnick said. "I'll be careful."
"Spill something there and stuff'll get ruined. You'll have to pay."
"Detective Inspector Kellogg," Resnick said, "the police officer who was shot. I heard something interesting today. Your father offering a large sum of money to have her killed."
"That's stupid," Marcus scoffed. "That's a stupid fuckin' lie. Why'd he do somethin' like that?"
"He blamed her for your sister's death."
"Yeah, right. Still don't mean he'd go'n do that. That's like The Sopranos or somethin', i'n it? 'Sides"-he looked at Resnick full on for the first time-"wanted her dead, he'd've done it himself."
"And did he?"
"Yeah. 'Cept he was in Jamaica, i'n it?"
"And Michael?"
Marcus jumped. "What about Michael?"
"Where was he?"
"I dunno. Down London, isn't he? Learning to be this hotshot lawyer an' shit."
"Only when the police tried to get in touch with him, to ask about your father, they couldn't find him. Left a note at his college, went round to where he lives. No one seemed to know where he was."
"Off somewhere, i'n it, being too clever for fuckin' words. Anyway, you don't reckon he'd have nothin' to do with some-thin' like that. Mister High-an'-fuckin'-mighty."
"You don't like him."
Marcus shrugged. "He's my brother, i'n he?
"
"You're close?"
"What d'you think?"
"How about your father-is Michael close to your father?"
"My old man, he reckons the sun shines out of Michael's black arse," Marcus said scornfully.
Resnick nodded and looked around. "Blues, you got any blues? I was listening to this singer earlier. Joe Turner? I don't suppose you've got anything like that?"
Marcus looked at him questioningly, not certain if he were having him on.
"There's a few things over there." He pointed towards the corner, close to the wall. "Took 'em in part exchange."
There were no more than a dozen CDs, and Resnick looked through them quickly. Muddy Waters. Johnny Winter. At the back, propping up the rest, was a DVD: Warming by the Devil's Fire, a film by Charles Burnett. Lightnin' Hopkins, Big Bill Broonzy, Dinah Washington, Bessie Smith.
"How much for this?" Resnick asked.
"Ten."
Resnick raised an eyebrow.
"Okay. Eight. Make it eight. Eight quid, okay?"
Resnick handed over a ten-pound note and waited for his change, Marcus still not able, quite, to look him in the eye.
"You want a bag?"
Resnick shook his head. "Thanks," he said, careful to pick up his coffee as he made for the door.
Mid-evening. Karen and Mike Ramsden were in the pub. They had been there a while. After no little difficulty and some heavy-duty interference from Assistant Commissioner Harkin, Graeme Dixon of the Met's Central Task Force had agreed to a meeting the following afternoon.
Karen had been thinking about Resnick's doubts and assertions off and on throughout the day. Even if there were anything in what Andreea Florescu had told Lynn about Daines and the Zoukas brothers, he could have been using them, playing a clever game, leading them on until the trap clamped shut when they were snug inside it. Then again, Daines might have got too close and somehow been drawn in beyond his depth. It wasn't impossible, such things had happened before. If that were the case, Karen thought, he could conceivably have assisted in the intimidation of witnesses, though without evidence that was asking a lot to believe.
But did it go beyond that?
And how?
The fact that the gun which had killed Lynn Kellogg was of the same type the Zoukas brothers were supposedly trafficking was an interesting coincidence, but no more; making any kind of stronger link was way too much of a stretch. And besides-big question-what had Viktor Zoukas or his brother, or Daines for that matter, to gain from Lynn's death?
Some private satisfaction?
Petty revenge?
She didn't know: right now, she didn't know very much.
Ramsden was drinking pints of bitter with whisky chasers, a slightly glazed look coming to his eyes. "You know what we were talking about before?" he said. "All that Dixon of Dock Green stuff?"
Karen waited for what was coming.
"I saw the film a month or so back, where it all started. Dixon. Before the telly. The Blue Lamp? Some afternoon I was off duty. There's this scene, right? He walks right up to this young tearaway with a gun, Dixon, calm as you like, uniform, helmet, telling him, you know, put it down. Kid's losing it, practically pissing himself. 'Drop it, I say,' Dixon says. 'Don't be a fool.' Kid panics and pulls the trigger. Dixon, he doesn't believe it. Next minute he stops breathing." Ramsden shook his head. "When was that? Fifties, sometime. Copper getting shot, back then, practically unheard of. And now the bastards don't panic. They take fucking aim."
He shuddered with exasperation.
"You're a doom merchant, Mike," Karen said. "Victor Meldrew in spades. Why look on the bright side, when you can be bloody miserable?"
"Okay, okay," Ramsden said, animated. "I'll tell you this. I'd been a kid back then, I'd likely've been living in some crummy two-up, two-down with no bathroom and an outside loo, running round with the arse out me trousers. Left school at what? Fourteen, fifteen? Some boring fart-arse job, if I was lucky, for sod-all money."
"Yes," Karen said, laughing. "But you weren't were you? Your gran might have had a toilet out in the backyard, but I bet you didn't. And you didn't leave school at fourteen, either."
"No, all right. You're right, you're right. I went to the local comprehensive, okay? Scraped an education, waltzed into the Met, got promotion, good job, decent money-could be more, but it's decent-nice house, grade-one motor, wife and kid-least I did, before they buggered off to bloody Hartlepool-and everything's better, right? Better than it was. Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Then why's it like this?"
"Like what?"
"Up shit creek without a paddle." He walked across to the window and stared out. "Whole fuckin' country. Doesn't even rain like it used to. Bloody deluge, that's what that is. Fuckin' flood."
Karen laughed. "That's it. Exaggerate a bit, why don't you?"
"What? You think I'm kidding? Flood warnings on the radio this morning. Seventeen of them."
"You're right, Mike. The whole world's coming to an end. Just not before you've got time to buy me another drink, okay?"
Ramsden groaned and headed for the bar.
Thirty-six
At first glance, Detective Chief Inspector Graeme Dixon was as anonymous as the concrete-and-glass building in which his office was housed. Dark suit, pale shirt, plain tie, hair neither too long nor too short, no beard, no moustache, no tattoos or other distinguishing marks, his only adornment the gold band on the third finger on his left hand. The kind of man, seen up close on the tube, or behind the wheel of the car alongside at the traffic lights, who would be briefly noticed and then immediately forgotten. One of the reasons, perhaps, when he had spent more time on the streets, he'd been so effective at his job.
Karen had come down to London on her own, leaving Mike Ramsden with the squad; her meeting at the Central Task Force aside, it had given her the chance to go back to her flat and check her mail, pick up some new clothes.
"Karen." Dixon held out a hand. "Graeme. Come on in. Sorry to keep you kicking your heels."
There was a recognisable Essex edge to his voice, a brisk professionalism in his manner; his handshake quick and firm and dry.
He waited until she'd settled into a chair.
"Out on loan, aren't you? Wild and woolly provinces?"
"Something like that."
"Going okay?"
"Not too bad."
"Did that once," Dixon said. "When I was a DI. Manchester. Spent as much time watching my back as anything else."
Karen smiled.
"Murder investigation, isn't it? One of ours?"
"Yes."
"Nasty."
Karen nodded.
Dixon said, "Anyway, what can I do for you? Something to do with that north London operation, your bagman said."
"Stuart Daines, he was one of Customs and Excise people involved?"
"Stuart, yes. SOCA now. Why d'you ask?
Karen smiled again, almost apologetically this time. "I'm fishing around a bit here, and of course you don't have to answer, but was there ever any suggestion he was less than kosher? Anything about him that gave you any doubts, made you stop and think?"
"Whoa!" Dixon said, and raised both hands. "Wait up, wait up. Just what are we getting into here? This isn't the time or the place."
"Bear with me," Karen said. "Let me try and explain."
Dixon listened patiently and, for a moment, when she'd finished, he was quiet.
"Seems to me whatever you've got linking Daines to your enquiry is limited, at best. In fact, I'd say you had jackshit and were pretty frantically flailing around trying to stop yourself from drowning."
Karen continued regardless. "As I understand it, one of the traffickers arrested walked free without being charged."
"That's right."
"One of Daines's informants?"
Dixon ventured a quick smile. "You don't expect me to answer that."
"So, what then? Daines put in a word on his behalf? Maybe something more than t
hat? Some piece of evidence against him getting contaminated, lost?"
"It happens."
"Doesn't make it right."
"Look." Dixon pushed his chair back from the desk. "Don't get sanctimonious with me, okay? We got a good result. Several dozen weapons taken out of commission, practically a thousand rounds of ammunition. The men arrested went down for a good thirty years between them."
"And that justifies-"
"You know it fucking does!"
Karen slowly released a breath before rising to her feet. "Thanks for your time. Anything I've said-implied-about any impropriety-I know it won't leave this room."
She moved away from her chair.
Dixon hesitated before he spoke. "You may know this or not. From your questions, I'll assume that you do. There's an operation SOCA and ourselves are currently running together, down here and up in Nottingham. Daines is involved. The whole thing's on a bit of a knife edge at the moment. Eighteen months watching and waiting, keeping the lines open between ourselves and our colleagues in the Baltic. We think there might be as many as three hundred, three hundred and fifty weapons, several thousand rounds of ammunition. Move at the right time, and we get the goods, the suppliers, the middlemen, the whole kit and caboodle. Get it wrong and we stand to lose pretty much everything. All those hours of police work down the drain and another batch of guns out on the open market. A month from now, and they could be in the hands of some serious villain taking down a security van on the Ruislip bypass or a pumped-up fifteen-year-old in south London or Manchester who wants to earn a little respect by putting a bullet in some other kid's head. You know what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I think so."
"It seems to me, as far as your murder investigation's concerned, anything regarding Daines is just so much whistling in the wind. But if things change, if you feel impelled to act in any way that might throw this current operation off course, I'd ask you let me know first. Give us fair warning."
"And after?"
"After's a different matter." He held out his hand. "You know where to find me."
