Cold in Hand cr-11

by John Harvey

  A group of lads, eight or ten of them, young enough they should have been in school, were playing an impromptu game around one of the goalmouths, shouting, arms raised, as they ran. "Here! Here! Give it! Give it now! Oh, fuckin' hell!"

  As the ball was booted back from behind the goal, a kid wearing knee-length shorts and a claret and blue shirt with the name Tevez on the back went on an evasive run that ended only when two of the others clattered into him and he went sprawling, the ball running free and across to where Resnick and Bucur were walking, and Bucur, with nice economy of movement, flicked it up onto his instep and kicked it precisely back.

  "Could do with you in Notts," Resnick said, impressed. "Control like that."

  Bucur smiled. "I had a trial once. Back in Romania."

  "Dynamo Bucharest?" It was the only Romanian team Resnick knew.

  "No. Farul. From my hometown, Constanta. FC Farul. They are in Liga 1. Not so great. Finish thirteen, fourteen." He smiled again. "The Sharks, that's what we call them. The Sharks. Constanta, it is by the sea."

  They walked on a little farther.

  "You've spoken to Andreea's family?" Resnick asked.

  Bucur's expression changed. "Yes. Her mother. The police, they had told her already what happened, but she did not understand. 'How can this be?' she kept saying to me. 'How can this be?' I did not know what to say. She only knows Andreea was studying here, working in her spare time as a cleaner. She did not know about this other… this other work she did, how she would meet such people. It was too difficult to explain."

  Resnick nodded. They walked on, crossing paths with several people out with their dogs, for the most part bull terriers or similar, short-haired and muscular with flattish heads and broad shoulders, much like their owners.

  "Andreea's body," Bucur asked, "what will happen?"

  "It will be held on to for a while, at least, while the investigation continues. Once a suspect has been arrested and his defence team have had the chance to examine the body, then it can be released."

  "Back to Constanta?"

  "I imagine so, yes."

  The ground here was damp and yielded easily to the tread. The river wound in front of them, making its way down from Tottenham Hale and the Cook's Ferry Inn, a famous jazz pub of the fifties and sixties, home for years to a fiery trumpeter named Freddy Randall. Resnick had never been there.

  Bucur said suddenly, "She told me, this man Lazic, what he did. Why she was always so afraid. He took her, with another man, by night to this… this place full of rubbish. 'Refuse'-is that the word?"

  "Yes."

  "He took her there and made her kneel and then he put a knife against her throat and told her what he will do. He will cut her from here to here." Bucur made the gesture with the forefinger of his right hand. "He came once to the flat, you know, I told your colleague, your friend, he came asking for her and we fought. Andreea was not there. I tried to be there as much as I could after that, you know, in case, but I could not always and…"

  "It's okay," Resnick said. "You did what you could."

  "No, no. I should have done more. I-"

  "If their minds were made up, you couldn't protect her all the time."

  "But you, the police, your friend, the inspector, she knew his name and the other policeman also. I told him, that evening-"

  "Wait. Which other policeman?"

  "The one Inspector Kellogg came with the first time."

  "Daines?"

  "Yes, Daines."

  "Why did you tell him?"

  "Because… because when I was worried about Andreea and called Inspector Kellogg on my phone, there was no reply, so then I call this Daines-Andreea had his number, both numbers, in her room. From Daines there is no answer also, so I leave a message for him to ring back, and then when I try Inspector Kellogg's number again she is there and she agreed to come."

  "But you said you gave Daines the man's name?"

  "Yes. But later. He called back not long after the inspector has gone. I tell him about Lazic then."

  "What did he say?"

  "He says not to worry. He knows this Lazic, he is watching him. And Andreea, he thinks she will be fine."

  "Did you tell him anything else?"

  Bucur gave a slow, uncertain shake of his head. "I don't think so."

  "Nothing about Inspector Kellogg?"

  "Only that she had been here, of course. And that he had just missed her, but she had left to catch her train."

  "Her train, you mentioned that?"

  For a moment, Bucur looked puzzled. "Yes, her train home."

  The three detectives met at a service station on the motorway, Leicester Forest East: a small accommodation this for Euan Guest, travelling down from Doncaster, and almost in Karen's current backyard, but Butcher happy to go the extra yard as long as it was clear the primacy of roles in the investigation was his. Guest was prepared to accept this for now and argue later, whereas Karen, a transplanted Met officer herself and aware of the Met's resources, thought it was fine.

  Chris Butcher had put on a few pounds since she'd last seen him, faded blue shirt straining just a little over his chinos, jacket buttons left undone. His hair, always dark, seemed to have taken on the first few strands of grey and could have done with a trim; whenever he'd shaved last, it hadn't been that morning, maybe not even the morning before. Going for the swarthy, Mediterranean look, Karen thought: Italian waiter slash Premier League footballer. For a man of what? — forty? forty-one or — two? — he wasn't in bad condition.

  His smile when he saw her was quick and, she thought, genuine; quickly in place and quickly gone.

  Euan Guest in the flesh was something of a surprise: younger than she'd imagined from his voice, and tall, four or five inches above six foot, a willowy build with a stooped head topped by a thatch of fair hair.

  All three had coffee; Guest a Danish pastry, Butcher a burger and chips. Karen abstained.

  "Watching your figure?" Butcher suggested.

  "No," Karen said. "That's you."

  Butcher laughed, found out. He hadn't been meaning to stare, but the top Karen was wearing acted as a powerful tool to the imagination, and, he would have had to admit, she'd crossed the lascivious part of his mind more than once in the eighteen months or so since they'd worked together on a double murder in Rotherhithe-a father and son shot down in the rear car park of a pub, payback for some back-street philandering, first the father, then the son, then both together, tupping the wife of a former boxing-club owner turned scrap merchant and making the mistake of posting their endeavours on YouTube.

  Messy business.

  "So," Butcher said emphatically, "what've we got?"

  Guest swallowed a piece of Danish pastry. "The ballistics came in at last on the gun that killed Kelvin Pearce. Same model as the one used in the Kellogg shooting, similar ammo, but definitely not the same weapon. Sorry."

  "Shit!" Karen exploded.

  "Both shootings," Butcher added. "Different MO altogether. Not that that rules out other connections."

  "To Zoukas, you mean?"

  Butcher reached into the worn leather briefcase he'd carried in with him and extracted a grey card file; from this he drew four ten-by-eight photographs and laid them on the table.

  "Ivan Lazic. One was taken almost eight years back now, the others are more recent. This one here." He pointed to a slightly blurry shot of two men on a pavement in conversation, probably taken from a passing car. "Lazic and Valdemar Zoukas, Wood Green, North London, a year ago."

  "Where'd'you get this?" Karen asked.

  "SOCA. Their Intelligence Directorate. Most obliging. At least, an ex-colleague was. Apparently Customs got interested in Lazic when he first came into the country in '99, claiming asylum, another refugee of the war in Kosovo. Whatever the truth of that is, God knows. There was some supposition, according to the officer I spoke to, that he'd been a member of the Serbian security services, though he claimed to have been with the Kosovo Liberation Army. Who
knows? Since being here he seems to have taken up with the Albanians, so maybe he was telling the truth."

  "Wait up." Guest raised a hand. "This Liberation Army, they're Albanian?"

  "Correct. Fighting for independence from the Serbs."

  "And they were what? The good guys in all this?"

  Butcher made a face. "Depends. Both sides accused the other of atrocities, ethnic cleansing, the whole bit. If the KLA was any better or worse than the Serbs, who's to say?"

  "And Lazic could have been either."

  "Or both. Exactly."

  "But his connection to these Zoukas characters, that's confirmed?"

  "According to SOCA, he's been doing their dirty work for some time. Not that they're above a bit of nasty themselves, but Lazic, it seems, enjoys it more than most."

  "Then why not arrest him?" Guest asked.

  Butcher shrugged. "Evidence, probably. Lack of."

  "What we know," Guest said, "he threatened both Pearce and Florescu before they died. The link to your shooting"-he looked at Karen-"seems to me it's less clear."

  "Agreed."

  "What we don't yet have, though," Guest continued, "any more than, presumably, SOCA do, is enough evidence to be certain if we arrested him we could make it stick."

  "Ah," said Butcher loudly, with the air of a magician about to pull a rabbit from the hat, "perhaps we do."

  Karen smiled ruefully. What was it with men, this need to stage a grandstand finish, wait until the last minute of injury time to slot the ball into the net?

  "Skin," Butcher said, "under the fingernails. Andreea Florescu put up a fight."

  "We know it's Lazic's?"

  "Not yet we don't. But if we bring him in now and there's a DNA match, that's Ivan Lazic looking at life inside."

  "Perhaps one of us should go to Wood Green," Karen suggested, "wherever it is he hangs out. 'Excuse me, Mr. Lazic, but could you oblige me with a sample?'"

  "You ask him," Butcher said, "he probably would."

  All three dissolved into laughter, Karen as much as the others.

  On the way back down to the car park, Butcher steered her a little to one side. "When you've finished up in Nottingham, maybe you and me could get together? Drink, something to eat? What d'you think?"

  Karen shot him a look that said, "In your dreams," which, as far as Chris Butcher was concerned, was probably true.

  Forty-two

  By the time Resnick got back to Nottingham, it was dark. Not late, but dark. The last commuters had been travelling with him on the London train, using their mobiles to let their spouses know they would be back within the next half hour. All journey he'd been tugging at it in his mind, pulling and knuckling it into shape. Daines-Zoukas-Andreea-Lynn. Each time he pushed, some piece would slip out of place and he would worry at it again. In the end it was still imperfect-conjecture, not proof-but the basic shape now held.

  A lone busker was still plying his trade hopefully on Lister Gate, a song Resnick barely recognised-Bob Dylan? they often were-sung harshly over the rough chords of a guitar. A couple in a doorway, hip to hip. On the edge of the square, a woman was waiting, pacing slowly up and down in front of the left lion; as Resnick approached, she glanced up at him expectantly then looked away disappointedly. He turned left to walk through the centre of the square, and a group of men, laughing loudly, crossed ahead of him between Yates's and the Bell, shirt-tails to the wind.

  There was only one light showing, faint beyond the front door, in the building where SOCA had their offices. Resnick was on the point of walking away when a woman came out and closed the door behind her, standing on the top step long enough to reach into her bag and light a cigarette. In the flare of the lighter, he saw a roundish face with narrowed eyes. Thirty? Thirty-five?

  "Damn," Resnick said, moving briskly forward. "Don't tell me I've missed him."

  Startled, the woman backed away.

  "Detective Inspector Resnick." He took out his wallet and held it towards her without ever really letting it fall open. "London bloody train. Signal failure outside Loughborough. Sat there the best part of forty minutes." He smiled. "Shouldn't have been late otherwise." He nodded towards the first-floor window. "Stuart. Stuart Daines. We had a meeting. I tried phoning, somehow couldn't get through. You haven't had trouble with the line? Nothing like that?"

  "No," the woman said. "No, not as far as I know. I'm only temping, though. Secretarial, like." Her accent was local.

  "Shame," Resnick said. "I tried his mobile, too. Switched off, apparently."

  "There's nobody there now," she said. "I was the last. Just finishing off this report. Last-minute." She smiled a little nervously and drew on her cigarette.

  "It was important, too. Something we needed to discuss before the morning."

  "Daines, you said? He'll be here first thing, always is."

  "You don't know where he's staying, I suppose? This mobile number-maybe it's the wrong one."

  "No, no idea. I'm sorry." A quick smile. "My bus. Got to go."

  Level with him, she stopped. "I did hear one of them say they were going for a drink. That place over Maid Marian Way. China China, I think that's what it's called. Down on Chapel Bar." Her laugh was almost a giggle. "Dead posh, that's what I've been told."

  Resnick waited them out. Daines and three others, sitting over towards a small corner stage that was empty save for a black glitter drum kit and a small electronic keyboard. No signs of a band. The interior was busy and dark, with minimal lighting recessed into the ceiling and, near where Resnick was standing, a cluster of small green lights hanging down amidst a nest of wires. Daines and one of the others were drinking cocktails of some kind, the other men bottled beer-Sol, it might have been, Resnick thought, though he couldn't be sure. The music coming through the sound system was rhythmic and just loud enough not to get lost in the rise and fall of conversation. Cuban, he wondered? Brazilian? Most of the men were smartly turned out-smart-casual, was that what it was called? — anything less would have been turned back at the door; the women sleek and sophisticated until they opened their mouths.

  One of the quartet Resnick was watching left quite soon after he arrived, and another shortly after, leaving Daines and one other, short with reddish hair, in close conversation.

  Twenty minutes or so later, their glasses empty, Daines began to make his way towards the bar. Midway there, he stopped suddenly, his head swinging round towards the far, deep corner, left of the door, where Resnick was standing and Resnick held his breath, fearful that he'd been spotted, but then Daines excused himself past someone and continued on his way.

  The music rose in volume and the conversation in the room grew louder, as if in compensation. Back at his table, Daines leaned closer towards his colleague and said something that made them both laugh out loud. A few minutes later, they headed for the exit.

  Resnick turned aside, waited, and then followed.

  At the end of Angel Row, they separated, the redhead walking up Market Street towards the Theatre Royal, while Daines carried on along the upper edge of the Old Market Square. Heading for one of the Lace Market hotels, perhaps, Resnick thought, or the Travelodge, just past the roundabout on London Road. A quick right and left, however, and they were out on to Belward Street opposite the National Ice Centre and Daines was veering towards the tall block of serviced apartments on the left.

  Resnick lengthened his stride, moved quickly across the foyer and into the lift before the doors had closed.

  "What the fuck?"

  Daines had already pressed one of the buttons to set the lift in progress, and now Resnick pressed another, halting it mid-floor.

  Seeing who it was, Daines laughed, as much out of relief, perhaps, as anything else. "Took you for some bastard mugger, after my wallet. Never can tell."

  Resnick positioned himself with his back towards the door.

  "I thought I saw you earlier, in the bar," Daines said. "Couldn't be sure."

  Resnick looked back at him, impas
sive.

  "So I have to guess what this is all about?"

  Resnick still said nothing, taking his time.

  "Let's go on up," Daines said. "We can talk in the flat. Or go back out onto the street, at least. Get another drink, maybe. Not too late."

  "This is fine."

  Daines shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  "The night Lynn Kellogg was killed, she'd been down to London, the house where Andreea Florescu had been living. The same place the two of you visited a few days before."

  "So? Why are you telling me this?"

  "She thought, Lynn, that whole business, that you were in too deep."

  Daines scoffed and shook his head.

  "Something between yourself and the Zoukas brothers that she didn't trust. She started to ask questions and you warned her off."

  "She was way off limits."

  "You threatened her."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "That evening, outside the Peacock. 'Don't make me your enemy.' She told me, less than twenty minutes later."

  "She was exaggerating."

  "I don't think so."

  "I don't recall saying any such thing."

  "'Don't make me your enemy.'"

  "That's what I'm supposed to have said?"

  "Word for word."

  Daines's expression changed. "Maybe you should take heed, too."

  "Now you're threatening me?"

  A hint of a smile crossed Daines's face. "Look," he said, "I can understand why you're so wound up about this. You and her. It's personal, I can see that. I can sympathise. But the last I heard, unless it's been rescinded, you've been invalided out. 'Unfit for duty,' isn't that the phrase? And for what you're doing here, keeping me against my will, you could be in deep, deep shit. I could press charges. That incident at Central Station, an unprovoked attack on a civilian, and now this-you'd be lucky to hang on to your pension. So let's both take a deep breath, okay?" Daines gestured with his hands. "I know you've been under a strain, and I'm prepared to forget any of this ever happened. What do you say?"

  "Alexander Bucur," Resnick said, "you phoned him that evening, the same day Lynn went down on her own-"