Rough Treatment

by John Harvey

  “Why would he do that?”

  “The fact that he found the pair of us …”

  “Harold doesn’t give a toss about us, whatever we were doing.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “Give a toss.”

  “I’m sorry. Not ladylike. I was forgetting you were the sweet, old-fashioned kind. Only liked women who said please first, thank you afterwards and refused to unbutton their blouses while the lights were on.”

  “You know that isn’t true.”

  “I know.”

  “Which doesn’t alter the fact that Harold …”

  “Harold has made a deal to fix you up with his drug-pusher. That doesn’t come off, he’s going to be walking round minus his balls. The last thing he wants is for the police to get on to you.”

  Silence. Grabianski was thinking.

  “Jerry?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’ll be all right, won’t it?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “I mean, there’s no other way they can get at you, is there?”

  “They haven’t so far. Not as much as a sniff.”

  Maria sighed. “I’m glad.”

  “I’ll call you,” Grabianski said. “Tomorrow.”

  “You’re not coming round?” “It’s too late.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see.”

  “You’re not pulling out on me, are you?”

  “No.” He said it quickly enough for Maria to believe him.

  “Jerry…”

  “Um?”

  “Be careful, won’t you?”

  He made a kissing sound down the line and hung up again and this time he didn’t ring back. Maria didn’t know whether to have another gin or soak in the bath. In the end she found a dog-eared Jackie Collins that she’d read before and decided to do both.

  By the time Harold Roy had stopped talking to Resnick he felt twenty pounds lighter and his head, instead of aching, was a whole lot clearer. Walking out at the back of the studios, the light was darkening to purple across the rooftops. The only things Resnick hadn’t done, instructed him to make a perfect act of contrition, say five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys, hear the final words of absolution.

  Those would come.

  Twenty-seven

  “Lager, please,” Patel said.

  “Draught or bottle?”

  “Er, draught.”

  “Pint or half?”

  “Half.”

  “Didn’t think your lot drank.”

  “Oh, yes, some of us do.”

  “Against your religion or something, alcohol.”

  Looking over his shoulder, Patel saw the man he had followed, Grice, feeding coins into a gambling-machine that flashed lights and emitted an electronic jingle. “Thanks,” he said, collecting his change, picking his glass off the counter.

  Not exactly according to instructions, this, but, mild for the time of year or not, standing around was leaking the cold into his back and shoulders. Three times the elderly woman with the astrakhan collar had been back down to him, when was he going to go and arrest the man who kept looking into her bedroom with his binoculars? She didn’t feel safe taking a bath, getting undressed.

  When Grice had come out, standing by one of the parked cars for a few moments, deciding whether to take it or walk, Patel had made up his mind. The target had moved off right and Patel had stayed down behind the phalanx of green bins, calling into the station, before following.

  Grice had walked fast, hands jammed into his topcoat pockets, not breaking stride until he reached the pedestrian lights at the head of Castle Boulevard. Behind them, the castle itself, the rebuilt seventeenth-century version of it, held its ground high on weathered rock. Patel followed over and almost immediately right, past the Irish Center where they sold Dublin papers on a Sunday morning, where lines of mostly English students queued on a Saturday night, eager to dance and drink into the early hours.

  The pub itself was on the canal, seats outside where later in the year you could watch the barges making their slow passage through the lock. Patel chose a table between the amusement-machines and the main door, the third point of a triangle. A copy of yesterday’s Post had been bunched up against the seat nearby and he opened it out, folding the sports pages to read about the cricket being played in New Zealand. Richard Hadlee, now there was a competitor: Patel had been lucky enough to get a seat on the top deck at Trent Bridge several times during the last couple of seasons, and had watched Hadlee bowl from behind the arm. Patches when the ball was moving both ways, digging in, virtually unplayable.

  His man came past him and Patel prepared to finish his lager, get up and leave, but all the target did was go to the bar and order another drink. Sitting back down, he glanced at his watch, not once, twice. All right, thought Patel, he’s waiting for somebody. Good. The cricket report finished, he turned on to the classifieds. Now that house prices were stabilizing, maybe he should think more seriously about moving out from his couple of rooms, buying a place of his own, one of those terraced houses east of Derby Road, close enough so’s he could still walk to work each morning.

  Patel could see the knowing smile that would come to his mother’s face, the studied look of approval on his father’s: he was settling down, not a boy any more, marriage, he needed a good woman to look after him, children.

  Patel felt his blood quicken as soon as the newcomer came through the door. Medium height, slight build, eyes that were a shade nervous as they picked out the person they were looking for. A low-alcohol lager carried behind Patel and into the corner. Quick shake of hands.

  Patel’s finger moved down the page. It was still possible to find something perfectly reasonable for less than forty thousand, and if his mortgage would stretch to a little more …

  The new man was wearing a dark double-breasted suit, pale yellow shirt and striped tie. Patel put him at thirty-three or -four. He would have guessed somewhere along the range from car salesman to insurance; estate agent, even. But he didn’t think the hushed conversation had anything to do with surveys or searches, nor that what was passed between them—a padded envelope, the size that would fit down into an inside pocket, a sheet of paper, folded three times—had anything to do with land deeds, options to purchase.

  Grice stood abruptly, moving towards the gents. Patel waited, watching the man in the suit, a small dark mustache drawn across his face like a mistake. Suddenly the man’s head turned and he was looking directly at Patel, eyes widening with interest; no, he was looking past him, a woman entering from the street, forties, short skirt and good legs. Grice almost collided with her on his way back.

  The two men, both standing now, exchanged a few more sentences before Patel’s target turned towards the door and his friend sat back down.

  Options jumped through Patel’s mind and he stayed put, letting Grice go. Initiative or stupidity, time would see. He went back to the property pages—Arnold, New Basford, Bulwell. The man in the suit was more relaxed now; he made a second trip to the bar and said something to the woman in the short skirt, who laughed. Sitting down again, he lit a cigarette and leaned back easily, and Patel thought he was in for a long wait. This time he would ask for a ginger ale. But no. The cigarette was pressed down into the glass ashtray, half-smoked, the glass drained as the man rose to his feet. He was out of the door and on to the pavement before Patel had nodded to the barman, crossed to the floor.

  Time to see him getting into a black Ford Escort, stabilizer at the rear, car phone, sun-roof, hardly a patch of dirt on the wheels. Unable to follow, Patel took out his notebook and wrote down the number.

  Resnick was back in his office in time for Patel’s call. No way of knowing whether Grice had gone back to the flat or if Grabianski had left in the meantime. There were other things to do, shifting priorities, and to keep Patel watching a potentially empty set of rooms was wasteful. Come back in and get together with Nayl
or over the VDU.

  “Coffee,” Resnick called out into the CID room. “Black and now.”

  The adrenalin was pumping and he knew they were close; just unsure as yet exactly what they were close to, how big.

  “Jeff,” he said into the phone. “Charlie Resnick.”

  “Thought you’d been avoiding me,” said Harrison, caustic yet wary.

  “Snowed under.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Still game for that drink?”

  “Seven suit you? Seven-thirty?”

  “Difficult. You can’t make it around nine?”

  “You still go to the Partridge?”

  Not since I was there with Rachel, Resnick thought. “Yes. Nine o’clock, then.”

  Harrison grunted and broke the connection. Resnick had the list underlined in his head: Skelton, Lennie Lawrence, Tom Parker, Norman Mann—and Graham Millington, else he’ll feel left out, stepped over. He was dialing the first number when he saw Lynn Kellogg through the glass at the top half of the door, the expression on her face.

  “I didn’t know, sir.”

  “Course you didn’t. How could you?”

  “Had no idea.”

  “I know.” She sat there with elbows to her knees, head down, face resting against the palm of one hand. Unusually for Lynn, she didn’t want to look at him. “Even if you had …”

  She shook her head.

  “Her father…”

  “Not here, sir. Not in the building. I don’t know …”

  “No.”

  Resnick was on his feet, moving around the desk. Naylor appeared at the door with his coffee and Resnick waved him away. “Sounds to me as if you did well …”

  “No!”

  “What you were there for.”

  “But it wasn’t, was it? Organized gangs, that’s what I’ve been looking out for, wasting my time. Not one kid.”

  “Lynn.”

  “Yes.” She looked up at him, her cheeks more flushed even than was usual. “Yes, sir?”

  “Is she downstairs?”

  Lynn nodded. “I didn’t know whether to send for her mother or not. The superintendent …”

  “I’ll go down.” Resnick opened the office door. “You all right?”

  “Thanks, sir. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll write up your report?”

  “Now, sir.”

  “Naylor’s got some coffee out there, have it with my compliments.”

  He went out and left her sitting in his office, seemingly staring at the elaborate duty-rota fixed to the wall behind his desk. Before quitting the CID room he signaled to Naylor to take the coffee through.

  He hadn’t seen Kate in person since she was thirteen years old. Only the scrubbed face on the superintendent’s desk, blank and smiling. Today he expected somebody much older, more mature, but the face that swung up at him from behind the white of the custody sergeant’s shirt was every bit as young as he remembered it. Different, though. Eyes rubbed raw and cheeks swollen with crying.

  “Hello, Kate.”

  She blinked at him, another in a succession of police officers.

  “You probably don’t remember me …”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go upstairs.” Shrugging, she stood. “That okay?” he said to the sergeant.

  “Help yourself.”

  “Are you taking me to my dad?” Kate asked on the stairs.

  “Not yet,” Resnick said. “When he comes back.”

  “He doesn’t know yet?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “He’ll kill me, won’t he?”

  Resnick found a smile in his eyes. “I doubt that.” On the landing he said, “Fancy a cup of tea, coffee?”

  She shook her head.

  “Come and watch me, then. I just gave mine away.” They sat in the canteen. Kate relented and had a tea, spooning so much sugar into it, she couldn’t stir it without the liquid swimming over the edge and running on to the edges of her jumper, but she didn’t seem to care or even notice.

  “Haven’t got a cigarette, have you?”

  Resnick shook his head. Did her father approve of her smoking, he wondered, before realizing what an asinine thought it was.

  After twenty or so minutes of difficult silences and desultory conversation, most of it Resnick’s, Lynn Kellogg waved at him from the doorway. Jack Skelton had returned.

  Lynn waited outside with Kate while Resnick knocked and went in. Skelton had hung his suit jacket on the hanger behind the door and had yet to gain his desk.

  “Charlie. What can I do for you?”

  There was warning there already in the concern that sat on Resnick’s face, the lack of any ready reply. Skelton eased back his chair and remained standing.

  “Don’t beat around the bush, Charlie.”

  “It’s your daughter, sir, Kate. She’s …”

  “She’s all right?”

  “She’s outside.”

  Skelton started towards the door, stopped close to where Resnick was standing. The two men looked at one another and it was Resnick who looked away.

  “She’s in trouble, then?”

  “Yes, sir. She … DC Kellogg, she was on duty at the center. Kate …”

  “Christ,” breathed Skelton. “She’s been caught shoplifting.”

  Resnick nodded. “Yes.”

  “She’s here? Here now?”

  “Outside.”

  “God, Charlie.” Skelton’s fingers rested on Resnick’s arm as the life seemed to pass from his eyes. Turning back to his desk, the spring had gone from his step, his shoulders, ever straight, slumped forward.

  “There’s no question?”

  “She’s admitted the offense. On the way in.”

  “I see.”

  “Others, too. It seems … seems to have been going on some little time.” The occasions he had been forced to do this, parents called unknowing to the door, mistaking him for a Jehovah’s Witness, some cowboy wanting to set slates back on the roof; their minds still swimming with whatever they’d been watching on TV. Slowly dawning: I’ll kill the little bastard, what’s he been up to now? Belligerence. Anger. Tears. My Terry, he’s off t’youth club, I know for a fact. My Tracy … My Kate.

  Skelton didn’t say anything, sat there trying not to stare at the family photos, precise and particular on his desk.

  “You’ll want to see her, sir. Before she’s interviewed. Makes a statement.”

  “All right, Charlie.” He looked poleaxed. “Just give me a couple of minutes, will you? Then ask DC Kellogg to bring her through.”

  Resnick nodded and went towards the door. It seemed a strangely long way and all the time he was expecting the superintendent to call him back, say something more, though he didn’t know what that should be. But there was nothing further. Resnick opened the office door and closed it again behind him.

  “A couple of minutes,” he said to Lynn.

  “Right, sir.”

  When he looked at Kate, she turned her head away.

  Twenty-eight

  Graham Millington was feeling pretty chipper. His wife had agreed to take time off from her evening classes, one of the neighbors had promised to keep an eye on the kids, they had seats for the Royal Center, third row center. Petula Clark. As far as Millington was concerned you could take all your Elaine Paiges and Barbara Dicksons, Shirley Basseys even, lump them all together and they still wouldn’t rival Petula. God, she’d been going since before he could remember and that had to say something for her. And it wasn’t just her voice that was in great shape. She wasn’t page three, of course, never had been and wouldn’t thank you for saying so, but at least what there was was all hers. No nipping and tucking there. None of your hormone transplants either. Fifty whatever she was and looking like that. Incredible!

  Millington wandered across the CID room in happy reverie, whistling “Downtown.”

  “What is it with you, Graham?” Resnick asked.

  “Sorry, sir
?”

  “Last year it was all I could do to keep you from murdering ‘Moonlight Serenade.’”

  Millington looked down at his feet and for one awful moment Resnick thought the sergeant was going to break into a soft-shoe shuffle. “Your mother wasn’t frightened by the Black and White Minstrels when she was carrying you, was she?”

  Millington had been inside Resnick’s house once; he’d seen the inspector’s record collection. The sort he listened to, half of them snuffed it from sticking needles in their arms before they were thirty.

  “Heard about the super’s kid,” Millington said, changing the subject. “How’s he taking it?”

  “How d’you think?” said Resnick sharply. Millington had a clear vision of one of his own, the time he’d found him sitting down behind his bed getting too interested in a tube of Airfix glue.

  “Anything new?” Resnick asked. “Fossey, for instance.”

  The sergeant recalled the other reason he’d been whistling happily. “Patel, sir. The bloke our man Grice met in the pub, he put the number through Swansea. Car’s licensed to an Andrew John Savage.”

  “Fossey’s friend.”

  “And helper. Low-grade insurance broker. Lowest quotes, immediate and personal service guaranteed.”

  It was Resnick’s turn to smile. “Fossey didn’t get back in touch with his records, I suppose?”

  Millington shook his head. “Might be enough now to get a warrant.”

  “Let’s wait on that one. Push too hard and he might be tempted to do a runner. They both might. We’ll have a little get-together first thing tomorrow, make sure the strategy’s right. Okay. Graham?”

  “Yes, sir,” Millington nodded. But he didn’t move away—and neither did he stop smiling.

  “There’s more?” Resnick asked. He hoped it wasn’t going to be “Don’t Sleep in the Subway,” even, heaven forbid, “Winchester Cathedral.” “Sailor!”

  “Trevor Grice. We never ran a check on him till now.”

  Resnick waited for the punchline.

  “Two years for burglary back in ’76.”

  “Clean since then?”

  “According to the computer.”

  “Except we know better, eh, Graham?”

  “Yes, sir.”