Darkness, Darkness: (Resnick 12)

by Harvey, John

  His mouth moved over hers, his tongue between her lips.

  Catherine allowed her own mouth to open further, then bit down hard. Bit into the edge of his tongue, his lower lip, tasting blood.

  ‘You bitch!’

  His elbow swung and caught her in the face and sent her stumbling back. He made a grab for her and, avoiding him, she swivelled away, seized the bottle from the table and lifted it above her head.

  When he made another lunge towards her, she brought it down on his arm at the elbow, hard as she could.

  When he cried out, blood spluttered from his mouth.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ Stepping further back, she threw the bottle at his head. Missing, it smashed against the wall, the remaining wine splashing across the chair, the kitchen door.

  Backing away, blood still dribbling from his mouth, he stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘You stupid cunt.’

  ‘Just go.’

  As soon as he was outside, she slammed the door shut, double-locked it, turned and leaned her back against it; sinking slowly then, sobbing, to the floor.

  36

  IN THE LOCAL paper, the Nottingham Post, it was front-page news, with an editorial and a double-page spread inside. Police question convicted serial killer about the violent deaths of two more women: best-selling true-crime author Trevor Fleetwood tells how his years of research into these terrible crimes finally led to the cases being reopened. A photograph of a serious yet smiling Fleetwood showed him holding a copy of Born to Kill – the book which first told the truth about Michael Swann.

  The same photograph was liberally used throughout the national press.

  The Telegraph, Metro and the Mail featured the story strongly; as did The Times and the Express, the Independent and the Star. Blurry photographs of Michael Swann’s three acknowledged victims were printed in the Sun alongside pictures of Donna Crowder and Jenny Hardwick, with a head-and-shoulder shot of Swann himself at the centre and the 36-point headline, How Many More Did This Man Kill? The Guardian had an article on violence against women on its Comment page and a news paragraph on page 9.

  The Internet was having a field day.

  Trevor Fleetwood’s website had in excess of a thousand extra hits, his Twitter account was going crazy, and, by mid-morning, Born to Kill had risen eight hundred and fifty places on Amazon, with Death by Water and In the Ripper’s Footsteps close behind.

  Resnick had picked up two double espressos from the café on Bridge Street and handed one to Catherine as soon as she arrived.

  ‘Thought you might be needing this.’

  ‘Thanks. Three messages on my phone from Picard already.’

  Resnick followed her into the building.

  ‘Plus,’ over her shoulder, ‘someone from Corporate Communication at Force Headquarters wants to see me as a matter of urgency. And several messages from Barry Hardwick – and his oldest son – demanding to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Meanwhile Fleetwood’s sitting back laughing.’

  ‘You think he’s played us for fools?’

  ‘Let’s hope not entirely.’

  At the top of the stairs, overhead lights bright and unforgiving, Resnick stopped, touched her arm. ‘Your face, what happened?’

  There was a swelling, slight but noticeable, over Catherine’s left eye; bruising showing through the natural darkness of her skin.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Catherine . . .’

  ‘I fell, that’s all.’

  ‘You fell?’

  ‘Yes, slipped. At home of all places. The kitchen. Some oil that had got spilt on the floor.’

  ‘But you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Fine. Nothing a couple of ibuprofen couldn’t cure.’

  ‘You’ve been to hospital, though, had an X-ray?’

  ‘Charlie, come on. It’s just a little bump, don’t make a fuss.’ Brushing past him, she pushed into the office.

  ‘Good picture of you online, boss,’ McBride said, swinging round from behind his screen. “Black detective leads investigation into double murder. Serial killer interviewed.”’

  Catherine swore beneath her breath.

  Almost immediately, her phone rang. Picard. Raising an eyebrow in Resnick’s direction she winced; went out of the room to take the call. She was likely to be some time.

  ‘Now all this has blown up,’ McBride said, ‘those M62 suspects we’ve been looking at, carry on with that or not?’

  ‘Much of interest so far?’

  ‘Still early to say.’

  ‘Then whatever Fleetwood’s motives, let’s stick with it a bit longer.’

  ‘I took a look at him, Fleetwood, just out of interest.’

  ‘Anything?’

  McBride shrugged. ‘Married twice, twice divorced, two grown-up sons. Lives in Leeds, or he did. Last-known address. Started out as a reporter in the north-west: Rochdale Observer, Northwich Chronicle, Manchester Evening News. Crime, courts, you know the kind of thing. Bit of success with the books and went freelance. But look at this . . .’

  He opened another page onscreen.

  ‘Sued for libel, twice. One case settled out of court. The other, after a retrial, found in his favour.’

  ‘What grounds?’

  McBride read it off the screen. ‘“On the grounds that statements he had made in print had been without malice and in good faith, from a reasonable belief to have been true.” So yes, let’s not be taking everything he said without more than a good pinch of salt.’

  By lunchtime a spokesperson for the force had issued an official statement. The ongoing investigation into the death of Jenny Hardwick had not been extended to include any other crime. Officers had visited HM Prison Wakefield and spoken to a man currently serving a life sentence, but there was no direct link with the investigation in question and the man had not been interviewed under caution.

  Resnick had tried calling Trevor Fleetwood several times to give him a piece of his mind, but, as before, Fleetwood wasn’t answering.

  He went back to McBride. ‘Fleetwood – you said he was living in Leeds.’

  ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘And we’ve got an address?’

  ‘Planning on making a call?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Need company? I could do with getting my sorry arse out from behind this desk.’

  Meanwhile, the e-book edition of Born to Kill was sitting at number forty-seven in the top one hundred. And rising.

  37

  THE LAST OF the washing pegged out, Jenny looks at the clock as she comes back into the kitchen, gives a little shake of her head in disbelief. Some mornings she doesn’t know where the time goes. Between putting in a stint at the Welfare, ferrying the kids to school, doing jobs around the house, it can be lunchtime before she knows it and time to collect Brian from nursery. Not a minute even to sit down with a cup of tea. Not a minute to herself. At least today, Linda from across the road has said she’ll pick Brian up with hers, drop him back.

  A right pain he’d been this morning. Colin, too. Hanging on to her at the school gates when they’d arrived and carrying on something dreadful when she tried to get him to let go. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!’ Clinging to her legs and screaming. Embarrassing in front of everyone else.

  It had taken one of the teachers – Nicky’s mum – to calm him down, entice him away. Nicky and Mary already skipping off across the playground, laughing, giggling, holding hands.

  Barry hadn’t exactly helped, either. Like a bear with a sore head ever since he’d hefted himself out of bed. Barely spoken when he left for the early shift. No more than a token picket out today, Jenny knew, most of the recent effort further south in the county, Clipstone, Annesley.

  Truth of it was, he’d been in a right mood since last night in bed. Sliding one heavy leg over hers a few minutes after Jenny had switched off her bedside light, pushing up against her behind, a hand reaching for her breast. She’d felt herself go tight, muscles clenc
hing. ‘Barry, no. No, Barry, not tonight, not now. I’m tired.’ Hating herself for saying it, what it made her sound like. Knowing the last time they’d made love was an age ago, way back before her last period, a hasty grab and go that had left her unsatisfied and sore.

  When he’d tried again, not so many minutes later, she’d rolled out of the bed, taken one of the blankets and spent the rest of the night on the sofa, waking every so often to the sound of his snoring.

  Pulling his boots on that morning, he’d seized hold of her as she went past. ‘I am still your husband, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ And stood there till she’d stared him down and he let her go.

  She’d been upstairs, brushing Mary’s hair, when she’d heard the slamming of the door.

  ‘What’s the matter with Daddy?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing really.’

  ‘Then why is he so angry?’

  The radio is playing in the other room, voices talking – Woman’s Hour, is it? – but then it’s pips and the news. She stops what she’s doing to listen. Increased violence in Beirut, she hears, without being certain exactly where Beirut is or what they are fighting about. Funeral processions in South African townships. Talks between the National Coal Board and the National Union of Mineworkers have been adjourned. We believe, a spokesman from the National Coal Board is quoted as saying, that considerable progress has been made and that an agreement is close.

  Is it, buggery, Jenny thinks.

  She swivels her head. A sound at the back door? Someone knocking? She clicks the radio off.

  A shadowy shape through the frosted glass.

  Cautiously, she opens the door; not all the way. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Come to see you, didn’t I?’

  ‘What d’you mean, come to see me?’

  ‘What d’you think?’ A quick look back over his shoulder. ‘Now for fuck’s sake, let me in.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘I’m breaking me bail conditions bein’ here. Anyone sees me, they’ll have ’em revoked, have me back up in court.’

  Grudgingly, she opens the door wide enough for him to step through; closes it fast behind him and, after a moment’s thought, slides the bolt across. They stand looking at one another, little more than an arm’s length apart.

  Danny is wearing the same old donkey jacket, boots, jeans. Looks as if he might have been sleeping rough; a couple of days, at least, since he’s had a shave.

  Jenny realises she’s staring, feels the colour flush to her cheeks.

  ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  ‘Not a secret, is it?’

  ‘Anyone could have been here, Barry, anyone.’

  He smiles. ‘Kids at school. Old man still scabbin’, on shift.’

  She shakes her head. How does he know all that? ‘You’ve got to go.’

  ‘In a while, eh?’

  ‘No, now.’ Her throat is dry, the words come out awkward, uncertain. She can’t stop looking at his mouth.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Eh, duck?’ And smiles.

  And then he’s kissing her and it’s like one of those stupid films because she’s kissing him back and one minute they’re standing there and the next they’re stumbling sideways, his jacket shucked off to the floor.

  Tongue sliding into her mouth, he pulls her to him, leans her back.

  The sink is hard against her spine; breakfast things stacked up, plates slipping, one over the other on the draining board, as she flings back an arm. His hands are on her, all over her, his leg pressing between hers, and she does nothing to push him away.

  Pulling up her thin cotton sweater, he reaches beneath and frees her breasts.

  Jenny gasps as, lowering his head, he takes her nipple, hard, in his mouth, biting gently down, and they start to slide, meshed against one another, towards the floor.

  She frees an arm, tugs at his hair, lifting his face back up towards her own. When his hand starts to move up inside her skirt she arches backwards, positioning herself to meet him, wetter than she can remember being, so wet, wanting him.

  Wanting him inside her.

  At the last moment, he’s pulled out and orgasmed, bucking, against her belly and now she lies there, still shaking, still a little bit in shock but happy, enjoying the rich slithery feel of his semen against her skin.

  Danny is stretched out next to her, eyes closed, smoking a cigarette.

  A while since either of them has spoken.

  ‘Well,’ he says eventually, ‘that was a long time coming.’

  She looks at him to see if he is joking.

  ‘That first time I clapped eyes on you, up the Welfare.’

  ‘And what now? Tick me off in your little black book? Had her, soft cow, knew I would.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, that’s not what it’s like.’

  She props herself on one elbow. ‘What is it like?’

  ‘Fancy you, don’t I? Can’t take me eyes off you. Mates ribbin’ me about it, somethin’ fierce.’

  Now she sees them up close, really close, his eyes are dark brown, flecked with green. ‘Well, now you can tell them,’ she says.

  Danny shakes his head. ‘I’ll not do that.’

  She looks at him questioningly, raised eyebrow. Disbelieving. It’s what blokes do, young blokes like Danny especially. By tomorrow it’ll be all over the South Yorkshire coalfield. How I shagged mother of three in her own kitchen.

  He leans towards her and kisses her with surprising gentleness on the mouth. She can taste the tobacco on his breath, feel the warmth of his face close to hers. Over his shoulder she’s doing her best to catch a glimpse of the kitchen clock. Linda could be back with Colin any time. Expecting to come in, cup of tea and a chat.

  Danny’s starting to stroke her shoulder and she pushes him away.

  ‘Don’t.’

  She can feel his semen starting to dry on her belly, small contractions on the surface of her skin.

  ‘You’ve got to leave.’

  ‘Ah, come on . . .’

  ‘No. Go, now. Please.’

  One quick movement and she’s up on her feet, pushing her skirt back down from where it’s been bunched up around her waist. As soon as she’s got shot of him, everything she’s been wearing, straight into the wash. What the hell was she thinking?

  ‘Hurry, please, you’ve got to go.’

  Bustling around him now, while he slowly tucks himself in, zips himself up.

  ‘Okay, okay . . .’

  She shepherds him towards the back door, slips back the bolt.

  ‘See you again, then . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, you won’t. Don’t think it because it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Didn’t enjoy it much, then?’ he says, grinning. ‘All that carrying on.’

  ‘Out. Now. Go.’

  Pushing him, she shuts the door more or less in his face. Hurries to the bathroom and strips off her clothes; runs warm water over a flannel and wipes her belly, wipes between her legs. Smell him, she can smell him, smell the pair of them. Jesus Christ, if she can, so will Linda when she brings back Brian. So will Barry. So will the kids.

  ‘Please, Mum, what’s that funny smell in the kitchen?’

  It’s not funny.

  She laughs, despite herself. Applies deodorant, a quick spray of the perfume Jill gave her the Christmas before, quickly dresses. Takes the air freshener from the toilet and uses it liberally above and around where they’ve been. Where they’ve been making love – no, fucking, for Christ’s sake, that’s what it was – where they’ve been fucking on the kitchen floor.

  She’s taking the freshener back when the doorbell rings.

  Linda with Brian and her own four-year-old; Brian hurling himself at her, arms reaching up; Linda’s lad hiding behind her legs, too shy to show his face.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?�
� Jenny says.

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ says Linda, ‘that’d be lovely.’

  38

  TREVOR FLEETWOOD LIVED on Moorland Road, midway between the university campus and the Grand Mosque, an upper-floor flat in a tall terraced house overlooking Woodhouse Moor. His name beside a bell which didn’t appear to work. In the absence of a knocker, McBride shouted upwards and was rewarded, after his third attempt, by Fleetwood’s head and shoulders appearing through an opened window.

  Recognising Resnick, he signalled that he would be down.

  The linoleum that covered the centre of the stairs had worn almost translucent with use. Dust huddled in the corners of each step. The bannister rail smooth as marble to the touch.

  ‘About all the press,’ Fleetwood said, when they reached the landing. ‘I meant to warn you.’

  ‘Did you fuck!’ McBride growled.

  Resnick said nothing.

  They followed Fleetwood into a broad, high-ceilinged hall. It could have been a display from a small municipal museum in need of funds. On a walnut table at the centre, next to what Resnick thought was probably an aspidistra, a stuffed animal with a pointed face, sharp teeth and a patchy white coat – some kind of weasel – reared up inside a glass dome. Extravagantly framed Victorian oils crowded the heavily papered walls, portraits and sombre landscapes, small children walking away into the sunset down an avenue overhung with trees, holding hands.

  ‘I got lumbered with a lot of my mother’s stuff after she died,’ Fleetwood explained. ‘Keep meaning to do something with it, sell it, stick it on eBay – one thing and another never get around to it.’

  The main room was bay-windowed, wide, almost every conceivable surface – oak table, a pair of leather settees, sideboard, an old green filing cabinet, two armchairs – piled high with papers: newspapers, pages of manuscript, magazines. Only a second table, positioned in the bay, survived relatively paper free: two computers, one a desktop, one laptop, a printer, a cordless phone in its base.

  Bookshelves covered one wall.

  ‘I mean what I said. My understanding was they were going to hold off another few days at least. The Post wanted a jump on them, I suppose. Then, once it was out there . . .’ He made a gesture of helplessness. ‘The rest followed.’