Darkness, Darkness: (Resnick 12)

by Harvey, John

‘Okay to go?’ the paramedic asked.

  ‘Okay.’

  Andy Dawson didn’t take to being woken in the small hours. ‘Charlie, this better be fucking good.’

  ‘A man named Abbas Rashidi. My guess is, staying at one of the better hotels. Easier for you to check than me.’

  ‘And this is because?’

  Resnick told him.

  ‘I’ll get on it.’

  It took a little while. Mr Rashidi had ordered a taxi to collect him from his hotel and take him to East Midlands Airport, 5 a.m. sharp. Andy Dawson picked up Resnick outside Queen’s Medical Centre at a quarter past.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘A mess.’

  ‘But she’s not . . .?’

  Resnick shook his head. ‘She’ll be okay. It just might take a while.’

  There were three early flights: Dublin at 6.30; Berlin at 6.45; Paris at 6.50. When Dawson had checked, there were seats still available on each one.

  As they left the ring road, a second car pulled in behind them.

  ‘Just in case,’ Dawson said. ‘Couple of lads who punch well above their weight.’

  Resnick sat with fists clenched and pressed against his knees. Seeing nothing through the windows as they hurtled past. Trying to forget what he’d last seen of Catherine’s face.

  He’d like nothing more, he thought, as they neared the airport, than to have to haul Abbas off a plane, frogmarch him away from the line waiting to board. But he was in the executive lounge, sipping an espresso, breaking apart an almond croissant with long deft fingers. When Resnick and Dawson approached, he seemed to tense for a moment, and then, recognising Resnick, relaxed.

  With two plain-clothes officers built like brick shithouses guarding the door behind him, Resnick prayed for Abbas to make a run.

  No such luck.

  ‘Abbas Rashidi,’ Dawson said, ‘I am arresting you on a charge of causing grievous bodily harm with intent, in pursuance of the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  A mocking smile slid across Abbas’ face.

  ‘She’ll never go through with the charges,’ he said to Resnick quietly. ‘You know that, don’t you? It’ll never get to court.’

  The only way Resnick could stop himself from punching him and punching him hard was to walk away.

  56

  BRUISES TO MOST of her body aside, Catherine had a dislocated jaw, seven broken ribs and a ruptured spleen; it seemed increasingly as if she might lose the use of her left eye. The gash at the front of her head had taken twenty-three stitches, another seventeen to the wound in the scalp; one half of her hair had been shaved away. As a look, she didn’t think it would catch on. Either that or its brief day had passed.

  It was forty-eight hours before she was wheeled out of intensive care, fit enough, just, to join the general population, a semi-private room in one of the general wards.

  Her parents came and sat by her bed, bewildered and hurt. When her father set off on a diatribe about police work and its dangers, Catherine told him, politely, that police work had nothing to do with this. It was thanks to police work that she was alive and not dead. Soon after that, they left.

  ‘Sky fell in on me this time and no mistake,’ she said when Resnick came to visit.

  ‘Martin Picard sends his best wishes, hopes you get better soon.’

  ‘Now you are joking.’

  Resnick grinned.

  Catherine hitched herself up a little in the bed. If it ever got to the point where she could move without it hurting in half a dozen places, she’d know she was on the way to recovery.

  ‘What’s happening to the investigation?’

  ‘McBride’s stepped up for now. Picard’s made noises about taking over, but so far we’ve not seen hide nor hair.’

  ‘They’ll let it die, won’t they?’

  ‘Probably. Remain open, on file. Move on.’

  ‘We should have done better.’

  ‘We did what we could.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘If they’d decided to throw everything at it, bags of resources, that might have made a difference. But even then . . . thirty years, too long a time.’ He sat up. ‘You gave it your best shot.’

  ‘Just not good enough.’

  It lay between them, the ghost of failure, still there after Resnick had left.

  When McBride came a day later, his hands were awkward with a box of badly wrapped chocolates, all fingers and thumbs.

  Seeing her face, he cried. The first time in years.

  ‘That bastard,’ he said, ‘just give me five minutes with him alone.’

  Waking from a shallow sleep that afternoon, Catherine was surprised to find Jill Haines sitting upright beside the bed, best frock, best coat, fresh flowers from her garden resting neatly in her lap.

  ‘It was in the paper,’ she said. ‘On the news.’

  ‘It’s nice of you,’ Catherine said. ‘Nice of you to come.’

  She was conscious of the other woman fidgeting in her seat.

  ‘I should have come before,’ Jill said eventually.

  ‘It’s only been a few days.’

  ‘No. Before. Before any of this happened.’

  Somewhere inside Catherine’s brain, wheels started to turn.

  57

  IT WAS A near-perfect spring day. Spring turning into summer. Open land, criss-crossed with channels as far as the eye could see. Two fields over, a line of men, twenty or so, was making its way, bent backed, across the ground, picking some crop he couldn’t clearly identify. All it needed, Resnick thought, an overseer on horseback, a dog or two, chains.

  He drove carefully up the lane, window down; his car working again, for now at least, fingers firmly crossed.

  The two black Labs came trotting out to meet him, sniffing his hand.

  Keith Haines was in the nearest of the greenhouses, a faintly bemused expression on his face. ‘Whenever Jill’s away I always think there’s stuff I should do – keep things on track till she gets back – but then I can never figure out what it is.’

  ‘Away?’ Resnick said.

  ‘Three days’ residential. Sussex somewhere. Landscapes, I imagine. The usual. But if it gives her pleasure . . .’

  He looked sideways through the glass; little to see but his own reflection, some small distortion.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

  Resnick noticed again the slight sideways stoop, the almost-shuffle when he walked.

  ‘Small stroke,’ Haines said, following Resnick’s gaze. ‘Few years back now.’ He shrugged. ‘Could have been worse. Basket case by now.’

  Without asking, he fetched a couple of beers from the fridge. Decanted them into glasses.

  ‘Bass, Charlie. Pale ale. Still brewed in Burton, believe it or not. Miracle it’s not China like everything fucking else.’

  He eased himself down into his chair, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Getting old, Charlie. Old and crabby. You and me both. Someone’ll do us a favour, one day, take us out and have us shot.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, anyway . . .’

  ‘Cheers,’ Resnick said.

  ‘First time Jill saw this,’ Haines said, pointing at the label on the bottle, ‘fair wet her knickers. It’s in some painting, apparently. Famous. Folies-Bergère, one of those. Whoever did it – Monet, Manet – stuck a bottle of Bass slap bang at the front. Product placement, isn’t that what they call it nowadays? Probably slipped the bloke a few francs when he was setting up his easel, something of the sort.’

  Resnick took another swallow. Time his to take. Happy to let Haines talk.

  ‘Something about the strike,’ Haines said, ‘that’s what you said when you called. Something you wanted to check, see if I remembered.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Memory like mine, porous don’t come into it. I’d not ho
ld out too much hope.’

  ‘You’ll remember this,’ Resnick said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Cash, quite a lot of it, coming in from abroad.’

  ‘Newark,’ Haines said, brightening. ‘October time? I’d heard a whisper, pot of money coming in. Rotterdam or somewhere. Ferry, any road. Could’ve been nothing, of course. Idle chat. Rumours going round back then, well, you know, like fleas on a cat’s back. Came to you with it, all the same. Must’ve seemed more to it than most. My thanks, got to ride with the big boys. There for the intercept. Newark ring road. I can see it now, expression on that bloke’s face. Excuse me, sir, but would you mind if we take a look inside the vehicle. What was it? Six thousand in neat little bundles, all over the back seat. Unbelievable.’

  ‘Not the only time, of course,’ Resnick said.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You said yourself, rumours flying round. Caseloads of cash. Awash with the stuff.’

  Haines nodded. ‘There’s this story, isn’t there. True or not. Scargill and two of his mates. Pile of cash on the table. Donations. Huge. What? Twenty thousand? More than that, maybe. Scraped together by some poor bastards in the Ukraine, somewhere of that sort. Here, Scargill says, and divides it into three. Take it. Keep it safe. Never seen again. One of ’em, at least, used it to pay off the last of his mortgage. You believe that?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Me, neither. Good story, though.’

  Resnick set down his glass. ‘There was another occasion, Keith. Just short of Christmas. Bledwell Vale. Some other snippet of information you’d come across, overheard.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Just wondering when you decided not to pass that on? Keep it to yourself.’

  Haines looked beyond Resnick’s shoulder, as if, perhaps, he was expecting someone else to come in.

  No one did.

  ‘Like you said, Charlie, there were always stories. Exaggerated, most of them. Christmas, especially. Famous for it, of course. Frankincense and fucking myrrh.’ He laughed, short, abrupt.

  ‘Some of them true,’ Resnick said.

  Haines took a long, slow draft of ale. Tasting it go down. Hoppy. Bright. Whatever he might wish for now, it was not going to happen.

  ‘Twelve thousand,’ he said eventually. ‘Twelve thousand and seventy-two pounds, that’s how much there was. I took the case, split the money, buried it in three different locations. Paid it in gradually, careful as I could.’ He made a small sound, part sigh, part something else. ‘Helped to buy this place. Down payment and a bit more. Jill, she came up with the rest.’

  ‘And Jenny?’

  ‘Far as she was concerned, I was the one meant to be taking it from her, moving it on. Who could be more above suspicion, after all? Village copper.’

  ‘So, what? She just stood aside, let you take it?’

  ‘Of course. Surprised, mind. She was that. But then when I explained . . .’ He shrugged, one shoulder higher than the other.

  ‘You left her there.’

  Haines nodded.

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Alive? Of course, alive. Jesus, Charlie, come on. Whatever happened afterwards, believe me, I never knew. Not till . . .’

  ‘You thought she’d done a runner, that’s what you said. Your report.’

  ‘That’s right. Thought maybe she’d dipped into the case already. Did occur to me. Helped herself, like. No way of knowing how much was there in the first place. Didn’t mention it at the time. Not after what I’d done. But, Charlie, no, when I walked out of Church Street, Jenny, she was alive as the day she was born.’

  Resnick settled back in his chair. Ever since he’d arrived, Haines had been over-anxious, over-keen to talk. ‘Comes easy after a while, I suppose,’ Resnick said. ‘Easier, anyway.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Lying. First you tell it to yourself, somewhere inside your head and then, eventually, out loud. Try it on others. Your wife, for instance. All the while you’re speaking, trying to read the expression on her face, see if she believes you. Bit like you were doing with me a few minutes back. But she didn’t, did she? Jill. Not ever. Deep down.’

  ‘Don’t talk such bloody . . .’

  He made as if to get up, but Resnick reached over, rested a hand on his arm.

  ‘She came in – Jill. Made a statement. Information we thought might be of interest. There were complaints, apparently, before the two of you got together and after.’

  ‘Complaints? What bloody complaints?’

  ‘We’ve checked out a few, those we can. Young women, married mostly . . .’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody daft!’

  ‘Claiming you put them under pressure . . .’

  ‘Pressure? What kind of pressure?’

  ‘Pressure to give sexual favours. Husband driving a car when uninsured. Taking paid work while claiming benefit. Breaking bail conditions. Be nice to me and I’ll make sure it all goes away.’

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous. Pie in the fucking sky!’

  ‘You might’ve tried that one on Jenny, I suppose. When you wanted her to fall into line, do whatever you were asking. Danny Ireland, for instance, reported for breaking the conditions of his bail.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’

  ‘What happened, Keith? Didn’t she care what happened to Danny? Not enough to get down on her knees? A quick hand job? Or was the thought of it just too disgusting? Her sister’s intended.’

  All the colour had drained from Haines’ cheeks. He closed his eyes; when he opened them again, Resnick was still sitting there, waiting.

  ‘At first she just laughed,’ Haines said, speaking slowly, not looking at Resnick, addressing a spot on the floor. ‘Laughed in my face. And then, when I tried to . . . to get her to change her mind, she flew at me, scratching and slapping, and I pushed her – that’s all it was – I pushed her back, against this plastic, this plastic across the doorway, and she went right through and hit her head when she fell . . . hit her head on these slabs, paving slabs, they were there, waiting . . . right . . . right on the edge of one. Didn’t even cry out, just lay there, and I panicked, I don’t mind saying . . . got out of there as fast as I could . . .’

  His eyes fixed on Resnick now, imploring. ‘I went back. It must have been, I don’t know, an hour later.’

  ‘For the money.’

  ‘To see how she was. I thought maybe . . .’

  ‘You went back for the money.’

  Haines’ mouth was dry, the words sticking in his throat. ‘When I got back no doubt but she was dead. She hadn’t moved, not one inch. I think she must have been already dead when I left her. I don’t know, but that’s what . . . that’s what I like to think now.’

  He wiped a hand across his open mouth; took a swig of ale and swilled it round, spat it back into the glass.

  ‘There was this sort of trench by where she lay. Whoever’d been working there had filled it in with hard core. Covered it with some sort of insulation.’ Desperately, he sucked in air. ‘I dug it all back out and . . .’

  It was all he could say. A convulsion shook him and he clenched his arms tight across his chest. Shuddered and gripped the sides of the chair.

  Resnick started to reach out towards him, then stopped. Sat there pitying him; not pitying him at all.

  ‘What . . .?’ Haines said. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Everything you’ve told me,’ Resnick said, ‘it wasn’t under caution. It’d be inadmissible in court. I could get you to make a note of what you’ve said, but even signed and dated, just the two of us here, not take much for some clever barrister to have it thrown out, no problem. So what happens, what happens next, it’s up to you. You can drive back with me now and make a statement at the station, that might be best. Proceed from there.’

  Haines didn’t answer, not immediately, leaving Resnick wondering if he’d taken in all that had been said.

  ‘I think,’ Haines said eventually, ‘y
es, come along with you, that’s what I’ll do. Better the devil you know, eh?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  Haines got less than steadily to his feet.

  ‘I’d best go to the jakes first . . .’ He laughed. ‘Wonder I didn’t shit myself already. Then grab a coat.’

  ‘Keith . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ll not try anything daft?’

  ‘Like do a runner, you mean? How far d’you reckon I’d get, my condition?’ He grinned. ‘Come and stand outside the door if you’d like.’

  Resnick shook his head. ‘Don’t be too long about it.’

  The shotgun was in the first of two sheds near the garden end: single barrel, 12 gauge, kept there in wait for any stray fox or weasel, anything that succeeded in burrowing beneath the wire. One of the dogs had followed him out and he nudged it away with his knee before closing the door. The box of cartridges was on the shelf above.

  He took a breath.

  Whatever happened, Jill would look after the dogs.

  He was fingering a shell, awkward, down into the chamber when the shed door swung back open.

  ‘Rabbit or two, Keith? That what you’re thinking?’ Reaching across, McBride took the weapon from Haines’ faltering hands. ‘Some other time, eh?’

  Resnick was waiting at the car. McBride’s and one other parked further back down the lane, out of sight.

  For a moment, Haines looked into Resnick’s face, then away.

  Only his breath seemed to be moving, hoarse and ragged, through the quiet air.

  58

  SIX WEEKS LATER, Resnick picked up the phone and it was Catherine Njoroge. Would he be able to drag himself away from whatever important work he was doing for long enough to meet her for coffee, her treat?

  He said he would.

  Work for him was much the same as before, a civilian investigator still, though now with an office on the upper floor. On a clear day he could see out beyond the dome at the top of the Council House and imagine the fields beyond.

  Keith Haines had been remanded in custody, his trial date not yet fixed.

  Spurred on by his part in the arrest of Abbas Rashidi, Andy Duncan had pleaded successfully for a further year in harness. The student, whose injuries had been such a concern to Resnick and himself, had made a better-than-expected recovery and was convalescing, prior to resuming his studies at some near future date. Rashidi was still awaiting trial, having assembled a prodigious and expensive legal team to support his expected plea of not guilty.