by John Harvey
The first time the phone went that evening, it was a wrong number; the second heralded the membership secretary of the Polish Club, politely wondering if Resnick had received his second reminder. Promising he’d get the cheque in the post first thing, Resnick determined he would give Hannah till nine then try her again. Midway through dialling her number he thought better of it: she would have listened to his message; if she wanted to call him then she would. Just after ten he called Millington instead, television news just audible behind the sergeant’s voice; the interview with Peter Risdale had been inconclusive. Lying, Millington thought, almost beyond question, but a man like that would lie to the police on principle, guilty or not. Either way, he’d an alibi that’d be hard to shake. His son, Stephen, was still in youth detention and there was nothing tangible to place Risdale himself at the scene or even close.
Resnick poured vodka over ice cubes in a chilled glass and closed his eyes as he listened to Johnny Griffin guesting with Thelonious Monk. ‘’Round Midnight’, ‘Misterioso’. ‘In Walked Bud’. Actually, the smallest of Resnick’s litter was already making discreet snoring noises in his lap.
When the vodka was finished and the music at an end, he lifted the cat into the cradle of an arm and carried it up the stairs to bed.
Hannah called next morning, not so far after six. “I didn’t wake you?”
“No.”
“Charlie, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you last night.”
“That’s fine.”
“This meeting after school became one quick drink, and then dinner and then, oh, it must have been nearly twelve.”
“Hannah, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”
There was a brief pause before she said, “Sunday? Shall I see you Sunday? Maybe we could go for a walk, late breakfast somewhere, brunch, what’d you say?” Somehow she could sense Resnick was already smiling.
“Fine,” Resnick said. “I’d like that a lot.”
“What d’you mean, you’re going?”
Freddy was half in, half out of his Ford van, still wearing his first-half costume, make-up, the whole bit. The anniversary couple’s grandson, the one who’d booked him, standing there with both hands on the door. Aside from one slight glitch when the tape had got stuck at the intro to ‘King Creole’ it had not gone badly – if you glossed over Freddy transposing two of the verses in ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. What was he doing? A song he’d sung how many hundred times.
He knew what he was doing. Not flustered he explained to the grandson that in his hurry to get there, he’d left his costume change, his white jump suit behind. Twenty minutes, thirty at most, he’d be back. No worries.
“Forget it,” the man said. “You’re okay as you are.”
But Freddy would have none of it: the whole show was what they were paying for and that’s what they were going to get.
Clayton was waiting for him as planned, in a lay-by just past the motorway where they switched vehicles.
“There may be a problem,” Clayton said. They were heading east along the Watnall Road, keeping the speed below fifty, not wanting to attract attention.
“What?” In his anxiety, Freddy’s voice little more than a squeak.
“Gave it a quick pass-by earlier, checking it out. Just in time to see him getting into a taxi, penguin suit, the whole bit.”
“So?”
“So she’s standing in the doorway in this quilted dressing gown, all she can do is wave him goodbye.”
“She’s still there?”
“Sick, my guess. In bed sick.”
“Then what the hell are we doing? For Christ’s sake let’s turn round and get . . .”
But Clayton’s free hand was like a vice right above Freddy’s knee. “Easy, easy. Take it easy. What d’you think, she’s in there wide awake, maybe doing a spot of housework? Soon as he’s gone, she’s back to bed. Nurofen, Paracetamol, it’ll take more’n you to wake her, eh Freddy? You tip-toeing down the stairs like some fairy in your size four shoes.”
In the event, Freddy’s shoes were in his hand. Gaining entry through the third floor bathroom window had been straightforward enough, the upper section easing back to admit his child-size body, Freddy pausing just long enough to adjust the way his black silk shirt tucked into his black leather trousers, sit on the side of the bath to slip off his blue suede shoes.
He was down as far as the lower landing when the dog started to bark. Fucking Clayton! Why the fuck hadn’t he known about the fucking dog? Freddy jumped so hard his shoes jerked free of his fingers and went spiralling down towards the hall. By which time the aforementioned dog, in addition to barking fit to raise the dead, was hurling itself against the door of the ground floor room it was shut in, a few more times and Freddy could see its nasty vicious snout breaking through the wood. An Alsatian, he imagined, some kind of mastiff, one of those slick and nasty Dobermans.
Added to which, the lady of the house, far from being asleep, was standing somewhere above him, screaming fit to beat the band. Clayton hammering at the front door, wanting to know what the hell was going on, waiting to be let in.
Freddy slipped the bolts, unfastened the chain, turned both handles at once.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
Freddy almost head-butted Clayton in the gut as he pushed past him, sprinting now towards the car, Clayton with nothing to do but follow in his wake.
“What . . .?”
But Freddy was too angry, too wound-up, too scared to say a thing. It wasn’t till Clayton dropped him off back at his van that he realised he was standing there in black nylon socks, a hole beginning to appear round the big toe of his right foot.
*
“I don’t think you’re supposed to call them that any more,” Hannah said. “Dwarf.” They were strolling round the long lake in Clumber Park, nice enough for a walk if you were well wrapped up.
“Not midget, surely?”
“Certainly not that.” She paused at the raucous clamour of ducks, a small child lopsidedly hurling them bread.
“Vertically challenged,” Resnick suggested, only half in fun. “Something like that.”
Doing her best not to smile, Hannah shook her head. “I believe the correct term is person of restricted growth.”
“Person of restricted movement, certainly. That’ll be Freddy McGregor for the next six months at least.”
“There isn’t any doubt?”
Resnick laughed. “One pair of little suede shoes, custom made. Better than fingerprints where Freddy’s concerned. Even after the dog had got through with them.”
“I feel almost sorry for him in a way.”
“The good thing,” Resnick said, “with Freddy’s help there’s a really nasty piece of work called Kanellopoulos we can put away for years.”
Uncertain about the efficacy of imprisonment, Hannah held her tongue.
They were in a corner of the lakeside café when Resnick showed her the reservations. A hotel in Matlock, five-course dinner and a jazz band ball.
“If you fancy it, that is.”
“Of course.” Lifting up the tickets, Hannah looked again at the date. “Try-out for the Millennium, Charlie, that what this is?”
Just for a moment, Resnick squeezed her hand. “One New Year at a time, eh? Happen that’s best.”
Cool Blues
The first thing Laughlin noticed about the woman was her purple nails; not long, therefore probably not false, nicely rounded, neat, the purple polish – dark purple – carefully, recently applied. Her hair was fair and fashioned in a long bob, fair but darker at the roots. She was wearing a grey, military-style coat over a paler grey sweater, a black skirt long enough to cover her knees as she sat, the movement of the underground train jolting her occasionally, this way and then that. As they slowed, coming into Camden Town station, she glanced up, and Laughlin thought for a moment she might be alighting, changing perhaps to the other branch, but, no, she settled back into the book she was reading – a romance, Laug
hlin supposed, one of those paperback books with pink covers, the name of the author embossed; one of those names that always sounded false, made up.
Tufnell Park.
Kentish Town.
At Archway, the woman folded down the corner of a page to keep her place, pushed the book down into a black leather-look shoulder bag, hoisted the bag upwards and headed for the nearest set of doors. Laughlin slid out his foot and as she stumbled, almost falling, he reached up and caught her arm just above the elbow, steadying her.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” A concerned smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Fine. Thanks. Fine.”
“My big feet.”
She glanced back at him once before pushing her way between the closing doors.
After that it was easy.
Resnick had not seen Jackie Ferris in what – eighteen months? Two years? Some stolen paintings had been whisked away to London for resale overseas and Jackie, a sergeant then in the Yard’s Arts and Antiques Squad, had lent him her local knowledge and expertise. Maybe not lent exactly, more traded . . . and now it was time for the exchange.
The train slowed as it shuffled the tracks on its way into St Pancras station and Resnick folded the newspaper he’d been reading and reached up to pull his topcoat from the rack. All along the compartment mobile phones were switched off, laptops closed down, cases snapped shut. It had been like travelling in a narrow, open-plan office with views of green fields and small woodlands, small towns sleepily shaking themselves awake.
Jackie Ferris was waiting at the end of the platform, her hair darker than Resnick remembered, cut shorter, styled. The suit she was wearing, darkish brown, looked casually expensive. As Resnick approached, she hitched her bag higher on one shoulder and held out a hand. “Charlie . . . welcome to the big city.”
When she smiled her eyes shone blue and he realised the round, steel-framed glasses she usually wore had been exchanged for contacts. “Good journey?”
Resnick shrugged.
“Coffee, then.”
“Fine.”
“It’s a few paces.”
He shrugged burly shoulders. “I could use the exercise.”
They crossed a road clogged with four lanes of rush hour traffic, away from the station and the new British Library, and in minutes were sitting in a small patisserie with cups of strong espresso, croissants, pain au chocolat – the Left Bank comes to King’s Cross.
“So,” Resnick said, “how’s the new job?”
Jackie broke off a piece of croissant and held it between finger and thumb. “Interesting,” she said after a moment’s consideration.
Jackie had transferred from her specialised unit back into everyday police work, and found herself attached, still a detective sergeant, to the CID squad operating out of Kentish Town.
“No regrets?” Resnick asked.
She shook her head. “I could have stayed where I was another five years and not got a sniff at making inspector.”
“And now?”
Jackie gave a rueful smile. “Four and a half.”
Resnick cut a brioche in half and spread the insides with blackcurrant jam. “This man, the one you wanted to talk about . . .”
Jackie took a sheet of paper from an envelope in her bag and swivelled it towards him: in the artist’s impression the man’s hair was dark, quite thick, curling back lightly against his collar; the cheek bones were pronounced, laugh lines etched around a wide, full mouth; his eyes, dark also, seemed to be smiling.
“Handsome,” Resnick said. “Attractive.”
“If you like that kind of thing.”
“Apparently some do.”
“Five at the last count; five we know about. All with a similar profile: middle-class, white, single, working; thirty-five to forty-five, living alone.”
Resnick studied the picture again, testing it against his memory. “He doesn’t hurt them?”
“Hurt?”
“Physically. He doesn’t attack them?”
“Not so far.”
“There’s reason to think he might?”
Jackie fixed him with her eyes before finishing her espresso. “You want another?”
Resnick nodded.
Jackie signalled to the waitress. “What he does,” she said when she’d placed their order, “he picks women up on the underground. Sometimes on the actual train, sometimes on the platform, by the ticket machines, anywhere around the station. Regular travellers, mostly. He’ll make some sort of contact with them one day – a smile, some kind of offhand remark. Then, when he sees them again he starts talking and, maybe because he’s not a total stranger, they talk back. Like you said, some women clearly find him attractive.” She gave him a look, half-sour. “He suggests meeting for a drink, then dinner, one thing leads to another. After the second or third time they’ve slept together comes the rude awakening – he’s cleaned them out of everything they’ve got. Cash, valuables, cheque books, credit cards, everything.”
“You’ve not been able to track him down?”
“Not so far. This sketch, that’s all we’ve got.”
Resnick glanced down at it again. “Obviously, you’ve tried watching the underground, having plain clothes officers on the trains?”
She gave a quick shake of the head. “You know how many people use the tube each day? The number of stations, lines? If he restricted himself to one area, we might at least have a chance. But the first two incidents, Ealing and beyond, out towards the airport; after that he’s right across the other side of the map, Loughton, Buckhurst Hill, almost in Epping Forest. There was this one isolated incident on the Bakerloo line, Stonebridge Park, and now . . .” She held up both hands, palms outwards.
“Now it’s your patch.”
“This last one, yes. But whether he’ll stay here, when he’ll hit on someone else, who knows?” She leaned forward, elbows resting either side of her cup and plate. “What you said before – had there been any physical attack. If there had – and I’m not saying I wish there was, don’t misunderstand me – but if that was what we were dealing with, offences against the person, sexual assault, rape, the whole business would be taken more seriously. More resources, personnel . . . instead of me chasing phantoms on my own, with a bit of help from whoever I can drag in without it costing overtime.” She leaned back in her chair. “No offence meant.”
“None taken.”
Jackie laughed, sudden and loud. “Once or twice I’ve been desperate enough to send myself out as a decoy, up and down from Barnet to Balham in the rush hour. As if someone who works women as well as this one does couldn’t sniff out a dyke like me at fifty metres.”
Resnick smiled along. “Statements from the women, there’s nothing there might trip him up?”
Jackie shook her head. “Spun them a different story each time, used a different name. The one thing that remained consistent, where he comes from. Nottingham. Which is why I thought of you. I thought something, the M. O., the face, might ring a bell.”
Heavily, Resnick crossed his legs, shook his head.
“Anyway,” Jackie said, “it’s part of his spiel. Only recently moved down to London, finding it difficult to make friends.”
“And the names he uses? There’s not a pattern there?”
“Not that I’ve been able to find.” She took out her notebook and flipped back through the pages, looking for the list. “Usually there’ll be a link, similar sound, same initials, something. But these – John Sanders, Edward Preston, Alan Smith, Richard Williams, Leon Cox.”
Resnick’s expression shifted from the merest of grins to broad delight.
“What? What is it?”
“The Allen – Allen Smith. It’s spelt double-L E, not the usual way?”
Jackie shook her head. “I don’t know. Not for sure.”
“I wouldn’t mind betting it is. And Edward, that’ll be Eddie, Eddie Preston.”
“How do you know all this? Who are they?”
�
��They’re all musicians, the names he’s chosen: jazz musicians.”
“What? English?”
Resnick shook his head. “American. If my memory’s right they all played with Duke Ellington. Mid-fifties. Sixties, maybe. Brass section, trumpet or trombone. The thing is, though, these aren’t the famous ones, not even regulars. They may have only been on one or two sessions, a single recording.”
“So to know this, he’d likely be what? A musician himself?”
Resnick shook his head. “Unlikely. Unless he was a keen amateur, semi-pro.”
“He’d need to be a fan then, is that what you mean? A real anorak?”
He looked at her quizzically.
“You know, trainspotting type. Ticks them all off in his little book. Snuggles up in bed with – I don’t know – lists of some kind. Catalogues.”
“Discographies.”
“Yes, right. Discographies. When he’s not pulling women on the Northern Line.”
“You can bet he’s loving it,” Resnick said. “This little private joke with the names, certain no one’s going to find him out.”
As they were stepping back out into the street, Jackie touched his arm. “I don’t want to make too much of it, Charlie, but the fact you cottoned on so fast . . . I’d hate to think you were spending all your nights with only a – what was it? – discography for company.”
Resnick toured the specialist shops: Mole Jazz at King’s Cross was only a short walk away; fifteen minutes in the opposite direction brought him to Ray’s Jazz Shop on the edge of Covent Garden. He visited the jazz departments of Tower on Piccadilly, HMV in Oxford Street, both branches. Showed the artist’s impression and asked about a collector, into Ellington, big bands and swing. For one or two, the face was vaguely familiar, but nothing more; one of the assistants at Ray’s remembered a telephone enquiry about some Ellington recordings, live sessions from the Travis Air Force Base in California, 1958 . . . whether the man ever came in to collect the CDs, he didn’t know.