by John Harvey
Releasing him, she turned her back and bowed her head.
“I was married once,” Resnick said. “Whatever it was that was wrong between us, it went on for a long time.” He hesitated. “When we talked about it, not then, but later, years later, she said pretty much the same. ‘You know, Charlie, I wished you dead.’”
Nicola turned towards him, sniffing back tears. “You must have been so hurt.”
He shook his head. “I think by then most of the hurt had gone.”
“And now?”
Resnick smiled. “Just a few bits I’ve kept around on purpose. For when I want to feel sorry for myself.”
They sat in Resnick’s car, windows wound down, and he took her through the previous morning: there was nothing she’d noticed out of the ordinary, nothing her husband had said or done, nothing in his mood or manner. She was due to see Farquarson herself later that day, but, no, as far as she knew, everything was financially stable. A row? No, of course they hadn’t had a row. As she’d already told him, all that had been behind them. Her husband had left a meeting, driven to Colwick Wood in his lunch hour and pressed a double-barrelled shotgun against the underside of his chin. She didn’t know why.
Resnick drove into the city along Castle Boulevard and dropped Nicola Venner at the corner of Victoria Street and Bridlesmith Gate. By the time he’d got back to the office, some fifteen minutes later, Graham Millington was waiting.
A sense of glee, almost childlike, illuminated the sergeant’s face. “Pathologist had himself a field day. Found this bruising, side of Venner’s head, round the temple. Didn’t reckon too much to it at first. No obvious cuts, you see, abrasions; allowed as how it’d happened when he’d smacked against the windscreen, after the shot’d been fired.”
Millington paused and grinned. “Not on your life. Venner’s neither. He’d been struck twice, hard. Something cushioned, covered in cloth maybe, so as not to leave an obvious mark. But, like I say, hard, whatever it was, the weapon, swung with force.” He hesitated again, adjusting his tone. “Severe subdural haemorrhaging of the brain. Chances of him firing that shotgun hisself close to nil. Some other kind bastard took a whack at him then did it for him.”
Resnick took a pace back, weighing up the implications. “Okay, Graham. The car, Venner’s BMW, we want the interior checked for prints, marks, fine tooth comb.”
“In hand.”
“Have a word with the Support Group, see if they can’t spare a few bodies, go back over that area where he was found.”
“Right.”
“Canvass local residents too, anyone who uses that section of woods regular, dog walking, whatever – somebody must’ve seen something.”
Millington nodded. “Even with a bit of help, be spreading ourselves a bit thin. But, yes, we’ll do what we can.”
Resnick walked across to the window and stared out at the traffic backing up both ways along the Derby Road. “Why does Venner suddenly up and leave that meeting? No excuse, no explanation.”
“Someone he had to see,” Millington suggested. “An ultimatum maybe. And not public, out in the middle of the Old Market Square for all and sundry to be gawpin’ at.”
“Then why not simply cancel the original meeting, reschedule?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t take too well to the idea of being ordered around. Except when push comes to shove, he can’t do it, can’t stay away.”
“From what? Who?”
Millington shrugged. “Business? Some shady deal gone sour.”
“Something his accountant didn’t know about – it’s possible.” Resnick sighed. “Let’s get Lynn out to talk to Venner’s secretary. See if she doesn’t know more than she’s letting on.”
“Hanky-panky, you mean?”
“Always possible, Graham.”
Finger and thumb, Millington smoothed his moustache along his upper lip. “Force with which he’d been hammered, Venner, I doubt it was some woman. ’Less he went in for your Russian shot putter type of thing.”
Resnick shook his head. “Someone young enough, Graham. Fit enough. Angry enough.” He half-smiled. “Maybe they don’t build shot putters the way they used to.”
“Maybe not. But who we’re looking for here, a bloke, mark my words. Jealous husband, something of the sort.”
Resnick nodded and turned towards his office. There were one or two calls he wanted to make before he headed back out again. And the super would have to be informed of fresh developments, brought up to speed.
“One thing to keep in mind,” he said from the door. “The shotgun – if he wasn’t intending to turn it on himself, what was Venner doing with it in the car?”
*
As soon as Nicola Venner saw Lynn and Resnick side by side, she knew something was wrong. Something new. Like a trapped butterfly, a nerve pulsed beneath the pale skin high alongside her face.
Without speaking, they followed her through into the house. Cut flowers stood fresh in vases in the living room; a book Nicola had been reading, a novel, lay open on the arm of one of the settees.
“There’ve been some developments,” Resnick said when they were all sitting down, “concerning your husband’s death.” Hating the way he sounded, pompous and heavy. “It now seems unlikely that he . . . that he took his own life.”
“What d’you mean? I don’t understand, I . . .”
“The evidence suggests somebody else was involved.”
“What evidence?”
“The post mortem.”
“What happened? What do you . . .?”
“Mrs Venner,” Lynn Kellogg said, leaning towards her. “We think your husband was murdered.”
For a moment, Nicola stared at her, wide-eyed, before folding back into one corner of the settee, arms clasped tight across her body.
“I’m very sorry,” Resnick said, conscious of the futility of the words.
Without waiting to be asked, Lynn went in search of the kitchen, the kettle, a pot of tea.
Resnick crossed and uncrossed his legs, watching Nicola rock herself slowly back and forth.
“How?” she asked finally.
Resnick told her.
Lynn reappeared with cups of tea on a tray.
“How did it happen?” Nicola asked again.
Patient, Resnick told her a second time. What little they knew.
“Have you any idea,” she asked, “who?”
“No,” he replied. “Have you?”
Nicola’s hand jerked and Lynn reached across and took the cup and saucer from her grasp. “The question of who your husband might have been meeting, Mrs Venner. It’s all that more important now. Any suspicions you might have.”
“I don’t have any bloody suspicions.”
“Just some idea. Someone . . . something he wanted kept secret.”
The nerve was ticking again at the side of Nicola’s face; fast, wayward.
“Mrs Venner,” Lynn’s face close to hers now, her voice quiet. “Is it possible your husband was seeing somebody?”
“Somebody?”
“Somebody else.”
Nicola sprang to her feet, with a quick fling of the arm knocking cup and saucer spinning from Lynn’s outstretched hand. “Jesus! You . . . the pair of you. So bloody clever.” She jutted her head towards Resnick. “You especially, sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt in your hypocritical bloody mouth.” She laughed, bitter and raw. “I thought you were a bit pompous, maybe, a bit old-fashioned, but basically okay. A decent bloke. The way you talked to me. Listened. So bloody understanding. And all the time you were just waiting, biding your time, playing me along.”
“Nicola . . .”
“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t fucking Nicola me. Look at you, you’re pathetic, the pair of you, sticking your noses in the trough and snouting round.”
“Mrs Venner . . .”
“So bloody simple minded, all of you. Russell’s got some assignation, something he wants to keep to himself. A bit on the side, that’s what it’s g
ot to be. Stands to reason. Your reason.” She was midway between Resnick and Lynn and the curtains, bending forwards, arms still locked across her chest. “Something going on, something wrong with our relationship, our marriage; not enough sex, too much sex; husband can’t get it up, can’t get it up enough. Sticking it to somebody else. Is that what you think? Is it? Is it?”
“Nicola . . .” Resnick on his feet now, a pace or two towards her.
“Well, is it?”
“A possibility, yes, we have to consider it.”
She moved to meet him, colour charging her cheeks. “I bet you do. I bet you love it. The possibility. Oh, yes . . . rubbing my face in it. Hmm? Pushing me down and rubbing my face in it.” She lifted her head towards his. “Is that what she did, that precious bloody wife of yours? The one you told me about when you were trying to wheedle round me, convince me of how loving and sincere you were. Is that what she did? Screw around and taunt you with it? Flaunt it? Rub your face in the fucking sheets?”
“Yes,” Resnick said, his voice so low it was almost as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Yes, she did.”
Nicola looked at him frankly. “Good. Good, I’m glad. Now go. And if you’re thinking of coming back and telling me who it was he was having – how many – just don’t bother because I don’t want to know.” She turned from them and walked, brisk, towards the door. “Go on, what are you waiting for? Get out of here the pair of you and leave me alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Lynn said. They were passing alongside the county cricket ground, a scattering of dingy pigeons perched at intervals along the Radcliffe Road stand. “What she said about you and your ex.”
“It’s okay,” Resnick said. “But thanks.”
“Venner, he was carrying on with someone, behind her back?”
“It looks like.”
“And you think she knew?”
“One way or another, probably.” There were knowing and admitting and often a vast space between them, as well he knew.
A few pale shafts of light reflected off the waters of the Trent. Past the City Ground, lone fishermen sat or stood at intervals, hopeful into the evening’s slow fall. However careful they had been, Venner and whoever, someone would have noticed, someone would have seen. Hotels in the general area would be checked, the airport, restaurants and bars.
Back at the station, Tom McLean’s report was on his desk, delivered by hand. All the evidence suggested the fire at Nolan’s club had started accidentally, a cigarette, a careless match thrown down by the still unidentified youth who had broken in looking for a place to sleep. The insurance company would probably carry out its own investigation, but in the end it would pay.
Kevin Naylor was following up on an approach from a couple whose oldest son had gone missing from home two nights before the fire; a family friend had spotted him in the area earlier the same evening. There was also an incident report from a patrol officer who had questioned a young man with a local accent, loitering in the vicinity of the multi-storey car park close by the club.
Resnick finished reading through Naylor’s file and slid its contents back into place. Jack Skelton’s extension yielded no answer; the superintendent returned early to the acid bosom of his family. Street lights burned a faint orange outside and cast no shadow. He knew there would be others in the pub across the street, winding down, colleagues, and often he would join them, a quick half and away, but this particular evening he chose to drink alone. Did it matter, what Nicola Venner had said about Elaine? Screw around and taunt you with it? Flaunt it? And why now, after all this time?
In the back bar of a pub he seldom if ever used, he ordered a large scotch and then another. Just a few bits I’ve kept around on purpose. For when I want to feel sorry for myself. Or angry, Resnick thought. Venner had married her, Nicola, when she’d been little more than a girl, swept her off her feet. Tied her down with kids and promises: a fine house behind a high hedge: money. Allowing him the freedom to do what? Fool around? What if this were more? Suppose it serious. What if he’d been leaving her? Someone young enough, Graham. Fit enough. Angry enough. Easy then to explain another car, the gun.
He shook his head and drained the whisky from the glass. He himself was Nicola’s alibi; no way she could have been chopping asparagus at home and meeting her husband in Colwick Wood. It wasn’t possible.
And yet it continued to nag at him as he nodded a goodnight to the man behind the bar and shouldered his way out on to the street. It or something like.
The homeless man was stretched out inside a stained sleeping bag near the edge of the park, dogs curled at his head and feet. Resnick hefted a handful of change from his pocket and, approaching, he bent forwards, hand outstretched. Low in their throats, the dogs growled and one bared its teeth. “Fuck off,” the man breathed. “Fuck off and leave us alone.”
Resnick let the coins fall across the bag and hurried on.
A light showed faintly through sagging curtains. The sound of a saxophone. Not Nolan himself this time. Someone playing a ballad. Breathy and melodic, smooth-toned. Stan Getz but not Stan Getz. More than a hint of Lester Young. Variations that curled like smoke around the song. Zoot Sims?
Cigarette in hand, Nolan drew back the door. “Charlie. Don’t suppose this is a social call.”
Without waiting for an answer, he wandered down the narrow corridor towards the kitchen and returned, unasked, with a bottle of Budvar, which he pushed into Resnick’s hand,
There was one small light burning in the front room, turned close towards the wall. The tape was still playing and Resnick stood in the half dark, listening, as the improvisation wound its way, logical and surprising, through the closing chorus; cadence following cadence to the final chords, the last lingering note, so delicate as to be almost unheard. ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’.
“At first,” Resnick said, sitting, “I thought it was Zoot.”
“No.” A shake of Nolan’s head.
“But now I’m certain.”
“Yeah?”
“Spike. Spike Robinson.” Resnick nodded towards the tape player. “I was there, the club, the night this was recorded.”
“Ninety-four.”
“I daresay.”
Nolan drew on his cigarette, tapped ash into the palm of his open hand. “What else d’you know, Charlie?”
“Venner, it wasn’t suicide. Someone hit him, barrel of the gun most likely. Fired the shot on his behalf.”
“No more’n he deserved.”
Resnick tilted the neck of the bottle to his mouth.
“She was lovely,” Nolan said, “Nicola, when she was a kid. A young woman. Bright. Russell, he’d seen her, asked me to introduce him. You’re her godfather, he said, least you can do, put in a word. Not twenty she was then.” More ash fell from his cigarette, unheeded to the floor. “Married soon after. Kids, lovely boys. That was when he started, Russell, fooling around. Didn’t matter he was no oil painting, knocking on. For him it was easy, always easy. Position. Money. When Nicola couldn’t look the other way no longer she came to me. I talked to him, argued, he said it was nothing, didn’t matter, just a bit of fun. Then he met this girl, Katie, nineteen.”
In the background Robinson’s tenor was still playing – ‘Who Cares?’ – ‘How Long Has This Been Going On?’ – languid, knowing.
“For him it was like meeting Nicola all over again. And nothing else mattered. He was going to leave Nicola for her, get divorced, remarry. When I found out I went to him and told him, you can’t, you can’t do that, not to her. And there’s the kids, what about them? ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy’, he said, ‘I’ll look after them. Your Nicola, make sure she’s properly taken care of.’”
The tape spooled free mid-phrase, spun a few more times and was still. Nolan’s broken breathing aside, it was quiet.
“I gave him one last chance,” Nolan said. “Pleaded with him, threatened; it didn’t make a scrap of difference. He wasn’t going to change his mind.” He cast Resnick a quick glance
. “I’d already taken the shotgun from the house a couple of days before. Snuck it out when I’d called round to see Nicola.” He looked Resnick in the eye. “It was my responsibility, you see. There didn’t seem to be anything else I could do.”
The beer had grown warm in Resnick’s hand. “You’ll have to tell it again, Jimmy, down at the station. You know that?”
Nolan nodded. “You don’t reckon it could wait till morning?”
“Best not.” Resnick got to his feet and Nolan followed suit.
“You got to believe it, Charlie,” Nolan said, “Nicola, what was going on, she never knew.”
Uncertain whether he did or not, Resnick nodded just the same.
At the doorway, Nolan hesitated, glanced back into the room. “All these tapes, Charlie. This music . . .”
Resnick touched him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Jimmy. I’ll see it comes to no harm.”
Next morning he threw back the covers before dawn, fully awake and broken from a dream. Nicola Venner had been leaning over him and he had felt the warmth of her breath on his face, of her bare skin on his arm. There had been tiredness and want in her eyes and he had been going to help her, heard the words forming in his mind. Slowly, he swung his legs round and rose to his feet. He could call her later, drive down.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water into his face, not once but several times. The last thing she wanted, he thought then, offers of help from him. Hadn’t she had help enough from men such as himself already?
He splashed more water, cleaned his teeth, shaved, stepped into the shower. Outside, night was gradually becoming another day.
Billie’s Blues
Angels, that was what he thought. The way she lay on her back, arms spread wide, as if making angels in the snow. The front of her coat tugged aside, feet bare, the centre of her dress stained dark, fingers curled. A few listless flakes settled momentarily on her face and hair. Porcelain skin. In those temperatures she could have been dead for hours or days. The pathologist would know.