Off Minor

by John Harvey

  Sara sat back down.

  “Where you and Raymond went, the sidings, did you get the impression he’d been there before?”

  She thought it over, nibbling at a hangnail on her little finger. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but, yes, I suppose … He knew where he was taking me, yes. I mean, he wasn’t stumbling around in the dark.”

  “And the building itself?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He could’ve. Yes. Though we didn’t really go far in, you know, not at first.”

  “When you were …” Lynn paused “… kissing?”

  “Yes.”

  “So up until the time you suspected there might be something very nasty in there as well, what would you say was Raymond’s mood?”

  Sara chewed at the flesh inside her lower lip. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, was he, for instance, was he excited, was he nervous?”

  “He wasn’t nervous, no. Only after.”

  “After you found Gloria’s body?” Sara nodded.

  “Up to that point, then, he wasn’t apprehensive at all?”

  Sara frowned, not certain she understood.

  “Raymond, he wasn’t frightened?”

  “No. He had no need to be, did he? Specially not when he had the knife.”

  Lynn was aware of the skin at the back of her neck beginning to prickle. “Knife, Sara? What knife was this?”

  “So,” Alison Morley said, hands on the table, fingers spread, “shall I be talking to you again?”

  “I don’t know,” Patel said. “If we find somebody, make an arrest, then yes, it is possible.”

  “An identification parade?”

  “Possibly.”

  Alison Morley nodded once; getting to her feet, she gave the sides of her skirt a discreet downward pull.

  “Thank you for your time,” Patel said, suddenly self-conscious that she was watching him stow away his notebook and pen, push back his chair.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” she said.

  Patel shook his head. “Bradford. My family, they come from Bradford.”

  Alison nodded. “I thought it was more a Yorkshire accent.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I’ve a cousin, comes from somewhere outside Leeds.”

  “Yes.” He glanced round at the door, began to back away. “Well, thanks for being so helpful.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  She took a small handkerchief from her pocket and nodded at the lapel of his jacket. “You’ve got something down you.”

  Patel watched as, carefully, she dabbed it away. The badge engraved with her name was so close to touching his other lapel. She had, he noticed, a tiny mole immediately below one corner of her mouth and level with the cleft of her chin.

  “There,” she said, satisfied, stepping back.

  “Look,” Patel said, blurting out the words too quickly, “you wouldn’t like to come out with me some time?”

  “Why not?” said Alison Morley, stepping back. “We could always talk about your mortgage. See if it isn’t time for you to think about an extension.”

  Twelve

  Resnick had emerged from Jack Skelton’s office inspired. Back from a brisk two-mile run, the superintendent had unfolded from its neat foil wrapping two pieces of dry plaster board which turned out to be Swedish crispbread, three sticks of green celery and an apple.

  “Hear that report on the radio this morning, Charlie?” Skelton had asked, slicing the apple scrupulously into four and then four again. “Two-thirds of the country setting their health at serious risk through sloppy eating habits. Cancer of the colon, cancer of the bowel.”

  Resnick had entered the deli committed to good intentions. Nothing wrong, after all, with a salad sandwich on wholemeal bread, no dressing, no mayonnaise, hold the butter. Cottage cheese, not many carbohydrates in that, specially if you went for the low-fat version. Course, it didn’t taste of a whole lot, but where a healthy body was concerned, the sacrifice of a little flavor was a small price to pay.

  “That’ll be two pounds thirty-five.”

  It was the second sandwich, the one with tuna and chicken livers, radicchio in a garlic sauce, dark rye bread with caraway, that put up the price. That and the wedge of Cambazola that had been standing there so temptingly at the edge of the board.

  “’Lo, Kevin.”

  “Sir.”

  Naylor walking away from the area of the cells as Resnick came back into the station, heading for the stairs.

  “Going all right?”

  “Sir.”

  “Wife okay?”

  “Sir.”

  “Baby?”

  “Sir.”

  Naylor held open the CID door for Resnick to walk through, then hurried towards the safety of the far end of the office and began shuffling forms and papers over the surface of his desk.

  Resnick used the sole of his shoe to push his own door closed and set his lunch down alongside the duty roster, licking at his fingers, where grease had seeped through the paper bag. Kevin Naylor had come to see him several months before, unofficial inquiry about a transfer. To the best of Resnick’s knowledge the young DC had never pursued it further, but rumors that all was not well at home had persisted, ructions between Debbie and himself, even some difficulties with Debbie and the baby. Resnick had asked Lynn Kellogg about that once and Lynn had said, yes, as far as she knew Debbie had been suffering a bit of postnatal depression but she understood things to be sorting themselves out. Naylor did his share of drinking off-shift, nothing that wasn’t par for that particular course. If he’d taken to going over the side, at least he hadn’t been shooting his mouth off about it in the canteen.

  Even so …

  Resnick chewed thoughtfully, half a mind to call Naylor in, see if there wasn’t more to get out of him than the same single syllable word. He was still thinking when his phone rang and he had to swallow hastily before picking up.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, after listening to what Lynn Kellogg had to say, “youth like that, out in the city on a Friday, Saturday night without a knife of some kind about him, that might be more of a surprise. Even so, a few more questions likely wouldn’t hurt … No, no, let Mark have another go at him. Besides, I’ve got other plans for you. How’d you feel about a bit of a bucket and spade job? Quick trip to the seaside?”

  Lorraine wished she knew if the right thing to do was tell Michael about it or not. She knew, at least she was pretty certain she knew, what his reaction would be. It wasn’t that he was an irrational man, Michael, and not violent, no, not that, absolutely not, not normally; but where his ex, where Diana was concerned, it was different. There had been the period when she had kept sending Emily letters; not letters, really, more little notes, usually no more than a few words written on one of those notelets, the kind with flowers around the border. And it didn’t matter, wasn’t as if Emily could read them properly, Diana’s handwriting not being of the best. She had been able to understand the bottom part, though, mum, love and kisses, mum, and then lots of xs, just to underline the point.

  Michael had torn them up when he’d found them, which hadn’t been for the first couple of weeks, Lorraine having decided that what Michael didn’t know wouldn’t harm him, the post arriving after he’d left to catch his train.

  “However long’s this been going on?” he’d demanded, glowering at Lorraine as if it all had been her fault. And when she’d told him, “Suffering Christ!” and he’d wrenched the drawer right out, showering them down on to the bed and the floor. Of course, Emily had cried when he’d torn them up, sobbed her heart out. “See,” Michael had said, pointing. “See,” vindicated, “how upset it gets her?”

  And then there had been the phone calls, Diana’s voice at first, calmly inquiring if she might speak to Emily.

  “Diana, I’m not positive that’s such a good idea,” Lorraine had faltered.

  “Keep this up and I’ll get the law on to you,” Michael had said. “Keep
this up and see if I don’t.”

  After that, she never spoke, simply waited ten, fifteen seconds before ringing off. Michael had said it was some pervert, a heavy breather going through the phone book, getting his sordid little kicks. Lorraine had nodded, maybe, knowing it wasn’t that, whatever desire and longing might be at the other end of the line was of a different kind altogether.

  Now it was this: three afternoons out of the last four, after Lorraine had collected Emily from the school and driven home, there she was, waiting across the street—Diana. The first time it had given Lorraine quite a shock, seeing her standing there in that bottle-green coat she always seemed to wear, the one with the hood. Lorraine had hesitated, expectant, waiting for Diana to walk towards them, imagining perhaps that something had happened, something important. But no. No movement. No sign of recognition. Aside from the fact of her being there: there and watching.

  Lorraine had busied Emily into the house; she could go back later and put the car in the garage, plenty of time before Michael would be home. She made Emily her usual home-from-school treat, four or five assorted biscuits with the profiles of different animals embossed on them, each arranged round a piece of Marks and Spencer Swiss roll at the center of her Peter Rabbit plate; then she’d shooed her off into the living room with this and a glass of banana-flavored milk, switched on the TV. Outside, Diana hadn’t moved. She was standing on the opposite pavement, close by an overgrown cotoneaster, three doors down. Her hands were in her pockets and her face looked cold, expressionless and cold. Lorraine had to fight a sudden impulse to go over and talk to her, say hello, invite her into the house. Perhaps it would be possible for them to sit down, that kitchen, sit over a pot of tea and talk.

  She had never really talked to Diana.

  “You don’t talk to Diana,” Michael had said. He had made it absolutely clear. “You take Emily, you drop her off. The only conversation you need to have, make sure she knows what time you’ll be there to pick her up. That’s it. Understood?”

  Perhaps if she were able to talk to Diana, she might be able to understand Michael a little better. Try and make sure that whatever it was went wrong with the two of them, Michael and Diana, didn’t happen again. But she knew she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t real. What it was, the kind of thing that happened on television, Neighbours, Brookside. Besides, it would probably mean they would have to talk about the time Diana went into hospital and Lorraine didn’t think she wanted to know about that.

  “Only surprising thing,” Michael had said when he’d heard, “is that she didn’t end up there years ago. Best place for her.”

  Lorraine turned away from the kitchen window, swilled boiling water around the pot and emptied it into one side of the twin sink, dropped in a tea bag and three-quarters filled the smaller pot. When she looked out again, Diana had gone.

  Three days later, she was there again; and two school days after that. Lorraine began to find excuses for not bringing Emily straight home, something she’d forgotten from Sainsbury’s, why didn’t they go into town and have tea out, a treat? The days shortened and Diana was little more than a shadow, something glimpsed over Lorraine’s shoulder as she hurried Emily into the house, a blotch of pale face above a formless patch of darkness, darker than the rest.

  Something choked in Lorraine’s throat: what was she doing? Scurrying a six-year-old girl away from her mother’s reach, out of her sight.

  “Mummy!” Emily had called out once, as Lorraine was urging her through the front door.

  “What about her?” Chubb lock against her back, holding tight to Emily’s hand.

  “I saw her.”

  “Yes, the other Sunday.”

  “No. Now.” Emily pointing towards the door, Lorraine scooping her up into her arms, “Nonsense, sweetheart, you just imagined it,” sweeping her through to the rear of the house.

  The noise would have been enough to shatter the plaster from the walls, if it hadn’t been for over a decade’s cigarette smoke and nicotine holding it glued together. Residents had long since given up complaining; turned up their TV sets, their stereos, instead; arranged their nights out around the pub’s live music. Tonight was blues night: take your basic three chords and a few flourishes and process them through the amps at a volume that defied criticism.

  Naylor made it back through the packed bar without spilling more than a few inches from each pint glass.

  “What’s this?” Divine shouted over the din. “You order halves?”

  If he heard, Naylor chose to offer no comment. He squeezed back alongside Divine, sharing his section of the bench seat with a broad-faced Rastafarian and a scrawny student type, sporting a string of political badges, a wisp of beard and a navy blue peaked cap that sat sideways on his head.

  “What the hell we doing here?” Naylor asked.

  “Keeping our eyes open, remember?”

  A month before the drugs squad had intercepted a couple of padded envelopes on their way to a known dealer who lived above a video shop off the Alfreton Road. One appeared to have been posted in Canada, the other in Japan; the original source of both turned out to be Pakistan. Bribe a few officials, infiltrate them into the postal system as if they had started out in countries which aroused little Customs and Excise suspicion—bingo! your friendly, international mail-order drug company. While Interpol and the National Drugs Unit were hauling in the bigger fish, Naylor and Divine were supping dubious bitter and watching out for a few minnows.

  It didn’t look as if it were going to be one of their nights.

  “If that fat bastard,” Divine yelled in Naylor’s ear, indicating the middle-aged white man at the piano, “sings another word about going to Chicago, I’m going to take him down the station personally, stick him on the fucking train.”

  They left thirty minutes short of closing, sound ringing in their ears.

  “Fancy anything?” Divine asked, eyes on the kebab place across the street.

  Naylor shook his head. “Got to get home.”

  “Debbie waiting up for you?”

  Naylor shrugged.

  “Better still,” Divine winked, “waiting in bed.”

  Naylor had left his car at the station; he knew he probably shouldn’t be driving, leave it there till morning, take a cab. What the hell! Lights shone from the first-floor windows and for half a moment, Naylor considered going back in, passing the time, make himself a coffee, black. Instead he backed the car out onto the road and headed for home.

  Only the small light burned above the front door. There was a pint of milk open in the fridge and Naylor drank it right down, scarcely moving the carton away from his lips for air. He thought about opening another, making himself some cereal. Inside a bowl, covered over with a small plate, there was some tuna and he took that through into the front room and switched on the TV, volume low. Faces snarled at one another from banked rows of seats, a serious political presenter egging them on. Asian men and women in black and white costumes and subtitles, talking, talking, talking. Soccer Special. Newsnight. He switched the set to an empty channel and finished his flakes of tuna, staring at the moving speckles of the screen, listening to the hum.

  “Wife okay? Baby?”

  As far as he knew, they were fine.

  Thirteen

  Raymond lay there, that narrow bed in his twelve by fourteen room, seeped in semen and his own stale sweat, trying not to think about the girl. Smiling face and the bright hair and the slightly chubby hands that seemed eager always to reach out and touch.

  “Ray-o!”

  Sitting on the wall outside the pub, he had told her his name, his nickname, and she had shrieked it aloud, gleeful, her whole body shaking as she danced up and around.

  “Ray-o! Ray-o! Ray-o!”

  Without thinking he had whisked her off her feet and whirled her round, like a carousel at Goose Fair, round and round until he lowered her gradually down, laughing and shaking, excitement tinged with fear. The next time he saw her, days later, she had t
ugged at her nan’s hand and pointed across the street—“Ray-o!”—and he had quickly waved and walked on.

  Now he threw back the blanket and the skimpy sheet and pulled on a T-shirt and yesterday’s pair of pants before climbing to the bathroom, not yet light.

  When he left the house fifty minutes later, leaving through the back door, careful to avoid the dog shit on the square of weed and grass, the rawness of the air took him by surprise. He had no sense of the black Sierra, parked among others at an angle to the road, no awareness of the camera focusing over inches of wound-down window, his steps along the pavement masking its whir and click.

  “I wonder if you recognize him, Mrs. Summers?”

  Lynn Kellogg spread the prints across the table, a group of hastily processed ten by eights, the central one, the close-up, sharp enough, though, to pick out the ghost of the subject’s breath as it left his mouth.

  “Oh, yes,” Edith Summers said. “It’s that boy.”

  “Boy?”

  “The one Gloria took such a shine too.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Ray-o.”

  “That’s his name?”

  “It’s what she called him, Gloria. Raymond, I suppose his real name was. Ray. He was a nice enough lad, not like some.”

  As Lynn had been driving into Mablethorpe a burst of sun shocking in its brightness, had split the clouds that had hung over her the length of the journey. Edith Summers had been outside at the front of the bungalow, sweeping the short path that led from the gate with a long-handled brush. She had insisted on opening a new packet of digestives, brewing tea.

  “What did you mean, Mrs. Summers,” Lynn asked, “when you said Gloria took a shine to Raymond?”

  “Oh, you know, she would chatter on about him sometimes, she seemed to get a kick out of seeing him, I suppose that’s what it was. I mean, Raymond, he would make a point of calling out to her if ever he saw her, waving and that. Playing the fool.”

  “Where was this, Mrs. Summers?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “When Gloria and Raymond saw one another, where would this be?”