by John Harvey
They hesitated, uncertain whether to carry on walking or what. Drivers sounded their horns. “This is stupid,” said Hannah, as much to herself as anyone, and pointed back toward the curve of pavement outside what had once been a bank and was now an Irish pub.
“I rang,” Resnick said, sounding defensive.
“I know.”
He shuffled his feet. “That business … at dinner …”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just gone charging off like that. It was childish, silly.”
“Charlie, it doesn’t matter.”
People brushed past them, hurrying, heads down.
“You haven’t got time,” Resnick said, “I don’t know, for a drink or something?”
Hannah looked vaguely at her watch. “I haven’t really.”
Still neither of them could quite make a move. A double-decker bus, green and dirty cream, turned noisily left from Market Street, leaving a strong smell of diesel.
“I think I’m seeing someone,” Resnick blurted. “Someone else.”
“You think?”
“Well, I…”
“God, Charlie, one of these days, with any luck, you’ll know.”
He hung his head. “Yes, yes I suppose so.”
“Who is it?” Hannah asked brightly. “Anyone I’m likely to know?”
“Lynn. It’s Lynn.”
“Your Lynn?” she said, amazed. “That Lynn?”
“Mine?” He almost laughed, chuckled at the thought. “Yes, I suppose. That Lynn.”
That seemed to be that. Hannah smiled. Deftly, she kissed the air close by his cheek. “Look after yourself, Charlie. Take care.”
“You, too.”
With a wave, Hannah turned and crossed with the traffic. By the time she had reached the forecourt of the theater, Resnick was almost at the Old Market Square.
Skelton called him in two days later. A bright morning, but somehow promising rain. Everything on the superintendent’s desk was at a perfect angle to everything else. The creases in his suit trousers were so true as to give credence to the rumor he had them sewn in. Resnick even thought there was probably some kind of mathematical formula that would give you the exact position of the knot of Skelton’s tie; the length from one end to the other divided by the sum of the two adjacent sides, something like that.
“Well, Charlie, good news. She’s packing her bags. Leaving.”
Resnick was confused. Who was going and where?
“Siddons. She’s been head-hunted, National Drugs Campaign. Second in command, apparently. Not be satisfied with that for long. Still, our loss, eh …”
The super was looking bright this morning, Resnick thought, quite a gleam in his eye.
“What this does, of course,” Skelton went on, “it leaves a gap. Major Crimes.”
“They’ll advertise.”
“Did that last time, Charlie, look what happened.”
“But they’ll have to.”
Skelton smoothed his fingers down the fine grain of his lapel. “Come on, Charlie, where there’s a will.”
Resnick’s mind was racing in overdrive. Detective Chief Inspector. He’d passed up the chance once, and now …
“Face facts, Charlie,” Skelton said, “you’re not getting any younger. Done what you can do, job you’ve got now. Done it pretty well. Not outstanding, maybe, but pretty well. How many more chances like this d’you think are going to come along? Unless you’d rather vegetate, of course. Grow old.”
Resnick rose to his feet.
“It’s a yes, then?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Charlie …”
“Just time to think it through. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow. First thing.”
Skelton made a gesture of mock-exasperation. “Suit yourself. But first thing, mind. No more shilly-shallying around.”
Resnick set off down the hill from Canning Circus, walking briskly into town. He’d been right in his fears about the rain, it was starting to spot now, large drops, dark on the paving stones. What chance there’d be a fuss, he thought, himself and Lynn part of the same team? Again. Always assuming things carried on as they were. Only more so. He caught his reflection in the restaurant window as he passed, grinning like some great kid.
Well, nothing was definite yet, nothing settled.
DCI, though; he’d regretted not going through with the application before and Jack Skelton was right, if he didn’t put himself up for it this time, then likely that was it.
Outside Yates’s, he bought a Post and glanced at the headlines walking along the north side of the Square; up King Street past the Pizza Express-jazz every Wednesday evening, he’d have to give it a try. The usual congregation of elderly Poles in elderly suits was gathered outside the entrance to the market and those who knew him raised a hand in recognition. Aldo saw him coming and was making his espresso before Resnick had taken his seat.
“Good day, Inspector? You are doing well, yes?”
Resnick nodded. He thought he was. He thought he might be on the verge of doing better.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-b83680-1d11-9b4d-86b7-e144-032d-dfb800
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 14.09.2013
Created using: calibre 1.3.0, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
John Harvey
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