by John Harvey
Resnick sighed. Education, wasn’t that at the heart of it? Jobs, housing? Maybe the Brents were right to feel they deserved better.
‘What was she, Charlie, this kid? Sixteen? Barely that. My kid or yours, she’d not be out there running with a gang, likely doing drugs, getting laid. Ask yourself why.’
Resnick didn’t have a daughter. If he had, he’d no idea what it would be like to help her live her life without due harm. Except that it would be hard.
‘Let’s order,’ Berry said. ‘Smell from that grill’s making me fair starving.’
He had bacon, sausage and fried eggs, Resnick pancakes with a couple of rashers of bacon on the side. Coffee, rye bread. Resnick exchanged with the proprietress the few Polish pleasantries that came easily to the tongue. Since he’d started living with Lynn, his visits to the Polish Club had become less and less frequent; now months could pass without him ever stepping through the door.
‘Kelly Brent’s murder,’ Berry said. ‘I’ve drawn the short straw.’
Resnick broke off a piece of bread and wiped it around the bacon juices that had collected at the side of his plate.
‘I want you for my number two.’
Resnick stopped what he was doing and looked at Berry squarely.
‘Jerry Latham for office manager,’ Berry said, ‘and the outside team, that’d be down to you.’
‘Prentiss’d love that,’ Resnick said, popping the bread into his mouth.
‘Fuck him,’ Berry said.
Derek Prentiss was the City Division commander, accountable for balancing budgets and hitting an array of ever-shifting targets, one of which, relating to robbery, was currently Resnick’s specific area of responsibility. Since he’d taken charge of the division’s robbery squad, the number of offences was down, all right marginally, but improving further, even if the clear-up rate was, as yet, lagging behind. Prentiss wasn’t going to be happy with anything that put those figures under threat.
‘Besides,’ Resnick said, ‘with Lynn involved . . .’
‘Outside team, Charlie, that’s where I want you, like I said. No conflict of interest there. Any part she’s got to play, evidence, whatever, you steer well clear.’
‘I don’t know.’ Resnick shook his head.
‘It’s your patch, Charlie.’
‘Used to be.’
‘Youths likely involved’ll be known to some of your lot, I’d not be surprised. Street robberies and the like.’
‘Possible.’
‘More than bloody possible.’ Berry speared a piece of sausage with his fork. ‘Come on, Charlie. Stop dicking me around. Bring one of your lads in with you, if it’d make you feel happier.’
Resnick leaned back, pushing away his plate as he did so. ‘What you’re not saying, Bill, behind all this flannel, Homicide’s stripped so bare there’s no bugger else. It’s either me or a DI you don’t know from outside.’
Berry laughed. ‘Some clever bastard wheeled up from the Met. I’d love that, right enough. But no, that’s not it. That’s not it at all.’
‘No?’
‘Charlie, Charlie. A bloke with a good head on his shoulders, someone I can bloody rely on, someone I can trust. That’s why I want you.’
‘Is it, bollocks!’
Berry laughed even louder. ‘Come on, Charlie. Kids thievin’ mobile phones and MP3 players, old dears having their pensions snatched, that’s not your mark. This’ll get you out of the office for a bit, instead of shuffling bloody papers. Bit of real police work for a change. Let me put my feet up on the desk, instead.’
Angling away, Resnick looked out through the glass at the traffic making its way up Derby Road from the city centre. For years he’d been stationed at Canning Circus, no more than a stone’s throw from where they were now, his squad handling everything from petty misdemeanours to murder. Not much time in those days for Best Value Programmes or monthly Performance Scrutiny Boards, little of the pressure of constantly changing Home Office directives.
What had Berry just said? Some real police work for a change.
‘Prentiss,’ Resnick said, swivelling back round. ‘Even if I wanted to go along. If. He’ll never wear it.’
‘Don’t be so sure. I had a word with the ACC, before I rang you. He’d like to get this little lot sorted as soon as possible. Now what d’you say. In or out?’
Resnick hesitated, but he didn’t hesitate for long. ‘In,’ he said.
‘Good man. Now let’s get out of here and get things started.’
‘Over my dead fucking body!’ Derek Prentiss said.
The Assistant Chief Constable smiled a corporate smile. ‘I wonder, Derek, if we need to be so extreme.’
If the Divisional Commander could have breathed fire from his nostrils, the reports on the ACC’s desk would be singeing at the edges, about to spark into flame. ‘You know how long, sir, it’s taken to get street robberies under control?’
‘Of course, Derek, of course. And you know, from the last trimonthly report of the Performance Committee, that’s not gone unnoticed. Far from it.’
‘Then why the—?’
‘Because there are other priorities. And because now the robbery squad’s on a more even keel, it shouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility for someone else to steady the ship. For a time, at least.’
Fucking yachting metaphors, Prentiss thought. Just because you’ve got forty thousand pounds’ worth of motor cruiser moored on the Trent.
‘A month or so, Derek,’ the ACC said, ‘that’s all. With luck and a following wind, it could be even less. Then you can have him back refreshed. Not that he’ll be on board for ever, mind. There’s that to consider. Can’t be far off his thirty, our Mr Resnick, and then he’ll draw his pension and be on his way without so much as a by-your-leave.’
‘Not forced to go, sir. Just ’cause his years are in.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
Too fucking right, Prentiss thought. ‘Not necessarily, sir. Not if I thought there was a job I could still usefully do.’
The ACC gave him a look which suggested that was dubious at best, then glanced down at his desk. There was a meeting of the Corporate Governance Panel in a little over an hour, and before that he’d promised the head teacher of St Ann’s Well Nursery and Infant School he’d drop in and present a certificate to the children who’d raised the most money towards sponsoring a police horse called Sherwood.
‘All right then, Derek. Thanks for stopping by. Your cooperation, as ever, much appreciated. I know you’ll do your best to ensure it all runs smoothly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bastard, Prentiss thought as he left the room, I hope your boat fucking sinks.
When Resnick nipped home, Lynn was sitting in a wicker chair near the bay windows at the front of the house, cushions at her back, reading a book.
‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’ he said.
‘I got bored.’
‘And is that comfortable?’
‘Not really.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘How’s it feel?’
She winced a little as she moved. ‘Could be worse. Long as I keep on with the painkillers, it’s bearable.’
‘Get you anything?’
‘Not right now.’
He kissed her again.
‘What’s that you’re reading?’
She held it up towards him. This Book Will Save Your Life.
‘Bit late for that.’
Lynn smiled. ‘Not really that kind of book. Good, though.’ She folded down the corner of a page and set the book aside. ‘What did Bill Berry want?’
‘The girl who was killed, he’s leading the inquiry.’
‘And what? He wants to borrow some of your squad to bump up his numbers?’
‘Not exactly.’
She looked at him carefully: no mistaking the smile that was crinkling his eyes.
‘He wants you,’ Lynn said.
‘So it seems.’
‘For his number two.’
/>
Resnick nodded.
‘Handling the outside team?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prentiss’ll go spare.’
‘Over this, apparently, Prentiss has his balls in a vice.’
‘I always thought it was just the way he walked.’ Lynn laughed and then, as the pain lanced through her, wished she hadn’t.
‘Are you okay?’ Resnick said, concerned.
‘It’ll pass.’
‘You sure I can’t get you anything?’
‘Some peppermint tea, that would be nice.’
‘Have we got any?’
‘Somewhere.’
He was almost at the door when she called him back. ‘I’m glad. About the inquiry. You’ll do a good job.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I always said you were the best DI I ever worked under.’
‘That’s just because you were trying to get into my pants.’
‘You wish!’ She laughed again and grimaced at another sudden shoot of pain. ‘You bastard, stop making me laugh.’
Resnick smiled. ‘I’ll get the tea.’
While he was in the kitchen he made coffee for himself and cut off a slice of bread to go with the nub end of cheddar that had been hiding in the back of the fridge and was just this side of edible. The trouble with big breakfasts, he thought, they made you hungry for the rest of the day.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting me to make a statement,’ Lynn said.
‘Not me. Bill Berry’ll get it sorted first thing.’ He smiled. ‘You’re a key witness, after all.’
‘He’ll want me to go into the station?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. No sense you rushing back before you have to.’
Lynn nodded and sipped her tea. ‘As long as I’m okay by the trial.’
‘Your Albanian.’
‘Not exactly my Albanian.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Nine months before, Lynn had been largely instrumental in the arrest of an Albanian national, accused of murdering an eighteen-year-old Croatian girl at the massage parlour where she worked.
Resnick took a knife to the cheese. ‘The inquiry, I was thinking of taking someone from Robbery across with me.’
‘A bag man.’
‘Sort of.’
‘Someone to watch your back.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Mark Shepherd? He’s steady.’
Resnick shook his head. ‘Catherine Njoroge.’
‘Really?’
‘You don’t think it’s a good idea?’
‘I don’t know. You think she’s ready?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
Lynn went back to her tea.
Catherine Njoroge was twenty-seven and had been on the force since leaving university; it was only a matter of time before she made the move up from detective constable to detective sergeant. Her family had left Kenya in 1988, during the disturbances following the re-election of Daniel arap Moi to the presidency. Her father was a lawyer, her mother a doctor, and they had hoped she would follow in one set of footsteps or the other. Now they did their best to hide their disappointment and understand the choice their daughter had made.
‘She’s very lovely, I’ll say that for her.’
‘Is she? Can’t say I’d really noticed.’
‘Charlie, you’re a terrible liar,’ Lynn said, smiling.
The press conference was more than usually crowded, national interest as well as local, more sleek digital cameras and state-of-the-art recorders than the average car boot sale on a Sunday morning. The Assistant Chief Constable sat polishing his glasses, papers on the desk in front of him, Bill Berry to one side and a reluctant Charlie Resnick to the other.
When the press officer had got wind of Catherine Njoroge’s involvement in the inquiry, she’d done her utmost to get her up on the platform.
‘A young black girl murdered and we’re going on national television with three middle-aged white men, how do you think that looks?’
‘It looks,’ the ACC told her, ‘as if we’re taking it seriously. Not playing to the fucking gallery.’
Sometimes, she felt like saying, that’s not such a bad idea. But this time she bit her tongue and got ready to deflect the fallout as best she could.
Though they were present, no one from the Brent family would agree to join the officers on the platform, no matter the urging: her mother was too distraught, her father too angry. Instead, they sat together at the back of the room, indignation mixed with sorrow on their faces.
‘Our sympathies,’ the ACC was saying, reading from his prepared statement, ‘are with Kelly’s family, as they struggle to come to terms with the loss of their daughter. As a force, we share their abhorrence at this thoughtless crime, and their anger. The anger, indeed, of the whole community. And we would ask all members of that community to assist us in bringing Kelly’s killer to justice. Someone out there knows who did this, and we would urge them, for the sake of Kelly’s family, to contact the police.’
A low rumble of voices from amongst the crowd.
A few more cameras flashing.
The inevitable questions about gun crime from Sky News, Channel 4, ITV.
The ACC slid several pages of bar graphs from the folder in front of him.
‘It is important,’ he said, ‘to see this tragic event in context and to set it against the wider picture. In the operational year to date, the figures for all recorded crime in the city are down, and although there has been a slight, but nonetheless regrettable, increase in recorded crimes against the person, there has also been a significant increase in the number of such crimes detected.
‘Much of this is due to our joint initiatives with the city council and an increased emphasis on citizen-focused policing and enhanced community engagement.
‘And I can tell you . . .’ holding up a sheet of paper, ‘. . . that in February, the last month for which figures are available, there has been a clear and definite fall—’
‘Why?’ a voice interrupted from the back of the room. ‘Why you going on about this? Statistics, that’s all it is. Well, my daughter’s no statistic. She’s flesh and blood, my flesh and blood – this family, my family – and now she is out there, laying in a morgue somewhere . . .’
‘Mr Brent . . .’ the ACC said, attempting to override him. ‘This is not the place . . .’
News cameras swivelled and refocused and captured Howard Brent, still shouting at the top of his lungs, being escorted out of the hall.
Lynn saw it less than an hour later, edited down, on BBC News 24. Read – just a quick cutaway – the acute discomfort on Resnick’s face, before the cameras homed in on Brent, standing on the steps outside the building where the press conference had been held. A handsome man of West Indian descent, still comparatively young, soberly dressed in a dark suit and tie, his voice now more under control, though the anger was still evident in his eyes and his stance.
‘My daughter was the innocent victim of the violence on our streets. Violence that is threatenin’ to tear our community apart, but which the police do nothing about. And why? Because they don’t care.
‘My daughter Kelly lost her life because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the bullet that took that life was not meant for her. That bullet was meant for a police officer, intent on making an arrest. An officer who, when she was under attack, used my daughter as a shield. A human shield. And if that officer is watching now, I hope she is feelin’ guilty for what she has done. Sacrificed my daughter’s life for her own.’
What Lynn was feeling was sick, a cold sickness that spread through her and kept her rooted in front of the screen.
4
The incident room was in the Central Police Station, with views out across the new Trinity Square development towards the Victoria Centre and the clock tower that was the last remaining sign of the old Nottingham Victoria railway station. Not that any of the twenty or so officers assembled were, at that
moment, concerned with the view.
Conversations faltered as Bill Berry entered with Jerry Latham, the office manager, and then picked up again as Berry and Latham stopped to share a few final words. Resnick, who had been no more than a pace or two behind them, stood to one side, surveying the room. A number of the officers he knew in passing, a few he knew well – Michaelson, Khan, Fisher, McDaniels, Pike. Most were as new to him as he was to them.
Anil Khan, who had worked with Resnick as a young DC, and was now a sergeant in Homicide and on the verge of promotion, came up and shook his hand. ‘Like old times, sir.’
‘More or less,’ Resnick said.
‘Lynn, she’s all right, I understand?’
‘Thanks, yes. Give her a few days, she’ll be fine.’
‘You’ll pass on my best wishes?’
Resnick assured him that he would.
‘The girl’s father,’ Khan said. ‘That was way out of line.’
Howard Brent’s angry accusation had been repeated endlessly the previous evening, channel to channel, rolling news. In response, the press officer had issued a statement, citing Lynn Kellogg’s exemplary record and making reference to a commendation she had received from the Chief Constable for the skill, determination and professionalism she had shown in a recent murder inquiry. ‘Detective Inspector Kellogg,’ the Chief Constable had said, ‘is a credit to the force and the agencies she represents. She fully deserves our gratitude and our praise.’
‘We understand,’ the statement continued, ‘that Mr Brent’s remarks were made when he was under considerable personal stress, and the Force continues to have every sympathy for him and his family at this difficult time.’
‘Horseshit,’ the ACC said, when it was passed by him for approval. ‘But horseshit we can live with.’