Cold in Hand

by John Harvey

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘But that’s how it was, Chris and Susie and me, the three of us, you know? Perfect.’

  He brought his hand to his mouth as if to stifle a sob and turned his head aside and Lynn asked herself if he were putting it on.

  ‘Till something went wrong,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something went wrong, with the relationship. Between you and Chris.’

  Foley tilted his head back and, for a long moment, closed his eyes.

  ‘I had this stupid, this bloody stupid – I won’t even call it an affair, it wasn’t an affair, not anything like that, it was a fling. I suppose if you want to call it anything, that’s what it was. A fling with this girl, worked in the showroom. I needed my bloody brains tested, I know. It was all stupid, like I say. She was just some kid flashing her legs, bending forward whenever I walked past the desk so I could see right down her front. I mean, she knew, she knew I was married, I think that was half the fun of it for her, to see if she could. Jesus!’ He hit the edge of the table with his fist. ‘We were at this sales conference, Milton Keynes, a whole bunch of us drinking in the bar after dinner, you know how it is? Having a laugh.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not making excuses, it’s just how it happened. One minute we’re down in the lobby and the next we’re getting into the lift and then we’re there, in my room and, to be honest, I was too pissed to remember much about what happened, but it did, just the once, and Chris she finds out. Next day. Only texts me, doesn’t she, this stupid little tart, and Chris has got my mobile because the battery on hers is flat and the cat’s out of the fucking bag and I’m out the door. No explanations, no excuses, no fucking second chance.’

  He pushed his hands up through his hair.

  ‘I still don’t understand it, you know, how you can throw everything away, everything we had, all because of one little . . . transgression. One half-drunken step in the wrong direction that didn’t mean a thing. Not a bloody thing. You understand that? Can you?’

  Lynn wasn’t sure. Although, looked at coldly, it did seem a bit extreme, she thought perhaps she could. If what they’d had together had really been as full, as complete as Foley had said, then maybe all it needed was one little crack to feel the whole thing was in danger of falling apart.

  ‘I mean, would you?’ Foley persisted. ‘In her situation. React like that?’

  Would she, she wondered? If she found Charlie going over the side? She didn’t know. She’d never really given it a thought.

  ‘You tried to get her to change her mind,’ Lynn said.

  ‘Of course I bloody did. Only she’d met up with what’s-his-face, bloody Schofield, by then, hadn’t she?’

  ‘How did you feel about that? Christine meeting somebody else?’

  ‘How d’you think I felt? Like shit got wiped off some fucker’s bloody shoe.’

  ‘You got angry, then?’

  ‘Of course I got bloody angry.’

  ‘With her?’

  Foley shook his head. ‘First off, I thought it was, you know, tit for tat. Sauce for the goose, something like that. But then it was more. More, and I was out on my ear for bloody good.’

  ‘You didn’t like that.’

  He looked at her as if it were a question not worth answering.

  ‘You kept trying to get Christine to change her mind. Rowed in public. Shouted. Argued.’

  ‘She wouldn’t let me into the house.’

  ‘So you shouted at her in the street.’

  ‘It was the only way to get her to see sense.’

  ‘Not just in the street, the shops, the supermarket.’

  ‘Her fault for locking the door in my face.’

  ‘She was within her rights.’

  ‘What about my rights?’

  ‘You threatened her.’

  ‘Never. Shouted, maybe. Lost my temper, all right. But I never raised a hand to her. And I never threatened to, never.’

  ‘“If I can’t fucking have you, no other bastard will.”’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what you said.’

  ‘When? Where?’

  ‘One evening, outside the house. Little more than a week before she was killed.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘ “If I can’t fucking have you, no other bastard will.” ’

  ‘No way. No fucking way. I’d never’ve said that, not to her. Not in a million years.’

  ‘You were heard.’

  ‘Yes? Who by?’

  Lynn lifted out a copy of the statement. ‘A neighbour. Evelyn Byers. Lives across the street.’

  ‘Nosy cow.’

  ‘Thursday evening. The week preceding the murder. Says she knows it was Thursday because that’s the evening her daughter always comes round. Heard the shouting and went to the window to see what was going on.’

  ‘I’ll bet she did.’

  ‘And that’s when she heard you.’

  ‘And when was this again? Thursday? Thursday before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, no. Can’t have been. She might have heard somebody, but it wasn’t me. I was in Portsmouth. Gone down about a job. New job, change of scene. Living so close, driving me round the twist. I went down that morning, the Thursday morning. Drove. Interview in the afternoon, dinner that night with the sales manager and a couple of the staff. Here . . .’ He took a personal organiser from the inside pocket of his suit. ‘. . . names and numbers, you can check.’

  ‘And it checked out?’ Resnick asked.

  ‘In detail,’ Lynn said.

  It was not so long after eight thirty in the evening, neither of them with time or inclination to cook, and they were sharing a takeaway from one of the Indian restaurants on the Mansfield Road. Lamb pasanda and chicken korma, saag aloo and brinjal bhajee, fried rice and naan bread, plus an assortment of pickles from the cupboard and the fridge. In the absence of any more Worthington White Shield, they split a large bottle of Hoegaarden between them.

  ‘You have to ask,’ Resnick said, ‘why it never came up before?’

  Lynn shrugged. ‘Nobody asked the right question. I’ve looked at the tape of the original interview. The words the witness claims she heard being used, they were never put to him directly.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘We’re checking it out. But I’ve been out there. It must be twenty, twenty-five metres at least between the witness’s upstairs window and the Foley’s front path. Plus it would have been dark. The nearest street light is a good thirty metres away.’

  ‘And this witness,’ Resnick said, helping himself to some more lamb, ‘she’s how old?’

  ‘Sixty plus.’

  ‘So her eyesight’s likely not what it used to be.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It could have been anybody standing there having a slanging match with the victim. Anybody who fits the same basic description.’

  ‘Which the new boyfriend does, apparently. Younger, but around the same height, same darkish hair worn quite short.’

  Resnick speared a piece of chicken with his fork. ‘You’re talking to him, too?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘You going to eat that last piece of naan?’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘It’s all right, keep it. You have it.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, take it.’

  ‘All right. Thanks.’

  ‘Maybe next time we should order two.’

  ‘We tried that. Ended up with most of the second one getting thrown away.’

  Lynn poured herself some more beer. ‘It’s an inexact science, ordering Indian takeaway.’

  ‘Bit like police work, then.’

  She smiled. ‘Anything new on the fire?’

  ‘Not as yet. Tomorrow, most like.’

  Lynn nodded. Tomorrow. Another day.

  16

  Some of the old industrial buildings in the centre of the city had been left to slowly decay and harboured little now beyond floors thi
ck with pigeon waste, an infestation of rats and the occasional body burned almost beyond recognition; others had been eviscerated and reborn as luxury flats and waterside bars, or health clubs with cyber cafés and solariums, personal trainers and corporate membership schemes.

  The particular club where Dan Schofield worked was housed in one of the old low-level railway-station buildings close by the canal. He had hesitated only momentarily when Lynn had phoned: eleven thirty would be fine.

  Several young women slicked past her on their way to an hour or so of ergonomically calibrated exercise – an aqua workout in the pool maybe, or a little holistic t’ai chi – each one fashionably dressed for the occasion, make-up perfectly in place. In her blue-black jeans, black cotton top she’d had for more years than she cared to remember, short corduroy jacket and clumpy shoes, Lynn felt just a smidgeon out of place.

  Beyond the enquiry desk, a tanned individual in an official health-club vest and eye-wateringly tight shorts was flexing his muscles for all to see.

  ‘Dan Schofield?’

  He shook his head without breaking sweat.

  ‘He’s around somewhere. You’d best ask at the desk.’

  She did. A quick call and Schofield appeared. Late twenties? Round about the same age Christine Foley had been when she died. And where the man she’d seen first was all overdeveloped muscle and curly dark hair, Dan Schofield was trim and athletic in his uniform tracksuit, not tall, no more than an inch more than Lynn herself, smooth-shaven with neat, short hair. Were he a soccer player, she thought – something else in which Resnick had partially schooled her – he would be a midfield play maker, not afraid to put his foot on the ball, look up, then play a probing pass upfield.

  ‘Is there somewhere,’ Lynn asked, ‘we could go and talk?’

  ‘There’s the juice bar, though that tends to be busy this time of the day. Or we could go outside.’

  It was only a short walk back on to London Road and the entrance to the canal.

  As they went down the steps towards the water, a narrowboat puttered past, brightly painted, a brown-and-white dog stretched out on deck, a man with heavily tattooed arms seated at the helm, contentedly reading a book. All it needed was for the sun to break through the matt grey coating of cloud or for the refuse that cluttered the far bank to disappear and it could be a perfect scene, a perfect moment in the day.

  ‘What happened to Christine,’ Lynn said, ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘You’d known her how long?’

  ‘We’d been living together five months, give or take. If that’s what you’re asking. But I’d known her longer than that. A good year and a half.’

  ‘And you met her where?’

  ‘Here, at the club. She used to come for classes. Just the one at first, but more often after that.’

  ‘Your classes?’

  ‘Some. Not all. But mainly, yes, I suppose they were.’

  ‘And that’s when you got to know one another?’

  ‘Yes, like I said. We used to talk after the session sometimes, just, you know, chat. Nothing special.’

  They stopped and sat on a bench back from the edge of the canal path.

  ‘She was lonely,’ Schofield said, ‘Christine. At least, that was how she seemed. I mean, okay, she had a busy life, with her little girl and everything, part-time job, home, but just the same you sensed that she needed something else. Someone to talk to.’

  ‘Aside from her husband.’

  Schofield half-smiled. ‘You’ve met him? Foley?’

  ‘Just the once.’

  ‘Then maybe you’ll know, you don’t talk to Tony. He talks to you. You listen.’

  The more she listened to Schofield, the more she could hear the vestiges of a Geordie accent filtering through. They were silent for a moment as a couple of swans ghosted past.

  ‘Your friendship with Christine, then,’ Lynn said, ‘it had started quite a long time before she broke up with her husband.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Not that that had any bearing on what happened. That was all down to Foley, wasn’t it? Screwing some bimbo from work. Christine, she was gutted. Said she could never look at him in the same way again.’

  ‘But you helped, I dare say.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘You could put it that way if you like.’

  ‘And you weren’t sorry.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘When they broke up.’

  ‘I was sorry for her.’

  ‘It meant the field was clear.’

  ‘That makes it sound – I don’t know – wrong somehow.’

  ‘Your friendship could move on. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘We were already close. When Foley left, we became closer. No crime in that.’

  ‘And there was never any thought she might go back to him?’

  ‘Foley? Not in a million years. Why would she?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because of the little girl, perhaps. Susie. She must have been really upset her dad was gone.’

  ‘A little, maybe.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure how much time they ever really spent together.’

  ‘And you got on with her okay?’

  ‘Susie? Yes, fine.’

  Lynn smiled. ‘A ready-made family.’

  ‘You could look at it that way.’

  ‘Lucky, some would say.’

  ‘I would,’ Schofield said emphatically. ‘I would and no mistake. Those few months . . .’ He looked away. ‘What you were saying, about Susie, about us being like a family. I’d never . . . never really thought of having kids, you know? Being a dad. I was happy the way I was. Friends. Girlfriends. Working where I do, no shortage of those. Women coming on to you. Well . . . like I say, I’d not figured on settling down, but then the more time I spent with Christine the more it was what I wanted to do. What we both wanted to do.’

  ‘And it was working out? Living together?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course it was.’

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘Not really, no. It was great. It was fine.’

  Lynn smiled. ‘When something like that happens, it’s only the good times you remember.’

  ‘That’s all there were.’

  ‘You must have had arguments. The odd one or two, at least. It’s only natural.’

  Schofield was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Not one?’

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘What about the time you came home and found Foley in the house, talking to Christine?’

  The expression on his face changed, his voice tightened. ‘That was different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was the one I was angry with, not her.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘You didn’t have a bit of a shouting match out front, after he’d gone?’

  ‘Out front? Out front of the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘You didn’t threaten her?’

  He laughed, incredulous. ‘Christine? Absolutely not.’

  ‘You didn’t say if you couldn’t have her, nobody else would?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘“If I can’t fucking have you, no other bastard will.” ’

  Schofield made a sharp sound of disbelief, half snort, half laugh. ‘Look, this is ridiculous. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but whoever it was, whatever they’ve said, it’s a lie. Okay? A lie.’ He was quickly to his feet and backing one step, two steps away. ‘Now, if it’s all right with you, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got another session.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lynn said. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  He hesitated a moment longer before walking crisply back along the can
al path, Lynn continuing to sit there, thoughtful, watching him go.

  Terry Brook got in touch with Resnick ahead of the fire investigator’s report. Any doubts that the fire had been started accidentally could be dismissed. Some crude kind of petrol bombs had been used, hurled through windows at both the front and back of the house, more or less simultaneously.

  The youth on whose floor Marcus Brent had allegedly slept was Jason Price, currently studying entry-level Music and Sound Technology at South Notts College and with two previous brushes with the police to his credit. Both youths worked in Marcus’s father’s music shop on Saturdays and in whatever spare time they could scrounge. Though the shop always stocked a certain amount of rap and reggae, dub was what it specialised in, what set it apart from the big chains and the independent opposition: rare vinyl alongside remastered versions of classic King Tubby and new recordings by bands like Groundation and Bedouin Soundclash.

  When Anil Khan spoke to him, Price was surly and affable by turns: he and Marcus had been out with mates, just hanging out, i’n’it? Then down to Stealth – DJ Squigley and Mista Jam. He didn’t know nothin’ about no fire, no Billy Alston, nothin’. Not till later, aw’right? Marcus came back and crashed at his crib like he sometimes did. Time, man? Come on, I dunno what time, but late, like, late, i’n’it? Aw’right?

  As alibis went, it was all vague in the extreme. They took them in for questioning, the pair of them, applying pressure where they could. Officers, meantime, searched Price’s flat for whatever they could find incriminating, hoping, if not something as obvious as an empty petrol can or a bottle of paint thinner, then clothing that had been splashed with petrol or still had a residual smell of smoke.

  There was nothing.

  Both Marcus and Jason stuck to their stories.

  Disappointed, Khan thanked them for their cooperation, trying hard not to react to the smug grins on their faces.

  Bill Berry caught Resnick on the way out and insisted on a catch-up over a pint. Make that two. By the time Resnick got home, Lynn was asleep on the front-room settee, head lolling to one side, half-drunk mug of tea grown cold on the floor alongside.

  Resnick stood watching, his feelings for her such that, had she woken and seen them on his face, she might have been frightened by what they revealed. They spoke, neither of them, about their personal emotions a great deal.