by John Harvey
It was ‘love’ and ‘sweetheart’, a kiss in passing and a squeeze of the hand, a quick hug or cuddle, the reality of what each truly felt buried beneath the mundane and the day-to-day. A few weeks before, when the call had come through to say she had been shot, he thought he had lost her and in that moment his life had stopped, the blood refused to pump round his body.
She stirred and moved her head and, as she did, a small sliver of saliva ran from one corner of her mouth on to her cheek. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Resnick stooped and dabbed it away.
‘Charlie?’ As if from a dream, she blinked herself awake. ‘I’m sorry, I must have dropped off.’
‘No harm.’ With a smile, he brushed the hair back from her face.
‘D’you want something to eat?’ he asked.
‘I suppose I should.’ With a small grunt of effort, she sat up straight.
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
Scraps. Bits and pieces of this and that. Small bowls of leftovers covered in cling film and pushed to the back of the fridge. He fried up some cooked potato with garlic and onion, added half a tin of cannellini beans and a few once-frozen peas, then sliced in some cold pork sausage from God-knows-when. In a basin, he whisked up eggs with black pepper and a good shake of Tabasco, and, when everything else was starting to sizzle, poured the mixture over the top. The result, served with hunks of bread and the last knockings of a bottle of Shiraz, was close to a small feast.
‘You’re a wonder, Charlie.’
‘So they say.’
‘In the kitchen, at least.’
‘Aye.’
It was a while before either of them spoke again, just the contented sounds of two people eating, with the occasional promptings from one hungry cat and in the background the brushed sound of Lester Young’s saxophone, a track Resnick had set to play, Lester with Teddy Wilson, ‘Prisoner of Love’.
‘I talked to Dan Schofield today,’ Lynn said. ‘The man Christine Foley was living with when she was killed.’
‘And?’
Lynn paused, her fork partway to her mouth. ‘Nice enough bloke. On the surface, anyway.’
‘You think he might be involved?’
‘I’m not sure. If he is I can’t yet see how.’
‘He’s got an alibi?’
‘Yes. Cast-iron, so far.’ She ate a piece of sausage. ‘You know what I find fascinating? There’s this woman, the dead woman, Christine. Attractive in a conventional kind of way. Reasonable education, a year or so of college. Works for a building society until her daughter’s born, then, when she starts nursery, gets a part-time job behind the counter in a chemist’s, thinks about possibly retraining as a pharmacist. Everything about her, perfectly ordinary – and yet there are two men, about as different from one another as chalk and cheese, both of them in love with her, think she’s the greatest thing since I don’t know when and can’t stand the thought of living without her.’
A grin came to Resnick’s face.
‘What?’
Still grinning, he shook his head.
‘You think it’s sex, don’t you?’ Lynn said. ‘You think she was this incredibly passionate, inventive creature in the sack.’
‘What I was thinking,’ Resnick said, ‘maybe she was a great cook. You know, the kind who can whip up astonishing dishes from almost nothing . . .’
Lynn laughed. Resnick poured the last of the wine.
‘Any idea,’ he said, ‘what you’re going to do next?’
‘I don’t know. Wash up? Do some ironing? Go to bed?’
‘I mean about the investigation.’
‘Oh, talk to a few of Christine Foley’s friends, I think. People she worked with, try and get a different perspective.’
Leaning across the table, half out of his chair, Resnick kissed her on the lips.
‘What was that for?’ Lynn asked, surprised.
Smiling, Resnick shrugged. ‘Good luck?’
17
Ryan Gregan had insisted they meet in the Arboretum, down near the pond and the bandstand. Just over the road from the cemetery, you know?
Resnick knew.
Many times, when he’d been stationed up at Canning Circus, he and his sergeant, the redoubtable Graham Millington, had eaten a quick sandwich lunch while staring at the elaborate tombstones, talking their way through whichever investigation was uppermost in their minds. Now Millington, a few years Resnick’s junior, had wangled a transfer down to Devon, where his wife hailed from, and was doubtless cycling round the lanes that very moment, keeping an eye out for sheep rustlers while whistling his way through the Petula Clark songbook.
Resnick shuddered at the thought.
Not just the constant repetitions of ‘Downtown’ and ‘Don’t Sleep in the Subway’, but the prospect of all those high, winding hedges and undulating hills and fields. Lynn had been right: short term apart, the country was not for him. The other man’s grass, in this case, not greener at all.
Gregan was sitting on one of the benches beyond the bandstand, shoulders hunched, rolling a cigarette. He was wearing blue jeans and some kind of camouflage top, a peaked New York cap pulled down over his eyes. Tattoos, which might have been new, on the backs of both hands.
Resnick had taken Pike with him, regulations insisting that two officers were present when an informant was interviewed, and favouring Pike over Michaelson, as Pike, at least, could be relied upon to sit still and say nothing unless directly spoken to.
‘Mr Resnick.’
Resnick nodded.
Gregan glanced at Pike, but nothing more.
‘I thought you’d not mind the stroll,’ Gregan said. ‘The open air, you know.’
They sat either side of Gregan on the bench and waited while he lit up, a few stray curls of tobacco hissing briefly as they caught.
‘You’ve got something for me,’ Resnick said.
Gregan smiled.
At the far side of the pond, a tram began its slow ascent along Waverley Street towards the Forest. A boy of no more than ten or eleven, who should certainly have been in school, went past, dragging a scrawny mutt by a piece of string.
‘The shooting,’ Resnick said. ‘You’ve heard something?’
Gregan shook his head. ‘Only the same as before. Billy Alston’s finger on the trigger, that’s the word.’
‘You believe it?’ Resnick asked.
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Gregan’s cigarette had gone out and he lit it again.
‘You’ve got reasons to think it might have been somebody else?’
Gregan shook his head. ‘Alston, I’m just not sure he’s the type. Too jumpy, you know? All over the damned place. Not certain he has it in him, aside from the bragging, that is.’
‘Bragging? Is that what he’s been doing?’
Gregan’s face showed contempt. ‘All mouth and trousers, isn’t that what they say? No bottle. No body. Letting people think he was the one did the shooting, good for his rep out on the street. Hard man.’ Gregan laughed. ‘And besides, where did he get the gun? Not from me and I’ve asked around and I’ve yet to come across anyone who sold Billy Alston as much as a fucking catapult, never mind a pistol, replica or not.’
‘Any other names being mentioned?’
‘Not to me.’
‘You’ll keep your ear to the ground?’
‘Absolutely.’
Resnick waited. Gregan clearly wasn’t done. At the other end of the bench, Pike shuffled his feet.
‘The fire now,’ Gregan said eventually. ‘Alston’s place. Kelly Brent’s old man, can’t wait for you to do the business, that’s most likely what you’re thinking. Take the law into his own hands.’
Resnick said nothing, let him continue.
‘I heard a whisper. Could be nothing to it. But Billy, he was dealing. Just kids’ stuff. Five-, ten-pound deals, you know? Seems he was holding out, even so. Bulking it out, pushing the price and not passing it on. Had a warning a month or so back but paid it no mind. This was t
he final word, something he couldn’t ignore.’
‘The fire?’
‘The fire.’
‘It’s not just talk? Someone making noises after the event?’
Gregan shook his head. ‘That’s always possible, of course. But I don’t think so.’
‘You’ve got names?’
‘Just the one. Ritchie.’
‘Spell it.’
Gregan did.
‘First name?’ Resnick asked. ‘Second name?’
‘First, I think.’
‘You could find out some more?’
A smile played around Gregan’s eyes. ‘I could try.’
‘Try harder.’
As they were walking back across the Arboretum, Resnick asked Pike what he thought.
‘Is he telling the truth, boss? Is that what you mean?’
Resnick nodded.
‘He could be, I don’t know. I mean, if he’s not, if he’s making it up, what’d be the point?’
‘He might think it’s clever, stringing us along. Or he could be doing someone else a favour, Brent, for instance, trying to make us look elsewhere.’
‘How do we know?’
‘We don’t. Which is why, as far as we can, we check. See just how reliable he is. You and Michaelson, find out what you can about any medium-level dealer called Ritchie. Ask around. If he wasn’t Billy Alston’s supplier, find out who was. Maybe, for once, we can put two and two together and make four.’
Lesley McMaster had known Christine Foley – Christine Devonish, as was – since school, since primary school, in fact. Lesley, neat and trim in her little black suit, but with worry lines starting to show around the eyes, didn’t want to think exactly how long that was.
They’d worked together at the Shires Building Society, starting on the same day, nervous as anything; Christine had been the first to settle, not too long before she was being packed off on courses, tipped for promotion. Reliable, that was the thing. Not only that. Initiative, too. Manager, she’d have been by now, if she’d stayed, Lesley was certain. If she hadn’t jacked it in when the baby was born. Even then they were on at her to come back, pick up where she’d left off, but Christine had said no, she wanted a change, though to Lesley’s way of thinking it was more her Tony who was behind it, happier for some reason if his wife was wearing a white coat in the corner chemist’s, doling out cold cures and sanitary items instead of doing something more responsible, earning more cash.
One thing Lynn would say later about Lesley McMaster, she could talk for England.
‘You kept in touch with her then,’ Lynn said, ‘afterwards?’
‘Yes. Well, not as much perhaps once she took up with Dan Schofield. In each other’s pockets and no mistake, the two of them. Christine, she loved it at first, all, you know, the attention. Doing everything together. Tony, she’d probably spent as much time talking to him on his mobile, texting him and that, as she did in person.’
‘You said at first,’ Lynn prompted. ‘She loved it at first.’
Lesley smiled. ‘For all Tony’s faults, he never bothered about her going out for a drink with her mates, as long as Susie was being looked after and everything. Well, it gave him a bit of leeway himself, that’s what I think. But Dan, he was different. Didn’t like it at all. If she wasn’t out with him, he thought she should be at home, made it really difficult for her to get out on her own. In the end, she had to create a bit of a scene. Lay down the law, like. Stick up for her rights. I mean, it wasn’t as if they were married or anything. And she could be quite tough, Christine, when she had to be.’
‘It was a real cause of friction between them, then? That’s what you’re saying?’
‘The last time I saw her,’ Lesley said, lowering her voice as if betraying a confidence, ‘she said she was wondering if she hadn’t made a mistake. Not over Dan himself, not really. I think she loved him, I really do. But whether, you know, she should have let him move in as soon as he did. Instead of letting herself have a bit of freedom first. After Tony. Out of the frying pan, that’s what she said. “Sometimes I think, Lesley, that’s what I’ve done, stepped out of the frying pan and right into the fire.”’
‘She said that?’
‘Word for word.’
‘And you think she might have said it to Dan, too?’ Lynn asked.
Lesley took her time before answering. ‘Yes,’ she said, finally. ‘Yes, if that’s what she felt, strongly enough, I think she might.’
Back at her desk, Lynn checked the route on the computer: Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Nottingham, A1(M), M18, M1. 158.75 miles; 255.5 kilometres. Keeping to a reasonable speed, three hours and a few minutes, but in the early hours and driving fast, that could be pegged back to two hours thirty either way.
She looked back at the reports.
Dan Schofield had travelled up by car to Newcastle earlier that day and met up with his brother and two sisters, various and sundry aunts and uncles and cousins, all congregating to help celebrate his father’s sixtieth birthday. His parents’ house in Heaton was too small to take even the immediate family and Dan had booked into the Holiday Inn, a room for himself and Christine, though, as he explained, making apologies on her behalf, Christine had come down with really bad stomach pains just that morning, something she’d eaten, most likely, sends her love and best wishes.
After drinks at the house, eighteen people had sat down at eight sharp to dinner in a hotel restaurant close to the city centre. Somewhere between ten and ten thirty, some dozen or so, Dan Schofield included, had moved into the bar and carried on drinking. At around half past eleven, some of the younger ones had decided to make a real night of it and headed out clubbing. And it was at this point that accounts began to vary: according to Dan’s brother, Peter, who’d been one of the prime movers, Dan had been up for it and had certainly come along, although after a while – you know what clubs are like – they’d lost sight of one another, so Peter couldn’t say what time Dan might have left. Dan’s younger sister, however, remembered him as being less than keen – just a quick one and I’m off back to the hotel, catch some beauty sleep, leave this clubbing to you kids.
Christine Foley and her daughter had been killed between two and four in the morning. If Dan Schofield had got back to his hotel by, say, twelve thirty, by pulling out all the stops, he could have been in Nottingham by three.
How long did it take to smother a four-year-old with a pillow, stab a grown woman to death?
He could have been back in his Newcastle hotel, back in his room, by six. Six thirty, latest. Between eight thirty and nine, he had called round at his parents’ house to say his goodbyes. We’ll come up and see you soon, his mother quoted him as saying, the three of us.
Lynn pushed back her chair, closed her eyes, tried to conjure back the man she’d spoken to by the canal, trim, controlled, so genuine-sounding when he spoke of his feelings for Christine Foley and her daughter. She wondered at what stage in his relationship with Christine he had begun to see the possibility of it as something else? At which point had he started thinking, scheming, undermining, possibly, a relationship that was already on its way out? Whatever was going on between himself and Christine, that had nothing to do with her breaking up with Tony, no bearing on it at all.
Lynn found that hard to believe.
But could she believe that Schofield, rather than lose what he had manoeuvred himself to gain, would commit murder? Cold, calculating murder at that?
She tried to imagine the scene in which Christine had tried to explain to him, as nicely as she could, mindful of his feelings, that maybe they’d been a bit hasty, living together so soon after she and Tony had split up. Perhaps if they took a break from one another, just for a little while, so she could get her head round things . . .
She tried to picture Dan Schofield’s reaction, what he might say or do if all of his calm and reasoned arguments came to nothing.
If I can’t fucking have you, no other bastard will.
Would he
say that? Would he snap?
Could he act upon those words?
Luckily, it wasn’t for her to decide. Enough that she could establish motive, possible cause, the logistics of opportunity. Enough to put Schofield’s alibi under further scrutiny, bring him back in for questioning. The ultimate decision, guilty or not guilty, was not down to her.
Lynn passed on her findings to the SIO in charge of the case and, later that afternoon, sat down with him and four of his detectives, talking through the whys and wherefores; Lynn careful not to overplay her hand and give any of the other officers cause to be resentful. She was on her way back from this session when she saw Stuart Daines in the corridor near her office door.
‘Lurking?’ Lynn said.
‘Not at all.’
‘Hardly accidental.’
‘I’ve been waiting for you to call.’
‘What about?’
‘Your witness, you remember? Andreea Florescu.’
‘What about her?’
‘You were arranging for us to go and see her.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘So I hear.’
‘So you hear?’
‘Some kind of break in that double murder, mother and daughter . . .’
‘How did you . . . ?’
Daines treated her to his disarming smile. ‘What is it? Ear to the ground? Ear to the wall? Either way, I’ve found it pays. Information – you never know when it’s going to come in useful.’
‘And that’s what you’re hoping to get from Andreea? Information?’
‘Hopefully.’
‘That might or might not be useful.’
The smile changed to something more sympathetic, caring. ‘Look, I appreciate what you’ve told me, about her being nervous and everything. I wouldn’t be pushing this if I didn’t think it might lead somewhere, believe me.’
‘All right,’ Lynn said, ‘but I can’t contact her directly. It has to be through a friend. It may take a couple of days to set up.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll keep my diary flexible and wait for your call.’ He hesitated. ‘Kelvin Pearce, nothing there, I suppose?’