Rough Treatment cr-2

by John Harvey

  “Bloke’s got the heart of an ox,” Norman Mann remarked.

  “And the balls of a rhino?”

  “The woman obviously thought so. Mary?”

  “Maria.”

  “Couldn’t get enough.”

  “You going to charge him? Harold?”

  “You going after her? Obstructing the course of justice?”

  Resnick shook his head. “Not if this works out. Grice we’ve already got dead to rights. Savage is back-pedaling so fast we’ll have to test him for steroids.”

  “How about this Fossey?”

  “Still claiming regular consultation work. Admits he may have let his tongue slip once or twice a week over a drink. Swears there were no kickbacks.”

  “Can you break him?”

  “Difficult. At least two of the most recent cases, he was on his honeymoon. Savage is the one who met with Grice, passed on whatever was passed on.”

  Norman Mann shrugged. “Either way, you come out of it smelling of roses. That’s a lot of burglaries off the file.” He cracked his knuckles, grinned lopsidedly. “Get this one, too, you’re flavor of the month, no mistake.”

  “Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  “He’ll show.”

  Resnick wished he could be as sure. Gazing at the monitor, Norman Mann pursed his lips into a slow whistle.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yes?”

  “See that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That I wouldn’t mind a taste of. How ’bout you?”

  A young black woman, Afro-Caribbean, wearing a smart dark suit, white blouse, black heels, walked in front of Grabianski and the camera panned with her, steadying as she sat down at one of the benches. Watching, Norman Mann whistled again as she crossed her legs; smiling, he blew on the screen as if to cool it down.

  “No, Charlie? Expect me to believe that?”

  “No.”

  “You surprise me, Charlie. Never struck me as prejudiced before.”

  Resnick straightened and arched his back; they’d been cooped up inside for too long.

  “Shit,” murmured Mann. “Why can’t he keep the camera still?”

  “Good reason,” Resnick said, bending forward again. “Look.”

  Taking his time, not a care in the world, Alan Stafford was strolling along the avenue of trees towards the glassed-in bandstand, hands in his blue car-coat pockets.

  Thirty-four

  Grabianski had seen him coming too, had known him from the description he’d been given, been aware of the hardness of wood against his back as he pressed himself against the bench, the blue British Airways bag back on the ground between his feet. Stafford continued to take his time, sauntering, taking an interest in the trees, the coming flowers, the way the sun lit up the domed roof of the new Lace Hall beyond Weekday Cross. Of course, he was looking at none of those things; he was checking to see if this was a set-up, if he was being watched.

  At first it seemed as if something might have spooked him, as though he might stroll right past Grabianski and only stop at the wall, maybe pause there to enjoy the view. The two soccer grounds, their floodlights poking up at either side of the Trent; the stoned windows of the empty British Waterways building, the pale green paint of its doors flaking and fading away; low roofs of the Gunn and Moore factory just across the boulevard. Here it was, close to here, Albert Finney stood with Rachel Roberts filming Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Was that really more than twenty years ago?

  Stafford paused at the last moment, paused and sat.

  “You Grabianski?” he asked.

  “Stafford?”

  Stafford nodded, eyes now firmly on the bag.

  “I was just beginning …”

  “Is it there?” Stafford interrupted him.

  “The …”

  “Shut it!”

  Grabianski felt himself go tense, willed his muscles to relax. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all there, the cocaine.”

  “Why don’t you wave it around? Broadcast it?” Something wild was flying at the back of Stafford’s eyes. Till the moment he’d sat down he had seemed really casual, but now, alongside Grabianski, close alongside the kilo of cocaine, it was as if something had him hyped up. As if he’d drunk down five strong coffees, continental roast, one after the other; that or something else.

  “There’s no one close,” Grabianski said, glancing right and left. “Nobody can hear.”

  “You sure it’s all there?” Stafford was leaning back against the end of the bench, one arm stretched out along it, fingers fast-tapping the wooded edge. His eyes, when they settled at all, settled on the carry-on bag.

  “Sure,” said Grabianski and reached down to pull back the zip.

  “If it’s been messed around, cut with something, anything …”

  “Nothing. Look, it’s the way it was. Aside from putting it in the bag, it hasn’t been touched.”

  “Aside from taking it from Harold Roy’s safe.”

  “Yes,” Grabianski agreed. “Aside from that.”

  “That bastard!” hissed Stafford. “That stupid bastard!”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Grabianski said. “Bad luck.”

  “Screw bad luck!” said Stafford with feeling.

  Grabianski couldn’t stop himself from glancing up, up towards the Castle, knowing that he shouldn’t.

  “What’s that?” said Stafford sharply.

  “What?”

  “What the hell are you looking at?”

  “Nothing. I was looking at nothing.”

  “Suddenly you were looking round.”

  “The Castle, I suppose. I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

  “If you’re fucking me around, you know what that’d mean? For you? You got any idea?”

  Grabianski nodded.

  “You sure?”

  “I think so.”

  Stafford’s hand was fast, fingers digging deep into the leg, each side of Grabianski’s knee. “You need to do more than think.”

  “All right, I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “What you’d do.”

  “If you were jerking me around.”

  “Right.”

  “What’d I do?”

  Grabianski didn’t answer. His leg was hurting, a nerve seemed to be trapped; he wanted to lean back and then slam a fist to the side of Stafford’s head and make an end of it.

  “I’ll tell you what I’d fucking do,” said Stafford. “I’d fucking kill you.”

  “Yes,” Grabianski said, “I know that.”

  “Good.” Stafford pulled his hand away, leaving Grabianski wanting more than anything to rub his leg but not allowing himself to do it, not giving Stafford any more satisfaction than he could help. Resnick had been right, Stafford was vermin: he needed locking away for a long time, forever.

  Grabianski picked up the bag and placed it on the seat between them.

  “What d’you do that for?”

  “We’re going to exchange it, aren’t we?”

  Now Stafford was looking around, jumpy as a couple of men in muted gray suits walked around the circle, a woman talking baby-talk into a pram, two kids running across the grass and the teacher shouting at them to get back where they belonged.

  “That’s all you’ve got in there? The package?”

  “What else?”

  Stafford gave a nervous little laugh. “How about a microphone? A tape recorder? You got one of those in there? A little insurance on the side?”

  “Look for yourself,” Grabianski said, moving to open the flight bag again. “I promise you, there’s no recorder in there. No mikes.”

  Stafford pushed his hand down on the top of the bag, keeping the zip closed. “You know what I’m doing here, don’t you? Paying you for what’s already mine.”

  “We’ve been into that.”

  “Yes. Right.” He reached inside his coat, going for an inside pocket and Grabianski held himself tense, watching. It was a whit
e envelope, five by seven, some such size. Not very fat; fat enough.

  “You don’t want to count it,” Stafford said.

  “Yes.”

  “Like fuck you do!”

  “That’s right.”

  Stafford slapped the envelope down into Grabianski’s outstretched hand and watched while the flap was torn aside, the notes flicked through still out of general sight.

  “Okay,” Grabianski said, placing the envelope in the inside pocket of his own jacket. “Here.” He slid the British Airways bag further along the bench towards Stafford, who took both handles into his left hand.

  Grabianski held out his right hand for Stafford to shake.

  Ignoring it, Stafford stood up quickly now, one curt nod and he was standing, turning away.

  “Shit!” whispered Norman Mann at the monitor.

  “Wait,” said Resnick, continuing to watch and listen.

  “Hey!” Grabianski called. And as Stafford’s head swung back towards him, “What’s the hurry?”

  “What d’you think …?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  Alan Stafford hesitated, seconds from going, walking clear.

  “A proposition.”

  Stafford with the words on his lips, telling this jumped-up sneak-thief where he could stuff his proposition.

  “How many kilos could you put me in touch with, regular?” Grabianski had him, thought he had him, close enough to try a smile: his winning smile. “Anything close to five, six, we could be in a lot of business.” Stafford heading back towards him, sitting back on the bench. “A lot of money.”

  “I already make a lot of money.”

  “Yes. But there’s always room for more.”

  “You’re a burglar. A house burglar, for Christ’s sake,”

  “Hitler was a house painter, that didn’t mean he was in the same trade all his life.”

  “What the fuck’s Hitler got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  Stafford was staring at him; a nerve beside his right eye was doing somersaults.

  “Moving stuff around,” Grabianski explained, “I meet a lot of people. I know they’re in the market for other things. Your kind of thing. But regular. It would have to be regular. You understand?”

  “Think I’m fucking stupid?”

  “I mean, if this …” pointing at the bag, “… if this is just a one-off thing, we can forget it.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I mean, I could go elsewhere …”

  “I told you. As much as you want. I can get.”

  “Cocaine?”

  “Of course, cocaine. You think I’m talking …”

  Suddenly Stafford wasn’t talking any longer. The sun slipped out from beneath a cloud and a reflection leaped from the college roof right into Alan Stafford’s eyes. Binoculars, telephoto lens, it didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it shouldn’t have been there.

  “Wait …”

  But Stafford was on his feet, arching away from Grabianski, turning and then having second thoughts, swinging back; his hand came out from his car-coat pocket and something else bright flickered in the sun. Grabianski saw and dived back fast but never fast enough. The top of the blade broke the skin at the wrist beneath the arm: broke and sliced across the ball of the thumb, the palm, through the webbing taut between center fingers. Grabianski screamed and pulled his hand away, flinching as the knife arced away before flying in again for his face.

  Resnick was already up and running. Norman Mann behind him, shouting orders through the microphone.

  Something splashed across Grabianski’s eyes and he blinked it away; when he touched it with his fingers, then he knew that it was blood.

  Alan Stafford was running full-tilt towards the bandstand; swerving left between German visitors complete with guide books, nearly colliding with an elderly man who had stopped to replace his shoe. Resnick changed his direction on the slope, veering towards the exit, keeping it between Stafford and himself. Stafford charging at him now, airline bag in one hand, knife in the other.

  Belatedly, somebody along the avenue of benches pointed a hand and began to shout a warning.

  Resnick, stitch sharp in his side, breathing heavily, stood his ground. The knife, he told himself, whatever else, watch the knife. It was the bag that struck him, low and to the left of his stomach, doubling him forward. Resnick felt his knees going, a blur of movement racing past him, a shrieked curse; he threw himself sideways as he fell and grabbed at whatever he could.

  Stafford’s leg.

  The thin material of the trousers slithered through his hands and Resnick’s fingers caught ankle and heel. Stafford swore and yelled as he struck the path and kicked his other foot viciously at Resnick’s body. The first blow connected with the collar bone, sending him numb. The second hit the jaw below the ear and the third never landed because Grabianski had Stafford by the hair and collar and was dragging him back, grazing his face along the surface till it bled.

  “Right,” said Norman Mann, loud to be certain he was heard. “You can let him go.”

  Grabianski, blood running from a four-inch cut across his own forehead, released his hold and stepped back. On his knees, face to the ground, Stafford allowed his arms to be held behind his back while he was handcuffed.

  “You okay?” Grabianski watched as Resnick, still breathing unevenly, got to his feet.

  “Better than you,” Resnick said, looking not just at the wound to Grabianski’s head, more the freedom with which he was losing blood from the cut across his hand.

  There were police officers around them everywhere: uniform, overalls, plainclothes. What they wanted were nurses, surgeons, an ambulance.

  “Did you get it all on the tape?” Grabianski asked.

  Resnick nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Every word.” He wanted to go forward and shake Grabianski’s hand but wasn’t certain that if he did that one of them might not fall over. “Thanks,” Resnick said instead. “Thanks.”

  Bleeding, Grabianski grinned.

  Thirty-five

  They were sitting in Mackenzie’s office on the upper floor of Midlands Television. The company retained to service the rubber plants had gone into liquidation and the specimen behind the producer’s desk was drooping dangerously and beginning to brown around the edges. Mackenzie was at his most businesslike, tenting his fingers together over a sheaf of faxes and the current copy of Broadcast. Seated discreetly to one side, Freeman Davis sipped Perrier from a plastic cup and looked cool.

  “What you have to realize, Harold,” Mackenzie said, “we wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think it was right. For the series. That’s what we’re all concerned about, after all. The series. Dividends.”

  Harold Roy didn’t say a thing. After what had been happening he was numb; in his mind, numb. The police had intimated that he might not be charged, at least not with anything major, but they still weren’t making promises. Not until he had given them everything they needed: on the dotted line. “Keep your nose clean,” the drugs-squad detective had said, tapping one nostril. “We’ll be in touch.” Maria had packed and unpacked her suitcases a half-dozen times, whether for a holiday or a divorce was uncertain.

  “Harold,” Mackenzie said.

  “Um?”

  “You heard what I said?”

  “Um.”

  “You know I’ve talked with your agent.”

  Harold nodded.

  “Your name stays on as long as you want it that way. Beneath Freeman’s.”

  “Be …” Harold swallowed it back. Freeman Davis looked smugger than usual, if that were possible. When you were in the catbird seat, the only things were to get fat and smile.

  “… so there’ll be no problems with residuals,” Mackenzie was saying. He may have said more, but if so Harold had missed it. There had been a letter that morning from the insurance company: since they understood the updating of security measures they had advocated had not been carried out, the
level of cover was in doubt. Harold tugged at his trousers, just above the knees. Mackenzie was staring at him; Freeman Davis at the rubber plant. Had he missed something else?

  Executive-like, Mackenzie strode around the desk and lifted Harold’s coat from the black ash-and-chrome stand. He held it out and waited for Harold to get up and step into it.

  “’Bye, Harold,” Mackenzie said, pushing the door to behind him. “You can find your own way out.”

  Grinning, Freeman Davis made his two first fingers and thumb into a gun, set it against his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Resnick knocked on Skelton’s door and waited. The superintendent called him in, seeming sprucer than at any time in the past few days. When he’d walked into the station that morning, much of the snap had been back in his stride.

  “How’re the bruises, Charlie?”

  “Deep purple, sir.”

  “Picture in the Post makes it look as if you’ve gone three rounds with Mike Tyson.”

  POLICE BREAK CITY DRUG RING the headline had read. Inspector makes dramatic arrest in shadow of Robin Hood. There had been a paragraph about a police informer, suitably vague; Grabianski had not been named. In a column on page two, Norman Mann of the Drugs Squad was quoted as saying the arrest had come about as the result of months of undercover work and coordinated investigation.

  “Sooner me than you, sir,” Resnick said. There had been no mention anywhere in the press, local radio or television about the arrest of Skelton’s daughter. The DCI had agreed that in view of her lack of any previous record, no charges would be brought. Restitution and apologies had been made to the firms concerned, along with a promise that extra policing would be maintained.

  “Tom Parker was on the phone earlier,” Skelton said, “the Chief Constable’s received Jeff Harrison’s resignation. Apparently he’s off to head up a new security agency in south London; specialize in anti-burglary work, uniformed neighborhood patrols, ex-forces personnel.”

  Skelton offered Resnick a chair. “Grice’s been charged?”

  “Thirty-seven counts of burglary. Grabianski gave us a list half a yard long. Photographic memory.”