by John Harvey
“Wing-halves,” Resnick said. “Call them something else now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lynn, uncertain.
It was quiet while the inspector read the dot-matrix print as well as he could. He went back over a few lines and then said: “So tell me about him, Professor Doria.”
“He’s been at the university nine years, before that he was at Hull. Three years ago he was given…” She hesitated, worrying about her choice of verb, “…the Chair in Linguistics and Critical Theory. He’s…”
Resnick was shaking his head and continued to do so until Lynn Kellogg’s voice faltered to a stop.
“Come on, Lynn.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to tell me about him. Not give me what I can get from the university prospectus and Who’s Who. He isn’t making you wake in the middle of the night with your scalp itching because he’s got the Chair in anything.”
She cradled the mug in her hands. How did you put things like this into words?
“I think…part of it, he was this odd kind of mixture of over-friendly and distant, both at the same time. I mean, he sat me down, fussed about whether I was comfortable enough, warm enough, seemed in quite a state about my not being in a draught. He was like—I don’t know, I’ve never met one, but from the television—those dons—is that what they’re called?—living their lives in book-lined rooms in Oxford or Cambridge.”
“Open-toe sandals and sherry and a copy of Wittgenstein casually open on the easy chair,” suggested Resnick.
“Behind it all, though, all the time, he didn’t mean it. Not any of it.”
“And the sherry?”
“On his desk.”
“Sweet or dry?”
Lynn smiled and shook her head. “I didn’t have any, sir.”
“But he did?”
“He said he always had—“took” was the word he used—always took a glass at four in the afternoon. Part of his daily ritual.”
“It was four o’clock?”
Lynn shook her head again. “He said in honor of my visit he’d make an exception. A member of CID.” She flushed, remembering. “That’s what I mean, sir. That’s pretty much what he was like all the time, what he sounded like.”
“Bit much to be suspicious of a man for that. In his circles it probably counts as being polite.”
“He was. And helpful. Couldn’t have been more so. He agreed that from time to time he wrote off in reply to Lonely Hearts ads, confirmed the names we had and offered another that somehow we’d missed.”
“That’s been checked out?”
“It’s gone into the system. I don’t know if it’s led anywhere special.”
Resnick drained his mug of coffee. “So there he is, this effusive academic, not a great deal for you to like about his manner, but that’s not enough, Lynn, is it? That’s not all.”
She looked towards the floor. The lace of Resnick’s left shoe had come undone and for an instant she had to suppress her instinct to bend down and retie it for him.
“The fuss, the showing-off, I’m not going back on what I said, there was something false about it, but at the same time I think he was excited.”
“Excited?”
“It’s not quite right, but it’s the only way I can describe it.”
“And what by?”
“By my…” she turned her head away, towards the door, then slowly back. “By my being there.”
“He must have young women in that room all of the time, tutorials.”
“It was more than that.”
“Even so that was part of it?” said Resnick, not wanting to let the idea go.
“Yes, yes. But more, well, why I was there.”
“The investigation?”
“I think so, yes, I suppose that’s what it was.”
“He was interested in the investigation?”
Lynn bit gently down into the center of her lower lip. “Maybe, this sounds daft, it was something to do with me being in the Force.”
“A police officer?”
“Yes.”
“That was what was exciting him?”
Lynn sighed. “It makes it sound as if he was kinky for handcuffs and uniforms.”
“Which you weren’t wearing?”
“No.”
“And presumably you didn’t brandish a pair of cuffs under his nose?”
She laughed. “No.”
Resnick looked down at the print-out again, looked across at her. “Go on.”
“All the while he was talking, telling me what I wanted to know, what I didn’t, great long sentences and one word in every dozen I didn’t understand, it was as if—yes, as though he was in another part of the room, listening to himself. Thinking how clever he was sounding.”
“Admiring himself?”
“Yes, sir. And…”
“And?”
“I’d be making notes, book on my knee, and a couple of times I looked up when he wasn’t expecting it and…the way he was watching me. It was as if there were these eyes, set back, staring, staring out at me as though they were behind a mask.” She looked towards Resnick, plainly troubled. “Looking at me from behind a mask,” she said.
“Clutching at straws a bit, aren’t we?” said Tom Parker.
“Straw man, Charlie?” said Skelton.
“There’s not a lot else, sir,” Resnick observed.
“Exactly,” said Parker.
“You’re running a check on him, of course?” asked Skelton.
Resnick nodded.
“You don’t think there’s a danger of letting the girl overreact to the situation?” Parker said.
They were walking across the Forest, the three of them, glad for the chance to get some fresh air, which is what it certainly was. All three of them were wearing overcoats, Resnick had a blue scarf knotted at his throat, hands pushed deep into his pockets. Jack Skelton and Tom Parker were both wearing trilby hats, Resnick was bareheaded. On the slope to the left, two kids who should have been at school were playing chase, in and out of the trees. Further over towards the road, a middle-aged man was trying to fly a kite which the wind, contrary, refused to accept. A steady stream of cars and vans passed each way along the boulevard.
“She’s a woman,” said Resnick. “A sensible one. She’d not be knocked sideways by a bloke in a gown gawping at her knees.”
“Was he wearing a gown?” asked Parker, surprised.
“Probably not.”
“What does seem strange,” Skelton ventured, fifty yards later, “is that he bothers with answering those kind of things at all. I mean, other staff aside, the place must be crawling with young women and from what I hear, liaisons of that nature are no longer frowned upon.”
Resnick looked at the superintendent keenly, wondering what his reaction would be if his daughter came home and announced she was having an affair with one of her lecturers.
“Could be that’s the thing,” suggested Parker. “How’s the saying go? Don’t spill milk on your own doorstep.”
“Something like that.”
“Instead of charvering his students, he looks further afield.”
Skelton was looking far from happy. “It still doesn’t sound anything close to a case. Not even reasonable grounds for suspicion.”
“All I’m asking, sir, is permission to scratch around a little.”
“Charlie, we’ve got paperwork like dogs have fleas,” said Parker.
“I won’t use the whole team,” said Resnick.
“Too bloody right!”
“You’re a wonder for following hunches!” said Skelton, slapping his arms across his chest. “Even when they’re not your own.”
“She’s got the makings of a good copper,” said Resnick. “I think she deserves this one.”
“Just a couple of officers, Charlie.” Skelton was striding away again, leaving the others in his wake. “We can’t spare any more. We shouldn’t.”
“No, sir.”
“And the minute
it looks like a dead end,” said Parker, “we’re out.”
“Yes, sir.”
They were back at the station when across their shoulders the first few flakes of snow began to fall.
“Kellogg’s report aside,” said Jack Skelton, letting Tom Parker go on into the building ahead of them, “have you got anything else making your blood pump a little faster?”
“Not really, sir.”
Skelton stood there, snow fluttering against his face, and waited.
“One of the names on the list,” Resnick said. “The women our professor admitted to meeting…I know her.”
Twenty-Five
The white and red horizontal stripes of the Polish flag hung across the porch window, facing outwards onto the uneven paving of the drive. The house, a Victorian delight of turrets and arches, stood back from the road behind sixty feet of dark shrubs and rose bushes pruned almost to the roots. To the left of the porch was a trio of narrow stained-glass windows one above the other, predominantly blue and green. Above the cracking wood of the door, a larger panel of colored glass, rectangular, depicted the Annunciation. Lace, rich and yellowing, shielded the interior from casual sight.
Resnick pressed the smooth white circle of the bell and heard it sound, off-pitch and distant.
He didn’t think he had spoken to Marian Witczak for more than two years, probably hadn’t seen her in eighteen months. In the days of his marriage, Resnick’s wife had feigned at least a fondness for the dances which the Polish community organized regularly on a Saturday night. On his own, what was there to do other than join one of those tight male circles where one pair of arms, at least, was always within reach of the bar? Or stand eating smoked ham and pieroqi, pretending not to notice the church matrons pointing him out encouragingly to their stubbornly unmarriageable daughters. Besides, so much had changed: now a dance there was not so different from the Miners’ Welfare, the British Legion.
A key was turned, bolts were slid back, top and bottom, finally a chain was loosed. Marian looked at him in surprise, confusion, pleasure.
“I thought you were from the auction rooms. I am expecting…But, no, it is you.”
Resnick grinned a little self-consciously. They were the same age, Marian and himself, a matter of some months’ difference, yet she always made him feel like a small boy who had come cap in hand to beat the carpets, sweep the leaves.
“I do not read the newspaper, of course, but I have seen your picture. You are always descending steps, Charlie, after giving evidence against some dreadful man. You always look so sad and angry.”
“I don’t like having my photograph taken.”
“And this job that you do—do you like your job?”
“I remember you used to make good coffee, Marian.”
“Ah, this is why you are suddenly here?”
Resnick shook his head, smiled. “No.”
“Of course,” the muscles of her face tightened, “the knock on the door. I do not forget.”
“Marian, it’s a November morning in England. I’m not the Gestapo.”
“Oh, yes,” stepping back to let him enter. “The English way. What is it? An Inspector Calls?”
“That was a long time ago.”
She closed the door behind him. “Yes,” she said, turning the key in the lock, “now you have guns.”
Resnick turned and looked at her. “Marian, I suspect we always had guns.”
The fireplace was carved black marble, inset with deep pink and white, and more than six feet across, almost as tall. The center had been covered with tiles and a fifties’ gas fire burned low, frugal and utilitarian. Three armchairs and a chaise longue were covered in dark floral brocade and draped with antimacassars. An arrangement of dried flowers stood in a glass vase at the center of a low table. Around the walls, stained oak bookcases held a mixture of leather-bound books and old orange Penguins. Above these the walls were hung with photographs: General Sikorski, Cardinal Wysznski, a villa overlooking the Mazurian Lakes, a family group picnicking on the lawns in front of the Wilanow Palace.
Resnick didn’t need to walk over to the piano at the rear of the room to see that the music that was open there was Chopin, some polonaise or other, probably the A flat major, the only one he knew.
Marian came in with the coffee in a dented enamel pot, ardently polished; there were small white cups, bone china, sugar in a bowl with tongs. She was wearing a stiff green dress, belted tightly at the waist, flat shoes in soft green leather. She had quickly pulled her hair back and tied it with a length of white ribbon. Her eyes were dark, her cheekbones high and hard against her skin so that her cheeks seemed pinched and hollow. She was what would once have been called a handsome woman; maybe in her circle she still was.
“After the war,” she said, “only one thing changed. When they came in the night and hauled you from your beds, they were no longer German.”
“Marian,” Resnick said, “that was forty years ago.”
“When we were born, you and I.”
“Then how can you say you remember?”
For a moment she glanced at the walls. “We know these things, Charles, because they happened to our families, our people.” She smiled at him, indulgently. “Does it have to be with your own ears, your own eyes?”
Resnick looked away from her, down at the coffee, black in the cup. “I think, yes, it does.”
“They should, I think, have christened you Thomas.”
There was nothing he could say. Thomas the apostolic detective: give me the evidence, where’s the evidence? Dead without a body?
Marian spooned sugar into her cup, one, two, shiny silver spoonfuls.
“But your family had already left for this country and you, Charles, you have assimilated to perfection.” She balanced cup and saucer in the palm of one hand, stirring with care. “No longer Mass at the Polish church, communion; no longer the socials and the dances. You speak with no trace of accent, we are waiting only for you to change your name.”
Resnick tasted the coffee, thick like bitter treacle. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed, several seconds later another, and another.
“You’re not selling up, moving?”
“How could I ever?”
“You said you were expecting someone, something to do with an auction.”
“Oh, one or two pieces, nothing special; but the rooms upstairs, they are so rarely used. People used to come and stay, many people, and now…This is a large house to keep, there are many bills and I am alone.” She looked at him sharply. “You know what this is like.”
Resnick nodded. “The reason I came…”
“I know.”
He sat further back in the chair and waited.
“As I have said, the newspaper I will not read myself, but a friend, she told me, you are asking questions of those like me who are—the expression—lonely of heart.”
“I saw your name, on a list…”
“A list?” she said, a hint of alarm.
“We have been checking everyone who has placed advertisements, responded; checking and cross-checking…I didn’t want to send a stranger to see you.”
“You are kind.”
“I was surprised…”
“That I would do this?”
“That you would look outside the community.”
Her face broke into a gentle smile and he realized, not for the first time, that she could be beautiful. “Oh, Charles, you understand how well-known I am. For me to approach somebody else, a man, a man who is…” She regarded him for a moment, pointedly. “…unattached, this is so difficult. I am too well-known here among people whose ways are not perhaps the ways of this world. Oh, there are men who have said things to me behind their hands when their wives are out of the room, propositions, Charles, but not proposals.”
She set down her cup and sat perfectly still. Resnick continued to watch, wait.
“It was a little over a year ago, I was feeling, perhaps you will recognize th
is, so alone I could no longer believe the sound of my own breath as it left my body. For three whole weeks I shut myself in the house; I went through piles of old letters, read diaries I had kept ever since I was a child in my country. I stared into the faces of old photographs until they almost became my own. For the last five days I did not eat, I drank nothing but water. If the telephone rang, I did not hear it.”
She reached out for his hand and he took her fingers between his own. How could she be so cold?
“One morning in the bedroom I saw a face in the glass and it frightened me. I had seen it before, faces like it after the flesh has fallen away and only the eyes seem alive, the way they are staring. You know where I have seen such faces.”
After a little time she withdrew her hand, straightened her back. “You would like more coffee?”
“Please.”
When it was poured, she continued. “The advertisement I sent, it was discreet without telling a lie. I told the truth about my age, about the kind of friend I am seeking—educated, a gentleman, ‘with fine tastes and intellectual pursuits,’ I said this.” She sighed. “Even so, of the few replies I received, you would not believe…perhaps now you would. But there was one, the only one worthy of reply; a professor at the university, Doria.” Smiling, she angled her head towards the light from the window. “A renaissance man. Truly, that is what he is.”
“So you met him?”
“Yes, but not immediately. You have to understand, I was now uncertain of what I was doing. Did I want to meet this man, no matter how charming his letters, how erudite? I felt vulnerable and I am not used to this. So for a time there was a correspondence, nothing more.”
“And he was satisfied with this?”
“Perfectly.”
“Yet you did meet him?”
“He was a clever man, he knew by now my interests. I have, he wrote, a pair of excellent tickets for the Polish National Symphony Orchestra, here in the city. Chopin, naturally. Eisner, Lutoslawski. Everyone I know is there. It is wonderful, all wonderful. Flowers are thrown on to the stage. The audience is on its feet, cheering. There are three encores. Doria—he is charming, he has brought for me a small corsage. He smiles at my friends and shakes their hands, stands a little behind me and to the side. When we walk back to our seats after the interval, he takes, for a moment, my arm. After the concert we go for supper, a few glasses of wine.” She laughed, remembering. “Vodka!”