“There’s no need.”
“Isn’t there?” Looking at him now.
“No.”
It was hot in the small space of the car, claustrophobic. Resnick could feel the sweat gathering in the palms of his hands and between his legs, dampening the hair at the nape of his neck. A kind of free-floating panic aside, he had no clear idea what he was feeling.
“Well.” Lynn laughed abruptly. “My therapist will be pleased.”
“Getting it out into the open …”
“Yes.”
“Making it all go away.”
She turned towards him in the seat and he thought she was going to take his hand again and he tensed inside, not knowing how he might respond if she did. But she shifted again and leaned forward, face close to the windscreen, staring out.
“Is that what you want?” Resnick heard himself saying. “To make it all go away?”
She looked round at him, surprised. “Of course. What good would it do?”
A car went by too fast on the opposite side of the road, music spilling from its open windows.
“None,” Resnick said.
Lynn thought she might get out of the car and walk, not heading anywhere special, just walk. But she continued to sit there, they both did, waiting until the unevenness of their breathing had subsided, until Resnick could trust himself to set the car in gear and drive back into town. “The Partridge,” he said, “we could check it out before I drop you off.”
The barman in the Partridge remembered Resnick’s friend. He had ordered another half of mild after Resnick had gone, but left it on the table, scarcely bothered, when he left. Fifteen minutes later, twenty tops.
Back home, Resnick fed the cats automatically, made himself strong coffee, and carried it through to the front room, where it stayed till morning, cold and untouched. For what seemed a long time he stared at the rows of albums and CDs and saw nothing he wanted to listen to, nothing he wanted to play.
Silent, save for Lynn’s words, insinuating themselves into his thoughts no matter how much he tried to keep them out. I thought about making love to you but I know it’s not going to happen. Only in my mind.
Resnick crossed the room to the telephone and dialed. “I was wondering if I could come over and see you,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Charlie.” Hannah’s voice sounded distant and tired. “Not this evening, okay?”
“Of course. It was just an idea. That’s fine.”
The Stolichnaya was in the freezer: he wondered how much was in the bottle, how long it would last?
Thirty-two
The first thing Resnick recognized, warm, soft, and resting close against his ear, was a cat’s paw. The second, moments after, close and strangely muted, was the sound of a telephone ringing. And the third, realized with painful accuracy as he lifted Bud cautiously clear and gingerly lowered his own feet towards the floor, was that for the first time in many months he had a hangover of king-sized proportions. He blinked at the clock: six forty-nine. He should have already been up. Louder now, the telephone continued to ring and fearing the worst, without knowing exactly what that worst was, he lifted it towards his ear.
“Yes. Hello.”
“Charlie, is that you?”
“I think so.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Not really, no.”
“Are you okay?”
“Um, why?”
“You sound as if you’re at the bottom of the sea.”
“I slept a little heavily, that’s all.”
“Look, Charlie, can I see you today? Not for long; lunchtime, maybe. Just for twenty minutes, half an hour. I think we need to talk.”
No reply.
“I could meet you somewhere.”
Resnick wished his head didn’t feel like a sack of gently swaying cement. “Look, let me call you … No, I will. This morning. Soon. How long are you around? … All right, I’ll phone before then. Probably in the next half-hour.”
In the shower, water streaming across the folds and plains of his body, he kept wondering what had prompted Hannah to phone so early, what it was she needed to talk about so urgently, lathering shampoo into his hair now and wincing as he did so, once more fearing the worst.
He hadn’t been the only person tying one on last night. The entrance to the police station was crowded with people in various stages of sobriety, many of them adorned with quite spectacular cuts and bruises, most talking at once. Loudly. A uniformed sergeant and two of his minions were patiently trying to sort them out.
Resnick pushed his way through, careful not to slip on the blood. From the corridor to his right came the voice of the custody sergeant, giving one of his overnights a good bollocking for throwing up in his cell. A reedy version of “Little Brown Jug” from the stairs alerted Resnick to the possibility that Millington was embarking on one of his unbearably jolly days; and sure enough there he was, descending the stairs, smile in place around his mustache, happy to share with the world choice moments of that old Glenn Miller magic. As Divine had announced to the CID room moments before, someone had got his leg over this morning and no chuffin’ mistake!
“Boss’s been asking for you,” Millington said breezily. “That new lad in there with him. Least, I reckon that’s who it is. Oh, and I’ve set up a meeting. Eleven. With that feller from soccer unit, all right?”
Resnick continued on his way upstairs. In the men’s room he ran the cold tap and sloshed water repeatedly in his face, before heading along the corridor for Skelton’s office.
“Charlie, come in, come in.” Skelton exuded neatly suited bonhomie from behind his desk. “This is DC Vincent.” Resnick’s first impression was of a tallish man in his late twenties, around five eleven, slim, clean-shaven, his dark hair cut quite short; he was wearing a light-colored suit, creased, but unlike Resnick’s, fashionably meant to be that way, an olive-green shirt and black knitted tie.
“This is Detective Inspector Resnick. Day to day, you’ll be working to him.”
The two men shook hands, Vincent’s grip cool and comfortable, not giving it too much.
“Carl Vincent, sir. Good to know you.”
Resnick nodded and stepped back, Vincent still looking him clear in the eye.
“As you know, Charlie, Carl here’s joining us from Leicester. Up a division, eh, Charlie. In a manner of speaking.”
Only if you’re a Forest supporter, Resnick thought. “I’ve filled him in on the Aston murder, Charlie, basic details. I know you’ll want to bring him up to speed.”
“Sir.”
There was a smile in Vincent’s eyes now as he watched him, interested to see how Resnick operated with his superior, sizing him up.
“Anything new there, Charlie? Anything I can pass on to Headquarters? These soccer hooligans in Reg Cossall’s report, still the most likely candidates?”
Resnick wondered if he should mention his suspicions surrounding Elizabeth Peck, but opted to wait until he had more evidence, one way or another.
“Seems so, yes. There’s a meeting with the Football Intelligence Unit this morning, we’ll see if that takes us anywhere closer.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“First thing.”
Vincent fell into step beside Resnick in the corridor. “Found anywhere to stay yet?” Resnick asked.
“Not as yet. Figured I’d travel up from Leicester for a bit, give myself time to look around. Not such a bad journey long as you get the timings right.”
“You might want to have a word with our admin officer, she’s usually got her ear to the ground.”
“Right, thanks. I will.”
“Morning briefing any minute. I’ll introduce you, find you something to get started.”
“Right,” Vincent said again and then he smiled. “Never easy are they? Beginnings. First days. Feeling your way.”
“You’ll handle it okay.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Outside the CID room Vincent hesitated. “I was wondering, what do I call you? Guv? Sir? Boss?”
“Whatever feels right.”
It fell quiet as they entered the room.