“Came up on the back of the bike, large as life,” Lynn said.
“Yes,” Sharon said. “Gave this Gerry Hovenden his alibi.” Resnick looked at the two officers, one to another. “And you didn’t believe him?”
Sharon shook her head.
“Not Hovenden, certainly,” Lynn said. “Lying to his back teeth, if you ask me. Covering up about something, I’d bet on that.”
“And he’s on the Branch list? Political?”
Lynn made a face. “Marginal, really. Not a member of any extremist group, as far as is known. Hangs about with them, that’s all. Spotted up a couple of times at rallies. Nothing criminal recorded.”
“Right, let’s follow it up. Once we’ve got some more information in, check Hovenden’s contacts with the rest, see if he fits in with anyone else that looks interesting.”
“And Shane Snape?” Lynn asked. “Do you want us to process him as normal, or …”
“I might go round myself,” Resnick said. “Have a word.”
“Right.” Lynn hesitated at the door after Sharon Garnett had passed through. “About the other night,” she said quietly. “All those things I was saying … I know it’s difficult, I’ve probably made it difficult, but it’s not going to get in the way … I mean, we can work together, it hasn’t stopped that?”
“No,” Resnick said, “of course not, it’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
Resnick’s phone rang and as he reached towards it, Lynn slipped out through the door and closed it behind her.
Thirty-five
It was a little after seven in the morning when Resnick realized he was thinking about Hannah, that he had been doing so for several minutes, ever since hoiking a recalcitrant Dizzy from the center of the most comfortable armchair and sitting down with his second cup of coffee of the day. He could see her sitting on that bench in the Arboretum, face angled towards him, fixing him with that serious stare as she delivered her lecture on rejection and how not to take it. The schoolteacher in her, he thought; those earnest, serious eyes. And then the phone rang and it was her. Resnick felt uneasy, as if somehow thinking about Hannah had made it happen.
“Charlie, it’s not too early …?”
“No, no, I’ve been up a while.”
“Good. Only … look, dinner on Friday. You haven’t already booked somewhere have you?”
Air sucked cold through Resnick’s stomach: she’d changed her mind. “No, not yet,” he said cautiously.
“Oh, good, because …”
“Something else has cropped up.”
“No. Yes. Well, not exactly.”
Resnick fought to keep the disappointment out of his voice. The last thing he wanted was another lecture on rejection. “Not to worry, maybe some other time.”
“No,” Hannah said, “it’s not that, Friday’s still fine. It’s just … well, I feel stupid after making such a fuss about you being the one to decide …”
“That didn’t matter, it’s okay, I …”
“The thing is, there’s this film, at Broadway …”
It would be, Resnick thought.
“… it’s something I really want to see and Friday’s the only chance I’ve got.”
“Look,” Resnick said, the soul of reason, “that’s all right, you go and see your film. We can meet another evening.”
“I was thinking more that you might come with me.”
“Ah.”
“We could get something to eat afterwards; we could eat there even, the food’s not bad.” She drew breath, waiting for a response, which didn’t come. “What do you think?”
“This isn’t,” Resnick asked warily, “another film from Tunisia about-what was it? — silence?”
Hannah laughed, just a little. “No, you’re quite safe. It’s in English. Well, American. Vanya on 42nd Street.”
A memory jostled deep inside Resnick’s brain. “That’s the Marx Brothers, isn’t it?”
Hannah laughed. “Not exactly.”
“Oh.”
“More Chekhov, I think.” And before he could say anything else, “If that’s okay, why don’t we meet there? In the foyer. A quarter past eight.”
“All right.”
“See you then. And Charlie?”
“Mmm?”
“Next time I will let you choose, I promise.”
When he looked back across the room, Dizzy had taken the chance to nip back into the chair and lay there curled, one paw tight across his eyes.
“This carries on, Dizzy, my friend, the way she feels about cats, your days could be numbered.”
When Norma got back from her morning stint of cleaning, there was Sheena, feet up in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette while Peter boiled eggs for his breakfast, his or Sheena’s, it was difficult to tell. At least father and daughter were in the same room together and, if not exactly talking, not shouting either.
“That place,” Norma said, shucking off her coat and dropping it onto the back of a chair, “don’t know if the bitter was off last night or what, but the state of that Gents this morning, floor were like a bad night in the scuttering abattoir.”
“Thanks, Mum,” grimaced Sheena, stubbing out her cigarette. “For sharing that with us.”
“Yes, thanks, love.” Peter grinned. “Just what I need to give me an appetite for these eggs. P’raps I should have them scrambled after all.”
Sheena leaned over the side of her chair and mimed being sick.
“What I could do with …” Norma began, lighting up herself.
“Is a fag and a nice cup of tea.” Peter began it and with Sheena joining in, they finished in unison.
“You two seem perky,” Norma said, filling the kettle at the sink.
“Been getting on all right, haven’t we, Sheena?”
“Okay, yeh.”
“Then I’d best not ask you, young lady, why you’re not at work, had I? Spoil this grand mood you’re in.”
“Leave her be,” Peter urged, bending forward and carefully spooning the first of his eggs from the pan.
“Or where,” Norma went on, “you got another new jacket from? And don’t waste your breath telling me it’s borrowed. Or that you bought it from what you’ve earned, ‘cause the number of hours you’ve been working lately, it’s you that’ll be owin’ them instead of the other way round.”
“Norma, love, leave it.”
“’S all right for you, you’ll be off out of here soon enough. I’m the one whose pocket’ll hurt if she gets her cards.”
“Yeh, well,” said Sheena with a sniff, “shows what you know, ’cause I already did.”
“What! You soft cow, what’s the matter with you? What d’you want to go and do that for?”
“I didn’t do it, did I? It were done to me.” Sheena swung her legs round from the seat of the empty chair, revealing a new pair of ankle-length black boots, still bright from their first shine.
“You what? And what about those shoes?”
“What about them?”
“You nicked them, that’s what. No two ways about it. You and those fancy new friends of yours. You want to watch out, my girl, else you’ll end up inside.”
“Yeah? Well, a fucking lot you care.”
Norma coming to stand over her now: “I’ve told you before, don’t use that language to me.”
“No?” Sheena on her feet, face jutting forward into her mother’s. “I’ll use what language I sodding like. You don’t own me, you know.”
“Is that right?” Norma swung her arm wildly, and if she hadn’t ducked into it instead of away, Sheena would never have got hit. As it was, the heel of her mother’s hand caught her hard alongside her mouth and she stumbled away, bleeding from her lip.
“You bitch!” Sheena yelled. “You bloody bitch!”
Norma let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a howl and weighed into Sheena with both hands, Peter saying, over and over, “Sheena, Norma, cut it out” and doing his best to drag Norma back; Sheena covering her face with her arms and Norma crying now, Norma and Sheena both crying. “Sheena, Norma, stop it now.” Peter carrying on till Norma turned on him and pushed him clear across the kitchen. “Stop whingeing on, you pathetic little shit. You get on my nerves something rotten, you sodding do.”