“Mr. Chao has a retainer on my services.”
“To cover any eventuality.”
“Exactly.”
“And the service you’re performing for him on this occasion?”
“To express his regret that such a thing should happen at all, even though, of course, he was in no way culpable. Neither Mr. Chao nor his staff. To promise you that he has instructed those working for him to give the police their fullest cooperation.”
“And the cooperation of Mr. Chao himself?”
“Inspector, my client simply happens to be the owner of the premises where this fracas took place. He was not present at the time and neither he nor his immediate family are in any way involved. Why should Mr. Chao make himself available to the police in this matter?”
Resnick took his time; when he had finished talking to Suzanne Olds there were others waiting who were less stimulating. “If what you say is true, Ms. Olds, why should he call you so early in the morning and prioritize your expensive time?”
“Shall we say,” she replied, leaving her coffee far from finished, brushing an imaginary speck from her suit skirt before standing, “Mr. Chao achieved his considerable position in the business community by being both far-sighted and cautious.”
All right, thought Resnick, okay: for now, let’s leave it at that.
There were three messages waiting on Resnick’s desk: Rees Stanley had phoned to discuss what progress had been made regarding the burglary of his house and would call back at eleven; the superintendent was due at Central Police Station this side of lunch and he wanted to talk to Resnick before leaving; Jeff Harrison had rung through twice and would be ringing back.
Resnick pushed open the door of the main office. “This message from DI Harrison …”
“Came through to me, sir.”
“Any idea what he was after, Lynn?”
“Didn’t say, sir.” Her round face was rounder when she smiled. “A pint of Mansfield?”
Hmm. From what he remembered, Jeff was strictly a spirits man. Doubles, at that. The occasional chaser. Coppers’ tables in the back room of some bar or other.
Stanley, Skelton, Harrison: Resnick decided he would go and talk to-what was his name? — Grabianski. One of the newer members of the Polish community, perhaps.
Eighteen
When the phone rang, Harold Roy was sitting with a tomato juice, trying to concentrate on his camera script. If it wasn’t going to take them half the morning to take out that flat, it was worth putting in a third camera to get the reverse close-ups. At least that would give the vision mixer something else to do, aside from the Independent crossword and buffing her nails.
“Yes,” he said into the receiver, responding to Alan Stafford’s voice. “Yes, of course I’m listening.”
So, from beyond the doorway, was Maria, though there was little enough for her to hear. What she could see was her husband wiping away the sweat that formed on his hands, dabbing along his trouser leg. Within less than two minutes, the conversation was over and all Harold had said had been “Yes,” another four times.
“Harold …?”
Maria stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the front door. The look he gave her was harder, more strained than she could recall seeing before. Maybe this, all of this, was pushing him too far.
“Harold …”
“What?”
“When you, go, I mean, to talk to him … It is going to be all right?”
“Are you going to stand there in that thing all day?” he asked. “Or is there a chance you might get as far as the bathroom and swab down?”
“Milton Keynes,” Grabianski was saying, “the kind of deals they were offering, it would have been stupid to stay put. Brand new premises, low rates, corporation grants, credits-as against that there was this factory in Leicester, ventilation problems, heating, it would have taken us so far into the red putting it right, I doubt we’d ever have got out again.”
“So you relocated?”
“Lock, stock and machinery. Down to the land of the concrete cows.”
“Regrets?”
Grabianski shook his head. “The walking’s not what it was, but aside from that …”
“Walking?”
Grabianski settled back in the chair the inspector had offered him; relaxing into this, enjoying it. Another fifteen minutes or so and he would be in the car and on his way out to see Maria. Less than an hour and they’d be in bed. “Rambling, I suppose you’d call it. Hiking. Up the M1 from Leicester and you’d be in Monsal Dale before the mist had burnt off the hills.”
“That’s not what you’re here for now, here in the city?”
Grabianski smiled. “Wish it was. No: business, I’m afraid.” He sat forward again, an elbow resting on his knee. “We’ve still got connections up here, outlets. Sheffield, Manchester. Every so often I have to make the trip.”
“You do it all yourself? The traveling?”
“My partner or myself, depending.”
“You’ve got a partner?”
“Since I started, more or less.”
“Not the man you were with in the restaurant?”
“Last night? Yes.”
“You were both here, then? This time.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said …”
“It depends. There was a lot to do, people to see.”
“Wholesalers.”
“That’s right. Sometimes it’s easier to spread the load.”
“While the factory runs itself in sunny Milton Keynes.”
“Like silk. Well, more like cotton. To be accurate.”
“Look,” said Resnick, “I mustn’t keep you.”
“No problem,” smiled Grabianski. “It’s good to talk.”
“Not many people,” said Resnick, standing, showing Grabianski towards the door, “would have got involved.”
“To be honest,” Grabianski had turned again, one shoulder almost resting against the door’s edge as he held it open, “if I’d thought about it, neither would I. But I suppose, I don’t know, something triggers you off and before you know it …” His smile broadened and he stepped out of the room, Resnick following.
“What d’you think it was?” Resnick asked, side by side in the corridor. “The trigger?”
“Oh, the girl, I suppose.”
“The waitress?”
“Yes.”
Resnick paused at the head of the stairs. “Nice to know the age of chivalry is being nurtured in the industrial heart of Milton Keynes.”
“Ah,” said Grabianski, “I’ve always been too much of a romantic. Friends say it’ll be my downfall.”
“Part of our national heritage,” Resnick suggested. “Yours and mine.”
“Facing up to invading tanks with the cavalry.”
“Something like that.”
They descended to the ground floor and Resnick turned the lock on the door that would let them into the entrance. Traffic sounded heavy on the road outside, the last build-up of the morning.
“I suppose it’s a hotel when you’re making these trips?” Resnick said. They were outside, on the top step.
“Afraid so.”
“Any one better than another?”
“King’s Court-at least the service is good.”
“If not the restaurant.”
“Sorry?”
“I meant, not so good it stops you eating out.”
Grabianski offered Resnick his hand. Two big men, standing together, wearing suits; tired, when you saw them close, around the eyes; they were both tired. For both of them it had been a long night: an early morning.
“This business,” Grabianski said, “I hope you get it sorted out.”
“Oh, we will. Eventually.”
“Take care.”
“You, too.”
Resnick watched as Grabianski walked along the pavement, turning left at the pedestrian lights and then right again opposite the entrance to the cemetery and what had once been a gents’ urinal.
“Patel,” he said, as soon as he was back into the CID room, “get on to the King’s Court Hotel. Mansfield Road, somewhere. A copy of their guest list, the last ten days.”
Harold Roy sat at the center of the control panel, the production secretary at his left. Diane Woolf, the vision mixer, on his right.