“Okay, sir.”
“Supposed to save us time, those things.”
“Oh they do, sir. No doubt about that. Just a matter of getting the hang of them.”
“Sergeant Millington, he’s your man.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Took a course.”
Naylor nodded. He’d heard all about it in the canteen: the drinking, the lecturer from Stirling University, all five-syllable words and nancy gestures, the detective inspector who went knocking on a woman sergeant’s door at two in the morning and found his superintendent had beaten him to it.
“Here.” Resnick pushed the first of his pieces of paper in Naylor’s direction. “This man. Grabianski. He was at the King’s Court Hotel during the periods these”-another piece of paper-“burglaries were committed.”
Naylor looked expectant.
“I’ve had him checked through CRO, nothing. When I interviewed him about something else altogether, he spoke of having a partner, a business partner. Implied they traveled together, but it doesn’t look as if they stayed at the same hotel. According to Millington, this other man’s name is Grice.”
Naylor groaned inwardly, seeing what was coming. “Right, sir. So check all hotels and guest houses, those dates, any man booking in alone.”
“They arrived on the same dates, left on the same dates; this last time, they pulled out early, after three days.”
“Right, sir.” It was fine; a whole lot better than he’d feared. Naylor left and went back into the main office. He wondered whether he should phone Debbie and what the chances were that he’d catch her at the wrong moment, in the middle of changing the baby, mixing her feed, even-blissfully-sleeping. He sat back at the keyboard and pushed the disk into place; the odds of finding this particular needle in a haystack were more in his favor.
Strange, Resnick was thinking, waiting at the sandwich counter, the way bits and pieces drifted into your mind, no clear reason. What he was recalling then, an afternoon, would have been late fifties, he’d been pally with this lad, family had friends with a place in the country. Rare back then, not a second home exactly, above an hour’s drive from London, north-west. It had been a farm, the name on the gate still, Lower Brook Farm, white letters fading into graying wood that was mottled over with moss. God! He’d been shy then. A group of village girls, chalking on the wall beside the local shop, hanging from the ends of open gates. “Charlie! C’m here, Charlie!” This time, walking down the lane alone, his friend off somewhere else, running errands, one girl had fallen into step beside him. Pat. Patricia. She was taller than him, looked older, but that didn’t mean she was. “Can you, you know, do it yet?” He could still remember how his ears had burned, how he had wanted to run away. Sitting on the chipped white railing round the bridge, she had leaned her face into his and kissed him; rested, so sparingly he still wondered if it had been true, her hand between his legs. “Come on, then, Charlie,” she had laughed, mockingly. “Half a crown over the hedge!”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the young man behind the counter.
“That’s okay.”
Resnick passed over a five-pound note and waited for his change. Brown bag in hand, he left the deli and cut back left, past a row of fireplaces stripped from town-down houses and about to be rehabilitated into the homes of the tastefully well-to-do. Waiting for the lights to change at the main road, he saw Skelton, smart in track suit, blue-and-white Reeboks on his feet, jog down the station steps and begin his run away from the city, stride already beginning to lengthen.
In the lobby he recognized Mackenzie’s face straight off, although it took him a few moments to remember where from. What was Harold Roy’s producer doing there? Come to that, who had given him a thick lip?
“You might be better off going to central station,” the uniformed officer at reception was saying.
“I don’t have time for that. This is the nearest to the studio. This is where I am. Okay?”
“Everything all right?” Resnick asked, leaning his head towards the reinforced glass.
“This gentleman wishes to lodge a complaint, sir. Assault.”
“You were mugged?” Resnick said to Mackenzie.
The producer scowled. “More like a dispute at his place of employment, sir,” said the officer.
“Not Harold Roy?” said Resnick.
Mackenzie assumed the expression of someone who’d been punched a second time, this one from behind. “You know that bastard?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“He’s blown his marbles. Utterly. Punched me in the face in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, not the least provocation, and then walks out of the studio in the middle of a scene. I’m telling you, that man wants psychiatric help; that man needs hospitalization; that man needs locking up.”
“Carry on,” said Resnick to the officer. “You might let me see a copy when you’re through.”
He hadn’t got his sandwich out from its white waxed paper before Millington was knocking on his door. “Don’t let me interrupt you, sir.”
Resnick had no such intention. Millington watched the inspector push several wayward slices of dill pickle back between the salad and the chopped liver before taking the first bite.
“Graham?”
“That Olds woman, sir, never thought I’d be grateful to have her around.” Resnick knew the feeling. “Don’t know how she’s done it, but somehow Chao and his lad are in there shaking hands, lot of bowing and smiling, sorry things became a little heated, so sorry. Like the end of a Charlie Chan movie, sir.”
Quite often, when Millington had been on early shift, he had found himself sitting down with one or other of his kids, eating crisps while they drank tea and watched the late afternoon film on TV. Charlie Chan in the City of Darkness, Charlie Chan’s Murder Cruise (they’d seen that one at least twice), Charlie Chan at the Wax Museum. Twenty-seven of them there were, all told; his son had looked it up in the library down on Angel Row.
“No charges, Graham?”
“Only that bunch of yobos. Affray, aggravated assault, carrying a dangerous weapon with intent. He must have paid them a lot, cause they’re not budging from their story.”
“Frustrating,” Resnick suggested.
“Not really, sir,” Millington shook his head. “Glad to see the back of them.”
Resnick bit into his sandwich again and a blob of gray-brown chicken liver landed on his blotter. If I ate like that, Millington thought, the wife would make me sit out in the garage.
“This man Grice,” Resnick said.
“The one from the restaurant? Grabianski’s mate.”
“Didn’t get involved in the fighting, did he?”
“Didn’t even hold his coat.”
“Careful, then?”
“More than that, sir, now you mention it. More-cagey, I’d say.”
Resnick was regretting not bringing back a slice of treacle tart. Sugar highs might be artificial, but when you were still eating your lunch and it was tea-time, anything that did the trick was a bonus.
“You haven’t forgotten Fossey, Graham?”
“Tomorrow, sir. Now this other business is sorted.” Resnick nodded dismissively; Millington turned to go. “Let’s see about pulling Lynn out of the shopping center, shall we? Aside from what it’s likely doing to her mind, she hangs around there much longer she’s going to be spotted for what she is.”
“Okay, sir.”
The door had hardly closed when the phone rang. Picking it up, Resnick thought, damn, it’s Jeff Harrison, why haven’t I taken him up on that drink? But the accent was from the other side of the world.
“It isn’t exactly good news, I’m afraid,” said Claire Millinder.
Resnick made a face and listened.
“I nearly, so very nearly, came close to a sale this morning. That family I told you about. Loved the size of the rooms, the garden, everything.”
“What didn’t they like?”
“It was on the wrong side of the city.”