Cutting Edge (13 page)

Rachel.

The scrape of a shoe against the uneven pavement made Resnick turn. A woman stepping forward out of the shadow, collar of her dark raincoat eased up, hair that framed her pale face short and dark. Resnick reached across and unlocked the near side door.

“Sorry to haul you out,” Resnick said.

“S’all right, sir,” said Lynn Kellogg, “I’ve done the same to you before now.”

Resnick switched back to main beam, slid the car into gear. “I’ll fill you in on the way,” he said.

Wollaton was the place that time forgot. An inner-city suburb of bungalows and crescents and neat detached houses with crazy paving and front gardens fit for gnomes. A light shone in the porch of the Dougherty house, dull orange. Resnick pressed the bell a second time and stepped back. Another light appeared, filtered through the curtains of the upstairs front. Cautious footsteps on the stairs.

“Who is it?”

“Detective Inspector Resnick. CID.”

Through the square of frosted glass set into the door, Resnick could see a figure, shoulders hunched, hesitating.

“It’s the police, Mr. Dougherty,” Resnick said, not wanting to raise his voice too loud and wake the neighbors. Wanting it to be over: done.

The figure came forward; there was a slow sliding back of bolts, top and bottom, a latch pushed up, a key being turned: finally, the door was inched back on a chain.

Resnick identified himself, holding his warrant card towards the edge of the door and stepping to one side so that Dougherty could see him.

“This is Detective Constable Kellogg,” Resnick said, pointing behind him. “If we could come in.”

“Can’t it wait? What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

“Your son,” Resnick said. “It’s about your son.”

“Karl?”

“Yes, Karl.”

The door was pushed closed, but only to free the chain. Dougherty stood in tartan slippers on a mat that said
Welcome
in dark tufts of bristle. His ankles were bony beneath the hem of striped pajama trousers, the skin marbled with broken blue veins. The belt of his dark green dressing gown had been tied in a tight bow. His hair tufted up at angles from the sides of his head.

“What about Karl?” he asked. “What’s happened to him?”

But the expression in his eyes showed that he already knew.

Not exactly, of course. That came a little later, in the small living room, the only light from a standard lamp in one corner, the three of them sitting on furniture that had been built to last and had done exactly that.

All the while Resnick had been speaking, Dougherty’s eyes had flickered from the cocktail cabinet to the light oak table, from the empty vase they had brought back from Holland fifteen years ago to the small framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the variflame gas fire.

In the silence that followed, Dougherty’s eyes were still. His fingers plucked at the ends of his green wool belt. Resnick wondered how much, how clearly he’d understood.

“Would you like us to take you to the hospital?” Resnick asked. “You and your wife?”

“My wife …” Dougherty began, alarmed.

“We could take you,” Resnick repeated. “To see Karl.”

“My wife can’t go,” Dougherty said.

“She is here?” Resnick asked.

“I told you, upstairs. She can’t go, she mustn’t know, she can’t…”

“She’ll have to be told, Mr. Dougherty,” Resnick said.

“No.”

“Would you like me to speak to her?” Lynn offered.

“She can’t know.”

“What?” said Pauline Dougherty from the doorway. “What is it, William? Who are these people? I woke up and you weren’t there. That was when I heard voices. Your voice, William. I thought it was Karl. You know, one of his little visits. To surprise us.”

“What visits?” said Dougherty, staring at her.

“You know, his little …”

“He doesn’t make visits,” getting to his feet. “One year’s end to the next, he scarcely comes near us.”

“He does, William. Oh, he does. You forget.”

William Dougherty closed his eyes and his wife stood close in front of him, recently permed hair held tight in a net, a dressing gown of quilted pink and fluffy pink slippers without heels.

“William,” she said and he opened his eyes.

“Karl’s dead,” Dougherty said.

“No,” Resnick said quickly, half out of his chair.

“He’s dead,” Dougherty repeated.

“No,” said Resnick quietly. “Mr. Dougherty, that isn’t what I said.”

“There you are,” Pauline Dougherty turned her head towards the inspector and then back towards her husband, reaching for his hand. “There you are,” almost beaming. “You see, there’s been a mistake.”

The sky was lightening and the milk-float was only two streets away. Lynn Kellogg had spoken to Pauline Dougherty’s sister in Harrogate, who would catch the first train down via York. One of the neighbors would be across to sit with her within the half hour, and meanwhile Lynn herself sat in the kitchen holding Mrs. Dougherty’s hands, watching the birds land for a moment on the cotoneaster bush and then fly off again. Going to the hospital meant acknowledging the truth of what had happened and Pauline Dougherty was not ready for that yet; Lynn wondered if she ever would be.

Meanwhile Resnick phoned the hospital, the station, the hospital once more. A uniformed officer came to take William Dougherty to see his son. Karl was in surgery and fighting for his life, struggling, unknowingly, to prove his father wrong.

Resnick and Lynn Kellogg went to the café near the Dunkirk flyover and ate sausage baps with HP sauce and drank strong, sweet tea. Looking out through the steamed-over window at the blur of early morning traffic, neither of them said a word.

Seventeen

By eight that morning, Karl Dougherty was under constant observation in intensive care. He had come round for several minutes close to six o’clock; again, an hour later. His father had been sitting at the foot of his bed, but if Karl recognized him, he gave no sign. The cuts and lacerations to his face and forearms had been straightforwardly treated; wounds to his lower chest and abdomen had been more severe and required more careful surgery. Hard as he tried, the surgeon had been unable to save one of Karl’s testicles.

Resnick drove Lynn Kellogg back to her flat, easing into the flow of early morning traffic. The first report on Radio Trent spoke of a man attacked in the city center, detained in hospital in a serious condition. “Think he’ll pull through, sir?” Lynn asked. Resnick didn’t know: just that if he didn’t, if the incident changed to one of murder, a whole different set of procedures would fall into place. Fletcher, he was thinking, swinging left past the Broad Marsh, Fletcher and Dougherty—how much of that was coincidence? He shifted across to the center of the road, indicating right; braked beside the Lace Market Theater, back where they had started not so many hours earlier. “Cup of tea, sir?” Lynn asked, car door open. “Thanks,” said Resnick, shaking his head, “any more, folk’ll think I’ve got problems with the prostate.” He watched her walk from sight before reversing away. A few more like her in the Force wouldn’t do any harm at all.

William Dougherty got up from his son’s bed, told the nurse he’d be right back, took the lift to the ground floor and stood for several minutes, outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette. It tasted old, stale, God knows how long it had been in his coat pocket, months. Ever since Pauline had taken to complaining if he smoked in the house, he had been cutting back. One in the garden on a Sunday, trimming back the hedges, straightening up the lawn. When they had first moved to Wollaton, Karl had been little more than a baby. Barely able to keep his feet as he followed his father around. “Pay ball! Pay ball! Pay ball!” “William, be careful of the flowers!” Dougherty put out the cigarette with forefinger and thumb and blew on the tip before dropping the nub end back in his pocket. Waste not, want not. Waste.
I never wanted you to go to university in the first place, you know. Waste of bloody time and money
. Now he looked like a robot, lying there, unreal. Something from science fiction, an astronaut. For a while that’s what he’d wanted to be. Dan Dare. Thunderbirds. Something like that. Now he’d be lucky to be anything. Machines controlled the flow of his blood, the air from his lungs. Not that Dougherty understood, not exactly, but there was no avoiding the apparatus, the tubes, wires, digits on the faces of all those machines. Nurses who smiled at him deftly before reading off the figures like mechanics, noting them down. Not dead, the police inspector had said, not dead. What did he know? What was this? Instead of going back inside the hospital, he started walking away.

Resnick was not altogether surprised to see Reg Cossall queuing up for a second breakfast in the canteen, his sergeant, Derek Fenby, alongside him.

“What’s up, Reg?” Resnick said. “Don’t they feed you enough down there?”

Cossall poked a finger into Resnick’s stomach. “Not as well as they do up here.”

“DCI,” Fenby said, his voice a natural growl, “wanted us to report to your super.”

Cossall winked. “Politics, Charlie. Argue till he’s blue in the face, Jack Skelton, keep both cases up here. While since you lot had anything tasty.”

“Happy for you to handle this one,” said Fenby. “Eh, boss?”

“Late-night emasculation,” said Cossall with a cock-eyed grin. “Not our style.”

“Handy for some, though,” said Fenby, “saves on the vasectomy.”

Jesus, thought Resnick, they’re enjoying this. Keeping their knees clenched and thinking there but for the grace of God …

“Hey up!” said Cossall loudly at the woman behind the counter. “Call that thing a sausage? I’ve seen better between our dog’s legs.”

Jack Skelton’s suit jacket was on its hanger behind his office door and all was right with the world. For now. The notebook and blotter on his desk were the regulation inch and a quarter apart, his fountain pens facing magnetic north. Only the photograph of Kate as a young girl had disappeared from its frame, replaced by another, a family group in which the background was unclear, the faces were blurred.

“What do you think, Charlie? Pull Patel off this jeans business? Be light-handed otherwise.”

“He’d be pleased, no mistaking that.”

“Let’s have him out to the hospital then. Need someone with a bit of tact.”

“I was wondering about Graham Millington …”

Skelton was quick to shake his head. “Put in a lot of work on those hijacks already. Be good to see a result. And it doesn’t hurt us any, let them see over there we’re not poor cousins.” He smoothed his hand across his upper lip, stroking the mustache that was no longer there. “Reg Cossall’d be happy to lend us Fenby.”

“I’ll bet he would.”

“Nothing wrong with Fenby, Charlie. Good old-fashioned copper.”

“Exactly.”

“Just the job for something like this, lots of double-checking, knocking on doors. Wind him up and let him go.”

Resnick stood up and shuffled a few paces back towards the door, not quite certain he was through.

“Long day already, Charlie,” Skelton said, midway through dialing. “Once you’ve got them going, get yourself home. Snatch an hour.” The superintendent’s face slumped into a frown. “This is going to get a sight worse before it gets better.”

When William Dougherty finally arrived home his shoes were damp and flecked with mud, but he had no clear sense of where he had been walking or for how long.

One of the neighbors sat in the kitchen, brooding over a pot of tea, too long mashed to be drinkable. Seeing Dougherty, she looked away and then, with a slow shake of her head, pointed towards the rear window.

Pauline was standing close to a pink rose bush, most of its petals blown. Her dressing gown had become unfastened at the front and there was nothing on her feet.

“She won’t come in,” the neighbor said. “I asked her, but she won’t.”

Dougherty nodded and let himself out through the side door. The sounds of birdsong seemed unnaturally loud, calls and responses laid over the dull hum of traffic.

“Pauline.”

Turning at the familiar voice, she smiled. “William, the roses, we have to be careful …”

She forgot what it was they had to be careful about.

Gently, Dougherty took the watering can from her hand and set it on the path before leading her back towards the house.

Without his helmet, the constable who escorted Sarah Leonard up to CID was scarcely the taller. He led her through the main door, knocked on the window to Resnick’s office and left her. Glancing up, Resnick saw a woman with dark hair, lightly curled, a strong nose and a full mouth, dark eyes that fixed upon him and didn’t let him go. For the first time in some little while, he thought of Rachel, shaking the thought free as he got to his feet and beckoned her to enter.

“Inspector?”

Resnick held out his hand. “Have a seat.”

“Sarah Leonard,” she said. “I work at the hospital.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I’m a nurse. Staff nurse.”

“And you work with Karl?”

Sarah nodded.

Resnick relaxed back into his chair, allowing his shoulders to slump just a little.

“We finished at the same time yesterday, nine o’clock, more or less. We went through the subway together. Karl doesn’t live all that far from me, sometimes we walk part of the way together—last night he was catching the bus into the city. Said he was meeting someone for a drink.”

There was sweat forming lightly in the palms of Resnick’s hands.

“Did he say who?” Resnick asked.

Sarah shook her head. “Just a friend.”

“Nothing more?”

A slight tightening of the mouth and she shook her head again.

“You don’t know if this friend was female? Male?”

The merest hesitations before Sarah said no.

“How about where they were meeting?”

“No, but …”

But, echoed Resnick inwardly. But …

“I know Karl used to go to this place near the Victoria Center …”

“A pub?”

“More of … I don’t know … not a wine bar exactly … a club.”

“Have you been there?”

“Once, yes, I think it was Karl’s birthday. We …”

“Downstairs, is it? Underground?”