Darkness, Darkness (17 page)

‘When he was caught,’ Catherine said, ‘Swann, would he have been high on your list of suspects?’

Walcott gave a quick self-conscious smile. ‘Not even in the mix. We had interviewed him once, mind, some few years before, trawling through registered Sierra owners. Nothing to set anyone’s antennae twitching.’

‘The other suspects, though, they were serious? Serious possibilities?’

A shrug. ‘Some, maybe. A dozen. Previous form for GBH. Domestic violence. Accusations of rape. It’s all there, somewhere, in the files. Before HOLMES 2, of course, so not all neatly indexed, analysed. But it’s there, if you want it.’

Catherine smiled. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Not a problem.’

They shook hands, Resnick likewise. Walked around the building, back towards the road, she and Walcott side by side.

‘Swann,’ she said as they reached the gate. ‘What’s he like?’

‘After all that time inside, who’s to say?’

‘But then?’

Walcott smiled. ‘Quiet, unassuming. Bookish, even. Docile. Sort of bloke, if you were stuck somewhere, car broken down by the side of the road, Swann came by and offered you a lift, just to the nearest garage, anything to help, you might think, okay, why not? No real risk. No risk at all.’

DANNY SHINS UP
the wall alongside the factory building and drops down into an alley on the other side. Old-fashioned cobbles, bins, a broken bicycle wheel. Backs of houses: two up, two down. One way seems to lead back in the direction from which he’s come, the other narrowing down towards what might be an opening out into a patch of waste ground; from there it’s hard to tell. Shouts ring out behind him, the sound of boots on hard paving, moving fast. Pickets, police, running in all directions. He’ll take a chance.

Thirty, forty yards off he sees it’s not an opening at all: at the end of the ginnel is a wire fence, some twelve feet high, blocking entry to the scrapyard beyond.

The sounds of pursuit are coming closer; over his shoulder, two uniformed police, running fast. Poised on the wall behind them, a police Alsatian with its handler, about to leap down.

Danny puts on speed, hurls himself at the fence, jumping as he leaves the ground.

His fingers clasp the wire, feet seek purchase, slide away, swing back.

The wire is cutting into his hands.

‘Get hold of the bastard!’

Danny starts to climb.

‘Get down, you prick!’

A hand grabs at his ankle and he kicks it away.

Hauls himself higher.

The scrapyard crammed with rusting pieces of machinery, car tyres, the carcasses of old tractors, pallets stacked one above the other in uneven piles.

‘Get back fuckin’ down here or I’ll set dog on you!’

Danny reaches for the top of the fence, catches hold and clings fast.

‘Fuck you!’ he shouts. ‘And fuck your dog!’

The dog jumps.

As Danny tries to swing one leg over the top of the fence, two of the police take hold of the fencing lower down and start to shake it, in and out, hard as they can.

Danny nearly loses his grip; his trouserleg catches against a piece of wire sticking loose from the top of the fence and rips.

They’re banging the fence with their batons now. Shouting at him to get down.

‘Fuck you!’ he shouts again, but one hand comes away and he swings wildly round. Just three fingers clinging on, taking all his weight, wire through skin. The dog jumps up and sinks its teeth into his leg above the ankle.

Pain sears through him, sharp, intense.

‘Got you, you fucker!’

He falls with a crunch to his knees, can feel bone splintering, the dog still not letting go. Growling in the back of its throat until its handler makes the signal and it backs a short distance away. Hands on the cobbled surface, Danny pushes himself upwards but he can’t move. Tries again and one of his legs gives way. Grabs sideways at the fence and misses. Falls.

One of the policemen laughs.

‘Bloody spastic!’ says another.

They haul him to his feet and hold him there.

‘Good news, sunshine. You’re under fucking arrest.’

The voice isn’t local. London, maybe? Kent? He looks for the number on the officer’s uniform like he’s been told, but can’t see one.

Groggy, he makes a sound in his throat as if he’s going to spit, spit in the officer’s face, and the officer knees him in the groin, grabs hold of him as he lurches forward and spins him round, thrusting him fast against the fencing so that the wire cuts into his face.

One of the others yanks his arms round behind him and cuffs his wrists.

‘Result!’ says the officer with a laugh.

Danny is put in a holding cell with nine others, taken out to be questioned – questions he largely refuses to answer.

‘The advice from my union,’ he says, ‘is not to speak to police or make a written statement about any picket I may have been taking part in before seeing a strike committee official or a lawyer.’

The words don’t sound right on his tongue.

‘Never mind your union’s advice,’ says one of the two police officers sitting opposite. ‘Do yourself a favour and stop being such a prat. Sooner you play along, sooner you’ll be out of here and home.’

He says it with a smile on his face, friendly-like.

‘I’m not saying owt,’ Danny says.

‘Suit yourself.’

He’s taken back to the cell. Brought back. Questioned. Nothing. Fingerprinted and his photograph taken.

Next morning, taken before the magistrate.

One charge of using threatening words and behaviour, another of obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty, one of common assault.

Unconditional bail refused.

Almost before he knows what’s happening, Danny is released on the conditions that he remains resident at his given address, doesn’t cross the county border into Nottinghamshire and at no time ventures within half a mile of any property or properties belonging to or rented by the National Coal Board.

He hitches his way home, feeling sick.

‘
AND YOU WERE
going to tell me fucking when?’

‘Sir, I—’

‘When?’

‘I didn’t want to raise the possibility of another line of inquiry without first—’

‘Didn’t want to say, more like, you were getting your fancy knickers in a twist over some hare-brained idea spun out of some bastard journalist’s head.’

‘Sir, I—’

‘Shut it! Just fucking shut it, okay?’

Okay. Catherine drew breath, chanced a sideways glance at Resnick, exhaled. The atmosphere in Picard’s office smelt of air freshener, over-brewed coffee, spite.

They had been summoned to Radford first thing, the detective chief inspector’s office; no pleasantries, no pack drill, just a straightforward bollocking, simple and pure.

Resnick shifted his balance from one foot to the other, mind running through the twenty or so places he’d rather be that moment than here.

‘You’ll remember,’ Picard said, his eyes focused on Catherine, ‘a conversation in this office. Keep in touch, anything you’re concerned about, unsure of, run it by me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You do remember?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So, what? Somewhere along the line you forgot? Selective amnesia? Or maybe you just thought, fuck it, he’s never going to know, never going to care, I’ll just go my merry fucking way regardless. Was that it?’

‘No, sir.’ Catherine looking at the ground, the carpet, industrial grey, able to hold his gaze no longer.

‘And you,’ Picard said, turning his attention to Resnick, ‘crystal clear, or so I’d thought. Low-key, that was the way to pitch it. The way it was going to be. Low-key.

‘Your experience, I expected you to keep things in check, under control. No call to go stirring up more than necessary, more than was needed. Instead of which you go haring off, the pair of you, on some wild fucking goose chase, till you’re up to your armpits in serial bloody killers. Michael fucking Swann – how d’you think that’s going to play once the media get hold of it? Well? Throw your low-key out the fucking window then. Eyes of the country, eyes of half the fucking world. Some bastard Japanese TV crew making a documentary, poking their mini-fucking cameras up your nose.’

Catherine broke the silence that followed. ‘With respect, sir—’

‘Respect? What fucking respect?’ Picard furious, red faced, spittle on his lips. ‘Any respect you’d have okay’d this with me from the start, let me know what you were thinking, instead of leaving me high and dry, having to find out for myself elsewhere.’

‘How exactly did you do that, sir? Find out, I mean?’

‘Never you fucking mind.’

McBride, Catherine thought – either that or a quick phone call from Walcott. Top brass to top brass, Walcott to Hastings, Hastings to Picard. Her money was on McBride.

‘What I don’t understand, how the basics here could have got so forgotten. And don’t –’ seeing Catherine was about to interrupt – ‘give me any more of that respect bollocks. My take on the case, what happened to Jenny Hardwick – not that you’ve had the sense of protocol to furnish me with anything approaching a proper briefing – the two prime suspects, two you should be looking at, two in the frame, that twat from Yorkshire she was fooling around with and her old man.’

He looked from one to the other. ‘Care to disagree?’

Neither did. Not there and then. Far too simplistic, Catherine thought, keeping it to herself.

‘The husband – Barry, is it? Where are we with him?’

‘Still accumulating evidence, sir. Hearsay, largely. Hostility between the pair of them, husband and wife, that’s clear. Mainly over the strike – major difference of opinion there – possibly over any relationship she might or might not have been having with somebody else. Been interviewed on two occasions, due to be again.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Apart from an informal conversation at the funeral, yes, sir.’

Picard raised his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Beyond fucking belief.’

Catherine chanced another glance towards Resnick, who was tactfully looking away.

‘The bloke she was shagging?’ Picard said. ‘How about him?’

If
she was shagging, Catherine qualified for her own intents and purposes.

‘Scotland, sir, last we heard. Fort William. Sandford and Cresswell are up there now. Seems he’s moved on.’

‘On? On where?’

‘Not the type to leave forwarding addresses, I’m afraid. Gave them another twenty-four hours. If nothing, report back. Start over.’

‘So they’re yomping all over the Highlands and you two are – where was it last?’

‘Lincolnshire.’

Picard raised his eyes to the heavens, shot his cuffs, settled back behind his desk.

‘Detective Inspector, perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting outside for a few moments, allow Mr Resnick and me time for a few words?’

Catherine bridled, seemed about to argue, thought better of it. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Time, while the door was closing, for Resnick to feel embarrassed on her behalf.

Picard stared him down.

‘What’s the matter, Charlie? Standing there like someone’s stuck a red-hot poker up your arse.’

‘It doesn’t feel right, undermining the SIO in this way.’

‘Leave the way I manage to me, Charlie, okay? Hold her hand afterwards, if you like. Cuddle her tits. Whatever it takes.’

Resnick said nothing, waited.

‘Straight question then, Charlie. Two, to be precise. This Swann business, now you’ve poked your toe in, anything to it? Worth the fuss?’

Resnick took his time answering. ‘Swann himself, doubtful. Wouldn’t rule it out completely, but, on balance, I’d say unlikely. But there were other suspects that investigation turned up, a dozen at least, maybe more. Some of those might fit our profile, such as it is. A few more bodies, civilian staff maybe, we could chase them up, re-interview where necessary.’

‘All right, but more bodies, unlikely – you should know the staffing situation as well as me. What was it? Last spending review? Another nine thousand jobs going, nationwide? Go down that route, you’ll have to find a way of doing it with what you’ve got. My advice, get round Johnny McBride’s good side, for God’s sake, instead of rubbing him up the wrong side of his bloody sporran. He can be creative when needs be.’

Resnick nodded. ‘Do what I can.’

‘Second question. And I want a straight answer.’ Picard gestured towards the door. ‘Is she up to this or not?’

‘She’s fine.’ No hesitation, looking Picard square in the eye.

‘I hope to Christ you’re right.’

Catherine was waiting at the end of the corridor, the head of the stairs. They walked down side by side.

As they emerged on to the street, someone called Catherine’s name.

A tall man, handsome, in an expensively tailored suit, dark hair brushed back, olive skin, liquid brown eyes, five-hundred-pound shoes.

‘Catherine, you haven’t been returning my calls.’

TIME STOPPED. THE
man standing in the middle of the pavement, assured, smiling. Catherine with a hand to her lips, not quite touching. Resnick, off to one side, uncertain, waiting.

A photograph: not seen, untaken.

‘Abbas, you shouldn’t do this.’

The merest of shrugs. ‘You didn’t answer my calls.’

‘My choice, Abbas.’

‘You could have been sick, taken ill, I didn’t know, anything could have happened.’

‘And if I were . . .?’

‘Then, of course, I should know.’

‘Sick, ill, whatever . . . whatever happens to me, Abbas, it is no concern of yours.’

‘You know that’s not true.’ He moved forward quickly as he spoke, his hand circling her wrist.

‘Abbas, let go.’

For all that she is tall, he is taller still. Well-muscled beneath the fine lines of his suit. Sleek, the word that comes to Resnick’s mind as he watches.

‘Abbas . . .’

He tightens his grip instead.

‘I think you should let go,’ Resnick says. ‘Move away.’

There are people watching now, a few. A woman with a buggy across the street; an elderly man with a shopping trolley; a pair of uniformed officers hesitating on the police station steps.