Darkness, Darkness (32 page)

There was something about the way she lay there, head lolling sideways, one arm outstretched, the other cradling her breast, that he thought rather beautiful.

Stepping over the broken furniture, he went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette.

Gradually, Catherine opened her eyes. Correction, one eye. The left one was stuck fast. Turned slowly, inch by inch, on to her side. Her front. Even that much caused her pain. Summoning up all her reserves she began to crawl.

Through the partly opened blinds, the dull ghost of the city rose up into the sky.

There was something wrong with the side of her face, her jaw.

Not just the bleeding, something else.

Her bag was wedged between an upturned chair and the wall.

With an effort she managed to tip its contents out on to the floor.

3.57: the time by her phone.

She realised her one good eye had closed again and had to will herself awake. Fingers fumbling a little, uncertain, uncontrolled. The phone slipped from her hand and she nudged it closer, trapping it against the wall. Her breathing seemed alternately shallow and harsh, each breath like a saw working against her chest.

With difficulty, she rested her ear close by the phone, heard it ring and ring.

‘Hello?’ Disoriented, tired.

‘Charlie . . .’

By the time Resnick arrived, the ambulance he’d called for was already in the street outside, paramedics on their way up the stairs. At the first glimpse of her he had to look away.

Quickly, without seeming to hurry, they checked for a pulse, took readings, manoeuvred her on to a stretcher, strapped her in. Resnick gently squeezed her hand, lowered his face towards hers to hear what she was saying.

‘I’m a nuisance, Charlie.’

‘Damned olive oil.’

It hurt like hell to smile. ‘Not this time, Charlie.’

Although he knew, he needed her to tell him who it was to be sure.

When she had and he straightened and stood away there were tiny bubbles of blood breaking against his ear.

‘Okay to go?’ the paramedic asked.

‘Okay.’

Andy Dawson didn’t take to being woken in the small hours. ‘Charlie, this better be fucking good.’

‘A man named Abbas Rashidi. My guess is, staying at one of the better hotels. Easier for you to check than me.’

‘And this is because?’

Resnick told him.

‘I’ll get on it.’

It took a little while. Mr Rashidi had ordered a taxi to collect him from his hotel and take him to East Midlands Airport, 5 a.m. sharp. Andy Dawson picked up Resnick outside Queen’s Medical Centre at a quarter past.

‘How is she?’

‘A mess.’

‘But she’s not . . .?’

Resnick shook his head. ‘She’ll be okay. It just might take a while.’

There were three early flights: Dublin at 6.30; Berlin at 6.45; Paris at 6.50. When Dawson had checked, there were seats still available on each one.

As they left the ring road, a second car pulled in behind them.

‘Just in case,’ Dawson said. ‘Couple of lads who punch well above their weight.’

Resnick sat with fists clenched and pressed against his knees. Seeing nothing through the windows as they hurtled past. Trying to forget what he’d last seen of Catherine’s face.

He’d like nothing more, he thought, as they neared the airport, than to have to haul Abbas off a plane, frogmarch him away from the line waiting to board. But he was in the executive lounge, sipping an espresso, breaking apart an almond croissant with long deft fingers. When Resnick and Dawson approached, he seemed to tense for a moment, and then, recognising Resnick, relaxed.

With two plain-clothes officers built like brick shithouses guarding the door behind him, Resnick prayed for Abbas to make a run.

No such luck.

‘Abbas Rashidi,’ Dawson said, ‘I am arresting you on a charge of causing grievous bodily harm with intent, in pursuance of the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

A mocking smile slid across Abbas’ face.

‘She’ll never go through with the charges,’ he said to Resnick quietly. ‘You know that, don’t you? It’ll never get to court.’

The only way Resnick could stop himself from punching him and punching him hard was to walk away.

BRUISES TO MOST
of her body aside, Catherine had a dislocated jaw, seven broken ribs and a ruptured spleen; it seemed increasingly as if she might lose the use of her left eye. The gash at the front of her head had taken twenty-three stitches, another seventeen to the wound in the scalp; one half of her hair had been shaved away. As a look, she didn’t think it would catch on. Either that or its brief day had passed.

It was forty-eight hours before she was wheeled out of intensive care, fit enough, just, to join the general population, a semi-private room in one of the general wards.

Her parents came and sat by her bed, bewildered and hurt. When her father set off on a diatribe about police work and its dangers, Catherine told him, politely, that police work had nothing to do with this. It was thanks to police work that she was alive and not dead. Soon after that, they left.

‘Sky fell in on me this time and no mistake,’ she said when Resnick came to visit.

‘Martin Picard sends his best wishes, hopes you get better soon.’

‘Now you are joking.’

Resnick grinned.

Catherine hitched herself up a little in the bed. If it ever got to the point where she could move without it hurting in half a dozen places, she’d know she was on the way to recovery.

‘What’s happening to the investigation?’

‘McBride’s stepped up for now. Picard’s made noises about taking over, but so far we’ve not seen hide nor hair.’

‘They’ll let it die, won’t they?’

‘Probably. Remain open, on file. Move on.’

‘We should have done better.’

‘We did what we could.’

‘You think?’

‘If they’d decided to throw everything at it, bags of resources, that might have made a difference. But even then . . . thirty years, too long a time.’ He sat up. ‘You gave it your best shot.’

‘Just not good enough.’

It lay between them, the ghost of failure, still there after Resnick had left.

When McBride came a day later, his hands were awkward with a box of badly wrapped chocolates, all fingers and thumbs.

Seeing her face, he cried. The first time in years.

‘That bastard,’ he said, ‘just give me five minutes with him alone.’

Waking from a shallow sleep that afternoon, Catherine was surprised to find Jill Haines sitting upright beside the bed, best frock, best coat, fresh flowers from her garden resting neatly in her lap.

‘It was in the paper,’ she said. ‘On the news.’

‘It’s nice of you,’ Catherine said. ‘Nice of you to come.’

She was conscious of the other woman fidgeting in her seat.

‘I should have come before,’ Jill said eventually.

‘It’s only been a few days.’

‘No. Before. Before any of this happened.’

Somewhere inside Catherine’s brain, wheels started to turn.

IT WAS A
near-perfect spring day. Spring turning into summer. Open land, criss-crossed with channels as far as the eye could see. Two fields over, a line of men, twenty or so, was making its way, bent backed, across the ground, picking some crop he couldn’t clearly identify. All it needed, Resnick thought, an overseer on horseback, a dog or two, chains.

He drove carefully up the lane, window down; his car working again, for now at least, fingers firmly crossed.

The two black Labs came trotting out to meet him, sniffing his hand.

Keith Haines was in the nearest of the greenhouses, a faintly bemused expression on his face. ‘Whenever Jill’s away I always think there’s stuff I should do – keep things on track till she gets back – but then I can never figure out what it is.’

‘Away?’ Resnick said.

‘Three days’ residential. Sussex somewhere. Landscapes, I imagine. The usual. But if it gives her pleasure . . .’

He looked sideways through the glass; little to see but his own reflection, some small distortion.

‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

Resnick noticed again the slight sideways stoop, the almost-shuffle when he walked.

‘Small stroke,’ Haines said, following Resnick’s gaze. ‘Few years back now.’ He shrugged. ‘Could have been worse. Basket case by now.’

Without asking, he fetched a couple of beers from the fridge. Decanted them into glasses.

‘Bass, Charlie. Pale ale. Still brewed in Burton, believe it or not. Miracle it’s not China like everything fucking else.’

He eased himself down into his chair, slowly shaking his head.

‘Getting old, Charlie. Old and crabby. You and me both. Someone’ll do us a favour, one day, take us out and have us shot.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, anyway . . .’

‘Cheers,’ Resnick said.

‘First time Jill saw this,’ Haines said, pointing at the label on the bottle, ‘fair wet her knickers. It’s in some painting, apparently. Famous. Folies-Bergère, one of those. Whoever did it – Monet, Manet – stuck a bottle of Bass slap bang at the front. Product placement, isn’t that what they call it nowadays? Probably slipped the bloke a few francs when he was setting up his easel, something of the sort.’

Resnick took another swallow. Time his to take. Happy to let Haines talk.

‘Something about the strike,’ Haines said, ‘that’s what you said when you called. Something you wanted to check, see if I remembered.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Memory like mine, porous don’t come into it. I’d not hold out too much hope.’

‘You’ll remember this,’ Resnick said.

‘Oh?’

‘Cash, quite a lot of it, coming in from abroad.’

‘Newark,’ Haines said, brightening. ‘October time? I’d heard a whisper, pot of money coming in. Rotterdam or somewhere. Ferry, any road. Could’ve been nothing, of course. Idle chat. Rumours going round back then, well, you know, like fleas on a cat’s back. Came to you with it, all the same. Must’ve seemed more to it than most. My thanks, got to ride with the big boys. There for the intercept. Newark ring road. I can see it now, expression on that bloke’s face. Excuse me, sir, but would you mind if we take a look inside the vehicle. What was it? Six thousand in neat little bundles, all over the back seat. Unbelievable.’

‘Not the only time, of course,’ Resnick said.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘You said yourself, rumours flying round. Caseloads of cash. Awash with the stuff.’

Haines nodded. ‘There’s this story, isn’t there. True or not. Scargill and two of his mates. Pile of cash on the table. Donations. Huge. What? Twenty thousand? More than that, maybe. Scraped together by some poor bastards in the Ukraine, somewhere of that sort. Here, Scargill says, and divides it into three. Take it. Keep it safe. Never seen again. One of ’em, at least, used it to pay off the last of his mortgage. You believe that?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Me, neither. Good story, though.’

Resnick set down his glass. ‘There was another occasion, Keith. Just short of Christmas. Bledwell Vale. Some other snippet of information you’d come across, overheard.’

‘What about it?’

‘Just wondering when you decided not to pass that on? Keep it to yourself.’

Haines looked beyond Resnick’s shoulder, as if, perhaps, he was expecting someone else to come in.

No one did.

‘Like you said, Charlie, there were always stories. Exaggerated, most of them. Christmas, especially. Famous for it, of course. Frankincense and fucking myrrh.’ He laughed, short, abrupt.

‘Some of them true,’ Resnick said.

Haines took a long, slow draft of ale. Tasting it go down. Hoppy. Bright. Whatever he might wish for now, it was not going to happen.

‘Twelve thousand,’ he said eventually. ‘Twelve thousand and seventy-two pounds, that’s how much there was. I took the case, split the money, buried it in three different locations. Paid it in gradually, careful as I could.’ He made a small sound, part sigh, part something else. ‘Helped to buy this place. Down payment and a bit more. Jill, she came up with the rest.’

‘And Jenny?’

‘Far as she was concerned, I was the one meant to be taking it from her, moving it on. Who could be more above suspicion, after all? Village copper.’

‘So, what? She just stood aside, let you take it?’

‘Of course. Surprised, mind. She was that. But then when I explained . . .’ He shrugged, one shoulder higher than the other.

‘You left her there.’

Haines nodded.

‘Alive?’

‘Alive? Of course, alive. Jesus, Charlie, come on. Whatever happened afterwards, believe me, I never knew. Not till . . .’

‘You thought she’d done a runner, that’s what you said. Your report.’

‘That’s right. Thought maybe she’d dipped into the case already. Did occur to me. Helped herself, like. No way of knowing how much was there in the first place. Didn’t mention it at the time. Not after what I’d done. But, Charlie, no, when I walked out of Church Street, Jenny, she was alive as the day she was born.’

Resnick settled back in his chair. Ever since he’d arrived, Haines had been over-anxious, over-keen to talk. ‘Comes easy after a while, I suppose,’ Resnick said. ‘Easier, anyway.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Lying. First you tell it to yourself, somewhere inside your head and then, eventually, out loud. Try it on others. Your wife, for instance. All the while you’re speaking, trying to read the expression on her face, see if she believes you. Bit like you were doing with me a few minutes back. But she didn’t, did she? Jill. Not ever. Deep down.’

‘Don’t talk such bloody . . .’

He made as if to get up, but Resnick reached over, rested a hand on his arm.

‘She came in – Jill. Made a statement. Information we thought might be of interest. There were complaints, apparently, before the two of you got together and after.’

‘Complaints? What bloody complaints?’

‘We’ve checked out a few, those we can. Young women, married mostly . . .’