Easy Meat (27 page)

“Separate beds.”

“Uh-hum.”

“Do you know for how long?”

“Quite a while, I think. I’m not exactly sure. But that in itself doesn’t mean anything.”

Lynn smiled. “Surely it means something.”

Resnick knew: there were times after he had found out Elaine was having an affair that he had lain in their shared bed, unable to sleep, terrified that by accident or habit they might touch, impossible to erase the images his imagination had conjured up so vividly from his mind.

What had happened, Resnick wondered, in the Astons’ lives however many years it was ago?

“It is sex, then, isn’t it?” Lynn said. “If it’s not to do with the inquiry, it is sex.” She smiled ruefully. “One way or another, it usually is.” And then, a sudden catch in her voice. “It nearly got me killed.”

“That was different. He was some kind of psychopath.”

Lynn’s head was angled away but he heard her well enough. “Don’t forget, at first I wanted him.”

He drove then without speaking, back towards the center of town. He would call in at the Partridge, find out if the staff remembered how long Aston had stayed in the bar that night. Lynn sat with her hands clenched, mind churning, overbite of her teeth nervously worrying at the inside of her lip.

“You got business back at the station, or should I drop you near home, it’s not far out of my way?”

For the first time since they had moved off, she dared to look into his face. “Stop here,” she said.

“I can’t, not here. I’ll just go up to …”

“Charlie, stop here!” How long—if ever—since she had called him that?

No mistaking the urgency in her voice, Resnick made a left and a right and came to a halt on one of the narrow cobbled roads that run through the wholesale flower and vegetable market. One glance and he switched off the engine and waited.

Lynn not quite looking at him again, not yet; she was having a little difficulty breathing evenly. “This isn’t—I don’t suppose there’s ever a right time.”

Not knowing, partly knowing afraid of what was to come, Resnick’s stomach ran cold; for just a moment he closed his eyes.

“You remember,” Lynn said, “after the kidnapping, the rescue, all of that, something I said to you one day, we were having coffee, I …”

“Yes, I think so, go on.” When what he wanted to say was stop.

“I told you I’d been having these—I don’t know what you’d call them—nightmares, dreams, fantasies. You, my father, him, the kidnapper. All mixed up together. It was all because of what happened, of course, what might have happened. Would have done if you …”

“It wasn’t just me.”

“If you hadn’t saved me. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but that’s what you did.”

“Lynn.” Leaning a shade closer towards her now, though she was still keeping her body, her face angled away. “It could have been any one of a dozen officers. It just happened to be me.”

She laughed, suddenly and loud.

“What?” Leaning back again, taken by surprise.

“That’s what I say to my therapist.”

“And she says?”

“What might have happened doesn’t matter. What does is that it was you.”

He looked at her serious, still somewhat round face, though she had never put back the weight she had lost; short brown hair, wide brown eyes.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “Glad that you were safe. Glad that it was me.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.” Her voice so quiet it was almost lost under the noise of cars passing at either end of the street. “At least, I think I know.”

He had an instinct to take her hand and another which prevented him; instead she took his. “Charlie, I’ve got to get this sorted. I mean it’s stupid, I can’t go on like this. The way I’ve been lately, walking round you on, I don’t know, eggshells; at least that’s the way it seems.”

“All right.” Resnick nodded. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing. I don’t think you understand. I don’t want to
do
anything. There’s nothing to do.”

“But, then …”

She squeezed his hand once, then let go. “I just needed to say, tell you what’s been going on in my mind, not all of it, the stupid details, but that I have been having these thoughts about you …”

“That doesn’t matter …”

“Charlie, I’ve thought about making love to you, but I know that’s not going to happen. Only in my mind.”

“Lynn …”

“I don’t think I even want it to happen. Not really. I know I don’t. But I had to say it, had to tell you. Because if I keep it all inside any longer, it’s going to explode.” Slowly, she lowered her face into her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need.”

“Isn’t there?” Looking at him now.

“No.”

It was hot in the small space of the car, claustrophobic. Resnick could feel the sweat gathering in the palms of his hands and between his legs, dampening the hair at the nape of his neck. A kind of free-floating panic aside, he had no clear idea what he was feeling.

“Well.” Lynn laughed abruptly. “My therapist will be pleased.”

“Getting it out into the open …”

“Yes.”

“Making it all go away.”

She turned towards him in the seat and he thought she was going to take his hand again and he tensed inside, not knowing how he might respond if she did. But she shifted again and leaned forward, face close to the windscreen, staring out.

“Is that what you want?” Resnick heard himself saying. “To make it all go away?”

She looked round at him, surprised. “Of course. What good would it do?”

A car went by too fast on the opposite side of the road, music spilling from its open windows.

“None,” Resnick said.

Lynn thought she might get out of the car and walk, not heading anywhere special, just walk. But she continued to sit there, they both did, waiting until the unevenness of their breathing had subsided, until Resnick could trust himself to set the car in gear and drive back into town. “The Partridge,” he said, “we could check it out before I drop you off.”

The barman in the Partridge remembered Resnick’s friend. He had ordered another half of mild after Resnick had gone, but left it on the table, scarcely bothered, when he left. Fifteen minutes later, twenty tops.

Back home, Resnick fed the cats automatically, made himself strong coffee, and carried it through to the front room, where it stayed till morning, cold and untouched. For what seemed a long time he stared at the rows of albums and CDs and saw nothing he wanted to listen to, nothing he wanted to play.

Silent, save for Lynn’s words, insinuating themselves into his thoughts no matter how much he tried to keep them out.
I thought about making love to you but I know it’s not going to happen. Only in my mind.

Resnick crossed the room to the telephone and dialed. “I was wondering if I could come over and see you,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” Hannah’s voice sounded distant and tired. “Not this evening, okay?”

“Of course. It was just an idea. That’s fine.”

The Stolichnaya was in the freezer: he wondered how much was in the bottle, how long it would last?

Thirty-two

The first thing Resnick recognized, warm, soft, and resting close against his ear, was a cat’s paw. The second, moments after, close and strangely muted, was the sound of a telephone ringing. And the third, realized with painful accuracy as he lifted Bud cautiously clear and gingerly lowered his own feet towards the floor, was that for the first time in many months he had a hangover of king-sized proportions. He blinked at the clock: six forty-nine. He should have already been up. Louder now, the telephone continued to ring and fearing the worst, without knowing exactly what that worst was, he lifted it towards his ear.

“Yes. Hello.”

“Charlie, is that you?”

“I think so.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Not really, no.”

“Are you okay?”

“Um, why?”

“You sound as if you’re at the bottom of the sea.”

“I slept a little heavily, that’s all.”

“Look, Charlie, can I see you today? Not for long; lunchtime, maybe. Just for twenty minutes, half an hour. I think we need to talk.”

No reply.

“I could meet you somewhere.”

Resnick wished his head didn’t feel like a sack of gently swaying cement. “Look, let me call you … No, I will. This morning. Soon. How long are you around? … All right, I’ll phone before then. Probably in the next half-hour.”

In the shower, water streaming across the folds and plains of his body, he kept wondering what had prompted Hannah to phone so early, what it was she needed to talk about so urgently, lathering shampoo into his hair now and wincing as he did so, once more fearing the worst.

He hadn’t been the only person tying one on last night. The entrance to the police station was crowded with people in various stages of sobriety, many of them adorned with quite spectacular cuts and bruises, most talking at once. Loudly. A uniformed sergeant and two of his minions were patiently trying to sort them out.

Resnick pushed his way through, careful not to slip on the blood. From the corridor to his right came the voice of the custody sergeant, giving one of his overnights a good bollocking for throwing up in his cell. A reedy version of “Little Brown Jug” from the stairs alerted Resnick to the possibility that Millington was embarking on one of his unbearably jolly days; and sure enough there he was, descending the stairs, smile in place around his mustache, happy to share with the world choice moments of that old Glenn Miller magic. As Divine had announced to the CID room moments before, someone had got his leg over this morning and no chuffin’ mistake!

“Boss’s been asking for you,” Millington said breezily. “That new lad in there with him. Least, I reckon that’s who it is. Oh, and I’ve set up a meeting. Eleven. With that feller from soccer unit, all right?”

Resnick continued on his way upstairs. In the men’s room he ran the cold tap and sloshed water repeatedly in his face, before heading along the corridor for Skelton’s office.

“Charlie, come in, come in.” Skelton exuded neatly suited bonhomie from behind his desk. “This is DC Vincent.” Resnick’s first impression was of a tallish man in his late twenties, around five eleven, slim, clean-shaven, his dark hair cut quite short; he was wearing a light-colored suit, creased, but unlike Resnick’s, fashionably meant to be that way, an olive-green shirt and black knitted tie.

“This is Detective Inspector Resnick. Day to day, you’ll be working to him.”

The two men shook hands, Vincent’s grip cool and comfortable, not giving it too much.

“Carl Vincent, sir. Good to know you.”

Resnick nodded and stepped back, Vincent still looking him clear in the eye.

“As you know, Charlie, Carl here’s joining us from Leicester. Up a division, eh, Charlie. In a manner of speaking.”

Only if you’re a Forest supporter, Resnick thought. “I’ve filled him in on the Aston murder, Charlie, basic details. I know you’ll want to bring him up to speed.”

“Sir.”

There was a smile in Vincent’s eyes now as he watched him, interested to see how Resnick operated with his superior, sizing him up.

“Anything new there, Charlie? Anything I can pass on to Headquarters? These soccer hooligans in Reg Cossall’s report, still the most likely candidates?”

Resnick wondered if he should mention his suspicions surrounding Elizabeth Peck, but opted to wait until he had more evidence, one way or another.

“Seems so, yes. There’s a meeting with the Football Intelligence Unit this morning, we’ll see if that takes us anywhere closer.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“First thing.”

Vincent fell into step beside Resnick in the corridor. “Found anywhere to stay yet?” Resnick asked.

“Not as yet. Figured I’d travel up from Leicester for a bit, give myself time to look around. Not such a bad journey long as you get the timings right.”

“You might want to have a word with our admin officer, she’s usually got her ear to the ground.”

“Right, thanks. I will.”

“Morning briefing any minute. I’ll introduce you, find you something to get started.”

“Right,” Vincent said again and then he smiled. “Never easy are they? Beginnings. First days. Feeling your way.”

“You’ll handle it okay.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Outside the CID room Vincent hesitated. “I was wondering, what do I call you? Guv? Sir? Boss?”

“Whatever feels right.”

It fell quiet as they entered the room.

Divine settled for a bacon cob, brown sauce, toast, tea with two sugars, and a Lion bar for later. Naylor and Lynn Kellogg were already sitting at a table by the window, near the rear of the canteen. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and talk.

“Right,” Divine said, decanting cup and plate onto the table, propping the tray against the leg, from where it fell onto the floor. “What’s going off, that’s what I’d like to know?”

“We’re talking about last night’s
EastEnders
,” Naylor said pleasantly. “What d’you want to know?”

“Conspiracy of silence then, is it, or what?”

“How d’you mean?”

“You know what I bloody well mean.”

“How’s that?”

Divine jerked a hand back round in the direction of the door. “This bloke. Vincent. Why’s nobody said a sodding thing about the fact he’s black?”

“He is?” Lynn said innocently.

“Never thought you’d notice, Mark,” Naylor said, amused. “Reckon that’s why.”

“Anyway,” said Lynn, “he’s not really black. More a sort of light chocolatey brown.”

Naylor nodded. “Milky Way.”

“That’s it,” Divine said through a mouthful of bacon roll, “make a bloody joke out of it.”

“Oh, Mark,” Lynn said, “come on.”

“Look.” Voice getting louder by the minute. “If it were anything else, anything else at all, as marked him out of the ordinary …”

“Such as?” Naylor asked.

“I don’t know, anything. All right, suppose he wasn’t a bloke, he was a woman …”

“Transvestite, you mean?”

“No, you pillock, a proper woman …”

“Well, that would be out of the ordinary, true enough,” Lynn said, “Just look around.”

“Right. Exactly. Anything from a club foot to a man with two heads, we’d talk about it, yeh? But, no, not this, this is different. No one’s supposed to notice, not a blind thing. So there’s the boss, introducing him, welcome to the team. And that’s it.”