Last Rites (34 page)

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Authors: John Harvey

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“Well, Charlie, good news. She’s packing her bags. Leaving.”

Resnick was confused. Who was going and where?

“Siddons. She’s been head-hunted, National Drugs Campaign. Second in command, apparently. Not be satisfied with that for long. Still, our loss, eh …”

The super was looking bright this morning, Resnick thought, quite a gleam in his eye.

“What this does, of course,” Skelton went on, “it leaves a gap. Major Crimes.”

“They’ll advertise.”

“Did that last time, Charlie, look what happened.”

“But they’ll have to.”

Skelton smoothed his fingers down the fine grain of his lapel. “Come on, Charlie, where there’s a will.”

Resnick’s mind was racing in overdrive. Detective Chief Inspector. He’d passed up the chance once, and now …

“Face facts, Charlie,” Skelton said, “you’re not getting any younger. Done what you can do, job you’ve got now. Done it pretty well. Not outstanding, maybe, but pretty well. How many more chances like this d’you think are going to come along? Unless you’d rather vegetate, of course. Grow old.”

Resnick rose to his feet.

“It’s a yes, then?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“Charlie …”

“Just time to think it through. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow. First thing.”

Skelton made a gesture of mock-exasperation. “Suit yourself. But first thing, mind. No more shilly-shallying around.”

Resnick set off down the hill from Canning Circus, walking briskly into town. He’d been right in his fears about the rain, it was starting to spot now, large drops, dark on the paving stones. What chance there’d be a fuss, he thought, himself and Lynn part of the same team? Again. Always assuming things carried on as they were. Only more so. He caught his reflection in the restaurant window as he passed, grinning like some great kid.

Well, nothing was definite yet, nothing settled.

DCI, though; he’d regretted not going through with the application before and Jack Skelton was right, if he didn’t put himself up for it this time, then likely that was it.

Outside Yates’s, he bought a
Post
and glanced at the headlines walking along the north side of the Square; up King Street past the Pizza Express—jazz every Wednesday evening, he’d have to give it a try. The usual congregation of elderly Poles in elderly suits was gathered outside the entrance to the market and those who knew him raised a hand in recognition. Aldo saw him coming and was making his espresso before Resnick had taken his seat.

“Good day, Inspector? You are doing well, yes?”

Resnick nodded. He thought he was. He thought he might be on the verge of doing better.

Coda

No reason he would know this, but my foremost thanks go to Elmore Leonard; it was reading him with so much unalloyed pleasure and admiration that got me thinking about writing crime fiction again. Thanks for inspiration, also, to all those oft-watched episodes of
Hill Street Blues,
to Harold Becker’s marvelous film of Joseph Wambaugh’s
The Black Marble
and to fond memories of reading early Ed McBain. Leonard aside, the masters I have come back to, again and again, are Chandler and Hammett—there’s more than a little of
Red Harvest
in this particular book—Ross Thomas and George V. Higgins.

I would never have set Resnick walking, shabby and careworn, down from Canning Circus to Nottingham’s Old Market Square, if it hadn’t been for the advice and help of the late Dulan Barber, whose own crime fiction was written as David Fletcher. Tony Lacey bought the first book in the sequence,
Lonely Hearts,
for Viking Penguin when no other editor would touch it, and for that I’m eternally grateful; at Heinemann, I owe considerable thanks to Louise Moore and, after her, to Lynne Drew and Victoria Hipps. In America, I have been blessed since the beginning with Marian Wood, who has been my editor at Henry Holt from first to last—fierce in her writers’ defense and, as I have had cause to learn, as quick to upbraid them for their shortcomings. Marian has been a sure source of strength and I’m proud to be numbered among her authors.

None of this, as Bogart might have said, would have amounted to a hill of beans without the efforts of my agent, Carole Blake, who has worked and, where necessary, fought tirelessly on my and Charlie’s behalf.

Thanks to the great enthusiasm and skill of producer Colin Rogers, the first two novels in the sequence,
Lonely Hearts
and
Rough Treatment,
were adapted and filmed for Deco Films and Television, and originally transmitted on BBC1. The team that Colin assembled, led by directors Bruce MacDonald and Peter Smith, were responsible for giving the programs a very particular visual feel, and Tom Wilkinson’s performance as Resnick was so right, so complete, that it’s impossible for anyone who saw it—including myself—to visualize Charlie in any other way.

Two of the books,
Cutting Edge
and
Wasted Years,
have been adapted for BBC Radio 4, where, under the guiding hand of producer David Hunter, they have developed a quite distinctive and strongly musical style.

These novels are fiction: they make no pretense at being primers in modern-day police procedure; that they bear some resemblance to it at all is thanks to the cooperation of the Nottinghamshire Constabulary and, in particular, to the considerable assistance of Detective Superintendent Peter Coles (retired) and Detective Superintendent Geoff Willetts (retired). I have shamelessly pestered friends and acquaintances with expert knowledge in other fields and especial thanks are due to Graham Nicholls, Margaret Phelan, and Liz Simcock.

For adding to my understanding of life in the inner city, I am indebted to the writings of Beatrix Campbell, Nick Danziger, Nick Davies, and Andrew O’Hagan; also to Duncan Campbell of the
Guardian,
to that newspaper in general, to
Time Out,
and to the
Nottingham Evening Post.

Advice has also come from readers, most often positive and tempered by enthusiasm, and from critics, who, by and large, have been generous in their praise and restrained when pointing out my failings. Specialist booksellers, especially in the US, have been strong in their support and for that I am truly thankful. Perhaps my greatest debt of gratitude, though, goes to those of my fellow writers—colleagues and friends—who have given constant encouragement.

The odd sandwich aside, I think it was jazz that kept Charlie sane, that provided him with both release and inspiration. Me, too. In the writing of these books I have relied, again and again, on the music of Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday, Thelonious Monk, Spike Robinson, Ben Webster with Art Tatum, and Lester Young. Let it live on.

John Harvey
London, December 1997–April 1998

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