James and Fontaine were questioned in the street, questioned in their homes; brought into the police station and questioned again. Jahmall spent as much as fourteen hours, broken over a number of sessions, talking to Maureen Prior and Anil Khan.
Did he know Troy James and Jason Fontaine?
No.
He didn’t know them?
No, not really.
Not really?
Not, you know, to talk to.
But they were at the party.
If you say so.
Well, they were there. James and Fontaine.
Okay, so they were there. So what?
You and Fontaine, you had a conversation.
What conversation?
There are witnesses, claim to have seen you and Fontaine in conversation.
A few words, maybe. I don’t remember.
A few words concerning…?
Nothing important. Nothing.
How about an argument… a bit of pushing and shoving?
At the party?
At the party.
No.
Think. Think again. Take your time. It’s easy to get confused.
Oh, that. Yeah. It was nothing, right? Someone’s drink got spilled, knocked over. Happens all the time.
That’s what it was about? The argument?
Yeah.
A few punches thrown?
Maybe.
By you?
Not by me.
By Fontaine?
Fontaine?
Yes. You and Fontaine, squaring up to one another.
No. No way.
‘There’s something there, Charlie,’ Maureen Prior said. ‘Something between Jahmall and Jason Fontaine.’
They were sitting in the Polish Diner on Derby Road, blueberry pancakes and coffee, Resnick’s treat.
‘Something personal?’
‘To do with drugs, has to be. Best guess, Fontaine and James were using Jahmall further down the chain and some way he held out on them, cut the stuff again with glucose, whatever. Either that, or he was trying to branch out on his own, their patch. Radford kid poaching in the Meadows, we all know how that goes down.’
‘You’ll keep on at him?’
‘The girlfriend, too. She’s pretty shaken up still. What happened to Shana. Keeps thinking it could have been her, I shouldn’t wonder. Flaky as anything. One of them’ll break sooner or later.’
‘You seem certain.’
Maureen paused, fork halfway to her mouth. ‘It’s all we’ve got, Charlie.’
Resnick nodded and reached for the maple syrup: maybe just a little touch more.
The flowers were wilting, starting to fade. One or two of the brighter bunches had been stolen. Rain had seeped down into plastic and cellophane, rendering the writing for the most part illegible.
Clarice Faye came to the door in a dark housecoat, belted tight across; there were shadows still around her eyes.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Resnick said.
A slight shake of the head: no move to invite him in.
‘When we were talking before, you said Shana didn’t have any boyfriends, nobody special?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Not Troy James?’
‘I don’t know that name?’
‘How about Jason? Jason Fontaine?’
The truth was there on her face, a small nerve twitching at the corner of her eye.
‘She did go out with Jason Fontaine?’
‘She saw him once or twice. The end of last year. He came round here in his car, calling for her. I told him, he wasn’t suitable, not for her. Not for Shana. He didn’t bother her again.’
‘And Shana…?’
‘Shana understood.’ Clarice stepped back and began to close the door. ‘If you’ll excuse me now?’
‘How about Michael?’ Resnick said.
‘I don’t know no Michael.’
And the door closed quietly in his face.
He waited until Jade was on her way home from school, white shirt hanging out, coat open, skirt rolled high over dark tights, clumpy shoes. Her and three friends, loud across the pavement, one of them smoking a cigarette.
None of the others as much as noticed Resnick, gave him any heed.
‘I won’t keep you a minute,’ Resnick said as Jade stopped, the others walking on, pace slowed, heads turned.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘You and Shana, you shared a room.’
‘So.’
‘Secrets.’
‘What secrets?’
‘Jason Fontaine, was she seeing him any more?’
Jade tilted back her head, looked him in the eye. ‘He was just a flash bastard, weren’t he? Didn’t care nothin’ for her.’
‘And Michael?’
‘What about him?’
‘You tell me.’
‘He loved her, didn’t he?’
Michael Draper was upstairs in his room: computer, stereo, books and folders from the course he was taking at City College, photographs of Shana on the wall, Shana and himself somewhere that might have been the Arboretum, on a bench in front of some trees, an old wall, Michael’s skin alongside hers so white it seemed to bleed into the photo’s edge.
‘She was going to tell them, her mum and that, after her birthday. We were going to get engaged.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The boy’s eyes empty and raw from tears.
Maureen Prior was out of the office, her mobile switched off. Khan wasn’t sure where she was.
‘Ask her to call me when she gets a chance,’ Resnick said. ‘She can get me at home.’
At home he made sure the chicken pieces had finished defrosting in the fridge, chopped parsley, squashed garlic cloves flat, opened a bottle of wine, saw to the cats, flicked through the pages of the Post, Shana’s murder now page four. Art Pepper again, turned up loud. Lynn was late, no later than usual, rushed, smiling, weary, a brush of lips against his cheek.
‘I need a shower, Charlie, before anything else.’
‘I’ll get this started.’ Knifing butter into the pan.
It cost Jahmall a hundred and fifteen, talked down from one twenty-five. A Brocock ME38 Magnum air pistol converted to fire live ammunition, 22 shells. Standing there at the edge of the car park, shadowed, he smiled: an eye for an eye. Fontaine’s motor, his new one, another Beamer, was no more than thirty metres away, close to the light. He rubbed his hands and moved his feet against the cold, the rain that rattled against the hood of his parka, misted his eyes. Another fifteen minutes, no more, he’d be back out again, Fontaine, on with his rounds.
Less than fifteen, it was closer to ten.
Fontaine appeared at the side door of the pub, calling out to someone inside before raising a hand and turning away.
Jahmall tensed, smelling his own stink, his own fear; waited until Fontaine had reached towards the handle of the car door, back turned.
‘Wait,’ Jahmall said, stepping out of the dark.
Seeing him, seeing the pistol, Fontaine smiled. ‘Jahmall, my man.’
‘Bastard,’ Jahmall said, moving closer. ‘You killed my sister.’
‘That slag!’ Fontaine laughed. ‘Down on her knees in front of any white meat she could find.’
Hands suddenly sticky, slick with sweat despite the cold, Jahmall raised the gun and fired. The first shot missed, the second shattered the side window of the car, the third took Fontaine in the face splintering his jaw. Standing over him, Jahmall fired twice more into his body as it slumped towards the ground, then ran.
After watching the news headlines, they decided on an early night. Lynn washed the dishes left over from dinner, while Resnick stacked away. He was locking the door when the phone went and Lynn picked it up. Ten twenty-three.
‘Charlie,’ she said, holding out the receiver. ‘It’s for you.’
DRUMMER UNKNOWN