Resnick watched her go over to where Maureen Madden was standing, Maureen wearing a dark frock-coat and jeans, looking more like a country singer on the loose than the sergeant who supervised the rape suite. Reg Cossall was shouting at him from the far end of the bar and waving his empty glass.
“A pint of whatever he’s drinking,” Resnick said to the white-coated barman, “and a large Bells to go with it. Bottle of Czech Budweiser for me, if you’ve got it.”
He had. Resnick pushed his way along and listened for a while to Cossall laying down the law about the unemployment rate, young offenders, overpriced imported beer, Brian Clough, the social benefits of castration. Half a dozen younger officers stood around, drinking steadily, gleaning wisdom. Resnick remembered when he and Cossall had been like them, eager to ape their elders and betters; back when you had to be six foot to get on to the force and either it was draught Bass, draught Worthington or you didn’t bother going back for more. Twenty years before.
When he’d heard enough, Resnick moved away and found Lynn Kellogg and Maureen Madden, sitting now on the stairs near the entrance to the lounge.
“Quite an admirer back there,” Resnick said to Lynn, nodding back towards the bar.
“Oh, that. He’d been drinking. You know what it’s like.”
“I wish you’d stop doing that,” Maureen said.
“Doing what?”
“Putting yourself down. Assuming that for some man to fancy you he has to be half-pissed.”
“It’s usually true.”
“Don’t you think she looks great?” Maureen asked Resnick, craning her neck to look up at him.
“Very nice,” Resnick said.
Lynn felt herself starting to blush. “Have you been out on the floor yet?” she asked, covering her embarrassment.
Resnick shook his head.
“He’s waiting for you,” Maureen teased.
“More like waiting for them to turn the volume down,” Resnick said. “Play a waltz.”
“Now that’s not true,” Lynn said. “My first year, you were out there bopping till everyone else dropped. ‘Be-bop-a-hula,’ stuff like that.”
Despite himself, Resnick smiled: something attractive about the idea of Gene Vincent in black leathers and a grass skirt, strumming away at an Hawaiian guitar.
“Well,” Maureen announced, setting her empty glass on the floor, “I’m in the mood. What d’you say, Lynn? Game? Before your admirer over there comes and asks you.”
The man in the dress suit, glass in hand, was sitting in one of the easy chairs in the lounge, making no pretense of not looking in their direction.
“Come on,” Lynn said, getting to her feet “Let’s get out of here.” Maureen was already on her way. “Coming with us?” Lynn asked.
“You go ahead,” Resnick said.
With a last look back, Lynn followed Maureen Madden towards the main door.
“Like watching ’em leave the nest, Charlie?” Reg Cossall said at Resnick’s shoulder.
“How d’you mean?”
“You know, young ones, fledglings …”
“She’s scarce a kid, Reg.”
“No matter.”
“Old enough to be …”
Cossall’s hand squeezed down firm on Resnick’s shoulder. “You can be a literal bugger sometimes, Charlie. When it fits your purpose.” Cossall treated Resnick to his best philosophical stare. “Kids. Families. Can’t get ’em one way, we get ’em another. More’s the bastard pity.”
He lit a small cigar and cupped it in his hand. “Not on for one in town, I suppose?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Please yourself, then. You always bloody do.”
Resnick turned back to the bar and prepared to wait his chance to order a final beer.
Back in the Friar Tuck Room, things were throbbing towards some sort of climax. Whitney Houston, Rod Stewart, Chris De Burgh, the Drifters-hands clutched shiny buttocks that were not their own. Divine, tie forsaken, shirt all unbuttoned, was executing a limbo dance to “Twist and Shout,” sliding his legs beneath a line of brassiere straps linked together. Off to the side of the room, Skelton and Helen Siddons scarcely seemed to have moved, the same urgent conversation, heads angled inwards; one strap of Helen’s dress had slid from her shoulder. Lynn and Maureen Madden were dancing with a group of other women, laughing, clapping their hands in the air. Oblivious of the tempo, Kevin Naylor and Debbie were dancing cheek to cheek, bodies barely moving. Resnick couldn’t see Alice Skelton anywhere and was grateful.
“Five minutes to Christmas,” the DJ announced. “I want to see you all in a big circle, holding hands.”
Resnick slipped out through the door.
“Inspector?”
He glanced up and saw long legs, a sequined silver bag, a smile.
“I didn’t know we were partying in the same place,” Nancy Phelan said.
Resnick half-smiled. “So it seems.”
“How’s it been?” Nancy asked. Resnick was aware of a car on the curve of the courtyard, waiting. “You been having a good time?”
“Not bad, I suppose.”
“Well …” Smiling, she gestured outwards with open hands. “Merry Christmas, once again. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” Resnick echoed, as Nancy walked out of his vision and, hands in pockets, he turned left and crossed the cobbled courtyard to the street.
Eight
For Christmas, Resnick had bought himself The Complete Billie Holiday on Verve, a new edition of Dizzy Gillespie’s autobiography, and The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, LP and Cassette. What he still had to acquire was a CD player.
But there he’d been, not so many days before, sauntering down from Canning Circus into town, sunshine, one of those clear blue winter skies, and glancing into the window of Arcade Records he had seen it. Among the Eric Clapton and the Elton John, a black box with the faintest picture of Billie on its front; ten CDs and a two-hundred-and-twenty-page book, seven hundred minutes of music, a numbered, limited edition, only sixteen thousand pressed worldwide.
Worldwide, Resnick had thought; only sixteen thousand worldwide. That didn’t seem an awful lot of copies. And here was one, staring up at him, and a bargain offer to boot. He had his check book but not his check card. “It’s okay,” the owner had said, “I think we can trust you.” And knocked another five pounds off the price.
Resnick had spent much of the morning, between readying the duck for the oven, peeling the potatoes, and cleaning round the bath, looking at it. Holding it in his hand. Billie Holiday on Verve. There is a photograph of her in the booklet, New York City, 1956: a woman early to middle-age, no glamour, one hand on her hip, none too patiently waiting, a working woman, c’mon now, let’s get this done. He closes his eyes and imagines her singing-“Cheek to Cheek” with Ben Webster, wasn’t that fifty-six? “Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.” “We’ll Be Together Again.” The number stamped on the back of Resnick’s set is 10961.
So much easier to look again and again at the booklet, slide those disks from their brown card covers, admire the reproductions of album sleeves in their special envelope, easier to do all of this than take the few steps to the mantelpiece and the card that waits in its envelope, unopened. A post mark, smudged, that might say Devon; the unmistakable spikiness of his ex-wife’s hand.
The duck was delicious, strongly flavored, fatty yet not too fat. Certainly Dizzy had thought so, up on to the table with a spring before Resnick had noticed, enjoying his share of breast, a little leg, happy finally to be chased off down the garden, jaws tight around a wing.
Resnick sliced away the meat from where the black cat had eaten and shared it amongst the others, Miles rearing up on his hind legs, Bud pushing his head against Resnick’s shins, Pepper patient by his bowl.