Bud cradled along one arm, he went down the steps into the kitchen and began opening fresh tins of cat food, pouring milk, surveying the interior of the fridge for the sandwich he was going to make himself later. It was true, it appeared, Reg Cossall was intent upon getting his name in the registrar’s book for the third time. The woman in question was the matron at an old people’s home out past Long Eaton. Bright-faced and bonny, Resnick had met her twice and she had scarcely seemed to stop laughing. “Getting set for your retirement then, Reg?” a foolhardy DC had suggested. Cossall had been all for castrating him with his reserve set of dentures.
As he ground coffee, Resnick tried to think what it was about Reg Cossall-sour, cynical, and foulmouthed-that made him such an attractive proposition. But then, Charlie, he thought, waiting for the water to come to the boil, it isn’t as if you haven’t had offers either.
Marian Witczak, waiting for him to step into her peculiar time-warp, careful not to broach the possibility herself, of course, relying on old friends at the Polish Club to do the hinting for her. And then there had been Claire Millinder, the estate agent engaged in the fruitless task of moving him out of this Victorian mausoleum into something compact and modern with a microwave oven and flush doors you could punch a hole through with your fist. “What does it have to be with you, Charlie? True love?” The last he had heard, Claire had gone back to New Zealand; there had been a card from the Bay of Plenty where she and her fruit-farmer lover were raising kiwi fruit and babies.
There was a small moan of complaint from near his feet as Dizzy hustled in on Bud’s bowl and Resnick scooped up the big cat by its belly and put him out in the garden.
Maybe it didn’t have to be true love, after all; nor love of any kind.
He poured himself a small scotch, a bottle of fifteen-year-old Springbank single malt he’d won in the CID raffle, and took it, together with his black coffee, into the front room.
Pam Van Allen’s number was in the phone book. Turning down the stereo, he dialed. What had it been? Certainly less than a year ago, walking into that wine bar opposite the snooker hall, their first and last meeting: alone at a table close against the wall, an open book and a glass of wine, perfectly self-contained. He knew that calling her now was a mistake, crass, stupid, but before he could break the connection, she had answered.
“Hello?” The tightness of her voice there in just that word.
“Oh, Pam Van Allen …?”
“Yes?”
“Charlie Resnick.”
“Who?”
“Detective Inspector …”
“What gives you the right to call me at home? And today? This is a public holiday.”
“I know and I’m sorry, but if it wasn’t important …”
“Get to the point, Inspector.”
“Gary James, he’s one of your clients, I believe …”
“And I’ll be in my office tomorrow morning. As long as you’re not trawling for information to which you have no right, you can contact me there.”
And the conversation was over. Resnick eyed the receiver as though it might have been some way responsible for Pam Van Allen’s anger, then placed it carefully down. Not much of a whisky man, nevertheless he downed it in one. With a mock-cheery coda, Barney Kessel’s “Twelfth Street Rag” pranced to a close. In the room it was silent. Resnick stroked Pepper, knuckle of one finger behind its ear, until the cat began to purr.
He was back in the kitchen, shaving several-day-old Stilton on to a mixture of duck meat and tomato, when the phone rang.
“I’m sorry about that. You caught us in the middle of an almighty row.”
The “us” resonated in Resnick’s mind. “That’s okay,” he said.
“But then,” Pam Van Allen continued, “it is Boxing Day.”
He thought if he could see her she might almost be smiling. “Well, is it all right now, to talk, I mean? If you’re in the middle of something …”
“It’s fine. Seconds are out, I think. I’m in the bedroom. Getting my second wind.”
Resnick tried to picture it; tried not to.
“You wanted to say something about Gary James?”
“More ask something, really.”
“Ah-huh.”
“Share some information …”
“Share?”
“Of course.”
This time he heard her laugh. “A little early for New Year’s resolutions, isn’t it, Inspector?”
“Charlie.”
“What?”
“It’s my name.”
“Inspector comes more easily to the tongue.”
Sidestepping his best intentions, Resnick’s mind hopped into the unseen bedroom. Was she really resting, pillows propped up behind her, legs stretching slimly before her? Jesus, Resnick thought! What is the matter with me?
“Share away,” Pam said.
He told her about the incident at the Housing Office, about Nancy Phelan’s disappearance, Lynn’s suspicions about the injuries to Karl’s face.
There was silence at the other end of the line, Pam Van Allen thinking. “You want to know what I think he’s capable of?” she said eventually.
“I want to know anything that might be useful.”
After more consideration, Pam said: “I’ve got time for him, Gary; he gives one kind of impression, but he’s not as bad as you might think. It would have been easy for him to have left Michelle alone with those two kids, lots of men in his place would. It’s not even as if they were married. But he’s not like that, Gary. Not irresponsible. Not really. But the situation he’s in, no work and not for lack of trying, precious little money, a house that either wants a small fortune spending on it or knocking down, it’s no wonder he gets frustrated and that the frustration shows. And he has got a temper. He is physical. The education he had, it’s all he can be.”
She gave Resnick time for that to sink in.
“So if you’re asking me, could he have struck out at that lad of his, I’d have said he could; just like being kept sitting around at Housing could get him banging the odd chair about. None of it’s premeditated, though, and that’s what I can’t see. Gary bearing that kind of a grudge, planning something out, some kind of revenge, waiting to carry it out.”
Resnick thought a few moments more, weighing up what Pam Van Allen had said. “Thanks, I appreciate that. I value your opinion. I’ll pass it on to my DC.”
“Glad I could help.” There was another pause in which Resnick struggled for the right thing to say and he was sure she was about to say goodbye. Instead she said, “Last time we spoke, you said something about a drink or something, after work.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“You said you’d get back to me. You were going to think about it.”
With a smile in her voice, she said, “I lied.”
“I see.”
“But I’m thinking about it now.”
“And?”
“Can I call you? Next couple of days?”
“Of course.”
Muffled in the background, Resnick could hear another voice raised. “Round two,” Pam Van Allen said, and for the second time that evening broke the connection.
Gary’s pal from up the street had knocked before nine, on his way to the corner pub. “Spent up,” Gary had said, but Brian pulled a twenty-pound note from his back pocket and flourished it with a whistle. “Jammy bugger!” Gary had exclaimed. “Where d’you get that?” “Sharon’s gran,” Brian grinned, “sent it her for Christmas.” Michelle had almost said something, but she bit her tongue instead. No sense in risking an argument. Not another. “Not be late,” Gary had said, and off they’d gone, wide-eyed and laughing, a couple of great kids.
As well he left when he did, really, because within fifteen minutes Karl started screaming from upstairs, some kind of nightmare, and Michelle had to go up and comfort him, take him a drink, and sit with him awhile until he was ready to go back to sleep. It was cold in there, not as cold as the night before, but still Karl’s legs were like ice under the covers and, too early to carry him downstairs for the night, she put him in their bed, hers and Gary’s, and doubled the blankets round him. Natalie woke soon after and Michelle changed and fed her and sat with her down on the sofa, Natalie asleep against her breast while she watched a comedy show with Bobby Davro.