Neil Park had to step back quickly to get out of Gary’s way.
“You all right?” he said finally, walking into Pam’s room.
“Terrific.”
“Here, let me give you a hand with this,” he said, taking hold of one end of the desk.
“Tell Ethel Chadbond I might need a few more minutes,” Pam said, when most things had been rescued from the floor.
“You want me to see her?”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.”
Once Neil had gone and she had closed the door, Pam sat for some little while thinking about the abrupt violence of Gary’s anger, the nature of the remarks he’d made about Nancy Phelan, that tart, that dirty cow, wondering whether or not she should telephone Resnick, tell him about this latest outburst.
Thirty-three
Resnick had woken full of good intentions. He would write a note to Marian, apologizing for last night, wishing her all the best for the New Year. On his way to work, drop in at the market and order some flowers, arrange for them to be delivered. Three attempts at the brief letter and when he’d almost got it right, a thick splodge of apricot jam slid between the cream cheese of his breakfast bagel and obliterated Marian’s name and half the first sentence. Sitting at the coffee stall later, he changed his mind about the flowers; a bouquet, over-dramatic, open to misinterpretation. Besides-sipping his second espresso-flowers arranged in that way always made him think of his father’s funeral. The coffin laden with them: and afterwards, laid out near the rose garden at the back of the crematorium. “Don’t let them do that to me, Charles. A priest and a requiem mass. A coffin for my ashes to wither away in.” At the end, when so many people come to God, his father had lost his faith. “A bit of fertilizer, let me do that much good at least.”
Resnick walked away from the market with a heavy heart and indigestion. He would give Marian a quick call from the office, maybe later in the day. Or tomorrow.
Divine’s fascist night out had been a shade disappointing. No major rucks, no riots, not even many arrests. Most of the evening, bad music and easily shepherded bands of youths wearing BNP badges and off-the-peg Nazi regalia; the worst Divine had thrown at him, taunts and a half of warm lager. On the plus side, be had found himself cheek by jowl with a couple who answered the descriptions of Raju’s and Sandra Drexler’s attackers to a T: fair, sandyish hair, St. George and the Dragon tattoo.
Along with six or so other officers and a couple of dogs, Divine had stopped a dozen or so likely lads passing by outside the Town ground and ordered them back against the wall to be searched. Three blades, two lengths of chain, a piece of two-by-four with a nail protruding from it, one manky sock stuffed with sand, a handful of pills. Nothing spectacular.
The youth with the tattoo had been in the middle of the group, combat trousers and jeans jacket, mouthing off about police harassment. Divine had chanced to kick him in the back of the calf, pure accident. Instinctively, the youth had rounded on him, fist raised.
Bingo!
The noble St. George, lance at the ready, right before Divine’s delighted eyes. Not enough to prove anything on its own. But when, at Divine’s polite inquiry as to whether he’d taken any good taxi rides lately, the youth and his mate panicked and tried to do a runner, well, dead giveaway, wasn’t it?
Shame was, in the ensuing scuffle, Divine didn’t get to land as much as a solid punch. The lads, though, had spent a mournful night in Mansfield nick and were on their way down to the city that morning. Positive identification and they’d be up in front of the magistrate without a leg to stand on. Trouble was, instead of getting banged up, doing some real time, more than likely some soft sod on the bench would give them all of six months’ community service, a supervision order, be good boys and talk politely once a week to your probation officer.
Made you wonder, sometimes, why you bothered.
Divine wished he’d given the little shits a good thumping while he’d had half a chance.
There were several reasons for liking Jallans at lunchtime, not least they did a chicken club sandwich which easily outstripped anywhere else in the city. Not only that, on a good day you might go from Miles Davis to Mose Allison to Billie Holiday, one CD after another slipping on to the player behind the bar. Resnick thought he was there before her, but no sooner had he picked out a table over by the far wall than he saw Pam Van Allen making her way between the tables from the other side of the room.
“Is this okay?” Resnick asked.
“Fine,” Pam said, pulling out a chair. “Fine.”
“I didn’t see you …”
“I was in the Ladies’.”
She was looking, Resnick thought, more than a little strained. Smart enough in her striped wool jacket and gray skirt, well-cut silver-gray hair, but the makeup she discreetly wore failed to lessen the tiredness, disguise the jumpiness around her eyes.
“I already ordered,” Resnick said, “at the bar.”
“Me too.”
“You said you wanted to talk about Gary James,” Resnick said. “You’ve seen him again?”
She held Resnick’s gaze before answering. “And how,” she said.
The waitress brought over Resnick’s chicken club with salad and for Pam a jacket potato with prawns; Resnick asked her if she wanted anything to drink and she shook her head. He was drinking black filter coffee himself.
“That stunt he pulled at the Housing Office,” Pam said, spreading a little extra butter over her potato, “he came close to doing the same with me.”
Resnick listened as she took him through what had happened, picking up half of his sandwich every now and then and trying not to let too much of the filling spill down his sleeves. “And this anger,” Resnick said when she was through, “d’you think it would disappear almost as suddenly as it came? Or was it the kind he’d cling on to?”
“Like a grudge, you mean?”
He nodded and she took his meaning, knew what he was thinking: the anger he felt towards Nancy Phelan, could he have held on to that for close to ten hours, harbored it long enough to go out and find her, let that anger out?
Pam took her time. A group of women from the Victoria Street branch of the Midland Bank, all wearing their uniform blouses under their coats, settled at the long table behind them. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know.”
Resnick had a refill of coffee and finished the demolition job on his sandwich; more than half of Pam’s baked potato was still inside its jacket, but she had already pushed the plate away.
“You like that, don’t you?” she said.
“The chicken club? It’s …”
“Eating,” she smiled. “Just eating. That’s all.”
“I suppose,” Resnick said, mouth quarter-full, “I suppose I do.”
She waited till he’d finished before fetching a book of matches from the counter and lighting a cigarette. Resnick didn’t know why, but he’d assumed she didn’t smoke.
“Stress,” she said wryly, reading his thoughts. And then, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“In the investigation?”
Blowing smoke down her nose, she gave a slight shake of the head. “To you.”
“Has it? How?”
“Before, when we’ve met, spoken on the phone, whatever, you were always interested in me.”
Resnick was looking at the table, the few stray filaments of cress green upon the plate, not at her.
“Don’t misunderstand me, not some great passion, but, well, like I say, interested.” She shrugged. “Now overnight you’re not.”
“Overnight?”
The smile was warmer and crinkled the lines either side of her mouth. “I presume it was overnight.”
Resnick gave her a little of the smile back with his eyes.
“Congratulations. Who’s the lucky woman? Anyone I’m likely to know?”