“No,” Resnick said. “Just another victim.”
When Millington dropped him off at the London Road roundabout it was so gloomy the floodlights at the County ground, some quarter of a mile up the road, could scarcely be seen.
“Tell Skelton I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“He’s going to love that,” Millington said. Resnick didn’t care; this was something he had to do himself. Climbing the slight hill towards the Lace Market and turning left on to Hollowstone and up towards St. Mary’s Church, he stepped into the full force of the wind. There was a hole in the stone wall a third of the way up the hill, giving way to a space large enough for a short man to stand up in. Two figures were huddled inside, newspaper and cardboard around their legs and feet; Resnick guessed another three or four had slept there that night.
When he turned right in front of the church, there was Andrew Clarke’s red Toyota illegally parked outside the architects’ office, Clarke’s name, the senior partner, in tasteful lower case on the glass beside the door.
Yvonne Warden was chatting to the receptionist at the desk, fresh cup of coffee in her hand, green plants luxuriating quietly to either side. Framed photographs of office blocks and hotels the firm had designed hung from the wall, alongside copies of the original plans.
“If you want to see Andrew,” she began, “I think he’s still in a meeting …”
“It’s all right,” Resnick said. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Dana was at her desk in the library, looking through a box viewer at a slide of one of Philip Johnson’s Houston buildings, a high-rise version of one of those gabled houses she’d fallen in love with by the canals in Amsterdam. A shame, she was thinking, Johnson never got to follow through on his design for a Kuwaiti Investment Office opposite the Tower of London that was a replica of the Houses of Parliament, twice life-size. At least the man had a sense of fun.
She looked around at the soft click of the door and when she saw it was Resnick she said hi and smiled, but halfway out of her chair the smile died.
“It’s Nancy, isn’t it?”
He nodded and held out both hands, but she turned aside and walked towards the window; stood, resting her head against it, eyes closed, holding on. The glass was cold against her face.
Resnick didn’t know any other way to do this. “Her body was found early this morning. She’d been buried in a field. She’d been strangled.”
Dana jolted, as if a current had passed through her, and her forehead banged against the window hard. Carefully, Resnick eased her back against him, until she was leaning against his chest, her hair soft on his face. Her breathing was like rags.
“Do her parents know?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God!” Slowly this time, Resnick still holding her, the top of her body arched forward until the crown of her head was once again against the glass. Someone came into the room and, on a look from Resnick, went quickly away again. “She was so … beautiful,” Dana said.
“Yes, she was.”
Dana turned, shaking, into his arms and Resnick held her, trying not to think about the time. By now Skelton would be taking counsel, issuing orders, readying himself for a press conference. As the senior officer present when Nancy Phelan’s body had been lifted from the ground, Resnick himself would have to go before the television cameras before the day was out. From the square, faint, came the sound of the bell on the Council House ringing the hour.
“You’d better be going,” Dana said, releasing herself and moving past him to where she kept the tissues at her desk. “God, I must look a mess.”
“You look fine.”
Dana sniffed and summoned up something of a smile. “Only fine?”
“Terrific.”
“Did you know I’ve got another job?”
He shook his head.
“Yes, in Exeter. Starting next month.” She laughed. “Andrew gave me such a wonderful reference, they could hardly understand why he’d agree to let me go.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Resnick said.
“In Exeter?”
“Now.”
Dana sighed. “Oh, yes. I’ll be … I’ll be fine. Just like you said. Fine.”
Resnick squeezed both of her hands, kissed her softly on the mouth. “Phone me, if things get bad.”
Michelle had sat down early with the baby, thinking it had to be almost time for Neighbours; what she got was the last third of the news. Some black woman standing in front of some farm buildings, answering questions to the camera. Michelle thought it was something about-what was it? — Salmonella or mad cow disease until the photograph of Nancy Phelan appeared top left of the screen. Quickly, she shushed Natalie down and leaned forward to turn up the sound. Almost immediately, the picture switched and there was this man, round-faced, sad-looking, Michelle thought, speaking about the same thing. Detective Inspector Charles Resnick, read the caption bisecting his tie. “Deep regret,” he said, and “renewed effort,” and when the interviewer, out of sight, asked whether he thought Nancy Phelan’s death had come about as a direct and unfortunate result of police incompetence the inspector’s mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he said: “There’s no way of knowing if that’s the case. Any attempt to suggest otherwise would be pure speculation.”
Not that that was going to stop it happening.
Back across the Trent, Robin Hidden had disconnected his phone but could do nothing about the steady stream of local newsteams and reporters who beat a path to his door. Finally, he clambered over three sets of gardens, sneaking between rose bushes and around artificial ponds, until he found a path back on to the street.
He bought a paper at the newsagents to get change and rang Mark’s number from memory. His friend had been replacing some tiles in his bathroom and had heard what had happened on The World at One. “Why don’t you come up?” Mark said, without waiting to be asked. “I’ve still got some time off. We could have another go at Helvellyn. Three thousand feet up in the snow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure.”
“I’m not exactly going to be good company.”
“Robin, for heaven’s sake! What else are friends for?”
There were tears already in the corners of Robin’s eyes. Across the paper, the headline read MISSING GIRL’S BODY FOUND and underneath, POLICE PLAN FAILS. Just after dawn today, the report began, the body of Nancy Phelan, missing since Christmas Eve was discovered, naked and apparently strangled, buried in the mire of …
Numb, Robin walked on till he came to the footbridge over the river, turned down past the Memorial Gardens, and continued on until the roundabout by the old Wilford Bridge. Shoulders slumped, he leaned on the masonry to catch his breath. Through the sour gray of the day, all he could see was the image of Nancy, that last time together, getting out of the car and walking away. The air stuck in his lungs like a fist.
Going by on a bike, rod resting across the handlebars, a fisherman turned his head and stared at him curiously.
Robin pushed himself on, without any real aim, down through the close streets of the Meadows until he came out near to the railway station. Although he had only the clothes he stood up in, he knew he wasn’t going back to the flat. Mark could lend him an anorak, his spare pair of boots, he’d done it before. The ticket and anything else he needed, he could pay for with the credit card in his wallet.
Forty-five minutes to wait for a train, Robin bought an orange juice from the buffet and carried it along to the end of the platform, collar buttoned up against the curl of the wind. The train that would carry him across country was one of those little Sprinters, two carriages at most, but if he stood where he was, before long one of those expresses would come hurtling in. He looked through blurred eyes at the dull shine of the rails, heard Nancy’s name falling softly from his lips.
Forty-seven