Not taking her eyes from him, Lynn shook her head.
“And you don’t now?”
“No.”
His hand was stroking her arm, fingers beneath the sleeve of her sweater. “It was the monkey suit …”
“The what?”
“Dinner jacket, evening dress, black tie. I’ve noticed it before, the way it changes a man.” He smiled again and she noticed for the first time a chip of green in the gray-blue of one eye. “Moss Bros, cheaper than a trip to your local neighborhood plastic surgeon.” The smile widened. “‘Let me get those.’ Remember?” He took a twenty-pound note from his top pocket and passed it in front of her nose. “You were wearing a blue dress. Such beautiful shoulders. And your hair, your hair was pushed up at the back like this …”
She caught hold of his wrist and held it fast; his pulse she could feel beating against her ear.
“You do remember now, don’t you? Or did I make that poor an impression?”
What she remembered was the black suit, smart, one face amongst others, ranged along an overcrowded bar. The voice, pursuing her away, offering to buy her a drink later, but surely the voice was not the same?
“That policeman you were with then, wasn’t that him I saw being interviewed this evening on tele? The one talking about the body?”
Lynn nodded. “My inspector. Resnick.”
“Good, is he? At his job. What would you say, a good copper?”
“Yes, that’s what I’d say.”
Michael made to move his hand from her hair and she let it go. He brought down his face to kiss her again and just before he did she said, “Meeting me on the road that evening, when I almost crashed the car-was that a coincidence or what?”
His mouth brushed against her lips. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any such thing as blind coincidence, do you? I prefer to think it’s all pre-ordained, part of some wider plan. Whatever …” Kissing her again, “… will be, will be.” More strongly, she kissed him back. “No songs,” Michael sighed, “like the old songs.”
“I think I’d better go.”
They had slid to the floor between the chair and the settee, Lynn’s sweater was bunched up by her neck, the belt loosened at the top of her jeans. Michael lay with one leg between hers, not looking at her, tips of his fingers making small circles on her skin.
“You’re sure?” Lynn said.
“I think so.” Still not looking at her, strange for a man who usually did nothing but. “Early start tomorrow, busy day.”
Lifting his leg, Lynn rolled away from him; sitting up, she smoothed her sweater into place. “Me, too,” she said.
“Catching up with your man.”
“Could be.” On her feet, she tightened her belt. “We can always hope.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Can’t we?”
Lynn leaned forward to kiss him, but he slid his face away. She picked up the wine glasses, one from the table, one from the floor.
“Here,” Michael said, “let me take those. I need a drink of water. Trouble with red wine, leaves you with such a thirst.”
While he was in the kitchen, Lynn slipped into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, ran a comb through her hair. She was more than ordinarily flushed.
“Till I see you again, then,” said Michael, over by the door.
Lynn turned the handle to let him out. “Phone me, next time. I don’t always want surprises. Phone me first.”
He kissed her deftly on the cheek and stepped outside. “You best get back in quickly, you don’t want to be letting in the cold.”
She could hear his footsteps echoing down the stairs as she locked and bolted the front door. Resnick picked up his phone on the seventh ring; faintly, in the background, Lynn could hear music playing. “Hello,” she said. “It’s me, Lynn.”
“It’s not your dad,” Resnick said. “Nothing’s happened?”
“No. It’s the investigation.”
“Nancy Phelan?”
“Mmm.”
“What about it?”
“I could explain easier if we met somewhere. It’s not too late for a drink.”
“The Partridge?”
Lynn glanced at her watch. “Twenty minutes.”
“Done.”
She set the phone back down and it was some sixth sense, a split second before she heard the sound, that swung her round.
When Michael had gone into the kitchen for a glass of water, he had slipped the catch on the window that led on to the walkway. “Now I wonder,” he said, “exactly what you and your colleague were going to talk about. Over your friendly pint.” He had an old-fashioned tire jack in his hand, wrapped around with rubber and cloth; if he could avoid it, he didn’t want to damage her face. Not unless he had to: not yet.
“Michael …” she began.
“No,” he said, smiling even as he made that slow shake of the head. “Don’t waste the words.”
She made a lunge past him but his arm was fast and the jack struck her twice, the first time high on the shoulder, hard enough against the bone to make her scream; the second blow was to the back of her head as she fell, face first, unconscious, to the floor.
“Well, now, Mr. Resnick,” Michael said towards the telephone, “let’s see how good a good copper you really are.”
Forty-nine
Resnick had not been in long when Lynn rang, back from a couple of hours at Marian Witczak’s house in Mapperley, listening to her account of New Year’s Eve at the Polish Club. She had dropped a note through his door earlier, inviting him, and Resnick, partly through guilt at having let her down, partly to avoid another evening frustratedly anticipating the glories of his Billie Holiday box set, had accepted. In Marian’s drawing room, comfortable in armchairs guarded by ornate antimacassars, the ghost of Chopin hovering around the grand piano, Resnick had sipped plum brandy and listened to what he had missed-the politics, the polkas, the member who had drunk his way through fifteen flavors of vodka before clambering on to one of the tables and re-enacting the Polish cavalry’s defense of Krakow down to the last despairing fall.
He had walked home with lengthening strides, head clearing rapidly in the cold air. Time enough to find a little supper for an insistent Dizzy, grind and brew coffee, before answering the telephone and hearing Lynn’s voice. Going back out again, especially for another drink, was close to the last thing he wanted, but he knew she wouldn’t be suggesting a meeting unless it were important. Resnick dialed the DG taxi number from memory and lifted his topcoat from where it hung in the hall.
Both bars of the Partridge were fairly full and Resnick checked them carefully, right and left, before settling for a half of Guinness and a seat between an elderly man whom Resnick knew by sight, nursing his last pint of mild for the night, and a group of four who were still arguing their way through last Saturday’s match, ball by ball. When his own glass was more or less empty and there was still no sign of Lynn, Resnick went to the phone and dialed her number. No reply. He checked with the station to see if, for whatever reason, she had gone there. No one had seen her since early evening. Resnick finished his drink and picked up another cab, across the street by the clock from the old Victoria station.
No lights showed through the windows of Lynn’s flat, no response to knock or bell. When he peered into the glass and saw his own face reflected there, he saw a fear that so far he could only feel, not understand. The door had not been double-locked and he considered gaining access with the credit card that otherwise he rarely used, but noticed, when he looked again, the catch on the kitchen window was unfastened. No difficulty hauling himself up and through the space, flicking on the light.
“Lynn?”
Two glasses stood on the metal drainer, freshly rinsed. A corkscrew, cork still attached, lay beside a sheet of crumpled tissue. Resnick found the bottle in the main room, unfinished, on its side; a little wine had spilled out on to the carpet and made a stain, still damp. The coffee table had been shunted aside, the chair pushed at an odd angle against the wall. There was a second cluster of stains, darker and less sweet; Resnick touched the tip of his finger against the carpet and lifted to his nostrils the unmistakable taint of blood.