“Really got behind these in a big way, didn’t we?” Vincent said, sarcasm soft but clear in his voice.
“Evidence,” Millington said, “not prejudice. Look at the figures for loonie lefties trying to break up right-wing meetings and I’ll bet it’s just the same.”
Vincent gave the sergeant a wry smile, unconvinced.
“Notice anything interesting here,” Lynn said, pointing at the screen, then scrolling it round. “Miller, Frank. Three years out of three, a perfect score.”
Resnick had come over to stand with them. “Miller, that’s who Hovenden went to see.”
“Last night,” Lynn said, “right.”
The door to the office opened and a sleepy-looking Kevin Naylor walked in, followed by Divine, who from somewhere had unearthed a slice of cold pizza and was eating it with gusto.
“Okay,” Resnick said, “all the names on this list, they’ll be matched with the ones we’ve already had from Special Branch, checked out today. The assumption we’ve got to go on is that what happened to Farrell and to Cheshire likely weren’t isolated cases. It took six months for Cheshire to come forward; there’ll be others who never will.”
“And we’re still thinking,” Millington said, “these incidents and Aston’s murder, they’re linked?”
“Other than the fact,” Lynn said, “that all the victims are gay?”
Resnick nodded. “That’s what I feel. So what we’re going to do is move in fast, follow up on those we know. Snape-Hovenden-Miller, that’s the chain and Hovenden, he might be the weak link. Lynn, you and Carl come with me, we’ll catch him on the hop if we can. Graham, take Kevin and Mark, see what this Miller’s got to say for himself; we still don’t have a satisfactory alibi for him at the time Aston was killed.” He looked round the room. “Questions, comments?”
“Only,” Vincent said, “in case it was someone in here, I’d like to thank whoever put the condoms and Vaseline in my locker. One small point of sex education, though-small but important-Vaseline with condoms isn’t really safe, it has a bad effect on the rubber. KY jelly …” and he winked at Divine “… now that’s the thing.”
Kevin Naylor laughed uncertainly; Lynn shook her head in dismay.
“This isn’t the time,” Resnick said, “but any repetition of incidents like that and I’ll make it my business to find out who was responsible and have them out of here too fast for their feet to touch the ground.”
Expressionless, Divine dumped what was left of his pizza into the nearest bin.
Resnick was in the back, Lynn driving; fast, northwest out of the city. Vincent was sitting alongside Lynn, half-turned towards the rear of the car.
“Local gay organizations,” Resnick said, “they’ll be informed as a matter of course. Encouraged to ask members to come forward.”
“Problem there is,” Vincent said, swinging farther round, “most of the men likely to have been involved won’t be on that scene anyway. And even if they were …” He shook his head. “There’s still a lot of distrust.”
“Well,” Resnick said, “we can step up patrols around toilets and open spaces …”
Vincent laughed. “That should fetch a few of the gay community out on the streets, protesting a violation of their civil rights.”
“What right’s that?” Lynn asked sharply. “The right to go out and put yourself at risk?”
“Hey!” Vincent smiled, backing along the seat. “Don’t get at me. I didn’t say that was my point of view.”
Lynn swung wide to overtake a milk float, smoothly changing gear. “What is your point of view, then, Carl?”
“About cottaging you mean?”
“Uh-hum.”
He shrugged. “It’s not what I would want to do, not for myself. Not doing the job that I do. But I can understand why people feel the need.”
“But not you?”
“Not me, no. Least, not any more.”
None of them spoke again until Lynn signaled left and slowed the car to a halt. “That’s the house, over there.”
Millington glanced down at his watch: it was still shy of seven o’clock. It was quiet in the street. Here and there among the lines of dilapidated houses, the odd one had been spruced up with a lick of bright paint, louvered shutters fitted across the upstairs windows, new doors with brass knockers which shone. Not here. He read the notice inviting callers to go round to the back.
“Let’s keep it quiet now. No sense waking him till we have to.”
There was a sour-sweet smell seeping across the backyard like blocked drains. Divine, ever hopeful, eased his hand against the rear door and to his surprise it slid open. Eyebrow raised, silently he questioned Millington and the sergeant nodded. Divine pushed the door all the way back and took a step inside. A tap was dripping against the clutter of pots that threatened to overflow the sink. They could hear clearly now, the sound of snoring, harsh and a-rhythmic, from the adjoining room.
Curtains pulled to, Miller had fallen asleep on the settee where he lay, a flotilla of empty cans adrift on the stained carpet, stale tobacco flat and thick in the air. Miller’s T-shirt had worked loose from his jeans and was wrinkled up across the hump of his belly, jeans belt unfastened, zip partway down. He was on his back, one foot touching the floor, one arm thrown back, face to one side close against the cushion, mouth open.
Content they had not disturbed him, Millington pointed to the stairs, back out into the garden to the lean-to shed that was more falling than leaning. After all, the door had been open and Miller hadn’t voiced any objections to their looking round.
Late for the early shift, Gerry Hovenden’s father had been leaving the house as Resnick and the others approached. “Inside,” he said brusquely, scarcely slowing to examine Resnick’s ID, “out the bath-room by now, if you’re lucky.”
“What the bloody hell’s this?” Hovenden emerged into the postage stamp of a hallway, hair wet, an old Forest away shirt hanging over his sagging boxer shorts, bare feet.
“Inspector Resnick, CID. DC Vincent. I believe you know DC Kellogg already.”
Lynn gave him a quick smile, not her best.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Hovenden blustered, “but you can sod off out.”
“Why not pop upstairs,” Vincent said politely, “put a few more clothes on. Time you’re back down, I expect we’ll have figured out where the kettle is. Coffee or tea?”
Millington had been standing in the kitchen, idly leafing through Miller’s well-thumbed copy of Above All, Courage, and wondering what exactly possessed someone to go off and join the SAS, when Naylor beckoned him outside. There in the corner of the shed, soles thick with mud, stood a pair of Caterpillar work boots, size ten.
“Been doing a spot of gardening,” Millington observed.
“Looks like.”
Divine appeared in the doorway behind them. “Seems as if he might be coming round.”
Millington grinned. “Let’s give him a hand.”
The Saxon CD was still in the machine. Divine turned the volume up to full and pressed play. Miller, startled, tried to push himself up, overbalanced, and rolled off the settee to the floor.
“Morning, Frank,” Millington mouthed, waving his warrant card in front of Miller’s incredulous face, “this is your wake-up call.”
Hovenden had pulled on a pair of jeans, wore old trainers, unlaced, on his feet. Carl Vincent had made tea in mugs that Lynn had carefully rinsed under the hot tap.
“Must have a bit of trouble,” Resnick said innocently, nodding towards Hovenden’s feet, “always finding shoes to fit.”
Hovenden sat awkwardly and said nothing.
“Elevens, are they?” Resnick asked.
“What?”
“Size? I said, elevens, twelves?”
“What sodding difference?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Elevens, for fuck’s sake! They’re elevens, satisfied?”
Resnick smiled.
“You know,” Lynn said, “we’ve been talking to your friend, Shane?”
“What of it?”
“He had some interesting things to tell us, that’s all.”