Resnick shook his head.
“Sly and the Family Stone. Anyway, he tells me what he’s doing-proud of it, right? — helping his little sister get on in the world. And then he says, ‘Besides, she’s the only one of my whores ain’t ever holding out on me, not as much as a penny.’”
“You think he had Sheena working the street, too?”
“I don’t know. But to my knowledge, no.”
Resnick stood for a while, his head in his hands, fingers rubbing across his eyes. “Him and Valentine, quite a couple.”
“Yeah, true meeting of minds.”
“And Valentine’s story, you believe it?”
“If it was inscribed on tablets of stone,” Sharon said, “handed down from heaven with a choir singing, I wouldn’t believe it.”
Drew Valentine was in a private room with a uniformed officer sitting outside the door. Valentine was propped up against four or five pillows wearing a yellow Ted Baker shirt unbuttoned to the level of the sheets, his hair tied back in a ponytail. He was leafing through the pages of a style magazine, listening to music on his Walkman.
He grinned at Sharon as soon as she entered, choosing to ignore Resnick for as long as he was able. A small diamond in the shape of a star shone from his left ear, catching the overhead light.
“Hey, sister,” Valentine called over the sounds tearing at his ears, “how you doing?”
Sharon reached down, disregarding the hand stretched palm up toward her, and tugged the headphone jack from the machine.
“Hey! That’s Puccini, girl. La Bohéme. You can’t do that.”
“I’ve brought someone to meet you, Drew,” Sharon said, reaching for a chair. “Detective Inspector Resnick, my boss. And don’t call me ‘girl.’”
“Charlie, yeh.” He gave Resnick a swift appraisal. “Heard of you, man. Seen your picture in the paper.”
Resnick sat down at the opposite side of the bed. “So what gives?” Valentine said. “I mean, I don’t see no grapes or nothin’.”
“How about telling us what went on,” Resnick said, “out on the Forest? You and Jason?”
“Oh, man, I already told her that shit.”
“Your word, not mine.” Resnick leaned in closer. “Now, the truth, okay?”
“I’m tired,” Valentine said. “I shouldn’t be answerin’ no questions. You check with my doctor, see if that ain’t what he says. No stress, no hassle. I have to rest.”
“All in good time.”
“Man, this is harassment, no other word for it.” He eased himself back against his pillows. “You guys, always the same. Pulling the same old shit.”
“And I suppose you’re not,” Sharon said.
“Hey, girl…”
“I warned you not to call me ‘girl.’”
Valentine ran the tip of his tongue slowly along his lower lip.
“You could save yourself a lot of aggravation,” Resnick said, “if you came up with a story that fits the facts.”
But Valentine was reaching under his pillows for his mobile phone. “Or I can call my brief and he’ll be here in fifteen. And you know what his advice is gonna to be: nigger, button your lip.”
“You forget,” Resnick said, “whatever Jason says when he comes round …”
“If he comes round.”
“There are two other witnesses …”
“Whores.”
“Two witnesses who saw everything …”
“Out of their sad heads and, besides, they ain’t gonna tell you nothing.”
“There’s always the gun, Drew,” Sharon said. “Interesting if it turns up with your prints on it.”
Valentine’s face widened into the broadest of smiles. “That gun, yeh-interestin’ if it turn up at all.”
Resnick leaned in suddenly close, his face inches away. “I want you to think about this: one way or another we’re going to find out what actually happened. So which is easier? If we hear it from you first, or have to drag you in kicking and screaming once we’ve got all the facts? Maybe you should ask your brief that. Oh, and if I were you, I’d be praying Jason pulls through, or you may find you’re facing a murder charge.”
He got to his feet and Sharon followed suit. “Puccini, hmm?” Sharon grinned, dangling the wires of Valentine’s headset from her hand. “Tupac a little too strong for you these days, Drew? Big bad man, getting off on ‘Your Tiny Hand is Frozen.’”
As soon as he returned from the hospital, Resnick popped his head round the door of the holding cell where Sheena Snape was waiting to be interviewed.
He had good reason to know the Snape family well. The mother, Norma, struggling to bring up three kids more or less on her own, had already lost two sons: the youngest, Nicky, had been found hanging in his room while in local authority care; Shane, the eldest, was serving a life sentence for murder. Which left Sheena-and since Nicky’s death, Sheena had been running pretty wild.
When he entered the room she was sitting stubbornly on the floor by the far wall, knees hugged against her chest, pale skin blotchy and hair a tangled mess, wearing Doc Martens, from which the laces had been removed, and a skimpy orange dress.
“Are you okay?” Resnick asked.
No answer.
“Sheena, are you okay?” he asked again.
“What do you think? Or fucking care?”
“Is there anything I can do? Your mum, does she know you’re here?”
“Only if she’s been looking in her crystal ball.”
“Do you want me to tell her?”
Sheena spun her head like an angry cat. “Enjoy that, will you?”
“No.”
But Sheena was already looking away again, staring at the floor. “Do what you fucking like.”
Resnick went off and came back a few minutes later with a blanket, which he laid across the back of the solitary chair, where it remained, untouched. The uniformed officer relocked the door and shook his head. “Wants her mouth washed out. Ungrateful little cow.”
“She’s got,” Resnick said, suddenly angry, jabbing a finger against the man’s chest, “precious little to be grateful for. Something you might do well to remember.”
It was close to midday, and Resnick was eating a sandwich on the run when a fax came through from the Scene of Crime team that had gone out to Field Head. There were prints, mostly partial, but one clear forefinger, smack on the fridge door, and it matched, without question, that of Michael Preston.
Two hours later, Resnick about to leave his office for a twice-postponed meeting with Jack Skelton, a call was patched through to him from Central station; the security staff at Birmingham International Airport had found a maroon Toyota with badly rusted bodywork and a missing offside rear light, seemingly abandoned in the short-stay car park.
Sixteen
Resnick knocked on the door of Skelton’s office and went in.
Helen Siddons was standing, stony-faced, in front of the superintendent’s desk. She was wearing a blue-black suit with deep lapels, a black shot-silk shirt, and shoes with a definite heel. Her dark-brown hair was pulled back from her face and held with a large clip.
“Busy couple of days for you, Charlie, by all accounts.”
“Busy enough.”
Siddons’s mouth, Resnick realized, was the startling red of his damson jam.
“Helen’s been explaining her anxieties …” Skelton began.
“I’ve been telling Jack what’s going on’s a bloody farce. A bunch of cowboys using one another for target practice and where’s the fucking posse?”
“Helen’s proposing …”
“I’m sending a memo, with Jack’s support, to the Chief Constable, suggesting in the strongest terms he sets up a special Task Force to deal with drug-related shootings.”
“If that’s what …” Resnick began.
“Oh, come on, Charlie, what the hell else are they? And if we don’t do something now, we’re going to fetch up like Manchester or Bristol and worse.”
Resnick exchanged a glance with Skelton and neither man said anything. Siddons took a cigarette from her bag and lit it with a silver lighter. “What I want to see, pro-tem, while we’re waiting for the terms of reference of this Task Force to get sorted, is some sort of informal arrangement. Major Crimes, Drug Squad, yourselves-pool knowledge, act in conjunction where possible.” She blew smoke down her nose. “Nip these bastards in the bud.” Slowly, she looked from one man to the other.