“You know that club, used to belong to Jimmy Peters …”
“The Golden something-or-other.”
“That was last month. Tarted itself up with purple paint and a few blow-up pictures of that Jennifer Allbran off the telly, legs akimbo, calls itself the Hot Spot. Not far off the mark last night, any road.”
“Trouble?”
“Ambulances screaming down the Alfreton Road like it were World War Three.”
“And?”
“Half a dozen carted off to Queen’s, bleeding all over the A and E. One serious, stab wounds to the face and neck, touch and go in Intensive Care. Up to a dozen more treated by paramedics on the spot. So to speak. Jimmy Peters wailing and gnashing his teeth over a thousand quid’s worth of damaged upholstery and broken glass.”
“Likely double that off the insurance.”
“And the rest.”
“Anyway, what happened to his security? Jimmy’d not open his doors without a brace of muscle in shiny jackets and combat boots.”
“In the thick of it. Pigs in muck.”
Resnick drew a breath and exhaled slowly. Why was it, whenever they succeeded in clamping the lid on some things, it blew off somewhere else? “Okay,” he said, “any idea what got it started?”
Millington snorted. “Take your pick. Only thing most folk seem to agree on, this bunch of lads came in around two, several sheets to the wind already. One of ’em took a fancy to someone else’s bit of tally. You can guess the rest.”
Resnick shook his head. “These lads, Graham, black or white?”
“As the driven snow.”
“And the girl?”
“Girl was white, too. Not them she was with.”
On his feet, Resnick walked toward the window and stared down through smeared glass. Growing up in the city, he’d been haunted by the race riots which had dogged his childhood. Made him frightened, ashamed.
“Color,” Millington said, “that’s what you’re thinking? Racial, what’s back of it.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Maybe not. Not entirely. Only I think somehow there’s more to it than that.”
“Go on.”
Millington shook his head. “I’m not sure. Can’t put me finger on it. But the way they were answering questions, them as was most involved …”
“Shifty?”
“More the opposite. Couldn’t wait to spill how it’d happened, started, chapter and bloody verse. Everything save who did the actual stabbing. Couple of ’em down in the cells now, cooling their heels. Mark Ellis and Billy Scalthorpe. Not that there’ll be much point holding them. Waste of time and money.”
“No weapon, then?”
“Not by the time we were on the scene. Magically disappeared.” Millington flicked something stray away from one side of his mustache. “I’ve got Ben Fowles down there now, taking statements from Peters and his bar staff, couple of the security guards. See if he can come up with something fresh.”
“And the laddie in Intensive Care?”
“Wayne. Wayne Feraday. I’m off out there myself now.”
Resnick grinned. “It’ll be late breakfast at Parker’s, then?”
“Happen.”
“Bring us back a sandwich, Graham, egg and sausage, heavy on the brown sauce.”
As Resnick sat back down at his desk, he could hear Millington’s cheery whistle making a fresh assault on the Petula Clark Songbook.
Three
Convinced she’d be unable to sleep, Lorraine had gone off almost the moment her head had touched the pillow. She’d not woken till Derek brushed her shoulder with his fingers, so that when she blinked her eyes, there he was, standing over her, smiling down.
“Hello, sleepy head.”
“Whatever time is it?”
“Quarter past eight.”
“What? It’s never.” Throwing back the bedclothes, she sat up. “I’ve overlaid, what happened to the alarm? Why ever didn’t you wake me?”
“Thought a lay-in would do you good.”
Lorraine pushed past him, reaching for the dressing gown that hung behind the door.
“You don’t have to rush. There’s bags of time.” He followed her along the landing, only stopping when she turned at the bathroom door.
“Well?” Lorraine said.
“Well what?”
“D’you think I could have some privacy or what?”
Derek stepped back and she closed the door and slid the bolt, sat on the toilet with her head toward her knees. She was being unfair to him, she knew.
These last weeks, he had been wonderful. Looking after the children, fetching and carrying, fixing meals, shopping, Lorraine at the hospital all hours while her mother had lingered on. And then, suddenly, when it was over and Lorraine, despite all warnings, went numb, he had stepped in to handle the arrangements for the funeral, the crematorium, flowers, everything.
She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror, not liking what she saw. There was a packet of Neurofen in the cabinet and she took two, swallowing them down with water. She could hear the children’s voices from downstairs, then Derek’s, warning them to be quiet.
They were anxious, she knew: Sandra, who was eleven, fretful about sitting in the car on the way to the chapel with everyone staring, worrying over what she had to do during the service, what she would wear; Sean, nine, wanted to know why his best friend couldn’t come with him, what there would be to eat afterward, what happened to his nan’s body when the coffin rolled back along the platform and into the flames. That’s what happens, isn’t it, Mum? Nan gets burned in the flames.
Derek had driven them to his sister’s yesterday, to help take their mind off things. Which meant, of course, that Maureen would spoil them as usual.
Maureen was nice enough, Lorraine thought, if a little over fond of herself; a little, well, overflashy. She was several years older than Lorraine and with no kids of her own; she earned a good living, managing her own place selling second-hand designer clothing, enough to afford a cleaning lady three times a week, wax and manicure once a month, and, of course, a mobile phone. Sometimes, Lorraine caught herself wondering if she were jealous of Maureen’s money, her apparent freedom, before deciding that no, she was not.
When Lorraine appeared in the kitchen some thirty minutes later, she was wearing the black suit she’d bought at Richards for the opening of Maureen’s shop, black tights, shoes with a low heel. She went straight to the stove and lifted the kettle, tested the weight of it for water, and carried it over to the sink.
“I’ll do that,” Derek said, half out of his seat.
“No need.”
“Toast?”
“No, thanks.” She caught herself, the angry snap in her tone, and smiled, relenting. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Yes, I’d love some toast, that’d be great.”
Sean came running in from the other room, Sandra chasing him, the pair of them skidding to an untidy halt just this side of the kitchen table.
“Now then, you two,” Derek said, “behave.”
“It’s Sandra, she was punching me.”
“I was not.”
“Just because I wouldn’t let her …”
“Hey!” Derek said. “Hey! Settle down now. I don’t want to hear it. That’s enough.”
“Is that for us, Dad?” Sean said, looking at where Derek was starting to butter the toast.
“Mum,” Sandra said. “Will Uncle Michael be there? At the funeral?”
A glance, quick and awkward, passed between Derek and Lorraine.
“I’m not sure, lovey,” Lorraine said. “I expect so. I hope so. Now why don’t you both run along?”
“Yes, go on, the pair of you.” Derek waved the knife in the direction of the door. “Get yourselves back in the other room and let us have a bit of peace.”
“Oh, Dad …”
“And see you’re careful with those clothes. You don’t want to be getting in a mess now, we’ll be leaving soon.”
“Mum …” Sandra said, eyes widening. “This top, is it okay?”
Lorraine had been looking at her daughter, not so far off twelve now and springing up, starting to fill out. Sandra had put on her bottle-green skirt, wearing it for a change with the waistband not rolled up, her almost new shiny blue sandals, the light-gray CK sweatshirt she’d bought in the market with her own pocket money. Sean was wearing black jeans, trainers, a clean white Umbro T-shirt with a blue band around the collar and along the sleeves. He looked as though he’d borrowed some of his sister’s gel before combing his hair.