He waited till she was almost at the door. “Sheena, Sheena Snape, you know her a little, don’t you?”
“A bit. Yes, why?”
“She and Raymond, were they, you know, friends? Anything like that?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Only I was in the shop not so many days back and she was there. Raymond seemed embarrassed at me seeing them together. I thought there might be something going on between them, that’s all.”
Eileen shook her head. “Ray-o, he might not have been God’s gift, bless him, but he knew better than to get involved with a slag like that.”
“Business, then. I remember Raymond making out she was there to buy something, but she didn’t back him up. Maybe she was the one with something to sell.”
Now Eileen was looking at him hard. “And you think, whatever it was, it might have something to do with Ray-o getting shot?”
“I’ll be honest, I don’t know.”
“Honest?”
He looked at her questioningly.
“You tried to get round me once before, remember? When Terry was still alive. All nice and understanding. Getting me to inform against him, that’s what you were trying to do. Grass. Same as what you tryin’ now. You want me to go round Sheena’s, don’t you? Do your dirty work for you. ’cause you know, after what happened to her brothers, she wouldn’t give you the time of day.”
Resnick took a breath. “All I’m saying …”
Eileen raised her head. “I know what you’re saying. And I don’t want to hear.”
What Resnick heard was the quick closing of the door and footsteps, fast across the floor.
Maureen was serving a customer when Lorraine walked in, Maureen doing her level best to persuade a matronly body from Wollaton that gold chiffon was the very thing for her husband’s firm’s annual dinner. When she saw Lorraine, Maureen took a deep breath and carried on, Lorraine standing off to one side, feigning interest in a deep-green wool and silk mix jacket by Yohji Yamamoto, a snip at £499.99.
As soon as the customer had left the shop, Maureen went to Lorraine and held her tight. “Have you heard anything?” she asked, stepping away.
Lorraine shook her head. “That’s what I came to ask you.”
“I’ve not seen him since yesterday, yesterday early.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“No.” Maureen shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I don’t ever want to see that bastard again.”
Lorraine caught hold of Maureen’s hand. “Did he …” She was looking Maureen in the eye. “Did he hurt you?”
Maureen attempted a smile. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
“And you really don’t know where he went?”
“No. I haven’t a clue.” She gave Lorraine’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “I wish there was something I could tell you. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything.” She paused. “Except I’m glad he’s gone.”
Lorraine half turned toward the door. “If you do see him …”
“I won’t, but …”
“If you do, tell him to be careful, all right?”
When Lorraine walked up the brightly painted steps toward the car park, she could feel the unsteadiness vibrating in her legs.
The news on all channels carried extracts from the Chief Constable’s press conference: serious points, seriously made. Society. Responsibility. The public good. A number of drug-related incidents. The unfortunate spread of firearms. Firm policing. Trust. Decisive action. With a slow and deliberate movement, the Chief Constable removed his rimless spectacles and delivered his final sentences straight to camera. “There will be no no-go areas, no yielding of the streets to lawlessness. You have my word-the situation is under control.”
Somewhere between midnight and one, a maroon convertible slowed almost to a halt outside Planer’s casino, bass speakers booming, and from the rear seat a young black man hurled a homemade firebomb into the foyer.
It had started with a vengeance.
Thirty-nine
Millington was waiting for him with a face most undertakers would have given their eyeteeth for. “That young prison officer,” he said. “Evan.”
“What about him?”
“Couple pulled into a lay-by, early hours. Wore out, wanting a rest. Loughborough road, not so far short of Keyworth. Bloke got out, wandered over t’field edge for a piddle. Found Evan face down in the ditch. Back of his head stove in. Been there a good twenty-four hours, far as we can tell, maybe longer.”
Resnick cursed softly.
“What he was doing back in these parts, Lord alone knows.”
“Follow it up, Graham. Talk to whoever’s handling the investigation. Find out what you can. God knows how it fits in with all this, but if it does we want to know.”
Resnick had scarcely had time to read the night’s reports before Helen Siddons was on the line, her voice raw and tired.
“I’ve just sent Khan round to see you, Charlie, something else about our friend Finney. Just might be the lead we’re looking for. You wouldn’t have time to follow up on it yourself? That explosion last night, we’re jumping round like blue-arsed flies as it is.”
Khan had followed Finney up the Mansfield Road, assuming he was heading home. Instead, Finney had carried on driving, north out of the city. Some ten miles short of Newstead Abbey, he’d turned off on to a small single-carriage road, not much more than a track. Three-quarters of a mile along, Finney had parked close by a small house, a cottage. White walls, a garden, a small cobbled yard. Somebody’s home. Washing on the line and a child’s bike, a red tricycle, on its side near the front door.
“You saw him go inside?” Resnick asked.
“No, sir,” Khan answered carefully. “Not actually saw him. But there was no sign of him anywhere else, nowhere else he could go, so I assumed he’d gone in. Unfortunately, I didn’t think I could hang around. Too risky. I drove back down to the main road and waited. A little under an hour later, Finney reappeared and this time he did drive home to Sherwood.”
“This place,” Resnick said, “can you show me on the map?”
“Definitely, sir. You think it’s important?”
Small lines crinkled up the corners of Resnick’s eyes. “I think it might be, yes.”
Resnick drove north on the A60, the same road Anil Khan had followed the day before. The edges of the city soon left behind, he passed between gently sloping arable fields divided by low hedgerows, here and there a cluster of trees, a tractor standing deserted by an open gate. Lapwings. Crows.
The cottage was as Khan had described it, picture perfect. Resnick left the car a little way down, where the lane slightly broadened, and walked back, not hurrying. The warmth from the sun was such that he had no need of a coat.
As he passed through the gate, a small child, a toddler, came running through the open door and stopped, uncertain, at the sight of him. Resnick smiled and the child, a boy, turned and ran inside. Moments later, his mother appeared, holding his hand.
“Hello.” Just slightly anxious. Wary. “Can I help?”
She was in her thirties, Resnick guessed, brown hair, an open face, quite tanned; wearing a loose floral-print dress, tennis shoes, unfastened, on her feet. Her pregnancy was far enough along for it to show.
“I was looking for Paul,” he said. “Paul Finney.”
“Oh,” relaxing, “you’ve missed him by a good hour or so. Work, is it?”
Resnick nodded and she smiled.
“It’s a wonder anyone can keep up with all his comings and goings,” she said, the child pulling at her hand, anxious to be away. “Sometimes I’m blessed if I can myself. But like Paul says, it’s all part of the job. Adam, don’t wriggle so. Be still.” The boy succeeded in breaking free and stood a little way off, staring up at Resnick, thumb in mouth.
She smiled again. “Who’d marry a policeman, eh?”
Resnick smiled back.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, I never introduced myself. Laura. Laura Finney.”