Resnick guessed that to be a compliment, but with Millington you could never be sure. This was, after all, the person who swore Petula dark did a better version of "Lover Man* than Billie Holiday.
"Not got it with you, I suppose, Graham?"
"Have, as a matter of fact. Reckoned I might give it twenty minutes in the canteen, but, of course, it never happened."
"Best let's have it back, then. Take a look on the way down."
"Suit yourself." Millington shrugged and turned away to fetch him the book.
Minutes later, Resnick was on his way down the stairs, a copy of Dead Weight in his hand.
Cathy Jordan poured herself another shot from the one of the pair of king size bottles of J amp; B Rare they had bought on the plane. She and Frank buying silence with the usual share of booze in the usual bland hotel room, though here the walls were closer together than usual.
Which meant that they were too. In a way.
Right now they were getting ready for the reception. Frank was wandering about morosely in a pair of striped boxers and a white shirt, the creases from where it had lain folded in the case pulled flat across the muscles of his arms and back; Cathy was wearing a couple of towels and a cream half slip, which she hated, but the problem with the dress she had chosen was the minute you stood in front of the light, it was the next thing to being featured in an x-ray.
For once it was Frank who broke the unspoken truce. "So what d'you think?" he said.
"You worried or what?"
"About the reception?"
"Reception, hell. The letter."
Examining a pair of tights, Cathy shook her head. "Sticks and stones," she said.
"That's it, sticks and stones?"
One leg in, one leg out, Cathy looked across at him.
"That's it."
Frank breathed out noisily and shook his head.
"You're not scared?
Spooked? Not even one little piece? "
Turning away, Cathy shook her head. Of course, she was scared. Not all the time, not even often, but, sure, step into a lift and there's a guy standing there, looking over at you in a certain way walk out into the street to catch some air and the window of a slowing car slides down who wouldn't be scared. The world was full of them, God knows, it wasn't just the pages of her books. Sociopaths.
Psychopaths. Whoever was writing those letters wasn't Dear Abbey.
But admitting it to Prank, that was something else. The way it had become between them, everything was a statement of strength, not of weakness, neediness. It wasn't in her nature to be the one to back off.
"It's why you're here, isn't it?" Cathy said.
"Reason you changed your mind, flew over. Look out for me. Protect me." She made protect sound like a dirty word.
Frank was having trouble with the knot of his tie.
"And if it is?"
"You needn't have bothered. They've got professionals for that."
Resnick arrived at the hotel later than he'd intended and Mollie Hansen was already waiting on one of the leather settees in the foyer, her duty to escort Cathy Jordan and her husband to the reception. David Tyrell had claimed the task of collecting Curtis Wooife, who had flown in earlier in the day from Switzerland, which was where he now lived. The third major guest, the octogenarian British crime novelist, Dorothy Birdwell, was being driven directly to the reception by her assistant.
Mollie, Resnick thought, was looking decidedly smart, rising to greet him in a loose-fitting pearl trouser suit which might have been silk.
Something held him back from making the compliment out loud, a sense that, to Mollie, that kind of remark would be less than acceptable.
"Nice tie," Mollie said, with a little nod.
"Interesting design. Paul Smith?"
"Spaghetti vongole."
To his surprise, Mollie laughed and Resnick grinned back.
"What happened," he asked, 'when you showed her the letter? "
"Oh, for a minute or two, I thought she was going to throw a wobbly, but then she just laughed and told me for all it was worth, I might as well tear it up. That was when I told her about you."
Before Resnick could reply, the lift doors opened and Cathy Jordan appeared in an ankle-length, off-white dress from beneath the hem of which poked the toes of her boots.
Mollie moved quickly to meet her.
"Is there time," Cathy Jordan asked, after Resnick had been introduced, 'for the inspector and me to have a chat? "
Sure," Mollie said.
"I think so."
"Great!" Cathy said, appropriating Resnick's arm. "Why don't we go to the bar?"
Perched on a stool, Cathy Jordan asked Resnick to recommend a single malt and, although it wasn't really his drink, after a quick glance along the bar he came up with Highland Park.
"Two large ones," Cathy said. And to Resnick,
"Ice?"
He shook his head.
"One as it comes," she said to the barman, 'one with lots of ice.
That's L-O-T-S. " Turning towards Resnick. she made a face.
"What is it with this country? Is ice still rationed?"
He smiled.
"We're a moderate people. Maybe we don't like too much of anything."
"That include crime?"
"Not necessarily."
"Violent crime?"
"Well, we don't have guns on the streets…" He corrected himself.
"At least, not as many as you."
"But you're getting there."
"Maybe." He said it with regret. He knew it wasn't only the more publicised areas of the country Brixton, Moss Side where weapons were increasingly easy to obtain, increasingly likely to be used.
There were estates there in the city where firearms were heard being discharged far more frequently than gunshot wounds were ever reported. He didn't imagine their aim was always less than true.
Cathy clinked her glass against his.
"Cheers."
"Cheers," Resnick said. And then,
"Miss Jordan, about this latest letter…"
"Cathy," she said.
"For God's sake, call me Cathy. And as for the letter, it's a crock, just like all the rest. Some scuzzbag shut off in a sweaty room, only way he knows of getting off, you know what I mean?"
Resnick (brought that he might.
"Then you've no worries about security?" he said, after tasting a little of the malt.
Cathy rattled the ice cubes around a little inside her glass.
"I'm in a strange country, right. It wouldn't hurt to have someone watching my back."
"All right. Mollie's given me a copy of your schedule. Maybe we could go over it and see which events you're most concerned about?"
"Sure," said Cathy, but then became aware of Mollie Hansen hovering with intent and drained her glass in a double swallow.
"Gotta go.
Look, couldn't we meet tomorrow? Go through things like you said?
Resnick got to his feet.
"Of course."
"Good. We Americans are big on breakfast meetings, you know."
"Here?"
"Half eight, how's that sound?"
Pine. "
"Good." And Mollie steered Cathy Jordan away towards their waiting car, while Resnick sat back oh the stool and nursed his way down the rest of his Highland Park.
Art Tatum and Ben Webster: they did it for him every time. Resnick lowered the stylus with care and watched as it slid into the groove; listened, standing there, as Tatum played his practised, ornate way through the first chorus of the tune, tightening the rhythm at the beginning of the middle eight, before stepping aside with a simple little single-note figure, falling away beneath the glorious saxophone smear of Webster's arrival. Resnick turned up the volume and wandered through into the kitchen: coffee was pumping softly inside the silver pot on the stove. He set a match to the gas on the grill, sliced dark rye bread and put it to toast. Cream cheese, not too much pickled cucumber, smoked salmon. While none of the other cats were looking, he sneaked Bud a small piece of the salmon. Some days he liked to drink his coffee, rich and dark, from one of a pair of white china mugs, and this was one of those.