"Snap," he said.
"Why don't we go and get a drink?"
The table was chipped Formica, the seats were covered in a dull red patched synthetic, and the television set above the bar was showing music videos, beamed in from somewhere in Europe. Hand-drawn posters on the walls advertised quiz nights, bingo nights and karaoke. Divine sat nursing what was left of a pint of Shipstones, Naylor a half of bitter, Sharon Gamett had drained a small glass of grapefruit juice and said no to another.
They had filled Sharon in on the events of the previous night, asked her if she had heard anything that might be useful, but she could only shake her head in reply.
"The girls you spoke to," Sharon said.
"Any of them come up with anything?"
"Seen and heard sod all," Divine said.
"And likely," Naylor added, 'not to tell us if they had. "
"Then why bother going through the motions?" Sharon asked.
"Because if something happens," Divine said, 'like this bloke in hospital takes a sudden turn for the worse and pops his clogs, or a couple of months down the line there's another incident, similar, maybe proves fatal, then at least we've covered our backsides. "
"And the guy' nor Naylor said.
"Who is your DI?"
"Resnick."
Sharon Gamett smiled, remembering.
"Not a bad bloke. Give him my best."
Divine swallowed down the remainder of his pint. "Don't you get brassed off with Vice?" he asked when they were back on the pavement outside.
"Spending all day chatting up scuzzy tarts and warning off kerb crawlers."
Sharon shook her head.
"Half the rest of the squad, eight hours a day for the past twelve days, watching seven boxes of videos, clocking faces, trying to decide if what they're seeing's simply gross indecency or worse."
"Dunno," Divine grinned.
"Got to be worse ways of earning a living then watching dirty movies and getting paid for it."
Sharon's mouth moved into a rueful smile.
"More than a few of those, I doubt you'd think that way. Even a horny bugger like you!"
Divine grinned, taking it as a compliment. Naylor laughed and thanked her for her time and he and Divine turned right towards where they had parked their car, while Sharon walked across the street to have a word with one of the girls who was loitering there, smoking a cigarette.
"Will you take a look," Divine said, head turned to watch Sharon walk away, 'at the arse on that. " But he was careful to keep his voice low, so there was no danger of her overhearing him.
Lynn Kellogg knocked on Resnick's office door mid- afternoon, just as he was taking a bite out of a smoked chicken, tomato and tarragon mayonnaise baguette. Late 35 lunch. A sliver of chicken slipped out on to his fingers and he ate it as delicately as he could, not noticing the tomato seeds which had sprayed across his tie.
"Our mystery man at the hospital," Lynn said.
Resnick looked at her expectantly.
"He's done a runner."
Resnick lowered the baguette on to the back of an already stained NAPO report and gave a slow shake of the head.
"There was some kind of emergency down at the other end of the ward.
He stole some clothes and walked out without a word. I spoke to the nurse in charge; as long as he keeps the wound clean, changes the dressing, he should be fine. "
"Well," Resnick said, 'one way of looking at it is that it's good news. No victim, no crime. "
"But?" Lynn said.
"If the similarity to that stabbing in March is more than coincidental, we've likely got someone out there with some kind of grudge. Could turn worse before it gets better."
"That incident," Lynn said, 'businessman from out of town, staying at one of the big hotels, wasn't that it? "
Resnick nodded.
"We could have a quick ring round, see if there's any with an outstanding account. I doubt he went back to pay his bill."
"Worth trying," Resnick said.
"See what you can turn up. Oh, and if Mark and Kevin are back…"
But he could already hear Divine's shout and raucous laughter as the two detectives entered the outer office. It didn't take long for them to make their report.
"We could have one last try tonight," Naylor suggested.
Resnick nodded.
"Keep in touch with Vice, let them know you're around."
"Reminds me, boss," Divine said.
"One of theirs this morning, one we spoke to, real looker, Afro-Caribbean." His tongue negotiated the term with exaggerated care, as if stepping across a minefield.
"Wanted to be remembered to you, Sharon Garnett."
A memory flicked across Resnick's face. He had first met Sharon early in the year: a cold January morning, the ground rimed with frost, a body buried in a shallow grave. One of the victims of the man who had held Lynn Kellogg prisoner.
Resnick glanced over towards Lynn's desk, wondering if she might have picked up on the name. But, directory open before her, Lynn was talking intently into the phone.
"All right, Mark," Resnick said.
"Thanks."
Sharon, as she had made clear, was keen to move across to CID; he would have a word with the inspector in Vice, find out how she was settling in, couldn't do any harm.
"D'you know," Millington said later. It was already well past six and Resnick had been considering cutting his losses, calling it a day.
"D'you know, for the price of a seat at the Test, good one, mind you, up behind the bowler's arm, you could see three films at the Showcase, nip into the bowling alley for a couple of games and still have cash left over for Chicken McNuggets and fries."
Resnick was sure he was right.
"You read a bit, don't you. Graham?" he said.
"I like the odd Ken Follett, Tom Clancy. Why d'you ask?"
"Here." He pulled Cathy Jordan's book from his pocket. "Have a go at this. Might just be your kind of thing."
Millington took the book, looked at the cover, shrugged, tossed it on to his desk.
"Thanks. You coming over the road for a quick pint?"
"Another night."
"Suit yourself."
It was the same old routine they went through most 37 evenings. Unless there was a special reason, Resnick preferred to let the team have the bar to themselves. Oh, he'd stop by for a quick Guinness now and again, buy a round and be on his way. Fancied a drink later, he would stroll over to the Polish Club, elbows on the table with a bottle of Czech Budweiser or Pilsner Urquell, listen to the. gossip about who was in hospital, who had died, what Sikorski had said to Churchill in 1941.
Nine Millington didn't stay long in the pub. Somehow he had managed to get himself wedged between Divine, making the usual extravagant claims about his sex life, and one of those ritual bores with a four-hundred thousand-pound house in the Park. Sooner multiple orgasms, he thought, than a voice that spoke from generations of cold showers and good breeding, boring on and on about the way the working class was intent upon undermining the country's manufacturing base.
Millington wanted to tell him we hardly had a manufacturing base any longer, and most of that was due to the government or bad management most likely by people like him. Most of the factories Millington knew that shut their doors never got round to opening them again. To say nothing of the pits. Hell and hullabaloo there'd been above a year back, marchers on the streets and speeches in the Square, whole bloody communities on the dole. Arnold Bennett! It was almost enough to make you vote Labour.
"Another?" Divine tapped his empty glass. Embellishing the story of his night out with a couple from Annesley, mother and daughter, had left Divine with quite a thirst.
"No, you're all right. Off home any minute."
"Come on. Early days yet, just a half."
Millington flattened his palm across the top of his glass and shook his head.