“His colleague’s got a nasty cut over his eye. I take it your report will account for how that happened?”
“No problem, sir. Sloman did it.”
“Sloman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Try telling that to Civil Liberties.”
“No, it’s right. What happened, Divine and I walked in on them, well, I had no idea it was going to be that pair, how could I? Course, they knew me straight off from the other business. Sloman panics, turns fast with a cassette deck in his arms, and catches Jilkes smack in the face. He’s down and moaning and Sloman goes for the door like he’s bouncing off the ropes and looking for a knock-down. It was all Divine and I could do to hang on to him. I mean, sir, he may not be in training any more but he’s still a big lad.”
“Talking, though, I understand?”
“Reams of it, sir. Once he’d calmed down in the cells for a bit he couldn’t stop. Sounds like this garage of his has got enough in it to restock Lasky’s.” Millington touched his cheek gingerly. “Tell you what did come out, sir.”
“Yes?”
“All those records that were nicked-you remember, that James Brown. He kept them at his place. Priceless, he says. Original American pressings some of them. Worth a bomb.”
“Don’t forget to see the doctor, Graham.”
“No, sir. Oh, and, sir, there was a call for you.”
“Man?”
“No, sir, female. Name of Chaplin. Said she’d ring back later, either that or she’d catch you at home this evening.”
Resnick turned away quickly but not quickly enough to hide the look of pleasure that had come to his face. The randy old sod! thought Millington. He is having it off after all.
Thirty-Five
The first call came when Rachel was still in the office. Carole had left to accompany a new young worker on a difficult client visit and Rachel was trying to bring the accumulation of papers on her desk down to acceptable proportions.
“Hello, Rachel Chaplin.”
She had a bundle of photocopied articles for filing in her other hand, expectation in her voice because she thought it was probably Resnick getting back to her at last.
“Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“Is that Rachel?”
“Yes, this is Rachel Chaplin. I’m sorry, who is this?” Whoever it was, it wasn’t Charlie. For a moment she remembered him calling her in the middle of a busy meeting, asking her to meet him for a drink.
“I wondered if you were still free tonight, but maybe I’m already too late.”
“Look, what’s going on here? Is this some kind of joke, because…?”
“I understand, you’re already fixed up, is that it?” The voice was low, insinuating, something about it that encouraged Rachel to picture the speaker’s slow leer into the receiver. “Or there’s somebody else there in the office, am I right?”
“No, there’s…” Mouth open, Rachel’s breath caught and stopped.
“You’re tied up, already catered for, I do understand, believe me. No surprise, the way you put yourself across…”
“The way I what?”
“I thought as soon as I read it, this is a woman who knows a lot about marketing…”
“As soon as you read…Read what, for God’s sake? Tell me!”
“In fact if the girl on your switchboard hadn’t said Social Services, that’s the kind of job I would have thought you had.”
Rachel pushed her chair away from the desk, phone gripped so tightly in her hand that her fingers were beginning to ache. “Listen, for the last time, I want you to tell me what you are talking about, because I honestly do not have any idea what is going on. Right?”
“Right. You’re under a lot of pressure now. That’s why you need to unwind, be relaxed. If you’ve got someone to help out tonight, I’ll call again.”
“You…!”
“Hey, Rachel! There’ll be other nights. Lots of them. And you don’t have to worry about the office number any more-I’ll get you at home.”
The connection clicked dead.
Gradually, Rachel became aware that below her hips her body was mostly numb; her chest was cramped. It took her more than a minute to be able to lower the receiver and when she did, her palm slithered with sweat. Slowly, she stood up and rested both hands on the surface of the desk by her fingertips. Rachel stayed there feeling the blood beginning again to flow around her veins.
You’re under a lot of pressure now.
She looked over at Carole’s empty chair, stood for a while at the window, cool of the glass against her forehead.
…as soon as I read it…
She wanted to ring Resnick, but he must be busy otherwise he would have called her himself. Besides, what could he do other than listen sympathetically, and was that what she wanted from him? Or herself? Leaning on him the first time anything went wrong? How could she say, Charlie, this is moving too far too fast, I think we have to back away a little, and, at the same time, Charlie, I need you?
Rachel went back to the telephone, stared at it for some seconds, and finally picked it up.
“Jane, you put a call through to me a short time ago. A man.”
“Yes, Miss Chaplin.”
“He didn’t give you, he didn’t say his name, I suppose?”
“No, Miss Chaplin, I’m sorry.”
“All right, Jane, and thanks. Oh, look, I know it’s not policy, but there’s no chance you gave him an outside number for me?”
“No, Miss Chaplin. You know we never give out home numbers to clients.”
“I know, but did he ask?”
“No, Miss Chaplin.”
“Thanks, Jane. I’m leaving soon, so no more calls, okay?”
But when she replaced the phone, Rachel continued to sit there, hearing the voice, over and over, something in it laughing at her, teasing, and something else, some quality of speech that she could not define yet which kept prompting her memory.
If you’ve got someone to help out tonight, I’ll call again.
“CID. Resnick.”
Why was it there was invariably a call just as you were about to go off shift?
“Yes, I know her. Yes.”
He had been leaning sideways in his chair, one knee resting against the edge of the desk, but now, instantly, he was straight and alert, free hand prising the top from a pen as he listened.
“Yes, understood,” Resnick said. And then: “How serious?”
His mouth tightened and, for a moment, still listening, he squeezed the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed.
“Is she…can she talk? I mean…Got it. Yes, I’ll be right there. Ten minutes, fifteen at most. Thanks.”
He dropped the receiver back on to its cradle, grabbed his coat from the back of the door. Lynn Kellogg was typing up the report of an interrogation she’d been involved in that afternoon, each laborious page initialed and signed.
“Lynn!”
“Sir?” she answered, getting to her feet.
“City Hospital. Intensive Care. Let’s go.”
Carole’s car was not outside, so she obviously hadn’t got back from her visit as early as she’d hoped. Rachel had wanted to talk to her, but the prospect of taking a drink and soaking in a hot bath appealed to her almost as much.
The phone was already ringing when she slipped her key into the lock. Against logic, the back of her throat went dry. Shutting the door, she bolted it. Stupid! What was she getting so paranoid about? Sliding back the bolt, she settled for the chain instead, then smiled at herself. Good old liberal half-measures!
At the far end of the hall, the telephone was mounted on a bracket, a small hessian-covered pinboard beside it, a pad on a circular table below, pencils and biros in a hollow donkey marked “A present from Skegness.” A joke, Carole had explained.
Rachel stared: whoever it is; they can’t ring for ever.
Carole, Charlie, whoever it is.
When she had steeled herself to answer it regardless, the tone stopped and the suddenness of the silence shocked her. The house was so quiet. Rachel checked in the kitchen and the living room and she was right, Carole didn’t have any vodka. Well, okay then, a large gin and tonic with ice and a slice of slightly decaying lemon, and maybe she could start to unwind, relax. Rachel made her drink and then hurried upstairs to run the bath. Five minutes later she had perched the glass between bottles of shampoo and conditioner, dropped her clothes on the chair by the door, and lowered herself into foaming, hot water, steam already beginning to frizzle the ends of her dark hair.