Resnick smiled. “I’ve got a sergeant who’s a bit like that.”
Vivien drank some more of her vodka. “I’m sorry about this afternoon. That’s why I wanted to see you. Apologize.”
“No need.”
“You were angry.”
“I was disappointed.”
“Do you think he’s the one? I mean, do you think he’s responsible, whatever’s happened to the girl?”
“Who?”
“Number three.”
A little of Resnick’s beer spilled over his hand, began to drip towards the floor. “You did recognize him.”
“No. I didn’t. Not really. Otherwise I would have said.”
“Then what did you mean, number three?”
“Well …” more vodka “… he was the one who looked like the man I saw the most, no doubting that.”
“Then I don’t see why …”
“Yes, you do. I had to be positive. I had to be prepared to go into court …”
“Not necessarily.”
“But quite probably. And say, under oath, that was the man. What use, if all I could say was well, I think it was, or it might have been?”
Resnick sighed and supped some beer. To his left one of the party had taken out her snapshots of Barcelona and was passing them round.
“You’re telling me now.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Will you arrest him because of what I’m telling you now?”
“Probably not.”
“And if I’d picked him out this afternoon?”
Resnick looked across the room. “More than likely.”
Vivien drained her glass. “Besides,” she said, “it’s not exactly a fair system.”
“Why ever not?”
“The perspiration coming off that man this afternoon, he was scared half out of his wits. None of the others was anything but bored.”
Resnick finished his beer. “Another?” he said, expecting her to say no. But she handed him her glass and let him shoulder his way through to the bar to buy a second round. Maybe that was one of the things about women and utopias? Men waiting on them hand and foot, always sodding off to pay for the drinks.
Her flat was high up in one of those vast Victorian houses near the city center, dormer windows pushing out from the shallow slope of roof. The main room she had painted white, tall walls without decoration save for pictures no more than postcard size, black and white photographs or etchings, each mounted inside a considerably larger frame.
“My colleagues laugh at me,” Vivien said. “Accuse me of trying to re-create Canada right here at home.”
Resnick had been surprised when she had suggested he called in for coffee; from her expression, she was almost equally surprised when he accepted. As it turned out, she hadn’t brought her car. “I thought I might get you to drive me home,” she said, “sooner or later.”
She put on some music, a woman singing something classical, but low enough that it didn’t matter. There were fewer books than Resnick had anticipated and those were scattered in half-neat piles around the floor. A round table beneath the window was covered in piles of papers, photocopied articles, magazines. Aside from a low two-seater settee, the only chairs were wood and canvas, painted black. The television, if there was one, Resnick guessed to be in the bedroom; he wondered if that room were as austere.
Coffee came in tall, narrow cups, black on the outside, white within.
“Milk or sugar?”
Resnick shook his head.
Vivien sat opposite him on the settee, legs pulled up beneath her skirt. “Nobody you should be rushing back to?” she asked.
Only the cats, smacked of self-pity. “No,” Resnick said.
“Isn’t there some kind of appalling statistic about the number of police marriages which end in divorce?”
“Is there?”
She could tell from the sharpness of his voice that she’d started down the wrong track, but retreat wasn’t a tactic she was used to employing. “You were married?”
“A long time ago.”
“Long enough to have children?”
His face said it all. No need for words and Resnick was staring back across the room at her, not saying a thing. He finished his coffee and stood up. Was he angrier with her for asking or himself for getting so instantly, so irreversibly upset?
“Look,” Vivien said, “it’s meeting people in classes, tutorials, some weeks I swear it’s the only talking I do. It gets you out of practice for normal conversation.”
“That’s all right,” Resnick said. “It’s probably good for me to be on the other side of an interrogation for a change.”
“Is that really what it was?”
“Why don’t we just forget about it?” he said, leaving Vivien standing there, a coffee cup and saucer in either hand.
Forty
“I went to see the Morrisons yesterday afternoon.”
Stephen’s spoon hovered short of his mouth, Joan behind him, close to his right shoulder, still warm from her bath, wearing her dressing gown.
“After school. The father wasn’t there, but the mother, I talked to the mother, told her how upset I was, we all were, at the school. Not her mother, really, stepmother, but even so.” She passed in front of Stephen, reaching for the cereal packet on the shelf. “The dreadful time that young woman’s been going through. She didn’t seem to be able to stop crying. Terrible.”
Stephen, head bowed, carried on chewing his prunes.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been, Stephen …”
“Me? Why should I …?”
“It’s not as though you didn’t know Emily …”
“I suppose I knew who she was …”
“I always thought she was one of your favorites.”
Stephen staring at her now, not eating, breakfast forgotten.
“One of the ones you always made a point of talking to. Well, she was certainly a pretty girl, everyone said. I mean, you weren’t alone in noticing that.”
Stephen twisted round on his chair. What did she think she was playing at, sitting there with her bowl of Fruit and Fiber, chattering on, matter-of-fact?
“You should go, Stephen. Why not this morning? I’ve got one or two little bits of shopping to do, you could go then. Walk over, if you didn’t want to take the car. It’s not far, the other side of Gregory Street; but I keep forgetting, you know that.”
Without his meaning it to, one of Stephen’s hands jerked out, overturning his bowl, prune stones and juice across the Formica-covered table, spoon skittering to the linoleum-covered floor.
“A nice house, where the Morrisons live, garden front and back. Quite a view of the rear garden from the road, lawn mostly; I suppose with both of the parents working they don’t have a great deal of time to do much else. And besides, it must make a lovely space for Emily to play.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. “Don’t you think so, Stephen?”
Stephen was running water at the sink, fidgeting cutlery through his hands, spoons, forks, knives. A dribble of sweat ran from his eyebrow into the corner of his eye.
“So much nicer for Emily than anywhere that other poor little soul had to play. Aside from the rec, of course. I always wonder, don’t you, Stephen, what they can get up to, cooped up in one of those tall flats with only a balcony to run along? Balcony and, I suppose, the stairs.”
A spiral of blood ribboned up from where the tine of the fork had pierced Stephen’s thumb, staining the water pink.
“What was her name, Stephen? You remember, that pretty blond child? The one you were so taken with.”
But Stephen was no longer there to answer. Door slam after door slam and finally the bolt inside the cellar work room being drawn across. Joan Shepperd drained the soiled water from the sink and ran new, never liking to get on with the rest of the day before the breakfast things were washed and stacked away. Gloria, that was right, Gloria Summers. She had known all along.
Since the new greengrocer’s had opened where the butcher’s used to be, Joan Shepperd seldom bothered to shop further afield in the week. With three Asian shops, each staying open late into the evening, it was always possible to pop back out for anything she might have forgotten. This morning it was tomatoes, a pound of apples, easier now it was all right to buy South African, orange juice, a book of stamps from the post office, second class. She couldn’t believe that she was feeling this calm. Lying awake in the night, listening to Stephen, his even breathing beside her, undisturbed, sleeping the sleep of the just. Lorraine Morrison’s face, her tears. She had to wait for the telephone, two kiosks but only one of them functioning, nothing new. “Hello,” she said, connected, “I’d like to speak to a Detective Constable Kellogg. Yes, that’s right, Lynn.”