“I’d offer twelve, wait for you to come back seventeen and a half, hope against hope to settle for fifteen. Then start to worry about finding it.”
“He can sell the car, talk to his bank manager, cash in an insurance policy, that’s what he can do,” Grabianski said. “I think he can find the fifteen.”
“I hope so. Sitting here with a kilo of cocaine isn’t good for my nerves.”
“You don’t have any.”
“Correction: didn’t.”
“Don’t worry. He’s half as scared as she says he is, he’ll pay up.”
Grice’s stomach made a low rumbling sound, like a bowling ball being rolled slowly along wooden boards.
Grabianski glanced over at the soup and sardines. “We going out to eat?”
“Later.”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“You’re not the only one with things to do.”
“Where this time? Studio Heaven or the Restless Palms?”
“I’ve got to see a man about some property.”
“Renting or buying?”
“Burgling.”
“Want me to come along?”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll leave it to you. Take a bath.”
“Okay. Why don’t you meet me in the Albany bar? We can have a couple of drinks, go up to the Carvery.”
“The drinks are fine. Let’s eat somewhere else.”
Grice shrugged: okay.
“What I really fancy,” said Grabianski, “is a good Chinese.”
Fourteen
There were two tramps who roamed the city, both of them big, belligerent men whose clothing flapped away in shreds and patches. When they cursed, most people looked the other way and laughed or tutted. Scarce a day he was on duty, Resnick didn’t pass either of them, both: so visible it was easy to think they were the only ones. Never mind the centers for the homeless, the hostels, bed-and-breakfast families in the disinfected smell of small hotels, the squats; the city council’s plans to build no council houses in the coming year. He tried to remember when he had first been stopped by a young man, hand out-thrust, begging-343 jobs in today’s paper, the placards had read. Why don’t you clean yourself up a bit, Resnick had thought, get yourself one of those? “Spare change,” the man had said. “Cup of tea.” Resnick had made the mistake of looking at his face, the eyes; he doubted if he had been eighteen. “Here.” A pound coin, small, into the cold of the young man’s palm. Now there were more of them, more each day. And still 343 jobs in the paper: audiotypists, VDU skills, computer operators, clerical assistants, lockstitch machinists (part-time).
He indicated, slowed, locked the car and left it at the curb. How many security firms had Millington said there were? Enough to fill half a dozen yellow pages. A lot of people with a lot to lock away, defend. Every Englishman’s right. Put it in bricks and mortar, wasn’t that the saying? Every Englishman’s home his castle. Lloyd Fossey with his electronic moats and drawbridges, television scanners, remote-control.
Safe as houses: another saying.
He turned the key in the lock and as he did so his breath caught and held. Someone was already inside the house.
Resnick stepped into the hall, soft; eased the door back against the jamb, not closed; the keys he slipped into his side pocket. Listening, he wondered what had alerted him, wondered if he had been wrong, imagination conjuring games for him to play. No. Water dripping on to plastic, the bowl in the kitchen sink, the washer he was always meaning to renew. Not that. Where were the cats who should have padded out to greet him, pushing their heads against his feet?
They were in the kitchen, four of them, heads dipped towards their bowls, feeding. What else would have kept them so occupied? Claire Millinder was wearing a different sweater, blue-gray with puffy white sheep grazing across it, the same short skirt over today’s mauve tights, same red boots. She stood watching the cats, can-opener in her hand.
“Hallo.”
The opener flew from her fingers as she turned, one bowl was kicked against another, milk spilt; Pepper jumped inside the nearest saucepan, Miles hissed and sprang on to the tiles beside the oven, Bud cowered in a corner while Dizzy, undeterred, finished his own portion and started on another.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That was the idea.”
Claire stared at him, waiting for her breathing to steady back to normal. Give me his measurements and several hundred pounds, she thought, there’s a lot I could do for the way he looks.
“You thought I was a burglar,” she said.
“I thought you were my wife.”
Resnick coaxed Pepper out of hiding, nuzzled the scrawny Bud behind the ears, the animal’s heart still pumping against its delicate ribs; he dropped handfuls of beans into the coffee-grinder, shiny and dark.
“You’re at home here, aren’t you?”
“This house?”
“The kitchen.”
Resnick took two-thirds of a rye loaf from inside a plastic bag, margarine from the refrigerator. “How about a sandwich?”
“Most men I’ve come across, even the ones who are good at it, good cooks, they never seem really comfortable with what they’re doing. Like it’s some kind of challenge. All those ingredients lined up in order to use; lists of times stuck over the cooker like something from an organization-and-methods seminar.” Claire shook her head dismissively. “It’s not natural.”
“A sandwich?”
“Sure.”
Sandwiches, in Claire Millinder’s experience, were neat slices of wholemeal bread pressed around cheese rectangles or turkey breast, augmentations of tasteless salad and a smear of low-calorie mayonnaise. For Resnick, they were more satisfying on every leveclass="underline" two major ingredients whose flavors were contrasting but complementary, sharp and soft, sweet and sour, a mustard or chutney to bind them, but with the taste all its own, finally a fruit, unforced tomato, thin slices of Cox or Granny Smith.
“May I use your phone?”
“Through there and on the left, help yourself.”
She was finishing the call when Resnick came into the room, two mugs in one hand, plates balanced on the other.
“God! When you said a sandwich, I wasn’t expecting …”
“Here, can you take one of these?”
“Okay, got it.”
“You don’t have to eat it all, you know.”
“No, that’s all right. It looks wonderful.” She eased back into the armchair. “Good job I just canceled my dinner date.”
Resnick looked at her curiously. Tarragon mustard was about to drip over the edge of the plate and automatically he caught it on his finger and placed it on his tongue.
“Steak or scampi with a feller from a building society. All he’ll want to do is talk mortgages and try and smile his way inside my pants. I’m glad for an excuse to be out of it. But not them.”
That’s what I am, thought Resnick: an excuse.
“Sorry.” She tried the coffee. “I didn’t shock you?”
“No.”
“A lot of men, they don’t like women to be outspoken.”
“The same men who cook by numbers?”
She gave him a warm, crooked-toothed smile. “I’ve been mixing with the wrong types, obviously. It’s the job that I do. Everyone expects a commission on everything. It’s all a hustle. No percentage: no sale.”
A car alarm went off somewhere down the street. Miles came across the carpet to sniff the leather of Claire Millinder’s boots and went on his way, disapprovingly. When Rachel had sat there, Resnick remembered, the cats had jumped up into her lap and purred.
“Look, you didn’t mind? I mean, it’s a bit of a cheek, I know …”
“As long as you were here …”
“Not feeding your cats, I didn’t mean that. I meant my still being here when you came home. I should have left with my clients, made sure the house was locked behind me.” She set down her plate on the arm of the chair, crossed one leg over another. “I wanted to snatch some time to myself. I don’t know, it felt good here, sort of … the place I’m living, three or four years old, one of those studio apartments where the bed folds back into the wall and there isn’t room to swing … well, you know what I mean. This is different, a bit shabby, but it’s large, lived-in. You feel that things have happened here.”