Twenty-five
“He attacked you, is that what you’re saying?”
“Not attacked, no. That’s too strong a word.”
“Well, what then?”
“He grabbed hold of me. Here. My arm, wrist. That’s all it was.”
“Assault, that’s what it was.”
“God, Charlie …”
“What?”
“When I told you what he’d done to Jane, it was as though it hardly mattered at all. Now because this has happened to me you’re taking it so seriously.”
“Of course I am. What else did you expect?”
Sliding her fingers between his, she leaned forward against him, her face smooth against the breadth of his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said. Rarely, if ever, had she seen him show so much anger.
Hannah had arrived at Resnick’s house early, dressed for school, her reddish hair swept tidily back from her face. Only when chunks of dubious-looking meat and jelly had been forked into the four cats’ bowls, coffee brewed and toast made, had she told him of Alex’s visit the night before.
Resnick listened carefully and then made her go through the whole thing again. This time he was calmer, more under control.
“I think he’s worried, Charlie, genuinely worried. All that business, tears and everything, of course I could be wrong, but I don’t think he was acting.”
“Then you’ve changed your mind? The other day, what you seemed to be suggesting was that he’d done something to her. Alex. Harmed her in some way. Now you’re less certain?”
Hannah eased her chair away from the table and immediately Miles sprang up into her lap. Only a month ago, she would have pushed him away. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said.
Resnick got up and fetched the coffee pot, topping up his own cup and Hannah’s as well.
“What I think is,” Hannah said, “he’s so used to being in control, the minute he loses it, he just doesn’t know what to do. So he lashes out, uses force.” She glanced again at the purple finger marks on her arm. “And he’s strong, Charlie. He really is.”
Hannah was reaching for her coat, Resnick piling the pots into the sink, when the phone rang.
“Charlie? Brian Findley. This girl, Charlie. The canal. The one you were interested in.”
“Go on.”
“Australian was right. Well, Tasmanian. All part of the same thing nowadays, I dare say.”
Hannah was standing anxiously in the doorway and Resnick gestured to show that no, it was nothing to do with Jane, no news good or bad.
“Miranda Conway,” Findley continued, “that’s her name. Twenty-one. Dental charts confirmed the identification. Her parents are flying over now, though it’s not clear what we can do about releasing the body. Anyway, thought you’d like to know. And Charlie …”
“Yes.”
“About your Serious Crimes post-right, wasn’t I? That Siddons woman.” Findley laughed. “Well out of it, mate, that’s my way of thinking. My DCI may be a prick, but at least he’s got one.”
By shortly after half past nine, they were gathered in the CID office: Kevin Naylor in brown cords and a blue cotton shirt, tie loosened at the neck, top button undone; Carl Vincent, sitting across from him with a can of Diet Coke in his hand, wearing a gracefully crumpled linen suit and a white poplin shirt that had come all the way from India via Wealth of Nations; Lynn Kellogg’s top was maroon, her skirt a serviceable black and not so tight as to make it difficult for her to run if the occasion demanded; off to one side, Millington sat hunched at a desktop, the jacket of his St. Michael suit folded alongside. Resnick’s own suits had for the most part been custom-made by a tailor-uncle, according to patterns fashionable in Krakow circa 1939, broad-lapelled, double-breasted, and, fortunately, generous in cut; they had been in and out of fashion countless times and this one would have been fashionable still, were it not for the irremovable stain of paprika goulash and the presence of a safety pin which prevented-just-the striped lining falling down below the cuff.
“First things first,” Resnick said. “It’s been confirmed Lynn’s taking up her promotion as sergeant within the Serious Crime Squad, where she’ll be working under DCI Siddons. She starts at the end of the week.”
Vincent and Millington applauded, while Naylor looked on, his pleasure for her tinged with envy. Little more than a year ahead of him in service and he had still to sit for his boards, never mind pass.
“I know we’re all pleased, Lynn, a promotion long overdue, but that doesn’t mean we won’t miss having you around. Right now especially.” At which Lynn, feeling herself beginning to blush, turned away at her desk and sent a set of papers skimming to the floor, causing her to blush more deeply still.
“The second thing,” Resnick went on, no longer looking directly at Lynn, sharing a little of her embarrassment, “is Mark. I don’t know how long it is since any of you have seen him, but I spent some time with him the other day and he was in a bad way. It’s a good while yet till he’s up in court and it’s important he holds himself together meantime. So if there’s anything you think you can do-drop round, phone, whatever-now’s the time. Okay?”
Nods and half-spoken promises; each of them had made some attempt at getting close to Mark Divine in the weeks following his attack and each had been rebuffed.
“Right,” Resnick said, “what’s outstanding?”
Millington cleared his throat. “Them post office raids, I’ve got three names now, likely involved. Best information says they’re revving up to try again, Gedling this time out. Must’ve got sick of Beeston.”
“Don’t blame them,” Lynn said acidly. She had spent an uncomfortable six months rooming there before moving into her present flat.
Millington went on, ignoring her. “Liaising through Central. Harry Payne’s got half a dozen from Support Department on standby. Any luck, we’ll take ’em as they leave.”
Resnick nodded and turned his attention to Kevin Naylor, who was fumbling his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, draped across the back of a nearby chair.
“These incidents of arson,” Naylor said, continuing to flick through pages, “one of the blokes involved … Cryer … that’s it, Cryer, John Cryer …”
“Auto theft, isn’t it?” Millington interrupted. “His speciality. The Cryer I’m thinking on? Gone down, oh, twice now.”
“Cryer and this other feller,” Naylor continued, “Benny Bailey …”
“I knew a Ben Bailey,” Vincent chipped in. “Leicester. Credit cards, though, that was his thing.”
Resnick had known a Benny Bailey, too, known of him: a bopper whose first job had been trumpet with Jay McShann. He didn’t suppose that was the same Bailey either.
“Anyway,” Naylor was saying, “seems Cryer and this Bailey had an arrangement, lifting high-end motors, and shipping them across to the continent.”
“Enough to bring them in, Kevin?” Resnick asked.
“Waiting on a fax from the ferry company. Copy of their manifests.”
“Okay, keep me posted. Lynn, what about these warring parties back of Balfour Street?”
“Pretty much calmed down now. Court injunctions helped and getting the eldest youth from the one family shut away on remand’s been no bad thing, either.”
“Good. Have a word with the local uniforms, ask them to keep an eye. Meantime, we’ll be getting an official report today,” Resnick said, “woman gone missing. Jane Peterson. Mid-thirties, teacher at that comprehensive by the Forest. Not been seen since late Saturday afternoon. Husband claims no knowledge of her whereabouts, where she might be. I’ve spoken to him. Relatives, close friends, they’ve all been checked.”
“Boyfriend?” Lynn asked. “Lover?”
“Not as far as we know.”
“What did she take with her?” Vincent asked.
“Pretty much what she was standing up in.”
“Bank account, credit cards?”
“We’re checking that today. There’s a list of colleagues at work needs following up on, another of more casual acquaintances, friends. Lynn, I thought while you’re still here, you might drop by the school. Phone the head first, usual thing.”