Not knowing what to say, Resnick said nothing. “Get to bed, Charlie,” Ben Riley said. “Maybe see you first thing? Breakfast, eh?”
“Maybe,” Resnick said and rung off.
There was a half inch of coffee cold in the bottom of the cup and he tipped enough Bell’s into it to make it half full. Drank it standing at the foot of the stairs. At the bedroom door he listened to the sound of Elaine’s breathing and knew that she was deep in sleep. In the bathroom, he switched on the shower and stood under it for a long time, head bowed. Then went to bed.
Thirty-One
“Chancy business, Charlie. Can’t say it’s the way I’d have played it.”
“No, sir.”
Skelton was in the midst of compiling the duty roster, colored pins and stickers strategically placed at the four corners of his desk, each ready to be slotted into place. He reminded Resnick of those elderly men at the BR Travel Centre, just aching to be asked the quickest way to get from Melton Mowbray to Mevagissey on a Sunday, calling at Wolverhampton and Weston-super-Mare on the way.
“Conspiring to provide a known villain with an illegal weapon, that’s the way the courts might see it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still, now it’s set in motion, best let it play itself out. But I want a close eye kept, Charlie, understood? A close eye.”
Resnick turned towards the door.
“Can’t remember, Charlie-squash, that your game or not?”
“Not exactly,” Resnick said.
Skelton nodded. “Bit of difficulty finding partners.” His gaze drifted down in the direction of Resnick’s gently spreading stomach. “Could do a lot worse than give it a thought. Getting to the age when it pays to look out for these things-health, fitness-doesn’t pay to let them slide.”
Resnick gave it some thought while he was enjoying a smoked ham and brie sandwich, light on the mustard, heavy on the mayonnaise. That and other things. Brushing his fingers free of crumbs, he crumpled up the empty bag and dropped it in one of the black and gold litter bins around the square. Time to do a little more house hunting, he thought, crossing towards the old post office building dividing King and Queen streets.
The young woman at the first desk had a complexion like sour milk. “Oh, that would be our Mr Gallagher,” she said in response to Resnick’s inquiry. “He’s just stepped out of the office for a moment. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Resnick was in the middle of declining when the bell above the door sounded and Gallagher returned, different suit today, a charcoal gray. He had the early edition of the local paper under one arm, a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut, and a packet of twenty Benson Kingsize in his hand. He handed the chocolate to the young woman and slipped the cigarettes into his own pocket. He seemed to recognize Resnick, but not the exact connection.
“Richmond Drive,” Resnick prompted him.
“Ah, yes, of course. You’re interested then?”
Resnick nodded.
“Good, good. Not been on the market for long and already we’ve had a lot of interest.”
“It is empty, though? Vacant possession?”
“Oh, yes. People that lived there moved abroad. France, I seem to remember.” He gave Resnick a professional smile. “Do you have somewhere to sell?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we can help you there. Handle both ends. But first things first …” He reached for a leather-bound appointment book. “You’ll want to view the property.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“But surely you can’t …”
“My wife’s already been round the house.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, you didn’t say. I …”
“Yes. Matter of fact, you showed her round yourself.”
Gallagher was thumbing back in his book. “I don’t remember …”
“Well,” Resnick said, a pace closer, “I’m sure you do a lot of that kind of thing.”
Gallagher glanced up with a quick, uncertain smile; he was still turning, back and forth, from page to page. “I’m afraid I still don’t …”
“Probably no reason you should. My wife, come to think of it, she didn’t have a lot to say about it either.”
“If I could have the name?” Gallagher said.
“Oh, Resnick. Mrs Resnick. Elaine.”
The appointment book slipped from his hand and he caught at it, steadying it against his body at the second attempt. Much of the color seemed to have left his face. He made a guttural, stuttering sound that never threatened to become real words.
“If there’s anything else,” Resnick said, “you can get in touch at the station. I expect Elaine mentioned I’m a policeman. Detective sergeant. CID.”
“What the hell were you doing, Charlie?”
Elaine had been waiting for Resnick the moment he turned the key in the front door; not waylaying him exactly, but there at the center of the hall, close to the foot of the stairs. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might have had a drink or two to steady her resolve.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
He gave her a what-do-you-think? look and made to go past her into the kitchen.
“No, Charlie. No, you don’t. We’re having this out, here and now.”
He tried again and physically she blocked him, pushing her hands against his arms. “Talk to me, Charlie. Talk.”
He looked into her face. “I don’t think I’ve anything to say.”
“Really?” Head to one side, sarcastic. “You surprise me.”
“I’d like to think you’d surprised me.”
She hit him, fast and unthinking, her open hand smack across his cheek, the edge of her ring catching his lip. When he moved his tongue, Resnick could taste blood.
He walked around her and this time she made no attempt to stop him. Resnick got as far as the back door and realized he didn’t know what he was doing there.
“Running out again, Charlie? Another football match to go and see?”
He turned to face her. The anger had scarcely diminished in her eyes.
“You went into where he worked and threatened him.”
“He?”
“Philip.”
So: Philip Gallagher. Phil. “I didn’t threaten him.”
“No? Well that was certainly the way it felt to him. I’m a police officer. Sergeant in the CID. Christ, it’s like a bad film.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Not on your social calendar too much these days. Films. Nor a lot else, for that matter. Forgetting the football, of course. Late-night drinking, no danger of forgetting that.” She laughed, shrill and short and bitter. “We used to go to the pictures, Charlie, I don’t know if you remember. Cinema. Dancing. Even the theater once or twice, although you did have a tendency to fall asleep after the interval. Still-used to do a lot once upon a time, you and me.”
“Why do I think this is turning into some kind of an attack on me?”
“Is it? Maybe because that’s the way you feel. Catholic guilt, Charlie. All that stuff you thought you’d disowned.”
Resnick leaned away from the door. “I should’ve thought if there was any guilt around …”
“I should have the monopoly?”
“You were the one sneaking off in her lunch hour.”
“Sneaking off?”
“Making love to another man.”
The bottle that she’d opened was close to where she was standing and she poured herself another glass of wine. The bottle was nearly empty. “We weren’t making love, Charlie, Philip and I. What we were doing was fucking. There’s a big difference.” Slowly, she carried her glass of wine towards him. “What you and I do-used to do-that was making love. Tender, Charlie. Careful. Solicitous. What we do, myself and Philip, other people’s beds, we fuck!”
He swung his arm and she saw it coming, trying to block him and not quite succeeding, the heel of his hand catching her at the front of the left temple, alongside the eye. The glass she had been holding shattered against the floor. Elaine stumbled backwards, the worktop saving her from falling.
Resnick moved towards her, arms outstretched, apologizing; instead of flinching, she lifted her face towards him, daring him to strike her again. Resnick wrenched the back door open and slammed it behind him, unable to see where he was running, half-blinded by the tears of shame and anger in his eyes.