Police used water cannon, CS gas, and plastic bullets to quell the disturbances. And Ben Riley applied to the American Embassy for his visa.
The fag end of July, Resnick, with four days’ leave and time hanging wide on his hands, bought white gloss paint and set to work on the skirting boards in the unoccupied top bedroom.
The first time Elaine came up the stairs she brought biscuits and a mug of tea; the second she stood, arms folded, and said: “Charlie, we need to talk. Charlie, I want a divorce.”
Thirty-Five
1992
“Pam Van Allen?” people would say. “What kind of a name is that?”
“My husband’s.”
“Your husband’s called Pam?” same old jokes.
Either that, or it was assumed she’d got herself married to a Dutchman, like, you know, that detective on television.
Truth to tell, his name had been one of the most attractive things about him, just the right amount of seriousness and mystery; so much more interesting than her own name, the one she’d be born with, born into, which was Gold. Pam Gold: it didn’t exactly have a ring to it. It made her sound, Pam thought, like the wife of a dentist or a lawyer or a psychotherapist, spending her days listlessly shopping for things she already had.
All right, she knew that was a stereotype.
But that was the way people thought. If she weren’t careful, she caught herself falling into the same trap-despite the fact that her dentist was called Adams and the lawyer she’d consulted about the divorce had been Mitchell of Haywood, Turner, and Mitchell. She had never, knowingly, met a psychotherapist. Though her husband had suggested it on numerous occasions towards the end of their five-year marriage.
Five years, two months, thirteen days. After the usual healthy mudslinging, she’d walked away with fifty percent of the resale value of the house and its contents and her husband’s name.
“It doesn’t make sense,” her friends at work said, disappointed. “All that’s over. You should go back to who you really are.”
But Pamela Van Allen was who she felt she was; it didn’t make her think of him at all. Little did. Dandruff and Mastermind and pee stains round the toilet bowl. And Pam Gold was a stranger who had once bopped around to Paul McCartney and 1 °CC, believed in silly love songs and the things we do for love.
Pam Van Allen was a probation officer in the city, thirty-five years old, six years’ experience, responsible single woman with a responsible job, showing her identification as she slowed to a stop at the prison gates.
She had worked out a strategy for visits like these. Next to no makeup, just a touch around the eyes, loose cotton jumper under a check wool jacket, plain skirt, three-quarter length. Female, but not flaunting it, no kind of a come-on; clearly feminine, not a dyke. Careful about gesturing with the hands, crossing legs, being over-generous with the smiles. Know what you wanted to say, questions you had to ask. Firm, not overfriendly, but all the same, what you wanted was their trust.
The first doors rang shut behind her and an internal clock automatically switched on, counting the minutes till she would walk back out again. The man she was going to see had been imprisoned for a decade of his life.
Since that night he’d last called on Rylands and they had talked about the prospect of Prior being released, Resnick had tried to push it to the back of his mind. With the burglary rate taking a steep hike and a spate of quick and savage underpass muggings, that wasn’t so difficult. And, of course, the investigation into the highly organized series of armed robberies was, as the phrase went, ongoing. In this connection, Divine had taken to flexing his muscles at a health club in the Lace Market, swopping confidences afterwards with a pair of likely lads who seemed to have more disposable cash than four nights a week as club bouncers would account for. Graham Millington was doing his drinking in Sneinton, hobnobbing with a snout who’d put some good tips his way in the past and just might be about to do so again if the price was right.
The atmosphere in the CID room was tense, simmering, waiting, if not to explode, at least to let off a head of steam. The workmen had finally got the central heating system working again, floor boards had been replaced, furniture dragged from corridors and odd corners; Resnick had his office back to himself. Space to think, plan, enjoy a deli sandwich without being looked at askance. He was polishing off a salami and gorgonzola on light rye when the phone rang.
“Resnick. CID.”
“Neil Park.”
Neil was a senior probation officer, a fair-weather County fan, a man whom Resnick trusted and might have liked had not the ambivalent relationship between the police and the probation service stood between them.
“You were interested in who’s been assigned to Prior.”
Resnick waited.
“Pam Van Allen. D’you know her?”
Resnick had an unclear picture of a woman in her midthirties, not tall, darkish hair-not worn long, he remembered, cut quite close to her head. “I think so,” Resnick said. “Who she is, anyway. I don’t recall speaking to her.”
“She’s good,” Neil Park said. “Reliable. Doesn’t take any pushing around.”
“Will she talk to me?”
A hesitation at the end of the line, longer than Resnick liked.
“She might.”
“But you’ll not suggest that she does?”
“That’s right.”
Thanks a lot, Resnick thought. “Didn’t see much of you this season,” he said.
Neil Park laughed. “Work’s bad enough without suffering on my day off and paying for the pleasure.”
Resnick thanked him and rang off. Twenty minutes later, shuffling through the past few days of incident reports, he remembered that Pam Van Allen’s hair wasn’t really dark at alclass="underline" it was that shade of gray that in some lights looks almost silver.
What must he had been thinking of?
Prior hadn’t reacted to her name. Sat there and answered her questions, briefly, not impolitely, never avoiding her eye. His face was sallow, lines curved from his mouth, his cheeks were lightly sunken in. The accent wasn’t local, Pam thought. Oh, there was an overlay, words and phrases; but below all of that it was harsh, southern, London or close.
“You appreciate it’ll be difficult,” she said. “Readjusting.”
He glanced up at her quickly, keeping his head angled down. It was almost mischievous, that look wrinkling his eyes.
Pam hurried on. “Being in here, it’s hard not to get …”
“Institutionalized.”
“Yes.”
He spread one hand upon the table, the other resting, loosely clenched, upon his knee. “You’ll help me.”
She nodded. “Yes. As far as I can.” The room was suddenly small and short of air. Sweat ran in a single line along Prior’s face, running from his short hair to his close-shaven chin. “Certainly, we’ll find you somewhere to live. At first. While you get sorted.”
“Somewhere?”
“A hostel. A place in a hostel, that’s the most likely.”
Prior looked round at the walls. “I thought I was getting out? Released.”
“On parole.”
“’Course.”
“The hostel,” Pam said, “it probably won’t be as bad as you think. Not too many rules. Only common sense. Anyway …” Was that her perspiration she could smell or his? “… it’s only temporary.”
“You said.”
“While you find your feet.”
“Yes.”
“Find work.”
Almost lazily, Prior shifted position, leaning one shoulder towards her. “You’ll help with that too.”
“Of course. Yes. As far as we can. There are contacts we’ve built up and if they don’t pan out, there are workshop places. Retraining. Learning new skills.”
Prior fixed her with his gaze. “Sounds great. Can’t wait.”