He could tell from her expression that she knew he was lying. ‘I’m afraid Mr. Resnick is rather poorly.’
Morgan stepped into the room. ‘Is he going to have another operation?’
Sister shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Oh good — no need to cancel next Saturday’s football match, then!’
The sister showed no reaction to his joke.
Morgan moved a little closer to the desk. ‘Is he... er, having chemotherapy, then?’
She looked at him properly for the first time. ‘You know what a melanoma is? I would be grateful if you would stick to visiting hours in the future. You’ll see them on the board outside the ward. But since you’re here, I’ll let it go today. You can see Mr. Resnick for a few moments.’ A sad expression crossed her face. ‘He has so few visitors.’
Morgan walked out of the office and closed the door quietly behind him. It was as if somebody had slapped him in the face. Melanoma... Morgan pinched his nose and closed his eyes. Disconnected pictures, like a jigsaw puzzle, flashed across his eyes, and he saw his wife’s face, smiling at him, holding his hand — then the doctor telling them that she only had a little time to live. He couldn’t believe how little time. He remembered his wife clinging to his hand, knowing she was going to die, but what she was worried about was their son, Mark.
‘Take care of him, Vic,’ she’d said.
He tried to joke with her, told her that Mark could take care of himself, all they were worried about was her, they wanted to take care of her. And she smiled a sweet, gentle, dying smile, and said, ‘It’s too late, Vic. It’s too late.’
She died the following morning. He hadn’t been able to get to the hospital because of his work. They’d all been very kind down at the station, given him a couple of weeks’ leave, but it had happened so fast, so brutally fast. He didn’t take the leave they’d offered him but continued to work, and four weeks later his son Mark had died from an overdose. He took the two weeks’ leave then, and never returned.
Later, he’d opened his own investigation bureau. It seemed that he’d been alone for a long time now. Eight years. And one word had brought it all back in one flashing moment.
He breathed in, like an actor about to go on stage, put a smile on his face and pushed through the swing doors into the ward.
Micky Tesco drove the Warrington’s delivery truck slowly through the gates marked ‘In’ at Amanda’s nightclub and round the small car park at the front, with Harry in the passenger seat beside him. The ‘Out’ gates were on their right as they continued down a dip at the side of the club, and down a narrow alley that led into the large, open rear space of the club. There was building work going on, a couple of extensions in progress, as well as trees, garages and a fire escape. The only exit was the way they’d come in.
Harry swore under his breath. ‘This is a bitch, you know that.’
They parked the truck outside the kitchen exit and Harry hauled a beer crate out of the back of the truck, all the time carefully taking in the whole area. He looked at the fire escape, the trees, the row of garages. He saw a number of parked cars, presumably belonging to the kitchen staff.
Again, he turned to Tesco. ‘Christ almighty, a bitch and a half.’
Tesco began lugging a crate down. ‘Reckon we’ll need three or four blokes just to take the kitchens.’
Harry was already on his way to the kitchen entrance, down a flight of stairs in the basement of the building. As he got to the top of the steps, he paused.
‘You do the talking, and leave the rest to me.’
George Resnick looked much more like his old self than Morgan had anticipated. He was very pale and most of his hair was gone, but at least he was sitting up, and Morgan was grateful for that. As he walked along the row of beds, he passed what looked like several terminal cases. The smell of the ward kept bringing back painful memories and the effort of pushing them away made him hold the bag of grapes too tightly — he could feel the juice squeezing out between his fingers. As he reached Resnick’s bed, a wisp of smoke curled up.
‘I’ll have to ask you to put that out, Mr. Resnick.’
George Resnick was startled for a moment, then grinned. ‘Hello, you old so-and-so. You nearly gave me heart failure. How’re you doing?’
There was something of the old Resnick there, but the spark had definitely dimmed. Morgan found he couldn’t meet his eyes. He looked round Resnick’s bedside table.
‘You got something I can put these grapes in, George?’
Resnick leaned over to open the cabinet. ‘So what brings you here, Vic?’
Morgan managed a weak grin. ‘Heard you were running short of grapes.’ He pulled up a chair and placed it close to the bed.
Resnick was bent over, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet, when he winced with pain. He lay back on the bed, his face drawn, teeth clenched, and snorted as if the pain was coming through his nose.
Morgan looked round the bed and saw the tubes. ‘You all right, George?’
Resnick lay back, exhausted, and let out his breath. ‘I’m OK now. I’m OK.’
He didn’t look OK, and Morgan decided to cut out all the chitchat and get right down to it before the sister threw him out. He took out his wallet and held up the photograph.
‘This is Harry Rawlins, isn’t it?’
Resnick reached for the photo with his bad hand. Morgan could see how little movement he had in the fingers. Resnick nodded.
‘And Rawlins’ wife, she’d be blonde, about five-six, medium build, good taste in clothes?’
‘Yeah, that sounds like her.’
Morgan moved closer to the bed. ‘I’ve got her. She’s looking for him, which is why she came to me. Gave me a cock and bull story about a sister with a cheating husband.’
A little gleam came back into Resnick’s eyes. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘Just you and me. Maybe we could do a deal, the pair of us. I’ll trade you for what you know, and get a slice of that reward for any information on the underpass security raid.’
Resnick was now much perkier. ‘You’re on!’ he said with a grin.
Morgan smiled. ‘OK! You can start by telling me everything you know about Dolly Rawlins.’
The basement kitchens of Amanda’s nightclub were a warren of little rooms. In one, there were two chefs, carving up some veal. In another, there were two washers-up, cleaning dishes and glasses.
Micky Tesco was going to town, chatting away with one of the chefs, saying that it wasn’t worth his job to let these crates go in without being signed for; he had to have a docket filled in. So where was the manager?
‘Too early. He’s not here. You better come back later,’ the chef told him.
Rawlins admired how Tesco worked on the chef, nattering on, picking up bits of food, acting as if he had all the time in the world.
Eventually the chef paused in his carving. ‘Look, mate, if you want to try and find him, feel free to go on into the club, but I’m telling you he’s not there.’
Tesco shot Harry a look and moved off.
Now it was Harry’s turn. He asked the chef how many men worked in the kitchens, when they came on, what time they left, all the time keeping up the chat as if it was just one working stiff to another. In between chopping meat and barking orders at his second-in-command, the chef revealed that at least fourteen people worked in the kitchens at night when the club was in full swing.
He suddenly turned to Harry. ‘What company did you say you were from again?’
‘Warrington’s,’ Harry replied without a flicker. The chef grunted and carried on what he was doing.
Tesco reappeared in the kitchen with a grin. ‘After all that, turns out we’re in the wrong club!’ He looked at Harry. ‘We’d better get going.’