Resnick sat down. “I hope, for Macliesh’s sake, you’ve got something better for him than this by way of his defense.”
Suzanne Olds got up and walked out. This time no pose; she didn’t even think to close the door.
“Divine! Naylor!”
The uniformed constable who had nipped up with the brown paper bag from the deli got caught between them.
“Regular sandwich there, sir,” said Divine.
“Two, I hope,” said Resnick, putting the bag down on his desk. “What luck?”
“We found him, sir, Warren,” Naylor said eagerly.
“And?”
The two DCs exchanged glances. “He does a bit of working out there, sir, keeps an eye on the gym, weights and that.”
“Evenings, he works as a bouncer round the clubs.” Resnick was getting impatient; his sandwiches were getting stale. “Can we get to the point, gentlemen?”
“Yes, well, the point is, sir…”
“The point is…”
“The point is he’ll only speak to you, sir.”
“Fine,” said Resnick. “So where is he?”
Another quick look flicked between the two men.
“At the gym, sir, Victor’s…”
“It’s in one of those old warehouses…”
“I know where it is. Where’s this Warren? If he wants to speak to me, I’m here. Why didn’t you bring him in?”
“We suggested it, sir,” said Naylor, fidgeting a little on his feet.
“Uh-huh.”
“He didn’t take to the idea, sir.”
Resnick rubbed at the far corners of his eyes and switched his attention to Mark Divine. “You told him this was a murder inquiry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he still refused to co-operate?”
“No, sir. I mean, not exactly. He did say he would talk to you, sir. Didn’t seem to have any problems with that at all. It was just the matter of his coming into the station.”
“Busy, was he?” said Resnick. Suzanne Old’s scent had cleared sufficiently for him to be able to make out the caraway embedded in the rye, the richness of the mustard. “Too busy watching over all those weights?”
“He was on the Nautilus machine, sir. What he was pushing…”
“Not like you, Divine, to miss an opportunity to be persuasive.” Divine fiddled with the knot of his tie; Naylor, meanwhile, had finished with the basic foxtrot and was progressing to something with more than a tinge of
paso doble
.
“He was a big feller, sir.”
“Arms out to here.”
“You’ve seen them body-builders.”
“Almost unnatural.”
“Besides,” said Resnick, interrupting them. He wouldn’t be able to requisition another piece of carpet for another three years. “You didn’t want to antagonize him, make him into a hostile witness. Didn’t want to risk starting up violence in a public place.”
“Yes, sir,” said Divine.
“No, sir,” said Naylor.
“At the gym all afternoon, is he?”
“Till four, sir,” Naylor said.
Resnick glanced across the desk. “You two had lunch?”
They had not.
“When you get back from the canteen, get back in touch with Liverpool CID. Run down that description Macliesh gave us of his other so-called co-conspirator. See if they can’t come up with some faces. And run this Warren through the computer. Sharpish.”
Resnick was just crunching through the first of the gherkins when his phone rang. Vinegar splashed on to his hand and started to trickle between thumb and forefinger towards his wrist.
“Millington, sir.” It was one of those connections that sound like they’ve been routed via both Poles.
“You still at the Sheppard house?”
“Sir.”
“And?”
“I think I’ve found something interesting, sir. I thought, if you weren’t snowed under, you might pop out.”
“You’re the one who sounds snowed under, Graham.”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Don’t be. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He replaced the receiver with one hand, lifted the chicken and cheese to his mouth with the other. “I’m off out to the Sheppard place,” he announced to the office. “Tell Patel to hang on to the Ex as long as he can. I’ll try and get to the gym on the way back.”
He took the stairs two at a time, brown paper bag swinging from his left hand.
“Bad manners to talk with your mouth full,” observed Naylor. He didn’t say it very loud. The last time he’d done it at home—pork chops and apple sauce done in the oven, roast potatoes and parsnips—Debbie had given him a proper going-over. She wasn’t going to come rushing home to cook him a meal just for him to spit it out all over the tablecloth.
Oh, God! Why did he have to think about Debbie?
When he’d raised his eyebrow inquiringly that morning, the way she’d shaken her head, the expression in her eyes, it was almost as if she was pleased nothing had happened. Although he knew them off by heart, Naylor looked across at Divine’s girlie calendar and recounted the days.
Fifteen
Rachel Chaplin shared her office with one of the other seniors, a room no wider than the average double bed and not a lot longer. Papers spilled out from in-trays and spread randomly across both desks, photocopied articles with the relevant passages highlighted, claim forms for necessary travel, memos.
While you were out…
Whoever had decided that pink was a good color for memo pads?
While Carole, her colleague, had spent the bulk of the morning trying to arrange for an eighty-two-year-old man with two replacement hips to be transferred from a geriatric ward into a nursing home, Rachel had been sorting out emergency fostering for Luke and Sarah Sheppard. Trying to.
“No, the boy is seven and the girl’s four. No, no, she’s got a nursery place. Not the same building, but close. Um, five, ten minutes walk, no more.”
“You don’t have any idea when a vacancy might occur? Yes, I do realize what it depends upon and without wishing that to happen. Yes, I see, in a coma for four days and the doctor has no idea…Yes, that’s right, if you would, please ring me. Right.”
“I don’t think it would be a good idea if the grandmother didn’t have access. She’s not very mobile, that’s the problem. Otherwise…Look, I don’t want to sound grudging, but can I get back to you? No, today, I promise. One way or another, certainly.”
“You do know what it’s like in a geriatric ward? Then you know why I’m anxious he should be moved.”
“Hello, this is Rachel Chaplin, city office. Yes, fine thanks. You? Good. Oh, really? That’s great. Listen, there was a woman you used to use for short-term fostering. I met her once at that case conference we both went to. Yes, that’s the one. I was wondering…Where? Australia. Thanks, anyway. Bye.”
For the first time in maybe an hour both receivers were in their cradles. Rachel stood up and arched backwards, stretching the muscles of her back.
“Alexander technique, that’s what you ought to try,” Carole remarked.
“Isn’t that where you lie flat on your back and have someone walk all over you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Always resisted it. Reminds me of too many relationships.”
“You’re all right, you and Chris.”
Rachel looked at her.
“I mean, he’s not like that.”
“More subtle.”
“Why don’t you get him to give you a massage?”
“Can’t see him having the time.”
“Find it. Last thing you want is a bad back. Something like that starts to go and the next thing you know you’re applying for a mobility allowance.”
Sitting back down, turning the pages of her address book, Rachel laughed. “Thanks very much!”
“You’re still a young woman, but that’s when it all begins to go wrong.”
“You can say that again.”
“I’m working with it all the time. People who’ve never given their bodies a single thought and then suddenly they’re sixty and looking around, wondering why bits and pieces are malfunctioning. I mean, if it were a car, you wouldn’t…”
Carole broke off as Rachel’s phone rang.
“Hello, this is…Chris? Anything wrong?”
She glanced across at Carole, who gave a quick smile before starting to dial a number.
“I was going to skip lunch,” Rachel said. “I don’t think I’ve got the time. Besides, I brought a sandwich.”
Continuing to leaf through her address book, Rachel’s face set in a frown. She didn’t want this.
“Look, Chris,” she said, interrupting him. “I’ll meet you by the church. Five-past. Now I’ve got to go.”
“Well, I suppose that depends on how you define incontinent,” Carole was saying.
Rachel closed the book decisively and rang the internal number of the officer in charge of domiciliary care.
The sheets, the duvet cover, even the mattress, all had been stripped and bagged, taken away to forensic for analysis and reports. Resnick sat on the iron frame of the bed. Graham Millington was squatting on his haunches, knuckles of one hand resting against the floor. The drawer of the bedside cabinet was open and empty. Between Resnick and Millington, spreading across the carpet, overlapped, the letters.
“It’s raining.”
Funny, isn’t it, Rachel was thinking, how suddenly, one day and for no good reason, all those banalities we exchange throughout out lives become so intensely irritating.
“I said…”
“I know.”
“Well, do we have to stand out in it, getting wet?”
“It was your idea.”
“Not to come here.”
“I didn’t want to go far.”
“Surely we could go to a pub? Even if it’s only for a quick half.”
Rachel went through the arched iron gateway and turned right along uneven flagstones towards the south porch. Surrounded by scaffolding, like so much of the church, it was in the process of restoration.
She took her hands from her pockets, unfastened the top of her coat. Pushing his fingers through his damp hair, Chris Phillips followed her out of the rain. A couple of solicitors’ clerks scuttled past them, cellophane-wrapped lunch inside white Marks & Spencer bags.
“So what was so urgent?”
He started to speak, checked himself, half-turned his head aside to where the rain glistened on the black of the railings and a couple of petals clung, pale, to the bed of rose bushes.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” he said.
If Rachel heard him, she gave no sign.
Dear Box 124,
As you can guess I’m replying to your ad in Lonely Hearts. I’d better come right out with it and say that I’m a bit of a way outside the ages you mention—forty-three next birthday—but thought I’d give it a go anyway. After all, what’s the price of a stamp these days!
Seriously though, I
am
caring and lively. Given the chance, if you know what I mean! Used to be married and have one kiddie, who I see every other weekend. The wife, as was, lives in Lincoln now so, as I’m not running a car at the moment, the journey’s a bit of a problem. But enough of my difficulties! (You don’t say if you’ve been married at all, not a lot about yourself at all—slim, attractive, twenty-nine—that’s good enough, I suppose!)
Anyway, to save me rambling on, why don’t we meet up one evening and see how it goes? You can’t phone me at the moment (no phone!) so just drop me a line and say when and where.
I really hope you do.
Sincerely,
John Benedict
“Rach.” (God! She
hated
it when he called her that.) “I just want to know what’s going on.”
“It’s cold, it’s windy, I’m eating a…”
“Enough, Rachel.”
“…sandwich and you’re doing a very good impression of ‘deeply worried, Notts.’”
“Rachel, enough.”
Count up to ten, Rachel, she thought, stop being such a shit.
“All right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying all morning to sort out some kind of care for two kids who’ve still got to be told their mother’s been murdered.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and she found herself trying not to flinch.
“I’m sorry, too,” Chris said. “I understand that you’re preoccupied,” (Preoccupied, is that what I am?) “but the same could go for both of us.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze before stepping away. “It’s bloody typical, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t think about anything but work, which means you haven’t got any time left over for us, and my stupid brain’s so clogged up with what’s happening to us, I can’t think about my job for more than five minutes at a time.”
Dear Caring and Lively,
I don’t want you to think I’m in the habit of replying to these things, though I will admit to glancing through them, mainly for a laugh. There was something about the sound of yours, though, that made me want to set pen to paper for the first time. I couldn’t see you, of course, when I was writing but somehow it felt as if I could. See you there, sitting and having your lonely breakfast, sliding the end of the knife into my envelope and opening it up.
Why not give me a call?
Maybe you’ll be as attracted by the sound of my voice as I was by the words in your advert. We’ll never know till we try.
Yours,
Caring and Lively II (
Not
the Movie!)
“I just feel that I can’t touch you, I can’t talk with you, anything I do is wrong and everything I say is either stupid or insensitive or both.”
“Chris…”
“No, I mean it. I feel I’m offensive to you. That’s what it is.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“It’s the way I feel.”
Rachel stood with her face in her hands, leaning back against the parish notices, the poster for a concert of early music, details of the restoration appeal.
“Rachel, it’s the way you make me feel.”
Dear Miss Lonely Hearts,
I’m sure that you will already have received a mass of replies to your advertisement and so I suppose I shouldn’t rate my chances of earning a response too highly. When you’ve been trying, one way or another, to find a true friend in this harsh world, someone who might turn out to be your soulmate, for as many years as I have, you learn not to set your expectations too highly.