Lonely Hearts (17 page)

In case there is something in my letter which strikes a chord, though, let me tell you a little about myself. I am thirty-nine, only ten years older than yourself you see, and have always lived the bachelor life, though not through choice. Whenever I do begin to become close friends with a nice woman, something always seems to go wrong. When this happens, of course, I always say to myself, stop making a fool of yourself and vow to stop even trying. But that never lasts, does it, and something inside you, a sort of a yearning I suppose you could call it, makes you want to reach out to somebody again.

I very much hope that you will write to me and if you do I hope that we will be able to meet. Something tells me that we might be able to talk freely and openly to one another.

In anticipation of your reply,

Sincerely,

Martin Myers

“It’s this policeman, isn’t it? This Resnick.”

“What is?”

“Come on, Rachel! Ever since you met him, you’ve not been the same. Not towards me.”

“Chris, you’re talking about a man I’ve met on two occasions for a drink.”

“So you say.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“If that’s all there is to it, what’s he doing ringing you up at all hours of the night?”

“He rang me this morning because…”

“Because he wanted an excuse.”

Rachel laughed in amazement. “Oh, so he went out and engineered a convenient crime so he could meet me at half-past five?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“It’s what you said.”

“What I
mean
is, he could have phoned through to the emergency duty team. That’s what anybody else in his position would have done. Wouldn’t they?”

Rachel walked past him to the edge of the porch. Rain was dripping steadily from the scaffolding, but otherwise it seemed to be stopping. There was a blue spray of sky behind the rooftops opposite.

“Wouldn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes.” Turning to face him, not knowing who she despised most for the hurt in his eyes, Chris or herself.

Dear 124,

Let’s get right down to it (as the actress said to the bishop). I’m twenty-six, five-foot-seven with my socks (and everything else) off and I weigh eleven stone. There are other vital statistics, but I’ll hang on until I can swop them with yours!

I’m a plumber, got my own business, van and that. Work evenings a lot of the time, but since what I do’s in my own hands (it is now, but if you play your cards right, nudge, nudge!) I could always meet you for a quick hour or so in the daytime. I don’t know if you’ve got a job or not, but that might suit you better.

Give us a ring. I’ve got one of them answering machines for the job, so you’d better not get too carried away talking to that! Leave that for the real thing.

Go on, do it today and remember what they say about plumbers!

You won’t regret it!

Love,

Dave

Through the railings they could see barristers going into the brasserie opposite. The sun was in the sky, the color of egg white. The slightest burnish of pink had begun to show on the stone slabs of the wall.

“He fancies you, then, does he? Resnick?”

“Chris, I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. Women always know.”

“Does it matter?”

“Then he does.”

“Chris…” She took, for a moment, no more than seconds, his hand in hers. “I can’t have this now, this…conversation. It isn’t the time.”

“It never is.”

She was looking at her watch.

“You’ll be home later?”

“Of course, I’ll be…Whatever do you think’s happening, Chris?”

“I know what’s happening. I’m not a fool. What I want to know is why, and how can I stop it.”

Rachel turned the collar of her coat up against the ends of her hair. Hands were back in her pockets. “We’ll talk tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Chris sighed. “Yes, sure. You haven’t got any idea when…?”

“No.” She paused. “Chris…”

“I know. You’ve got to go.”

Along the path and down the worn steps, he didn’t expect her to look back but waited, anyway, until she was out of sight. He used his hand to wipe the surplus water from one of the benches by the front of the church and sat down.

“How many, Graham?”

“Forty-three.”

“Same age as John Benedict.”

“Sir?”

Resnick pointed at the letter at the top of its pile.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Millington said, adjusting his tie.

“What’s that?”

“All these blokes out there. Needing to, well, go through this sort of rigmarole.” He stood up, flexing his legs where the muscles had been stiffening. “I never thought anyone took it seriously. Personal columns. Computer dating. What sort of a state do you have to be in to do that?”

Resnick looked at him. “Lonely?”

“I still reckon…”

But Resnick cut him off. “When you were getting them out of the drawer, you were careful about touching them?”

“Kid gloves.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll get any prints, but there’s no point in making it more difficult. Collect them up, will you. Best get them back to the station.” He glanced back down at the letters. “One or two going to get the kind of reply they didn’t bargain for, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Everything all right?” asked Carole when Rachel walked back into the office.

“Urn, why?”

“Thought you seemed a little preoccupied, that’s all.” (So it had to be right; that’s what she was.)

“I’ve been thinking about these Sheppard kids and now I wonder if fostering is the best answer after all. It might be better to leave them in the grandmother’s home; there’s room, so that’s not a problem. Her lack of mobility had decided me against it, but maybe that could be coped with. Get someone to call in there on a regular basis. Morning and evening to start off with. It would be a way of getting the woman to accept help for herself anyway. Might turn out to be a better solution for her and the children. What do you think?”

Sixteen

Suddenly, it was a fine autumn day but Resnick had missed the rainbow. The sky was a wash of pale blue and the sun strong enough now to draw color from the bricks. He walked along a narrow street between warehouses, four or five stories high, substantial, the windows perfectly placed, proportioned. If you looked upwards to the curved arches of the roofs, it was easy to think you were in another city.

Resnick turned right, where the hardware merchant, greengrocer, the purveyor of yeast tablets, urine bottles, and athletic supporters had all waited until their leases had expired and gone with them. He went down the hill past the video diner, a window crammed with art-deco furniture, men’s clothing shops with names like Herbie Hogg, Culture Vulture.

The sign above the gym was purple neon, like handwriting, Victor’s Gym and Health Club. Bowed-glass windows showed sets of weights, dumbbells, leotards in violent colors. The reception area was a small bar: freshly squeezed orange juice, vegetable shakes, espresso. The receptionist had stainless steel hair and the most perfect makeup job Resnick had seen since he’d got trapped in a department store lift with four assistants from the perfumery department.

She was looking at a tall coffee-colored man who was lounging in an oatmeal sweatsuit, limbs carelessly arranged for the best effect.

Neither of them paid Resnick much attention. From deeper inside the building came the muted sound of disco music, an irregular succession of grunts and thumps. Out here, nobody moved. Nobody sweated.

“Do I go straight through to get to the gym?” Resnick asked.

“Why d’you want to do that?” the girl said, not looking at him, concentrating on the man in the sweatsuit. There was a plastic badge pinned to her loose pink top and on it, in lettering not unlike that of the sign, Jane was written in purple ink.

“Why do people usually?”

An eyebrow lifted, not far. “You’re not a member.”

“No.” He was beginning to feel like the Dyno-Rod man.

“Oh, then you got one of those things we sent out. Leaflets. Three free sessions. Through the door, right?”

“Right.”

She looked past Resnick to the man. “I told Victor it was a stupid idea.”

Something or somebody landed heavily on the floor immediately over their heads.

“You’ve got to hand it in,” she said to Resnick. “The leaflet. Otherwise you can’t get the sessions.”

Resnick shook his head. “I tore it up.”

“All in one go,” the man said, “or did you take it a little bit at a time?”

Jane thought that was very funny. The laughter broke from her and when she tried to stifle it tears came to her eyes and tight wheezing sounds caught in her throat. She was in danger of choking or, at the very least, of her makeup cracking apart.

“Easily amused,” Resnick observed.

“Jane, she’s got a great sense of humor.”

“Don’t you think you should do something?” Resnick said, looking at the way her eyes were growing increasingly alarmed, trapped in the center of her face.

He shrugged and moved lithely around the bar, a couple of well-placed pats in the small of the back, an energetic release of air, and Jane was sitting up right as rain with a carrot and wheat germ cocktail in her hand.

“I’m here to see Warren,” Resnick said. “I was told he’d be in the gym.”

“Why d’you want to see Warren?” the man said.

“Why do you need to know?”

“We don’t encourage folk walking in off the street and…”

It was getting tedious. Resnick took out his wallet and showed his identification.

“I’ll fetch him,” the man said.

Resnick put the wallet away. “I’ll find him.”

There was just a moment when he thought the man might be about to try and stop him, but the muscles relaxed and a finger pointed along the short corridor. “Up the stairs. Left. Straight ahead.”

“Yes,” said Resnick. “Follow the noise.”

High-toned sweat and embrocation. Up here the effort was real and nobody bothered too much about keeping the backs of their shorts rolled over so that the designer labels showed. As weights were lifted and set down, the boards vibrated beneath Resnick’s feet. A small-boned Chinese woman lay on her back, legs arched into the air, while a fifteen-stone instructor added another ten pounds to her load.

“That’s not all she can do.”

Resnick angled his head to the right.

“Restaurant where she works. I was in there once. Nice place. Not your take-away. Linen napkins. Finger bowls. These guys came in from the pub; one of them, real foul-mouthed, objectionable. Sits there ordering the lagers, making remarks at the other customers. Everyone staring down into their chow mein, pretending it isn’t happening. She goes over and tells him to be quiet or leave. He starts calling her a few choice things, so she says she’s going to call the police. He grabs at her, misses, up from the table, trying again. She turns, cool as you like, one foot in his balls and the next one takes his eye out. Out. Well, dangling. They have to sew it back in casualty. Four-and-a-half hours. Can’t see the scar, but he’s got this dreadful squint.” He held out his hand. “I’m Warren.”

“Detective Inspector Resnick.”

“I figured.”

The handshake was firm and smeared with sweat. Warren was a couple of inches shorter than Resnick, ageless, his skin glistened and, yes, his muscles had been nurtured to the point where they were awesome. He was wearing loose-fitting gray sweatpants and a black cotton vest that stuck to back and chest. Bare feet.

“Let’s talk in here.”

Resnick followed him into a small room next to the men’s changing room, a couple of chairs and a desk, rosters pinned with bright yellow tacks to a hessian-covered board on the wall.

“Staff perks,” explained Warren, sitting down, gesturing for Resnick to do the same.

“You know Georgie Despard,” Warren said.

“A little.”

Warren laughed. His teeth were even, the one left of center had a tiny gold star set into it. He said, “Georgie says you’ve been on his case for years.”

Resnick shook his head lightly. “Not any more.”

Warren laughed again. “He’s fly, Georgie.”

“How come you know him?”

“Him and my old man, they were up in the Smoke together. Years back. His folks had moved up here and, oh, that wasn’t right for George. He wanted some action. My old man’d grown up there, like him. George went back. Fine times. I’d see ’em getting ready, suits, shiny suits. They’d start weekends up West on a Friday night, the Flamingo. Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames. John Mayall. That bloke who threw himself under a Tube train—what was his name? I forget it now.” He stretched back in the chair and sighed with the pleasure of remembering.

“I don’t imagine all they got up to was dancing.”

Warren leaned easily forward. “Sorry about not coming up to the station.” He shuddered. “Something about those places.”