“Yes.”
“Does it have a title?”
“‘Infinite Beasts.’ Here, take this. Borrow it.”
Resnick looked from her face to the book in his hand. “It’s all right.”
“No, do. I’ve finished using it for now. You can return it later.”
The cover of the book was pale pink, overprinted in black and gray; he wondered if her lenses were tinted blue or if that were the natural color of her eyes. “The man you saw out running …”
“You’ve found him.”
“We think so. We’d like you to come and identify him, if you can.”
“You mean one of those parades, where you can see them but they can’t see you?”
“Not quite so hi-tech,” Resnick said. “No one-way mirror, just a room big enough for everyone to stand in and stare at one another.”
“That sounds more intimidating,” said Vivien.
“It is. But you’ll manage.” Without really needing to, he looked at his watch. “If we make a move now, everything should be more or less set up.”
“Then let’s go.”
Passing the secretary’s office, she said, “If we go in your car, does that mean you get to drive me back?”
“Not necessarily. But it does mean somebody will.”
However she viewed that prospect, Vivien Nathanson kept it to herself.
Stephen Sheppard arrived at the station wearing a patched tweed jacket and brown cords. Patel did his best to put him at his ease while they were waiting for Resnick to return, but Sheppard was not going to be calmed down with politeness and inquiries about the outside temperature.
When Resnick entered the room where they were waiting, Shepperd opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, and bit the inside of his lower lip instead.
“You know you have the right to have somebody else present?” Resnick said.
Sheppard shook his head.
“You understand it’s within your rights to refuse to take part in this parade, but that if you make that choice, we may arrange to have you confronted by a witness?”
Sheppard nodded.
“Also, that should you exercise your right not to participate, that fact may be offered in evidence in any subsequent trial?”
“What trial?”
“We don’t know yet, Mr. Sheppard. Any trial that might ensue.”
Sheppard pressed one hand to the side of his face and teased with his teeth the place where he had bitten his lip. Resnick nodded at Patel, who handed Sheppard a copy of the form outlining the procedure in detail.
“When you’ve read that through, Mr. Sheppard, sign it at the bottom and indicate where it says that you’re waiving your right to have anyone else present.”
Sheppard read the form with difficulty, the hand holding it less than steady, his signature little more than a scrawl.
Outside the door to the room where the parade was going to take place, Resnick made him pause. “There are eight men in there, all chosen because of a physical similarity to yourself. Now you can choose to stand anywhere between them, anywhere in the line. You’ll see there are numbers on cards placed on the floor at intervals, one for each of you. When the witness comes in, they’ll be asked to identify the person they saw previously if possible and to do so by the number in question.”
Sheppard’s eyes were moving everywhere, never settling on Resnick’s face.
“Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Since you’re not having anyone present, a photograph will be taken of the parade before the witness comes in. A copy of that will be made available to yourself or your solicitor if it becomes necessary.”
Resnick stepped back, leaving Patel to take Sheppard inside. He found Vivien Nathanson in close discussion with Lynn Kellogg and whatever it was they were talking about cut off as soon as Resnick approached.
“I have to tell you,” Resnick said to Vivien, heading back towards the room, “the person you saw may or may not be in this parade. If you can’t make a positive identification that’s fine, you just have to say so. If you do recognize anyone, the way to indicate that is by referring to their number.”
“They have numbers?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Round their necks?”
“In front of them. Where they stand.”
A moment later they were inside the room. Stephen Sheppard had chosen to stand third in line. Five of the others had been persuaded in off the streets to perform their civic duty, the remainder were uniformed men who’d changed back into their street clothes.
“Take your time,” Resnick said. “Walk along the line at least twice and then, if you can, if you’re quite certain, I want you to indicate whether the person you saw running across the crescent on Sunday afternoon last is in this room.”
Vivien Nathanson had thought it was going to be easy; she hadn’t imagined herself as being under any pressure. After all, she was just the witness; she was the one who had come forward, conscientious, anxious to help. Why then, as she looked along the line of men, did her mouth feel suddenly dry, the muscles of her stomach wall begin to tighten and contract?
Thirty-seven
Divine was chuffed as a pig in muck. Get me something on Kilpatrick, the sergeant had said, and a couple of jars with Tom Haddon from the Vice Squad and there it was. There they were, Millington and himself, off out to Bulwell, Millington whistling, looking dapper in the passenger seat, prepared to be pleased. Only trimmed his bloody mustache, Divine grinned, fancying his picture in the paper already.
Bernard Kilpatrick was serving someone when they went in, a youth in denim jacket and jeans trying on a pair of size eight Nikes.
“With you in a sec,” Kilpatrick frowned. About the last thing he’d expected, the CID back in the shop so sharpish, and with reinforcements.
“No, sorry. Don’t feel right.” The lad handed Kilpatrick back the trainer and wandered out on to the street.
“Something to do,” Kilpatrick explained, returning the shoe to its box. “Third time he’s been in here this week. Perfect fit, he’d never afford it.”
Over to the side, Divine had lifted down one of the cricket bats and was practicing a lofted drive over the head of cover.
“Lovely bat,” Kilpatrick said, encouragingly. “Duncan Fearnley. If you’re looking for something with a bit of extra weight, that’s the one. Look, try it with just the one hand, test the balance.”
“What time,” Millington said, “were you thinking of closing?”
Kilpatrick blinked. “Five-thirty, six, why?”
“Thought today you might make an exception.” Kilpatrick had taken the bat from Divine and now he was patting it gently against the outside of his leg. “Maybe you better tell me what’s going on,” he said.
“Didn’t want someone barging in, interrupting.”
“Interrupting what?”
“Oh, just a few questions.”
“Such as?”
“Look,” Millington said, moving towards the door. “Why don’t we turn this around?”
“Here, you can’t …”
But the sergeant had already swung Open round to read Closed. Divine was quickly alongside Kilpatrick, taking the cricket bat from his hand.
“Look, I …” Kilpatrick, turning back towards the counter, eyeing the phone.
Divine stooped low to the socket, disconnecting the plug.
“Better,” said Millington, “no chance we’ll be disturbed.”
“Right,” smiled Divine. “Sudden order from the local scouts for ping-pong balls.”
“This is bloody harassment,” said Kilpatrick.
“Is it heck,” Millington said.
“Whatever’s going on, I want to call my solicitor.”
“No,” Divine passing close in front of him. “I don’t think so. Not really.”
“Not yet,” Millington added.
“D’you want to sit down?” Divine asked.
“Or would you rather stand?”
“What I’d rather do, I’d rather know what the fuck’s going on?”
“Right,” nodded Millington.
“Right,” Divine nodded.
“February, twenty-third,” Millington said, “that’d do for a start.”
Kilpatrick backed up against the counter, sweat beginning to form inside the track suit that he wore at work, showing it off for the customers, loose draw-string trousers and a zip-through top, silver and blue.
“You remember the twenty-third?”
“February?”
“The twenty-third.”
“Is that this year?”
“Don’t,” Millington advised, “piss us around.”
“I’m not, I wasn’t, I …”
A couple of Asian youths rattled the door and Divine signaled for them to take a hike.
“How about the thirteenth?”
“February?”
“June.”
“How the fuck do I know? How the—”
“Steady,” cautioned Millington.
“Temper, temper,” grinned Divine.
“Come on now, try harder.”
“June, thirteenth.”
“Unlucky thirteen.”
“Unlucky for some.”
“Then, so was the ninth.”
“September as I recall.”
“That’s it, September.”
“First full month of the season.”
“Same month Gloria Summers went missing.”
“Who?” Kilpatrick said.
“Gloria Summers.”
“Six years old.”
“Missing from where she was playing.”
“Found her a couple of mouths later.”
“Likely you read about it.”
“Over Sneinton way.”
“Railway sidings.”
“Dead.”
“All right,” Kilpatrick spread his hands, pushed his way between them, almost at the shop door before he turned to face them. “I don’t know what all this is about. I don’t have a clue. But you come barging in here with this whole Little and Large, Cannon and Ball routine. One minute you’re asking me about a whole string of dates that don’t mean a thing, next up it’s some kid got herself murdered. Well, I want to know what it’s all about and I want to talk to my solicitor now. Before I say another thing.”
Divine looked over at Millington, who inclined his head fractionally, at which Divine took hold of the telephone lead and renewed the connection. Lifting the receiver from the cradle, he held it out in Kilpatrick’s direction.
Kilpatrick made no move towards it.
“September the ninth,” Millington said, “you were stopped in your car in the area of Radford Road. Two officers from the Vice Squad informed you that they had been watching you for the best part of an hour, during the course of which time you had slowed down by and approached several women whom they had reason to believe were soliciting for prostitution. They had also observed you driving up and down past a house which they suspected was being used as a common brothel. You were told that the details of your name, address and vehicle registration would be noted down and kept on file and you were warned as to your future behavior. Remember now?”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember receiving similar warnings on the thirteenth of June and the twenty-third of February?”
“Yes.”
“According to certain of your neighbors, you have been in the habit of receiving home visits from a succession of young women, believed to be providing a massage service.”
Kilpatrick scowled. “Some people’d do well to mind their own business.”
“Others might be advised to steer clear of women on the game.”
“It’s been a bad time for me, a bad year. My wife and I separated …”
“After which you moved in a seventeen-year-old bimbo, who dumped you after a month.” Divine was warming to his task, really beginning to enjoy himself, feel the edge.
“Eighteen. She was eighteen.”
Divine laughed in his face. “Seventeen years, seven months, and capable of looking younger. A lot younger, if there was a demand for it.”
Kilpatrick turned his head but there was no stopping Divine now. He had met the girl through Tom Haddon; questioned her at the place off the Carlton Road where she gave relief massage, lunchtimes and alternate weekdays.
“When you met her she was working the hotels. Tip the security staff a quick freebie or a tenner and prowl the corridors with a smile and a bottle of massage lotion in her bag. Wonder what it was turned you on that first time, that innocent schoolgirl smile?”
Kilpatrick swung fast and for a moment, maybe two, he was going to deck Divine, punch him hard in the middle of that smug, smiling face.
“Play school, Kilpatrick,” Divine leered.
“Stop this!” Kilpatrick yelled. “You can fucking stop this! You can put an end to this right fucking now!”
“Navy school skirts,” Divine taunted, “hair up in bunches. Classroom games.”
“Bastard!”
“You be the naughty little schoolgirl, I’ll be the teacher.”
Kilpatrick grabbed for the phone, fumbling it against his chest while he flipped back the pages of the address book open on the counter.
Divine turned towards Millington and winked.
“Suzanne Olds,” Kilpatrick said into the telephone.
“Ninth of September,” said Millington, “you were stopped by the police out looking to buy sex. Second week in September. Same week Gloria Summers was abducted, sexually assaulted, murdered.”
“No, I don’t want her secretary,” Kilpatrick shouted, “Iwant her in person and if that means hauling her out of court, that’s what you’d better do.”
Vivien Nathanson hesitated before Stephen Shepperd for the second time. The man who had bumped into her almost a week ago had been looking back over his shoulder, she had only seen his face for—what?—a minute. Less. Enough for the police artist to have teased out the basic features, seeing the drawing she had been certain, yes, that was the way he had looked, yes. But now in the sweat of that closed room: looking at those eight men, one to one to another; those men looking back at her. The others, watching and waiting.
She thought about the missing girl.
The photographs she had seen reproduced.
The enormity of what seemed to have been done.
She moved along to the end of the line before she turned away; slowly, she crossed towards Resnick shaking her head.
“The man you saw last Sunday, do you see him here now?”
The slightest of hesitations and then: “I’m not sure.”
Resnick was staring at her, willing her to say something different.
“I’m not sure,” she said again.
Gravely he nodded. “Very well. Thank you for coming in. DC Patel will take you wherever you want to go.”
She hesitated, looking for something other than anger or disappointment in his eyes.