“Hey up!” Naylor said, as a car nosed into the street from the far end.
Both men sat tense as the maroon Datsun drove towards them at a regulation thirty; when they were certain it was going to turn into the drive of Number 11, it continued blithely on past.
Naylor sighed and shook his head. Millington reached into the glove compartment for another Bounty bar, dark chocolate covering, not the milk. Kevin Naylor shook his head and popped a Polo into his mouth. It was coming up to three thirty in the afternoon and they had been in position since morning.
“Tell me something, Kevin,” Millington said, screwing up his Bounty wrapper and transferring it to his jacket pocket. “If you were pulling down one big score after another, all that cash split—what? five, six ways?—would you elect to live in Mansfield? In a semi three streets away from your mother?”
“Long as it wasn’t Debbie’s mother, I don’t know as I’d mind.”
“But Mansfield …”
“I don’t know. It’s not so bad. We nearly bought a place out here, actually. When we were getting married. Starter homes on one of them small estates, lot cheaper than in the city.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“It were Debbie. Didn’t feel right, moving so far away from her mum.”
“Her and Frank Churchill, then—lot in common.”
No matter how much he tried, Naylor could never stop himself breaking the mint with his teeth before it was as much as half gone. If they had set up home up here, he was thinking, things might have gone a sight more smoothly for them. Without Debbie being able to nip round to her mum’s every time any little thing went wrong, they’d have had to work things out for themselves more.
“How is it going now?” Millington asked. He’d heard the rumors, same as everyone else. “You and Debbie.”
“Not so bad,” Naylor said. “Pretty good, in fact. Thanks, sarge, yes. Looking up.” They had spent two evenings together now, met for lunch one day at Jallans and Naylor had been certain Debbie wanted to go back to bed after, but he was on duty and she was due to see someone about a part-time job.
This time the car was a Granada estate, six months old, and the driver signaled his intentions to turn into Number 11 some forty yards away. He had his head turned aside as the car swung onto the drive; the gap between the driveway and the door was no more than twenty feet and he didn’t stand around to watch the roses grow, but Millington and Naylor saw enough to be convinced this was their man.
Frank Chambers. Frank Church. Frank Churchill.
Probably back from visiting his dear old mum.
Lynn Kellogg had been out of the office when Keith had first called and he’d refused either to leave his name or speak to anyone else. When he tried an hour and a half later, ringing from the only unvandalized box in the Bridgeway Centre, Lynn was on her way back in with her arms full of files.
“Hello? DC Kellogg.”
His voice was so faint, she couldn’t make it out, but guessed anyway. “Keith, that you?”
They met in the Memorial Gardens, walking round and round between the beds, all that Keith could do to remain there at all, never mind sitting down.
“And you are positive?” Lynn asked. “About the gun?”
“He showed it to me.”
What Darren had actually done was slide the PPK beneath the table in the café and jab it against Keith’s balls, not so hard as to make him cry out, hard enough for him to reach down and find out what it was. It had been almost enough to make Keith wet himself then and there; something he hadn’t done since he’d been shut away in Glen Parva.
“How can you be positive it isn’t a replica?”
“We got into the lift in the Trinity Square car park and stopped it between floors. He showed me. Ammo, too. No way it’s anything but the real thing.”
When they’d got the lift going again, Darren had walked along the roof as far as the edge and leaned against the parapet, aiming the pistol at people walking along the street outside Jessops and the Stakis Hotel, taking careful aim and pretending to fire, making clicking sounds with his tongue and laughing. “There. See that? Right between the fucking eyes!”
“And when did you say he’d told you to steal the car?”
“Wasn’t definite. Just be ready, be ready. Don’t let me have to come looking for you and not find you, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Lynn said, “just do as he says. Get back to me as soon as he’s contacted you. That way we’ll have plenty of time to get into position.”
Keith stopped alongside a small rockery with pink and purple flowers. “What’ll happen?” he asked.
“Happen? We’ll disarm him, take him away fast. Lock him up out of harm’s way. Your way, too. It’s all right, Keith, you’re doing the right thing. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Now I know how it feels, Lynn thought as they walked towards the embankment, lying through my hind teeth.
Skelton had decided it was time to go public. It seemed as though, after nearly nine months, Operation Kingfisher was showing signs of coming home to roost. Most of the officers involved in the inquiry were present: aside from Resnick’s team, Malcolm Grafton, Helen Siddons, and Reg Cossall were looking over the newly circulated reports, waiting for the superintendent to spell out the next stages.
What Skelton did was to signal twice with nods of the head, once towards the lights, once the projector. A slide showing a man standing inside a walled garden, snowcapped mountains behind him, flicked into view, to be followed by a medium shot, head and shoulders, finally a close-up, slightly blurred by the necessary use of the zoom lens.
“Ramsey,” Reg Cossall breathed. “As I live and breathe.”
“Former DC Rains,” Skelton confirmed, “taken in the grounds of the villa where he’s been living these past six years. About seventy miles north of the town of Leon in the Cantabrian Mountains.” Skelton looked around the darkened room. “Since these pictures were taken, Rains has disappeared. If he’s flown, especially using a British passport, it must have been under an assumed name.”
“What about other modes of transport, superintendent?” asked Helen Siddons.
“The car registered to him is still garaged at the villa, but, of course, that means nothing. The Spanish police had promised a thorough check of car hire firms in the area, but so far nothing’s materialized.”
“Too busy enjoying their siesta,” suggested Cossall in a stage whisper.
“It’s not so far to the French border,” Malcolm Grafton pointed out. “Pick up one of those TGVs, you’re talking getting on two hundred miles an hour. Ferry across the Channel, here in no time.”
“If
here
is where’s he’s heading, Malcolm,” Reg Cossall pointed out.
“If we’re not working on that possibility, Reg,” said Helen Siddons, “I don’t know what we’re doing here at all.”
Cossall sat back glowering. Reg! What did that jumped-up tart think she was at, having the bollocking temerity to call him Reg?
Skelton signaled and the slide disappeared, the lights came back on. “There are still a lot of ifs. If Rains has been traveling to and from this country with any frequency, we’ve yet to establish proof of this. If he’s been in this area, you might think it strange there doesn’t appear to have been one sighting of him, not one solitary rumor that he was here—until the one floated by Graham’s informant. Having noted all of that, what interests me most is the supposed Churchill-Rains connection. It’s Charlie’s opinion they could have been close; the informant’s busy telling us they’ve become closer. And one thing we know for certain, though we’ve been short of a great deal that’s provable in court, Churchill is a long-term villain, a professional robber with likely half a dozen scores to his name since he came out of Parkhust in eighty-five.”
“Time the bastard was back,” someone said to murmurs of agreement.
“We’re keeping him under surveillance,” Skelton said. “Round the clock. Either Rains contacts him or vice versa, we should know.”
“Have we got a tap on his phone?” Helen Siddons asked.
“What we have is an outstanding application to monitor all calls.”
A low moan ran round the room.
“One thing,” asked Malcolm Grafton, “how does this affect the status of the French inquiries?”
“Continuing, Malcolm. Possibly a little closer to the back burner, that’s all.”
“What that bugger wants to know for,” Cossall said to Resnick, who was sitting close to one side, “reckons he’s on to a Parisian bloody holiday, doesn’t he? All expenses paid. Taxpayers’ money to spend his nights down in the
Folies Bergère.
Waste, eh, Charlie? Going to send anyone, down to you and me.”
In the event it was to be none of them. Skelton passed the news to Resnick at the end of the meeting and it was his duty to impart the decision to Divine, who was entertaining the CID room with his impersonation of Maurice Chevalier performing a particularly lewd version of “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.”
“Mark, my office a minute.”
Divine stood inside the closed door, hands clasped at his back.
“The, er, French connection you’ve been working on …”
Divine’s eyes began to shine.
“I’m afraid it’s been decided there’s a need to send a more senior officer. Someone fluent in the language and of a rank which would enable them to …” The rest didn’t need saying. The change in Divine’s expression made it clear how well he understood. “DI Siddons will be the liaison officer traveling over; seems she’s more or less bilingual.”
There was a day when Divine would have tried to make a joke out of that, but this wasn’t it.
“Sorry, Mark,” Resnick said, surprising himself by actually meaning it.
“Thanks, boss,” Divine said gloomily.
Instead of going back to his desk, he walked through the CID room and out at the far end without saying another word. In either language.
Forty-Seven
Ruth padded across the tiled floor in bare feet. Why hadn’t she been surprised when Resnick had walked into the pub? Recognizing him instantly from the trial and earlier—standing in the side door of the house, Rains behind her, watching Resnick and her husband face to face. Watching her husband’s face, the gun; knowing that he was playing the percentages inside his head. How much do they know? How much can they prove? How much time am I going to get? She remembered how close Rains had stood to her, warmth of his breath against the side of her neck; even then, his hand reaching out for her, touching her back.
She poured nearly boiling water into the pot and swished it round as she took it to the sink and poured it down. One tea bag and one for luck. Digestive biscuits in the tin on the shelf. She poured on the water and replaced the lid, left the tea to brew.
The dog watching her all the while, clear eyes following her every move. A ritual like many others. One which Resnick’s visit had left undisturbed. A couple of halves in the pub, few chapters of whichever book, back to the cottage for a cup of tea and while that was standing, she would feed the dog. Afterwards, walk him on the beach. Well, she would walk, the dog would run. Then home for a little telly, maybe the radio, another early night, the dog curled on the rug at the bed’s foot.
Ruth stood with both hands to her face, pressing deep. Resnick had walked into the pub and told her what she had always known, sooner or later, would be the case: he’s coming out.
I’ll get you, Ruthie. Get even with you. Pay you back, you double-crossing bastard. Cunt. You bitch.
There had been a photograph of her, front page in most of the papers, little black dress, descending the steps outside the court. Pale face. There behind her, smart in his suit, that handsome smiling face, hands raised and spread to ward photographers and press away.
Mrs Prior will be making a statement later through her solicitor.
Pleased, course I’m pleased. We got a good result.
Prior’s release, so long coming, she had ceased to fear it long since. What would come would come and who was she to say she didn’t deserve it?
Grassing up your old man, you slag, you don’t deserve to live.
Rumor was his mum had hired some tearaway to teach her a lesson, throw acid in her face. Ruth hid herself away, down London, abroad, a spell in Glasgow, back for a while to the city, then here.
You can walk but you can’t run.
She liked it here. The quiet. All those early years in front of speakers jacked up so high she was lucky not to have permanent damage to her ears. In Glasgow once this journalist had recognized her, a stringer for the
NME.
Begged her to let him do her story. Not talking a magazine piece here, I mean the real thing. A book. Built around you. The history of British Rhythm and Blues.
She hadn’t told that story or any other. Not even after the trial when they’d all been round her like flies round the honeypot. The
Sun.
The
News of the World.
Money she’d been offered. My Life with a Villain. My Life with a Face. Some tart who reckoned she’d screwed him silly in her scabby little bedsit had sold this yarn about champagne and foursomes and how Prior hadn’t been able to get enough. Well, after all the years of virtual abstinence he’d practiced with her, maybe that was the only part Ruth had believed.
It was late. The dog had finished its food and was waiting, bemused, by the door. The tea was cold and stewed. Ruth changed her shoes, buttoned up her coat.
The roll of the sea as it folds back against the sand. If Prior walked up to me now, out of this long dark, Ruth thought, what would I say or do?
Returning, as she neared the sea wall, she heard the quick scratch of a match and, moments later, saw the soft glow of a cigarette. Just kids, she thought, doing some cold courting.
Resnick’s card was still in the pocket of her skirt and she dropped it onto the kitchen table as she walked through. For fifteen, twenty minutes she sat with her feet up, listening to Radio Two: Brian Matthew more relaxing than another bout of Gradgrind.
“Come on,” she said, and with its usual enthusiasm the dog trailed her up the stairs to bed.
On the outer edge of the city, nights before, traveling back, Resnick had pulled across to the side of the road and cut the engine. Lights splayed out before him like a net. A feeling, not quite pain, had caught low in his throat. His instinct had been to slip a fresh cassette into place but inside his head Lester was already playing “Ghost of a Chance.”