Cold in Hand

Sixteen

Some of the old industrial buildings in the centre of the city had been left to decay slowly and now harboured little beyond floors thick with pigeon waste, an infestation of rats, and the occasional body burned almost beyond recognition; others had been eviscerated and reborn as luxury flats and waterside bars, or health clubs with cybercafes and solariums, personal trainers and corporate-membership schemes.

The club where Dan Schofield worked was housed in one of the old low-level railway-station buildings close by the canal. He had hesitated only momentarily when Lynn had phoned: eleven thirty would be fine.

Several young women slicked past her on their way to an hour or so of ergonomically calibrated exercise-an aqua workout in the pool maybe, or a little holistic tai chi-each one fashionably dressed for the occasion, makeup perfectly in place. In her blue-black jeans, black cotton top she'd had for more years than she cared to remember, short corduroy jacket and clumpy shoes, Lynn felt just a smidgeon out of place.

Beyond the enquiry desk, a tanned individual in an official health-club vest and eye-wateringly tight shorts was flexing his muscles for all to see.

"Dan Schofield?"

He shook his head without breaking a sweat.

"He's around somewhere. You'd best ask at the desk."

She did. A quick call and Schofield appeared. Late twenties? Round about the same age Christine Foley had been when she died. And where the man she'd seen first was all overdeveloped muscle and curly dark hair, Dan Schofield was trim and athletic in his uniform tracksuit, not tall, no more than an inch more than Lynn herself, smooth-shaven with neat, short hair. Were he a soccer player, she thought-something else in which Resnick had partially schooled her-he would be a midfield playmaker, not afraid to put his foot on the ball, look up, then play a probing pass upfield.

"Is there somewhere we could go and talk?" Lynn asked.

"There's the juice bar, though that tends to be busy this time of the day. Or we could go outside."

It was only a short walk back on to London Road and the entrance to the canal.

As they went down the steps towards the water, a narrow boat puttered past, brightly painted, a brown and white dog stretched out on deck, a man with heavily tattooed arms seated at the helm, contentedly reading a book. All it needed was for the sun to break through the matte-grey coating of cloud or for the refuse that cluttered the far bank to disappear, and it could be a perfect scene, a perfect moment in the day.

"What happened to Christine," Lynn said, "I'm really sorry."

"Thank you."

"It must have been a terrible shock."

"Yes, it was."

"You'd known her how long?"

"We'd been living together five months, give or take. If that's what you're asking. But I'd known her longer than that. A good year and a half."

"And you met her where?"

"Here, at the club. She used to come for classes. Just the one at first, but more often after that."

" Your classes?"

"Some. Not all. But mainly, yes, I suppose they were."

"And that's when you got to know one another?"

"Yes, like I said. We used to talk after the session sometimes, just, you know, chat. Nothing special."

They stopped and sat on a bench back from the edge of the canal path.

"She was lonely, Christine. At least, that was how she seemed. I mean, okay, she had a busy life, with her little girl and everything, part-time job, home, but just the same you sensed that she needed something else. Someone to talk to."

"Aside from her husband."

Schofield half-smiled. "You've met him? Foley?"

"Just the once."

"Then maybe you'll know, you don't talk to Tony. He talks to you. You listen."

The more she listened to Schofield, the more she could hear the vestiges of a Geordie accent filtering through. They were silent for a moment as a couple of swans ghosted past.

"Your friendship with Christine, then," Lynn said, "it had started quite a long time before she broke up with her husband?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Not that that had any bearing on what happened. That was all down to Foley, wasn't it? Screwing some bimbo from work. Christine, she was gutted. Said she could never look at him in the same way again."

"But you helped, I daresay."

"How d'you mean?"

"Oh, you know. Someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on."

"You could put it that way if you like."

"And you weren't sorry."

"How'd you mean?"

"When they broke up."

"I was sorry for her."

"It meant the field was clear."

"That makes it sound-I don't know-wrong, somehow."

"Your friendship could move on. That's all I'm saying."

"We were already close. When Foley left, we became closer. No crime in that."

"And there was never any thought she might go back to him?"

"Foley? Not in a million years. Why would she?"

"I don't know. Because of the little girl, perhaps. Susie. She must have been really upset her dad was gone."

"A little, maybe." He shook his head. "I'm not sure how much time they ever really spent together."

"And you got on with her okay?"

"Susie? Yes, fine."

Lynn smiled. "A ready-made family."

"You could look at it that way."

"Lucky, some would say."

" I would," Schofield said emphatically. "I would, and no mistake. Those few months-" He looked away. "What you were saying, about Susie, about us being like a family. I'd never… never really thought of having kids, you know? Being a dad. I was happy the way I was. Friends. Girlfriends. Working where I do, no shortage of those. Women coming on to you. Well… like I say, I'd not figured on settling down, but then the more time I spent with Christine, the more it was what I wanted to do. What we both wanted to do."

"And it was working out? Living together?"

"Yes. Yes, of course it was."

"No problems?"

"Not really, no. It was great. It was fine."

Lynn smiled. "When something like that happens, it's only the good times you remember."

"That's all there were."

"You must have had arguments. The odd one or two, at least. It's only natural."

Schofield was shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"Not one?"

"Not one."

"What about the time you came home and found Foley in the house, talking to Christine?"

The expression on his face changed; his voice tightened. "That was different."

"How so?"

"He was the one I was angry with, not her."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"You didn't have a bit of a shouting match out front, after he'd gone?"

"Out front? Out front of the house?"

"Yes."

"No. Not at all."

"You didn't threaten her?"

He laughed, incredulous. "Christine? Absolutely not."

"You didn't say if you couldn't have her, nobody else would?"

"No."

"'If I can't fucking have you, no other bastard will.'"

Schofield made a sharp sound of disbelief, half snort, half laugh. "Look, this is ridiculous. I don't know who you've been talking to, but whoever it was, whatever they've said, it's a lie. Okay? A lie." He rose quickly to his feet and backed one step, two steps away. "Now, if it's all right with you, I've got to get back to work. I've got another session."

"Of course," Lynn said. "Thanks for your time."

He hesitated a moment longer before walking crisply back along the canal path, Lynn continuing to sit there, thoughtful, watching him go.

Terry Brook got in touch with Resnick ahead of the Fire Investigator's report. Any doubts that the fire had been started accidentally could be dismissed. Some crude kind of petrol bombs had been used, hurled through windows at both the front and back of the house, more or less simultaneously.

The youth on whose floor Marcus Brent had allegedly slept was Jason Price, currently studying entry-level Music and Sound Technology at South Notts College and with two previous brushes with the police to his credit. Both youths worked in Marcus's father's music shop on Saturdays and in whatever spare time they could scrounge. Though the shop always stocked a certain amount of rap and reggae, dub was what it specialised in, what set it apart from the big chains and the independent opposition: rare vinyl alongside remastered versions of classic King Tubby and new recordings by bands like Groundation and Bedouin Soundclash.

When Anil Khan spoke to him, Price was surly and affable by turns: he and Marcus had been out with mates, just hanging out, i'n it? Then down to Stealth-DJ Squigley and Mista Jam. He didn't know nothin' about no fire, no Billy Alston, nothin'. Not till later, aw'right? Marcus came back and crashed at his crib like he sometimes did. Time, man? Come on, I dunno what time, but late, like, late, i'n it? Aw'right?

As alibis went, it was all vague in the extreme. They took them in for questioning, the pair of them, applying pressure where they could. Meantime, officers searched Price's flat for whatever they could find incriminating, hoping, if not something as obvious as an empty petrol can or a bottle of paint thinner, then clothing that had been splashed with petrol or still had a residual smell of smoke.

There was nothing.

Both Marcus and Jason stuck to their stories.

Disappointed, Khan thanked them for their cooperation, trying hard not to react to the smug grins on their faces.

Bill Berry caught Resnick on the way out and insisted on a catch-up over a pint. Make that two. By the time Resnick got home, Lynn was asleep on the front-room settee, head lolling to one side, half-drunk mug of tea grown cold on the floor alongside.

Resnick stood watching, his feelings for her such that, had she woken and seen them on his face, she might have been frightened by what they revealed. They spoke, neither of them, about their personal emotions a great deal.

It was "love" and "sweetheart," a kiss in passing and a squeeze of the hand, a quick hug or cuddle, the reality of what each truly felt buried beneath the mundane and the day-to-day. A few weeks before, when the call had come through to say she had been shot, he thought he had lost her and, in that moment, his life had stopped, the blood refused to pump round his body.

She stirred and moved her head and, as she did, a small sliver of saliva ran from one corner of her mouth onto her cheek. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Resnick stooped and dabbed it away.

"Charlie?" As if from a dream, she blinked herself awake. "I'm sorry, I must have dropped off."

"No harm." With a smile, he brushed the hair back from her face.

"D'you want something to eat?" he asked.

"I suppose I should." With a small grunt of effort, she sat up straight.

"I'll see what I can find."

Scraps. Bits and pieces of this and that. Small bowls of leftovers covered in cling film and pushed to the back of the fridge. He fried up some cooked potato with garlic and onion, added half a tin of cannellini beans and a few once-frozen peas, then sliced in some cold pork sausage from God-knows-when. In a bowl, he whisked up eggs with black pepper and a good shake of Tabasco, and, when everything else was starting to sizzle, poured the mixture over the top. The result, served with hunks of bread and the last knockings of a bottle of Shiraz, was close to a small feast.

"You're a wonder, Charlie."

"So they say."

"In the kitchen, at least."

"Aye."

It was a while before either of them spoke again, just the contented sounds of two people eating, with the occasional promptings from a hungry cat and in the background the brushed sound of Lester Young's saxophone, a track Resnick had set to play, Lester with Teddy Wilson, "Prisoner of Love."

"I talked to Dan Schofield today," Lynn said. "The man Christine Foley was living with when she was killed."

"And?"

Lynn paused, her fork partway to her mouth. "Nice enough bloke. On the surface, anyway."

"You think he might be involved?"

"I'm not sure. If he is, I can't yet see how."

"He's got an alibi?"

"Yes. Cast iron, so far." She ate a piece of sausage. "You know what I find fascinating? There's this woman, the dead woman, Christine. Attractive in a conventional kind of way. Reasonable education, a year or so of college. Works for a building society until her daughter's born, then, when she starts nursery, gets a part-time job behind the counter in a chemist's, thinks about possibly retraining as a pharmacist. Everything about her perfectly ordinary, and yet there are two men, about as different from one another as chalk and cheese, both of them in love with her, think she's the greatest thing since I don't know when and can't stand the thought of living without her."

A grin came to Resnick's face.

"What?"

Still grinning, he shook his head.

"You think it's sex, don't you?" Lynn said. "You think she was this incredibly passionate, inventive creature in the sack."

"What I was thinking," Resnick said, "maybe she was a great cook. You know, the kind who can whip up astonishing dishes from almost nothing."

Lynn laughed.

Resnick poured the last of the wine. "Any idea what you're going to do next?"

"I don't know. Wash up? Do some ironing? Go to bed?"

"I mean about the investigation."

"Oh, talk to a few of Christine Foley's friends, I think. People she worked with, try and get a different perspective."

Leaning across the table, half out of his chair, Resnick kissed her on the lips.

"What was that for?" Lynn asked, surprised.

Smiling, Resnick shrugged. "Good luck?"