By the time Resnick got back to Nottingham, it was dark. Not late, but dark. The last commuters had been travelling with him on the London train, using their mobiles to let their spouses know they would be back within the next half hour. All journey he'd been tugging at it in his mind, pulling and knuckling it into shape. Daines-Zoukas-Andreea-Lynn. Each time he pushed, some piece would slip out of place and he would worry at it again. In the end it was still imperfect-conjecture, not proof-but the basic shape now held.
A lone busker was still plying his trade hopefully on Lister Gate, a song Resnick barely recognised-Bob Dylan? they often were-sung harshly over the rough chords of a guitar. A couple in a doorway, hip to hip. On the edge of the square, a woman was waiting, pacing slowly up and down in front of the left lion; as Resnick approached, she glanced up at him expectantly then looked away disappointedly. He turned left to walk through the centre of the square, and a group of men, laughing loudly, crossed ahead of him between Yates's and the Bell, shirt-tails to the wind.
There was only one light showing, faint beyond the front door, in the building where SOCA had their offices. Resnick was on the point of walking away when a woman came out and closed the door behind her, standing on the top step long enough to reach into her bag and light a cigarette. In the flare of the lighter, he saw a roundish face with narrowed eyes. Thirty? Thirty-five?
"Damn," Resnick said, moving briskly forward. "Don't tell me I've missed him."
Startled, the woman backed away.
"Detective Inspector Resnick." He took out his wallet and held it towards her without ever really letting it fall open. "London bloody train. Signal failure outside Loughborough. Sat there the best part of forty minutes." He smiled. "Shouldn't have been late otherwise." He nodded towards the first-floor window. "Stuart. Stuart Daines. We had a meeting. I tried phoning, somehow couldn't get through. You haven't had trouble with the line? Nothing like that?"
"No," the woman said. "No, not as far as I know. I'm only temping, though. Secretarial, like." Her accent was local.
"Shame," Resnick said. "I tried his mobile, too. Switched off, apparently."
"There's nobody there now," she said. "I was the last. Just finishing off this report. Last-minute." She smiled a little nervously and drew on her cigarette.
"It was important, too. Something we needed to discuss before the morning."
"Daines, you said? He'll be here first thing, always is."
"You don't know where he's staying, I suppose? This mobile number-maybe it's the wrong one."
"No, no idea. I'm sorry." A quick smile. "My bus. Got to go."
Level with him, she stopped. "I did hear one of them say they were going for a drink. That place over Maid Marian Way. China China, I think that's what it's called. Down on Chapel Bar." Her laugh was almost a giggle. "Dead posh, that's what I've been told."
Resnick waited them out. Daines and three others, sitting over towards a small corner stage that was empty save for a black glitter drum kit and a small electronic keyboard. No signs of a band. The interior was busy and dark, with minimal lighting recessed into the ceiling and, near where Resnick was standing, a cluster of small green lights hanging down amidst a nest of wires. Daines and one of the others were drinking cocktails of some kind, the other men bottled beer-Sol, it might have been, Resnick thought, though he couldn't be sure. The music coming through the sound system was rhythmic and just loud enough not to get lost in the rise and fall of conversation. Cuban, he wondered? Brazilian? Most of the men were smartly turned out-smart-casual, was that what it was called? — anything less would have been turned back at the door; the women sleek and sophisticated until they opened their mouths.
One of the quartet Resnick was watching left quite soon after he arrived, and another shortly after, leaving Daines and one other, short with reddish hair, in close conversation.
Twenty minutes or so later, their glasses empty, Daines began to make his way towards the bar. Midway there, he stopped suddenly, his head swinging round towards the far, deep corner, left of the door, where Resnick was standing and Resnick held his breath, fearful that he'd been spotted, but then Daines excused himself past someone and continued on his way.
The music rose in volume and the conversation in the room grew louder, as if in compensation. Back at his table, Daines leaned closer towards his colleague and said something that made them both laugh out loud. A few minutes later, they headed for the exit.
Resnick turned aside, waited, and then followed.
At the end of Angel Row, they separated, the redhead walking up Market Street towards the Theatre Royal, while Daines carried on along the upper edge of the Old Market Square. Heading for one of the Lace Market hotels, perhaps, Resnick thought, or the Travelodge, just past the roundabout on London Road. A quick right and left, however, and they were out on to Belward Street opposite the National Ice Centre and Daines was veering towards the tall block of serviced apartments on the left.
Resnick lengthened his stride, moved quickly across the foyer and into the lift before the doors had closed.
"What the fuck?"
Daines had already pressed one of the buttons to set the lift in progress, and now Resnick pressed another, halting it mid-floor.
Seeing who it was, Daines laughed, as much out of relief, perhaps, as anything else. "Took you for some bastard mugger, after my wallet. Never can tell."
Resnick positioned himself with his back towards the door.
"I thought I saw you earlier, in the bar," Daines said. "Couldn't be sure."
Resnick looked back at him, impassive.
"So I have to guess what this is all about?"
Resnick still said nothing, taking his time.
"Let's go on up," Daines said. "We can talk in the flat. Or go back out onto the street, at least. Get another drink, maybe. Not too late."
"This is fine."
Daines shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"The night Lynn Kellogg was killed, she'd been down to London, the house where Andreea Florescu had been living. The same place the two of you visited a few days before."
"So? Why are you telling me this?"
"She thought, Lynn, that whole business, that you were in too deep."
Daines scoffed and shook his head.
"Something between yourself and the Zoukas brothers that she didn't trust. She started to ask questions and you warned her off."
"She was way off limits."
"You threatened her."
"That's ridiculous."
"That evening, outside the Peacock. 'Don't make me your enemy.' She told me, less than twenty minutes later."
"She was exaggerating."
"I don't think so."
"I don't recall saying any such thing."
"'Don't make me your enemy.'"
"That's what I'm supposed to have said?"
"Word for word."
Daines's expression changed. "Maybe you should take heed, too."
"Now you're threatening me?"
A hint of a smile crossed Daines's face. "Look," he said, "I can understand why you're so wound up about this. You and her. It's personal, I can see that. I can sympathise. But the last I heard, unless it's been rescinded, you've been invalided out. 'Unfit for duty,' isn't that the phrase? And for what you're doing here, keeping me against my will, you could be in deep, deep shit. I could press charges. That incident at Central Station, an unprovoked attack on a civilian, and now this-you'd be lucky to hang on to your pension. So let's both take a deep breath, okay?" Daines gestured with his hands. "I know you've been under a strain, and I'm prepared to forget any of this ever happened. What do you say?"
"Alexander Bucur," Resnick said, "you phoned him that evening, the same day Lynn went down on her own-"
"Jesus! You don't let go, do you?"
"You called him back that evening after she'd gone."
Daines's tone changed again. "Who says? Is that what he says? Bucur?"
Resnick nodded.
"His word against mine."
"Yes? Which phone did you use? Office phone or mobile? It shouldn't be too difficult to check."
"Okay, that's it," Daines said. "I've had it with this."
He reached for the controls, but Resnick blocked him off.
"You knew which train she'd be catching," Resnick said. "What time she'd be getting in. Not difficult to calculate how long it would take from the station."
"Meaning what? What difference would it make if I did?"
As soon as the words were out, he read the answer in Resnick's face.
"You think I killed her." Daines was incredulous. "That's what you're saying? It is, isn't it? You think I killed her."
"No, you'd be too careful for that. But you could finger her to somebody else who would."
"You're crazy."
Daines pushed past him and pressed the button, and the lift slipped into motion.
"Someone," Resnick said, "who'd feel safer if she were out of the picture and not starting to dig around. Someone, maybe, who was bearing a grudge."
The lift stopped on the fourth floor and as the door slid open, Daines stepped out.
"You are crazy," he said. "Absolutely off your fucking head."
The door began to close, and as Resnick jammed his foot in its path, he had a sudden urge, a near-blind impulse to throw himself at Daines, seize him by the shoulders and slam him back against the wall, then beat him with his fists.
"We'll see." Resnick pulled his foot away so that the lift door closed and Daines was lost to sight.