Cold in Hand

Forty-four

"Christ!" Butcher's voice reverberated in her ear. "You did what? What're you after, some medal for valour? The George fucking Cross?"

Karen smiled, enjoying his indignant surprise. "All in a day's work."

"'Give me the gun,' you said, and instead of letting you have one between the eyes, he just puts it down? 'Here, help yourself.'"

"More or less."

"More or less? This is the guy who's killed two as far as we know."

"As far as we think."

"Who's killed two, possibly three in the last month, and God knows how many in the past. The scourge of fucking Serbia, and you get him to surrender, nicely-nicely."

"He was pretty badly wounded in this morning's raid."

"Not badly enough."

"And he wanted to make a deal."

"The only deal he'll get, parole after twenty years instead of twenty-five."

"Maybe."

"When're you shipping him down to London? We're the primaries on this, remember? Agreed."

"Yes, but look, I don't think he's going anywhere right now. Not for a good few days, at least."

"While you interrogate him, you mean?"

"Chris, he's not talking. Not to anyone. Too doped up with painkillers to think."

"No problem getting a sample, though. Have a word with one of the docs. I want to check his DNA against what we found under that girl's fingernails."

"Will do."

"And, hotshot-"

"Yes?"

"Keep me up to speed, okay?"

"You got my word."

There'd been prolonged applause when Karen had walked back into the CID office that afternoon and a note of congratulation had already come down from the Assistant Chief. Mike Ramsden had been busy organising a right royal piss-up for that evening.

"If there's a male stripper, Mike, that's it. I'm leaving," Karen told him.

"One?" Ramsden said. "For you we've got a whole bloody chorus line."

She was filling out a report when the phone interrupted her thoughts.

"Principal Officer Daines," the switchboard operator said.

Karen looked at her watch. It hadn't taken long. "Put him through."

"Chief Inspector, I hear congratulations are in order." His voice smooth as shit on the sole of a shoe. "News travels fast."

"Lazic-I thought we had him this morning, but somehow he slipped away."

Karen didn't reply.

"Of course, we've had our eye on him for some time, just waiting for the right moment to haul him in. A file on him that stretches all the way back to Kosovo and beyond. But most recently he was near the heart of this gun-trafficking deal, more or less Zoukas's right-hand man." He paused. "I guess, with his injuries, we'll have to wait a day or so before you can hand him over."

"I think," Karen said, "if any handing over's to be done, it'll be to the Met. SCD1, Homicide and Serious Crime Command."

Daines's voice tightened. "I don't think so."

"I'm not sure what exactly you were considering charging him with," Karen said, "but whatever it is, I think you'll find murder takes precedence."

"Murder? What murder?"

"Take your pick." Karen was still smiling when she broke the connection and immediately dialled Ramsden's number. "Mike, the guard on Lazic's room at the hospital, I want it doubled. And clear instructions: Nobody gets to talk to Lazic, wish him well, grapes, flowers, anything. Understood? And that does mean anyone. SOCA especially. Got it?"

"Got it," Ramsden said. "I'm on my way."

It was Catherine Njoroge who phoned Resnick eventually. "'Unfit for duty' doesn't mean you can't socialise. Join us in a drink."

Still he hesitated, and it was mid-evening by the time he showed his face, no one yet seriously the wrong side of sober, but a lot of beer and whisky under the bridge and the decibel level around twice as high as normal.

So far, much to Karen's relief, no strippers had arrived, a bunch of local bodybuilders, all greased up and G-stringed and anxious to give it the full monty, though there were signs of karaoke breaking out later. Karen was already wondering whether she would have drunk enough by then to give them her best Aretha: "R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me."

When she saw Resnick hovering just inside the door, she beckoned him over, and they found a little space close to one of the windows looking down into the street.

"You must be getting fed up with people saying 'well done,'" Resnick said.

"Makes a change from 'stupid cow.' Thinking it, even if they don't come right out and say it."

"Not too often, I shouldn't think."

"I don't know," Karen said and smiled.

"Anyway," Resnick said, raising his glass, "well done."

"Luck, Charlie. Fell right into my lap."

"Maybe."

A roar of laughter went up from a group in the centre of the room, ribald and raucous.

"What's the state of play?" Resnick asked.

"They've operated on Lazic to take out the bullet. Should make a good enough recovery, apparently, though by the time they got him to the hospital, he'd lost quite a lot of blood. I doubt if the doctors will agree to him being moved for a few days and until then, my best guess, we'll keep him under wraps. Soon as we get the sign he's fit to travel, drive him down to London, somewhere high-security like Paddington Green, let the Met have first crack at him."

"Hardly seems fair, after what you've done."

Karen shrugged bare shoulders. The dress she was wearing had been chosen with care: attractive, yes, but for an evening celebrating with a bunch of fellow officers, mostly male, she didn't want to be sending out any signals that suggested she might be available. Though by the end of the evening, she didn't doubt one or two of them would try.

"The Florescu murder," she said, "that's looking the strongest by far. But I know the lead officer pretty well. He'll play it straight. Let me have a crack when the time's right."

Michaelson and Pike came over to talk to Resnick and guide him back in the direction of the bar. The ACC, who'd just dropped in for a moment, pressed a large Scotch into Karen's hand, along with the Chief Constable's congratulations and apologies for not being there in person. At this rate, Karen thought, they'll be offering me the freedom of the city. On a small stage off to the side of the room, Mike Ramsden was preparing to get things going with a quick burst of Carl Perkins's "Blue Suede Shoes" delivered a la Elvis.

Daines was sitting on the stairs outside Karen's apartment. Though it was far from a cold night and certainly not cold inside the building, the collar of his suit jacket was turned up against his neck. His tie was loose, the top button of his shirt unfastened.

"Good night?" he asked.

"Lively," Karen said.

"I'll bet. Somehow my invitation got lost in transit."

"From what you said earlier, I didn't think you were exactly cheering."

"About Lazic getting arrested? We did our best earlier. Bastard tried to shoot his way out. That's how he stopped one himself."

"A good result for you, though. All those weapons seized. Arrests aplenty. Though I hear both Zoukas brothers somehow slipped the net."

Daines gave a small shrug. "It happens."

"Doesn't it though?" She was looking at him hard.

Daines smiled. "You wouldn't want to invite me in?" he asked, with a nod towards her apartment door. "Nightcap. One for the road."

"That's right," Karen said, "I wouldn't."

"Too bad." He got to his feet and, when he did, because of the stairs, he was a good head taller. "I tried to see Lazic at the hospital. Couple of guys sitting there with submachine guns in their laps wouldn't let me in. Acting on instructions, they said."

"We wouldn't want to risk losing him now. Not any of us, I'm sure."

"Did he say anything about me?"

"About you? No, why? Should he?"

He moved in closer and Karen readied herself; if he tried anything, he was just at the right height for a quick elbow in the balls.

"You're playing games with me, aren't you?" Daines said.

"Not at all. If you want a report of Lazic's medical condition, that can be arranged. As soon as he's fit enough to be moved down to London, you'll be informed. You've got my assurance he won't be questioned while he's here, and I'm sure you can liaise with SCD once he's in their care." She took a step up and moved to go round him. "Now that about sorts it, don't you think?"

He stepped across into her path and his face was pressed close to hers; his breath warm on her face. Even in the subdued light of the stairs, she could see the green glimmer at the corner of his eye.

"If I thought you were fucking with me-"

"Yes?" She held his gaze. Not for the first time, she wondered if he were armed.

"If you are-"

"Then what?"

He stared at her and then, as if making a sudden decision, he stepped away. "Just wanted to add my congratulations," he said, with a quick, almost apologetic shrug. "Job well done."

"Thank you."

Karen waited until he was out of sight, his footsteps fading down the stairs, before letting herself into the apartment and securing the door behind her.

When Resnick had got home, some time earlier, he had made himself a sandwich-all that beer, more than he was used to, making him hungry-and put a pot of coffee on the stove. Chet Baker somehow suited the mood. It was a while before he thought to check his phone: three messages from Ryan Gregan, the most recent an hour before.