Cold Light

Twenty-one

The solicitor appointed to represent Robin Hidden was David Welch, a forty-nine-year-old bachelor with two small Jack Russells, which he left in the back of his BMW, with a request to the officer on the desk that they be let out to do their business after a couple of hours.

Welch was experienced but lazy; some years before, he had realized that he lacked certain requisites for a really successful career. He lacked a wife, but clearly he wasn’t gay; he was neither a Mason, nor a Rotarian, nor the possessor of the right stripe of school or college tie; not driven by burning ambition, he had never successfully cultivated the appearance of someone sure to succeed. Poor David, he didn’t play bridge or poker, he didn’t even play golf. He had looked around and understood the score. It would have been possible to move to another practice, another city, start again; he could have sought a new career-what he had settled for was an easy life.

“Your client’s waiting, Mr. Welch,” Millington said. “Along the corridor, third on the left.”

“I suppose you’ve been allowing him all the proper breaks? Rest periods? A decent meal?”

“Cod and chips,” Millington said chirpily. “Tea. No slices of bread and butter. Turned down the syrup sponge and custard.” Millington patted his own stomach. “Not want to be putting on weight, like as not.”

“I’d like a good half hour,” Welch said.

“All the time you want,” said Millington. They both knew it was a lie.

Divine was at his desk in the CID room, talking to a young woman who, two hours before, had had her handbag and two carriers of new purchases stolen from her in the middle of the city. Late lunchtime. Sandra Drexler had been walking through the underpass below Maid Marian Way, the one with the news kiosk at its center, close to the Robin Hood Experience. Several families had been passing through at the time, children wearing Lincoln-green hats made from felt and waving bows and arrows in the air. Two youths in jeans and shirt sleeves had come running down the steps from the entrance nearest to St. James Street, caught hold of Sandra Drexler’s arms, and swung her round in what had seemed, at first, like a drunken game. A couple of six-year-olds had pointed and laughed and their mother had shushed them on their way. But the youths had pushed Sandra hard against the tiled wall and torn the bags from her hands, her bag from her shoulder. They had gone running past the kiosk and along the tunnel towards Friar Lane and the castle, leaving Sandra on her knees, shocked and in tears, people walking wide to avoid her. Five minutes in which she had limped slowly towards the street, before an elderly woman had stopped to ask if she was all right.

“These tattoos,” Divine said, interrupting her account. Sandra was in her second year of an Art and Design course at South Notts College. She took a sheet of A4 and a pencil and sketched them within minutes, the Union Jack, St. George and the Dragon.

“Sixteen, seventeen, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re sure about the hair?”

“Yes, quite sure. Sort of washed-out sandy color. Really fair.”

Divine thanked her for her trouble and gave her his second-best smile; if he weren’t so full of himself and wearing that awful suit, Sandra thought, he might be almost good looking.

Resnick was weary. The muscles at the back of his neck were beginning to ache and he had drunk so much canteen tea it felt as if there was a coating of tannin furring his tongue. Across the table, Robin Hidden, with his solicitor’s encouragement, had withdrawn into his shell. Saying as little as possible, giving nothing away.

“Robin,” Resnick said, “don’t you think we’re making this more difficult than it has to be?”

Robin didn’t respond; pointedly, David Welch looked at his watch.

Inside the machine, the twin tapes wound almost silently on.

At any moment, Resnick knew, Hidden was going to exercise his right to get up and go. Any solicitor other than Welch would surely have advised him to do so already.

“All right,” Graham Millington said, business-like, “let’s get it clear once and for all.”

“Is it necessary to go through this again?” Welch asked.

“You arrived at the hotel between half-eleven and a quarter to twelve,” Millington went on, ignoring him. “Parked the car at the edge of the courtyard and took a quick look in the main bar, hung around for a while, no more than five, ten minutes, then got back in the car. You drove round the block a few times, came back to the hotel …”

“By then it must have been close to midnight,” Resnick said.

“Almost midnight,” Millington said.

“And that was when you saw Nancy.” Resnick looked at Robin Hidden squarely and Robin blinked and stammered yes.

“And she saw you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know.”

“She saw the car?”

“I d-don’t know. How could I know?”

“You can’t expect my client to speculate …”

“Nancy did know your car, though,” Resnick said, leaning back, softening his tone. “She must have been in it a number of times? Associated it with you.”

“I suppose so, but …”

“Detective Inspector …”

“But on this occasion, either she didn’t make the connection or if she did, chose to ignore it. Ignore you.”

Robin Hidden closed his eyes.

“And you did nothing? Stayed in the car and did nothing, no move to attract her attention, you didn’t call her over, get out of the car, you didn’t do anything-is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, I’ve told you. H-haven’t I t-told you already?”

“Inspector …”

“All right, Robin, listen …” Reaching forward, Resnick, for a moment, rested his fingers on the back of Robin Hidden’s hand. “Listen. I don’t want to make a mistake here. You were upset about not seeing Nancy, upset at the way things were going, the way they seemed to be falling apart. You were out on your own, driving around, thinking about her. Is that right?”

Robin nodded. Resnick’s hand was still close to his, close on the table’s scarred surface. His voice was deep and quiet in the still room.

“You thought that if you could only talk to her, you might be able to sort things out, put them right.”

Robin looked at the table, the marks, his hand, how small his own fingers seemed, narrow and thin; his breathing was more agitated, louder.

“And when you went back to the hotel the second time, there she was. Walking across the courtyard towards you. On her own.” Resnick waited until Robin Hidden’s eyes met his. “You had to talk to her. That was why you were there? You did talk to her, didn’t you? Nancy. Either you got out of the car or she came to you, but you did talk to her?”

“No.”

“Robin …”

“N-no.”

“Why ever not?”

Head in his hands, the words were indistinct and Millington would ask him to repeat them for clarification. “Because I was frightened. Because I knew what sh-she’d say. She’d tell m-me she d-didn’t ever w-want to see me any more. N-not ever. And I c-couldn’t, I couldn’t s-stand that. So I w-waited u-un-til she’d gone past and then I drove away.”

The tears came then without restraint and David Welch was on his feet to protest, but Resnick had already turned aside, Millington was looking at the ceiling, embarrassed, and for all intents and purposes the interview was over. Five thirty-seven p.m.