Cold Light

Twenty-two

“Struck lucky, then, Charlie. Took the old golden bollocks out of their case and give ’em a bit of a shine.” Reg Cossall was leaning against the open door of Resnick’s office, leering his lop-sided grin.

Resnick came close to sighing; he’d like to think Cossall was right.

“What? Boyfriend told to go walkies. The night before Christmas. Jesus, Charlie, don’t have to be much of a wise man to work out that one.”

“Too easy, Reg.”

Cossall looked for somewhere on Resnick’s desk to stub out his cigarette; made do with the heel of his shoe. “Never too easy. Blokes like that. Make ’em cough, bang ’em up, get yourself over the pub by opening time.” As a philosophy of police work it remained, in Cossall’s mind, undented by the fact that most pubs now stayed open all day. It also depended, from time to time, on not being fazed by the exact truth.

“Still a way to go, Reg,” Resnick said.

Cossall tapped another Silk Cut from its pack. “Least you and Graham’ve got a live one to get your teeth into. I’m still halfway up the arse in computer printout and sodding cross-reference.” When his lighter refused to work, he fumbled out a box of matches from his jacket; the spent match he snapped between finger and thumb and dropped back down into his pocket. “Meeting up with Rose in the Borlace, likely go for a bite later on,” he released gray-blue smoke through his nose, “fancy joining us?”

Resnick shook his head. “Thanks, Reg. Things to do.”

Cossall nodded, “Some other time, then.”

“Maybe.”

“Partial to you, you know, Rose is. Reckoned as how you’ve got a sense of humor. Told her she must be getting you mixed up with someone else.”

“G’night, Reg.”

Cossall laughed and walked away.

Was it too easy, Resnick thought? Too simple? He conjured up the look on Robin Hidden’s face when the young man had talked about his last evening with Nancy, their last meal together, all those expectations dashed. The lie about seeing her outside the hotel. How much anger did it take? How much hurt? Pain like a vivid line, drawn through Robin Hidden’s eyes. How many other lies?

“How d’you want to play it?” Skelton had asked. “Hold him overnight? Keep pushing hard?”

Resnick’s sense was that, for now, Hidden had been pushed as far as he could usefully go. Shocked by his own admission he had closed in on himself fast and even David Welch was on the ball enough to encourage him in his silence. So they had let him go home to the flat in West Bridgford, Musters Road, second floor of a detached house with a car port and an entryphone. Home to his microwave and his OS maps and his thoughts. “We’ll be wanting to talk to your client again,” Millington had smiled benevolently at the door.

Resnick stood up, rubbed the heels of both hands against his eyes. Through the window the shapes of the buildings were wrapped in purple light.

Lynn’s flat was in a small housing association complex in the Lace Market, balconies facing in on a partly cobbled courtyard. The rooms were large enough that she didn’t fall over her own feet, not so big they encouraged her to own a lot of stuff. The floors she hoovered or mopped about once a week, the surfaces she dusted when there was a chance someone might call. A film of soft gray attached itself to her fingertip as she drew it along the tiled shelf above the gas fire. A gentleman caller, where had she heard that expression? She tried to blow the dust away but it stuck to her skin and she wiped it down the side of her skirt as she bent low, turning the circular switch alongside the fire to ignition. She remembered now, a film she had seen on television, Glass something, The Glass Menagerie, that was it. This young woman with a limp, not so young actually, that was part of it, surrounding herself with these little glass animals, waiting all the while for her gentleman caller to arrive at her door.

The radio was in the kitchen and Lynn switched it on before half-filling the kettle; a singer she failed to recognize was singing an Irish song. The voice was soft and warm and for no good reason it made her think of home. Swishing warm water around the inside of the pot, then emptying it into the sink, she saw her mother, year on year, doing exactly the same. She clicked the radio off, dropped a single teabag into the pot. How long had it been, Lynn asked herself, since she had stopped waiting for gentlemen callers herself? Before the tea had time to brew, the telephone rang.

“I’ve been calling you all day,” her mother said.

“I’ve only this minute got in from work,” Lynn said, shorter-tempered than she’d intended.

“I tried the station once. The line was busy.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s the holidays, we’re more understrength than usual. And you know there’s a girl gone missing.”

Most often, any such remark would have brought forth from her mother a warning about being extra careful, bolting the door top and bottom, checking the window locks before going to bed; to her mother, any city bigger than Norwich was a place of constant danger, the worst she’d read about New York and New Orleans combined. But now there was nothing, a dull silence. Then, out in the courtyard, the sound, muffled, of a car starting up, misfiring. Lynn wondered if she could excuse herself a moment, pour the tea, bring it back to the phone.

“Lynnie, I think you should come home.”

“Mum …”

“I need you here.”

“I was there just a couple of days ago.”

“I’m at my wits’ end.”

Lynn suppressed most of a sigh.

“It’s your dad.”

“Oh, Mum …”

“You know he was going to the hospital …”

“That’s tomorrow.”

“It was changed, the appointment was changed. They rang to tell him. He’s been already. Yesterday.”

“And?”

In the hesitation she heard the worst, then heard it again in her mother’s words. “He’s got to go back. Another test.” I don’t want to know this, Lynn thought. “To check, that’s all it is, the doctor explained. Only to make sure that he hasn’t got … well, what they thought, you know, he’d got, he …”

“Mum.”

“They thought, all this trouble he was having, his eating, going to the lavatory and that, it might be a growth, there, you know, in the, the bowel.”

“And it’s not?”

“What?”

“It’s not a growth, is that what they’re saying? Or are they still not sure?”

“That’s why he’s got to go back.”

“So they’re not sure?”

“Lynnie, I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do. Not until we know for sure.”

“Can’t you come?”

“What do you mean? You mean now?”

“Lynnie, he won’t sit, he won’t eat, he won’t as much as look me in the eye. At least if you were here …”

“Mum, I was there. Just days ago. He hardly spoke to me either.”

“You won’t come then?”

“I don’t see how I can.”

“He needs you, Lynnie. I need you.”

“Mum, I’m sorry, but it’s a difficult time.”

“You think this is easy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Your poor dad’s not important enough, that’s what you said.” She was close to tears, Lynn knew.

“You know that’s not true,” Lynn said.

“Then go with him to the hospital.”

Lynn rested the top of the receiver against her forehead.

“Lynnie …?”

“I’ll see if I can. I promise. But you know what hospitals are like, that won’t be for ages yet.”

“No, it’s soon. The man your dad saw, the consultant, he said he wanted him in as soon as possible. The next few days.”

Then it is serious, Lynn thought. “This consultant,” she said, “you can’t remember his name, I suppose?”

“It’ll be written down somewhere, I don’t know, I’ll just see if I can find it if you’ll …”

She heard her mother scrabbling about among all the scraps of paper that were kept by the phone. “Mum, call me back, okay? When you’ve found it? All right. Talk to you in a minute. Bye.”

The skin along the tops of Lynn’s arms was cold and her face was unusually drained of color. The small medical primer she kept with her dictionary and handful of paperbacks almost fell open at the page she wanted: the alternative name for cancer of the bowel was colorectal cancer. Its highest incidence was in males in the sixty to seventy-nine age group. Fifty percent of colorectal cancers are in the rectum. She let the book fall from her fingers to the floor. In the kitchen, she tipped away the remains of a carton of milk that smelled sour and struggled to open another without splashing too much over her hands. She put one spoonful of sugar in the mug and then another. Stirred. Two sips and she carried the mug back to the telephone.

When her mother rang back, she was crying at the other end of the line.

Lynn let her sob a little and then asked her if she’d found the name. She got her to repeat it twice, spelling it out as she wrote it down.

“Is Dad there?” Lynn said.

“Yes.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He’s out in the sheds.”

“Call him in.”

There was a clunk as the phone was set awkwardly down; Lynn drank her tea and listened to the voices of youths in the street at the rear of the flat, raised half-heartedly in anger. One of her neighbors was listening to opera, a young man who wore black turtlenecks and ignored her when they passed on the stairs.

“I can’t get him to come in,” her mother said.

“Did you tell him it was me?”

“Of course I did.”

Her upstairs neighbor was not only singing along, now he was stamping his feet in time with the chorus. “I’m going to get in touch with this consultant,” Lynn said, “see if I can find out when Dad’s likely to be in. Then I’ll see if I can get leave. Okay?”

She listened to her mother a few minutes more, reassuring her as much as she could. She tipped away what was left of her tea and poured herself a second cup. Turning on the hot tap in the bathroom, she sprinkled some herbal bubble bath into the stream of water. Only when she lowered herself into the steamy warmth did she begin to relax and the pictures she had begun to conjure up of her father begin to fade, at least for the time being, from her mind.

Twenty-three

Resnick had fed the cats, made himself coffee, squeezed half a lemon on to a piece of chicken he’d rubbed with garlic, and set it under the grill. While that was cooking, he’d opened a bottle of Czech pilsner and drank half of it in the living room, reading an obituary of Bob Crosby. One of the 78s his uncle the tailor had prized had been “Big Noise from Winnetka” by the Bobcats. Bob Haggart and Ray Bauduc, bass and drums and a lot of whistling. If Graham Millington ever came across it, the whole station would be in peril.

Back in the kitchen he turned the chicken and poured some of the juice back over it with a spoon. The last half of a beef tomato he cut into chunks and added to some wilting spinach and a piece of chicory on its last legs; these he tipped into a bowl and dressed with a trickle of raspberry vinegar and a teaspoon of tarragon mustard, a liberal splash of olive oil.

He ate at the kitchen table, feeding Bud with oddments of the chicken, washing it all down with the rest of the beer. There was something nagging at him, the impression he had got of Robin Hidden that afternoon, and the idea of a man attractive and lively enough for Nancy Phelan to take willingly to her bed-two sides of a puzzle that refused to come together.

He cut the last of the chicken into two and shared them with the cat; licking his fingers, he went towards the phone.

“Hello, is that Dana Matthieson?” Hearing the voice, Resnick remembered a biggish woman, lots of hair, round faced. Not unlike Lynn, he supposed, but more so. Colorful clothes. “Yes, this is Inspector Resnick. We talked … I was just wondering, if you’re not too busy, if you could spare me a little of your time? Say, half an hour? … Yes, okay, thanks. Yes, I know where it is … Yes, bye.”

Dana had been ironing some several-days-old laundry until she had got bored and now blouses and cotton tops and brightly colored trousers lay across the backs and arms of chairs and in a loose pile on the ironing board. The television was on with the sound at a whisper, a film with James Belushi, a great many car chases, and at least one large dog. All five attempts at writing her letter of resignation to Andrew Clarke and Associates, Architects, had been torn in half and half again and were now spread, unfinished, over the glass-topped table.

She had been well into a bottle of Shingle Peak New Zealand Riesling when Resnick had phoned and there was just a glass left to offer him when the door bell rang. If it came to it, Dana thought, not that she could see why it should, she could always open another.

Resnick shook off his coat, exchanged a few pleasantries, and took the offered seat. Dana’s face was fuller than he had pictured it, swollen around the eyes, from drinking or crying he couldn’t tell.

She held the bottle out towards him and he shook his head, so she emptied the contents into her own glass.

“There’s no news,” she said, scarcely a question.

Resnick shook his head.

Dana poked at the hem of an orange top that was either half inside her belt or half out. “I didn’t think so or you would have said. On the phone.” She tilted the glass back and drank. “Unless the news was bad.”

He looked up at her steadily.

“Oh, God,” Dana said, “she’s dead, isn’t she? She’s got to be.”

Resnick reacted in time to catch the glass as it fell from her fingers, what was left of the wine splashing across his sleeve. With his other arm he steadied her, fingers spread high behind her waist so that she fell heavily against him. Eyes closed, her face was close to his; he could feel her breath on his skin.

“That’s not what I came here to say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. No, it’s not.”

Through the soft material of her clothing he could feel her breast against his chest, hip hard against his thigh.

“It’s all right.”

She opened her eyes. “Is it?”

He was more aware of her body than he wanted to be. “Yes,” he said.

Just a simple movement, the way she raised her mouth towards his. A moment when something tried to warn him this was wrong. Her breath was warm and she tasted of wine. Their teeth clashed and then they didn’t. He could scarcely believe the inside of her mouth was so soft. Gently, she took his bottom lip between her teeth.

Without Resnick knowing exactly how, they were on the floor beside the settee. The sleeve of his jacket, the cuff of his shirt were dark from the wine.

“I’ve ruined your clothes,” Dana said.

They managed to get his jacket half off; one at a time, she licked his fingers clean.

“I don’t know your name,” she said. “Your first name.”

He touched her breast and the nipple was so hard against the soft flesh of his finger that he gasped. Dana moved beneath him so that one of his legs was between her own. She took his face in her hands; she didn’t think he could have kissed anyone in a long while.

“Charlie,” he said.

“What?” Her voice soft and loud, tip of her tongue flicking the lobe of his ear.

“My name. Charlie.”

Face pressed into the softness of his shoulder, she began to laugh.

“What?”

“I can’t believe …”

“What?”

“I’m about to make love to a policeman called Charlie.”

He moved his leg and rolled away but she rolled with him and as she leaned over him her hair fell loose about her face and the laugh was now a smile.

“Charlie,” she said.

The look of shock was still there in his eyes.

Taking his hands again, she brought them to her breasts. “Careful,” she said. “Careful, Charlie. Take your time.”

“Charlie, are you all right?”

They were in Dana’s big bed beneath a duvet cover awash with purple and orange flowers. The room smelled of potpourri and sweat and sex and, faintly, Chanel № 5. Dana had opened another bottle of wine and before bringing it back she had put music on the stereo; through the partly open door, Rod Stewart was singing “I Don’t Want to Talk About It”; inside Resnick’s head Ben Webster was playing “Someone to Watch Over Me,” “Our Love is Here to Stay.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.” Aside from the obvious, he had no idea what was happening and for now he was happy to keep it that way.

“Quiet, though,” Dana said. He looked to see if she was smiling; she was.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Probably.”

Kissing him on the side of the mouth, she pushed herself off the bed and took her time about leaving the room. It amazed him that she was so unselfconscious about her body; when he had needed to go to the bathroom, he had fished his boxer shorts from the bottom of the bed with his toes and pulled them back on.

Dana had taken off Resnick’s watch because it was scratching her skin and now he lifted it from the bedside table: eleven-seventeen. Cupping both hands behind his head he closed his eyes.

Without meaning to, he dozed.

When he came to, Dana was walking back into the room with a tray containing two cold turkey wings, one leg, several slices of white breast meat, a chunk of Blue Stilton, plastic pots of hummous and taramasalata two-thirds empty, a small bunch of grapes browning against their stems, one mug of coffee, and another of orange and hibiscus tea.

“Budge up,” she grinned, settling the tray in the center of the bed and then sliding in behind it. “We haven’t,” she said, “a slice of bread or a biscuit in the place.”

Slowly, she slid her forefinger down into the pink taramasalata and brought it, laden, to his mouth.

“When you rang, asked to come round,” she said, “is this what you had in mind?”

Resnick shook his head.

“Honestly?”

“Of course not.”

Dana sipped her tea. “Why, of course?”

Resnick didn’t know how he was supposed to respond, what to say. “I just didn’t … I mean, I wouldn’t …”

“Wouldn’t?”

“No.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Clean in thought, word and deed, the policeman’s code.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“What you mean is, you didn’t find me attractive.”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t, or no, you did?”

“No, that isn’t what I mean.”

“What is then?”

To give himself time, he tried the coffee; it was almost certainly instant, certainly too weak. “I meant I knew you were an attractive woman, but I hadn’t thought about you in this … like this, I mean, sexually, and if I had I probably wouldn’t have called up like that and invited myself round so as to …”

“Why not?”

He put the mug back down. “I don’t know.”

“You’re involved with somebody else?”

“No.”

“Then why not?”

Not knowing why this was so embarrassing, nonetheless he looked away. “It wouldn’t have seemed right.”

“Oh.”

“And besides …”

“Yes?”

“I’d never have thought you’d be interested.”

“In sex?”

“In me.”

“Oh, Charlie,” touching the side of his face with her hand.

“What?”

“Don’t you know you’re an attractive man?”

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”

Smiling she let her hand slide around to the back of his neck as she leaned towards him for a kiss. “Of course,” she said, “that’s one of the most attractive things about you.” And then, “But you are pleased to be here?”

He didn’t have to answer; she could see that he was.

“Before it’s too late,” she said, “why don’t we just move this tray?”

She was stretching to set it on the floor when Resnick ran his hands down her back on to her buttocks, then, more slowly, out along her thighs. He heard her breathing change.

“Dana,” he said.

“Mmm?”

“Nothing.” He had just wanted to hear how it sounded when he spoke her name.

It was after one. The second mug of coffee had been stronger and black. The same Rod Stewart selection was playing, more quietly, in the next room. Resnick lay on his stomach, Dana with one leg and arm carelessly across him. This time she had been the one to fall asleep, but now she was sleepily awake.

“You know, I saw him once,” Resnick said.

“Who?”

“Rod Stewart. That’s who it is, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Years ago. He was with the Steam Packet. Club down by the Trent. Almost couldn’t get through the doors.”

“Not surprising.”

Resnick smiled over his shoulder. “Could’ve counted on one hand, most likely, those who’d as much as heard of him then, never mind gone specially to see him. Long John Baldry, he was the one they were there for.”

Dana shook her head, she hadn’t heard of him.

“Him and Julie Driscoll, they were the main singers with the band. Stewart came on first, did a few numbers at the start of the set. Skinny kid with a harmonica. Rod the Mod, that’s what he was being called.”

“Good, though, was he?”

Resnick laughed. “Terrible.”

“Now you’re having me on.”

“No, I’m not. He was dreadful. Appalling.”

Dana’s face went serious. “You’re not, are you, Charlie?”

“What?”

“Having me on? Messing me around?”

Resnick pushed himself around, sat up. “I don’t think so.”

“Cause I’ve had enough of that. One night stands.”

She had turned away from him, shoulder slumped forward, and although he could neither see nor hear, Resnick knew she was crying. He didn’t know what to do; he left her alone and let her cry and then he moved close and kissed the top of her back, just below the dark line of her hair, and she turned into his arms.

“Oh God!” she said. “It doesn’t seem right. Doing this. Feeling this good. After what’s happened to Nancy. You know what I mean?”

Her tears had smeared what little makeup remained on her face.

“We don’t know,” Resnick said, “what’s happened to Nancy. Not for sure.”

Though in their hearts, they were certain, both of them, that they did.

“What time is it?” Dana said. In the darkness of the room, she could see that Resnick, between the end of the bed and the door, was fully dressed.

“A little after two.”

“And you’re leaving?”

“I have to.”

She sat up in bed, the edge of the duvet covering one breast. “Without telling me?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

Dana stretched out an arm and Resnick sat on the side of the bed, holding her hand. She stitched her fingers between his.

“You never did tell me,” she said, “why it was you wanted to see me.”

“I know. I thought maybe I should leave it to another time.”

“What was it, though?” She brought his hand to her face and rubbed his knuckles against her cheek.

“Robin Hidden …”

“What about him?”

“I wanted to ask you about him.”

Dana released his hand and leaned away. “Surely you don’t suspect Robin?”

Resnick didn’t answer. She could see little more than the outline of his face; impossible to read the expression in his eyes, tell what he was thinking.

“You do, don’t you?”

“You know what had happened between them?”

“Nancy had chucked him, yes. But that doesn’t mean …”

“He saw her that evening, Christmas Eve …”

“He couldn’t have.”

“He went to the hotel, looking for her, just before midnight.”

“And?”

Resnick didn’t immediately reply; had said already more than probably he should.

“And?” Dana said again, touching his hand.

“Nothing. He saw her and drove away.”

“Without talking to her?”

Resnick shrugged. “That’s what he says.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think there was some kind of awful row, Robin lost his temper, and …” Dana had raised her hands as she was talking and now let them fall to her sides.

“It’s possible,” Resnick said.

Dana leaned towards him. “You’ve spoken to Robin, though? Talked to him?”

“Yes?”

“And you still think he could do something like that? Hurt her? Harm her?”

“Like I said, it’s possible. It’s …”

“He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. He’s just not the type. And besides, if you’d seen him with Nancy, you’d know. Whatever she thought of him, he really loved her.”

Exactly, Resnick thought. “Sometimes,” he said, “that’s enough.”

“God!” Dana pulled at the duvet and moved away, swiftly to the far side of the bed. “I suppose it’s no surprise, doing what you do, you should be as cynical as you are.” Barefoot, she took a robe from where it was hanging on the open wardrobe door and slipped it around her.

“Cynical,” Resnick said, “is that what it is? Loving somebody so much you lose all perspective.”

“Enough to want to hurt them? Or worse? That’s not cynical, it’s sick.”

“It’s what happens,” said Resnick. “Time and again. It’s what I have to deal with.” He was talking to the open door.

Dana took a sachet of herbal tea from the packet and hung it over the edge of a freshly rinsed mug. When she pointed at the jar of Gold Blend, Resnick shook his head. “I’ll wait till I get home.”

“Suit yourself.” Sitting at the table, Dana toyed with a spoon, avoiding Resnick’s eye.

Resnick was starting to feel more than uncomfortable; he wished he were no longer there, but couldn’t quite bring himself to go. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.

“I was already upset. What happened, it made me forget it for a while, that’s all.”

On the narrow shelf, the kettle was coming noisily to the boil. She was still refusing to look at him and still he hovered near the doorway, reluctant to leave. “Their relationship, Nancy and Robin, it was, well, as far as you know, it was sexual?”

Dana laughed, without humor, more a simple expelling of air than a laugh. “Did I hear the usual groans and gasps through the wall? Why not? She’s an attractive woman; Robin’s athletic, a good body whatever else.”

“It was passionate, then, between them?”

She was staring at him now, open faced. “Is that all the proof you need, Charlie? That someone’s capable of passion? Is that enough to tip the scales?”

“I’ll call you,” Resnick said, stepping back into the hallway.

If Dana heard him, jinking the sachet in and out of her tea, she gave no sign. Mindful of the hour, Resnick closed the door firmly yet quietly behind him.