Cold Light

Forty-three

Alice Skelton was in her bathrobe, towel wrapped around her hair, cigarette between her lips. It was twenty past six in the morning. She had heard his daughter-that was the way she tried to think of Kate now, it made things easier-returning home closer to three than two. Not bothering to be quiet about it any more, no more guarded whispers as she gave some youth a last wet kiss and reached down to slip off her shoes. These days-these nights-it was a slamming of doors and a shout of thanks, and whoever had driven her home turning back up the volume of the car stereo before the end of the drive. Alice had lain awake, said nothing, waited for the raid on the fridge, the toilet flush, the bedroom door. Christ, girl, she thought, what would I have done with my young life if I’d enjoyed your freedom? Would I have screwed it up any less or more?

Beside her, rolled as far towards the edge of the mattress as was possible, Jack Skelton slept on, his body twitching every now and then as if cattle-prodded by his dreams.

At four, Alice had given up all pretense and gone downstairs. Sweet biscuits. Ice cream. Coffee with a little gin. Cigarettes. Finally, just gin. She ran an early bath and lay back in it, her head resting against a plastic cushion, listening to the World Service: Londres Matin, the early morning news in French.

Out and dried, she had been considering going back upstairs and getting dressed when the phone rang.

“Hello? Mrs. Skelton? This is Helen Siddons.”

“It’s also practically the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have called at this hour if …”

“If it wasn’t important.”

“That’s right. Is your husband there?”

If he’s not with you, Alice thought, I suppose he must be. “I expect he’s still sleeping, don’t you? He tires easily these days.”

“Could you get him for me? It is …”

“Important, I know.” She let the receiver fall from her hand and it banged against the wall, bouncing and bobbing at the end of its twisted flex. “Jack,” Alice called up the stairs, “someone for you. I think it’s the massage service.”

Helen had been backtracking through the Rogel interviews, never quite certain what she was looking for but trusting it would leap out at her when she found it. Motive, opportunity, some connection that somehow they had missed. Something which they had failed to find important then, but now …

Those who had been brought in for questioning fell into three broad categories: anyone who might have had a grudge against the three principals involved, known villains with a penchant for extortion, and finally a more haphazard collection of people who had been in the area at the time, possibly acting in a manner that aroused suspicion. In the case of primary suspects, their backgrounds were well-documented, profiles fairly full; other individuals, notably those from the last group, had been lingered over less lovingly. At the time, that hadn’t been seen to have mattered. But when those people were brought into the limelight, the gaps in knowledge were prodigious.

Helen wondered how assiduously some of these stories had been checked-the first alibi but not the second or third? And what was known about them once they had been eliminated from the inquiry? She guessed, very little. In some cases, nothing. How easy, then, for one of them to lie low a short spell, up tracks, and move away. Start over again somewhere else.

“Take someone with you,” Skelton said. “Another detective, someone who can do some leg work if it’s needed. Divine, for instance. He could drive you.”

Mark Divine was less than happy, playing chauffeur to a sodding woman! Still, at least he was getting a decent motor; top a hundred in the fast lane with no trouble.

“Divine,” Helen Siddons said. She was wearing a dark suit with a mid-length skirt, her hair pulled back and severe. Divine had in mind she’d not have been out of place in that video he’d rented last night: Death Daughters From Hell. He could just picture her wielding a whip.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Divine coming to mock-attention, giving her as much of a come-on as he dared with his eyes. Never knew, if they got a result, might not be above letting her hair down on the way back.

“One word out of turn from you, Divine, and I’ll have your balls cut off and dried and strung up for auction at the next divisional dinner-dance. Understood?”

Lynn had sifted through the mass of material on and around her desk, checked the CID room notice board, the message log; during the course of the morning, she contacted the officers who had rotated duty on the desk, got through to the switchboard, and asked them to go through all incoming calls. Finally, it seemed incontrovertible-no personal message had been left for her inside the past thirty-six hours. For whatever reason, Michael had lied.

“Problem?” Resnick stopped by her desk on his way back to his own office. A bulging brown bag from the deli was leaking gently into his hand.

Lynn shook her head. “Not really.”

“Worrying about your dad?”

“Sort of, I suppose.”

“Any news when he’s going in for the operation?”

“Not yet.”

Resnick nodded; what else was there he could say? He had promised to call the Phelans this afternoon with a progress report, not that any progress had been made. Whoever had sent the ransom tape, they were in his hands. Every other trail, such as it had been, had long gone cold. Behind his desk, he opened the bag and stemmed a rivulet of oil and mayonnaise with his finger, then brought it to his mouth. Only a few drops fell over the Home Office report on responses to private policing. How long was it since he had spoken to Dana? He should ring her, make sure she was all right. If she suggested meeting for a drink, well, what was wrong with that? But the number snagged in his brain like a wedge of ill-digested food stuck in his throat.

Lynn spent the afternoon with several copies of Yellow Pages and the other business directories. On her eleventh call, the receptionist said, “Mr. Best? He’s often out on call, but if you’ll hold on I’ll see if he’s available.”

“Excuse me,” Lynn said quickly. “But that is Mr. Michael Best?”

“That’s right, yes. Can you tell me what it’s pertaining to? If he’s not here, perhaps someone else can help.”

“Look, it’s okay,” Lynn said. “Don’t bother now. I’ll catch up with him some other time.”

That evening she turned down all offers of a drink, left pretty much to time, skin beginning to tingle as she neared home. But there was nobody stretched out across the stairway reading the newspaper, no note slipped beneath her door. So many times she went to the window and looked down over the courtyard, always expecting him to be there. At about quarter past nine, she realized that she’d dozed off in the chair. By ten she was in bed and asleep again, surprisingly unconcerned.