Cutting Edge

Thirty-seven

The slimline diary with the black imitation-leather binding and trim, metal corners at its four edges, lay on Skelton’s desk, the sunlight shafting in from a cloudless sky, Indian summer. In a neat hand on the prelim pages, Amanda Hooson had written her name and both addresses, university and home, together with their respective phone numbers. Beneath she had put her passport number, current account number, national insurance number; the telephone numbers of her bank, doctor, dentist; the internal numbers for the Social Sciences Department and the Health Center. Columns requesting dress size, hat size, shoe size had been left blank. At the foot of the right-hand page, she had filled in the name and address of her next of kin, to be informed in case of accident or emergency. There was an organ donor card sellotaped inside the back cover, but the necessity for a police post-mortem would have prevented it being used.

“Well?” Skelton said, early in the day but down to shirt sleeves already; things were going to get hotter as this day wore on.

Resnick and Paddy Fitzgerald were side by side, close against Skelton’s desk. Resnick was wearing a green-hued tweed jacket with sagging pockets and frayed cotton at the cuff of its left arm. Fitzgerald was sweating through the dark blue of his uniform, little to do with the temperature or the unlooked-for sunlight.

“Well?”

Paddy Fitzgerald glanced, stiff-necked, at Resnick and Resnick looked away.

“I’ve had them in, sir, every man jack of ’em. Gave them a right bollocking.”

“If you’d done that sooner,” Skelton said, “might have had some effect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many days searching that area?”

Fitzgerald blinked.

“Days?”

“Three, sir.”

“Officers?”

“Sir?”

“How many officers?”

“Twelve. All told, sir. Not, I mean, obviously not all at the same time, same shift …” Words withered away under Skelton’s unflinching glare.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Fitzgerald said.

“You’re …?”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t know how they … I don’t understand how it wasn’t spotted.”

“Maybe it was only put there last night,” Resnick suggested. “Maybe whoever took it, kept it until yesterday, decided to get rid of it.” He shrugged. “Always possible.” Even to himself, he didn’t sound very convincing.

“Seen the state of it, Charlie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Read it? The relevant pages?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You, Paddy?”

Fitzgerald nodded. The ripe scent of sweat was permeating the room and if things continued this way there was liable to be a puddle in front of Skelton’s desk, not necessarily perspiration.

“What if,” the superintendent said, measuring every word, “what if our laddie had sharpened up his blade, found another victim, some young nurse say, walking home alone, what if there was another body on our hands? What would you think then?”

Fitzgerald stuttered. “I don’t know, sir.”

“It only takes five minutes,” Skelton said. “Ten at most. You gave him seventy-two hours.”

The sun was strong on the right side of the superintendent’s face, highlighting the fine strands of hair above his ear, making the skin at the curve of the ear gleam.

“It would be nice to think,” Skelton said, “that when your men go back over the ground this morning, any weapon that might be lying around underneath the odd dustbin might be found before it takes another half-cut student to do their job for them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Skelton nodded and looked down towards the desk, allowing Fitzgerald the grace to leave the room. After another moment, Skelton picked up the diary and leafed through it, all the color-coded dots beneath or alongside dates, the times of tutorials and seminars, notes of books to return to the library or pulses to buy from Hizicki or Oroborus, her father’s birthday. When he found the right week, he angled the page across the desks that they could both read what was written in the column for Saturday: Buttery. 1pm. Ian.

Resnick pushed the door to the CID room open wide enough to call round it. “Mark, Kevin. Job for you.”

Carew had found a light cotton sweater, pearl gray, and he wore it now, draped across his shoulders, a deep purple singlet underneath, white running shorts with stripes in two shades of green and a high vent at the sides, Reactolite Polaroids with silvered frames. On each wrist a purple and green sweatband. He didn’t want her to think he wasn’t taking this seriously.

He rocked forward, legs straight out, and flicked an ant from the toe of his left shoe. Brand new LA Gear, he’d made a trip specially into the city to buy them that morning. What was the point of having parents who were prepared to supplement your grant if you didn’t take full advantage?

“You didn’t just happen to be here?” Sarah Leonard said.

“Uh-uh,” grinning that cocky grin of his, “I was waiting for you.”

“How did you know I’d be here.”

“Easy. I checked your ward rota.”

“You checked …”

“Lying around on the sister’s desk.” Carew touched the side of his sunglasses, but didn’t take them off. “It’s hardly confidential. Surely?”

“I’m early.”

“I know.” All right for some, Sarah thought, bit of sun and they’re lazing around, taking it easy; here he was, didn’t care if he had to wait over an hour, just as long as he got a little more tanned. But instead Carew said, “You’re often early.”

“Am I?”

“More often than not.”

“You’d know, would you?”

He did take off his glasses then and smiled. Conceited bastard! Flashing those blue eyes, Sarah thought. Why are the good-looking ones always so conceited? Or gay?

“You sound as though you’ve been watching me.”

“I have.”

Something prickled at the root of her scalp, along the backs of the arms and legs: not the attraction, not the heat. Though they were part of it.

“Why?”

“Oh, come on!”

“No, why are you watching me?”

“Now? Take a look at yourself.”

Sarah was wearing a loose dress which buttoned up the back, deck shoes, no tights. Sometimes she wore a slip with the dress and today, seeing the weather, she hadn’t, so there she was now, wishing that she had. Her hair wanted cutting, she had no makeup save for a touch above her eyes, a smudge of blue; she knew exactly what she looked like.

“I don’t mean why are you watching me now, I mean why before? Why the interest in my hours, when I come in and out? What?”

“You know,” Carew said, treating her to a lazy smile.

“So tell me.”

“Why?”

“If I already know, tell me again.”

“What’s the point?”

“Maybe I’m wrong. I want to know if I’m right.”

“It’s simple. I’ve already told you. I think you’re attractive. I want to go out with you. I fancy you, all right?”

Sarah turned to walk away.

“Wait!” He was on his feet in a second, rolling back on his buttocks then springing up, jumping in front of her just as the unmarked car swung round from the main entrance and Resnick, seated in the back, leaned forward between Naylor and Divine, pointing, and said, “There he is.”

“What?” Sarah said, Carew not looking at her now, somewhere else beyond her shoulder, something that changed his expression to one of concern, almost alarm.

When Sarah turned her head, the car had slewed upon to the grass, two of its doors already open, front and back, two men in the process of getting out. She didn’t recognize the first, a tall man with a large plaster on one side of his face, but there was no mistaking the second.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

Carew didn’t reply. For a moment, she thought he was going to turn and run, saw his body tense and then relax, the moment passed now. By the time the officers were in front of him, each a little to one side, he was almost relaxed.

“Detective Inspector Resnick, this is Detective Constable Divine.” Sarah watched the faces, impassive, saw the warrant cards in their hands. Resnick reached out a hand, not quickly, and placed it firmly on Carew’s right arm, midway above the elbow. “We are arresting you in connection with the murder of Amanda Hooson. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.”

Carew glanced at Sarah, much of the color gone from her face; he looked at Resnick’s fingers, quite tight around his arm. “Made up your mind, hadn’t you?” Carew said. “Couldn’t get me for one thing, you were going to get me for something else.”

Resnick withdrew his arm and the three men walked in close formation towards the waiting car. The last image Sarah had of Ian Carew was his face swiveled round toward the rear window, searching for her, smiling.