Off Minor

Fourteen

Of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy. The day that mattered, the day in question, proved to be Saturday and never Tuesday, no matter how many times Mark Divine took the dates of the month, the days of the week and shook them around, spilling them out across his desk hoping for bingo. It always came out the same: Saturday. Between one and one-fifteen. Divine had checked back and there was nothing that put Raymond as missing that day, not as much as a couple of hours. By the time he had checked out, the earliest, Gloria Summers had been missing for at least four hours.

That aside, what else was there?

A spotty kid, a nervous disposition and BO.

Big deal.

A youth who sweated a lot and carried a blade.

What rankled Divine was the certainty that if he went to Resnick with no more than a gut feeling, the inspector would give him short shrift. Whereas Lynn Kellogg, Patel even, they had the boss’s ear. But Divine … as far as Resnick was concerned, Millington even, he was a set of muscles with an attitude problem and not a great deal more. Get yourself sorted or you’re out: it had been implied more than once; stated outright, the time his prisoner had been found in the cells, blood all over his face.

He went berserk, sir. Those injuries; they were self-inflicted.

Asking Resnick to believe that had been a bit like persuading the Archbishop of Canterbury that Mother Teresa did a little hooking on the side.

“Ease up, Mark,” Millington had said, doubtless passing down the word from on high. “We know where your Raymond is. Minute anything else points in his direction we’ll have him so fast he’ll think he’s grown wings.”

So Divine went back to helping the rest do something about improving their crime clear-up rate, now wavering around the thirty-percent mark, despite the whining willies at the Home Office who kept announcing to the world that it was in single figures. Which is to say that he went back to wasting more than sixty percent of his time with unnecessary paper work; whoever dreamed up PACE, Divine thought, was a stationery freak whose fantasy was a fifty-foot-long form to be filled in in triplicate. And as for the bright idea of recording interviews on tape, instead of having some poor bugger with an aching wrist and a splodgy Bic trying to get down every word-great! Terrific! Saved no end of time during the interview, preserved the flow, course it did. Made it less likely some lying bastard was going to get his brief to accuse you of fitting him up, sure it did. What nobody seemed to have bothered thinking about was the amount of time it took to transcribe the things, every spluttering cough, every sodding word. Playing it through a second time, checking for mistakes. Rumor was, more civilian staff were being taken on to help cope, but rumor, Divine knew, didn’t do shit.

In the office that morning, Patel was beavering away under a pair of headphones, Lynn Kellogg was writing up a summary for court, which was where Naylor was kicking his heels, waiting to give evidence against a bloke who’d been poncing auto parts and not even sure if he’d get called. Likely as not, the sergeant was pressed up against the mirror in the Gents, clipping his mustache, and Resnick was behind his desk wrestling with an oversize ham sandwich. So who was out there, getting it done?

If he had his time over again, Divine thought, he’d use his head: take up rugby professionally, either that or a brain surgeon.

Resnick had finished his sandwich and was looking again at the final report from forensic. What had been recovered from the railway sidings had been in such a state it had taken days, not hours, to pick it through, isolating anything that had come into contact with Gloria’s body. Most of the fabric that had been painstakingly recovered from inside the plastic bin liners had been contaminated with mold and was unlikely to provide anything useful. From beneath Gloria’s fingernails, however, the path lab extracted several minute fibers of woven material, red and green. A carpet? A rug? Though nobody was placing bets, the wise odds were on the latter.

What? Had the killer wrapped her body in the rug before moving her elsewhere? Prior to the plastic bag? If so, how had she been transported? By car, along the rear seat, or stowed, like excess baggage, in the boot? Someone with access to a van?

It was possible, Resnick realized, that the assault had taken place on the rug itself; the assault which had resulted in Gloria’s death, in addition to whichever others might have taken place beforehand.

Before what?

Resnick, on his feet, walked round his desk once, twice, caged by visions of what he didn’t want to see. Before what? Before the girl had panicked, refused, screamed, struggled and struck out; before she had to be restrained, quietened, silenced, finally stopped. Although the rug from which those fibers had come had almost certainly been destroyed, that was not necessarily the case. It was not impossible that it lay still in the center of some perfectly ordinary room; the room where Gloria Summers had ended her short life.

Resnick sat back down. One thing he felt sure of: somewhere in the city, Gloria’s killer was walking around, leading an apparently normal life. One thing he was frightened of: before they caught him, that person might be driven to strike again.

Raymond’s first instinct had been to go right down there, have it out with her. Tell her what for, smack in the center of the hazelnut whirls and mint cream imperials. But he knew that was wrong. Temper. He’d had to learn to control his temper. More than once, his uncle Terry had had to take him off to one side, explain the facts of life. Ray-o, you can’t go on like that, flying off the handle. It’s not like you’re a kid, not any more. You carry on that way, people are going to think there’s something wrong. Well, there wasn’t. I mean, that’s nonsense. A load of bollocks. He was all right.

The water had started to run cold, so Raymond stepped out of the shower and began to towel himself down. Hair first, good hard rub, then his back, shoulders, legs and arms. One thing he couldn’t stand, putting any of his clothes back on before every square inch was properly dry. Kind of thing you had to be careful with, didn’t want to catch a cold; worse, that flaky skin between the toes, athlete’s foot; start walking around in wet clothes, sitting down, next thing you had piles.

Raymond sprayed deodorant in the direction of his underarms, down towards his pubic hair. He shook a little scented talc on to one hand and patted it between his legs, around his balls.

A kick on the base of the door. “Leave it alone, Raymond, and give someone else a whack. You’ve been in there over half an hour.”

He had meant to iron his blue shirt, but he pulled a crew neck jumper on over the top so that only the collar and an inch or two of cuff were visible. The jumper had worn through on one elbow, but his jacket would take care of that. He wondered what Sara would be wearing, hoped it would be something casual, not that suit she’d worn to the police station. Like it was church or something.

He took a position close by one of the lions, keeping that at his back, that way he had a clear view past the fountains up to where the bus came in, the one he thought Sara would likely take. Punks sat on the steps, calling out at the occasional passer-by. Sticking safety pins up your nose and sniffing glue, all that was ridiculous, aside from unhygienic, no one carried on like that any more. Pathetic!

He stepped away as Sara paused at the edge of the pavement, trying to pick him out. Really nice, she looked, loose black trousers, black jacket over a red blouse. The last thing he was going to do, risk spoiling the evening, say anything about the knife.

“What did we have to come and see this for?”

“Ssh. Watch this bit. It’s terrific. Look.”

“Where?”

“There, coming through the door. Look!”

“Oh, God!”

Sara twisted sideways in her seat, covering her face with her hand almost as quickly as the semi-naked hero magicked a sword from the ether in perfect time to slash the throat of one attacker right across while connecting a flying kick to the jaw of a second, finally disemboweling the third with all the skills of a pathological Vietnam vet and master butcher, the dying man’s entrails slithering off screen, silver-gray and red.

“Amazing!” breathed Raymond, lost in admiration.

“I just didn’t like it,” Sara said. “All that violence.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Raymond said. “I’ve seen a lot worse.” He meant better, but he wasn’t about to say so. Get too far up Sara’s nose and he wouldn’t even get a feel from her on the way home.

They were in Pizza Hut, the smaller one, up near Bridlesmith Gate. The other one, above Debenham’s, was better, but Raymond didn’t have good memories of walking down there this time of a night.

“I don’t want to be snobby, Raymond, but it’s just not my kind of film, that’s all.”

“Oh, so what is?”

“I don’t know …”

“Something all romantic, I suppose?”

“Not necessarily.” Sara chewed her garlic bread with mozza-rella topping and thought about it. “Something with more to it, I suppose.”

“You mean, serious?”

“Okay, if you like, serious.”

“Well, what about what we just saw, then? All that stuff about how they kept him buried underground for weeks at a time, absolute blackness, nothing to eat except for rats he had to catch and kill himself.”

“What about it?”

Raymond couldn’t believe it. Was she stupid or what? “It shows you, doesn’t it? Explains why it happened.”

“What?”

“Why he turned out like he did. Dedicated to vengeance. No feelings. It’s like,” pointing his fork at her, “his motivation. Psychology and that. Can’t tell me that’s not serious.”

“One deep-pan medium with extra beef topping,” announced their waitress, Tracey, wafting the platter between them. “One thin and crispy vegetarian.”

Raymond was sure she’d ordered that on purpose, get him all riled up.

“Table for two?”

“Please,” Patel said.

“Smoking or non?”

Patel glanced sideways at Alison, who said, “Non.”

“Do you mind sharing?”

“No,” said Patel.

“How long would we have to wait,” Alison asked, “to get somewhere by ourselves?”

Raymond had finished his pizza, every slice, garlic bread, more than his share of the salad; now he sat nibbling on a piece of Sara’s vegetarian, didn’t taste of a thing. Since they’d argued about the film, she had scarcely said two words, beyond complaining about the dressing he’d spooned over their bowl of salad, how she preferred the blue cheese to the Thousand Island any day of the week. Next time, get it yourself, Raymond had thought, saying nothing. What sort of an idiotic name was Thousand Island for a salad dressing anyway?

“Listen,” he said, leaning towards her.

“Yes?”

“That knife of mine: what d’you have to go bloody talking to the police about it for?”

Alison paused in the midst of explaining the relative merits of a fixed-rate mortgage.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

Patel felt himself beginning to blush. “Yes, I am.”

Alison shook her head. “You’re staring.”

“I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “It’s all right.” And reached out her hands. “Now all you have to do is stop fidgeting with that knife and fork.”

“I’m …”

“I know, you’re sorry. Are you always so apologetic, or is it something to do with me?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll try to be more positive.”

“Good,” Alison said, still smiling at him with her eyes. “Do that.”

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.

“Er, I don’t think so,” said Patel, “not quite.”

“Yes,” said Alison, “we’ll order now.”

Patel smiled, and then he laughed.

“I hate that,” Raymond said.

“What?”

“Over there?”

Sara turned her head, following his stare. “What about it? I don’t see …”

“The girl sitting with that Paki.” Raymond grimaced. “Kind of thing I hate to see.”