Off Minor

Thirty-eight

“What is it, then, Charlie? What’ve you taken to feeding them? Raw steak, all of a sudden?”

Resnick picked at a blob of mayonnaise that had somehow found its way on to the lapel of his jacket. Second time on the super’s carpet in twelve hours wasn’t his favorite location. “Maybe went in a bit hard and fast, sir, got their t’s crossed and their i’s dotted too soon.”

“What they did, Charlie, chased down a lead with some good police work, then buggered it up with bully-boy tactics that’d give some judge down the road the chance to throw the whole shebang out of court.”

“Only Kilpatrick’s word for that, sir.”

“You don’t believe him?”

Resnick didn’t answer.

“Intimidation, verbal certainly, not so far off the physical; refusing a request to contact his solicitor-and you know who that is, I suppose?”

Resnick knew: he and Suzanne Olds were frequent sparring partners who occasionally drank espresso together at the coffee stall in the market. They treated one another with a grudging respect and never flinched from the chance to score points.

“Ms. Olds is out there now, counting her fee, rubbing her hands as if she can’t quite believe what we’ve handed her on a plate.”

“It’s still only Kilpatrick’s word against ours.”

“And whose are we taking?”

Resnick looked past Skelton’s head towards the window, the sky settling into that blue blackness that is never truly black, the darkness of cities. Another day and Emily Morrison not found. Was it so difficult to understand his officers acting as they did, their frustration?

“Not hard to see what happened, Charlie. Days of routine and dead ends and then this. The adrenaline takes over. Judgment? Scraped away like shit off the bottom of a shoe.”

Resnick nodded agreement. “Divine, I’m not surprised. But Graham …”

“Coppers like Millington, Charlie, next rung up the ladder, it’s out there like the end of the rainbow. All they can see, all they think they need, that one result, that one big case that’s going to leave them covered in glory. Now, one way or another, you’re going to be giving his bollocks a dusting and the resentment’s going to be so thick you can taste it.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments; traffic came over the brow of the hill and past fast enough to make the walls of the building vibrate. Not so far down that same hill, Resnick could see Lorraine Morrison in her kitchen, glancing at the clock, gauging the time, her husband’s mood. Maybe he’d had an extra beer on the train, two Scotches as against the usual one. What would they talk about before dinner and after, filling the silence that would so recently have been broken by their daughter’s shouts and laughter?

“What if they’re right, sir? About Kilpatrick?”

Skelton shook his head. “You’ve seen laborers on a building site, Charlie. Downing tools every time a school girl walks along the street. My Kate, she was whistled at and worse from when she was twelve, more often in her uniform than out of it. God knows what it is about ankle socks and pleated skirts and I’m glad I don’t, but if we pulled in every man who had that for a fantasy, we’d have half the male population behind bars. More. And if this Kilpatrick’s been spending good money getting women to act it out for him, I’d reckon he was less likely to be our man rather than more.”

Resnick nodded, wondering whether Skelton had been borrowing a couple of books of sexual behavior, or merely reading his wife’s copies of Company and Cosmopolitan.

“His car was parked near the Morrisons’ house, sir. Around the time the girl disappeared.”

“For which he has a reason. What we don’t have, unless I’m much mistaken, anything linking him to the girl.”

Resnick pinched the bridge of his nose; his eyes were starting to smart and he couldn’t remember the last night he’d had that had passed undisturbed. “Kick him loose, then?”

“Let Millington’s interview run its course. He just might unearth something, I suppose, and if he does I’ll gladly eat my words. After that, let’s have him out of here as quickly and politely as we can. Hope that forty-eight hours or so’ll calm him down sufficiently that he forgets any ideas he might have about suing for harassment or false arrest.”

“And Millington? Divine?”

Skelton allowed himself something close to a smile. “Chain of command, Charlie. You know how it goes.”

Right, Resnick thought, I know exactly how it works. You panic and bawl me out for nothing getting done, I give my team a going-over in turn and the result is they go rushing round like a bunch of headless chickens, desperate for a result. The result is this. At least, now the interviews were taped, they wouldn’t be so keen on manufacturing evidence, changing answers, responding to pressure down the chain of command.

He got to his feet and turned towards the door.

“Pity about the identification parade,” Skelton said.

“I still think he was there, sir. That afternoon, Stephen Shepperd.”

“What if he was, Charlie? What did he do? Tuck the kid under his arm and run off with her?”

“Maybe.”

“Charlie.”

“Somebody did. If not that exactly, something close. He did have the car, remember. Drove off to go swimming. Changed his mind and went for a run, must’ve parked it somewhere. If he did grab her, he need not have carried her too far.”

“Sunday afternoon, Charlie. People at home. She’d have screamed, struggled. Somebody would have heard.”

“Not if she knew him. Which almost certainly she did. In and out of the school, the classroom, helping his wife out. Shepperd might’ve spoken to her any number of times. What was to stop him speaking to her again, that Sunday. Both her parents indoors, their door shut, curtains drawn. So easy for her to have been fed up, bored; easy for someone she knew to have beckoned her over, come and look at this, he could have walked Emily Morrison away from there holding her hand.”

Skelton had nodded several times while Resnick was talking but now he leaned back in his chair, hands in his trouser pockets, shaking his head. “The only witness we’ve come up with, the only one that might have placed Shepperd near the scene, failed to identify him. We can’t even place him there.”

“Why did he lie about going swimming?”

“If he did.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Even if we know he wasn’t at the baths, even if we knew he lied about that, we don’t know for certain what else he did. The rest is supposition and rumor and whatever may be twisting away inside your gut.”

“Isn’t that all it often is?”

Skelton nodded. “Agreed. But before we can do anything, we need something more substantial. Because if you are right, the last thing we want to do is give him the same kind of get-out we just handed to Kilpatrick.”

Resnick nodded and got to his feet. “Kid gloves, sir.”

“Better be.”

Outside in the corridor, Suzanne Olds was taking a break from the interview room, smoking a cigarette. A tall woman wearing a light gray tailored suit, an expensive leather bag hanging from one shoulder, she watched Resnick’s approach with interest, one eyebrow quizzically crooked. Head down, Resnick walked past, only just hearing the solicitor’s quiet, “I see crash courses in terrorizing the innocent are back in the manual.” He didn’t turn, didn’t falter; in the CID room he left instructions that Graham Millington should under no circumstances leave the station without seeing him first. The kettle was warm and he made himself coffee, taking it into his office with the intention of reviewing his conversations with Stephen Shepperd. Unwillingly, he found himself thinking of Vivien Nathanson instead; of the poem she had read. Reluctantly, he opened the drawer and took out the book, turning to the page. Infinite, unfathomable desires.