Still Waters

Twenty-nine

Closed for Private Function read the sign, chalked to a board near the top of the stairs, an arrow pointing down. In the main bar, an early-evening crowd was preparing itself for a night of Old Time Music Hall; rumor had it that Clinton Ford was making the journey over from the Isle of Man. Not paying too much attention, Sharon Garnett missed the sign and walked straight ahead, pushing her way through the reproduction Victorian glass doors to find herself face to face with mine host, decked out for the occasion in purple shirt, striped waistcoat, and raffishly angled straw hat. Behind him, forty or so punters, set on an evening of tepid beer and nostalgia, nibbled peanuts and Walkers crisps and, first one and then another, turned their heads and stared. Sharon, her hair spiked out around her face like a seven-pointed star, stood there in a body-hugging lime green nylon dress and smiled back.

“I think what you’re looking for, me duck, it’s downstairs.”

“Quite likely,” Sharon said. Then, with a cheery wave to all and sundry, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night. And remember, don’t do anything you can’t spell.”

“Comedy night,” the landlord said, “it’s Sat’day. You’re a day early.”

“Better than being the usual four days late.” Sharon had had two large gins and the residue of a bottle of New Zealand Chardonnay before leaving home and she wasn’t about to take prisoners.

Lynn met Sharon at the foot of the stairs and gave her a quick, welcoming hug.

“You look amazing,” Lynn said, stepping back for the full effect.

“So do you.” It was a lie and they both accepted it; in fact, Lynn, in a cream high-neck dress and heels, looked fine. She’d had her hair done that afternoon at Jazz, and for once had thought about her makeup for more than five minutes.

“The bar’s free,” Lynn said, “for now.”

Sharon grinned and made her way in search of more gin.

Half an hour ago, Lynn had been in the same throes of panic experienced by anyone who ever threw a party of whatever size; she had been certain no one would turn up. And then, suddenly it seemed, they were all there-the team she was leaving, the squad she was joining. Even her new boss had put in an appearance, shaking hands with Lynn, as she looked round the room to check who else was there.

Helen Siddons had planned to bring her present affair with her, scotch any persisting rumors and spell it out for Skelton at the same time; but the man in question, an assistant chief constable from a neighboring force, was due to deliver the keynote speech at a Masonic dinner and could only offer to meet her afterwards. Knowing that meant he’d be snoring red-faced on her pillow within fifteen minutes, Siddons had declined.

The sound of conversation was already sharpening, voices liberated by alcohol; laughter, raucous and short-lived, rose up from around the room like a Mexican wave. The buffet was laid out along the rear wall, between the toilets and the bar, the usual quartered sandwiches and slices of yellow quiche, though the pakoras and samosas were less expected and going down a treat.

Helen Siddons was settling a prawn vol-au-vent onto her paper plate when Skelton appeared beside her, tobacco on his breath, his hand heavy upon her arm.

“You’re here on your own,” Skelton said, not a question.

“And Alice?”

Skelton shrugged.

“I don’t know, Jack. It’s not a good idea.”

“It always was.”

“Yes, well, that’s as may be.”

Watching them from across the room, Resnick wondered whether he shouldn’t go over and interrupt, play chaperone. He decided it was none of his business, and went in search of Hannah instead, finding her sharing a table with Carl Vincent, Anil Khan, and Khan’s girlfriend, Jill, a receptionist at Central TV. He was about to join them when he spotted Divine, swaying a little maybe, but as yet still on his feet.

“Mark,” Resnick greeted him, concerned but genuinely pleased. “Glad you could make it. How’ve you been? All right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Never worry.”

“Well, take it a bit easy, okay?”

“Right.”

Divine tugged at the knot of his tie and headed for the bar. Moments later, lager in hand, he collided with Sharon Garnett, carrying a tray of drinks toward a corner table. The crash momentarily stopped most conversation, Sharon squatting down among the broken glass, the front of her dress dark and wet.

“Here, let me,” Divine said, lowering himself shakily onto one knee.

“Tell you what,” Sharon said. “Why don’t you fuck off instead?”

“Black bitch,” Divine said, the words out of his mouth without hindrance or thought.

The back of Sharon’s hand caught him full across the face, the edge of her ring opening a cut alongside his left eye. For a moment, he was stunned and then he lashed out, one of his feet kicking her hard in the thigh, a fist whistling close by her head.

“Hey, Mark! Enough.” Naylor had been the first to react, pulling Divine back, Resnick quick to seize hold of his other arm, the pair of them hustling him over toward the door and through onto the stairs.

“Are you all right?” Lynn asked, shepherding Sharon toward a seat.

“Stupid bastard,” Sharon said. And then to Lynn, dredging up a smile. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“I thought,” Khan said, “things were a little on the quiet side.”

Vincent looked at his watch. “Early days.”

Out on the street, Resnick propped Divine up against a wall, while Naylor called for a cab.

“I’ll go with him,” Naylor said, “make sure he gets indoors okay. Tell Debbie I’ll not be long; I’ll get the driver to wait.”

“You’re sure?”

“No problem.”

“Good lad, thanks.”

Resnick was scarcely back in the room before he saw Helen Siddons headed straight toward him. “Just got a call. There’s a body, Charlie. In the canal. Not far from here. I thought maybe you’d want to come along.”

After a quick word with Hannah, Resnick followed the new DCI from the room.

Someone had moved fast. Already the section of Wilford Road that ran into Castle Boulevard had been closed to traffic and the footpath along Tinker’s Leen had been roped off as far as the entrance to the new Inland Revenue buildings. Officers from the Technical Support team were rigging up lights. Jack Skelton talked to the uniformed inspector directing operations from above the lock, while Resnick followed Helen Siddons down the steps toward the water. She was wearing a stone-colored topcoat, loosely belted over her dress, and somehow she had found the opportunity to change into flat shoes. Two young PCs stood guarding the body, neither one looking as if they should legitimately have left school. They stood back and murmured “Ma’am” as the DCI approached.

Just as Resnick had done not so many months before, she lowered herself down and lifted back the plastic sheet. In the glare of artificial light, the face shone white, opaque as ivory. Borrowing gloves, Helen Siddons gently turned the head aside; a deep gash ran from behind the left eye to the inner edge of jaw, tissue and bone laid bare. She had not been in the water long, hours at most. Skelton was walking along the towpath toward them, the police surgeon in his wake. Siddons lowered the sheeting back into place and stood.

“You haven’t got a cigarette, have you, Charlie?”

Resnick shook his head.

“Poor cow.”

“Yes.”

“How many’s that now? No clothing, no ID. If anyone steps forward to claim the body, I’ll be surprised.”

But Resnick knew that wouldn’t be the case: he had recognized Jane Peterson the instant Helen Siddons had exposed her face.