Wasted Years

Twenty-Two

The gang had robbed a Securicor van of eight thousand pounds, give or take the small change. They had driven a Transit into its path in the loading area outside the new Sainsbury’s superstore and three men with stocking masks had jumped out of a BMW which had skewed to a halt hard behind it. Shoppers had scattered towards safety, leaving laden trolleys abandoned. If the youngest of the security guards had not taken it into his head to be a hero, it would all have gone as smoothly as the two similar raids the gang had carried out in the preceding months.

But, for whatever reason, misguided or noble, the twenty-five-year-old part-time archeology student had hurled himself at the legs of the nearest robber, bringing him down, the money sack that he’d been carrying tumbling clear.

In the confusion and clamor that followed only these things are certain: the robber who was rugby tackled suffered a damaged kneecap, which, when the atmosphere was damp, bothered him to this day; the money sack somersaulted into the path of a small girl, little more than a toddler, who was running from her mother, stopping her in her tracks, causing her, in fact, to topple against it, her young body keeping it secure and reducing the gang’s haul by approximately one-fifth; the nearest of the other masked men to the incident, immediately and without hesitation, brought the sawn-off shotgun he was carrying to his shoulder and fired both barrels into the guard’s face and body. Several hours of surgery succeeded in removing almost all of the Double Nought pellets from his neck and cheek, shoulder and chest, and he was deemed fortunate to be left alive.

Fourteen detectives and numerous uniformed officers had been devoting most of their waking hours ever since to tracking the gang down. A lot of overtime and a lot of shoe leather and, for those of them with wives or lovers, a lot of broken promises and recriminations.

“Elaine, look, I’m sorry …” Resnick said into the phone.

“What?”

“I’m going to be back late.”

“Why are you telling me, Charlie? Late’s what you always are.”

“This might be later.”

She made no attempt to suppress the sigh. “If you’re any later than quarter to eight in the morning, I’ll have left for work.”

Resnick saw Reg Cossall watching him as he set down the receiver. “Bastard, i’n’t it, eh, Charlie?”

Resnick slowly shook his head.

“After my third time,” Cossall said, lighting another Silk Cut, “I thought as how I’d got it sussed. Never give ’em a reason to expect owt, they won’t be disappointed.” He blew smoke at the ceiling and laughed low in the back of his throat. “Cow shoved off anyhow. Took one of my suits, that good Crombie coat I had, shirts, socks, trousers, piled ’em all up in the back garden, chucked a can of paraffin over, and burned the bloody lot. Women! Different bloody race, Charlie, and it don’t pay to forget it.”

“All right, gentlemen. Settle down now. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Jack Skelton, two years an inspector, transferred up from Stevenage, and still pretty much an outsider, was on his feet and looking round the room expectantly. A nice result here was what he needed to get his feet under the table and he was going to push everyone as hard as it took until it was over.

What they had, Reg Cossall reckoned afterwards, was about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel. They were in an after-hours drinking club on Bottle Lane, crowded round a table in the last of a succession of small rooms, Cossall and Resnick and Rains and four or five others. Any pretence at moderation, just a pint before hitting the road, had long since flown out the window. Now it was spirits, doubles, Resnick dodging the occasional round, wanting to pace himself, knowing all he had to do was get up and leave, knowing that once you’d passed a certain point it’s the hardest thing in the world.

Skelton had been with them in the pub earlier, his shout, a few pleasantries, and then the suburbs awaited. But Jack Skelton had rank for reason, had a young kiddie, a girl named Kate, waiting for him to kiss her good night; he had a wife, something in hospital administration, professional woman. Expectations he had to fulfill.

When Resnick made inspector, things would change; like Skelton he could make his excuses and leave, knowing full well the men were glad to be shot of him, free to talk, to call him names behind his absent back.

When he and Elaine had a child …

“What d’you reckon then, Charlie?”

“How’s that?”

“What Rainsey here was saying, these blaggings down to Prior.”

“I thought we’d been through all that?”

“We have.”

“Checked him out.”

Rains leaned forward, jabbing a finger at the air. “Pulled him in twice, brief right alongside him, all through interrogation, every step of the sodding way.”

“The way it’s meant to be,” Resnick said.

“Bollocks!”

“Alibied to the armpits, wasn’t he?” Cossall said.

“In bed with his old lady, middle of the afternoon …”

“I should fancy!”

“Not if you’d seen her you wouldn’t. Face sour as last week’s milk. Real scrubber.”

“What’s his form again?” Resnick asked, interested almost despite himself.

Rains eased back in his chair. “Couple of stretches, aggravated burglary. Fancied him for a post office job, eighteen months back, his face all over it but nothing we could prove. That time, reckoned he and the wife had driven her mother up to Harrogate, bit of shopping, afternoon tea.”

“Family man,” said Cossall quietly. “That’s nice.”

“Villain, that’s what he is,” Rains said. “Nothing else.” He leaned forward again, looking into their faces. “What d’you think he’s been up to this last eighteen month, filling in his Spot the Ball coupons?”

Cossall shrugged and Resnick checked his watch and Rains downed his Scotch and got to his feet. “Another of these and then I reckon we go round and knock him up, see what he’s got to say.”

“What grounds?” Resnick asked.

Rains winked. “Information received. Reasonable suspicion. Probable cause. Who gives a toss? Scotch, Reg? Charlie? Vodka?”

Resnick shook his head.

“Suit yourself.”

“Jesus, Charlie,” Cossall said, watching Rains disappear in the direction of the bar, “most of us get tireder as the night gets longer-each hour he’s awake he gets bloody brighter.”

“Think there’s anything to what he says?” Resnick asked.

“Prior? He’ll be into something right enough. His sort always are. That’s not counting shagging his missus the wrong side of Blue Peter. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a tumble at that.”

Resnick shook his head. “Not like this. Not now.”

“Be off his guard.”

“For how long? No warrant, we’re not going to find anything. Get him down the station and he’ll be back on the street before breakfast. Besides, state Rains is in, no telling what he might get up to.”

“What, Charlie?” Cossall laughed. “With you there to hold his hand?”

“You’d go along with it then?”

“Like hell as like! Way Rain’s getting himself pumped up, time he gets there, be near enough out of his skull.”

Rains arrived back with doubles all round, setting one down in front of Resnick as if he’d never said a word; from the gleam in Rains’s eye he’d slipped in an extra one while being served.

“Here’s to us, then.” Rains raised his glass in front of his face. “And here’s to a life of crime.” He downed the whisky in a single swallow. “What d’you say, then, skip?” He rested a hand on Resnick’s shoulder. “Tune to see if Prior’s all tucked up?”

Resnick got to his feet, leaving his drink untouched. “Time we all went home. Got some sleep.”

“Bollocks!”

“Come on,” Resnick said.

“Keep your hands off me,” Rains said. “Leave me a-fucking-lone.”

“Quietly,” Resnick said. “I’ll walk with you down the square, cab it home.”

“I don’t need a cab, I’ve got my sodding car.”

“Leave it where it is. You don’t want to drive.”

“Who says?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Who’s fucking drunk?”

Reg Cossall stood up heavily, taking hold of both their arms. “This isn’t so good. People are starting to pay attention. What say we hold it down?”

Rains swung himself clear of Cossall’s grasp. “The rest of you can do as you like. Just don’t try and fucking interfere.”

Resnick caught up with him near the foot of Bottle Lane. Rains was leaning forward against the wall, urinating on to the uneven cobbles and his own feet. The car keys were in Rains’s right-side coat pocket and Resnick had found them and fished them out before Rains could react.

“You can have these back in the morning. Now get home and sober up. And don’t go within a mile of Prior. Clear?”

Rains’s eyes were glazed and he shook his head from side to side, bringing Resnick into focus.

“You’ve got no …”

The index finger of Resnick’s right hand stopped no more than two inches from the center of Rains’s face. “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. Not you. I spent one of the worst mornings of my life in court today, bending over backwards to keep the shit off your shoes. I’m in no mood to do the same thing twice. Now get home and get yourself sorted out.”

Resnick let the keys fall into his own pocket as he turned away; glancing back from the corner of Bridlesmith Gate, he saw Rains had not moved. Resnick hailed a cab rounding the square and gave his address.

“Good night?” the driver asked pleasantly.

“Yes.” Resnick said. “Terrific!”

Only the front-hall light was on and Resnick switched it off as he went through to the kitchen. There was a piece of Stilton in the fridge and the remains of some pasta Elaine had made in a covered bowl. He shook some Worcestershire Sauce onto the pasta, cut slices from the cheese, and sat at the kitchen table with the local paper. Fifteen minutes later, shoes in hand, he climbed the stairs to bed.

Elaine was tucked in on herself, most of the covers dragged over to her side. Resnick undressed quickly, sliding in alongside her, finding some space beneath the sheet.

“Charlie,” she said softly. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Charlie,” Elaine said, turning towards him, “you smell of drink.”