Cold in Hand cr-11 Read online

  Cold in Hand

  ( Charles Resnick - 11 )

  John Harvey

  John Harvey

  Cold in Hand

  PART ONE

  One

  It was that curious time, neither day nor night, not even properly dusk, the light beginning to shorten and fade, the headlights of a few overcautious drivers raising a quick, pale reflection from the slick surface of the road, the main route back into the city. Past Ezee-Fit Tyre Change amp; Exhaust. Quality Decking. Nottingham Building Supplies. Carpet World. The occasional small parade of shops set back to one side: newsagents, florists, Chinese takeaway, bookies, Bargain Booze.

  Lynn Kellogg was driving an unmarked car that jolted slightly when she downshifted from fourth to third, the Force radio whispering sweet nothings through a field of static. She was wearing blue jeans and a pair of scuffed Timberlands, her bulletproof vest still fastened beneath a red and black ski jacket, unzipped.

  There were schoolkids all along both sides of the street, spilling over the pavements, pushing, shoving, shirts hanging loose, rucksacks slung over their shoulders, sharing, some of them, the headphones from their MP3s and iPod nanos; a covey of girls, no older than thirteen or fourteen, skirts barely covering their skinny behinds, passing a joint between them. Another day, Lynn might have pulled over, stopped, delivered a lecture. Not today.

  February 14th, Valentine's Day, a little after four P.M. and she wanted nothing as much as to get home at a reasonable time, strip off these clothes and soak in a hot bath. She'd bought a present, nothing fancy, a DVD, Thelonious Monk, Live in '66, but it still needed to be wrapped. The card she'd left propped up against the toaster where she thought it might get found. When she glanced in the mirror, the tiredness was all too clear in her eyes.

  She had been sitting with her second cup of coffee that morning, half-listening to the early news: Another fifteen-year-old had been shot in Peckham, south London, the third in almost as few days. Payback. Bravado. Respect. Some part of her thinking, at least this time it isn't here. She knew the number of senior detectives currently investigating gun-related incidents in the Nottingham area and environs was such that the Homicide Unit were having to consider bringing in officers from outside.

  As the newsreader moved on to the prospect of more job losses in the industrial sector and she reached for the off switch, the phone cut in.

  "It's okay," she called through to the other room. "It's probably for me."

  It was. A man holding his wife and children prisoner in Worksop, north of the county, threatening them harm. Almost certainly armed. Lynn swallowed another mouthful of coffee, poured the remainder down the sink, and grabbed her coat from where it was hanging in the hall.

  "Charlie, I've got to run."

  "I'll see you later," he said, hurrying to the door.

  "You better." Her kiss just missed the side of his mouth.

  "The table's booked for eight."

  "I know."

  A moment and she was gone.

  Nine months earlier, Lynn had finished her training as a Hostage Negotiator, ancillary to her main role as Detective Inspector on the Homicide Unit, and since that time she had been called out twice, both incidents being peacefully resolved. In the first, a fifty-five-year-old man, forcibly retired, had held his previous employer captive for eighteen hours, under the threat of trepanning his skull with a sharpened scythe; Lynn had eventually talked him into setting his weapon aside and releasing his prisoner with promises of a hot meal, a probable maximum of seventy-two hours' community service and a personal interview at the local Job Centre. Her second call out had been to a twenty-four-hour grocery store, where an attempted robbery had resulted in one youth being arrested as he tried to flee the scene, leaving another inside with a Stanley knife to the throat of the terrified Somali shopkeeper. Against Lynn's advice, the Incident Commander had allowed the youth's mother to talk to the boy directly and her pleas for him to surrender had succeeded where Lynn's had so far failed. Bad practice but a good result, the shopkeeper unharmed, the youth walking out in tears into his mother's arms.

  This particular morning it was a thirty-four-year-old engineer who'd returned from a six-month stint in Bahrain the previous evening to find his wife in bed with his ex-best mate, the three kids all downstairs, clustered round the television watching Scooby Doo. The mate had legged it, leaving his trousers dangling from the bedpost and the wife to face the music. Neighbours had registered a lot of banging and shouting, but not thought too much of it, until, in the early hours, the oldest of the children, barely seven, had shinnied through the bathroom window and gone running to the nearest house. "My dad's gonna kill my mum. He's gonna kill us all."

  By the time Lynn had arrived, the street had been cordoned off, the house surrounded, anyone with close knowledge of the interior and the family debriefed, both the layout and the names and ages of those inside clear in their minds. Firearms officers were already in position, ambulances ready and waiting. What the boy had told them was halting and confused; some of the time he seemed to be saying that his father had a gun and sometimes not. They weren't about to take any chances.

  The Incident Commander was Phil Chambers, a Detective Superintendent Lynn had worked with once before, a murder-suicide out at Ollerton: a husband and wife who'd been together for forty-seven years and wanted it to end the same way. Ben Fowles was the senior firearms officer at the scene, a good thirty pounds heavier than when Lynn had first known him, the pair of them young CID officers working out of Canning Circus station; Fowles moonlighting most weekends, fronting a band called Splitzoid that somehow never seemed to have made the grade.

  There was telephone contact with the house, but after the briefest of conversations-little more than grunts and curses-the connection had been broken and the man had so far refused to pick up again. Lynn was forced to resort to a bullhorn, self-conscious despite herself, knowing that all of the assembled officers would be hearing what she said, how she handled the situation, listening and judging.

  The man had stepped into clear sight several times, once with what looked like a kitchen knife held against the side of his wife's throat-not an easy shot, but possible, nine times, maybe, out of ten. Not a risk they were anxious to run. Not yet, anyway. Lynn had seen Chambers and Ben Fowles several times in close conversation, weighing up the pros and cons, the decision to shoot theirs and not hers. Neither of the remaining children, a girl of five and a three-year-old boy, had been seen for some little time.

  "Let the children go." Lynn's voice echoed across the late-morning air; the sun up there somewhere, trapped behind a bank of cloud. "Let them come outside. Their gran's here. She can look after them. Let them come to her."

  The grandmother was standing off to the left of the cordon with other members of the family, agitated, distraught, chainsmoking Silk Cut; a deal had already been struck with a local reporter who was a stringer for one of the nationals-my little angels: a grandmother's anguish. Should the worst happen.

  "Let me see them," Lynn said. "The children. I just want to be sure they're all right."

  A short while later, he held them up awkwardly to the window, both crying, the boy squirming in his hands.

  "Let them go now," Lynn said. "Let them out and then we can talk this over. Nobody's hurt yet. Nothing's happened. You should let them go."

  Half an hour later, the front door opened just wide enough for the girl to squeeze through; for a moment, out there on a square of cracked paving, she froze, before running towards a female officer, who scooped her up and carried her off to where her grandmother was waiting. Another minute and the little boy followed, running, falling, scrambling to his feet and then falling again.

  The mother's face showed, anxious
, at the upstairs window, before she was pulled away.

  "Let your wife out now," Lynn said. "Then you and I can talk."

  Suddenly the window was thrown open. "The only way she's coming out's in a fuckin' box!"

  And the window slammed shut.

  "Could've taken him then," Ben Fowles said softly at Lynn's shoulder. "Back home in time for a spot of lunch."

  "Not my call."

  "I know."

  "What's the thinking on the gun?" Lynn asked. "He armed or not?"

  "No sign."

  "Maybe the boy was wrong."

  "Seven, isn't he? Six or seven? Old enough to know what a gun looks like, I should say."

  "He must have been frightened out of his wits, poor kid."

  "Doesn't mean he made a mistake."

  Lynn shook her head. "I think if he had a gun, we'd have seen it by now. His situation, he'd have made sure we did."

  "And if you're wrong?"

  She looked at him squarely. "Either way, unless you and Chambers have got something cooked up between you, we carry on waiting."

  Fowles smiled. "Till what? He sees the hopelessness of his position? Walks out with his hands above his head?"

  "Something like that."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chambers checking his watch and wondered what calculations he was making.

  Not so many minutes later, the man picked up the phone. Lynn was pliant but firm, letting him have something to hold on to, something that could lead to a way out. Little by little, bit by bit. She shook her head, some old song ringing like tinnitus in her ears. Retro nights at the Lizard Lounge. Some white soul singer, she couldn't remember the name. Back when she was a young DC. Before she'd met Charlie. Before everything.

  It was close to two, and a slow rain was starting to fall.

  "Let your wife out through the front door. Once she's outside, she should turn to the right, where she'll see a female police officer in uniform. She should walk towards her with her hands well away from her body. Is that understood?"

  Come on, come on.

  The front door budged open an inch or so, then swung wide and the woman stumbled out, blinking as if emerging from the dark. As she began to walk, less than steadily, towards the waiting officer, the door behind her slammed shut.

  Lynn gave the man time to get back to the phone.

  "All right," she said. "If you have a weapon, I want you to throw it out now. Then, once that weapon is secured, you can come out yourself. Walk towards the uniformed officer with your hands in the air and follow his instructions. Lie down on the ground when you are told."

  Moments later there was the sound of a gunshot, muffled, from inside the house.

  "Shit!" Lynn said beneath her breath and for a split second she closed her eyes.

  Fowles looked across at Chambers and Chambers shook his head. Instead of sending the troops charging in like some SWAT squad on late-night TV, the Incident Commander was content to bide his time. The man was alone in the house now and a danger only to himself. Assuming he was still alive.

  Time was on their side.

  When the man failed to pick up the phone, Lynn used the bullhorn instead. Firm but fair. If he could hear her, this is what he had to do.

  She repeated it again, unflustered and clear.

  Nothing happened.

  And then it did. The door opened gradually and a handgun was thrown out onto the grass.

  "All right," Lynn said, "now step outside slowly with your hands in the air."

  Halfway across the patchy square of lawn, he stopped. "Couldn't even do that," he said to no one in particular. "Couldn't even do fucking that."

  "Pathetic," Ben Fowles remarked.

  There was a scorch mark on one side of his face; at the last moment, he had pulled his head away.

  One of the children tried to run towards him, but the grandmother held him back.

  Not for the first time, Lynn caught herself wishing that she still smoked.

  Chambers came over and shook her hand.

  Fowles nudged her on the shoulder with his fist. "Good job," he said.

  Lynn did her best not to smile. Dusty Springfield, she said to herself on the way back to the car, that's who it was. Dusty, the one and only.

  She tried Charlie's office number but there was no reply; his mobile seemed to be switched off. No matter, she'd be home now soon enough. A table for two at Petit Paris on King's Walk. Paris, Nottingham, that is. Moules, steak frites. A decent bottle of wine. Try to leave room for dessert.

  Lucky?

  Her hands were still shaking a little when they touched the wheel.

  Like a tooth you couldn't stop probing with the tip of your tongue, the song was still nagging away at her as she turned onto the Woodborough Road and eased into the outside lane. She heard the call over the Force radio nonetheless: disturbance on Cranmer Street, near the junction with St. Ann's Hill Road. Only moments away.

  "Tango Golf 13 to Control."

  "Control to Tango Golf 13, go ahead."

  "Tango Golf 13 to Control. I'm on Woodborough Road, just turning into Cranmer Street now."

  Lynn swung sharp left across the traffic, cutting off a mud-spattered four-by-four and causing it to brake sharply. Cranmer Street was only narrow, barely a two-car width, vehicles parked down the left-hand side making it narrower still. A builder's van with fading Forest stickers in its rear windows started to pull out in front of her and then thought better of it.

  "Control to Tango Golf 13. Response units are attending. Advise await their arrival."

  There were several small blocks of newly built flats high on the right and beyond those an old municipal building that was now student accommodation. Behind fencing along the near side, the ground was being cleared, deep holes being dug; council housing demolished and replaced. Just opposite the intersection with St. Ann's Hill Road, a crowd of youths, many of them wearing hoodies-what else? — had gathered in a rough circle that spread out across the street.

  As Lynn cut the engine, she heard the sound of shouting, raucous and angry; chanting, like a soccer crowd baying for blood.

  "Control, this is Tango Golf 13. I'm on Cranmer Street at the scene. A gang of fifteen or twenty youths fighting."

  Lowering her window, she heard a scream, urgent and shrill, followed almost immediately by another.

  "Control, this is Tango Golf 13. I'm on top of the incident and shall have to intervene. Immediate backup required."

  "Control to Tango Golf 13, advise-"

  But she was already out of the car and running towards the crowd.

  "Police! Police, let me through."

  As she pushed her way into the circle, an elbow struck Lynn in the ribs and an outflung hand caught her high on her cheek, a signet ring breaking the skin.

  A few of those standing at the front turned to see what was happening, and she was able to force her way to the centre. Faces, all shades, stared at her, showing everything from indifference to pure hate. Young males, mostly, wide-leg jeans slung so low it seemed as if their crotch hung somewhere down between their knees. More than a few wearing black and white, Radford colours. A gang thing, is that what this was?

  "Fuck off, bitch!"

  A head arched sharply back then jerked forward and the next second she was wiping a gobbet of spittle from her hair.

  Jeers. Laughter.

  More shouts, more threats.

  The two young women-girls-who'd been at the heart of the fighting had broken apart when Lynn pushed her way through.

  Fifteen, she guessed, sixteen at best.

  The one closest to her-thin white face, head close-shaven like a boy's, leather jacket, black-and-white scarf, skintight black jeans-was bleeding from a cut high on her left cheek, a slow trickle of blood running down. There was another cut on her arm. Her adversary, facing Lynn, was most likely mixed race, dark hair tied back, denim jacket and jeans, a short-bladed knife in her hand.

  Lynn took a step forward, focussing on
the girl's eyes.

  "Okay, put the knife down."

  Two steps more, then three. Slow, measured, as assured as she could be. Somewhere in the middle distance, the sound of a police siren coming closer. Overhead, the streetlights seemed to be getting brighter with each second.

  "Put it down."

  The girl's eyes were bright, taunting, only the merest flicker of fear. Of doubt.

  The crowd almost silent, scarcely moving.

  "Down."

  Another half-step and the expression on the girl's face changed, her shoulders seeming to relax as she shifted her hold on the knife and lowered it to her side.

  "On the ground," Lynn said quietly. "Put it on the ground."

  The girl began to bend as if to obey, Lynn reading too late the widening of her eyes, too slow to counter the movement, lithe, as she sprang past, the blade slashing at the right side of the other girl's face and opening it like a ripe plum.

  The girl screamed.

  Lynn pivoted on her left foot, seizing the attacker by the sleeve and swinging her hard round, one knee coming up into the small of her back, her fist chopping down on the girl's elbow and the knife tumbling to the kerb, the girl continuing to struggle all the same.

  The police siren was closer still, the sound of an ambulance in its wake.

  Lynn had forced the girl's right arm high behind her back when, from the corner of her vision, she saw the youth step forward from the retreating crowd, arm raised. Time enough, as she swung towards him, to note the black-and-white bandana wound tight around his head, the pistol held almost steady in his hand, the contempt in his eyes. The force of her movement took the girl round with her, propelling her forward, the first shot striking Lynn in the chest and seeming to lift her off her feet before sending her stumbling back, legs folding beneath her, falling away even as the girl, still standing, free hand outstretched as if to ward off what was to come, took the second bullet in her neck, immediately above the gold chain she wore with her lover's name engraved, a wash of blood arcing over the mottled ground and into Lynn's mouth and eyes.