Cold in Hand cr-11 Read online

  Two

  Early evening. ER at the Queen's Medical Centre housed the usual miscellany: elderly ladies who had lost their footing on slippery, uneven pavements and taken a tumble, bruising a coccyx or fracturing, for the second time, an already-pinned hip; disorientated men of uncertain years with voices like rusted industrial saws, whose clothes stank of stale urine and hostel disinfectant; distraught mothers with babies who would simply not stop crying or fractious toddlers with badly grazed heads and gashed knees; a scaffolder who had stepped, helmetless, out into the air from the roof of a four-storey building; a trainee chef with the first two joints of his middle finger safe in a plastic bag of slowly melting ice; a young Muslim girl of twelve who had just started her first period; a cyclist who had been sent somersaulting high into the road by the outflung door of a Cherokee Jeep; a charmless fourteen-year-old boy, alarmed and obese, who had been taunted into swallowing the dregs of a bottle of toilet cleaner: each and every one waiting.

  Later, when the clubs had spilled out onto the streets and the pubs had finally called last orders, there would be the usual motley collection of barely walking wounded, drunk many of them, drugged, loud and angry and all too ready to strike out in frustration, bleeding from encounters with brick walls or nightclub bouncers, or injured in scuffles that had set off for no better reason than an ill-judged look, a nudged shoulder, a drink sent flying; and this being Valentine's Night, there would be a slow procession of discarded lovers, for whom the occasion had led to bitter accusations, confessions of infidelity, sudden realisations, overdoses, stabbings, attempted suicides, broken relationships that would be mended tearfully, some of them, there amongst the crowded chairs with dawn approaching.

  The triage nurse barely looked up as Resnick approached, tall, bulky, his shirt crumpled, jacket unfastened.

  "Lynn Kellogg," Resnick said. "She was brought in twenty minutes ago. Half hour at most."

  The name rang no obvious bells.

  "She's a police officer," Resnick persevered. "She was shot."

  The nurse looked up then, little more than a glance, enough to read the anxiety in his eyes. "And you're what? The father?"

  Resnick bridled, reining back his anger. "No, I'm-We live together."

  "Right." She looked at him again. One of the buttons on his jacket, she noticed, was hanging by just a thread.

  "Look." Resnick fumbled in his wallet. "I'm a police officer, too. Detective Inspector."

  The nurse handed him back his warrant card. "Go down that corridor, third cubicle on the left." And went back to her list.

  Lynn was lying on a narrow bed, pillows at her head and back, wearing a flimsy hospital gown. Her own clothes were neatly folded on a plastic chair.

  He had been standing there for some moments before she opened her eyes.

  "Hello, Charlie."

  Her voice was faint, like something passing on the wind.

  "How you feeling?" he asked, reaching for her hand.

  She made an effort to smile. "Like I've walked into a ten-ton truck."

  "She's a little woozy." The doctor appeared at Resnick's shoulder. "Something we've given her for the pain."

  He was young, late twenties Resnick reckoned, little more, and spoke with an Australian accent, not too strong. Australia or New Zealand, he could never be sure.

  "How is she?" Resnick asked.

  "I'm fine," Lynn whispered from the bed.

  "A lot of bruising around the point of impact," the doctor said. "Tender, certainly. Could be a fractured rib or two. We're going to run her down to X-ray, get that checked."

  "Nothing more?" Resnick asked. "Internal?"

  "Not as far as we can tell. I've had a good listen to the lungs, and they seem to be functioning properly."

  Resnick was still holding Lynn's hand, and he gave it a squeeze.

  "Up and around in no time," the doctor said cheerfully. "Chasing down the bad guys."

  Lynn said something neither of them could properly hear.

  "Back in two shakes," the doctor said, leaving them alone.

  Resnick lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, careful of her legs.

  "I'm sorry," Lynn said.

  "What for?"

  "Dinner. We were meant to be having dinner."

  "That doesn't matter."

  "Your card."

  "I saw the card. Thank you. It was lovely."

  There were tears at the corners of her eyes.

  "What?" Resnick said.

  "I should have waited, shouldn't I?"

  He didn't answer.

  "Backup. I should have waited for backup instead of going blundering in."

  "You didn't blunder."

  "I made a mistake."

  Resnick shook his head. "You did what you had to do."

  "And nearly got myself killed."

  Resnick breathed out slowly. "Yes," he said and folded both of her hands in his.

  "The girl," Lynn said. "The one who was shot."

  "I don't know. Touch and go, I think."

  "You'll find out."

  "Yes."

  "You could go now."

  He shook his head. "I'll wait. A few minutes won't make any difference, either way."

  "What about the other one?" Lynn asked. "The other girl. Her face was badly cut."

  "Here now, as far as I know. Getting stitched up."

  The curtain was pulled to one side, and a nurse came through with a wheelchair. "Time to take you for a little ride," she said cheerily.

  Resnick leaned over carefully and kissed Lynn on the cheek.

  "Here." She held out one hand, loosely closed into a fist.

  "What is it?"

  When she opened her fingers, there was his loose button, snug in her palm. "Take care of it. I'll sew it back on when I get home."

  "Promises," Resnick said, and grinned.

  The officer outside Intensive Care hastily dropped his newspaper to the floor, the crossword less than a quarter done.

  "Sorry, sir. I… the girl, Kelly, they've taken her down. She's being operated on now. I thought it best to stay here."

  "The family?"

  "In the cafeteria, waiting. I said I'd contact them if there was any news."

  "Kelly, you said the girl's called?"

  "Yes, sir." He checked his notebook. "Kelly Brent."

  Resnick nodded. The name meant nothing to him. Not until that moment.

  "I'll be down in ER," he said. "You hear anything specific, any change, find me, let me know."

  Lynn was sleeping, her face, devoid of any makeup, young and pale. A thin dribble of saliva ran down onto the pillow from one corner of her partly open mouth and Resnick wiped it away.

  "She's lucky," the doctor said. "No fracture, as far as I can tell. Heavy bruising around the third and fourth ribs, close to the sternum. Breathing's going to be painful for a while, and she'll likely be tired, sleepy, but otherwise she'll be okay."

  "How long before she's up on her feet?"

  "On her feet? As long as she's sensible, nothing too strenuous, a matter of days. Fully operational, though, if that's what you're asking, I'd say a couple of weeks." He nodded back towards Lynn. "You two, you're an item?"

  An item, Resnick thought. He supposed they were, that at least.

  "Yes."

  "Word to the wise." The doctor winked. "These next few weeks, keep your weight on your elbows, okay?"

  Home, she slept.

  Resnick, fearful of accidentally knocking into her, dismissed himself to the spare bed, where he lay fitfully, staring at the ceiling, getting up finally at two and wandering from room to room, unable to stop his mind from playing over what might have been.

  Lucky, the doctor had said.

  Nearly got myself killed.

  If Lynn hadn't been in too much of a hurry to get home and still wearing the bulletproof jacket, she would likely have been where Kelly Brent was now, in the operating theatre, fighting for her life.

  Resnick poured himself anot
her Scotch and looked again at the Valentine's card Lynn had given him; a simple heart, red against a pale background. Written inside, in her sloping hand: Still here, Charlie, against all the odds. All my love. Then kisses, a small triangle of them, pointing down.

  When Lynn had first moved in with him, the best part of three years before-and this after a plethora of overnights and occasional weekends, holidays, periods when they were close and others when they pulled apart, unable to decide-a friend of hers had sent her a CD by the singer Aimee Mann, the title of one particular track, "Mr. Harris," highlighted in green. The story of a younger woman falling in love with an older man, despite her mother's best advice. A father figure, the song goes, must be what she wants.

  When they had first slept together, made love, himself and Lynn, it had been soon after her father's funeral, dead from cancer at not so much older than Resnick was now. A blessing, in a way, that he went when he did. Better than it dragging on. The pain. Death. Sooner or later, it came to us all.

  I suppose, Resnick thought, we're programmed to think the oldest die first, fathers before daughters, mothers before sons. It's the way it most usually is. Anything else seems wrong. Aberrant. Yet in a split second yesterday, the time it takes to squeeze back on the trigger, propel a bullet from a gun, that could all have changed.

  Lucky?

  Resnick turned and looked around the room. A magazine Lynn had been reading left on the floor by where she normally sat. Her bag hung over the back of a chair. A painting that she'd bought in a charity shop-a landscape of hills, bare trees, and snow-brought home and hung on the wall alongside the stereo. A photograph of her parents, leaning on a farm gate, looking out. A pair of slippers on the floor. Reading glasses. A glove. Clutter. Stuff. A life they shared.

  This house he'd lived alone in for years, some of the rooms unused and thick with dust. Must rattle around in there, Charlie, like a pea in a drum. Find somewhere smaller, why don't you? Nice little flat. Take in a lodger, at least.

  No, he'd say, I'm fine. Suits me just as it is.

  And it did.

  Until the day-the afternoon-he had heard her car, recognised the sound of the engine as it pulled up outside-the interior jam-packed, barely room for her to squeeze behind the wheel. Just a few boxes, Charlie, I'll go back later for the rest.

  Now it was different: it was this.

  Lucky?

  At twenty-one minutes past three that morning, sixteen-year-old Kelly Brent, sixteen years and nine months, was declared dead at the Queen's Medical Centre, two operations unable to successfully repair the lacerated tissue and stem the bleeding, or to restore the flow of blood to the brain.

  Lucky for some.

  Resnick stood for a while at the bedroom door, listening to Lynn's breathing, before settling back into the spare bed and, against the odds, falling almost immediately to sleep.

  The phone rang at twenty to seven, startling him awake: Detective Superintendent Berry from the Homicide Unit.

  "Breakfast, Charlie? That Polish place up on Derby Road, still a favourite of yours? Thought we might have a little chat."

  Three

  Five years Resnick's junior, Bill Berry was a hard-edged Lancastrian who had settled in the Midlands some twenty or so years before, without ever losing an accent that had been honed close to the Pennines, or an abiding interest in the fortunes of Lancashire County Cricket Club and Preston North End.

  Much like Resnick himself, Berry had worked his way up through the ranks, the difference being that where Resnick's career had stalled, in part through his somewhat curmudgeonly resistance to change, Berry's had elevated him to the rank of Detective Superintendent.

  Not without it being earned.

  He was, in the old-fashioned argot of the trade, a good copper.

  He had a full head of hair, a chiselled face and, since his last promotion, a taste for tailored suits that sat a touch uneasily on his rawboned, angular body. He was already at the table, leafing through the morning paper, when Resnick arrived.

  "Charlie." He half-rose. "Good to see you."

  The two men shook hands.

  "In the news again for all the wrong sodding reasons."

  Resnick grunted agreement. However hard the public-relations staff at Reputation Nottingham tried to put a positive spin on things, the public perception of the city these past years had changed. And not always for the better.

  When it had been announced that London had won the bid for the 2012 Olympics, the joke had been that with several of the events being outsourced, the rowing would be at Henley, the equestrian events at Badminton, and the shooting would be in Nottingham. Robin Hood had now, it seemed, abandoned Lincoln Green for upmarket sportswear, developed a taste for crack cocaine, and, instead of his trusty bow, had a 9mm automatic tucked down into the back of his jeans.

  Unfair or not, mud stuck.

  "How's the lass?" Berry asked.

  "Lynn? Well enough. Bruised ribs, nothing worse."

  "Young bones," Berry said with a wink. "Soon mend, eh?"

  "Something you wanted to see me about," Resnick said.

  "You didn't catch local TV this morning, any chance?"

  Resnick shook his head.

  "Brent family out in force, bigging it up for the cameras. Breakdown in law and order, too many guns on the streets, police failing in their duty, the usual malarkey."

  "They're angry."

  "'Course they're bloody angry. And looking for someone to blame, I can see that. Schools, teachers, the courts, the council, probation, you and me-everyone except them-bloody-selves. Anything other than accept responsibility. Fathers, especially. No, easier to go off and raise a petition, start a campaign. Come Sunday there'll be a minute's silence out on Slab Square, and everyone'll go off feeling better about themselves, but what flaming good does it do? By evening kids'll be back out on the streets and it starts all over."

  Resnick sighed. Education, wasn't that at the heart of it? Jobs, housing? Maybe the Brents were right to feel they deserved better.

  "What was she, Charlie, this kid? Sixteen? Barely that. My kid or yours, she'd not be out there running with a gang, likely doing drugs, getting laid. Ask yourself why."

  Resnick didn't have a daughter. If he had, he'd no idea what it would be like to help her live her life without due harm. Except that it would be hard.

  "Let's order," Berry said. "Smell from that grill's making me fair starving."

  He had bacon, sausage, and fried eggs, Resnick pancakes with a couple of rashers of bacon on the side. Coffee, rye bread. Resnick exchanged with the proprietress the few Polish pleasantries that came easily to the tongue. Since he'd started living with Lynn, his visits to the Polish Club had become less and less frequent; now months could pass without him ever stepping through the door.

  "Kelly Brent's murder," Berry said. "I've drawn the short straw."

  Resnick broke off a piece of bread and wiped it around the bacon juices that had collected at the side of his plate.

  "I want you for my number two."

  Resnick stopped what he was doing and looked at Berry squarely.

  "Jerry Latham for office manager," Berry said, "and the outside team, that'd be up to you."

  "Prentiss'd love that," Resnick said, popping the bread into his mouth.

  "Fuck him," Berry said.

  Derek Prentiss was the City Divisional Commander, accountable for balancing budgets and hitting an array of ever-shifting targets, one of which, relating to robbery, was currently Resnick's specific area of responsibility. Since he'd taken charge of the division's robbery squad, the number of offences was down, all right marginally, but improving further, even if the clear-up rate was, as yet, lagging behind. Prentiss wasn't going to be happy with anything that put those figures under threat.

  "Besides," Resnick began, "with Lynn involved-"

  "Outside team, Charlie, that's where I want you, like I said. No conflict of interest there. Any part she's got to play, evidence, whatever, you steer
well clear."

  "I don't know." Resnick shook his head.

  "It's your patch, Charlie."

  "Used to be."

  "Youths likely involved'll be known to some of your lot, I'd not be surprised. Street robberies and the like."

  "Possible."

  "More than bloody possible." Berry speared a piece of sausage with his fork. "Come on, Charlie. Stop dicking me around. Bring one of your lads in with you, if it'd make you feel happier."

  Resnick leaned back, pushing away his plate as he did so. "What you're not saying, Bill, behind all this flannel, Homicide's stripped so bare there's no bugger else. It's either me or a DI you don't know from outside."

  Berry laughed. "Some clever bastard wheeled up from the Met. I'd love that, right enough. But no, that's not it. That's not it at all."

  "No?"

  "Charlie, Charlie. A bloke with a good head on his shoulders, someone I can bloody rely on, someone I can trust. That's why I want you."

  "Is it? Bollocks!"

  Berry laughed even louder. "Come on, Charlie. Kids thievin' mobile phones and MP3 players, old dears having their pensions snatched, that's not your mark. This'll get you out of the office for a bit, instead of shuffling bloody papers. Bit of real police work for a change. Let me put my feet up on the desk, instead."

  Angling away, Resnick looked out through the glass at the traffic making its way up Derby Road from the city centre. For years he'd been stationed at Canning Circus, no more than a stone's throw from where they were now, his squad handling everything from petty misdemeanours to murder. Not much time in those days for Best Value Programmes or monthly Performance Scrutiny Boards, little of the pressure of constantly changing Home Office directives.

  What had Berry just said? Some real police work for a change.

  "Prentiss," Resnick said, swivelling back round. "Even if I wanted to go along. If. He'll never accept it."

  "Don't be so sure. I had a word with the ACC, before I rang you. He'd like to get this little lot sorted as soon as possible. Now what d'you say. In or out?"

  Resnick hesitated, but he didn't hesitate for long. "In," he said.

  "Good man. Now let's get out of here and get things started."