Living Proof r-7 Page 3

  Oh, and of course it helps to have the morals of the well-known alley cat, best not forget that.

  The trouble is, Cathy, the richer you get, the more units isn't that what you call books nowadays, dear? – you sell, the less likely this is to happen. So I'm going to have to stop it now, myself, over here in England. Put an end to this farrago, once and for all. You do understand me, don't you, Cathy?

  You do realise I am serious? Poor little Anita Mulholland, Cathy. remember what happened to her.

  The letter was on a single sheet of white paper, A4 size, un watermarked undated, almost needless to say, unsigned. At first glance, a good bubble jet or laser printer had been used. The envelope in which it had been delivered was self-sealing, slim and white, manufactured by John Dickinson and with the words

  "Eurolope Envelopes' printed over and over in a grey diagonal across the inside. Centred on the front of the envelope, the words " Cathy Jordan'. No postmark, no stamp.

  "You found this where?" Resnick asked.

  Tyrell glanced at Mollie. 'in the office," Mollie said. " At Broadway.

  It was there with the other mail when I arrived. "

  "What time?"

  "I usually get in at around a quarter to ten. This morning it was earlier, half past nine. I was sorting through the post and I found this."

  "Who else was in the office beside you?"

  Mollie gave it a little thought

  "The cleaner would have been and gone. If the mail arrives before she leaves, usually she'll put it on the desk, but this was still on the floor. The only other possibility is Dick McCrea, he's the finance director. He's sometimes in ahead of me, but…"

  "But today he's in London," Tyrell put in, 'a meeting at the BFI. He would have gone straight to the station, the 7. 38 train. "

  "If he'd forgotten something, though," Resnick said, 'at the office, something he needed. "

  "Dick McCrea," Mollie said, 'got his memory in a direct deal with God. Forget is a word he doesn't admit exists. "

  "Miss Jordan," Skelton said, 'you've told her about this? "

  "Not yet," said Tyrell.

  "We thought… I thought first of all we should speak to you. See if there wasn't something you could do. Not a bodyguard, exactly…"

  "Heaven forbid!" Mollie said, not quite beneath her breath.

  "I don't know," Tyrell continued, 'some kind of police presence, maybe. Low key. Something that would reassure her. "

  "The last thing we want," Mollie said, 'is for people to be put off attending because they think there's going to be some kind of incident. "

  Or, Resnick thought, for one of your star guests to get back on the plane and fly home.

  "When's Cathy Jordan due to arrive?" Skelton asked.

  "Tomorrow," Mollie said.

  "The early morning flight. Her publisher's meeting her at Heathrow and taking her into London for lunch. She's continuing up here by train. She should arrive about a quarter to five."

  Resnick and Skelton exchanged glances. Aside from the recent stabbing, there were other serious crimes outstanding: a sub-post office that had been robbed at gun-point and the postmaster shot through the leg and shoulder when he tried to resist; a domestic incident that had left one partner with burns to the face and neck from scalding water, one of the children with badly bruised ribs and a closed eye; unsolved burglaries were up for the third year in succession, as were thefts from vehicles and taking and driving away without consent. The recruitment of new staff was on hold. Budgets were screwed down tighter than an Arctic winter. This was policing in the age of cost-effectiveness and consumer choice, when those at the top talked of minimal visual policing, counted the paper clips, put a ban on overtime and sat up long into the night massaging the crime figures. If Resnick and Skelton were in the business of selling sentences, less and less people were buying. The last thing they needed was a media celebrity in need of mollycoddling, a body to guard 29 and protect against an unknown possible assailant during a festival at which the attendance might run into the thbusands.

  Skelton took a breath.

  "Charlie, why don't you liaise with Miss Hansen? Arrange to meet this Cathy Jordan, talk to her, try and get a sense of how serious she thinks these threats really are. Assure her we'll co-operate as fully as we can during her stay. Without making promises we can't keep."

  Resnick nodded reluctantly and glanced over at Mollie Hansen who was already drawing a card from the back of her Filofax.

  "My number's on there."

  "Meantime," Skelton was on his feet now,

  "I trust neither of you will say anything about all of this to the press. If there is anything to these letters, the last thing we need is a three-ring circus."

  "Of course," said Mollie

  "Absolutely," said Tyrell.

  Unless, Resnick thought, they reckoned that instead of putting people off, a few good rum ours might do wonders at the box office.

  "Here," Mollie said, pulling a paperback book from her bag and pushing it into Resnick's hands.

  "You might like to take a look at this. It's meant to be one of her best."

  DEAD WEIGHT An Annie Q. Jones Mystery by CATHY JORDAN

  "One last thing," Resnick said.

  "The Anita MulhoIIand mentioned in the letter, is she another character in one of these books?"

  "That's right," Mollie said.

  "Another victim?"

  "She goes on holiday with her family, to Mexico. She's thirteen. One evening her parents go down to a barbecue by the hotel pool and leave her upstairs in their room. When they get back up, an hour or so later, she's gone. A few days afterwards, someone comes across this thing like a scarecrow in the hills outside the town; it's made from Anita's clothes, up high on a cross of sticks. The police get up a search and dogs find her body in a shallow grave." The tension in Mollie's voice was tight now and undisguised.

  "That's it," she said, 'apart from the ways she's tortured before she dies. "

  Tyrell was looking at her with concern, possibly anger. Quickly he shook Resnick's hand and then Skelton's.

  "We should be going.

  Superintendent, Inspector, thanks for your time. "

  "I'll expect to hear from you," Mollie said to Resnick from the door.

  "Meantime, enjoy the book. Let me know what you think."

  After she and Tyrell had left the room, Skelton fussed with a few things on his desk and cleared his throat.

  "Quite partial to a bit of Morse, myself," he said.

  Resnick didn't answer. He dropped the paperback down into the already sagging side pocket of his coat and headed out along the corridor towards the CID room. Another task he was certain he didn't want.

  Sharon Gamett took her time walking back up Forest Road West to where she had parked her car, a four-year- old Peugeot in need of a new clutch. She was wearing black ski-pants that emphasised her height, a red and yellow scarf pulled bandana-like across her hair; in one hand she was carrying a can of Lucozade, a paper bag containing a cheese and ham cob in the other. Relaxed, Sharon moved like someone at ease with herself, strength held in reserve.

  The vehicle that slowed alongside her was a Vauxhall, almost certainly a fleet car, a dark blue Cavalier. The driver pressed the electronic switch to lower the window and leaned across.

  "Working?" he asked.

  She put him at thirty, no more than thirty-five, dark striped suit, white shirt, tie; expensive watch on his wrist, hair brushed down and across to compensate for its early loss. Sharon wondered if she had seen him there before and decided she probably had not.

  "How about it?" he tried again.

  "You working or not?"

  "Sure," Sharon said, without breaking her stride, 'though not the way you mean. Now piss off before I run you in. "

  The Cavalier was off up the street and turning left into Southey Street with speed enough to leave tyre marks on the tarmac. Sharon shook her head: why was it some men were content with a jacket potato at lunchti
me and for some it was a quick shag?

  Back behind the wheel of her car, she popped the top of the Lucozade can and tilted back her head to drink. A pair of girls one in a short skirt and heels, the other in tight red trousers and boots spotted her fifty yards along the opposite pavement, turned in their tracks and began to walk briskly back the other way.

  The Lucozade was warm and fizzy and the cob was ten degrees short of stale; fragments of crust splintered over her legs and the seat. The Terry Macmillan she'd been reading lay open, face down, on the passenger side. The dashboard clock told her she had a good two hours to go.

  Sharon Gamett had joined the police late, in her mid- thirties, a career move she had tried not to see as a sign of desperation. All her applications to CID in London had been rebuffed and it had taken a move north-east to Lincolnshire – before she was able to join the ranks of detectives. After the best part of a year, she had known she wanted something closer to the cutting edge than investigating poultry fraud and pig rustling in King's Lynn. Moving here to the city had meant a move back into uniform, but almost immediately she had put in for a transfer to Vice, officially uniformed still but working in plain clothes, a step on the ladder towards the real thing.

  The Vice Squad in this neck of the woods comprised one inspector, two sergeants and twelve constables, three of whom were women. What they hadn't had, until Sharon joined, was an officer who was black.

  Leaning sideways, she wedged the can into the pocket of the passenger door, and what remained of the cob she stuffed back into its bag and placed on the floor. A grey Sierra crawled past for the third time, slowing almost to a stop at every woman it passed. In her notebook, alongside its registration, Sharon wrote the time. As she watched, the car turned right on to Waverley and she knew from there it would make a left on to Arboretum, then left again up Balmoral or Addison, squaring the circle.

  This time she was ready. As the Sierra headed back 33 along Forest Road East, Sharon started up the car and drove diagonally across in front of it, headlights on fall beam. The driver had two alternatives: run smack into her or stop. He stopped.

  Sharon was out of her car quickly enough, not running, tapping at the near-side window for it to be rolled down.

  "Police Constable Gamett," she said, holding up her identification.

  "I've observed you on three separate occasions in the past half hour, stopping to speak to known prostitutes."

  In the front of the Sierra, the two men exchanged glances and the one nearest to Sharon smiled. Divine drew his wallet from his inside pocket and let it fall open close to Sharon's face.

  "Snap," he said.

  "Why don't we go and get a drink?"

  The table was chipped Formica, the seats were covered in a dull red patched synthetic, and the television set above the bar was showing music videos, beamed in from somewhere in Europe. Hand-drawn posters on the walls advertised quiz nights, bingo nights and karaoke. Divine sat nursing what was left of a pint of Shipstones, Naylor a half of bitter, Sharon Gamett had drained a small glass of grapefruit juice and said no to another.

  They had filled Sharon in on the events of the previous night, asked her if she had heard anything that might be useful, but she could only shake her head in reply.

  "The girls you spoke to," Sharon said.

  "Any of them come up with anything?"

  "Seen and heard sod all," Divine said.

  "And likely," Naylor added, 'not to tell us if they had. "

  "Then why bother going through the motions?" Sharon asked.

  "Because if something happens," Divine said, 'like this bloke in hospital takes a sudden turn for the worse and pops his clogs, or a couple of months down the line there's another incident, similar, maybe proves fatal, then at least we've covered our backsides. "

  "And the guy' nor Naylor said.

  "Who is your DI?"

  "Resnick."

  Sharon Gamett smiled, remembering.

  "Not a bad bloke. Give him my best."

  Divine swallowed down the remainder of his pint. "Don't you get brassed off with Vice?" he asked when they were back on the pavement outside.

  "Spending all day chatting up scuzzy tarts and warning off kerb crawlers."

  Sharon shook her head.

  "Half the rest of the squad, eight hours a day for the past twelve days, watching seven boxes of videos, clocking faces, trying to decide if what they're seeing's simply gross indecency or worse."

  "Dunno," Divine grinned.

  "Got to be worse ways of earning a living then watching dirty movies and getting paid for it."

  Sharon's mouth moved into a rueful smile.

  "More than a few of those, I doubt you'd think that way. Even a horny bugger like you!"

  Divine grinned, taking it as a compliment. Naylor laughed and thanked her for her time and he and Divine turned right towards where they had parked their car, while Sharon walked across the street to have a word with one of the girls who was loitering there, smoking a cigarette.

  "Will you take a look," Divine said, head turned to watch Sharon walk away, 'at the arse on that. " But he was careful to keep his voice low, so there was no danger of her overhearing him.

  Lynn Kellogg knocked on Resnick's office door mid- afternoon, just as he was taking a bite out of a smoked chicken, tomato and tarragon mayonnaise baguette. Late 35 lunch. A sliver of chicken slipped out on to his fingers and he ate it as delicately as he could, not noticing the tomato seeds which had sprayed across his tie.

  "Our mystery man at the hospital," Lynn said.

  Resnick looked at her expectantly.

  "He's done a runner."

  Resnick lowered the baguette on to the back of an already stained NAPO report and gave a slow shake of the head.

  "There was some kind of emergency down at the other end of the ward.

  He stole some clothes and walked out without a word. I spoke to the nurse in charge; as long as he keeps the wound clean, changes the dressing, he should be fine. "

  "Well," Resnick said, 'one way of looking at it is that it's good news. No victim, no crime. "

  "But?" Lynn said.

  "If the similarity to that stabbing in March is more than coincidental, we've likely got someone out there with some kind of grudge. Could turn worse before it gets better."

  "That incident," Lynn said, 'businessman from out of town, staying at one of the big hotels, wasn't that it? "

  Resnick nodded.

  "We could have a quick ring round, see if there's any with an outstanding account. I doubt he went back to pay his bill."

  "Worth trying," Resnick said.

  "See what you can turn up. Oh, and if Mark and Kevin are back…"

  But he could already hear Divine's shout and raucous laughter as the two detectives entered the outer office. It didn't take long for them to make their report.

  "We could have one last try tonight," Naylor suggested.

  Resnick nodded.

  "Keep in touch with Vice, let them know you're around."

  "Reminds me, boss," Divine said.

  "One of theirs this morning, one we spoke to, real looker, Afro-Caribbean." His tongue negotiated the term with exaggerated care, as if stepping across a minefield.

  "Wanted to be remembered to you, Sharon Garnett."

  A memory flicked across Resnick's face. He had first met Sharon early in the year: a cold January morning, the ground rimed with frost, a body buried in a shallow grave. One of the victims of the man who had held Lynn Kellogg prisoner.

  Resnick glanced over towards Lynn's desk, wondering if she might have picked up on the name. But, directory open before her, Lynn was talking intently into the phone.

  "All right, Mark," Resnick said.

  "Thanks."

  Sharon, as she had made clear, was keen to move across to CID; he would have a word with the inspector in Vice, find out how she was settling in, couldn't do any harm.

  "D'you know," Millington said later. It was already well past six a
nd Resnick had been considering cutting his losses, calling it a day.

  "D'you know, for the price of a seat at the Test, good one, mind you, up behind the bowler's arm, you could see three films at the Showcase, nip into the bowling alley for a couple of games and still have cash left over for Chicken McNuggets and fries."

  Resnick was sure he was right.

  "You read a bit, don't you. Graham?" he said.

  "I like the odd Ken Follett, Tom Clancy. Why d'you ask?"

  "Here." He pulled Cathy Jordan's book from his pocket. "Have a go at this. Might just be your kind of thing."

  Millington took the book, looked at the cover, shrugged, tossed it on to his desk.

  "Thanks. You coming over the road for a quick pint?"

  "Another night."

  "Suit yourself."

  It was the same old routine they went through most 37 evenings. Unless there was a special reason, Resnick preferred to let the team have the bar to themselves. Oh, he'd stop by for a quick Guinness now and again, buy a round and be on his way. Fancied a drink later, he would stroll over to the Polish Club, elbows on the table with a bottle of Czech Budweiser or Pilsner Urquell, listen to the. gossip about who was in hospital, who had died, what Sikorski had said to Churchill in 1941.

  Nine Millington didn't stay long in the pub. Somehow he had managed to get himself wedged between Divine, making the usual extravagant claims about his sex life, and one of those ritual bores with a four-hundred thousand-pound house in the Park. Sooner multiple orgasms, he thought, than a voice that spoke from generations of cold showers and good breeding, boring on and on about the way the working class was intent upon undermining the country's manufacturing base.