John Harvey - Easy Meat

Where had Bill Aston read that every pound you put on after age forty takes twice as much effort to get off? And eighteen months sitting behind that desk at Police Headquarters hadn’t helped. Fortnightly game of golf aside, for too long the only exercise he had been getting was walking the pair of Jack Russells he and his wife Margaret had bought after their youngest son had left home. Which was why, on the second of January that year, he had instituted his daily swim. There were two pools close to where they lived, Rushcliffe and Portland, and Aston alternated between them pretty much at will. Some days he would stop off on the way to work and put in ten lengths; other times he would call in at home and pick up the dogs, have his swim, and then walk them before returning for dinner.

“Should have got a real dog, Dad,” his eldest had said on a brief visit home. “A labrador or a retriever, something with some size. Chase those two sorry specimens the length of the garden and they’re worn out. Expect you to carry them back.”

But Aston was happy enough with his Jack Russells-they would sit in the back of the car if he went for a drive, the pair of them quite content-and as for Margaret … well, if Bill had thought they were going to be her new babies, he was wrong, but just as long as they didn’t get under her feet …

He rustled his paper aside and peered in the direction of the kitchen clock: still time for one more cup of tea. He reached for the pot.

“Bill,” Margaret said, coming back into the room, “are you sure you want to wear those shoes?”

Aston swung his leg round and glanced down. “What’s wrong with them?”

“I mean with that suit.”

Gray suede with dark blue, why not? “Yes, love,” he said, “they’re fine.”

Margaret was dressed to go out herself, an early appointment at the hair salon on Trinity Square and then she was meeting her friend, Barbara, for coffee in Jessop’s.

“No swim this morning?”

Aston shook his head. “Evenings all week, I should think. While this lot goes on, anyway.”

Impulsively, she kissed him on the top of his head, behind the ear.

“What was that all about?” Aston asked. Unbidden displays of affection had not been Margaret’s style for years, no more than they were his own.

Margaret smiled. “I’m pleased for you, that’s all. Putting you in charge of this inquiry. Something important again. Well, it’s no more than you deserve.”

“Thanks, love,” Aston said drily, finding it difficult to respond. “Right now, though, I’d best be off.”

“You will give me a lift in?”

“Yes, of course.” He swallowed down most of his tea and tipped the remainder into the sink and started to run the tap.

“Leave that, Bill. Sally’s here today, she’ll do all of that.” He looked at her, a dumpy woman with spectacles, wearing a green plaid suit and court shoes, and was surprised by the strength of the conflicting emotions that he felt.

A few minutes later, Margaret beside him, Aston was backing the Volvo out from the drive of the Thirties suburban house they had lived in now for nineteen years. Around him, on either side, neighbors’ gardens glowed green from the previous night’s rain.

“You remember Charlie Resnick?” Aston said. “Seems he knew this Snape, the youth in the inquiry. I’ve got to meet up with him some night this week for a drink. Could well be back a bit late.”

Margaret remembered Resnick well enough, around the same height as her husband but broader-broader still now, most likely. It was years since she’d seen him. But he was a nice enough man, she thought, not foulmouthed like some of them.

“You ought to invite him round, Bill. Supper. He might appreciate that.”

And he might not, Aston thought, but nodded anyway.

“We used to have people round for dinner all the time.”

Aston grunted. “We used to do a lot of things.”

Margaret rested her hand on his knee and tried not to notice when he flinched.

Khan was waiting for Aston in reception. Five years in the force, at twenty-seven he had benefited from the aftershock of a well-publicized case in which two Asian officers had taken the police authority to court for racially discriminating against their advancement. Khan had successfully completed his probation, spent his time in a Panda car and out on the beat; now he was in Central Division CID and confidently expecting to be made up to sergeant. The inquiry into Nicky Snape’s death would broaden his experience. His tasks were to take notes, facilitate the timetable, keep on top of the documentation, and stay alert to any nuances that his superior might miss-and to drive the car.

He greeted Aston with a sir, a handshake, and a smile. Five minutes later they were making their way towards the Derby Road, slowed a little by the residue of rush-hour traffic. When they arrived, Derek Jardine greeted both men with brisk enthusiasm and ushered them into his office for coffee and a drab selection of biscuits. There were still twenty minutes before the case conference was due to start.

Phyllis Parmenter, heading up the three-strong team from the Social Services Inspectorate, was already present, balancing cup and saucer on one hand and chatting to the local authority solicitor. Jardine introduced her to Aston and stepped away. Khan snagged the remaining stale bourbon biscuit and examined the photographs on the director’s wall.

The conference room had been set out with pads of lined local authority paper, black Bics and sharpened pencils, water glasses, ashtrays, and copies of the agenda. The first item was to establish the methods by which the joint investigation should proceed. If we get that far by coffee time, Khan thought, glancing round the table, I shall be well surprised.

And he was: they would consider the pathologist’s report and then begin interviewing the staff, starting with Paul Matthews and Elizabeth Peck, both of whom had been on duty the night Nicky died, and finishing with Jardine himself. The youth who had shared a room with Nicky would be brought in, along with another of the lads Nicky had apparently befriended. If either the police or social services teams found a need to re-interview separately, that was their prerogative. It was agreed that it was desirable, if possible, for a joint statement to be issued when the inquiry came to an end.

“One point I think I should like to make clear,” Phyllis Parmenter said, “our aim here is to ascertain all that we can about the circumstances of Nicky Snape’s death. It may be, and I have no wish to prejudice the inquiry by saying this, that we discover there are certain procedures which would benefit from overhaul or change. If so, I’m sure we would all agree this can only be beneficial. But what we are not concerned with primarily here is blame; in these sad and unfortunate circumstances, we are not, I think and hope, looking for scapegoats.”

Especially, Khan thought, if they’re to be found among local authority staff. He edged a sideways look at Aston, who was nodding in thoughtful agreement.

Resnick had tapped Millington on the shoulder as they passed the small cafe near the fire station and, with a grin, the sergeant had performed a circuit of the roundabout and parked. Resnick had had a lousy night: broken sleep and nightmarish dreams. Finally, at something short of four, he had barefooted downstairs; thirty minutes later he was sitting with rye toast and coffee, Bud and Pepper vying for the prime place in his lap, while he tried to concentrate on a biography of Lester Young. To complicate matters he was listening, not to Prez, but to Monk. Alone in San Francisco. Between the notes, the sentences, he was wondering about Norma Snape, alone but not alone in Radford; about his ex-wife, Elaine, hoping that she was not alone anywhere. And Hannah: he was thinking about Hannah. The seriousness that turned down the corners of her eyes when she talked; the way that same seriousness would break suddenly into a smile.