John Harvey - Easy Meat

Kevin Naylor laughed uncertainly; Lynn shook her head in dismay.

“This isn’t the time,” Resnick said, “but any repetition of incidents like that and I’ll make it my business to find out who was responsible and have them out of here too fast for their feet to touch the ground.”

Expressionless, Divine dumped what was left of his pizza into the nearest bin.

Resnick was in the back, Lynn driving; fast, northwest out of the city. Vincent was sitting alongside Lynn, half-turned towards the rear of the car.

“Local gay organizations,” Resnick said, “they’ll be informed as a matter of course. Encouraged to ask members to come forward.”

“Problem there is,” Vincent said, swinging farther round, “most of the men likely to have been involved won’t be on that scene anyway. And even if they were …” He shook his head. “There’s still a lot of distrust.”

“Well,” Resnick said, “we can step up patrols around toilets and open spaces …”

Vincent laughed. “That should fetch a few of the gay community out on the streets, protesting a violation of their civil rights.”

“What right’s that?” Lynn asked sharply. “The right to go out and put yourself at risk?”

“Hey!” Vincent smiled, backing along the seat. “Don’t get at me. I didn’t say that was my point of view.”

Lynn swung wide to overtake a milk float, smoothly changing gear. “What is your point of view, then, Carl?”

“About cottaging you mean?”

“Uh-hum.”

He shrugged. “It’s not what I would want to do, not for myself. Not doing the job that I do. But I can understand why people feel the need.”

“But not you?”

“Not me, no. Least, not any more.”

None of them spoke again until Lynn signaled left and slowed the car to a halt. “That’s the house, over there.”

Millington glanced down at his watch: it was still shy of seven o’clock. It was quiet in the street. Here and there among the lines of dilapidated houses, the odd one had been spruced up with a lick of bright paint, louvered shutters fitted across the upstairs windows, new doors with brass knockers which shone. Not here. He read the notice inviting callers to go round to the back.

“Let’s keep it quiet now. No sense waking him till we have to.”

There was a sour-sweet smell seeping across the backyard like blocked drains. Divine, ever hopeful, eased his hand against the rear door and to his surprise it slid open. Eyebrow raised, silently he questioned Millington and the sergeant nodded. Divine pushed the door all the way back and took a step inside. A tap was dripping against the clutter of pots that threatened to overflow the sink. They could hear clearly now, the sound of snoring, harsh and a-rhythmic, from the adjoining room.

Curtains pulled to, Miller had fallen asleep on the settee where he lay, a flotilla of empty cans adrift on the stained carpet, stale tobacco flat and thick in the air. Miller’s T-shirt had worked loose from his jeans and was wrinkled up across the hump of his belly, jeans belt unfastened, zip partway down. He was on his back, one foot touching the floor, one arm thrown back, face to one side close against the cushion, mouth open.

Content they had not disturbed him, Millington pointed to the stairs, back out into the garden to the lean-to shed that was more falling than leaning. After all, the door had been open and Miller hadn’t voiced any objections to their looking round.

Late for the early shift, Gerry Hovenden’s father had been leaving the house as Resnick and the others approached. “Inside,” he said brusquely, scarcely slowing to examine Resnick’s ID, “out the bath-room by now, if you’re lucky.”

“What the bloody hell’s this?” Hovenden emerged into the postage stamp of a hallway, hair wet, an old Forest away shirt hanging over his sagging boxer shorts, bare feet.

“Inspector Resnick, CID. DC Vincent. I believe you know DC Kellogg already.”

Lynn gave him a quick smile, not her best.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Hovenden blustered, “but you can sod off out.”

“Why not pop upstairs,” Vincent said politely, “put a few more clothes on. Time you’re back down, I expect we’ll have figured out where the kettle is. Coffee or tea?”

Millington had been standing in the kitchen, idly leafing through Miller’s well-thumbed copy of Above All, Courage , and wondering what exactly possessed someone to go off and join the SAS, when Naylor beckoned him outside. There in the corner of the shed, soles thick with mud, stood a pair of Caterpillar work boots, size ten.

“Been doing a spot of gardening,” Millington observed.

“Looks like.”

Divine appeared in the doorway behind them. “Seems as if he might be coming round.”

Millington grinned. “Let’s give him a hand.”

The Saxon CD was still in the machine. Divine turned the volume up to full and pressed play. Miller, startled, tried to push himself up, overbalanced, and rolled off the settee to the floor.

“Morning, Frank,” Millington mouthed, waving his warrant card in front of Miller’s incredulous face, “this is your wake-up call.”

Hovenden had pulled on a pair of jeans, wore old trainers, unlaced, on his feet. Carl Vincent had made tea in mugs that Lynn had carefully rinsed under the hot tap.

“Must have a bit of trouble,” Resnick said innocently, nodding towards Hovenden’s feet, “always finding shoes to fit.”

Hovenden sat awkwardly and said nothing.

“Elevens, are they?” Resnick asked.

“What?”

“Size? I said, elevens, twelves?”

“What sodding difference?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Elevens, for fuck’s sake! They’re elevens, satisfied?”

Resnick smiled.

“You know,” Lynn said, “we’ve been talking to your friend, Shane?”

“What of it?”

“He had some interesting things to tell us, that’s all.”

“Oh, yeh? About me, I suppose?”

Lynn looked at him, her head angled to one side. “Now what d’you think he could have had to tell us about you?”

“Sod all!”

Lynn nodded. “Just about that credit card.”

“What credit card’s that?”

“Oh, the one he sold to Sally Purdy.”

“Who?”

“Sally Purdy,” Resnick said. “She was the one who told us she bought it from Shane.”

“What bloody credit card you on about?”

“Inspector Aston’s,” Resnick said.

“You know,” said Lynn. “The police officer who was killed.”

“The night,” Resnick said, “you seem to be confused about where you were.”

Hovenden pushed himself clumsily back in his chair. “Which night’s this?”

Lynn said, half-smiling: “You see what we mean?”

“No, look. Look.” Hovenden not looking, not at any of them, not at the table, not at the floor. “That night, I told you, right? Before. I was home.”

“Is this a different story, Hovenden?” Resnick asked. “Because if it is …”

“Shane’s, I was round Shane’s. That’s what I meant.”

“By home?”

“Yes.”

“Not here?”

Hovenden stared around. “This shithole?”

“Shane, then,” Vincent asked, leaning close over him, “he’s what? Like your brother?”

“Yes. I s’pose, yeh.”

“Not being very brotherly, then, Shane,” Vincent said. “Some of the things I hear he was saying yesterday.”

“You’re lying.”

“Not exactly brotherly love, dropping you in it the way he did.”

“You’re lying!” Hovenden’s face was almost white with strain.

“What would you say,” asked Lynn, “if I told you he claimed he got Inspector Aston’s credit card from you?”