John Harvey - Off Minor

“When you were …” Lynn paused “… kissing?”

“Yes.”

“So up until the time you suspected there might be something very nasty in there as well, what would you say was Raymond’s mood?”

Sara chewed at the flesh inside her lower lip. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, was he, for instance, was he excited, was he nervous?”

“He wasn’t nervous, no. Only after.”

“After you found Gloria’s body?” Sara nodded.

“Up to that point, then, he wasn’t apprehensive at all?”

Sara frowned, not certain she understood.

“Raymond, he wasn’t frightened?”

“No. He had no need to be, did he? Specially not when he had the knife.”

Lynn was aware of the skin at the back of her neck beginning to prickle. “Knife, Sara? What knife was this?”

“So,” Alison Morley said, hands on the table, fingers spread, “shall I be talking to you again?”

“I don’t know,” Patel said. “If we find somebody, make an arrest, then yes, it is possible.”

“An identification parade?”

“Possibly.”

Alison Morley nodded once; getting to her feet, she gave the sides of her skirt a discreet downward pull.

“Thank you for your time,” Patel said, suddenly self-conscious that she was watching him stow away his notebook and pen, push back his chair.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she said.

Patel shook his head. “Bradford. My family, they come from Bradford.”

Alison nodded. “I thought it was more a Yorkshire accent.”

“Well, yes.”

“I’ve a cousin, comes from somewhere outside Leeds.”

“Yes.” He glanced round at the door, began to back away. “Well, thanks for being so helpful.”

“Wait a minute.”

She took a small handkerchief from her pocket and nodded at the lapel of his jacket. “You’ve got something down you.”

Patel watched as, carefully, she dabbed it away. The badge engraved with her name was so close to touching his other lapel. She had, he noticed, a tiny mole immediately below one corner of her mouth and level with the cleft of her chin.

“There,” she said, satisfied, stepping back.

“Look,” Patel said, blurting out the words too quickly, “you wouldn’t like to come out with me some time?”

“Why not?” said Alison Morley, stepping back. “We could always talk about your mortgage. See if it isn’t time for you to think about an extension.”

Resnick had emerged from Jack Skelton’s office inspired. Back from a brisk two-mile run, the superintendent had unfolded from its neat foil wrapping two pieces of dry plaster board which turned out to be Swedish crispbread, three sticks of green celery and an apple.

“Hear that report on the radio this morning, Charlie?” Skelton had asked, slicing the apple scrupulously into four and then four again. “Two-thirds of the country setting their health at serious risk through sloppy eating habits. Cancer of the colon, cancer of the bowel.”

Resnick had entered the deli committed to good intentions. Nothing wrong, after all, with a salad sandwich on wholemeal bread, no dressing, no mayonnaise, hold the butter. Cottage cheese, not many carbohydrates in that, specially if you went for the low-fat version. Course, it didn’t taste of a whole lot, but where a healthy body was concerned, the sacrifice of a little flavor was a small price to pay.

“That’ll be two pounds thirty-five.”

It was the second sandwich, the one with tuna and chicken livers, radicchio in a garlic sauce, dark rye bread with caraway, that put up the price. That and the wedge of Cambazola that had been standing there so temptingly at the edge of the board.

“’Lo, Kevin.”

“Sir.”

Naylor walking away from the area of the cells as Resnick came back into the station, heading for the stairs.

“Going all right?”

“Sir.”

“Wife okay?”

“Sir.”

“Baby?”

“Sir.”

Naylor held open the CID door for Resnick to walk through, then hurried towards the safety of the far end of the office and began shuffling forms and papers over the surface of his desk.

Resnick used the sole of his shoe to push his own door closed and set his lunch down alongside the duty roster, licking at his fingers, where grease had seeped through the paper bag. Kevin Naylor had come to see him several months before, unofficial inquiry about a transfer. To the best of Resnick’s knowledge the young DC had never pursued it further, but rumors that all was not well at home had persisted, ructions between Debbie and himself, even some difficulties with Debbie and the baby. Resnick had asked Lynn Kellogg about that once and Lynn had said, yes, as far as she knew Debbie had been suffering a bit of postnatal depression but she understood things to be sorting themselves out. Naylor did his share of drinking off-shift, nothing that wasn’t par for that particular course. If he’d taken to going over the side, at least he hadn’t been shooting his mouth off about it in the canteen.

Even so …

Resnick chewed thoughtfully, half a mind to call Naylor in, see if there wasn’t more to get out of him than the same single syllable word. He was still thinking when his phone rang and he had to swallow hastily before picking up.

“I don’t know,” he replied, after listening to what Lynn Kellogg had to say, “youth like that, out in the city on a Friday, Saturday night without a knife of some kind about him, that might be more of a surprise. Even so, a few more questions likely wouldn’t hurt … No, no, let Mark have another go at him. Besides, I’ve got other plans for you. How’d you feel about a bit of a bucket and spade job? Quick trip to the seaside?”

Lorraine wished she knew if the right thing to do was tell Michael about it or not. She knew, at least she was pretty certain she knew, what his reaction would be. It wasn’t that he was an irrational man, Michael, and not violent, no, not that, absolutely not, not normally; but where his ex, where Diana was concerned, it was different. There had been the period when she had kept sending Emily letters; not letters, really, more little notes, usually no more than a few words written on one of those notelets, the kind with flowers around the border. And it didn’t matter, wasn’t as if Emily could read them properly, Diana’s handwriting not being of the best. She had been able to understand the bottom part, though, mum, love and kisses , mum, and then lots of xs, just to underline the point.

Michael had torn them up when he’d found them, which hadn’t been for the first couple of weeks, Lorraine having decided that what Michael didn’t know wouldn’t harm him, the post arriving after he’d left to catch his train.

“However long’s this been going on?” he’d demanded, glowering at Lorraine as if it all had been her fault. And when she’d told him, “Suffering Christ!” and he’d wrenched the drawer right out, showering them down on to the bed and the floor. Of course, Emily had cried when he’d torn them up, sobbed her heart out. “See,” Michael had said, pointing. “See,” vindicated, “how upset it gets her?”

And then there had been the phone calls, Diana’s voice at first, calmly inquiring if she might speak to Emily.

“Diana, I’m not positive that’s such a good idea,” Lorraine had faltered.

“Keep this up and I’ll get the law on to you,” Michael had said. “Keep this up and see if I don’t.”

After that, she never spoke, simply waited ten, fifteen seconds before ringing off. Michael had said it was some pervert, a heavy breather going through the phone book, getting his sordid little kicks. Lorraine had nodded, maybe, knowing it wasn’t that, whatever desire and longing might be at the other end of the line was of a different kind altogether.