John Harvey - Rough Treatment

“Six foot, a little more?”

Maria nodded.

“Fourteen stone?”

“I suppose so, if that’s what …”

“Big?”

“Yes,” she said, clasping and unclasping her hands. “Big.”

Resnick flipped open his notebook. “In the descriptions you gave to the detective constable, you said that both men were medium height or less. Skinny hipped, I think you said that as well. Tight blue jeans, leather jackets, tight curly hair.” He eased himself back in his chair. The electric clock, narrow hands on a blank face, clicked as it reached the hours. “Not very much there which suggests either man was anything approaching the large size. Is there, Mrs. Roy?”

“No.”

“How do you account for that?”

Bastard! she thought. You’ve caught me out and you’re loving it.

“I suppose I must have made a mistake,” she said.

“This time or last time?”

“Last time.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Time to reconsider.”

Maria’s mouth was dry and she wanted to go to the fridge for some fresh juice but she knew that she couldn’t, shouldn’t move. “I’ve had more time to think about it clearly, everything that happened. I’m less confused.”

“There’s nothing else that’s clearer now? With the benefit of time.”

Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Nothing to do with the safe, for instance?”

“What about the safe?”

“You didn’t tell them it was there?”

“Of course I didn’t. What kind of a stupid …?”

“Just opened it for them.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I told them the combination. One of them opened it.”

“The one who looked like me, or the one who didn’t?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Think about it, Mrs. Roy. Take all the time you need.”

She sighed. “It was the other one.”

“The one who didn’t look like me?”

“Yes.”

“Skinny hips?”

“Yes.”

“And you hadn’t said anything, you hadn’t given them any hint that might have led them to believe there was a safe in the bedroom?”

“No. I’ve told you.”

“I think that’s what you claimed, yes.”

“I told all of this to your, whatever you call him, constable.”

“Since when you’ve had a change of mind.”

“Not about that.”

“All right,” said Resnick, leaning forward, “let me put it another way. Did you get the impression that the burglars knew about the safe when they broke in? Take your time.”

She did. “I’m not sure,” she said finally.

“They didn’t go straight to it?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I wasn’t there, I mean I wasn’t with them all the time, not both of them.”

“Not when they found the safe?”

“No. That’s right.”

Resnick surprised her by getting to his feet. He picked up his cup and saucer and carried them to the draining board. For a moment, Maria thought he was going to wash them up.

“Is that all?” she asked.

He turned to face her. There was, she thought, something unrelenting in his eyes: not when she had first let him in, made him tea, but now, there when he needed it. When he sensed he’d caught the smell of something.

“Unless there’s something else you’ve remembered?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If I may,” said Resnick, on his way to the front door. “I’ll ask someone to call round and go over your account with you. Just to set the record straight.” He paused. “Some time, I’ll have a word with your husband.”

“Harold? What on earth for? He wasn’t here.”

The corners of Resnick’s mouth wrinkled into a smile. “Try to convince him to do something about that alarm. You don’t want to run the same risks twice. After all-” he turned the catch to open the front door-“suppose they took it into their heads to come back?”

“See this?”

Grabianski glanced up from his position at the window. Even standing on an oak dining chair, he was having to crane his neck to get the right angle for the binoculars.

Grice was standing a few paces into the room, newspaper folding back over one hand, bacon sandwich-white bread and brown sauce-in the other.

“You read this yet?”

Grabianski shook his head.

“This report, right, according to this, you know how many burglaries there were in this country last year?”

Grabianski didn’t know; that is, he knew for certain about seventeen, but, those apart, his knowledge was vague.

“Seventy-three thousand,” Grice informed him. “Seventy-three.”

Grabianski didn’t know if that was a lot or not: it sounded a lot.

“That’s less than the year before. Eight percent down.” Grice held the sandwich to his mouth while he righted the paper. “‘Welcoming this reduction,’” he read, “‘the Home Secretary stressed that effective action against crime required a commitment from every responsible citizen.’” Brown sauce blobbed downwards and settled into the newsprint.

“Neighborhood watch,” said Grabianski.

“Personal security.”

“Alarm systems.”

Grice shook his head. “Eight percent reduction at the same time as, get this, assaults and muggings have risen to the level of 420 a day. Now how many’s that in a year?”

Grabianski was working it out in his head. “Leaving out Christmas and bank holidays, about 150,000.”

“Right!” said Grice vehemently. “Over twice the number of burglaries.” He waved the remains of his bacon sandwich in Grabianski’s direction. “And if that doesn’t tell you something about the state this country’s got itself into, I don’t know what does.”

Nodding slowly, Grabianski turned back to the window.

Resnick stood in front of his superintendent’s desk, fighting the feeling that, although Jack Skelton wasn’t even in the room, he should be at attention. It was something about Skelton himself, of course, always so straight-backed, each graying hair of his head brushed into formation, shine of his shoes fresh and unblemished. Something, also, to do with the way everything on the surface of his desk was arranged in carefully regimented order: three pens angled against the blotter, black, blue and red; papers pinned inside their appropriate trays, notes in Skelton’s precise hand attached; the diary, black and padded, a marker of red ribbon in place at the day; inside three matching silver frames, Jack Skelton’s wife and daughter beamed perfect contentment from between matching hair-styles and almost matching dresses.

“Charlie.”

“Sir.”

Turning, Resnick saw the cuffs of his superior’s crisp gray shirt had been turned back once, then once again. His tie was held in place by a discreet silver-and blue-clip. The jacket to his charcoal gray suit was already hanging behind the door. It was Jack Skelton’s way of showing that he was still a working copper.

“Sit down, Charlie.”

“Sir.”

Seated himself, Skelton flipped his diary open and then closed. “This break-in over at Harrison’s patch, there’s some suggestion our old friends might be paying us another visit?”

“It’s possible, sir.”

“Likely?”

Resnick leaned one elbow on the edge of the desk, only to remove it quickly. A mistake. “They were professionals, no two ways about that. About as careful with the inside of the house as Pickfords. No reason they had to know what they were going to find, but they could have had a good idea they wouldn’t be wasting their time.”

“Unlikely out that way, eh, Charlie? Put in a thumb and pull out a plum every time.”

Or find the silver threepenny bit in each slice of the pudding, thought Resnick. “Could say the same here, sir. Big, old houses, expensive property. Unless it’s all going on the mortgage and keeping the kids in private school, there’s likely to be something around worth taking.”