John Harvey - Cold Light

There had to be easier things to do, easier times.

Receiver cradled between chin and shoulder, Divine fumbled another extra-strong mint from its pack; finishing the call, he checked off another name on his list.

“Yes, sir,” Naylor was saying across the room, “Phelan. P-H-E-L-A-N. Nancy. Yes, that’s right.”

Deaf, Divine thought, or daft. Comatose. All those blokes having to haul themselves off the couch where they’d fallen asleep after a surfeit of mince pies and turkey. Divine hadn’t surfaced till mid-afternoon himself, coming out of a bitter and Bacardi haze with a head like a rear tire in need of a retread.

“Hello, love. Yes. Can I speak with Mr. McAllister, please?”

Divine was at his desk against the rear wall, the wall where his Sun calendar used to hang before Lynn had lost her rag and torn it into little pieces. Pissed him off no end, that had. Kellogg getting into her hard-hat feminist routine every time her pre-menstrual cramps came visiting. Still, the one he’d bought for next year, Page Three Lovelies , that was already up in the bathroom at home: give himself a lift each time he stepped out of the shower.

“Hello, Mr. McAllister? DC Divine here, CID.”

When Andrew Clarke’s wife told him there was a police officer on the line wanting to speak with him, he had just got back from a long walk with the boys along an almost deserted beach. Gulls low over the water as the tide turned and began to roll back in. Haze of moon in the sky and the light almost gone. They had walked briskly, as briskly as one could on sand, well wrapped against the cold. Later there would be mulled wine, sandwiches, snooker, cards.

“Sure it’s for me?” Clarke asked, unwinding his scarf, feeling the first signs of panic tickling his gut.

His wife had raised an eyebrow and turned back to the kitchen table.

“Hello,” Clarke said, picking up the extension in the hall, “This is Andrew Clarke.”

At the other end of an imperfect line, Resnick identified himself and said there were a few questions concerning the Christmas Eve dinner-dance.

Oh, Christ, Clarke thought, I was right. The stupid bitch has only gone and made a complaint to the police.

“How can I help you, Detective Inspector?” he said.

“There was a young woman,” Resnick said, “one of the guests …”

Oh God, thought Clarke, here it comes. In his mind he was erecting excuses, explanations, I’d been drinking too heavily, under severe stress at work, she led me on.

“… as far as we can tell she left at around midnight, possibly accepting a lift, and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Dana,” Clarke said.

“Sorry?”

“The woman you’re talking about, Dana Matthieson.”

“No. Not Dana. Her friend.”

“Friend?”

“Yes. Nancy Phelan.”

Resnick clearly heard the gear change in Andrew Clarke’s breathing. “You do know her then?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, no. Dana, of course, she’s been with us for quite a while. A good worker. Very good. Reliable, shows initiative …”

“Nancy Phelan,” Resnick said.

“No, not at all. That is, I may have met her. We may have been introduced. I’m afraid I can’t quite remember.”

“You don’t remember dancing with her, for instance?”

Andrew Clarke laughed nervously, more of a bark.

“Not much of a dancer, Detective Inspector. Not my style.”

“Even so, Christmas. Special occasion. I should have thought, just to show willing …”

“I did dance, of course. Once or twice.”

“And that would be with Mrs. Clarke?”

“My wife wasn’t present, she …”

“With somebody else, then?”

“Of course. You don’t think I’d make a fool of myself …”

“And this person you were dancing with, it couldn’t have been Nancy?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Haven’t I said …”

“But if you’re not certain you knew who she was, Nancy, isn’t it possible she could have been …?”

“Inspector, I know the person I was dancing with.”

“And you wouldn’t mind telling me, just for the …?”

“It was Dana Matthieson, as a matter of fact.”

“Dana.”

“Yes.”

“And at the end of the evening?”

“What do you mean?”

“As I said, to the best of our knowledge someone offered Nancy Phelan a lift in their car.”

“It wasn’t me, Inspector.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive.”

Resnick let him have a moment of time; not too long. “Functions like that, Christmas Eve, it’s easy to forget …”

“I assure you …”

“I mean, at first you said you hadn’t danced, but then, when you thought about it, you remembered that you had.”

“Detective Inspector …”

“Mr. Clarke, it’s important that we compile as accurate a picture of what happened yesterday evening as possible. You realize the potential seriousness of the situation, I’m sure.”

Clarke shifted his stance so that his back was towards the kitchen door. “As it happens I did give somebody a lift home …”

“I see.”

“Dana, actually.”

“Dana Matthieson.”

“Yes. She lives not so far away from me.”

“So must Nancy then.”

“I suppose so. I really don’t know.”

“And you didn’t see her when you drove Dana home?”

“No.”

“What happened exactly? I mean, did you just drop her off outside, did she invite you in, coffee maybe? What?”

The pause was too long. “Outside,” Clarke said. “I dropped her off outside.”

“And she’ll confirm that? I mean, if necessary?”

“We didn’t go directly there,” Clarke said, voice lowered, “we stopped off at my place on the way.”

“For coffee,” Resnick said.

“A nightcap, yes.”

“And then you drove her home?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Not exactly?”

“She decided to walk.”

“Wasn’t that, well, a little odd? I mean, having accepted a lift from you in the first place.”

“Perhaps she wanted to clear her head.”

“Is that what she said?”

“I can’t remember.”

“You can’t recall what reason she gave for wanting to walk home after accepting a lift?”

“No.”

“So you had, in fact, no idea that she got home all right?”

“I assumed …”

“Of course. People do. But her friend, Nancy Phelan, seemingly didn’t.”

“I told you, Inspector, I know nothing about that. Nothing about that at all. I may have noticed her once or twice in the course of the evening, talking with Dana. At least, I assume it was her. But later, no. I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help.”

“When do you think you’ll be back down here, sir? In the city.”

“We’d planned to stay here until after the New Year.”

“There are some addresses we still haven’t been able to track down,” Resnick said. “You’ve no objection if we ask your assistant for her help?”

“Yvonne? No, of course not. The firm will do anything it can.”

“And you, Mr. Clarke? Yourself?”

“Of course, but I really don’t see …”

“Thank you, Mr. Clarke. Thanks for your time.”

When Andrew Clarke went back through the flagstoned kitchen, seeking out some fifteen-year-old malt, his wife remarked that for some reason he seemed to be sweating, She hoped he wasn’t coming down with something, a cold.

Divine’s back was aching, sitting in the same position too long, asking the same questions. Naylor had been out in search of a takeaway and returned empty handed, everywhere shut tight as an old maid’s arse. Even the mints had run out.

“Oh, her with the dress and the legs,” a voice was saying at the other end of his phone. “You kidding? Course I remember her. What about her?”