John Harvey - Cold Light

Millington had used the drawing-room phone. “Graham, sir. Wondering if I could be any use.”

“How soon can you get here?” Resnick had said. Millington grinning as he weaved his way between small children, opening doors, looking for his wife so he could tell her sorry, but there was no alternative, he was leaving.

“Made a real fool of myself, didn’t I?” Lynn was sharing a cemetery bench with Resnick, one of the few places near the police station it was possible to find sanctuary. In front of them, the ground dipped away steeply, paths winding between Victorian tombstones raised in loving memory of Herbert or Edith or Mary Ellen, aged two years and three months, gone to a better place. In the middle distance, beyond Waverley Street, the green of the Arboretum shone dully in midwinter sun.

Resnick finished chewing a mouthful of chicken salad sandwich. “You said what you thought needed saying.”

“It wasn’t the time,” Lynn said. “And standing up to Grafton like that, it was stupid.”

“What he said wasn’t over-bright.”

“But tactically …” Lynn shook her head. “If I stopped to challenge every statement by a senior officer that was sexist or insensitive, how long d’you think I’d last in CID? Never mind promotion.”

Resnick crunched down into a pickled cucumber, head dipping forward in a vain attempt to prevent vinegar splashing across his shirt.

“What would really worry me,” Lynn went on, “would be if it meant Gary James didn’t get taken seriously. You know, just Lynn again, riding another of her hobby horses.”

Resnick grinned ruefully. “People have been saying that about me for years.”

Lynn looked back at him. She didn’t say and where’s that got you, because she didn’t have to. They both knew a younger, less experienced man had been promoted over him.

“You really fancy him for this, James? Nancy Phelan?”

“If not for that, then for something.”

“The kiddie.”

“Maybe.”

Resnick’s stomach stirred uneasily. “You’ve been back to Social Services?”

“Martin Wrigglesworth, yes. Well, I’ve tried. Left messages, but so far he’s not come back to me. Off duty, bound to be.”

Getting to his feet, Resnick screwed the paper bag that had held his lunch into a ball, brushed crumbs from the front of his coat. “Let’s hope you don’t have to wait till after the New Year.”

As they were walking back through the archway towards the broad sweep of road, Lynn prompted him about Gary James’ probation officer. “Pam Van Allen, I do think she’d be more likely to talk to you than me. You never know, she might throw some light.”

Without any great enthusiasm, Resnick nodded. “I’ve got Nancy Phelan’s parents in half an hour. After that, I’ll see what I can do.”

The holiday traffic was light enough to allow them across all four lanes and on to the central island without breaking stride. A dusty Ford Prefect with its offside door painted a different color was just turning into the car park alongside the police station: Mr. and Mrs. Phelan had arrived early.

Harry Phelan’s father and grandfather had worked on the Albert Dock before it became a home for shopping boutiques and an art gallery; Harry had grown up with every intention of following in their footsteps. But by the time he was ripe to leave school, the writing had been scrawled all too clearly on the wall and he had got himself apprenticed at Raleigh making cycles and moved to the East Midlands. Now that trade, too, was virtually dead and the family had moved back to its roots.

Harry was a tall man, strongly built, with failing sandy hair, a fair moustache, and broad hands which sprouted reddish hair between the knuckles. His tie was knotted too tight and he tugged at it constantly, this way and that. His wife, Clarise, no more than a couple of inches above five foot, wide at the hip and big at the bust, was forever fidgeting with the black handbag that she held in her lap, always close to tears.

Resnick saw them with Jack Skelton, four seats pulled round in the superintendent’s office, one of the uniformed PCs bringing a pot of tea from the canteen, Rich Tea biscuits overlapping on a small plate.

Increasingly agitated, Harry Phelan listened to the explanations of what steps had been taken, which directions the investigation was following. What he wanted to hear about were arrests, appeals, rewards, not computerized cross-checks, methodical questioning, the gradual elimination of people from the inquiry.

“Looks like,” he said finally, “you’re treating this about as serious as someone lost their second-best sodding coat!”

“Harry, don’t,” said Clarise, fumbling a small square handkerchief from her bag.

“One of your lot, we’d see something different, no two ways about that.”

“Mr. Phelan, I can only assure you …” Skelton began.

But Phelan was on his feet now, chair pushed back against the wall. “And I can assure you …” jabbing a hand in the superintendent’s direction, “… if someone doesn’t pull his finger out here, I’ll raise such a bloody stink, you’ll be back on the beat and lucky for it.”

“Harry,” begged Clarise, “you’ll not do any good.”

“No? What bloody will, then?” He pointed at Skelton again, swinging his arm wide to include Resnick also. “Forty-eight hours, that’s what they reckon, isn’t it? Forty-eight hours. If you don’t find them in that, likely they’re sodding dead!”

“Oh, Harry!” Clarise Phelan covered her face with her hands and began, loudly, to cry.

Resnick was out of his chair, moving automatically to comfort her, when Harry Phelan set himself in his way. There was no avoiding the anger, bright in Phelan’s eyes. For a moment Resnick held his stare; then slowly he backed away, sat back down.

“Come on,” Phelan said, taking hold of his wife’s arm. “We’re only wasting our time here.”

“When are you going back?” Skelton asked, as they walked away.

“We’re not going bloody anywhere. We’re staying here till this is sorted.” He didn’t add, one way or another.

“Is there an address, then,” Skelton asked, “where we can contact you?”

Harry Phelan gave them the name of a small hotel on the Mansfield Road.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Clarise said through her tears. “He’s upset, that’s what it is.”

Harry bustled her into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind them.

Skelton and Resnick sat for some little time, avoiding each other’s eye, saying nothing. Skelton tried a mouthful of tea, but it was cold. When Resnick moved, it was to look at his watch. “Little under ten hours to go.”

Skelton raised an eyebrow.

“Till it’s forty-eight,” Resnick said.

Divine and Naylor visited Patrick McAllister together. His address was in Old Lenton, a factory that once had made fruit machines and which since had been transformed into an apartment block for upwardly mobile singles and young couples passing through. McAllister was waiting for them at the head of the stairs, khaki chinos and artificially faded check shirt, deft handshake, blokes-together smile. Happy to invite them inside.

They asked him questions as they looked around.

Sure, McAllister said, he knew Nancy Phelan. Had done. Been out with her quite a few times, matter of fact. Clubbing, you know, pictures once or twice, evening or two in the pub. Nice girl, lively, spoke her mind. Liked that about her. Couldn’t stand women who sat there all night, no more than half a dozen words to their name and two of those, please and thanks.

There were photographs on the wall in the small living room, McAllister with various young women; others clamped to the front of the fridge by magnetic fruit, raspberries, pineapples, and bananas. Divine lifted one of those clear and took it towards the light.