John Harvey - Cold Light

Two of the cats’ bowls were overturned as he ran to the door, Pepper leaping for safety to the refuge of the largest pan. Only with his coat on, car keys in his hand, did he remember the gas, and dash back to the kitchen to switch it off. Hearing him coming, Miles and Bud cowered in corners, Dizzy stood his ground and arched his back.

“Where’s Karl gone now?”

“I thought he was with you.”

Gary was up some steps he’d borrowed from the neighbors across the street, trying to do something about the hole in the roof. Already there’d been a stream of shouts and swearing and, from experience, Michelle knew he was about to explode. But when Michelle had come back in with the baby, Karl, who she’d thought was stretched out on his stomach watching cartoons, was nowhere to be seen.

“Gary, where …?”

“I told you, I haven’t fucking seen him!”

From their bedroom, the answer came in a scream. Karl was alongside the wardrobe when Michelle got there, continuing to scream, staring at his hands. The knife lay on the floor before him, smeared with blood.

“Oh, Jesus!”

When she ran to him, Karl turned away and threw himself against the wall.

“Karl, Karl, it’s all right. Let me see. Let me see, now, sweetheart, let me see.”

Gary stood just inside the doorway, saw the knife. “What the fuck you been doing, you stupid little bastard? What the fuck you, doing, sticking your nose where it’s got no business? Eh? Eh?”

“Gary. Shut up and leave him alone.”

“I’ll leave him alone.”

“Gary!”

He grabbed Michelle by the arm and half-pulled, half-pushed her out of the way. Karl saw the blow coming and threw up his hands, but the force of the punch knocked them aside and the fist struck the boy smack on the side of the head.

Karl let out a cry and toppled into the corner, weeping.

“Gary, you bastard! You pathetic, cowardly bastard!” Michelle had snatched the knife from the floor and set herself between father and son, handle grasped in both hands, blade pointing towards Gary’s chest. “You dare touch him again. You dare!”

Gary stared back at her, breath uneven, hands falling slowly back to his sides. What the hell did the stupid bitch reckon she was doing, turning the bloody knife on him? But when he tried moving half a pace forward, it was clear she was not about to budge. With a curl of his lip, Gary turned away. Until she had heard him lurch heavy-footed down the stairs, the slam of the front door, Michelle wouldn’t move. Only then did she drop the knife on to the bed and pick the terrified child up into her arms.

Resnick hadn’t been the only one for whom sleep had been more or less impossible. Kevin Naylor had finally given up at around three and taken the spare duvet into the front room so as not to disturb Debbie, settled down in the armchair, and watched a discussion between an American academic, who seemed to have written a book about bondage, and a fiercely unfunny female comedian, the pair of them arguing about the effects the increase in estrogen in the water was having on the male sperm count. Fifteen minutes of that and he quickly showered, changed, wrote a note for Debbie, and set off for the station.

There had to be something, something they’d overlooked. In the CID room, he began to go through Lynn’s desk, drawer by drawer, file by file, paper by paper. Almost an hour later, increasingly agitated, frustrated, he came close to missing it. The Yellow Pages scarred with the rings of numerous coffee mugs, he had gone through pretty thoroughly, but all that was marked were pizza deliveries, Indian takeaways, taxi firms. Kevin picked up the Thomson Directory that had been underneath it and gave it a quick flick through. The first time he noticed nothing, only on the second, carrying the directory across the room to add it to the general pile, did he spot the biroed asterisk, name printed at an angle in the column beside it.

SCHOTNESS STATIONERY LTD. Wholesale Supplies .

The address was a factory estate near the Clifton flyover.

The name written beside it was Michael Best .

Naylor’s fingers fumbled the numbers twice and when he did get through, the phone rang and rang.

“Shit!”

“Something a problem, Kevin?”

When he saw Resnick in the doorway, Naylor could have given him a hug. Almost. “Look,” he said, grabbing the directory from Lynn’s desk. “Look here.”

Taking the book from him, Resnick set it back down again to read it. “Good lad,” he said. “Well done.”

Naylor was too excited to blush.

Resnick checked his watch. “Too early to expect anyone there to set us straight. Meantime, what you can do is this. Names we took of everyone who was at that Christmas Eve do at the hotel where Nancy Phelan disappeared, that’s all on file?”

“On the computer, yes.”

“Right. Get it up on screen. I wouldn’t mind betting Michael Best was one of the guests.”

Across the room, Resnick picked up one of the photo-fit posters awaiting distribution. Not a perfect likeness, which was maybe why he’d not seen it immediately, but now he didn’t think there could be any mistake. “ Later, then. Let me buy you a drink later .” A dark-haired man in a dress suit, his eyes pursuing Lynn down the bar.

“Sir. Take a look at this.”

Schotness Stationery were one of two small firms who had shared their celebrations on the third floor of the hotel and M. Best was listed among their guests.

Resnick was reaching for the nearest phone when it rang. It was Sharon Garnett, calling from King’s Lynn. “Just had something delivered for forwarding, addressed to you, personally. It’s a tape.”

Lynn woke to the sound of Michael masturbating close by where she lay. Without moving her head, she could see the outline of his body, rocking forwards and back in the almost dark. Closing her eyes again, she could only listen as he gasped towards his climax, unable to block out the final shuddering sigh as he came.

Lynn waited, held her breath. She had talked him into letting her have back her jeans, complaining of the excessive cold. He had loosened the chain that held her cuffs a little at nightfall, sufficient for her to be able to draw her arms up against her back. Nevertheless, she was stiff, sore; the side on which she had mostly lain was numb.

She heard Michael moving and realized he was looking down at her to see if she were awake. Tense, when his finger touched her cheek she managed not to react. For several minutes he stood there, bending forward, stroking her face. When she thought she could endure it no longer, he went away.

The caravan door clicked shut and she heard the key turning in the lock. Nothing now that she could do but wait. Continue waiting. Any attempt she had made the previous evening to engage Michael in conversation had come to nothing. Just, now and then, that recognizable smile-you think I’m going to fall for that? Think I don’t know what you’re doing?

Somewhere, Lynn knew, they would be looking for her. Resnick and others-officers that she had never met and would never know-using everything at their disposal, searching, following every clue. But what were they? What were the clues? She had come so close that last evening to telling Resnick Michael’s name. Instead, she had put down the phone. Put off the moment. Why? As long as she lived, she might never know. Not that that need be so very long a time.

Resnick was in King’s Lynn within the hour, motorcycle escort all the way, headlights and sirens. Sharon Garnett’s sergeant greeted him with a strong handshake, a quiet, “Anything we can do to help you land the bastard,” as Resnick walked past. They sat in a small low-ceilinged room with a view out over wet cobbled streets. Quite close, a church bell was insistently ringing. “I wish they’d give over with that bastard thing,” the sergeant remarked. Sharon looked towards Resnick, waiting for a signal to play the tape.