John Harvey - Cold Light

Though he was expecting it, Lynn’s voice made him start and he missed the first few words.

… I have to tell you that I’m all right. I mean, I’ve been given something to eat and drink and so far nothing bad has happened to me. I’m being well looked after, I suppose. I’m not in any pain. The reason … She hesitated. … the reason I’m here is that … Another hesitation, longer. Some movement of the microphone. Crackling … the reason … Without a break, the man’s voice, close to anger, interrupting. She’s here because she thought she could outsmart me, that’s the way of it. Outwit me. Use me, that too. Get inside my defenses. And she’s got to learn, you’ve got to learn, like I told you, that’s one thing you can’t none of you do. Another pause, short, and then, And that includes you, Mr. Resnick, that includes you .

“That’s it?” Resnick said. “That’s all?”

Sharon nodded. “We played it right through, both sides.”

“Nothing about a ransom, then,” the sergeant said. “Not like last time.”

“That was a game,” Resnick said.

“Nasty bloody sort of a game.”

“His kind. But it’s gone beyond that now. He knows that.”

Sharon Garnett looked at him. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

“We’ve got a good idea.”

“How come?”

“Staring us in the face,” Resnick said. “More or less.”

A fresh-faced PC knocked on the door and waited for the word to come in. “Inspector Resnick? Call for you. Shall I put it through here?”

It was a short journey from the stationery warehouse to where Michael Best lived in a rented house on the outskirts of Ruddington, south of the city. A short street of anonymous, flat-fronted buildings that stopped abruptly at the entrance to a field. Curtains twitched as the two cars slowed to a halt outside number five; the front door opposite opened and a man and woman came out to stand on their path and gawp. A word or two from Kevin Naylor sent them, reluctantly, back inside.

Millington was in no mood for niceties. He gave the nod to Divine, who grinned and sent the sledgehammer crashing against the front door, through wood and glass, and with a second swing they were inside.

The upper part of the house seemed hardly to have been used, a few boxes, mainly empty, a broken stiff-backed chair which someone had made an unsuccessful attempt to mend. Balls of dust fluffed around their feet where they walked. The bathroom was downstairs at the back, a converted scullery with black spots of damp high on the walls; toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving things were missing. In the kitchen the cupboards contained mostly tinned food-Baxter’s pea and ham soup, HP baked beans, seven tins of sardines. A nub end of bread at the back of a chipped enamel breadbin, going green.

In the small front room a framed photograph of Michael Best and an older woman, enough like him to be his mother, hung above the tiled mantelpiece. She with her head half-turned towards him, Michael looking slightly bashful, self-conscious, the woman’s pride clear in her eyes.

Shelved in the alcove behind the one armchair, Michael Best’s library of books on running a smallholding, horticulture, tips for the independent businessman, the commercial growing and marketing of flowers. There were a pocket guide to Byzantine Art, a selected poems of Andrew Marvel, two paperbacks by Thomas Clancy. Beside a handy guide to hyacinths and gladioli was a copy of Killing for Company , the story of Dennis Nilsen.

“So what?” Millington said when Divine flourished it with something close to triumph. “I’ve got a copy of that at home myself.”

Divine redeemed himself by finding the letters, hand written, either copies or unsent.

Dear Patrick

It was good to hear from you and to know that you are well. Things have moved on a little here and it looks as though my plans for setting up on my own should see fruition by this summer, autumn at the latest. I have been looking in the area around King’s Lynn, which as you know is where my mother originally comes from, and think I may have found something …

Dear Mother ,

I’m so glad the flowers arrived safely, and the card, and that you say they made a nice display. I only wish I could have been with you, but as you know, I’m virtually holding down two jobs what with all the traveling and trying to make sure I don’t lose the chance to …

Dear Mr. Charteris

I am writing to you with considerable regret concerning your decision not to grant in full the loan we recently discussed. I had hoped that during our meeting I had been able to convince you …

Dear Lynn ,

I hope this letter from someone who is as yet a complete stranger …

At the bottom drawer, underneath the letters, there was an application form for the Open University Science Foundation course, filled in but never sent. There were OS maps of Norfolk and Lincolnshire, with locations marked in blue-black biro, some of them circled in red; creased and well-used, a Little Chef motorists’ map for 1993. In an envelope there were color photographs of a woman taken indoors using flash, bright spots reflecting back from the center of bewildered eyes.

“Any ideas?” Divine said, holding them up.

“Susan Rogel, I wouldn’t mind betting,” Millington said. “Let’s get Siddons down here to be sure. Meantime, get through to the boss, arrange for copies of these maps to be faxed across. I hope to Christ we find the right place and in time.”

Lynn could hear a dog barking, quite far off; the same note, almost, it seemed, without interruption. She had heard Michael singing earlier, close by, the sound of hammering, ten minutes at most and then it had stopped. Her bladder was starting to burn. What she prayed for was the sound of approaching cars. A key turned in the lock and Michael came in.

He was wearing a white shirt, old corduroy trousers, boots on his feet. “Let me just get these off now. No sense getting mud over everything.” He set down the bucket he was carrying and pulled off first one boot and then the other, placing them outside the door.

“Rain’s given over,” Michael said. “Going to be a nice day.” He approached her with the bucket, fished from his pocket a small key. “If I trust you to help yourself with this, you’re not going to be doing anything stupid?”

Lynn looked back at him but didn’t answer.

Michael moved round behind her and knelt down on one knee. “Don’t want me to be doing everything for you, not like a baby.” He unlocked one of the cuffs and it swung against the back of her leg. “Get those jeans off, why don’t you, and I’ll move this bucket underneath you.”

“Do I have to do this while you watch?”

“Why not? It’s only natural.”

Lynn shook her secured hand in sudden anger, rattling the chain. “Natural? Like this? What the hell’s natural about this?”

“Temper,” Michael smiled, on his feet above her, “temper. You know what I think about temper.”

“All right,” Lynn said, head down. “All right.” With her free hand she eased her pants down along towards her knees; the instant she sat down, as she’d known it would, the urine streamed from her, splashing back against the underside of her thighs.

“Now then,” he said, moments later, lifting the bucket away, “what have we got here?” Folded in his pocket, several sheets of toilet paper. “Will you or shall I?”

Staring at him all the while, she dabbed herself dry and dropped the damp tissue in the bucket when he held it out.

“I suppose now,” he said, locking the cuff back around her wrist, “you’ll be expecting something to drink?”