John Harvey - Lonely Hearts

Using one sock-covered foot to dissuade Dizzy from finishing the contents of Bud’s bowl, Resnick thinly sliced some mozzarella and placed it on the toast. Coffee he drank black and without sugar: there were days when he wondered exactly why it was that he didn’t lose weight.

“You ought to get married again, Charlie.”

Superintendent Jack Skelton was on his way out of the station, executive briefcase under his arm and something of a gleam in his eye. Graying hair, still thick, had been brushed meticulously into place. Bugger’s probably back from a three-mile run already, Resnick thought.

“I’m still waiting for the first time, sir,” he said.

“A wife would do things for you.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Like make sure you didn’t leave the house in the morning with breakfast on your tie.”

Resnick glanced down. “It’s not mine, sir.”

“You’ve got someone else’s breakfast on your tie?”

“Someone else’s tie.”

Skelton continued down the steps and round into the car park with a step that managed to be unhurried and urgent at the same time. Resnick wondered if the superintendent would be back in the station for the nine o’clock briefing, or whether the chief inspector would be sitting in for him. He’d rather Skelton’s briskness than twenty minutes of Len Lawrence doing his man-of-the-people act.

The CID office was L-shaped. Desks were pushed together along the center of the room, four and then six and four more around the corner; spaces left between them for access. A row of desks lined the window that ran the length of the left-hand wall. Four detective sergeants and sixteen constables used the office in shifts; somehow, between them, trying to make an impression on the five thousand plus crimes that had been reported so far that year-it was early November-and that was only one section of the city.

Resnick’s office was the missing section of the rectangle, partitioned off from the rest by chipboard and glass.

Patel had drawn the early shift, seven till three, and was bending over his desk, making final adjustments to the files that would bring Resnick up to date with what had happened through the night. One detailed the movement of prisoners, in and out of the cells on the ground floor; the other logged messages and Patel would have sorted these into local and national. And he would have put on the kettle for tea.

“Anything I ought to see urgent?” Resnick called through the open door.

“Sir, there were six robberies, sir.” Patel stood at the entrance to Resnick’s office, one file under each arm, sheets of computer paper folding back at top and bottom.

“Six? You’re going to have your work cut out.”

As officer on the early shift, Patel was responsible for all burglaries. He looked at Resnick, unable to relax, uncertain if he was supposed to smile.

“Let’s have a look, then. Before the army gets here.”

The DC placed the files on Resnick’s desk, opening each in turn. “Sergeant Millington, sir. He is here already.”

Resnick nodded. What was the matter with everybody today? Had they done something to the clocks without telling him? He was certain he’d changed all his when Summer Time had ended.

“That tea won’t mash by itself, lad,” Millington said.

Patel scuttled out and Resnick did no more than glance at his sergeant, knowing he had to finish reading the files before the meeting. Graham Millington took a cigarette from its packet, transferred it from one hand to another, put it back unlit. He could never understand it. There he was, ten years in uniform, seven as a DC; four years now since passing his promotion board to sergeant. Not only that, he had a couple of commendations and a medal for bravery, a three-piece suit that didn’t strain to fit, a wedding ring on his finger, an internal clock like Greenwich Mean Time, and a clean tie. What more did it take to make detective inspector?

“Anything the matter, Graham?” Resnick closed the files.

Millington sniffed and shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Somebody’s been busy along the back of the boulevard.”

“I just had a word with uniform. Night inspector said some kid rang in about five. Just got back from a party. Got out of a taxi and into the drive and realized the front door’s open to the wind. Takes him another five minutes to realize there’s a space where the TV used to be.”

“Anyone else in the house?”

“Family. All upstairs in bed. Fast off.”

Lucky for some, Resnick thought. “Much else missing?” he asked.

“VCR, couple of good cameras-the kid’s getting himself into a state on account his entire James Brown collection’s been lifted.” Millington sighed. “Five others so far, and there’ll be more when folk wake up to it. All the same.”

“All mourning their James Brown, eh?”

Millington felt one side of his mouth shaping into a grin and willed it to stop. He wanted to call Resnick’s bluff but didn’t quite dare. For all he knew, his superior went home and kicked back the carpet, tossed down a few glasses of schnapps and boogied the night away to “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.”

Bodies moved past the doorway, snatches of early conversation, a loud laugh and then a groan as Mark Divine’s voice rose above the rest, boasting about the night before to the other officers.

Resnick glanced over his shoulder at the round-faced clock between pinboard and his pair of filing cabinets: four minutes past eight.

“Okay, Graham,” said Resnick, standing. “Let’s get to it.”

Superintendent Skelton had not returned from Central Police Station, so, after briefing his men, Resnick had reported to Chief Inspector Lawrence, together with the uniformed inspector in charge. Both men had kept it as short as possible and by a quarter-past nine, Resnick was back in his own office, phoning through to the detective chief inspector at headquarters.

“Lively night down your way,” the DCI observed, pleasantly caustic.

“Yes, sir.”

“Getting any help from uniform on this?”

“Two men for house-to-house, sir.”

“Right you are, then, Charlie. Talk to you tomorrow. You’ll likely have a result by then.”

Resnick set the receiver down and the door to his office opened.

“Didn’t know if I should remind you,” said Graham Millington. “You’re in court this morning, aren’t you?”

Resnick closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. The door to his office closed quietly. Beyond it phones rang and were answered. Somebody swore, softly, repeatedly, and no one appeared to notice.

He had been trying to wipe from his mind the fact that he was due, that morning, to give evidence. There were cases that seemed to make no impact at all, others that brought their share of sleepless hours, and then there were those that bit deep.

This had started with a call to the station. A child’s mother had rung in, pretending to be a neighbor. She had alleged that her husband was consistently forcing their daughter to take part in sexual acts. That was what it had come down to, when all the pretence, the play-acting were over. Remembering, Resnick’s mouth went tight. It all seemed a long time ago, the first stumbled words, the investigation, the child who had sat quietly before a video camera and played with dolls. Yes, he did, he took this and he put it there . Seven years old. Was that what people got married for, Resnick asked? Had children?

On his way into the city center he tried not to answer the questions, tried to clear his mind of the case altogether. Once in the witness box it would come back soon enough.

There was time to walk up to the indoor market and take his usual seat at the Italian coffee stall. The girl slid an espresso in front of him without waiting to be asked and Resnick drank it down in two and ordered another.