John Harvey: Lonely Hearts

“Not me.”

“Ex-boyfriend, probably.”

“Probably.”

“Pest!”

Resnick turned over to the back page to discover that County were playing at home.

Even after Resnick had transferred his allegiance back over the Trent, he had stayed away for months on end. When he started going regularly again, the team began losing. His most regular period in front of the London Road stand coincided with a drop of two Divisions in as many seasons. Gloriously, he remembered a floodlit game when Villa stuck eight past them and their blond winger ran riot. This was under the lights, too, but that was where the comparison ended.

On this present occasion, the visitors had brought a couple of dozen supporters with them, lost in the spaces of their enclosure and looking as if they’d have difficulty summoning up enough enthusiasm between them to club together for a cup of Bovril and a warmed-over sausage roll.

Resnick stood on the edge of the usual knot of fortnightly acquaintances, for whom a fondness for County’s flaws and misdemeanors had made cynicism an art form. Straightforward abuse was reserved for referees under five-foot four, and former English internationals; the most abusive remarks of all were shouted in Polish.

It was hard keeping warm during a first half that produced seventeen off-sides, three corners, and no shots on goal at either end. During the interval Resnick glanced at Patel’s notes, folded now inside his program. The second forty-five minutes were pure County: a through ball out of nowhere, a man on the overlap, and a first-time cross that was met at the gallop and clattered into the net; after that, they left one player upfield, pulled back the rest, and held out until the last five minutes when they conceded two goals, one to bad luck, the other to bad marking; with sixty seconds remaining, they were awarded a penalty and the final chance to equalize was ballooned over the bar.

“Any other side, you could have been sure of three points.”

Hands in pockets, Resnick nodded without turning his head, moving with the small crowd towards the exit.

“But, then, that’s what makes them so exciting to watch.”

Something in the voice made Resnick look to his side then, slowing down.

“I didn’t take you for a County man, Inspector. More of a Forest supporter.”

“A long time back.”

“We learn the error of our ways.”

They were standing opposite the entrance to the cattle market, people continuing to spill round them. A single constable on horseback was guiding the straggle of visitors across the road to their coach.

“Professor Doria,” said Resnick, not knowing how he knew.

“William Doria, yes.” He extended his hand. “Inspector Resnick.”

“That’s correct.”

His grip was strong and he held it for slightly longer than was necessary. He was shorter than Resnick, but by no more than a couple of inches. He wore a black wool overcoat, longer than was fashionable; the bottoms of his trousers were tucked into thick socks, brown leather boots came up above his ankles. Thick hair, graying, showed beneath the brim of a trilby hat. A County scarf, black and white, was tucked under the collar of his coat.

“I recognized you from the newspaper,” Doria explained. “Your photograph, a while ago now. A case involving the abuse of a young child, I believe. Sad, naturally, but in so many ways symptomatic of our time.”

Did that, then, make it any less sad, Resnick thought?

The last few supporters moved around the corner from sight.

“But now, of course,” said Doria, “your energies are being expended elsewhere, the deaths of those two unfortunate women.” His eyes flickered. “And now the revelation is imminent, the victim, I see, is soon to be brought to justice.”

“The victim?”

“It must always be, Inspector, the perpetrator in such cases, violence against the person, these women, that child, they are also the victim.” But not the abused, Resnick thought, not the dead. “Perhaps you don’t agree?”

“I hadn’t realized your field was sociology, Professor,” Resnick said.

“Neither is it and I find I have little sympathy with the view that would seek to discover the cause for aberrant behavior in unemployment and overcrowding.”

“Then where would you look?” Resnick asked.

Without hesitation, Doria set his index finger over his heart.

“Inside us,” he said. “Those needs whose expression of necessity subverts the rules of community, of family, all of those patterns by which we live.” Doria barely paused. “But now, Inspector, I have scripts waiting to be assessed and you and I, I think, go in different directions. It was a pleasure to have met you.”

Resnick stood his ground as Doria turned confidently away and walked south along London Road towards Turner’s Quay and the river.

“So what are you saying, Charlie, that he confessed?”

Skelton stood against the window, a silver rind of moon over his left shoulder. So far it was a clear morning, bright and cold, no sign of rain. Resnick had scarcely slept; had been at the station well before the first shift came on duty.

“Not in so many words.”

“Not in any words.”

“He said…”

“Charlie, you’ve already told me, three times. I know it off by heart. And it still doesn’t mean what you want it to mean.”

He stood there, thought Resnick, telling me: those needs whose expression of necessity subverts the rules of community, of family, all of those patterns by which we live .

“He gave you a theory, Charlie. Like any other tuppenny-ha’penny academic. It only takes a dolphin to be washed up on a beach somewhere in the world for some expert to inform us that they’re doing it to warn us we’re damaging the ecology of the planet. Child abuse has become a growth industry for sociologists and child psychologists from Aberystwyth to Scunthorpe. Do you know how much a QC gets paid to chair a panel which will take two years to tell us what was right before our eyes in the first place?

“We’re surrounded by people with theories for all and sundry, Charlie, and the best we can hope to do is steer a course between them and use their knowledge when we’ve told them exactly what we want and nothing more.”

“With respect, sir, I don’t think this is the same. It isn’t abstract. He knew what he was saying, Doria, knew who he was saying it to.”

“Now what, Charlie? He was watching for you, waiting for you? Maybe he went to the match for the express purpose of seeking you out, striking up a conversation? Great shot! That bloke’s a load of rubbish! Oh, by the way, I’ve got this confession I want to make if you can hang on till they’ve taken this corner.”

Facetious sod! thought Resnick. His All-Bran can’t be working.

“I don’t think it’s impossible, sir,” he said.

Skelton moved towards his desk. “I know it’s not easy to find acceptable reasons for watching that miserable team, but this might be taking it a bit far.”

Resnick turned and started towards the door, smarting under his superior’s sarcasm.

“Inspector…” Skelton began,

“What about the girl?” Resnick asked, stopping, his voice unusually loud. “Oakes-what about her? We’ve her description of…”

“A bit of rough, isn’t that what they call it, Charlie? You’re always so much more in tune with these terms than I seem to be. If we started pulling in every bloke who treated his wife like that, we’d have more inside than out on the street. And don’t waste that look of disapproval, I’m not condoning anything, you know that. I’m saying there’s a certain kind of world out there and we’re paid to work in it. Unfortunately, we have to live in it, too.”