John Harvey: Cold in Hand

"Time enough for a bath, if you want."

"Sounds good to me."

Chicken sizzling away in the pan with the garlic and the onions, she took him up a glass of Scotch and set it on the edge of the tub.

"I can't see any wine," she said.

"There's a couple of bottles of White Shield, if you fancy beer."

"Why not?"

She took a quick glance at herself in the mirror, but it was clouded with steam.

Forty minutes later, having remembered to warm the plates, she was about to serve dinner when she heard Resnick's voice from the other room.

"What's all this?"

"All what?"

"Flowers. Roses."

"Hang on a minute."

Lynn carried the plates through to the dining table. Resnick had set a compilation of West Coast jazz he'd picked up cheaply playing on the stereo.

"Got a secret admirer, then?" Resnick said, grinning.

"No secret." She showed him the card.

"Who's this?" Resnick asked, having read it. "Stuart D.?"

"You remember that SOCA conference I went to last year?"

"Uh-hum."

"He was one of the speakers. Stuart Daines."

"And he sent these?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you should come and work for us instead?"

"That's what it says."

"Funny way of recruiting."

"I don't think it's altogether serious."

"A lot of roses for someone who isn't serious."

Lynn's turn to grin. "Not jealous, Charlie, are you?"

"Should I be?"

"What do you think?"

"I just don't remember you saying much about him at the time, that's all."

Lynn cut off a piece of chicken. "There wasn't much to say."

"Good-looking, is he?"

"I suppose so. In a pared-down George Clooney sort of way. A bit taller, probably."

Resnick nodded. "Nothing special, then?"

"Not really."

For several minutes they ate in silence. Chet Baker faded into something more sprightly, Bob Brookmeyer and Jimmy Giuffre playing "Louisiana," an old favourite Resnick hadn't listened to in years.

The youngest of the cats was hovering hopefully beneath the table, rubbing its back from time to time against one of the legs.

"This is good." Resnick indicated his plate.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I didn't mean-"

"Yes, you did."

He grinned. "I'm sorry."

"So you should be."

He poured what was left of the White Shield into her glass.

"Preliminary forensic report came through from Huntingdon as I was leaving. Gun was firing home-packed bullets using discarded empty rounds. Lethal enough, but they don't have the same power." He pointed at her with his fork. "Hence the bruised, not broken ribs."

"Didn't help Kelly Brent."

"No. No, it didn't."

"How about the make of gun?" Lynn said. "Anything on that?"

"Converted air pistol, most likely."

"Brocock?"

"That's what they're thinking."

"Cheaper than chips a while back. Could well be."

Resnick nodded. It was just such a weapon that young Bradford Faye had used to avenge his sister, a Brocock ME38 Magnum, his for?115, the deal set up in the back room of a pub, money changing hands there and then and the weapon handed over in the car park later that evening, by a kid who couldn't have been more than eight or nine. With a mandatory minimum sentence of three years for sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds found carrying guns, underage gunrunners were being used more and more.

"Seconds?" Lynn indicated Resnick's virtually empty plate.

"No, thanks, I'm fine."

"You sure? There's another piece of chicken. Some more rice."

"Oh, go on, then."

"How's the rest of it going?" Lynn asked when she came back in.

"Falling-out over a lad at the heart of it. DJ called Brandon Keith. According to Joanne Dawson, he'd dumped Kelly for her a week or so back, and Kelly'd taken it badly. Said a few things about Joanne which were, shall we say, less than charitable, some of them finding their way onto a few walls near where Joanne lives. As a result of which-and, again, this is Joanne's version-she suggested herself and Kelly meet and have a little chat, clear the air, so to speak."

"And brought along a few friends for company."

"Yes. And Kelly did the same."

"Radford versus St. Ann's. Nice."

"Still, from what Joanne said, what started out as a lot of verbals turned nasty when Kelly produced a knife. Thirteen stitches to one side of her face to prove it, to say nothing of another seven or eight in her arm."

"And we're thinking it was one of her crew had the gun?"

"Likely. Long way from what she's saying, though, Joanne." Resnick eased back his chair. "Claims no one she knew was carrying a gun. Didn't really see the shooter, no idea who he was. Not one of her mates, she's certain of that."

"You'll talk to her again?"

"Oh, yes."

"How about this Brandon?"

"On his way down to Bristol when it happened, spot of DJing in a club down there. Really cut up about what happened to Kelly, close to tears talking about it to Anil, apparently."

"He backed up Joanne's story, though? The row between her and Kelly."

"After a fashion. 'Joanne Dawson,' he said. 'That skank. I only did her 'cause she was beggin' for it.'"

"Nice man."

"Charming."

"You want apple pie? There's some left from last night."

"Why not?"

After washing up and clearing away, they read the paper, watched television; Resnick listened to some more music, reading for the second time a book by Bill Moody about Chet Baker, while Lynn took a bath. She was just coming back into the room in her dressing gown when the phone rang.

"Probably another of your well-wishers," Resnick said as Lynn lifted the receiver.

"Watch your back, bitch." And the line went dead.

He waited till mid-morning, the first time he could really get away, anger still simmering inside him. When he arrived at the house, it was empty, no one answering the door. He was just leaving when a neighbour looked up from cleaning his car and told him where they were. Resnick thanked him and went across the street, walked a little way down and waited some more.

It wasn't long till he saw them: the Brent family making their way back from a two-minute silence at the spot where Kelly had been killed.

Several dozen friends and neighbours walked behind them in a slow procession, teenage friends of Kelly's clutching stuffed animals and bouquets of flowers, a local councillor and the minister from the Baptist church bringing up the rear.

Howard Brent was immaculate in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, his only adornment a diamond stud in his left ear. His wife, Tina, walked beside him, head down, the spirit drained out of her. Behind them, the two sons, Michael and Marcus, stared ahead, serious-faced. Michael, with his glasses and his small goatee, reminded Resnick of photographs of a young Malcolm X.

If Brent noticed Resnick amongst the bystanders who were standing here and there along both sides of the street, watching the procession file past, he gave no sign.

Resnick waited until they had arrived at the house, Tina and the younger boy going immediately inside, while others stood shaking Brent's hand and offering a few last words of condolence and sympathy.

Within minutes, only a dozen or so, including the Baptist minister, remained, spreading from the pavement out into the street. Most of the onlookers had drifted away.

As Resnick walked towards them, Michael Brent detached himself from the group and stood directly in front of him, blocking his path.

Automatically, Resnick reached for his warrant card. "I'm-"

"I know who you are," Michael said, cold contempt in his eyes.

"I need to talk to your father."

"My father is busy. This is not the right time." The young man's voice was loud and firm.

"I still need-"