John Harvey - Cold in Hand

So, everything by the book.

Something to eat and drink.

A doctor summoned to examine and treat the injuries sustained during arrest-cuts and bruising to the side of the face, left elbow and knee, all occasioned by DS Michaelson's flying tackle-Polaroids taken, dated, and signed.

And all of this done slowly, carefully, with punctilious attention to form and detail, all gaining time for a search warrant of Gregan's flat to be signed and executed, more perhaps in hope than true expectation, but one never knew…

As soon as he was ready, Gregan, with due representation, was ushered into an Interview Room with sound recording and video facilities and invited to take a seat opposite Michaelson and Pike.

It was Michaelson, Resnick thought, who had set this whole thing in motion and now, buoyed up as he was by successful pursuit and capture, it was only right that he should be given the chance to bring it home. And Pike-well, perhaps Pike was a more-than-adequate companion for the occasionally loquacious Michaelson-taciturn to the edge of rudeness, flat northern vowels in tune with his wedge-shaped head and stocky body.

For now Resnick was content to leave them to it and observe the proceedings from an adjoining room.

"Not smart, taking off the way you did," Michaelson began.

Gregan shrugged.

"Guilty conscience, that's what it could make us think. Something to hide. Unless, of course, you simply fancied a run. Unquenchable thirst for exercise, that what it was?"

Gregan shrugged again, uncomfortable on his seat. Michael-son was forced to sit back from the table, unable to get his legs comfortably underneath.

"First hundred metres or so," Michaelson said, in the same chatty tone, "you were looking pretty good."

"You reckon?" Gregan said.

"You've had no training? Any kind of coaching?"

Gregan squinted back at him. "For running, you mean?"

"Running, yes."

"Not me," Gregan said.

"Must be natural, then. Natural ability. And practice. Plenty of that, I daresay."

Gregan didn't reply.

"What you'd learn," Michaelson said, "with proper coaching, one thing anyway, conserve your energy. Any kind of distance, that's the key. Stamina, of course, that can be developed, but pacing, fail to learn that and what happens? Into the bend on the back straight, final lap, and what you need is a strong sprint finish and there's nothing left. Well, you've seen it yourself, probably, European Games, the Olympics, on television, this tall white guy been labouring round for God knows how long in the lead, doing all the work, and then, on the bell, these three skinny Kenyans go past him as if he's standing still."

"And that's me," Gregan said, "the white guy, that's what you're saying?"

"It was today."

"And you, you and your mate here, you're the Kenyans?"

"In a manner of speaking."

What the holy fuck, Gregan thought, is all this about? Some kind of young offenders' inclusion project? Community outreach? Some eager-eyed bloke in shorts, wanting him to sign up for midnight hikes through the Lake District, drama workshops in some scabby church hall. He'd fended off a few of them in his time.

"Bit racist, isn't it?" Gregan played along. "What you were saying, Kenyans and that."

Michaelson appeared to give it some thought. "Racial stereotyping," he said, "I know what you mean. Like saying the Irish are all thieves and tinkers. Plain wrong, wouldn't you say?"

Gregan didn't say anything at all.

"Not above a bit of thieving yourself, though. By all accounts."

"Nobbin' off stuff from Woolies," Gregan said, "that the kind of thing you mean? Coin or two from my gran's purse?"

"That could be the start of it."

"Kids," Gregan said. "Part of growing up. Rite of passage, isn't that what it's called?"

Enough, Resnick thought, watching, of the preamble, although he could see what Michaelson was doing, encouraging Gregan to feel relaxed at the same time as keeping him just that little bit disorientated, not knowing from which direction the next question was coming.

It wasn't coming from Michaelson at all.

"February 14th," Pike said, his voice more jagged, harsh. "Valentine's Day. Where were you that afternoon?"

Gregan didn't even have to think.

"Skeggy," he said.

"What?"

"You know, Skegness."

"I know what it is," Pike said. "What I want to know, what were you doing there, middle of February?"

The last time Pike had been to Skegness, three years back, it had been the middle of summer, and still the wind had cut off the North Sea like a knife to your throat.

"Girlfriend, she'd asked me," Gregan said. "Soft cow. Instead of the usual."

"The usual?"

"Chocolates, whatever."

"Name?"

"What?"

"This girl's name."

"Karen. Karen Evans."

"Those'll be her knickers we found in your place, then, will they? 'Less they're yours, of course. Bit of cross-dressing."

"Fuck off!"

"This Karen Evans," Michaelson said, "does she have an address?"

No, Gregan thought, she lives up a tree in Clumber Park. He gave them the address, mobile number, too. "Text her, why don't you? Where she works. See if she don't say she was with me that afternoon."

"And not in St. Ann's," Pike said.

"What?"

"Corner of St. Ann's Hill Road and Cranmer Street, four-thirty, thereabouts."

"I told you where I was."

"There was a shooting," Pike said. "Police officer injured, a young girl killed."

"I told you-"

"Because somebody told us you were there."

"Fuck off."

"You said that before."

"I'm saying it a-fucking-gain. I was about a hundred fucking miles from there, in Skeggy with Karen, eating fish and chips and shagging her on the dunes while she got sand in her crack. Fucking ask her!"

"We will, we will. But meantime we have a witness-"

"What witness?"

"That doesn't matter."

"'Course it fuckin' matters!"

"You know someone named Billy Alston?"

"That scrote! You're relying on him? I'd have to be standing up to me knees in fucking water before I'd believe Alston telling me it was fucking raining."

"Have you any idea why Alston might have mentioned your name?" Michaelson asked.

"Because he's a stupid twat?"

"Besides that."

Gregan could think of at least one, possibly two, neither of which he wanted to divulge. "No," he said. "I can't."

"I really think," the duty solicitor said, speaking for the first time, "that to take, as it seems, the uncorroborated assertion of one individual, as against an alibi which my client has provided and which he assures us-"

"Well," Michaelson interrupted, "there is always the other thing."

"The other thing?"

"The matter of a handgun and some 750 rounds of ammunition, found in a holdall in Mr. Gregan's bedroom."

Gregan's face at that moment, Resnick thought, watching, was a picture of despairing realisation.

"I should like," Gregan said, his voice just a little shaky, "a few words with my solicitor in private."

There was to be no denial, no passing off, no sleight of hand. No, that's not my bag, never seen it in my life, someone must have planted it there; no, I was just minding it for a friend, no idea what was inside. Gregan, as his solicitor had confirmed, was looking at a mandatory sentence of five years. Five years, minimum.

He knew enough about prison to realise it was the last place he wanted to go.

"If my client can furnish you with information that is helpful in your investigation into this unfortunate recent shooting, how willing would you be to disregard the contents of the bag?"

"Disregard?"

"Yes."

"As in pretend it was never there?"

The solicitor turned his head aside and coughed, once and then again; he hoped he wasn't coming down with a cold. "What my client is looking for is a marked degree of leniency."