John Harvey: Cold in Hand

"Promises," Resnick said, and grinned.

The officer outside Intensive Care hastily dropped his newspaper to the floor, the crossword less than a quarter done.

"Sorry, sir. I… the girl, Kelly, they've taken her down. She's being operated on now. I thought it best to stay here."

"The family?"

"In the cafeteria, waiting. I said I'd contact them if there was any news."

"Kelly, you said the girl's called?"

"Yes, sir." He checked his notebook. "Kelly Brent."

Resnick nodded. The name meant nothing to him. Not until that moment.

"I'll be down in ER," he said. "You hear anything specific, any change, find me, let me know."

Lynn was sleeping, her face, devoid of any makeup, young and pale. A thin dribble of saliva ran down onto the pillow from one corner of her partly open mouth and Resnick wiped it away.

"She's lucky," the doctor said. "No fracture, as far as I can tell. Heavy bruising around the third and fourth ribs, close to the sternum. Breathing's going to be painful for a while, and she'll likely be tired, sleepy, but otherwise she'll be okay."

"How long before she's up on her feet?"

"On her feet? As long as she's sensible, nothing too strenuous, a matter of days. Fully operational, though, if that's what you're asking, I'd say a couple of weeks." He nodded back towards Lynn. "You two, you're an item?"

An item, Resnick thought. He supposed they were, that at least.

"Yes."

"Word to the wise." The doctor winked. "These next few weeks, keep your weight on your elbows, okay?"

Home, she slept.

Resnick, fearful of accidentally knocking into her, dismissed himself to the spare bed, where he lay fitfully, staring at the ceiling, getting up finally at two and wandering from room to room, unable to stop his mind from playing over what might have been.

Lucky, the doctor had said.

Nearly got myself killed.

If Lynn hadn't been in too much of a hurry to get home and still wearing the bulletproof jacket, she would likely have been where Kelly Brent was now, in the operating theatre, fighting for her life.

Resnick poured himself another Scotch and looked again at the Valentine's card Lynn had given him; a simple heart, red against a pale background. Written inside, in her sloping hand: Still here, Charlie, against all the odds. All my love. Then kisses, a small triangle of them, pointing down.

When Lynn had first moved in with him, the best part of three years before-and this after a plethora of overnights and occasional weekends, holidays, periods when they were close and others when they pulled apart, unable to decide-a friend of hers had sent her a CD by the singer Aimee Mann, the title of one particular track, "Mr. Harris," highlighted in green. The story of a younger woman falling in love with an older man, despite her mother's best advice. A father figure, the song goes, must be what she wants.

When they had first slept together, made love, himself and Lynn, it had been soon after her father's funeral, dead from cancer at not so much older than Resnick was now. A blessing, in a way, that he went when he did. Better than it dragging on. The pain. Death. Sooner or later, it came to us all.

I suppose, Resnick thought, we're programmed to think the oldest die first, fathers before daughters, mothers before sons. It's the way it most usually is. Anything else seems wrong. Aberrant. Yet in a split second yesterday, the time it takes to squeeze back on the trigger, propel a bullet from a gun, that could all have changed.

Lucky?

Resnick turned and looked around the room. A magazine Lynn had been reading left on the floor by where she normally sat. Her bag hung over the back of a chair. A painting that she'd bought in a charity shop-a landscape of hills, bare trees, and snow-brought home and hung on the wall alongside the stereo. A photograph of her parents, leaning on a farm gate, looking out. A pair of slippers on the floor. Reading glasses. A glove. Clutter. Stuff. A life they shared.

This house he'd lived alone in for years, some of the rooms unused and thick with dust. Must rattle around in there, Charlie, like a pea in a drum. Find somewhere smaller, why don't you? Nice little flat. Take in a lodger, at least.

No, he'd say, I'm fine. Suits me just as it is.

And it did.

Until the day-the afternoon-he had heard her car, recognised the sound of the engine as it pulled up outside-the interior jam-packed, barely room for her to squeeze behind the wheel. Just a few boxes, Charlie, I'll go back later for the rest.

Now it was different: it was this.

Lucky?

At twenty-one minutes past three that morning, sixteen-year-old Kelly Brent, sixteen years and nine months, was declared dead at the Queen's Medical Centre, two operations unable to successfully repair the lacerated tissue and stem the bleeding, or to restore the flow of blood to the brain.

Lucky for some.

Resnick stood for a while at the bedroom door, listening to Lynn's breathing, before settling back into the spare bed and, against the odds, falling almost immediately to sleep.

The phone rang at twenty to seven, startling him awake: Detective Superintendent Berry from the Homicide Unit.

"Breakfast, Charlie? That Polish place up on Derby Road, still a favourite of yours? Thought we might have a little chat."

Five years Resnick's junior, Bill Berry was a hard-edged Lancastrian who had settled in the Midlands some twenty or so years before, without ever losing an accent that had been honed close to the Pennines, or an abiding interest in the fortunes of Lancashire County Cricket Club and Preston North End.

Much like Resnick himself, Berry had worked his way up through the ranks, the difference being that where Resnick's career had stalled, in part through his somewhat curmudgeonly resistance to change, Berry's had elevated him to the rank of Detective Superintendent.

Not without it being earned.

He was, in the old-fashioned argot of the trade, a good copper.

He had a full head of hair, a chiselled face and, since his last promotion, a taste for tailored suits that sat a touch uneasily on his rawboned, angular body. He was already at the table, leafing through the morning paper, when Resnick arrived.

"Charlie." He half-rose. "Good to see you."

The two men shook hands.

"In the news again for all the wrong sodding reasons."

Resnick grunted agreement. However hard the public-relations staff at Reputation Nottingham tried to put a positive spin on things, the public perception of the city these past years had changed. And not always for the better.

When it had been announced that London had won the bid for the 2012 Olympics, the joke had been that with several of the events being outsourced, the rowing would be at Henley, the equestrian events at Badminton, and the shooting would be in Nottingham. Robin Hood had now, it seemed, abandoned Lincoln Green for upmarket sportswear, developed a taste for crack cocaine, and, instead of his trusty bow, had a 9mm automatic tucked down into the back of his jeans.

Unfair or not, mud stuck.

"How's the lass?" Berry asked.

"Lynn? Well enough. Bruised ribs, nothing worse."

"Young bones," Berry said with a wink. "Soon mend, eh?"

"Something you wanted to see me about," Resnick said.

"You didn't catch local TV this morning, any chance?"

Resnick shook his head.

"Brent family out in force, bigging it up for the cameras. Breakdown in law and order, too many guns on the streets, police failing in their duty, the usual malarkey."

"They're angry."

"'Course they're bloody angry. And looking for someone to blame, I can see that. Schools, teachers, the courts, the council, probation, you and me-everyone except them-bloody-selves. Anything other than accept responsibility. Fathers, especially. No, easier to go off and raise a petition, start a campaign. Come Sunday there'll be a minute's silence out on Slab Square, and everyone'll go off feeling better about themselves, but what flaming good does it do? By evening kids'll be back out on the streets and it starts all over."