John Harvey: Cold in Hand

"It'll pass."

"You sure I can't get you anything?"

"Some peppermint tea, that would be nice."

"Have we got any?"

"Somewhere."

He was almost at the door when she called him back. "I'm glad. About the enquiry. You'll do a good job."

"I'll try."

"I always said you were the best DI I ever worked under."

"That's just because you were trying to get into my pants."

"You wish!" She laughed again and grimaced at another sudden bout of pain. "You bastard, stop making me laugh!"

Resnick smiled. "I'll get the tea."

While he was in the kitchen, he made coffee for himself and cut off a slice of bread to go with the nub end of cheddar that had been hiding in the back of the fridge and was just this side of edible. The trouble with big breakfasts, he thought, they made you hungry for the rest of the day.

"I suppose you'll be wanting me to make a statement," Lynn said.

"Not me. Bill Berry'll get it sorted first thing." He smiled. "You're a key witness, after all."

"He'll want me to go into the station?"

"I shouldn't think so. No sense you rushing back before you have to."

Lynn nodded and sipped her tea. "As long as I'm okay by the trial."

"Your Albanian."

"Not exactly my Albanian."

"You know what I mean."

Nine months before, Lynn had been largely instrumental in the arrest of an Albanian national, accused of murdering an eighteen-year-old Croatian girl at the massage parlour where she worked.

Resnick took a knife to the cheese. "The enquiry, I was thinking of taking someone from Robbery across with me."

"A bagman."

"Sort of."

"Someone to watch your back."

"Something like that."

"Mark Shepherd? He's steady."

Resnick shook his head. "Catherine Njoroge."

"Really?"

"You don't think it's a good idea?"

"I don't know. You think she's ready?"

"Yes, I think so."

Lynn went back to her tea.

Catherine Njoroge was twenty-seven and had been on the Force since leaving university; it was only a matter of time before she made the move up from Detective Constable to Detective Sergeant. Her family had left Kenya in 1988, during the disturbances following the reelection of Daniel arap Moi to the presidency. Her father was a lawyer, her mother a doctor, and they had hoped she would follow in one set of footsteps or the other. Now they did their best to hide their disappointment and understand the choice their daughter had made.

"She's very lovely, I'll say that for her."

"Is she? Can't say I'd really noticed."

"Charlie, you're a terrible liar." Lynn smiled.

The press conference was more than usually crowded, national interest as well as local, more sleek digital cameras and state-of-the-art recorders than the average car-boot sale on a Sunday morning. The Assistant Chief Constable sat polishing his glasses, papers on the desk in front of him, Bill Berry to one side and a reluctant Charlie Resnick to the other.

When the Press Officer had got wind of Catherine Njoroge's involvement in the enquiry, she'd done her utmost to get her up on the platform.

"A young black girl murdered and we're going on national television with three middle-aged white men. How do you think that looks?"

"It looks," the ACC told her, "as if we're taking it seriously. Not playing to the fucking gallery."

Sometimes, she felt like saying, that's not such a bad idea. But this time she bit her tongue and got ready to deflect the fallout as best she could.

Though they were present, no one from the Brent family would agree to join the officers on the platform, no matter the urging: Her mother was too distraught, her father too angry. Instead, they sat together at the back of the room, indignation mixed with sorrow on their faces.

"Our sympathies," the ACC was saying, reading from his prepared statement, "are with Kelly's family, as they struggle to come to terms with the loss of their daughter. As a Force, we share their abhorrence at this thoughtless crime, and their anger. The anger, indeed, of the whole community. And we would ask all members of that community to assist us in bringing Kelly's killer to justice. Someone out there knows who did this, and we would urge them, for the sake of Kelly's family, to contact the police."

A low rumble of voices from amongst the crowd.

A few more cameras flashing.

The inevitable questions about gun crime from Sky News, Channel 4, ITV.

The ACC slid several pages of bar graphs from the folder in front of him.

"It is important," he said, "to see this tragic event in context and to set it against the wider picture. In the operational year to date, the figures for all recorded crime in the city are down, and although there has been a slight, but nonetheless regrettable increase in recorded crimes against the person, there has also been a significant increase in the number of such crimes detected.

"Much of this is due to our joint initiatives with the city council and an increased emphasis on citizen-focussed policing and enhanced community engagement.

"And I can tell you"-holding up a sheet of paper-"that in February, the last month for which figures are available, there has been a clear and definite fall-"

"Why?" a voice interrupted from the back of the room. "Why you going on about this? Statistics, that's all it is. Well, my daughter's no statistic. She's flesh and blood, my flesh and blood-this family, my family-and now she is out there, laying in a morgue somewhere."

"Mr. Brent," the ACC said, attempting to override him. "This is not the place."

News cameras swivelled and refocussed and captured Howard Brent, still shouting at the top of his lungs, being escorted out of the hall.

Lynn saw it less than an hour later, edited down, on BBC News 24. Read-just a quick cutaway-the acute discomfort on Resnick's face, before the cameras homed in on Brent, standing on the steps outside the building where the press conference had been held. A handsome man of West Indian descent, still comparatively young, soberly dressed in a dark suit and tie, his voice now more under control, though the anger was still evident in his eyes and his stance.

"My daughter was the innocent victim of the violence on our streets. Violence that is threatenin' to tear our community apart, but which the police do nothing about. And why? Because they don't care.

"My daughter Kelly lost her life because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the bullet that took that life was not meant for her. That bullet was meant for a police officer, intent on making an arrest. An officer who, when she was under attack, used my daughter as a shield. A human shield. And if that officer is watching now, I hope she is feelin' guilty for what she has done. Sacrificed my daughter's life for her own."

What Lynn was feeling was sick, a cold sickness that spread through her and kept her rooted in front of the screen.

The Incident Room was in the Central Police Station, with views out across the new Trinity Square development towards the Victoria Centre and the clock tower that was the last remaining sign of the old Nottingham Victoria railway station. Not that any of the twenty or so officers assembled were, at that moment, concerned with the view.

Conversations faltered as Bill Berry entered with Jerry Latham, the office manager, and then picked up again as Berry and Latham stopped to share a few final words. Resnick, who had been no more than a pace or two behind them, stood to one side, surveying the room. A number of the officers he knew in passing, a few he knew well-Michaelson, Khan, Fisher, Mc-Daniels, Pike. Most were as new to him as he was to them.

Anil Khan, who had worked with Resnick as a young DC, and was now a sergeant in Homicide and on the verge of promotion, came up and shook his hand. "Like old times, sir."