John Harvey - Cold in Hand

"To Zoukas, you mean?"

Butcher reached into the worn leather briefcase he'd carried in with him and extracted a grey card file; from this he drew four ten-by-eight photographs and laid them on the table.

"Ivan Lazic. One was taken almost eight years back now, the others are more recent. This one here." He pointed to a slightly blurry shot of two men on a pavement in conversation, probably taken from a passing car. "Lazic and Valdemar Zoukas, Wood Green, North London, a year ago."

"Where'd'you get this?" Karen asked.

"SOCA. Their Intelligence Directorate. Most obliging. At least, an ex-colleague was. Apparently Customs got interested in Lazic when he first came into the country in '99, claiming asylum, another refugee of the war in Kosovo. Whatever the truth of that is, God knows. There was some supposition, according to the officer I spoke to, that he'd been a member of the Serbian security services, though he claimed to have been with the Kosovo Liberation Army. Who knows? Since being here he seems to have taken up with the Albanians, so maybe he was telling the truth."

"Wait up." Guest raised a hand. "This Liberation Army, they're Albanian?"

"Correct. Fighting for independence from the Serbs."

"And they were what? The good guys in all this?"

Butcher made a face. "Depends. Both sides accused the other of atrocities, ethnic cleansing, the whole bit. If the KLA was any better or worse than the Serbs, who's to say?"

"And Lazic could have been either."

"Or both. Exactly."

"But his connection to these Zoukas characters, that's confirmed?"

"According to SOCA, he's been doing their dirty work for some time. Not that they're above a bit of nasty themselves, but Lazic, it seems, enjoys it more than most."

"Then why not arrest him?" Guest asked.

Butcher shrugged. "Evidence, probably. Lack of."

"What we know," Guest said, "he threatened both Pearce and Florescu before they died. The link to your shooting"-he looked at Karen-"seems to me it's less clear."

"Agreed."

"What we don't yet have, though," Guest continued, "any more than, presumably, SOCA do, is enough evidence to be certain if we arrested him we could make it stick."

"Ah," said Butcher loudly, with the air of a magician about to pull a rabbit from the hat, "perhaps we do."

Karen smiled ruefully. What was it with men, this need to stage a grandstand finish, wait until the last minute of injury time to slot the ball into the net?

"Skin," Butcher said, "under the fingernails. Andreea Florescu put up a fight."

"We know it's Lazic's?"

"Not yet we don't. But if we bring him in now and there's a DNA match, that's Ivan Lazic looking at life inside."

"Perhaps one of us should go to Wood Green," Karen suggested, "wherever it is he hangs out. 'Excuse me, Mr. Lazic, but could you oblige me with a sample?'"

"You ask him," Butcher said, "he probably would."

All three dissolved into laughter, Karen as much as the others.

On the way back down to the car park, Butcher steered her a little to one side. "When you've finished up in Nottingham, maybe you and me could get together? Drink, something to eat? What d'you think?"

Karen shot him a look that said, "In your dreams," which, as far as Chris Butcher was concerned, was probably true.

By the time Resnick got back to Nottingham, it was dark. Not late, but dark. The last commuters had been travelling with him on the London train, using their mobiles to let their spouses know they would be back within the next half hour. All journey he'd been tugging at it in his mind, pulling and knuckling it into shape. Daines-Zoukas-Andreea-Lynn. Each time he pushed, some piece would slip out of place and he would worry at it again. In the end it was still imperfect-conjecture, not proof-but the basic shape now held.

A lone busker was still plying his trade hopefully on Lister Gate, a song Resnick barely recognised-Bob Dylan? they often were-sung harshly over the rough chords of a guitar. A couple in a doorway, hip to hip. On the edge of the square, a woman was waiting, pacing slowly up and down in front of the left lion; as Resnick approached, she glanced up at him expectantly then looked away disappointedly. He turned left to walk through the centre of the square, and a group of men, laughing loudly, crossed ahead of him between Yates's and the Bell, shirt-tails to the wind.

There was only one light showing, faint beyond the front door, in the building where SOCA had their offices. Resnick was on the point of walking away when a woman came out and closed the door behind her, standing on the top step long enough to reach into her bag and light a cigarette. In the flare of the lighter, he saw a roundish face with narrowed eyes. Thirty? Thirty-five?

"Damn," Resnick said, moving briskly forward. "Don't tell me I've missed him."

Startled, the woman backed away.

"Detective Inspector Resnick." He took out his wallet and held it towards her without ever really letting it fall open. "London bloody train. Signal failure outside Loughborough. Sat there the best part of forty minutes." He smiled. "Shouldn't have been late otherwise." He nodded towards the first-floor window. "Stuart. Stuart Daines. We had a meeting. I tried phoning, somehow couldn't get through. You haven't had trouble with the line? Nothing like that?"

"No," the woman said. "No, not as far as I know. I'm only temping, though. Secretarial, like." Her accent was local.

"Shame," Resnick said. "I tried his mobile, too. Switched off, apparently."

"There's nobody there now," she said. "I was the last. Just finishing off this report. Last-minute." She smiled a little nervously and drew on her cigarette.

"It was important, too. Something we needed to discuss before the morning."

"Daines, you said? He'll be here first thing, always is."

"You don't know where he's staying, I suppose? This mobile number-maybe it's the wrong one."

"No, no idea. I'm sorry." A quick smile. "My bus. Got to go."

Level with him, she stopped. "I did hear one of them say they were going for a drink. That place over Maid Marian Way. China China, I think that's what it's called. Down on Chapel Bar." Her laugh was almost a giggle. "Dead posh, that's what I've been told."

Resnick waited them out. Daines and three others, sitting over towards a small corner stage that was empty save for a black glitter drum kit and a small electronic keyboard. No signs of a band. The interior was busy and dark, with minimal lighting recessed into the ceiling and, near where Resnick was standing, a cluster of small green lights hanging down amidst a nest of wires. Daines and one of the others were drinking cocktails of some kind, the other men bottled beer-Sol, it might have been, Resnick thought, though he couldn't be sure. The music coming through the sound system was rhythmic and just loud enough not to get lost in the rise and fall of conversation. Cuban, he wondered? Brazilian? Most of the men were smartly turned out-smart-casual, was that what it was called? — anything less would have been turned back at the door; the women sleek and sophisticated until they opened their mouths.

One of the quartet Resnick was watching left quite soon after he arrived, and another shortly after, leaving Daines and one other, short with reddish hair, in close conversation.

Twenty minutes or so later, their glasses empty, Daines began to make his way towards the bar. Midway there, he stopped suddenly, his head swinging round towards the far, deep corner, left of the door, where Resnick was standing and Resnick held his breath, fearful that he'd been spotted, but then Daines excused himself past someone and continued on his way.

The music rose in volume and the conversation in the room grew louder, as if in compensation. Back at his table, Daines leaned closer towards his colleague and said something that made them both laugh out loud. A few minutes later, they headed for the exit.