John Harvey: Cold in Hand

Karen finished her coffee while she was fixing her makeup.

She was on the point of leaving the apartment when Chris Butcher phoned. A total of fourteen individuals had been arrested in London, seven more, he thought, in Nottingham. She could check that herself. No Viktor Zoukas, no Valdemar. The police had gone to the house where Viktor was thought to be residing, but he wasn't there.

"Somebody tipped them off," Karen said.

"Looks like."

"How about Lazic?"

"No sign."

"Jesus Christ!"

"My thoughts exactly."

"I'll be in touch."

"Do that."

A brush through her hair, and Karen was on her way.

At Central Police Station, rumours were ripe as flies fastening on a dead dog. The number of firearms officers who had discharged their weapons varied from seven to two; shots on target from four to none. That a brief exchange of fire had taken place seemed certain, only the scale was so far open to question. One man who had taken a flesh wound to the back of the thigh was currently under police guard at Queen's Medical Centre; claims that a second man had been hit when he himself had opened fire on the police were so far unsubstantiated; none of the accident and emergency departments in the area had reported anyone else suffering from gunshot wounds. No officer had been hit.

As far as Karen could tell, the SOCA office in the city had failed to open that day, and calls to its London HQ were put on hold. Graeme Dixon's line at the Central Task Force was per manently busy; whoever he was talking to, Karen thought, it wasn't her.

She and Euan Guest shared some minutes of mutual regret that Ivan Lazic had so far avoided capture.

After that, Karen tried to occupy herself with the small mountain of paperwork she'd been studiously avoiding, but it proved no antidote to her sense of annoyance and frustration. She was about to go and prowl the corridors in search of someone to berate when her phone sounded. Resnick at home.

"I'd like you to tell me," he said, "if Lazic was involved, that he's in an Interrogation Room somewhere right now spilling his guts."

"Not quite as much as I would myself," Karen said.

"Got away?"

"We don't even know if he was around."

Resnick was silent for several seconds. "You've talked to London?"

"I'd talk to the devil if I thought it would help."

Certainly did a lot for Robert Johnson, Resnick thought, but he kept it to himself; however keen she might be on Bessie Smith, he didn't think Karen would be up to exchanging small talk about blues singers right now.

"Could do worse," he said.

"So they say."

After Resnick had rung off, Karen had another brief conversation with Chris Butcher, but he had little to add to what he had told her before. She fought with a few forms, checked in with Mike Ramsden, and told him to hell with it, she was going out to get some lunch.

"As long as you're buying, I'll string along."

"Not this time, Mike, okay?"

If he was disappointed, he hid it well.

Karen walked down past the Victoria Centre, along Bridle-smith Gate and turned left towards the site of the new Centre for Contemporary Art on Weekday Cross. Just along High Pavement, there was a large converted church which was now a Pitcher and Piano and, on the opposite side, farther down, a pub called the Cock and Hoop-not too crowded, not too large and with a menu that looked promising. She was two bites into her rib-eye steak, and enjoying it, when Frank Michaelson called on her mobile. She even hesitated a moment before taking the call.

"Sally, boss," Michaelson said. "From the sauna? She's this minute rung. Ivan Lazic, she says she knows where he is."

"Knows?"

"That's what she said."

"Nothing more?"

"She said I have to go in, talk to her in person."

Karen cut off another piece of tender reddish meat. "Where are you now?"

"That's the thing, I'm up at HQ."

"Out at Sherwood?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'm just round the corner. I'll go along."

"Okay."

"And Frank…"

"Yes, boss?"

"Phone Mike, let him know."

Karen popped the piece of steak into her mouth and pushed the plate aside regretfully.

There were stone steps, worn down at the centre, leading up towards the front door, which was still attached by only one hinge and sagged against the frame. A hastily written sign had been fixed inside the sex-shop window, closed until further notice. On the floor above, curtains had been pulled tight across. The sign above the door had been switched off. Karen pressed the bell and waited. Pressed the bell again and identified herself into the small mouthpiece alongside. Glancing up, she thought she saw a small movement at the right-hand window, the fold of a curtain falling back into place. She wasn't sure.

A car went slowly past along the street behind her, looking for somewhere to park.

Karen manoeuvred the door open carefully, closed it behind her, and walked towards the stairs; dust had gathered in the corners of each tread, and the carpet running up the centre was well worn. There was a light ahead.

On the landing, she stopped and called Sally's name.

No response.

Opening another door, she went along a short, narrow corridor and then out into what she imagined was some kind of reception area, a counter to one side, settee and chairs to the other, a few magazines strewn around, posters showing naked girls with unlikely breasts on the walls. At the back of the counter was another door, a small sign reading office between two panes of frosted glass.

"Sally?"

She thought she heard a noise from behind the office door.

"Sally. This is Detective Chief Inspector Karen Shields."

Another sound, muffled and small. Moving quickly around the counter, Karen turned the office-door handle and stepped inside. Sally was sitting pressed back against the side wall, legs folded beneath her, arms tied, a wide piece of tape across her mouth.

Even as Karen registered a movement at her back, the hard, small circle of a pistol barrel pressed cold against the nape of her neck.

"Don't move."

The gun slid upwards until it was resting under the base of her skull.

"Now slowly lift your arms. Slowly! Slowly! Slow."

Sally's eyes, watching, were wide with fear.

"Now step away, into the centre of the room. Stop. That's all. Good. Now turn around."

Ivan Lazic's pale face contrasted sharply with his dark eyes, the dark brown, almost black, of his short-cropped hair and beard. The scar that zigzagged his cheek stood out like a lightning flash.

"Identification. Show me."

Carefully, Karen opened her wallet and held it out towards him.

Lazic smiled thinly. "Detective Chief Inspector, that is good."

His accent sounded Russian. Russian, Serbian, Karen couldn't tell the difference.

"Now sit." Lazic gestured with the gun. "Behind the desk, there. Sit on your hands."

When she was in position, he dragged a second chair across and sat facing her at the other side of the desk.

"What do you want?" Karen asked. The room was small and windowless, and she could already smell her own sweat.

"I want to give myself up."

"There's a police station in the centre of town. All you had to do was walk in."

"And get myself shot."

"That wouldn't happen."

"No?"

"If you went in waving that gun, perhaps."

"And still, if not?"

"Police in England don't shoot unarmed men."

"No? Like they didn't shoot this Brazilian, on the train in London. How many shots? Five times to the head?"

"That was different."

Lazic laughed. "Different, yes." He caught his breath. "You know, when I was growing up, in my country, I read about the British police, how they never carry guns, and I think, how stupid, how brave. But now