John Harvey - Living Proof

" All of you? "

Yeah. "

"Who else?" Resnick asked.

One of the youths, his head partly shaven, a trio of silver rings close in one ear, got awkwardly to his feet. "Look, you gonna tell us what's going on? What the fuck this is all about?"

"Easy," Mann said.

"We ask questions, you answer them. So, now who else is there, living in the house?"

The youth looked round at his mates before responding. "There's Telly, right, up on the first floor at the front…"

"He's not here now," put in one of the others.

"Off home to see his old man."

"Who else?" Resnick said.

Two of them exchanged quick glances; the man with the 222 shaven head stared at a stain in the carpet, one amongst many.

"You won't let on?" he finally said.

"To who?" Norman Mann asked.

"And about what?"

"The landlord. See, the bloke as was up there moved out and he left it to us to let out the room." A few more shifty looks wove back and forth.

"On his behalf, like."

"And you forgot?"

"No, well, we got someone in, all right…"

Norman Mann laughed.

"Just a bit slow in letting the landlord in on it?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I know how it is, lads," Mann said.

"Busy life like yours.

Going down the video shop, cadging fags, jerking off, signing on.

Understandable, really, you've never quite found the time. " One of the youths sniggered; the others did not.

"This unofficial tenant," Resnick said.

"Got a name?"

"Marlene."

"Kinoulton?"

"Yeah, that's right. Yes."

There were footsteps outside and then Sharon walked into the room.

"Back door was open. Didn't reckon anyone was about to do a runner."

"Here," said the shaven youth.

"How many more of you are there?"

"Hundreds," Norman Mann grinned.

"Thousands. We're taking over the fucking earth!"

The room Marlene Kinoulton had rented was on the first floor at the back. No lights showed under the door and when Resnick knocked there was no response. A hasp had been fitted across the door and a padlock secured.

"Have that off in two ticks," Norman Mann said, flicking it up with his forefinger.

"And have anything we find ruled inadmissible by the court," Resnick said.

"Let's wait for the morning, get a warrant."

"Suit yourself." Norman Mann looked quite disappointed. He was more of a knock-'emdownand-reckontheconsequences-afterwards man himself.

"I'll babysit the place the rest of the night," Sharon offered, once they were back downstairs.

"If she's around, she might come back."

"Good," Resnick said.

"Thanks. I'll send Divine round to relieve you first thing. Meantime, I'll chase up a warrant. See what she's got in there, worth keeping a lock on."

In the front room, Norman Mann took a swallow at the can of lager he'd popped open and set it back down with a grimace.

"What you^ re scrounging off the DSS, ought to be able to afford better than that."

Reaching round, he switched the TV set back on.

"Thanks, lads. Thanks for inviting us into your home."

Cathy Jordan woke early, with the creamy taste of another late-night supper still rich in her mouth. She lay without moving, aware of Frank's absence, accepting it without surprise. They had tried, in the time they had been together, handling her enforced absences, these trips to the conventions and booksellers of the world, in a number of ways. At root, however, there were two alternatives: he went with her or he stayed home. Cathy liked to claim she left the choice to him.

If Frank waved her off at the airport with a hug and a kiss and a see-you-in-six-weeks, within days he would be calling her erratically around the clock, unable to settle; and she would return to smiles and flowers and rum ours of drunken nights and drunken days and always there would be messages from women Cathy had never previously heard of, backing up on the answering machine.

Or he travelled with her, bemoaning the cappuccinos and gymnasia of the free world; frequently bored, listless, quick to take offence and give it. And there were mornings like this, Cathy waking to one side of the bed, the other un slept in and unsullied, and later, around lunchtime, Frank would reappear, without explanation, his expression daring her to ask. Which at first she had, and, of course, he had lied; or she had made assumptions, right or wrong, and he had responded with counter accusation and attack. It was after one of these, she had finally said,

"Frank, I don't give a flying fuck what you do or who you do it to, but if I ever contract as much as the tiniest vaginal wart as a result of your fooling around, I will never -and I mean, never speak to you again."

Sniping aside, not a great many words had been exchanged on the subject since.

Cathy sat up and surprised herself by not wincing when her feet made contact with the hotel carpet. It had been past midnight when Curtis Wooife had insisted on buying several bottles of champagne and then doctoring everyone's glass with four-star brandy. For the umpteenth time he proposed a toast to David Tyrell and thanked him for, as he put it, restoring his life's work to the light of a new day. It didn't seem as if Curds was going to be a recluse any longer. Amongst the other rum ours which abounded was one that he had been asked to film Elmore Leonard's non-crime novel Touch, with Johnny Depp as Juvenal, the beautiful healer, bleeding from five stigmata on prime time television and Winona Ryder as the record promoter who falls in love with him.

Cathy, who to date had fielded approaches, official and unofficial, from Kim Basinger, Sharon Stone, Amanda Donohoe, Melanie Griffith, Phoebe Cates, Jamie Lee Curtis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Bridget Fonda and Jennifer Jason Leigh to play Annie Q. Jones, had leaned across and warned Curtis not to hold his breath. In most cases, it was far better to bank the option fee and pray no one ever got around to making the movie.

She was about to get into the shower when the phone rang and she lost her footing to the sudden thought that it was someone calling with the news that something had happened to Frank. Something bad. The skin along her arms pricked cold as she lifted the receiver. Frank, out on the town in a town where men where getting stabbed and worse.

It wasn't Frank, or anything about him; it was Dorothy Birdwell, asking if Cathy would consider joining her for breakfast 226 Cathy drew breath.

"Sure, Dorothy. Why not?" And she returned to the shower, relieved, surprised, wondering if there was a certain British etiquette to these occasions she was supposed to observe.

Skelton and his wife were making brittle conversation over the toast and marmalade. Frank Carlucci had not been the only person to stay out all night unannounced. At a little after seven, Kate had phoned from Newark and said she was sorry, but she'd got stuck, missed the last train, missed the bus, there'd been some confusion and she'd missed her lift; it had been all right, though, she'd been able to stay with friends. She hoped they hadn't been too worried. Why, Skelton had asked, his temper conspicuously under wraps, had she not called to tell them this earlier, before the worrying had begun?

Kate's explanation had been too complicated and devious to believe or follow.

"What on earth was she doing in Newark in the first place?" Alice had demanded, tightening the belt to her dressing gown.

Skelton had shaken his head; aside from a vague idea that they sold antiques, he had never been certain what people did in Newark anyway.

"What time did she say she would be back?" Alice asked.

"She didn't."

He had been pouring another cup of rather tired tea, when the doorbell sounded.

"There she is now," said Alice.

"And she's forgotten her key."