John Harvey - Living Proof

Condoms: Durex Featherlite and Elite and Mates liquorice ribbed.

K-Y lubricating jelly, three tubes.

Vaseline.

Body Shop body massage oil.

Cotton buds. Smoker's toothpaste. Safeway frequency wash shampoo. A diaphragm. A pregnancy testing kit, unused. Soap. Boots face cream.

Nail polish, seven different shades. Nail polish remover. One Philips electric 232 razor, lady's model. One set of make-up brushes. Navy eyeliner. Green mascara. Dejoria hand and body lotion. Aloe hair gel. Max Factor Brush-On Satin Blush. Princess Marcella Borghese Pink Marabu Blusher, hot pink. Three kohl pencils. Three bottles of aspirin. One packet of Nurofen. Lipsticks, seven ranging from Coral Reef to Vermilion. Panty liners. One box of tampons, extra absorbency, five remaining.

Perfume. One plastic bottle of Tesco antiseptic mouthwash, peppermint flavour, family size.

Paperback books: Dark Angel by Sally Beauman; The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris; Rosemary Conley's Hip and Thigh Diet, Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin; Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.

Assorted copies of Elle, Vanity Fair, She, Cosmopolitan, Fiesta and Men Only.

One video tape of Sex Kittens Go Hawaii.

Kleenex.

An Aiwa radio-cassette player, with a copy of the Eurythmics' Greatest Hits inside. Assorted cassettes by Phil Collins, Chris Rea, Chris de Burgh and Tina Turner.

One medium-size suitcase, a tan handbag, two imitation leather shoulder bags. Inside one of the bags, a purse containing forty-seven pence in change, several used tissues, a torn half-ticket for the Showcase cinema and a strip of four coloured head-and-shoulder photographs of an unsmiling Marlene Kinoulton.

In a drawer, one Coke can, a hole punched through approximately one inch from the end, around which there were signs of burning. Two boxes of matches. A container of aluminium foil.

In a buckled metal dustbin in the back yard, and partly covered by grey-black ashes, several fragments of dark material synthetic mixed with cotton singed, but not burnt.

In the kitchen on the ground floor, somehow stuffed down behind the piece of narrow, laminated board that separated the washing machine from the swing-top rubbish bin, one dark blue, Ralph Lauren, wool and cotton mix sock with a red polo player logo.

On its way to Liverpool, via Manchester, the twin- carriage train stopped at Langley Mill, Alfreton and Mansfield Parkway, Bolsover, Sheffield, Edale and Stock- port. At that moment, it had stopped within sight of the station, small knots of would-be passengers staring along the track towards it, checking their watches, the overhead clock, the monitor screens on which the slightly nickering green lettering announced no delay and clearly lied.

Lynn almost approached the wrong man, before she spotted Marius, standing close to the window of the buffet, glancing distractedly at the copy of the Telegraph folded in his hand. He was wearing a blue blazer, grey trousers with a deep crease, black brogue shoes that shone. There was a smart, double-strapped, leather suitcase at his side.

"Marius?" Lynn said softly, so softly that he only just heard.

"Hmm? I'm sorry?" He looked at a youngish woman, with brown hair cut, he thought, rather savagely short. A round face that seemed, somehow, to have sunk, like early-punctured fruit.

"Is your name Marius?"

"Marius Gooding. Yes, why? Have we met? You'll have to forgive me, I don't remember."

What she was taking from her pocket was her warrant card.

"I'm a police officer. Detective Constable Kellogg. I…"

He was still smiling his well-mannered, tentative smile when he struck out, the arm that held the newspaper jerking towards her face. For an instant, Lynn was lost in tall pages of newsprint, crisp and self-righteous editorials, as Marius followed up his blow with a push and took to his heels. Twenty yards along the platform, heading for the stairs, he collided with an elderly couple, loaded down with walking boots, binoculars and rucksacks, off for a day in the Peaks. Spinning around, close to losing his footing, Marius started off again in the opposite direction, aiming for the far side of the buffet, the steps that would take him up to the bridge and the open car park, the streets beyond.

Lynn positioned herself well, feet firmly set; she made a grab for his upper arm, ducking beneath his. open hand as he made to fend her off. Her fingers grasped the sleeve of his coat and held fast Marius's impetus rocked Lynn back, but not totally off-balance.

Buttons sprang free as threads snapped.

Most of the people waiting on the platform had ceased worrying about their train. Fingers pointed; cries of "There!"

"There!" and "Look!"

A black porter, white- haired, too small for his blue-black uniform, hovered anxiously, wanting to do something but unsure what.

Lynn ducked again under a nailing arm and tightened her grip on Marius's opposite wrist, forcing it high towards the middle of his back.

Marius gasped with sudden pain.

"Go on, duck," someone called admiringly.

"You show 'im right and proper."

Releasing one of her hands, but not the pressure, Lynn caught hold of Marius's hair, just long enough at the back to give her leverage.

Marius cried out as first one knee, then the other struck the concrete platform.

"Nesh bugger!" a voice came dismissively.

"Be scraightin' next, you see if he ain't."

And, in truth, there were tears in the corners of Marius's eyes.

"Marius Gooding," Lynn said, a little short of breath, "I'm arresting you on suspicion of threatening behaviour…"

"That's ridiculous! When did I ever threaten…?"

"For assaulting a police officer and resisting araest."

The socks matched: a perfect fit. The youth with the earrings and the shaved head had remembered finding the second sock, the one that Naylor had triumphantly discovered in the kitchen, but not exactly where. Somewhere on the stairs, he thought? Out in the yard? Anyway, he had assumed it belonged to one of the other lads (knowing it not to be his, his came from a stall in the market or at Christmas and birthdays from Marks and Spencer, via his parents) and had stuffed it in the washing machine along with an accumulated load. How it had ended up wedged where Naylor had found it, he had no idea, except, socks, well, almost as if they had a mind of their own.

The Coke can still contained minute traces of what Resnick was certain would prove to be crack cocaine.

And the blood on the silk blouse? If blood indeed were what it was?

Forensic tests would be carried out with as much haste as urgent calls from Resnick himself and Jack Skelton could engender. If the blood proved to match that of the late Peter Farleigh, they were as good as there, home free. If not. "So, Charlie," Skelton said, turning away from the window behind his desk, clear blue sky beyond the edge of the building outside.

"Are we there, do you think, or what?"

"Nudging close. Got to be. Business with the sock, could be coincidence, but that's asking a lot. Circumstantial, though, at best."

"This, er, friend of hers Doris Duke. She'd give evidence about seeing the blood on Kinoulton's clothing, as well as her deteriorating mental state?"

Resnick shifted his weight in the chair. Close and yet still far.

"Maybe, though what credence the jury give to her, I don't know.

Something concrete, that's what we need. Positively linking Kinoulton with the attacks, any one of them. That's what we still don't have.

IfFarieigh's hotel room had given up a clearer print that'd be a start, but no. Smudge and fudge. I can lean on McKimber again, but he's got his own reasons for not wanting to get dragged in too far.

Desperate to get back with his wife and kids, poor bugger. "

Skelton coughed, a sudden, sharp attack and Resnick waited while it subsided.