John Harvey - Living Proof

A hundred and fifty pounds, to spend the night. I said to Shane after, when we was in our room, would he, like, if he was off on business and on his own, without us being married, of course, would he ever spend that amount of money. And you said you might, d'you remember, but only if she looked like me. I thought that was really sweet. "

She giggled and Shane, embarrassed, fidgeted in his seat.

"Could you describe her?" Resnick asked.

"The woman."

They looked at one another before Alison answered. "She was, well, she wasn't young."

"She was never old," Shane said.

"Thirty-five, should you say, Shane?"

Shane shrugged.

"Something like that."

"And she was dressed, you know, not tarty. Smart, I suppose you'd say. She had this black, button-through dress. Satiny, sort of.

Sleeveless. A blouse underneath. "

"Colour?"

"Blue. It was, wasn't it, Shane? Quite a dark shade of blue."

"I don't know. I don't think I ever noticed."

"I'm sure it was. Midnight blue, I think that's what you'd call it.

Midnight blue. "

"How about her hair?" Resnick asked.

"What do you remember about that?"

"Well, it was dark. Definitely dark. And she wore it up like this…"

Alison demonstrated as best she could with her own hair, even though it was too short to give the proper effect.

'. pinned, at the back. "

"She had one of those things," Shane said.

What things? "

"I don't know, those things you put in your hair."

"A ribbon? She didn't have a ribbon."

"No, not that. One of those plastic thingununies…"

"A comb?" suggested Alison.

"She wasn't just standing there with a comb in her hair, don't be daft."

"That's what they're called, though. Combs."

"Don't you remember?" Shane said.

Alison shook her head.

"It was on the right-hand side," Shane said.

"Well, that was over towards you. Where you were standing."

"That's right."

"What colour was it?" Resnick asked, hanging on to his patience.

"This comb."

"White. Off-white." And, as though plucking the name from the air, smile on his face as if his answer had just won a prize.

"Ivory."

Alison smiled for him.

"I'd like you to look at some photographs," Resnick said.

"Down at Central Station. The Intelligence Bureau. I'll get someone to drive you down."

"Oh, great," Alison exclaimed.

"We'd like that, wouldn't we, Shane?"

The officer set out the photograph of Marlene Kinoulton along with eleven others of similar colouring and general age and appearance.

Neither Alison nor Shane picked her out immediately, but when they did, there was little or no uncertainty.

"It was the hair that threw me, wasn't it you, Shane?"

Alison said.

"She didn't have it down when we saw her. Like I told the other policeman…"

"Inspector Resnick," Shane said.

"Inspector Resnick, yes. Like I told him, her hair was up then. Made her look quite a bit different. Bit older, of course, but smarter.

I'd wear it like that all the time, if I were her. "

Heather Jardine and Lynn Kellogg were standing out at the rear of the station building, the ground around them dark and slick from the quick summer shower. Heather Jardine was having her second cigarette in succession, all the more necessary having given up smoking from New Year's Eve until a week ago last Friday. Now, it was as if she couldn't get the nicotine back into her bloodstream fast enough.

"So how's it been?" she asked and they both knew what she was referring to, Lynn standing there with a polystyrene cup of lukewarm coffee in her hand, not wanting to talk about the kidnapping and its aftermath, not at all, but understanding the other woman's need to ask, the concern.

"Not so bad," Lynn said.

"You know…" Letting it bang.

"I don't suppose," Heather said, 'it's the kind of thing you ever really forget. "

Lynn swallowed a mouthful more coffee; though the sun had come back out, the recent rain had left a nip in the air and she caught herself wishing she had worn a cardigan, some kind of a sweater.

"He's not come up for trial yet, either, has he?"

Lynn shook her head.

Heather drew smoke in heavily and held it in her mouth before exhaling.

"These letters, they're pretty nasty, I know. Threatening, it's true. But even if you could prove in court he actually did send them, there's never any real sense he was intending to carry any of those threats out' Lynn let her continue.

"I suppose if you took some of it literally, there might be a charge of threat to kill, but well… I don't think the GPS would be over the moon about that, do you? Without that, unless the woman wants to press charges herself, take out a civil action, where are you?"

Lynn smiled wearily.

"Public Order Act, section five."

"Ah, you'd not bother. Most your boss is likely to press for, bung him up before the magistrate and have him bound over."

Lynn had a mouthful more coffee and tipped the remainder out on to the wet ground.

"And what about all the rest?"

"Resisting arrest?"

"Assault."

Heather stubbed out the butt of her cigarette on the sole of her shoe.

"First offence, no record, previous good behaviour. I'd be surprised if it got anywhere near court, and if it did, any barrister worth half his fee would argue a hole through the prosecution a mile wide."

"Maybe."

"If I'm wrong," Heather laughed,

"I'll buy you a bottle of twenty-year Macallan."

Not really a drinker, Lynn took this to be an impressive offer.

"Shall we go back in? At least, we can make him wriggle and squirm a bit longer." She shuddered, not from the cold.

"It's not just his public-school accent or that pathetic little moustache, don't know what it is, but there's something about him, makes my skin crawl."

Involuntarily, Heather had begun scratching her thigh. "Mine, too."

Skelton was standing behind his desk, about as close to being at ease as he ever seemed to get.

"Pulled in all the extra bodes I can, Charlie. Go through the city tonight like a fine-tooth comb. If she's still here, we'll find her."

"If not?" Resnick asked.

"Then we'll release her picture in the morning."

'. Police today took the unusual step of releasing a photograph of a woman they wish to interview in connection with a number of attacks on men, including the murder of Peter Farleigh, whose body was found with fatal stab wounds. "

Susan Tyrell reached over and pushed one of several preset buttons, switching the radio to Classic-FM.

"Did you see the picture, David?"

"Mm? Sorry, which picture?" He was standing by the microwave, concentrating on the controls; one second too many and the croissants would be reduced to slime. Close by stood the matt black espresso machine he had talked Susan into buying him the Christmas before last and which he had never learned to use.

"In the paper," Susan said.

"The woman they mink's been stabbing all those men."

"On the game, isn't she?"

"So it says."

The microwave pinged and David slid the warm croissants on to plates.

It was warm enough again for them to sit out in the garden, make use of the deck chairs Susan had picked up on sale at Homebase. He picked up the paper from where Susan had left it and carried it back to his chair. Centre columns, page three.

"Marlene Kinoul- ton, doesn't have much of a ring to it, does it? Not exactly stunning, either. Can't quite imagine who'd want to shell out for her."

"Really?" Susan said, pouring the coffee.

"I should have thought she was just your type."

David laughed.

"What on earth's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know, one of those raddled creatures you fantasise about, short on morals and long on hearts of gold. I can remember you dragging me off to see Cutter's Way..: " Jeff Bridges. "