Easy Meat (11 page)

“Another week, eh, Charlie?” Millington had said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Least we don’t have Nicky Snape to fret about,” Divine said, getting to his feet.

Resnick shot him a look that would keep his head down for the rest of the day.

“The Hodgson youth,” Resnick said to Lynn as she walked by, “safely back at Ambergate?”

Lynn nodded. “Till the next time.”

“Good work there.”

“Thanks.”

“The man they picked up with him …”

“Brian Noble.”

“Vice decide to charge him or what?”

Lynn shook her head. “More trouble than it was worth in the end. Gave him a warning and kicked him free.” She smiled. “What’s the betting he was in church yesterday with his wife and kids, giving thanks.”

Across the room, Kevin Naylor turned his head from the telephone. “The hospital, sir, Doris Netherfield …” The skin tightened apprehensively around Resnick’s eyes. “No change, apparently. Still holding her own.”

“Good,” Resnick said, releasing his breath. “Thank God for that as well.”

Skelton was waiting in his office and listened with barely concealed impatience while Resnick made his report. There were more pressing things on his mind.

“Don’t know how you managed it yesterday morning, Charlie, out where that kid was found, but you got a hair stuck up the director’s arse of sizeable proportions. I had the ACC on the phone to me last evening, Assistant Director of Social Services had been onto him, asking whatever investigation we carry out, you wouldn’t be the officer in charge.”

Resnick grunted in response.

“According to Jardine you questioned staff without his authority.”

“I talked to one, the man who let me in. What was I supposed to do, maintain strict silence?”

“And then, apparently, you all but accused Jardine of culpability in Snape’s death.”

“That’s nonsense. I accused nobody.”

“All right, then, implied.”

Resnick looked past Skelton’s head towards the window; with what seemed unnatural slowness, a plane from East Midlands Airport was making a diagonal pass across a blue-gray sky. “I’d be tempted to wonder, all this defensiveness, if he hasn’t got something to hide.”

“The suicide? You think there’s something not kosher?”

Resnick shrugged. “Not necessarily. But if that is what happened, I’d like to know the reasons why.”

“The way he attacked that old man, kid or not, he might’ve been facing some heavy time. Maybe it was the thought of being shut away.”

Resnick shook his head. “I think it would’ve taken more than that.”

“Bullying, then, some of the other youths, is that what you think?”

“I don’t know. Could be a lot of things.”

“Or nothing at all.”

Resnick shifted heavily in his chair. “Dead fifteen-year-old, that’s what there is.”

Hands clenched behind his head, Skelton leaned his chair back onto its rear legs. “There will be a police inquiry, of course. Routine. The ACC mentioned Bill Aston. What do you think?”

“I thought he’d been put out to pasture long since.”

“Not exactly. They found him an office the size of a shoe box up at headquarters and gave him bits of paper to push around the desk.”

“You make it sound like occupational therapy.”

Skelton unclasped his hands and set his chair level. “Kinder than kicking him free, a few years short of his pension.”

“And you think he’s right for this?”

“Like I say, it’s a suggestion.”

Resnick remembered Aston, a tall figure with iron-gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses, ramrod straight. As a uniformed inspector, he would run his morning parades with a fine-tooth comb. Buttons smeared with Brasso, creased jackets, dirty shoes—all enough to earn a reprimand at least. Cleanliness and Godliness and the chief constable sitting up there at the Lord’s right hand. Resnick had worked with him after Aston had moved across to CID and found him thorough, painstaking, devoid of imagination. Policing changed and Aston had not. Turning forty, advancement had passed him by. Chief inspector’s posts came and went and he had devoted more and more time to his work as a lay preacher and governor of the local primary school; he had been shuffled aside.

“He’ll do a careful job,” Skelton said. “By the numbers, you know that.”

“He’ll be polite.”

“You’ll have a word with him, make sure he’s primed? You know the family pretty well.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him what I can.”

“Good.” Skelton was on his feet. “Jardine’s objections aside, you’d not really have fancied this yourself.”

“Probably not.”

“Oh, and Charlie …” This when Resnick was almost at the door. “… had a call from your mate, Reg Cossall. Setting up an operation in Radford, undercover. Fraud, theft, dealing. Drugs Squad have got their oar in, too. Wants to know if we can spare a body? Three nights or four. Somehow he’s scared up some overtime.”

Uncertain, Resnick shook his head. “We’re shorthanded as it is, you know that.”

“Charlie, it’s only a couple of nights. Divine’s kind of thing, this, isn’t it?”

Resnick shrugged. “If it’s going to be anyone, better Naylor. Then at least the money might go to good use. Divine’ll drink it away and scarce notice the difference.”

“As you say, Charlie, up to you.” Before Resnick had left the office, Skelton was reaching for the phone.

It was ten to one and Resnick was about to take a bite out of his turkey breast and cranberry sandwich when the officer on duty called up from the front desk. There were two visitors to see him, Norma Snape and her son, Shane. Naturally a big woman, Norma seemed to have suddenly shrunk on her frame. The black dress she wore hung from her shoulders like poorly fitted curtains; her face, previously full, had become gaunt. Darkness around her eyes suggested many tears and little sleep.

Alongside her, Shane was taller than Resnick remembered him, fitter; aside from frequent trips to the betting shop and pool hall, clearly he had been working out. He wore blue loose-fitting jeans and a gray sweatshirt and his fair hair had been zealously trimmed. Standing alongside his mother at the entrance to the CID room, Shane’s eyes fixed on Resnick and dismissed him as so much piss and wind.

“Let’s go into my office.” Resnick held open the door and ushered Norma towards a chair. Shane preferred to stand.

“Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?”

No reply.

Resnick walked around his desk and sat down, Shane’s eyes following him all the way. “Norma, how’ve you been?”

“How d’you think?” Shane snapped back before his mother could speak.

“And your hand, Norma? How’s your hand?”

“Never mind her bloody hand. That’s not why we’re here.” He stared at Resnick. “My brother was in your charge and he died, that’s why we’re here.”

Resnick eased back his chair and sighed. “Not directly in my charge. The local authority …”

“Bollocks to the local authority! You arrested him.” Shane’s finger jabbing towards Resnick’s face. “You. You’re the one as dragged him out of the house, banged him up in here, got him up in court. And what happened to him, what happened to him, right, that’s down to you too. Your fucking fault!”

His fist was now little more than inches from Resnick’s face. His voice more than filled the room. Millington knocked on the door and entered without waiting to be asked. “Everything okay, boss?”

“Thanks, Graham. Everything’s fine.” Resnick didn’t look at his sergeant, didn’t take his eyes off Shane Snape.

“Right, then. If you’re sure.” Millington slowly withdrew, leaving the door ajar.

Shane and Resnick were staring at each other and neither would look away.

“Shane …” Norma reached up with her bandaged hand and touched her eldest’s arm. “Please.”

With a flex of his muscles, Shane lowered his fist and stepped away. Resnick watched him for ten, fifteen seconds more and then, apparently, dismissed him from his thoughts. “What is there I can tell you, Norma?”

“My Nicky,” Norma said, leaning closer, “never mind what happened to him in the past, no matter how bad he got hurt, he’d always bounce back. Always. Even that time those bastards threw that petrol bomb at him. Nicky, he was laughing and joking about it while he was still in hospital. That’s why I don’t think he would ever have done a thing like that, Mr. Resnick, took his own life. It’s not the way he … not the way he was. Not unless there was good reason, something we don’t know about. Something that happened to him while he was there.”

“Norma, there’ll be an inquiry …” Behind his mother, Shane laughed a short, bitter laugh. “Two. One carried out by social services, and another which we’ll conduct ourselves.”

“Bloody whitewash,” said Shane. “That’s what that’ll sodding be.”

“You, Mr. Resnick,” Norma said, “you’ll be looking into it yourself?”

Resnick shook his head. “A senior officer will lead the team. Very experienced. You couldn’t ask for anyone to be more thorough …”

“But you knew Nicky, really knew him. This bloke, whoever he is …”

“He’s a good man, Norma. I can assure you of that. And I shall be giving him all the help I can.”

A smile showed fleetingly on her face and slipped away. “Nicky’s body, the funeral …”

“We’ll release it as soon as we can. I’ll do my best to find out today and let you know. Okay?”

For a moment, Norma let her head drop forward, eyes closed. Shane started to stay something but Resnick’s quick look told him he had already said enough. Resnick got to his feet and started around the desk to help Norma from her chair, but Shane placed himself in his way.

“Come on, Mum, let’s get out of here.”

Millington stood alongside Resnick, watching them go. “Aggravated burglary, wasn’t it? What he was up for last?”

Resnick nodded. “I believe so.”

“Next time, praise God, someone’ll send him down for a nice long time.”

Resnick turned aside, went back into his office, and closed the door. Untouched, his sandwich waited for him on his desk, but after all the empty words he had offered Norma Snape, his appetite had deserted him. He took hold of the sandwich and dumped it in the bin.

Fifteen

Resnick had a call from Bill Aston late that afternoon. For some minutes they exchanged pleasantries, gossiped about the Job. “Changed a lot since our day, Charlie. Used to be, all you did was put on that uniform, walk into a pub, anywhere in the city, people looked at you with respect. Now they’ll as like spit in your face as ask time of day.” Resnick waited for him to get to the point, smarting a little under the implication: as far as he was concerned, this was his day still.

“Thought we might have a jar, Charlie? Once I’ve got my feet under the table. One or two little things, this Snape youth, background, you could fill me in on.”

“I had the mother here today,” Resnick said. “Doesn’t see Nicky as the suicidal type; not without there was a powerful reason.”

“Only to be expected, given the circumstances. Upset, bound to be. Distraught. Probably shouldn’t give her too much credence in the circumstances.”

“She’s the lad’s mother, Bill, none the less. As a family, I think they were pretty close.”

“If there’s anything nasty in the woodshed, Charlie, I’ll poke it out.”

“I told her you’d do a good job.”

“Thanks, Charlie. Thanks for that. And our little drink some evening?”

“Ring me, Bill. Any time.”

“I will, Charlie. Thanks again.”

As Resnick rode the escalator upstairs in the Victoria Centre he was thinking about what Aston had said. They were near enough of an age for him to recognize what the older man had described, the shifts and slippages of the last twenty years. And what lay ahead? Promotion into the new Serious Crimes Unit, always supposing that memoranda became reality, or a little room of his own at HQ, a rubber stamp with which he could mark out the end of his days?

He stepped off the escalator and walked towards the market, nodding in the direction of the dozen or so elderly Poles who stood in their gray raincoats and shiny shoes, reminiscing about the good old days fifty years or more before. Resnick’s father, had he lived, would have been among them, stooped by now and shrunken, an exile from the country of his childhood, the country of his youth.

Resnick entered the market past the corner music stall where the Tremeloes’ Greatest Hits were permanently on offer at a special marked-down price. Ahead of him, shoppers hesitated before slabs of local cheddar and blue stilton, mushrooms and courgettes, potatoes—reds, whites, and the first Jersey Royals—Granny Smiths from France and New Zealand, strawberries from Israel and Spain, thick-stalked cabbages in lustrous green grown no more than a mile or two up the road. Deeper into the market, incongruously, bottles of perfume could be bought, machine-made Nottingham lace, electrical gizmos and Hoover bags by the dozen, kids’ shirts and jeans for which Council clothing vouchers were gratefully accepted.

Resnick was heading for the Polish deli, where the cheesecake stared back at him like a government health warning, threatening to push him that extra ten pounds over on the scales. The approximate ideal weight for a male with your bodyframe is … Resnick didn’t want to know. He made his purchases—several of the salamis sliced thin, a loaf of crusty rye bread with caraway, sour cream—and carried them over to the Italian coffee stall. Someone had left a
Post
on the counter and he skimmed through it while waiting for his espresso. Sea fishing gear had been stolen from a shed, thirty-two prize-winning budgies from a garage; a masked burglar had sat comfortably on a seventy-nine-year-old woman’s bed and chatted with her for thirty minutes before making off with her jewelry. He had asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee and when she declined, said he would make her tea instead. It was almost enough to make crime seem cozy, the stuff of Ealing comedies and
Dixon of Dock
Green.
Except that Resnick knew what had happened when Nicky Snape had broken into the Netherfield home, and it hadn’t been a friendly bedside chat, a pot of tea. Doris Netherfield might be stable and responding to treatment, but her condition was still serious; her husband was nursing his injuries at home, and Nicky Snape had been found hanging from a bathroom shower. That was in the paper, too, front page. ALLEGED AGGRESSOR FOUND DEAD. Resnick’s own name was in paragraph three.