Cold in Hand (32 page)

"Of course."

"Here." She slid the whisky glass towards him. "Stay and finish this for me."

"Sure."

"The funeral," Jackie Ferris said, "you'll let me know?"

"Of course."

"I'll get there if I possibly can."

When she had gone, he eschewed his pint for her whisky and water, drinking it slowly as he sat thinking.

Daines was just leaving his office as Resnick arrived. A darker grey suit today, the colour of slate; white shirt with the top two buttons undone, no tie.

"A minute," Resnick said.

Daines looked at him as if not immediately knowing who he was.

"Resnick, isn't it? I'm sorry, but your face—"

"A couple of minutes," Resnick said. "That's all it will take."

Daines slid back his cuff and looked at his watch. "It's really not the best time. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Now's fine," Resnick said.

Daines started to say something, but swallowed back the words and opened his office door instead.

"Come on in," he said. "Take a seat."

Resnick stood.

Daines was standing also, close alongside his desk. It was almost dusk out, the evenings still closing in.

"What happened," Daines said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Resnick nodded an acknowledgement. "This operation you're working on, illegal-arms sales, is that right?"

Daines's turn to nod.

"These arms, they're Lithuanian?"

Daines nodded. "I don't understand why you're interested in all this."

"The weapon that killed her—killed Lynn—it was manufactured in Lithuania."

"A Baikal IZH?"

"Exactly."

Daines sat back on one corner of his desk, automatically tugging at his suit trousers as he did so. "We managed to intercept a number of small batches over the last year or so, but not all. Some will have got through." He shrugged. "Without the resources we really need, it's inevitable, I'm afraid."

"And this operation now, that's the same weapons, the same source?"

Daines didn't answer immediately. "The initial source is the same, yes. According to the Office of Organised Crime and Corruption in Lithuania, it's a factory in Kedainiai, north of Vilnius, the capital. That accounts for the majority of them, at least. They're transported through a variety of routes to this country, via Italy and up through France, or Frankfurt and then Amsterdam. Those seem to be the most popular."

"And it's the Albanians, if I've got this right, who are making the deal here and selling them."

"Pillow talk," Daines said with a sly smile.

"Lynn was at liberty to say what she wanted. You didn't exactly get her to sign the Official Secrets Act."

"I assumed she'd use her discretion."

"She did."

Sceptical, Daines angled his head a little to one side.

"One thing I don't understand," Resnick said. "Why go to the trouble of bringing the guns here? Surely they could sell them in Europe without running the extra risk of getting them into the UK?"

"Simple," Daines said. "Supply and demand. As the demand for guns here grows, so does the price."

Resnick snorted dismissively. "The free-market economy at work."

"Precisely. And the Albanians, for a relatively small outlay, can expand their business into a new and highly profitable area, using networks that've already been established."

"By Viktor Zoukas and his ilk."

"Viktor and his brother Valdemar, exactly."

"Which is why you were so keen, when the opportunity came along, to keep Viktor Zoukas out of jail."

Daines smiled. "Let's say we didn't want Valdemar to be distracted by the prospect of his brother being sent down for murder. Nor did we want to wait while a whole new network was set up, which we'd then have to track down. Especially not with the deal, as we believe, being so close to going ahead."

"Convenient, then, that Crown's witness disappeared when he did."

"Wasn't it?" Daines said flatly, choosing to ignore the implication in Resnick's tone.

"Pearce. He hasn't surfaced anywhere, as far as you know?"

"I'm afraid I've no idea." Daines looked again at his watch. "You know, I really do have to go."

Resnick walked down past the Playhouse and turned left on to Derby Road, then up past the Roman Catholic cathedral towards Canning Circus, his old stamping ground. The Warsaw Diner was near the top, on the left-hand side.

After exchanging pleasantries, he settled into a corner table with a bottle of Polish beer and browsed through the
Evening Post
while he waited for his meal. When it arrived—a plateful of pierogi with sauerkraut and two large pickled dill cucumbers—he set aside the newspaper to eat, and as he ate, he tried to organise his thoughts.

Lynn had been murdered after returning from London, where she'd been asking about the disappearance of one of the
two principal witnesses in the case against Viktor Zoukas, who was currently out on bail following the adjournment of the trial.

Coincidence?

The gun she was shot with was the same make as Viktor and his brother, Valdemar, were allegedly trafficking.

Another coincidence?

And this...

One of the SOCA personnel heading the operation against this arms trade, Stuart Daines, was known to have applied pressure on the CPS to have Viktor Zoukas's trial adjourned and Zoukas himself released on bail. He was also—if hearsay evidence were to be believed—on friendly terms with Viktor's brother, Valdemar, and had visited the brothel Valdemar ran under the guise of it being a massage parlour and sauna.

Resnick ordered a second bottle of beer.

He could see the Zoukas entourage threatening both witnesses and putting pressure on them to the point where they were too frightened to give evidence and went into hiding. He could even imagine Daines being involved in that process in one way or other, either out of some friendship with or indebtedness to members of the Zoukas family, or because, as he had explained to Resnick earlier, it suited his plans to bring the gun traffickers to justice.

He thought he might just have room for a couple of jam-filled pancakes. After which a brisk walk home in the chilling air and—hopefully—a good night's sleep would encourage things to fall into place more clearly in his mind.

It was raining when he left the diner, raining hard.

The market was no more than five or so minutes' walk from the Central Police Station, and Resnick guessed that at that time, not long past opening, there would be fewer customers at the Italian coffee stall than usual. There might initially be just two: Karen Shields and himself.

Karen was wearing a black jacket with deep, pouched pockets, black jeans, and a kingfisher blue satin shirt. As she strode between stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and on past the various flower stalls and the stall selling everything—vacuum-cleaner bags and electrical odds and ends to
Jim Reeves's Greatest Hits
—the sight of her had been enough to turn most heads, female and male, and to draw forth a couple of old-fashioned wolf whistles, to which she gave a prompt single-digit response.

Resnick had watched her approach, far from blind, despite everything, to the striking nature of her appearance.

"Cappuccino?" he said, once she'd settled onto the stool beside him.

"Espresso."

"Single?"

"Double."

She waited until it was in front of her before turning towards him and asking, "Exactly which part of 'unfit for duty' don't you understand?"

"Daines?"

"What do you think?"

"I never said it was anything official."

"Nor that it wasn't."

"Just asking a few questions. No law against that, last I heard."

"What I heard, you did more than ask questions."

"Not really."

"Practically accused him of conspiring to suborn witnesses."

"'Suborn'? That was his word?"

"Intimidate, is that better? Threaten?"

"The word doesn't matter."

"You really think that's what he did? You think he'd go that far?"

"Don't you?"

Karen didn't answer.

"Daines," Resnick said, "how many times have you met him?"

"Just the once."

"And what did you think?"

Karen gave it due consideration. "He was sure of himself—not cocky, but sure of himself nonetheless. Polite. Maybe a little offhand." She set down her cup. "He certainly wasn't going to give anything away."

"Did you trust him?"

She sipped her espresso. "I don't know." She paused, thinking back. "He didn't give me any reason not to."

"But your gut feeling?"

"I'm not sure I had one."

Resnick wasn't sure if he quite believed that. "Lynn didn't trust him. He made her feel uneasy."

"Maybe that's because he was coming on to her."

Resnick's eyes narrowed sharply.

"The flowers," Karen said. "He sent her flowers."

"A get-well thing. After she was injured."

"Come on, Charlie. It's okay to call you 'Charlie'?"

Resnick nodded.

"You think that's all it was? You think if you were the one who'd ended up in hospital, he'd have done the same? Sent flowers?"

"You suggesting there was something between them?" Resnick's voice was tight, just this side of angry.

"No, no. Not for a moment. But if there were flowers, there might well have been other things. Not tangible, necessarily. I don't mean boxes of chocolates, things like that. But looks, suggestions, the odd remark. The occasional invitation. Drink after work, something of that sort. Enough to get under her skin."

Resnick's face was like stone.

"She didn't mention anything?" Karen said.

"Nothing like that, no."

"Then she would have dealt with it herself." A wry smile came to her face. "It's something you learn, something you get used to, men hitting on you. Learning how to cope. Usually somewhere around year six of primary school."

Resnick had finished his coffee and he ordered another. A man with a long, horse-shaped face, a regular, took a seat at the far side of the stall and, settled, nodded at Resnick, who nodded back.

"I loved her," Resnick said quietly. "More than I would have thought possible. And to me ... to me, she was beautiful. I could sit, just sit, and look at her and that's all ... all I needed. But she wasn't ... what she wasn't..." He turned his head aside and Karen thought he was going to cry, but he sniffed and straightened up and carried on. "She wasn't the kind men set their caps at. Hit on, as you put it."

"You did."

"Not really." He managed a smile. "More the other way round. Though God knows why."

Karen laughed. "Women don't get hung up on the superficial, that's why. The way a guy looks, what he wears. We see beyond that, you know, right down into the soul."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Absolutely." She laughed again. When she took up with the Taylor Coombeses of this world, just about the last thing she was looking for was soul. Well, maybe soul of the Stax and Motown kind. "Besides," she said, "the woman men won't hit on in the right situation hasn't yet been invented."

Resnick shook his head. "If Daines were interested in Lynn, and I'm not saying he was, I think it would have been for some other reason."

"Such as?"

"I'm not sure. But from what little I know about him, and that's mostly from Lynn, admittedly, the impression I've got is of someone who uses people whenever he can. Cultivates them, if you like. For whatever he can get out of them. Favours. Information. Anything as long as he keeps the upper hand. When he found out—and God knows how, his connections must be pretty wide—that she'd been getting a friend to ask a few questions about him, his whole attitude towards her changed."

"Changed how?"

"He went out of his way to warn her to keep out of his business. Threatened her, I suppose you could say."

"Threatened? How?"

"Appeared one night, outside the pub. 'Don't make me your enemy,' that's what he said."

"And she took it seriously?"

"It made her angry. More than that, I'm not sure."

Karen swung round on her stool. "It's a long way from making a threat to ... to being involved in taking someone's life."

"Agreed."

"But that's what you're suggesting."

"I think there could be a connection. I don't know. Daines. The whole Zoukas business. Andreea Florescu."

Karen tossed back her head. "We're looking at it, Charlie. Believe me. But not so long ago, you were positive Howard Brent was responsible for Lynn's death. Absolutely adamant."

"Yes, I know."

"And now, suddenly—"

"It's not sudden."

"Now, suddenly, you've changed your tune."

Resnick sighed and swivelled towards her on his stool. "It looks like that, I know, but—"

"What it looks like, you're so desperate to find Lynn's killer that you're lurching around all over the place, first one suspect, then another. And all this about Daines being somehow involved, too much of it is conjecture. Supposition. Even his threatening Lynn, it's just hearsay."

"She didn't make it up."

"Charlie, come on, that's not the point. The point is proof, evidence, something that might stand up in court."

Karen's eyes were bright and alert, her voice urgent without being loud. Probably the last thing she needed was another large espresso, but she ordered one anyway.

"We've talked to Howard Brent again," Karen said, once the coffee had arrived. "And we've spoken with one or two of his associates. Not that any of that's got us anywhere. I've had a few feelers out back in Jamaica, but so far they've come back empty. And there's still nothing coming back off the street. Anil's been talking to the people at the hotel where Andreea Florescu was working, but aside from some vague mention of her heading down to Cornwall, there's nothing. Same with the staff at the place where Bucur's studying."

"Nothing else?"

Karen shrugged. "We're still chasing down the Sierras, but so far, apart from inadvertently stepping on someone with a nice packet of heroin in his wheelbase, there's nothing. Nothing useful."