Cold in Hand (4 page)

"Not exactly."

She looked at him carefully: no mistaking the smile that was crinkling his eyes.

"He wants you," Lynn said.

"So it seems."

"For his number two."

Resnick nodded.

"Handling the outside team?"

"Yes."

"Prentiss'll go mad."

"Over this, apparently, Prentiss has his balls in a vise."

"I always thought it was just the way he walked." Lynn laughed and then, as the pain lanced through her, wished she hadn't.

"Are you okay?" Resnick was concerned.

"It'll pass."

"You sure I can't get you anything?"

"Some peppermint tea, that would be nice."

"Have we got any?"

"Somewhere."

He was almost at the door when she called him back. "I'm glad. About the enquiry. You'll do a good job."

"I'll try."

"I always said you were the best DI I ever worked under."

"That's just because you were trying to get into my pants."

"You wish!" She laughed again and grimaced at another sudden bout of pain. "You bastard, stop making me laugh!"

Resnick smiled. "I'll get the tea."

While he was in the kitchen, he made coffee for himself and cut off a slice of bread to go with the nub end of cheddar that had been hiding in the back of the fridge and was just this side of edible. The trouble with big breakfasts, he thought, they made you hungry for the rest of the day.

"I suppose you'll be wanting me to make a statement," Lynn said.

"Not me. Bill Berry'll get it sorted first thing." He smiled. "You're a key witness, after all."

"He'll want me to go into the station?"

"I shouldn't think so. No sense you rushing back before you have to."

Lynn nodded and sipped her tea. "As long as I'm okay by the trial."

"Your Albanian."

"Not exactly
my
Albanian."

"You know what I mean."

Nine months before, Lynn had been largely instrumental in the arrest of an Albanian national, accused of murdering an eighteen-year-old Croatian girl at the massage parlour where she worked.

Resnick took a knife to the cheese. "The enquiry, I was thinking of taking someone from Robbery across with me."

"A bagman."

"Sort of."

"Someone to watch your back."

"Something like that."

"Mark Shepherd? He's steady."

Resnick shook his head. "Catherine Njoroge."

"Really?"

"You don't think it's a good idea?"

"I don't know. You think she's ready?"

"Yes, I think so."

Lynn went back to her tea.

Catherine Njoroge was twenty-seven and had been on the Force since leaving university; it was only a matter of time before she made the move up from Detective Constable to Detective Sergeant. Her family had left Kenya in 1988, during the disturbances following the reelection of Daniel arap Moi to the presidency. Her father was a lawyer, her mother a doctor, and they had hoped she would follow in one set of footsteps or the other. Now they did their best to hide their disappointment and understand the choice their daughter had made.

"She's very lovely, I'll say that for her."

"Is she? Can't say I'd really noticed."

"Charlie, you're a terrible liar." Lynn smiled.

The press conference was more than usually crowded, national interest as well as local, more sleek digital cameras and state-of-the-art recorders than the average car-boot sale on a Sunday morning. The Assistant Chief Constable sat polishing his glasses, papers on the desk in front of him, Bill Berry to one side and a reluctant Charlie Resnick to the other.

When the Press Officer had got wind of Catherine Njoroge's involvement in the enquiry, she'd done her utmost to get her up on the platform.

"A young black girl murdered and we're going on national television with three middle-aged white men. How do you think that looks?"

"It looks," the ACC told her, "as if we're taking it seriously. Not playing to the fucking gallery."

Sometimes, she felt like saying, that's not such a bad idea.
But this time she bit her tongue and got ready to deflect the fallout as best she could.

Though they were present, no one from the Brent family would agree to join the officers on the platform, no matter the urging: Her mother was too distraught, her father too angry. Instead, they sat together at the back of the room, indignation mixed with sorrow on their faces.

"Our sympathies," the ACC was saying, reading from his prepared statement, "are with Kelly's family, as they struggle to come to terms with the loss of their daughter. As a Force, we share their abhorrence at this thoughtless crime, and their anger. The anger, indeed, of the whole community. And we would ask all members of that community to assist us in bringing Kelly's killer to justice. Someone out there knows who did this, and we would urge them, for the sake of Kelly's family, to contact the police."

A low rumble of voices from amongst the crowd.

A few more cameras flashing.

The inevitable questions about gun crime from Sky News, Channel 4, ITV.

The ACC slid several pages of bar graphs from the folder in front of him.

"It is important," he said, "to see this tragic event in context and to set it against the wider picture. In the operational year to date, the figures for all recorded crime in the city are down, and although there has been a slight, but nonetheless regrettable increase in recorded crimes against the person, there has also been a significant increase in the number of such crimes detected.

"Much of this is due to our joint initiatives with the city council and an increased emphasis on citizen-focussed policing and enhanced community engagement.

"And I can tell you"—holding up a sheet of paper—"that in February, the last month for which figures are available, there has been a clear and definite fall—"

"Why?" a voice interrupted from the back of the room. "Why you going on about this? Statistics, that's all it is. Well, my daughter's no statistic. She's flesh and blood,
my
flesh and blood—this family, my family—and now she is out there, laying in a morgue somewhere."

"Mr. Brent," the ACC said, attempting to override him. "This is not the place."

News cameras swivelled and refocussed and captured Howard Brent, still shouting at the top of his lungs, being escorted out of the hall.

Lynn saw it less than an hour later, edited down, on
BBC News 24.
Read—just a quick cutaway—the acute discomfort on Resnick's face, before the cameras homed in on Brent, standing on the steps outside the building where the press conference had been held. A handsome man of West Indian descent, still comparatively young, soberly dressed in a dark suit and tie, his voice now more under control, though the anger was still evident in his eyes and his stance.

"My daughter was the innocent victim of the violence on our streets. Violence that is threatenin' to tear our community apart, but which the police do nothing about. And why? Because they don't care.

"My daughter Kelly lost her life because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the bullet that took that life was not meant for her. That bullet was meant for a police officer, intent on making an arrest. An officer who, when she was under attack, used my daughter as a shield. A human shield. And if that officer is watching now, I hope she is feelin' guilty for what she has done. Sacrificed my daughter's life for her own."

What Lynn was feeling was sick, a cold sickness that spread through her and kept her rooted in front of the screen.

The Incident Room was in the Central Police Station, with views out across the new Trinity Square development towards the Victoria Centre and the clock tower that was the last remaining sign of the old Nottingham Victoria railway station. Not that any of the twenty or so officers assembled were, at that moment, concerned with the view.

Conversations faltered as Bill Berry entered with Jerry Latham, the office manager, and then picked up again as Berry and Latham stopped to share a few final words. Resnick, who had been no more than a pace or two behind them, stood to one side, surveying the room. A number of the officers he knew in passing, a few he knew well—Michaelson, Khan, Fisher, Mc-Daniels, Pike. Most were as new to him as he was to them.

Anil Khan, who had worked with Resnick as a young DC, and was now a sergeant in Homicide and on the verge of promotion, came up and shook his hand. "Like old times, sir."

"More or less," Resnick said.

"Lynn—she's all right, I understand?"

"Thanks, yes. Give her a few days, she'll be fine."

"You'll pass on my best wishes?"

Resnick assured him that he would.

"The girl's father," Khan said. "That was way out of line."

Howard Brent's angry accusation had been repeated endlessly the previous evening, channel to channel, rolling news. In response, the Press Officer had issued a statement, citing Lynn Kellogg's exemplary record and making reference to a commendation she had received from the Chief Constable for the skill, determination, and professionalism she had shown in a recent murder enquiry. "Detective Inspector Kellogg," the Chief Constable had said, "is a credit to the Force and the agencies she represents. She fully deserves our gratitude and our praise."

The statement continued: "We understand that Mr. Brent's remarks were made when he was under considerable personal stress, and the Force continues to have every sympathy for him and his family at this difficult time."

"Horseshit," the ACC said, when it was passed by him for approval. "But horseshit we can live with."

Of the nationals, only
The Guardian
gave the story any particular prominence on its front page; the
Sun
offered an exclusive interview with Kelly's grieving mother on page five, and the
Mirror
countered with a centre-spread of colour photographs showing Kelly as Mary in a school production of
Godspell.

"All right." Bill Berry brought the room to attention. "Before we get down to the main business, a word or two about Mr. Brent. Unless you've had your head in the sand the past twenty-four hours, you'll be aware of how he's been shooting his mouth off."

There was enough angry muttering to suggest this was the case.

"Well," Berry continued, "we've been taking a closer look at the righteous Mr. Brent, and he's not the paragon he seems.

"For one thing, rather than being the concerned family man he's setting himself up to be, it seems he walked out on the family home when Kelly was just seven, her brothers eleven and nine.
While he was AWOL, he was being chased by the Child Support Agency for nonpayment over a period of almost two years."

Positive sounds from the assembled troops: payback time. They were enjoying this.

"Brent moved back about five years ago, since which time he's got himself involved in a couple of local businesses, part shares in a Caribbean restaurant in Hyson Green and some gimcrack record shop in Hockley. Both aboveboard as far as we can tell, but might be worth taking a look."

Berry paused and scanned the room. "More importantly to us, he's got something of a record. A twelve-month suspended sentence for possession of a class C drug back in '89, and a three-year stretch for aggravated assault."

"Explains why he's not been home much," one of the officers at the back remarked.

Laughter all round.

"So," Berry continued, "if Mr. Brent doesn't keep his head down and his mouth closed, I'll have the Press Office pull the rug from under him so fast, he won't know if he's on his head or his arse."

More laughter.

The DS looked towards Resnick. "Charlie, you want to bring us up to speed?"

Resnick positioned himself in front of a diagram showing the immediate area where the incident had taken place.

"Fortunately for us," Resnick said, "there were three CCTV cameras in operation at the time of the murder. One, here, at the side of Gordon House; another farther back along Cranmer Street, the direction from which DI Kellogg would have approached; and lastly, here, on St. Ann's Hill Road, just short of the intersection.

"What seems clear is that one group of youths, a number wearing Radford colours, made their way into St. Ann's along Forest Road East and Mapperley Road and entered Cranmer
Street at its western end, here. They then met with a group of similar size from St. Ann's—we're talking around a dozen to fifteen—some of whom came along Cranmer Street from the other end, some cutting up alongside these houses here, where there's a lot of rebuilding going on, on St. Ann's Hill Road."

"Prearranged, then, sir?" Anil Khan asked.

"Looks that way."

"Turf war," Frank Michaelson said.

"Could be."

"Radford and St. Ann's," Bill Berry remarked. "Never mind the Montagues and the bloody Capulets. Not as dead set against one another as St. Ann's and the Meadows, maybe, but close enough."

"According to DI Kellogg," Resnick said, "the shooter was wearing a black-and-white bandana, which, as we know, are Radford gang colours."

"Could be a Notts fan," someone suggested jokingly.

"Anything to do with County, he'd have bloody missed," someone else called out.

More laughter, especially from the Forest fans in the room, Resnick, despite his allegiances, smiling along with the rest.

"Tracking down the gunman," he said, "that's obviously our priority. DI Kellogg will be working with a sketch artist later today, to see what they can come up with. We've spoken to Joanne Dawson, the girl who was injured before the shooting, and we'll need to talk to her again.

"Beyond that, we want as full a list as possible of all those present at the scene, those names checked through the computer, connections traced. You know the drill. Which means, aside from going frame by frame through the CCTV, talking to any local residents who might have been home, along with students from the university flats."

"Likely in bed asleep," someone said. "Lazy bastards."

"Questions?" Resnick said.

"Anything yet from Forensics on the type of gun?" Steven Pike asked.