Darkness, Darkness (13 page)

The café was slowly getting busier. Another couple of students. A man in his late twenties, early thirties, sitting up to the window, roll-neck jumper, jeans, sipping espresso, scrolling through the news on his iPad. Near the back, a woman Resnick thought he recognised from his infrequent visits to the cinema opposite: fair hair, near shoulder length, face dimpling as whatever she was listening to through her headphones made her smile.

For Resnick, it had been across the street at Broadway that Operation Enigma had started. An evening when Milt Jackson, vibraphone player from the Modern Jazz Quartet, had been making a rare one-off appearance: Resnick, sitting forward, eager with anticipation, the first notes of ‘Bag’s Groove’ starting to roll out from the accompanying piano, when his pager had summoned him suddenly away. The body of a woman had just been discovered by the lock gates of the Nottingham Canal, close to where it joined the River Trent. A young woman, Eastern European it transpired, but otherwise difficult to identify; a silver ring on the little finger of her left hand, a gash deep into the bone above the right eye. One of three other bodies to have been discovered in canals in the preceding years. Operation Enigma. Like many things seen through water, the truth was often refracted, never quite what it seemed.

Trevor Fleetwood’s book had topped the True Crime listings for a month or two before falling away; extracts had been published, Resnick remembered, in the
Post
. Another level of distortion, though, at root, the facts had been basically sound.

Pushing back his chair, Resnick lifted the last piece of cake with finger and thumb, shared a smile of half-recognition with the woman from Broadway, and stepped out on to the street. With any luck, the room he’d been allocated at Central Police Station would still be available, not too many questions as to the information he’d be searching for on the computer.

As chance would have it, Andy Duncan was just leaving the station as Resnick arrived.

‘Student?’ Resnick asked. ‘Any change?’

Duncan shook his head. ‘Goes on much longer, I can see ’em pulling the plug.’

Poor bastard, Resnick thought. Knight errant in a thankless world.

Ever since thinking of Milt Jackson and ‘Bag’s Groove’, he hadn’t been able to get the tune out of his mind. The original version, the first he himself knew, the first he’d heard. Miles Davis stating the theme on trumpet before playing several choruses with just bass and drums behind, Davis having told Thelonious Monk, the pianist on the date, to lay out whenever he was soloing. A request Monk didn’t exactly take kindly. It was Christmas Eve and he’d wanted to be at home with his family, not working on somebody else’s session for scale. And when it finally came to his turn to solo, Monk, even more idiosyncratic than usual, had jabbed out little phrases that seemed purposely to sing against the natural rhythm, the natural logic of Davis’ own playing, his fingers often striking two keys at once, the space between.

Why does he play, Resnick’s wife, Elaine, used to ask in the long long ago, as if he’s got no arms?

Answer: because he can.

Why play the right notes when the wrong ones will do?

Resnick typed the name Donna Crowder into the computer and set the search engine chasing. The press photographs gave him the same jolt as before; she could have been Jenny Hardwick’s younger sister, or Jenny herself just a few years younger. The same prettiness shot through with a strong hint of determination. Blue eyes staring directly back at the camera. A young woman, sure of herself and her place in the world.

Too sure, perhaps.

All too familiar a story.

Donna had been to a nightclub in Sheffield with friends, become separated, missed the last bus, and set out to hitch home to Rotherham along the Sheffield Road.

Less than ten miles.

At some point on her journey, the assumption was, she had accepted a lift. By the early hours of the following morning, having checked the local hospitals and contacted Donna’s friends, her parents had alerted the police.

Donna’s body was found three days later amongst the scrub and undergrowth alongside the River Don, where it runs more or less parallel to the road. Other than the fact that her clothing was torn, there were no apparent signs of sexual assault.

From reading the various news reports, it seemed that Donna’s boyfriend at the time had come under suspicion, but, as far as Resnick could tell, neither he nor anyone else had ever been charged with Donna Crowder’s murder.

It still lay open, unsolved.

The senior officer who’d been in charge of the investigation, Resnick saw, was Detective Chief Inspector Maurice Rawsthorne of the South Yorkshire Police. A photograph showed him in full uniform at a press conference the morning after the body was found. Seated to one side, Donna Crowder’s mother; on the other, Detective Sergeant Paul Bryant, Rawsthorne’s number two.

Rawsthorne, Resnick happened to know, had died some seven or eight years previously; but Bryant was not only still alive, but had only recently retired. A sometime colleague – Bryant had started out in the Nottinghamshire force and the two men had had occasion to meet up professionally over the years – Resnick thought it was time to look him up, take him, maybe, a little something to help him celebrate kicking off the shackles of the job.

MUCH OF THE
past few days, confrontation either side of the picket line at a minimum, Resnick had spent kicking his heels, relatively little to report. A stalemate of sorts seemed to have been reached.

‘You still alive up there, Charlie?’ his operational commander had enquired. ‘Still breathing?’

‘Just about, sir.’

‘Thought you might have gone AWOL. Gone native.’

It was like a storm waiting to break.

When it came the call was brief and to the point. At first he hadn’t recognised the voice. Peter Waites. Since their first meeting in the early days of the strike they’d met again several times, developed a grudging respect. ‘Might want to get yourself up here, Charlie. Bit of a to-do. Nasty. One of yours, as it turned out, on her way to hospital.’

Her?

Diane Conway?

‘Which hospital?’

‘Bassetlaw. Local.’

‘How serious?’

‘She’ll live, if that’s what you mean. Precautionary, I’d say, much as anything.’

Resnick was already reaching for his coat. ‘I’ll be there.’

He found Peter Waites standing close by three burned-out cars, one of which had been turned on to its side as a makeshift barricade. Circling the wagons, Resnick thought. The road was covered in splintered glass that crackled beneath his feet when he walked. Several of the nearby houses had had their windows broken; SCAB in jagged paint down one of the doors. Pieces of half-brick, smooth-edged stones.

Disappointment writ large on the union man’s face.

‘I know I said it’d not happen here, not on my watch. Cars set alight. All this. Pains me to say you were right, even though it’s just the once.’

‘What happened?’ Resnick asked.

‘Kicked off in the pub earlier, couple of the lads got into an argument. Usual argy-bargy. Result was, time comes for second shift, more on picket line than’s been the case for good while. Well, you know. Police get wind up, whistle up reinforcements. Still shoutin’ an’ not a lot else until someone throws a stone. Catches one of coppers on side of head. And then they’re away. Blue bloody murder. And I’ll tell you what, Charlie, my life, him as threw that first stone, he was a copper, an’all. I’ve seen him, seen him front of police line afore now, an’ there he was, civvy clothes, in amongst our lads, geein’ ’em up, eggin’ ’em on, hurlin’ that bloody stone, could’ve taken eye out o’ one of his own.’

‘Police officer, you’re sure?’

‘Sure as I’m standing here.’

Resnick looked at the cars, the street. ‘That was all up by the pit. What about all this here?’

‘Some of the pickets got back down, found a bunch of lads from the village, bloody little tearaways, had torched their cars. Of course, they go looking for restitution. Next thing you know, coppers are down here, two Transits of ’em. Wading in left, right and centre. Which was when that lass of yours got hers. Back of the head. Flying bottle, some said, but I’m not so sure.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning I’m not so sure.’

‘The officer you reckon you saw, threw the first stone, you’d recognise him again?’

‘Maybe, aye.’

Resnick shook his head: a bloody mess.

‘Keith Haines around?’ he asked.

‘He was. Little enough he could do, once it had all kicked off.’

‘I’ll get one of my lads to help him take statements. You’ll talk to him, of course, tell him what you told me?’

‘I will . . . not as it’ll do a scrap of good.’

Diane Conway was looking better than Resnick might have feared, sitting up in bed with a pale face and bandaged head, riffling through an old copy of
Cosmopolitan
.

‘Just had a word with the doctor,’ Resnick said. ‘No fracture. Miracle of miracles.’

‘Get these bandages off, I should be home in a few days, so they reckon. Back at work in no time.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’

‘I can’t just sit around.’

‘Official letter saying you’re fit to resume. Without that, I don’t want to see hide nor hair, understood? Besides, as far as carrying on’s concerned, after this, I’m afraid your cover’s well and truly blown.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He perched on the end of the bed. ‘Your version of things, we’ll need to have it in writing.’

A little apprehensively, she slid two pages of closely written A4 from between the pages of
Cosmo
and handed them over.

Resnick read them through once quickly, then a second time more carefully, pausing several times with questions, wanting clarification.

‘You’re certain of this?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A uniformed officer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And . . .’ He glanced back down at her report. ‘At the time of the incident you were running away from the fighting?’

‘Trying to.’

‘And you were struck with the officer’s baton how many times?’

‘Three, sir. As far as I know. One as I stumbled and then twice more after I’d fallen. After that I must have lost consciousness.’

‘This officer, you’d be able to identify him?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. It was all so fast and until I fell my back was towards him. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’

Five days later, Resnick was standing before the operational commander.

‘DC Conway, Charlie. Making a good recovery, by all accounts. No lasting injury?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. Capital. All part of life’s rich pageant, eh? Going in undercover, always going to be a bit tricky. Own dangers. Nothing you won’t have warned them of, I dare say. Nothing, in this case, to tell the officer concerned she was one of ours. Part of stone-throwing mob as far as he was concerned. Avoiding arrest.’

‘He hit her three times, sir, with his baton, three times at least.’

‘Heat of the battle, Charlie. You’ve been there. Heat of the chase.’

‘A young woman, sir, unprotected, running away.’

‘Equal rights, eh, Charlie. You’re for all that, I’d have supposed. No special treatment asked for or given.’

‘Use of force, above and beyond—’

‘Charlie, Charlie. These things happen. Collateral damage. Write it off. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘Good. And there’s no sense she’s about to do something stupid like make an official complaint of assault?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Excellent. Keep it all in-house.’

Resnick took a breath. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘All for now.’

He was almost at the door when the commander called him back.

‘This other business in your report, this allegation about an officer deliberately setting things in motion, acting as an agent provocateur – let’s kick that out of touch here and now. Storybook stuff, Charlie. Someone with an overactive imagination. There might be a few wild cards from outside, but none of them are going to go that far, I’m sure. Why would they? Scargill’s mob, out there flinging missiles enough of their own.’

MARY CONNOR’S CALL
reached Catherine Njoroge just as she was leaving the ring road and heading out towards the motorway. Instead of meeting in Chesterfield, as arranged, could they meet in Nottingham instead? She had come down the evening before to visit an old school friend and ended up staying over. She hoped she’d caught Catherine in time, wasn’t putting her to any trouble.

Catherine assured her it would be fine. Where was she staying?

West Bridgford? Yes, she knew West Bridgford. The park off Central Avenue, by the new library? Of course. They could always nip in somewhere for coffee if it rained.

Mary was sitting on a bench by one of the municipal flower beds when Catherine arrived. Clouds of varying grey overhead, the sun yet to break through; the temperature, as usual lately, five degrees below the notional average. She was wearing a waterproof jacket, zipped up almost to the collar; blue jeans, faded and well worn; shoes that could have doubled for walking boots if need be. Her face was pale, dark lines around the eyes, shadow.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said, once Catherine had joined her. ‘I’m still a little hungover this morning. My friend and I, too much wine last night. Reminiscing.’

‘You’ve known her a long time?’

‘Since infant school, just about.’

‘She’s from Bledwell Vale, then?’

‘Not really. Her mum was a teacher, at the school. Brought Nicky – that’s her name – in with her every day. Retford, that’s where they lived.’

‘But you were close, even though her mum was the teacher, you and Nicky?’

‘More so as we got older.’ Mary smiled, remembering. ‘I say older. Eight or nine, that’s what I mean. Just kids, really. Nicky would come round mine after school to play. Her mum would pick her up later, after she’d finished all her marking, preparing lessons, whatever it was she had to do.’

‘Eight or nine,’ Catherine said. ‘That’s around the time your mum . . . around the time she disappeared.’