Darkness, Darkness (5 page)

Another of his men was adept at infiltrating groups of striking miners in this pub or that, joining in with the general bad-mouthing of the bastard police and picking up bits and pieces of useful gossip in the process.

Diane Conway, a detective constable recently attached to the team, was a dab hand at merging with various sets of miners’ wives at the pithead, one time standing alongside those loudly cheering their men as they went into work under police escort, at another swearing and spitting and generally fulminating against the scabs who were no better than vermin.

Never entirely happy with what he was responsible for, the means he was using, Resnick kept telling himself the rule of law had to be upheld – and reminding himself of a conversation he’d had with a fellow Notts County supporter on the terraces at Meadow Lane, a miner from one of the local collieries who was continuing to turn up for work.

‘Not a Notts strike this, Charlie, not national, either. Local, that’s what it is. Yorkshire. Scargill calls a national ballot and the majority votes to come out, I’ll come out along with the rest. But until that time, I believe it’s my right to work and your job to make good and sure no one stops me. And I’ll tell you one thing more – if they’d come down from Yorkshire and the like and been prepared to argue, make their case, things’d gone a lot better for ’em than now. But come chargin’ in like they’ve done, mob-handed, yelling scab, scab, scab in us faces, puts your back up, no mistake. And some I know, as might’ve joined strike, set ’emselves dead against it instead. Now let’s hope to Christ Pedro Richards’ legs don’t give out and he keeps tabs on that bloody winger of theirs, ’cause if not we’re bloody buggered.’

It was mid-March, mid-week, towards the end of an otherwise unexceptional day, when Resnick received a telephone call from one of his team, out at Ollerton.

‘Kicking off here, boss, and no mistake. Couple of hundred pickets, if not more.’

‘I thought they’d been stopped,’ Resnick said. ‘Clumber Park.’

‘They’re here now. Walked it across the fields some of them. Come round back roads, whatever. Out to stop night shift clocking on. Determined. ’Bout same number of our lads facing ’em down. All sorts getting thrown. Bricks, bottles, bits of wood. Nastier by the minute. As many of the locals cheering shift on as there are shouting scab, maybe more.’

Resnick could hear the swell of noise, of ragged shout and counter-shout rising up behind.

‘Keep your head down,’ Resnick said, but the connection had gone.

He didn’t hear anything more till several hours later. One of the Yorkshire pickets, a young man named David Jones, had collapsed under a hail of missiles when he and some others had been trying to chase off a group of local youths who were attacking their cars in the main street where they’d left them parked.

First reports suggested he’d been struck in the chest by a brick and, after receiving first aid at the spot, been taken to the casualty department at Mansfield Hospital.

‘Get yourself down there,’ Resnick said to Diane Conway. ‘Get down there now.’

She rang back at 12.25; Jones had been pronounced dead at eleven minutes past the hour.

Never a religious man, Resnick found himself, nevertheless, offering up a quick prayer that things wouldn’t escalate further; a prayer for a young man he’d never known, never met.

When the news spread, striking miners sped to Ollerton by all means possible; more police reinforcements were called. At three in the morning, the president of the Yorkshire NUM, Jack Taylor, arrived with Arthur Scargill, and Scargill climbed on to the roof of a car and called for calm. When he asked for two minutes’ silence out of respect, Resnick was relieved to be told later, those police present were quick to take off their helmets and bow their heads.

At the post-mortem, the Home Office pathologist said that Jones had died as the result of a ‘crashing impact of considerable force’; a ‘massive but short and sharp’ compression to the chest, most likely as the result of coming into contact with an immovable object.

The chief constable ordered an immediate independent inquiry, to be led by a senior officer from another force.

That inquiry was still ongoing.

A vein at the side of Resnick’s temple would start to pulse each time the phone rang unexpectedly, for fear it was announcing another needless death.

‘
LEAVING US THEN,
Charlie. So rumour goes.’

Andy Dawson was half-leaning against the door jamb, one size twelve boot angled behind the other, sucking on one of the extra-strong mints he’d become addicted to since finally stopping smoking six months before.

Resnick nodded. ‘Helping out, that’s all. Background. Interview or two. Not much more’n I do here.’

‘Murder investigation, Charlie. Not any old murder, either. Woman’s body as lay buried near thirty year. Headlines in
Post
, front page. Least it was till Forest sacked their manager again.’

‘Like I say, just helping out. What’s the news from Queen’s?’

Dawson shook his head. ‘Lad’s still in a coma. No decision, either way. Happen by the time you’re back . . .’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, you’ve left everything in order, I don’t doubt. Any wrinkles, I’ll know where to find you. Oh, and while I remember, Martin Picard, he wants to see you, later this morning. His office. Radford.’ Dawson winked. ‘Be sure to give him my best.’

It was common knowledge the two men could stand neither sight nor sound of each other, Picard slithering up the greasy pole towards the top, while Dawson hovered uneasily near the bottom, waiting by the sign marked Exit.

Resnick walked up Waverley Street, skirting the edge of the Forest, site of the annual Goose Fair, and crossed Gregory Boulevard close by the New Art Exchange building – all smart grey brick and glass – on to Radford Road. Purpose-built, sixties, from the outside the police station looked to have scarcely changed since, a young copper on the beat, Resnick had spent six months there, finding his feet. Community policing, that’s what they called it now, and, more often than not, it was done from the inside of a car. In those days it meant walking the streets alone, eyes open and helmet cinched tight, wary of what the next corner might bring.

‘Respect,’ old-timers like Andy Dawson would say, ‘that’s what we had in those days. Not like now.’

Resnick remembered it differently. Blues parties where the sweet smell of ganja knocked you backwards the minute you walked in; hard-faced young men from the Hyson Green flats who’d stare you in the eye, then piss on your shoes and tell you it was raining.

Now it was kids of little more than twelve or thirteen, as like to stick up a finger, telling you to fuck off to your face, before pedalling away at the same insouciant speed, whether to deliver a wrap or two of crack cocaine or pick up a carton of milk for their nan from the local corner shop.

So much had changed; so much remained the same.

Martin Picard met him just inside the main entrance: grey suit with a faint blue stripe, pale blue shirt, neatly knotted tie. Hair recently cut, brushed and combed: the very model of a perfect detective chief inspector on the rise.

Not for the first time, Resnick felt shabby and old.

‘Coffee, Charlie, that’s your thing, as I remember.’

There was a cafetière on his desk, china mugs. Little else. Laptop, mobile phone. A single file, grey, open; pages highlighted here and there in green or red, annotations in the margins.

‘Your involvement, Bledwell Vale, Charlie, a good thing. Approved it straight off. Local knowledge, that’s important. But what I’m hoping, a little more than that, keep an eye on things, make sure they stay on track.’ He eased back a little in his chair. ‘Bright, of course, your Ms Njoroge, no denying that. Keen to get ahead. Be a shame to see her overreach herself here, make more of this than it is. You know what I mean.’

He smiled conspiratorially, drawing Resnick in.

‘I’m not sure,’ Resnick said, ‘that I do.’

‘Come on, Charlie, what is it after all? Woman dead and buried more years than she lived, whoever’s responsible either dead themselves or eking out their days in some nursing home with Alzheimer’s or dementia or both. In the grand scheme of things, no big deal, no big deal at all. Weren’t for the force here running scared there’s going to be an inquiry into how they policed that bloody strike, it’d never come to us at all. Something for the deadbeats in the cold case unit to be falling over their pension books about.’

He leaned forward, elbow on the desk. ‘The investigation, thorough of course, but low-key. No call to go stirring up more than you need. Nothing surfaces after a good week or so, no strong leads, be prepared to step away. Case remains open, after all this time, no skin off anyone’s nose. Not be the first.’

He gestured towards Resnick’s mug. ‘Top-up?’

Resnick shook his head. Despite looking promisingly full and dark, the coffee tasted thin, empty of flavour, flattering to deceive.

Catherine Njoroge had spent the morning tidying up the last of the work in which she’d been involved, making sure the necessary files and information were in the right hands. Neither twin had so far felt the need to speak, though she doubted they could maintain that silence for very much longer. And then, if they were guilty, singly or together, which, on balance, she assumed they were, all her team – her ex-team – would have to do would be to sit back while one accused the other. That was the way it usually worked.

Though the investigation into Jenny Hardwick’s death would continue to be based there at Radford Road, with the necessary computer access to HOLMES 2 – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, which was used for the coordination and exchange of information in all major crimes – there would be a forward post in Worksop, in the north of the county, divisional headquarters for the region. After a trail of emails and several abortive calls, Catherine had finally got to speak to the divisional commander and received his blessing: an incident room would be set up in the police station on Potter Street, with a detective sergeant to act as action allocator and receiver, and the assistance of at least one member of the civilian support team as necessary.

When she’d asked if other personnel would be available, the commander had been less forthcoming: experienced officers were at a premium, staffing levels across the county, as he was sure she appreciated, were in decline.

Catherine continued to plead her case and finally it was agreed. Two young DCs, Alex Sandford and Robert Cresswell, not much more than novices, would be attached to the inquiry, along with Detective Sergeant John McBride. The commander would look forward to meeting her when she arrived.

Hearing Resnick was in the building, Catherine intercepted him and suggested lunch. ‘The café at the New Art Exchange, Charlie – you ever been?’

Resnick had not.

‘You’ll like it. It’s tasty and cheap.’ She smiled. ‘No obligation to look at the art if you don’t want.’

They sat at a table midway between the counter and the glass frontage, Resnick looking out past Catherine’s shoulder towards the passing traffic on the Boulevard, the constant footfall. When first he’d got to know this part of the city, the only faces not white would most likely have been Caribbean; a dozen or so years later they would have been from the Indian Subcontinent – Pakistan, India, Bangladesh – or, like Catherine, from some part of Africa. Now they were likely to have come from countries Resnick, for all his Polish background, would have had difficulty placing on a map. Moldova. The Republic of Macedonia. Turkmenistan.

Georgia, until relatively recently, had mainly existed for him as a province of Ray Charles’ mind.

The older you got, he’d read somewhere, the more threatening multiculturalism was meant to become. But, while he didn’t exactly embrace it, the odd incursion from the Eastern European mafia aside, he didn’t think he found it at all threatening. Over the years, it had certainly done wonders for the food.

His curry with chicken and sweet potato, aubergine and okra was seriously spicy, seriously good, and Catherine was making short work of her dahl soup with fresh coriander and roti bread.

Not only tasty, as she had said, but inexpensive too. As far as Resnick was concerned, a perfect combination. Which reminded him, he had to remember to check with Catherine about travelling expenses.

‘How was your session with Picard?’ she asked.

Resnick paused, a piece of sweet potato midway to his mouth. ‘He wants me to be a steady hand. A moderating influence, something of the sort.’

‘Moderating what, exactly?’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Grinning. ‘Your natural exuberance, perhaps. Any temptation you might have to go chasing headlines, reaching for the stars.’

‘You are joking?’

‘Not exactly.’

She shook her head. ‘Picard, Hastings, all the top brass, the last thing they want is anything stirring up the past. Far happier, all of them, for it all to have stayed dead and buried. Jenny Hardwick, everything.’

She broke off another piece of bread and scooped up the last of the lentil mixture from her plate. ‘Picard, he wouldn’t have been involved in any way, policing the strike?’

Resnick shook his head. ‘Too young. Hastings, it’s a possibility, but, no, even then I doubt it.’

‘But you were.’

‘As you know.’

‘Sending out your spies.’

‘Your words, not mine.’

‘Reporting back to HQ. What was it? The NRC.’

‘That was the job.’

‘And now?’

‘Am I going to be reporting back to Picard? Hastings? Telling tales out of school?’

‘Are you?’

‘You really need to ask?’

‘No, no, Charlie, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . after what you said, your meeting, I just needed to be sure.’

He held her gaze. ‘If you’re not, I’ll walk away now. No offence taken.’

‘Charlie, no.’ For a moment, she covered his hand with her own. ‘Forget it. It’s fine. Pre-investigation nerves. Besides, I was the one who asked for you, remember?’

Before leaving, they walked round the main gallery: an exhibition of work by women photographers from the Middle East.