Living Proof (3 page)

"Hold it down in there," came the custody sergeant's voice.

"I said, hold it down!"

Resnick grinned into the silence that followed. The newly appointed custody sergeant had been transferred from Central CID; six foot three, boots that shone whenever he was on duty and shirts that were always freshly ironed. Most Saturdays he played alongside Divine in the Force's first XV and when he said hold it down, only the most drunken or foolish disobeyed.

Resnick turned left at the head of the stairs, towards the bird-like clamour of phones.

"CID. DC Kellogg speaking..."

"CID. DC Naylor..."

"CID..."

"Graham," Resnick raised a hand in greeting as he 17 threaded his way between the rows of desks towards his office.

"Any chance of a cup of tea?"

"Kev," Millington said, looking across at Naylor.

"Mash for us, will you?"

Naylor drew the telephone away from his face, one hand clamped across the mouthpiece.

"Mark, you're not doing anything."

"Lynn," Divine began, noticing that she was on her feet, 'while you're up. "

"Don't," Lynn shook her head, 'as much as think about it. "

"Chuffin' hell!" Divine moaned, heading for the kettle. "At least when Dipak was still here, you could count on him to fall for it."

Overhearing, Lynn treated him to a look that would have stripped several layers of wallpaper. Although off duty, DC Dipak Patel had intervened in a brawl in the city centre and been fatally stabbed for his trouble: he had been a close colleague and a good friend.

"What I meant," Divine grinned, seizing his chance to wind her up, 'one good thing about encouraging all these minorities into the Force, they're so grateful to be here, they don't mind doing a few chores. "

"Yes?" Lynn was out from behind her desk, blocking his path.

"All these minorities? Take a look. Mark. How many can you see?"

"Aside from you" you mean? "

"All right," Millington said, setting himself between them.

"Shut it.

The pair of you. "

"The pair ..." Lynn began.

"Enough!" Like a referee about to issue a yellow card, Millington raised a hand in the air and glared. Lynn held his gaze for ten, twenty seconds, before turning aside, and grudgingly resuming her seat.

Blowing her a kiss over Millington's shoulder. Divine wandered across towards the kettle.

"And you," Millington said quietly, coming up behind Divine as he was flipping tea bags into the pot, 'don't be so quick with your mouth.

That way you might give what you call a brain a bit more of a chance. "

There were three Home Office circulars waiting on Resnick's desk for him to read, initial and pass on; a subscription renewal form for Police Review and information about a forthcoming course on the computer analysis of fingerprints at Bramshill College. Resnick pushed these to one side and shuffled through his drawer, searching for the flier from the newly refurbished Old Vie the Stan Tracey Duo were playing that season and, if at all possible, he didn't want to miss them.

"Boss?" Millington knocked and entered, two mugs of tea precariously balanced in his one hand.

Resnick reached out and relieved him of one of the mugs, found a space to set it down; was it Millington or his wife, he wondered, who'd selected that particular shade of olive green from the suit rack in Marks and Spencer's?

"Ram raiding," Millington said, helping himself to a seat.

"Buggers have come up with a new twist."

Resnick sipped his tea and waited; over the past eighteen months there'd been a dramatic increase in the number of robberies carried out with the aid of stolen cars. As a method it was hog simple: drive the car fast through the front window of a city centre shop, jump out, grab what you can, either slam the car into reverse and drive back out or run like fuck.

"Bloke out at Wollaton, just back in from tending his begonias holly-leafed, apparently, not so easy to grow ... anyway, sat himself down to watch a spot of racing, wife about to do the honours with the biscuit barrel and a pot of Earl Grey, when this four-year-old Ford Escort comes steaming up his front drive, detours across the 19 lawn, smack into the conservatory at the side of the house."

"After his prize blooms, then, Graham?" Resnick asked. But Millington was not to be diverted.

Old boy grabbed the fire tongs and went off to repel boarders, while his missus phoned us. These three youths were into the house through the side door, knocked him flying, concussion, had the old lady tied up with the telephone wire and went out of there in five minutes flat Half a dozen cups gone from his trophy cabinet, silver medals, jewellery box from the bedroom, her fur coat, watch, thirty-five-piece ruby wedding dinner service, didn't as much as bother with the VCR. "

"The couple, how're they doing?"

"Shook up, who wouldn't be? Keeping him in Queen's for a few days' observation. She's got'a daughter, come to stay."

Leads? "

"Car was stolen the day before, shopping centre out at Bulwell. Found abandoned a few hours later, not so far short of Cinderhill."

"Wouldn't be much left of it, then."

"Four wheels and a chassis."

Resnick had a mouthful more tea.

"Didn't Reg Cossall have something going over that way somewhere?"

"Broxtowe, yes. Still has. Urban Youth Initiative, that's the official name for it. Won't tell you what Reg calls it."

"Have a word, then, Graham. Might tie in with something, someone he's got tabs on."

"Right' " Meantime, description of what's missing. "

"On its way round today. Long as we can keep forgetting the photocopy budget."

There was a knock and in response to Resnick's

"Come in," Divine's head and shoulders appeared round the edge of the door.

"Kev and me are just off up the Forest. I was wondering, bloke in the hospital, anything useful?"

Resnick shook his head.

"Not as much as a name. How about Vice?

Anything from them? "

"Low profile last night, as it happens. Promised to put the word out today, though. Turn up anything, they'll let us know."

"Okay, Mark. Oh, and if Lynn's still there..."

But Lynn Kellogg was already in the doorway.

"Break- ins in the Park.

Five in total. Close enough to be the work of the same team. Several reports of an old post office van in the area, could have been using it to haul the stuff away in. "

Resnick nodded.

"Cool your heels on that for an hour, will you?

Fellow who was stabbed last night, he's out at Queen's, refusing to say a word. Get yourself down there, see what you can do. "

"Right, sir, will that be Mata Hari, then, or Florence Nightingale?"

Resnick looked at her carefully and she was a long way from smiling.

"Don't suppose I'm allowed to ask any more if it's the time of the month?" Millington said, after Lynn had closed the door.

"No, Graham. You're not."

Millington shrugged inside his olive-green suit and sucked on his upper lip.

"This party I'm getting up to go to Trent Bridge, first Saturday of the Test, you've not changed your mind?"

But Resnick was already shaking his head. Watching County of a Saturday afternoon through the winter was one thing all the speed and excitement of plant germination, but at least it was over in an hour and a half. Whereas cricket. "Oh," Millington said, a last thought as he left Resnick's office.

"Skelton wants to see you. Something about shots 21 in the park?" And he was off, wandering in the direction of the teapot, lips puckered together as he whistled thoughtfully through the opening verse of

"Sailor*. An early hit of Petula's, but a good one.

Six When Resnick knocked and entered, Skelton was standing behind his desk looking at the first of several sheets of fax paper which were curling around his hand.

"Charlie, come on in."

Resnick recognised neither of the other people in the room, a man and a woman rising to greet him, the man stepping forward with an uncertain smile.

"Charlie, this is David Tyrell, Programme Director of Shots in the Dark. Detective Inspector Resnick, CID."

Tyrell was tall, taller than Resnick by an inch or more, bespectacled, his already slim body made slimmer by a suit that Resnick wagered cost more than a season ticket to County plus change.

"Inspector, good to meet you."

Tyrell's handshake was strong, the eyes behind the glasses unblinking, but his skin had the pallor of someone who has spent too long out of the light.

"This is Mollie," Tyrell said.

"My assistant."

"Mollie Hansen. Assistant Director, Marketing." Her grip was quick and cool and those five words enough to mark her as a Geordie, strayed from home. She stood there a moment longer, taking in Resnick with slate-grey eyes, the pinch of blood where he had nicked himself shaving, the speck of something yellow crusted to his lapel. A widening of her mouth, not yet a smile, and she stepped back scarlet T-shirt, Doc Martens, jeans.

"You know this festival, Charlie? The one Mr Tyrell's responsible for."

23 Not really. "

Over by the side wall, Mollie Hansen sighed.

"Why don't we all sit down?" Skelton suggested.

"See what we've got."

Tyrell crossed his legs, drew a cigarette packet from his pocket and, almost in the same gesture, pushed it back from sight.

"Shots has been running four years. It's a crime and mystery festival, films mainly, TV, more recently, books as well. Each year we invite special guests, stars, I suppose you'd call them, to some extent built the programme around them. You know, Quentin Tarantino, Sara Paretsky, people like that."

Knowing neither of them, Resnick nodded. He felt the strength of Mollie Hansen's gaze, weighing him up for what she thought he was.

"This year," Tyrell continued, 'we've got Curtis Woolfe. The director. His first public appearance in fifteen years. "

"Sixteen," Mollie said quietly.

Tyrell ignored her and carried on.

"For the book side of things, we've managed to get Cathy Jordan to come over from the States. Which is great."

"Except..." began Mollie.

"Except she's been receiving threatening letters."

"Which is why we've come to you."

Cathy Jordan, Resnick was thinking. Jordan. He wondered if he should know the name, wondered if he did. The last crime novel he'd tried to read had been an old Leslie Charteris found inside a chest of drawers he'd bought in an auction at the Cattle Market. He had never finished it Skelton was holding the faxed copies out towards him and Resnick stood and took them from his hand. The words were typed and faint, not easy to read.

You know, I really do think you've been allowed to pursue what is after all a very limited talent altogether too far.

It's one thing, of course, for people who should know better to be taken to the point where they will award you prizes, quite another for you to have the brazen effrontery to accept them.

Remember Louella Trabert, Cathy, remember what happened to her?

Resnick looked up,

"Louella Trabert?"

"She's in one of her novels," Tyrell said.

"A character."

"A victim," Mollie said.

Resnick was watching her, the tilt of her chin, the flushing high on her cheeks.

"What does happen to her?" he asked.

"She gets dragged from a car in the middle of the night, with her children left strapped in the back seat. These guys haul her off into the woods, strangle and rape her. Next morning one of the kids gets free and finds her upside down, tied by her ankles to a tree, her body slit from neck to belly with a hunting knife. Gutted."

"Not exactly," Tyrell said.

"Jesus! How exact do you want it to be?"

Resnick glanced at the other letters and set them back down.

"You're taking these seriously? She's taking them seriously? Cathy Jordan."

"Seriously enough to let us know," Tyrell said.

"But not enough to prevent her coming."

"They were posted in America?" Resnick asked.

Tyrell nodded.

"New York. Where she lives."

"And she's no idea who sent them?"

"Apparently not."

"Well," Resnick moved back to his seat.

"Maybe she feels she'll be safer over here anyway."

Tyrell looked over at Mollie, who was already reaching down towards the black leather bag by her feet.

25 "This arrived this morning," Mollie said, the envelope in her hand.

Seven Dear Cathy, I keep waiting for you to make the announcement, go public, seize the moment during one of those chat shows you're always on whenever I switch on the TV. You know, one of those quiet moments, snuggled down on the set tee with Letterman, or laughing with Jay Leno and then, out of the blue, leaving aside all the fun and the gossip and you are funny, Cathy. I have to give you that you'll come right out with it. Let me tell you something now, you'll say, looking right at us with those big, blue eyes of yours, the truth is, David, Jay, I am the most talent less bitch that ever got up on her hind legs and walked. Real talent, that is. Leaving aside self-promotion and back stabbing plagiarism all the things I'm really good at.

Oh, and of course it helps to have the morals of the well-known alley cat, best not forget that.

The trouble is, Cathy, the richer you get, the more units isn't that what you call books nowadays, dear? - you sell, the less likely this is to happen. So I'm going to have to stop it now, myself, over here in England. Put an end to this farrago, once and for all. You do understand me, don't you, Cathy?

27 You do realise I am serious? Poor little Anita Mulholland, Cathy.

remember what happened to her.

The letter was on a single sheet of white paper, A4 size, un watermarked undated, almost needless to say, unsigned. At first glance, a good bubble jet or laser printer had been used. The envelope in which it had been delivered was self-sealing, slim and white, manufactured by John Dickinson and with the words

"Eurolope Envelopes' printed over and over in a grey diagonal across the inside. Centred on the front of the envelope, the words " Cathy Jordan'. No postmark, no stamp.