Still Waters (25 page)

Released into the afternoon, they walked without talking, down across the Mall and into St. James's Park: couples in deck chairs, a couple kissing on the bridge, couples holding hands.

“What did you think?” Grabianski asked.

“The exhibition?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I liked it very much.”

“But?”

“Is there a but?”

“I don't know. Yes, probably.”

“I suppose I found it a little intimidating,” Teresa said.

“The nakedness?”

“No, oh no, not that. Naked and unadorned. We are used to that. But, no, the warmth, the color, the beauty that he found there. Never tired of. This old man—old for those days—and going blind.”

They sat on a bench near the lake, a group of shovelers and gray-winged teals arguing testily about some torn bread that had been tossed their way.

“I spoke to your friend, Charlie Resnick, not so long ago.”

“Your friend, too.”

“I think so,” Teresa said.

“Did he know you were meeting me?”

“He knew it was a possibility.”

“I see.”

“He says you might be going to help him.”

“I don't know.”

When she moved, Teresa's arm brushed the back of Grabianski's hand, his wrist, certainly it was a mistake. “I think,” she said slowly, “that if you could, you should.”

He smiled, the skin wrinkling around the edges of his mouth, his eyes. “For the greater good?”

“For your good.”

“Penance, is this? Atonement for my sins?”

“Perhaps. If you believe. But maybe something more practical, too. I'm not saying I wouldn't visit you in Lincoln, or whichever prison it might be, but that wouldn't be the same as in God's good air, would it now?” Briefly, she returned his smile. “No more exhibitions then.”

“There's meant to be a good show in Cornwall,” Grabianski said. “The Tate at St. Ives. Rothko. I don't know if you …”

“We'll see,” Teresa said, already on her feet. “Maybe we'll see.”

Thirty-five

“Someone to see you,” Carl grinned.

Resnick looked up from the interview transcripts he was reading through and there was Mollie, skinny black trousers, a vivid Lycra top, clumpy sandals, two styrofoam cups balanced one on top of the other on the palm of one hand, a plastic bag clutched in the other. “This coffee might not be so hot,” she said. “It's already been to Canning Circus. They told me you were here.”

“Come on in,” Resnick said.

Carl Vincent closed the door behind her and walked off in search of Lynn. Something she had wanted him to do.

“Black, gay, and a policeman,” Mollie said with a backward nod of the head. “Things are looking up.”

“How do you know?” Resnick asked. “He doesn't exactly advertize.”

Mollie gave a small, enigmatic smile. “Oh, you can tell,” she said. “You learn.” She perched on a table corner, taking in the bare walls, the lightbulb that still lacked a shade. “Promotion, is it, then?”

“Not exactly.”

“Smaller than the office I used to have and that's saying something.” She jumped down and retrieved cups and bag. “We could have this outside. Better than being cooped up in here.”

There was a bench, battered and heavily graffitied, but a bench nonetheless, by the top of the broad crumbling steps that led down to Park Valley. Mollie handed Resnick his cup and delved inside the plastic bag, lifting out a package wrapped in aluminum foil, which she placed between them cautiously.

“Is this getting to be a habit?” Resnick asked.

“Maybe.”

Mollie carefully folded back the foil and there inside, squashed but not beyond recognition, lay two pieces of dark chocolate cake, a layer of what might be jam through the middle and coffee and vanilla icing across the top.

“It's my birthday,” Mollie explained.

“Today?”

She shook her head. “Yesterday. But if I hadn't brought in some of the cake, the people at work would have killed me. And so I thought … well, you brought something when you came to see me.”

“Thanks,” Resnick said. “And happy birthday.”

He wondered which it was, thirty-four or thirty-five? Mollie prized the cake apart and set a slice, precariously, in his palm.

“I should have brought napkins.”

“That's okay, don't worry.” He took a bite and managed to catch the piece that fell away in his other hand. If he didn't drink some of the coffee soon, it would be colder still. “When I came to see you,” he said, “there was a reason.”

“Sheer delight at seeing me aside.”

“Of course.”

“Well,” Mollie said, “I'm afraid it's true for me, too.” Freeing herself to reach into her hip pocket, she pulled out a photocopy of the Broadway office telephone bill, two lines—number, date, time, and duration—highlighted in green. The numbers were prefixed 01223. “Here.”

Resnick's hands full, she placed it on his knee.

He hooked at her inquiringly.

“The last quarter's telephone accounts just came through. As our esteemed finance director's wont to do, he pointed these out to me. You know, numbers he doesn't recognize. Exceptionally lengthy calls. The first was made on my mobile, oh, six weeks ago. That was short enough. A couple of minutes. But the second was from my office phone on the morning of the day school. Twenty-one minutes, forty-three seconds. You can bet he noticed that. And then, checking back, he spotted the first. The same number.”

“And you don't know whose it is?”

Mollie shook her head.

“You didn't make the calls?”

“No.”

Resnick's stomach tensed, waiting for what she was going to say next.

“I hadn't remembered, didn't think anything of it at the time, but as we were coming out of one of the early planning meetings, Jane asked if she could use my mobile, just a quick call. I said, sure. I presumed she was making arrangements, meeting someone, somebody picking her up. As I say, I didn't give it another thought.”

“But this second call, the longer one, you didn't know anything about that?”

“Uh-uh.” Mollie was getting in her share of the cake now, licking her fingers.

“Could Jane have had access to your office while the day school was going on?”

“The downstairs door should have been locked, but with people popping in and out all day, yes, it could have been left on the catch. She could have used it without anyone knowing.”

“Isn't it possible she could have asked someone else if she could use your phone?”

“It's possible, yes, but as far as I know it's not what happened. I asked around. The staff who were there.” Mollie sat forward. “You really think this might be important?” she asked. “You think it might help?”

“It might. At least it's something. We've precious little as it is.” Resnick smiled and when he did Mollie couldn't help but notice the smudge of coffee icing just above the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said, “for letting me know so promptly. And,” smile broadening, “for the birthday cake.”

Mollie's face darkened. “I just hope it helps. Poor Jane. No more birthdays for her.”

Resnick put a trace on the Cambridge number as soon as he got back to the office. It belonged to a pub on the outskirts of the city, the Dray Horse out on the old Newmarket road; a pay phone in the corridor outside the lounge bar.

Alan Prentiss smiled as he opened his front door to Lynn Kellogg, a smile which tapered off when he saw Carl Vincent standing behind her. Lynn introduced Carl and thanked Prentiss for agreeing to see them at short notice.

“I had a cancellation,” he said, stepping aside to let them in.

Carl nodded, taking the man's measure as they walked through. With Khan busy, Lynn had wanted a second opinion, hadn't wanted to talk to Prentiss alone.

“You said you had one or two more questions about Jane Peterson,” Prentiss said, when they were all sitting down. “It's terrible, of course, what happened to her. Such a waste.”

“When you were treating her,” Lynn asked, “I wonder whether you noticed any marks on her body?”

Prentiss blinked. “Marks?”

“Bruises,” Carl said.

Prentiss shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Did you ever see any bruises on Jane's body, Mr. Prentiss?” Lynn asked.

Another little fidget, something irritating along his thigh. “I might have once … There were, there was bruising once, yes. Around the hip and along this, this side.”

“Severe?”

“No, no, I wouldn't necessarily say severe.”

“And you asked her about it?”

“Yes. She said she'd been in a fall. Coming down the stairs from the living room. Carrying a tray. Cups and so on. She fell. I don't know, as many as a dozen steps. Halfway.”

“Had she been to her doctor?”

“I don't think so.”

“And the hospital? Accident and Emergency?”

“It's possible. I don't know.”

“Would you say,” Carl asked, leaning forward, “the bruises on Jane Peterson's body could have come from a fall such as she described?”

Prentiss' mouth was dry. “They could have, yes.”

“It never occurred to you that they might have been caused in any other way?”

Prentiss shook his head. “Not … not really, no.”

“Not,” Lynn said, “after what you told me about her husband? You said he was a bully, you remember that?”

“Yes, but I didn't mean … That wasn't what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Verbally. Mentally. The way he got on at her. Not the sort of thing you're talking about now.”

“Really?” Lynn said. “It never occurred to you that Alex Peterson might have been behind those injuries? You never for one moment thought he might have been hitting his wife?”

Prentiss sat on his hands. He didn't say anything for some little time. It was quiet in the room, quiet outside. “All right, if I'm honest, it did go through my mind. Just the possibility. But Jane, she'd been so clear about what had happened, so detailed. To have questioned her would have been like calling her a liar. So I said nothing. She … we never mentioned it again.”

“A shame,” Carl said, “in the circumstances.”

“The circum … what? You don't think, you're not suggesting …?”

“This friend of yours you spoke about,” Lynn said, “Patricia, she used to teach with Jane?”

“Yes. Yes, that's right.”

“You wouldn't have an address for her, I suppose? Just in case we need to get in touch.”

“Yes,” said Prentiss distractedly. “Yes, I must have it somewhere. If you'll just give me a few minutes to look …”

“Wanker,” Carl said dismissively when they were back on the pavement.

“As long as that's all,” Lynn said.

“You're serious?”

Lynn unlocked the car door. “Maybe. As far as we know he's unattached, doesn't seem to mix much with other people, works from home. There's a lot of things on our offender profile that he fits.”

Carl slotted his belt buckle into place. “Checking him out some more won't hurt.”

“Right. And this Patricia, where did he say she was?”

“Peterborough.”

“Close enough to be worth a call.” Lynn checked the rearview mirror and pulled away.

“You know what's getting to Prentiss, don't you?” Carl said. “Thinking if he'd done something to stop this happening back when he had the chance, Jane Peterson might still be alive now. Maybe that's what's making him twitchy. Bad conscience, nothing more.”

“Probably,” Lynn said. “We'll see.”

Thirty-six

“Thirty thousand the pair?”

“That's the going price.”

“Bullshit!” Grabianski said, his voice louder than intended.

“Take it or leave it.” Eddie Snow shrugged as if he didn't care.

They were sitting in a pub in Camden, one of those places that had been fashionably stripped back to bare boards, tat and clutter peeled away, a large room lit by candles and a few tastefully concealed ceiling lights, guest beers, a menu that included samphire and lemon grass, scallops and black pudding served on mashed potato.

The rest of the place was more or less empty at that time of day: a couple of thirtyish men in bad suits dragging out their last beer over the remains of a business lunch; an upmarket mum sitting outside with her two kids, waiting for them to sit back down and finish their fruit sorbet.

Grabianski was drinking a large tomato juice with Worcester sauce, Tabasco, ice, and lemon. He needed a clear head.

“I thought you wanted to get rid?” Snow said.

“So I do.”

“And fast?”

“Fast doesn't mean throwing them away.”

One of the children outside was crying; the men in suits were preparing to haggle over their bill. Round the corner on Arlington Road, a car alarm sounded and then was still, sounded and was still.