Cold Light (20 page)

What did happen, inevitably, was that Harry Phelan got wind of what was going on. A new-found friend of a friend, drinking late one night in his Mansfield Road hotel, had told him one place to find the crime reporter for the
Post
was in the Blue Bell of a lunchtime, swopping yarns and enjoying a peaceful couple of pints. Next day Harry went along and stood around and by the time he'd bought his round, had heard about the young man the police had been questioning.

“Where is the bastard?” Harry Phelan had yelled later, catching Skelton coming back from one of his runs to the station. “Why haven't you bleedin' arrested him? Just wait till I get my hands on him, that's all. Just wait.”

Skelton calmed him down and invited him to his office, tried to explain. “Mr. Phelan, I assure you …”

“Don't insult me with that,” Harry Phelan said. “Assure. Look at you. Out there friggin' about in that poncey gear, joggin', instead of saving my poor bleedin' kid! You—you couldn't assure me of shit!”

Meanwhile, Reg Cossall and his team had interviewed one hundred and thirty-nine men and forty-three women, thirty-seven of whom had a clear recollection of seeing Nancy on Christmas Eve. Five of the women had spoken to her, eight in all remembered what she had been wearing. Seven of the men, had spoken to her, five had danced with her, two had asked her if they could give her a lift home. She had said no to them both. And both had gone home with someone else.

As police work went it was painstaking and thorough and it didn't seem to be going anywhere. “Like farting down an open sewer,” Cossall said, disgusted. “Not worth parting your bloody cheeks.”

By the time Resnick had arrived home after his night with Dana Matthieson, walking all the way across the city, down beside the cemetery to the gates of the Arboretum, through towards the site of the old Victoria railway station and up past the Muslim temple on the Woodborough Road, he had convinced himself that it had all been a mistake. Enjoyable, yes, exciting even, but certainly a mistake. On both sides.

Naturally, he reasoned, after what had happened to her flatmate, Dana had been upset, disorientated, looking for comfort and distraction. As for himself—Jesus, Charlie, he said to the empty streets, how long is it since you went with a woman?

Is that what it had been, then? Only that? Going with a woman?

Suddenly chilled, he had pulled up his coat collar and shivered, remembering the warmth of Dana's body.

And of course, he hadn't done as he had said, he hadn't called. For the first couple of days, whenever the phone rang in his office or at home, he had lifted the receiver with the same strange mix of anxiety and anticipation. But it was never her. Easy to stop waiting for it to happen.

When, finally, three days later, Dana did call, Resnick was talking to Lynn Kellogg about her application for leave, a day accompanying her father to the outpatient department of the Norfolk and Norwich.

“An endoscopy,” Lynn said, the word unfamiliar on her tongue.

Resnick looked at her inquiringly.

“An internal examination. As far as I can tell they pass this thing, this endoscope up into his bowels.”

Resnick shuddered at the thought.

Lynn breathed uneasily. “If they suspect cancer, most likely they'll take a biopsy.”

“And if it is,” Resnick asked, “what kind of treatment …?”

“Surgery,” Lynn said. “They cut it out.”

“I'm sorry,” Resnick said. There were tears, suddenly, at the corners of Lynn's eyes. “Really sorry.” Part way round his desk towards her he stopped. He wanted to take her in his arms, reassure her with a hug.

“It's all right.” Lynn found a tissue and blew her nose, leaving Resnick stranded where he was. Thank God for the phone.

“Charlie?” said the voice at the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“It's me, Dana.”

By then he knew.

“You didn't call.”

“No, I'm sorry. Things have been, well, hectic.” Without meaning to, he caught Lynn's eye.

“I've been thinking about you,” Dana said.

Resnick transferred the receiver from one hand to another, studied the floor.

“Do you want me to wait outside?” Lynn said.

Resnick shook his head.

“I've been thinking about your body,” Dana said.

Resnick, found that hard to believe. He thought about his own body as little as he could and when he did it was usually with dismay.

“I want to see you, that's all,” Dana said. “No big deal.”

“Look,” Lynn was almost at the door, “I can come back later.”

“Is this a bad time?” Dana said. “Is it difficult for you to talk?”

“No, it's fine,” Resnick said, waving Lynn back into the room.

“When can I see you?” Dana asked.

“Why don't we meet for a drink?” Resnick said, as much as anything to get her off the phone.

“Tomorrow?”

Resnick couldn't think. “All right,” he said.

“Good. Eight o'clock?”

“Fine.”

“Why don't you come here? We can go on somewhere else if you want.”

“All right. See you then. Bye.” By the time he put down the phone he had started to sweat.

“First-footing,” Lynn said.

“What?”

“You know, tall stranger crosses the threshold with a lump of coal.”

“Oh, God!”

“Problem?”

Only that he'd forgotten it was New Year's Eve. And now Marian Witczak's voice came instantly back to him: “We will both wear, Charles, what would you say? Our dancing shoes.”

“Double-booked?” Lynn asked.

“Something like that.”

“I'm sorry I shouldn't be laughing.” She didn't seem to be laughing at all.

“This day's leave,” Resnick said, “it'll be tight, but no question you must go. We'll cover somehow.”

“Thanks. And good luck.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow.”

Dana lit another cigarette, poured herself another drink. She had already had several, finding the courage to phone him when he hadn't phoned her. And at work. Probably she shouldn't have done that, probably that had been a mistake. Except he had said yes, hadn't he? Agreed to come round for a drink. She smiled, raising her glass: he was worth a little seeking out, a little chasing after. She liked him, the memory of him: big, there was something, she thought, about a man who was big. And she laughed.

Twenty-five

Gary was sprawled across the settee wearing his County goalkeeper's shirt over the top of two pullovers in an attempt to keep warm. He was watching a program about Indonesian cookery and Michelle couldn't for the life of her see why. The extent of Gary's cooking in the past few months had been opening a tin of beans and, five minutes later, slopping the contents, lukewarm, over burned toast and then yelling at Karl because he wouldn't eat it. Beyond that, all Gary knew about cookery was “What's for dinner?” and “Where's me tea?”

Michelle didn't say anything; knew well enough to let him be.

Brian's wife, Josie, had offered to take Karl down to the Forest along with her two and Michelle had leaped at the chance. Natalie had lain, alternately cooing and crying in her cot, some twenty minutes after feeding but now she was quiet. Michelle had wiped round the sink in the kitchen, taken the rubbish out to the bin; for once in his life, Gary had grunted no instead of yes to the offer of a cup of tea and she'd taken her own upstairs to have a sort out, tidy round.

There were balls of dust collecting at the corners of the stairs.

In the small room at the back, Natalie was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth and one leg poking through the bars of the cot; Michelle took the tiny foot in her hand and slipped it back beneath the covers. So cold! Gently, she touched her lips to the baby's cheek and that was warm, at least. Leaving the door ajar, she crossed to the other bedroom and shivered: it was like an icewell in there.

There were two pairs of tights hanging from the end of the bed, one of them laddered almost beyond repair. Gary seemed to have dumped bits and pieces of clothing everywhere, a shirt, pair of boxer shorts, one sock. From the state of the collar, the shirt could just about last out another day, so she hung it back inside the chipboard wardrobe they had got from Family First. Gary's zip-up jacket, his favorite, stuffed down there on top of the shoes, getting all creased—Michelle bent down to pick it up and that was when the knife fell out.

She jumped and thought she must have cried out loud, but nothing happened; the baby didn't wake, Gary didn't call up from downstairs. The television commentary continued in a blur from which she was unable to distinguish the words.

The handle of the knife was rounded, wrapped around with tape; the blade, close to six inches long, curved out then in, tapering to a point. Near to the tip, a piece of the blade had broken away, as if it had been struck against something resisting and hard.

It lay against her one decent pair of heels, daring her to pick it up.

“
You didn't see Nancy that evening? Later that evening? Christmas Eve?
”

“
I told you, didn't I? I never went out
.”

Slowly, not wanting to, Michelle bent down towards the knife. Tried to imagine it being raised in anger in a man's hand.

“'Chelle? Michelle?”

A second before the voice, she heard the board, loose along the landing, squeak. Breath caught hard in her mouth, she pulled the jacket back across the knife, pushed both with her foot further back inside, shut the wardrobe door.

“Here you are.” Smiling that way with his mouth, parted just a little, twisted down. “Wondered where you were.”

She was certain, the way it was pumping, he must hear her heart.

“What's up?”

Afraid to speak, Michelle shook her head from side to side.

“That cooking,” he nodded back downstairs, “all it is, chop everything up small, meat and that, stick it in a jar of peanut butter.” He winked. “Reckon we could try that.”

Michelle had steadied her breathing enough to move away from the wardrobe door.

“Natalie sleeping is she?”

“I'll just see …”

Gary caught her arm as she went past. Something had got stuck in the fine straggle of hairs beside his lip.

“Wondered what you'd come up here for.”

“I was just tidying round. Those things …”

“Oh, yeh? Thought you might've had other ideas. You know …” His eyes grazed the bed. “… Karl out the way for a change.”

“They'll be back …” Michelle began.

One hand reaching for the belt to her jeans, Gary laughed. “Oh no, they won't.”

All the while they lay there, blessed by the squeak and roll of the wire mattress, Michelle thought about the knife. Gary above her, thrusting down, eyes clamped tight, mouth opening only to call her that name she hated, over and over, finally to cry out; through it all she could only see the swelling of the blade, feel its point.

When he had collapsed sideways, pulled away from her, face down into the sheet, she felt gingerly down there, certain amongst all that wetness there would be blood.

“Michelle?”

“Yes?”

“Be a sweetheart, make us a cup of tea.”

She was on her way downstairs, sweater and jeans, hair uncombed, when Josie arrived back with the kids.

“Jesus, girl! Look like you been pulled through a hedge backwards.” And, leaning close enough to whisper in her ear, “Not been knocking you around again, has he?”

Michelle shook her head. “Not the way you mean.”

Josie rolled her eyes. “Oh, that! You know, when I was—what?—seventeen, eighteen, I used to reckon if I didn't have some bloke poking away at me every night the world was going to come to a sodding end. Now …,” she shook her head and looked at Michelle knowingly, “… most of the time I couldn't give a toss. 'Fact, far as Brian's concerned, sometimes that's all I will give.”

She was laughing so much now she had to grab hold of Michelle so as not to lose her balance. Josie. By Michelle's reckoning, she was all of twenty-one.

Twenty-six

Lynn woke slippery with sweat and it was too many moments before she realized she had been dreaming. The blanket she had pulled on to the duvet in the night to combat the cold was wound, tight like a rope, between her legs; the duvet itself had been thrown to the floor. T-shirt, knickers, socks, all were drenched. Coils of dark hair clung fast to her head.

In her dream she had been between the henhouses, walking in a nightgown she had never owned, long and stiff and white like something from
Rebecca
or
Jane Eyre
, when she had heard the sound.

As she ran, moonlight threw shadows against the packed earth, the worn boards of the henhouse walls. A cry, high and shrill, like the mating of feral cats: except it wasn't that. At first she thought the high, wooden door was locked, but as she threw her weight against it, she realized it was only jammed fast. Little by little it gave, then sprang suddenly backwards and she stumbled in.

Through the high, meshed windows the moon shone with a muted fall. Her father had climbed to the high conveyor and now he hung there, attached by the neck; his throat had been cut. Spurred by the silence, flies thrummed their wings, blue, and busied themselves in the dark and drying blood.

As Lynn fell fast against his legs, the body tore and tipped and spilled against her. His feet and hands were bony and cold and hard and when his eyes met hers they smiled.

She screamed herself awake. The sheet and pillow were soaked. Lynn stripped them from the bed and dropped them to the floor beside the blanket and her clothes. For several moments she stood with her head bent towards her knees, steadying her breath. It was twenty-five past three. Against all her judgment, what she wanted most of all was to phone home, make sure her father was all right. She pulled on her dressing gown and tied it tight, filled the kettle and switched it on, brought a towel from the bathroom and vigorously rubbed at her hair.