Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(45)
Inside, she locked the door and slid the bolts across; checked the windows, front and back. In the bathroom, she cleaned her face, tied back her hair, and brushed her teeth. Naked in the attic room, the moment before slipping on the T-shirt in which she slept, a wave of cold ploughed through her, head to foot, the imprint of Alex Peterson’s hand clear as daylight on her skin.
Twenty-five
“He attacked you, is that what you’re saying?”
“Not attacked, no. That’s too strong a word.”
“Well, what then?”
“He grabbed hold of me. Here. My arm, wrist. That’s all it was.”
“Assault, that’s what it was.”
“God, Charlie …”
“What?”
“When I told you what he’d done to Jane, it was as though it hardly mattered at all. Now because this has happened to me you’re taking it so seriously.”
“Of course I am. What else did you expect?”
Sliding her fingers between his, she leaned forward against him, her face smooth against the breadth of his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said. Rarely, if ever, had she seen him show so much anger.
Hannah had arrived at Resnick’s house early, dressed for school, her reddish hair swept tidily back from her face. Only when chunks of dubious-looking meat and jelly had been forked into the four cats’ bowls, coffee brewed and toast made, had she told him of Alex’s visit the night before.
Resnick listened carefully and then made her go through the whole thing again. This time he was calmer, more under control.
“I think he’s worried, Charlie, genuinely worried. All that business, tears and everything, of course I could be wrong, but I don’t think he was acting.”
“Then you’ve changed your mind? The other day, what you seemed to be suggesting was that he’d done something to her. Alex. Harmed her in some way. Now you’re less certain?”
Hannah eased her chair away from the table and immediately Miles sprang up into her lap. Only a month ago, she would have pushed him away. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said.
Resnick got up and fetched the coffee pot, topping up his own cup and Hannah’s as well.
“What I think is,” Hannah said, “he’s so used to being in control, the minute he loses it, he just doesn’t know what to do. So he lashes out, uses force.” She glanced again at the purple finger marks on her arm. “And he’s strong, Charlie. He really is.”
Hannah was reaching for her coat, Resnick piling the pots into the sink, when the phone rang.
“Charlie? Brian Findley. This girl, Charlie. The canal. The one you were interested in.”
“Go on.”
“Australian was right. Well, Tasmanian. All part of the same thing nowadays, I dare say.”
Hannah was standing anxiously in the doorway and Resnick gestured to show that no, it was nothing to do with Jane, no news good or bad.
“Miranda Conway,” Findley continued, “that’s her name. Twenty-one. Dental charts confirmed the identification. Her parents are flying over now, though it’s not clear what we can do about releasing the body. Anyway, thought you’d like to know. And Charlie …”
“Yes.”
“About your Serious Crimes post—right, wasn’t I? That Siddons woman.” Findley laughed. “Well out of it, mate, that’s my way of thinking. My DCI may be a prick, but at least he’s got one.”
By shortly after half past nine, they were gathered in the CID office: Kevin Naylor in brown cords and a blue cotton shirt, tie loosened at the neck, top button undone; Carl Vincent, sitting across from him with a can of Diet Coke in his hand, wearing a gracefully crumpled linen suit and a white poplin shirt that had come all the way from India via Wealth of Nations; Lynn Kellogg’s top was maroon, her skirt a serviceable black and not so tight as to make it difficult for her to run if the occasion demanded; off to one side, Millington sat hunched at a desktop, the jacket of his St. Michael suit folded alongside. Resnick’s own suits had for the most part been custom-made by a tailor–uncle, according to patterns fashionable in Krakow circa 1939, broad-lapelled, double-breasted, and, fortunately, generous in cut; they had been in and out of fashion countless times and this one would have been fashionable still, were it not for the irremovable stain of paprika goulash and the presence of a safety pin which prevented—just—the striped lining falling down below the cuff.
“First things first,” Resnick said. “It’s been confirmed Lynn’s taking up her promotion as sergeant within the Serious Crime Squad, where she’ll be working under DCI Siddons. She starts at the end of the week.”
Vincent and Millington applauded, while Naylor looked on, his pleasure for her tinged with envy. Little more than a year ahead of him in service and he had still to sit for his boards, never mind pass.
“I know we’re all pleased, Lynn, a promotion long overdue, but that doesn’t mean we won’t miss having you around. Right now especially.” At which Lynn, feeling herself beginning to blush, turned away at her desk and sent a set of papers skimming to the floor, causing her to blush more deeply still.
“The second thing,” Resnick went on, no longer looking directly at Lynn, sharing a little of her embarrassment, “is Mark. I don’t know how long it is since any of you have seen him, but I spent some time with him the other day and he was in a bad way. It’s a good while yet till he’s up in court and it’s important he holds himself together meantime. So if there’s anything you think you can do—drop round, phone, whatever—now’s the time. Okay?”