Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(68)
Alex Peterson’s dental surgery was on the raised first floor of one of those large, bay-fronted buildings on College Street, leading down the Hill to Wellington Circus. The receptionist viewed Resnick with suspicion, a man trying to muscle in on the appointments list by dint of waving his warrant card around. But after some discussion on the intercom, Peterson’s dental nurse, a young Muslim woman with her head and lower face covered above her white uniform, came through and informed Resnick in a soft voice that if he could wait for just five minutes, Mr. Peterson would be able to see him.
Five minutes, as they do in dentists’ waiting rooms, became fifteen. Peterson emerged in conversation with a middle-aged woman holding a handkerchief to one side of her face and doing her best to look brave despite the pain.
“Inspector …”
“If there’s somewhere we could talk privately?”
Peterson led him back into the surgery, from which the nurse had now disappeared. “You’ve found something? About what happened?” His voice was anxious, the dark hollows scooped below his eyes suggested tears, lack of sleep. The lingering smell in the room—metallic, medicinal—brought Resnick suddenly back to his childhood, be brave, this is going to hurt just a little bit.
“Really, it’s a question,” Resnick said. “It may be nothing.”
“Go on.”
“Your wife, as far as you know, did she have friends in the Cambridge area? Newmarket, possibly. Somewhere around there. There was no one on the list you gave us.”
Peterson blinked. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“It might not be important …”
Peterson’s hand was on Resnick’s arm; his breath, mint-flavored, on his face. “Tell me, please.”
“A phone call she may have made, that’s all. We can’t even be certain it was her.”
“But you think she made a call to Cambridge, that’s what you’re saying? I don’t understand. When was this? Is that where you think she might have gone?”
“As yet we just don’t know.”
“But it must be important, otherwise why would you be here?”
Resnick sighed. “I’m here because we’re checking everything, every little thing that might give us a lead to what happened.” He looked at Peterson for a moment. “Believe me, as soon there’s anything definite, I’ll let you know.”
“Really? I’d like to believe that was true.”
“Your wife was killed,” Resnick said. “I’ve no way of knowing how that must feel. But I do know how important it is to understand what happened. And why. You have my word. If this leads anywhere, I will keep you informed.”
Slowly, Peterson nodded. “Thank you. And I’m sorry if …”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Back at the Ropewalk there were two messages waiting: one from Lynn to say that she had tracked down Prentiss’ ex-girlfriend Patricia Falk in Peterborough and arranged to meet her; the other was from Hannah—monkfish with grilled aubergine, how did that sound? Resnick thought it sounded good.
Thirty-eight
On either side of the road as Lynn drove, neatly hedged fields spun away to small horizons. At dinner last night with Sharon Garnett—a curry washed down with bottles of Kingfisher, and the usual bad coffee made palatable by After Eights—she had tried to talk through how she felt about working again with Resnick, so soon after thinking she had made the break. And the truth was, it didn’t feel too bad.
Well, as she had sought to explain, it was different, being part of a far larger team, not cooped up in that substation at Canning Circus with just a handful of others and Resnick looming over everything. She was a sergeant now, more status, expected to use her initiative, take responsibility. And the case they were working on, a murder, possibly five murders all down to the same person—how much more serious could Serious Crimes get?
“So you see what I mean?” Lynn said, lifting a piece of lamb with her fork. “It’s not the same at all.”
Grinning, Sharon tore off a piece of naan bread and scooped it through what was left of her coriander and green chili sauce. “You know what I think?”
“No. Go on.”
“I think you should marry him and have done with it.”
“Very funny!”
“Maybe.”
Watching Lynn reach for the water jug to refill her glass, Sharon laughed. “Hot is it, that lamb passanda of yours?”
She had only been to Peterborough a few times, and only once by car. The outskirts of the town seemed dominated by low-level industrial estates, which the development council optimistically called parks, and units of neat brick housing only now beginning to show serious need of repair. The signs for the town center were frequent and clear and the green neon outside the multi-story told her there were spaces available. She could walk from there directly into the newish shopping center, which was where she’d arranged to meet Patricia Falk.
As those places went, Lynn thought, it was pleasanter than most. At least there seemed to be plenty of natural light—or was that an illusion?—and the walkways were wide enough for people to stroll without feeling they were running a gauntlet between Our Price and Etam, Saxone and WH Smith.
Patricia Falk was precisely where she had said she would be, on a stool at the right-hand side of the Costa Coffee Boutique, wearing, as she had promised, a brightly colored cardigan with a parrot that looked as though it came from Guatemala. She was nibbling at a hazelnut wafer and reading the G2 section of the Guardian.