Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(89)

“And the car was a Vauxhall estate?” Resnick asked.

“Estate, yes. As for Vauxhall, Harry’ll tell you I don’t know one make from another. Shapes I can do, it’s names I’m bad at.”

“What they used to say about me,” Harry said, “before you got your hands on me.”

His wife laughed and aimed a mock blow at his head, Harry bobbing and weaving out of the way like the bantamweight he once was.

Resnick thanked them both and hurried across with Lynn to where Divine was waiting.

“What Mark’s got,” she said, “it could fit in.”

Divine gave Resnick a nervous half-smile. “Mini-cab drivers, I carried on asking questions, even after Kev’d found that bloke as picked her up at the station. No real reason, just felt good, I suppose. Like I was back doin’ the job again. Doing something. Anyhow, this guy I spoke to, Castle Cars, he reckons he saw a woman, could have been her, Peterson, right by where them gates are, top of North Road, you know, entrance to the Park off Derby Road. Staggering, he says, almost out into the road. Thought she might’ve been coming right out in front of him so he slammed on his brakes. That was how he saw her face.”

“And she was staggering how? Like she was drunk? As if she’d been hurt? Hit?”

“Crying. Upset. When she heard his brakes, she pulled herself up, you know, gave herself a bit of shake. Driver called out, was she all right? And she said, yes, she was fine, and hurried off.”

“Which way? Back into the Park?”

Divine shook his head. “On up Derby Road, toward town.”

“Do we know what time this was?” Lynn asked.

“Yes,” Divine said. “He reckons he looked at his watch and the clock on the dash both. Seven thirty on the dot. He got a call right after, pick up somebody at Queens. Turned round and went right back down. It’s in his log. I checked.”

Resnick’s mind was racing. “All right, here’s Jane. She leaves Spurgeon in Grantham and catches the train, fully intending to have it out with Alex, come clean about the whole business, the whole affair. In the cab from the station, she’s worked up, excited, most likely frightened, there’s a history of violence between them remember, he’s hit her before. But when she gets to the door …”

“She can’t go through with it,” Lynn said. “She can’t face him.”

“Right. But are we sure why? Is it because she’s scared of Alex, or because she’s changing her mind?”

“We don’t know,” Lynn said. “And, any way, does it matter? Now. To us, I mean.”

“Likely it determines what she does next.”

“How ’bout she phones him,” Divine suggested.

“The husband?” said Lynn.

“No, this bloke in Grantham. No matter what she says, he can tell she’s in a right state. Wait there, he says, I’ll come over and get you.”

“And there they are,” Resnick said, “arguing it over, back and forth, back and forth.”

“It’s not just that she’s frightened of her husband,” Lynn said, “it’s more than that. It’s worse. She’s realized she’s making a mistake. That’s what all those tears are about, she’s telling Spurgeon, after keeping him dangling all that time, she’s not about to go through with it after all. She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t love him enough. And he spends all night trying to convince her that she’s wrong; that she still does. And it doesn’t do any good.”

Jealous husband, Resnick was thinking, violent man, love spurned: he hadn’t been listening. Had heard only what he expected to hear.

“Let’s go,” he said, anxious at the slowness of the automatic doors. “We’ll phone Cambridge on the way.”

Divine stood beside the car as Lynn slipped behind the wheel. “I don’t suppose, boss,” he said, “there’s anyway I could come along?”

“Sorry, Mark,” Resnick said, climbing in. “’Fraid not.” He raised a hand and as he closed the door, Lynn pulled away.

It was dark enough for the blue lights of the emergency vehicles to be seen from some distance, spiraling out across the flat English countryside. A uniformed officer stopped them at the edge of the village and checked their credentials; another waved them over only a little way into Front Street and advised them to park. Colin Presley was standing in the roadway level with the gate of number twenty-seven; the house itself an incongruous blaze of light. When the DS turned toward them, Resnick recognized only too well the look on his face.

“The children …” he began.

But mercifully, Presley shook his head. “With a neighbor. Safe.”

“And the wife?”

Louise was sitting at the center of the kitchen table, almost the last place Resnick had seen her; what stray color she had once managed had now disappeared.

“Are you all right?” Resnick asked, as much from the use of saying it as anything else.

Slowly her head tilted up until she had fixed him with her eyes. “I’m only surprised he had the guts to do it.”

There was a card torn to small pieces beside her elbow and partly burned, the writing mostly beyond recognition, although Resnick believed he knew who had written it, what it said.