so as to combat that culture and make the communities themselves more resilient.'
Lynn turned off the radio.
Her book was in the front room. After twenty or so minutes of reading, she felt her eyes beginning to droop and the pain in her chest, coincidentally, return. She would take another couple of painkillers and lie down on the bed, maybe close her eyes. Just for a little while.
When she woke, it was dark.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, wincing as she raised her arms, cleaned her teeth, and brushed her hair. She'd wanted to get dinner going before Resnick got home, a task that was more usually his. There were some chicken thighs in the fridge, onions, garlic, rice, a few carrots starting to go soft, frozen peas. She was halfway through chopping the second onion, tears pricking at her eyes, when she heard the front door.
'What's wrong?' Resnick asked, coming into the kitchen.
'Nothing, why?'
'You're standing there with your apron on, crying, that's why.'
Lynn smiled. 'Onions, that's all.' She tilted up her face to be kissed.
Resnick cast his eyes over the assembled ingredients. 'Sure you know what you're doing?'
'I daresay I'll manage.'
'Don't forget to brown-'
'I said, I'll manage.'
Resnick backed away. 'In that case, I'll have a quick shower.'
'Time enough for a bath, if you want.'
'Sounds good to me.'
Chicken sizzling away in the pan with the garlic and the onions, she took him up a glass of Scotch and set it on the edge of the tub.
'I can't see any wine,' she said.
'There's a couple of bottles of White Shield, if you fancy beer.'
'Why not?'
She took a quick glance at herself in the mirror, but it was clouded with steam.
Forty minutes later, having remembered to warm the plates, she was about to serve dinner when she heard Resnick's voice from the other room.
'What's all this?'
'All what?'
'Flowers. Roses.'
'Hang on a minute.'
Lynn carried the plates through to the dining table. Resnick had set a compilation of West Coast jazz he'd picked up cheaply playing on the stereo.
'Got a secret admirer, then?' Resnick said, grinning.
'No secret.' She showed him the card.
'Who's this?' Resnick asked, having read it. 'Stuart D.?'
'You remember that SOCA conference I went to last year?'
'Uh-hum.'
'He was one of the speakers. Stuart Daines.'
'And he sent these?'
'Yes.'
'Maybe you should come and work for us instead?'
'That's what it says.'
'Funny way of recruiting.'
'I don't think it's altogether serious.'
'A lot of roses for someone who isn't serious.'
Lynn's turn to grin. 'Not jealous, Charlie, are you?'
'Should I be?'
'What do you think?'
'I just don't remember you saying much about him at the time, that's all.'
Lynn cut off a piece of chicken. 'There wasn't much to say.'
'Good-looking, is he?'
'I suppose so. In a pared-down George Clooney sort of way. A bit taller, probably.'
Resnick nodded. 'Nothing special, then?'
'Not really.'
For several minutes they ate in silence. Chet Baker faded into something more sprightly, Bob Brookmeyer and Jimmy Giuffre playing 'Louisiana,' an old favourite Resnick hadn't listened to in years.
The youngest of the cats was hovering hopefully beneath the table, rubbing its back from time to time against one of the legs.
'This is good.' Resnick indicated his plate.
'Don't sound so surprised.'
'I didn't mean-'
'Yes, you did.'
He grinned. 'I'm sorry.'
'So you should be.'
He poured what was left of the White Shield into her glass.
'Preliminary forensic report came through from Huntingdon as I was leaving. Gun was firing home-packed bullets using discarded empty rounds. Lethal enough, but they don't have the same power.' He pointed at her with his fork. 'Hence the bruised, not broken ribs.'
'Didn't help Kelly Brent.'
'No. No, it didn't.'
'How about the make of gun?' Lynn said. 'Anything on that?'
'Converted air pistol, most likely.'
'Brocock?'
'That's what they're thinking.'
'Cheaper than chips a while back. Could well be.'
Resnick nodded. It was just such a weapon that young Bradford Faye had used to avenge his sister, a Brocock ME38 Magnum, his for?115, the deal set up in the back room of a pub, money changing hands there and then and the weapon handed over in the car park later that evening, by a kid who couldn't have been more than eight or nine. With a mandatory minimum sentence of three years for sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds found carrying guns, underage gunrunners were being used more and more.
'Seconds?' Lynn indicated Resnick's virtually empty plate.
'No, thanks, I'm fine.'
'You sure? There's another piece of chicken. Some more rice.'
'Oh, go on, then.'
'How's the rest of it going?' Lynn asked when she came back in.
'Falling-out over a lad at the heart of it. DJ called Brandon Keith. According to Joanne Dawson, he'd dumped Kelly for her a week or so back, and Kelly'd taken it badly. Said a few things about Joanne which were, shall we say, less than charitable, some of them finding their way onto a few walls near where Joanne lives. As a result of which-and, again, this is Joanne's version-she suggested herself and Kelly meet and have a little chat, clear the air, so to speak.'
'And brought along a few friends for company.'
'Yes. And Kelly did the same.'
'Radford versus St. Ann's. Nice.'
'Still, from what Joanne said, what started out as a lot of verbals turned nasty when Kelly produced a knife. Thirteen stitches to one side of her face to prove it, to say nothing of another seven or eight in her arm.'
'And we're thinking it was one of her crew had the gun?'
