'Likely. Long way from what she's saying, though, Joanne.' Resnick eased back his chair. 'Claims no one she knew was carrying a gun. Didn't really see the shooter, no idea who he was. Not one of her mates, she's certain of that.'
'You'll talk to her again?'
'Oh, yes.'
'How about this Brandon?'
'On his way down to Bristol when it happened, spot of DJing in a club down there. Really cut up about what happened to Kelly, close to tears talking about it to Anil, apparently.'
'He backed up Joanne's story, though? The row between her and Kelly.'
'After a fashion. 'Joanne Dawson,' he said. 'That skank. I only did her 'cause she was beggin' for it.''
'Nice man.'
'Charming.'
'You want apple pie? There's some left from last night.'
'Why not?'
After washing up and clearing away, they read the paper, watched television; Resnick listened to some more music, reading for the second time a book by Bill Moody about Chet Baker, while Lynn took a bath. She was just coming back into the room in her dressing gown when the phone rang.
'Probably another of your well-wishers,' Resnick said as Lynn lifted the receiver.
'Watch your back, bitch.' And the line went dead.
Six
He waited till mid-morning, the first time he could really get away, anger still simmering inside him. When he arrived at the house, it was empty, no one answering the door. He was just leaving when a neighbour looked up from cleaning his car and told him where they were. Resnick thanked him and went across the street, walked a little way down and waited some more.
It wasn't long till he saw them: the Brent family making their way back from a two-minute silence at the spot where Kelly had been killed.
Several dozen friends and neighbours walked behind them in a slow procession, teenage friends of Kelly's clutching stuffed animals and bouquets of flowers, a local councillor and the minister from the Baptist church bringing up the rear.
Howard Brent was immaculate in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, his only adornment a diamond stud in his left ear. His wife, Tina, walked beside him, head down, the spirit drained out of her. Behind them, the two sons, Michael and Marcus, stared ahead, serious-faced. Michael, with his glasses and his small goatee, reminded Resnick of photographs of a young Malcolm X.
If Brent noticed Resnick amongst the bystanders who were standing here and there along both sides of the street, watching the procession file past, he gave no sign.
Resnick waited until they had arrived at the house, Tina and the younger boy going immediately inside, while others stood shaking Brent's hand and offering a few last words of condolence and sympathy.
Within minutes, only a dozen or so, including the Baptist minister, remained, spreading from the pavement out into the street. Most of the onlookers had drifted away.
As Resnick walked towards them, Michael Brent detached himself from the group and stood directly in front of him, blocking his path.
Automatically, Resnick reached for his warrant card. 'I'm-'
'I know who you are,' Michael said, cold contempt in his eyes.
'I need to talk to your father.'
'My father is busy. This is not the right time.' The young man's voice was loud and firm.
'I still need-'
Marcus pushed past his elder brother. 'What? You deaf, i'n it? Not the right fuckin' time.'
'Marcus!' Howard Brent's voice stopped the youth in his tracks. 'Get inside.'
'I-'
'Inside. Now.'
Marcus scowled and slouched away.
'Now,' Howard Brent said, moving to stand at his elder son's shoulder, 'what seems to be the trouble?'
'I've told him he's not welcome here,' Michael Brent said.
'Two minutes,' Resnick said. 'That's all I need.'
'And I said no.'
'Michael.' Brent placed a hand on his son's elbow. 'It's all right. Please go back into the house.'
'You know you don't have to-'
'Michael, please. Look to your mother.'
The young man stared hard at Resnick, then walked away.
'This so important you have to come here now?' Brent glanced round. 'My family, my friends.'
'Last night,' Resnick said, 'you made a call.'
'I what?'
'You called my house and left a message. A message for the person I live with.'
'I dunno what you talkin' about,' Brent said.
'You don't remember what you said?' The colour was rising on Resnick's face, his body tense. ''Watch your back, bitch.' That's what you said.'
'You're crazy.' Brent began to turn away. 'Crazy.'
Resnick stopped him with a hand against his chest. 'Three years, wasn't it? What you went down for? Aggravated assault. Beating some poor bastard within an inch of his life.'
A smile crossed Brent's face, as if remembering what he had done. 'He asked for it,' he said. 'And that was a long time ago. Another life, you understand?'
Resnick moved closer. 'Lynn Kellogg. You come near her, try to speak to her, you as much as walk down the same side of the street, I'll have you inside so fast, your feet won't touch the ground.'
'What charge?'
'Any charge I like.'
'You threatening me?' Brent said. 'In front of all these people, you're threatening me?'
'A warning, that's all.'
For a long moment, Brent held his stare. 'We done here?' he said then, stepping back. ''Cause I got friends waiting. The minister, come to pay his respects.'
Smile replaced by a sneer, he turned away.
'For God's sake, Charlie, what were you thinking?'
They were facing one another in Bill Berry's office, the room untidy, impersonal, as if the Detective Superintendent had merely borrowed it for the afternoon.
'What the hell got into you? Accusations without a shred of proof. Threats in front of a dozen witnesses. Like some cowboy.'
Resnick shrugged heavy shoulders.
'Letting your feelings run amok.'
'He needed telling,' Resnick said.
'There are ways.'
'That was my way.'
'Jesus, Charlie! Conflict of interest, remember? You and Lynn.' Berry pushed both hands up through his hair and sighed. 'Sit down, for Christ's sake.'
'If I'm on the carpet-'
'And don't be clever. Just sit the fuck down.'
