it and willing the plot along to the next manic dance number, the next small explosion of action.
Gene Kelly, whom her mother adored, Lynn found far too smarmy and self-satisfied, always cheering at the moment when the young Debbie Reynolds punctures his complacency, at least temporarily, and brings him down to earth. Until, of course, he does the dance. The dance with the umbrella, in the rain. For that, Lynn thought, he could be forgiven more or less anything.
She had managed the walk into the city centre without any great discomfort, her ribs still a little sore, but her breathing relatively easy and untroubled. At the market she'd bought six small chorizo sausages in a vacuum pack and, from another stall, onions and celery and a flourish of parsley; at Tesco, DVD aside, she'd picked up a tin of crushed tomatoes to go with the one in the cupboard back home and another of chickpeas. And a small pot of sour cream.
If she managed to carry that lot back up the hill without aggravating her injury, she was well on the way to recovery.
Early evening she stood in the kitchen, half-listening to Radio 4, chopping onions and crying, wiping the tears away with her sleeve. Run the cold-water tap, that was her mother's remedy; Charlie favoured fresh air on his face from the open window; as far as Lynn was concerned there was no way round it, if you wanted onions you got tears.
She was just stirring in the pieces of sausage, the juices at the bottom of the pan slowly oozing orange, when she heard Resnick's key in the lock.
He stood for a moment inside the kitchen door, savouring the smell. 'I could get used to this, you know.'
'What's that?'
'You home here, doing the cooking.'
'Meal waiting for you after a hard day at the office.'
'That kind of thing.'
'How about everything dusted and Hoovered, the ironing done, shirts on their hangers?'
'Bloody perfection.'
'Here.' She slapped the wooden spoon down into the palm of his hand. 'Get stirring. I need a wee.'
Resnick fiddled with the tuner on the radio, searching for something other than educated chatter; the only alternatives seemed to be opera, what he believed was now called urban music, or garrulous oiks in love with the sound of their own voices. He switched off and concentrated on the stew.
'How's this?' he asked when Lynn returned, offering her a liberal tasting from the end of the spoon.
'You've added something.'
'Just a little paprika.'
'Hmm…'
'Too much?'
'I'm not sure.'
'By the time the sour cream's stirred in, it'll be fine.'
'If you say so.'
Resnick had bought a bottle of wine, which he opened now, reaching down for two large glasses from the shelf.
'Aren't you supposed to let it breathe?'
'Probably.'
They sat at the kitchen table, the cats weaving hopefully around their feet. The meal a far cry, Lynn was thinking, from what she had grown up with, her mother's scarcely varying rotation: roast chicken or a joint of lamb or beef at the weekend, cold meat or shepherd's pie on Monday; Wednesdays and Thursdays, cauliflower cheese or jacket potatoes, Fridays a nice bit of fish.
When Lynn had left home to live alone, she had existed on pasta and delivery pizza and supermarket salads shaken straight out of the packet and onto the plate. Living with Resnick had broadened her horizons in that area, at least. That and being able to tell Billie Holiday apart from Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan; sometimes she could even distinguish Ben Webster from Coleman Hawkins or Lester Young.
'How did it go today?' she asked. 'Any progress?'
'Some.'
She listened with interest while he told her about Ryan Gregan.
'The gun,' she said. 'It's not the same.'
'As was used on you and Kelly Brent? No. It's a semiautomatic, 9mm. Heavy bloody thing. Swiss, Gregan reckons. Swiss police or army. But odds are it's a Croatian copy.'
'And Gregan had it why?'
'Well'-Resnick speared a piece of chorizo with his fork-'the trouble with people like Gregan, so much of their life is spent lying, they can make more or less anything sound plausible. But what he says, he went back up to Newcastle for New Year's, see some mates, celebrate. He'd lived there for a while before moving down. New Year's Day, they were out having a quiet drink in this club, so they thought, and it all sets off. Gregan claims he doesn't know what started it, but the next minute everyone's getting stuck in. Pell-mell. One of his pals gets glassed in the face and Gregan smashes a bottle on the bar, wades in after the bloke who did it and takes out his eye. Like a soft-boiled egg, was how Gregan put it, right there inside an empty bottle of Newcastle Brown.'
Lynn lowered a mouthful of stew back onto the plate, uneaten.
'Next thing, the police are on their way and everyone scarpers, Gregan's back down here on the morning train. Couple of days later, one of his friends gets in touch. The blokes they clashed with know where he is, and they're out to get him back. Evil bastards, his pal says. So Gregan thinks he'd better get some protection. Goes out and buys a gun.'
'Just like that?'
Resnick shrugged. 'Not difficult. As you know.'
'A gun and-what was it? — seven hundred rounds of ammunition?'
'Give or take.'
'What's he want to do? Start a small war?'
'He says that was the deal. All or nothing.'
'And this was how long ago? The beginning of the year?'
'Yes.' Resnick broke off a piece of bread to wipe round his plate, mopping up the juice. 'Gregan says he tried to trade it back to the bloke he bought it from, but he'd disappeared. Done a bunk. That was when he started putting the word out he might be willing to sell.'
'That's what he does? Buys and sells guns?' Leaning across, Lynn refilled their glasses.
'Not above using them, too, if his record's anything to go by. But in this case, I think selling's right. Had a few people sniffing round, nothing definite, holding out for a good price, and then this Billy Alston comes to see him, all the usual haggling, but in the end it looks like they've got a deal. Hundred and fifty, cash. Comes to it, Alston's standing there with ninety quid and promises, trouble getting the rest, what if he takes delivery now, lets him have the remainder in a week's time? You can imagine what Gregan thinks of that. Tells the kid to get lost.' Bread consumed, Resnick licked his fingertips. 'Week later, Alston's back. Reckons something big's about to go down, some kind of bust-up with St. Ann's, and he'll give Gregan the hundred and fifty, no problem. They arrange a meet, and Alston shows up with half a dozen others and immediately starts trying to talk Gregan down in price. Gregan doesn't like being pissed around, doesn't appreciate being pressured, and gets out of there fast. Two days later, he hears there's been a shooting and Kelly Brent's been killed.'
'And he thinks it's down to Alston?'
'Got to be more than coincidence, that's what he said. Reckons Alston dropped his name in it because the deal went sour.'
'Gregan could be doing the same thing.'
'I know. But with a possession charge hanging over him, he'll want some solid ground. And we do know Alston was there, at the scene.'
'You're bringing him back in?'
'Alston? First thing.'
Lynn reached across for Resnick's empty plate and set it on top of her own. 'How's it been left with Gregan?'
