'Of course I got bloody angry!'
'With her?'
Foley shook his head. 'First off, I thought it was, you know, tit for tat. Sauce for the goose, something like that. But then it was more. More, and I was out on my ear for bloody good.'
'You didn't like that.'
He looked at her as if it were a question not worth answering.
'You kept trying to get Christine to change her mind. Rowed in public. Shouted. Argued.'
'She wouldn't let me into the house.'
'So you shouted at her in the street.'
'It was the only way to get her to see sense.'
'Not just in the street, the shops, the supermarket.'
'Her fault for locking the door in my face.'
'She was within her rights.'
'What about my rights?'
'You threatened her.'
'Never. Shouted, maybe. Lost my temper, all right. But I never raised a hand to her. And I never threatened to, never.'
''If I can't fucking have you, no other bastard will.''
'What?'
'It's what you said.'
'When? Where?'
'One evening, outside the house. Little more than a week before she was killed.'
'No.'
''If I can't fucking have you, no other bastard will.''
'No way. No fucking way. I'd never've said that, not to her. Not in a million years.'
'You were heard.'
'Yes? Who by?'
Lynn lifted out a copy of the statement. 'A neighbour. Evelyn Byers. Lives across the street.'
'Nosy cow.'
'Thursday evening. The week preceding the murder. Says she knows it was Thursday because that's the evening her daughter always comes round. Heard the shouting and went to the window to see what was going on.'
'I'll bet she did.'
'And that's when she heard you.'
'And when was this again? Thursday? Thursday before?'
'Yes.'
'Then, no. Can't have been. She might have heard somebody, but it wasn't me. I was in Portsmouth. Gone down about a job. New job, change of scene. Living so close, driving me round the twist. I went down that morning, the Thursday morning. Drove. Interview in the afternoon, dinner that night with the sales manager and a couple of the staff. Here'-he took a personal organiser from the inside pocket of his suit-'names and numbers-you can check.'
'And it checked out?' Resnick asked.
'In detail,' Lynn said.
It was not so long after eight thirty in the evening, neither of them with time nor inclination to cook, and they were sharing a takeaway from one of the Indian restaurants on the Mansfield Road. Lamb passanda and chicken korma, saag aloo and brinjal bhajee, fried rice and naan bread, plus an assortment of pickles from the cupboard and the fridge. In the absence of any more Worthington White Shield, they split a large bottle of Hoegaarden between them.
Resnick said, 'You have to ask why it never came up before.'
Lynn shrugged. 'Nobody asked the right question. I've looked at the tape of the original interview. The words the wit ness claims she heard being used-they were never put to him directly.'
'So what now?'
'We're checking it out. But I've been out there. It must be twenty, twenty-five metres at least between the witness's upstairs window and the Foleys' front path. Plus, it would have been dark. The nearest streetlight is a good thirty metres away.'
Resnick helped himself to some more lamb. 'And this witness, she's how old?'
'Sixty-plus.'
'So her eyesight's likely not what it used to be.'
'Exactly.'
'It could have been anybody standing there having a slanging match with the victim. Anybody who fits the same basic description.'
'Which the new boyfriend does, apparently. Younger, but around the same height, same darkish hair worn quite short.'
Resnick speared a piece of chicken with his fork. 'You're talking to him, too?'
'Tomorrow.'
'You going to eat that last piece of naan?'
'No, go on.'
'It's all right, keep it. You have it.'
'For heaven's sake, take it.'
'All right. Thanks.'
'Maybe next time we should order two.'
'We tried that. Ended up with most of the second one getting thrown away.'
Lynn poured herself some more beer. 'It's an inexact science, ordering Indian takeaway.'
'Bit like police work, then.'
She smiled. 'Anything new on the fire?'
'Not as yet. Tomorrow, most like.'
Lynn nodded. Tomorrow. Another day.
Sixteen
Some of the old industrial buildings in the centre of the city had been left to decay slowly and now harboured little beyond floors thick with pigeon waste, an infestation of rats, and the occasional body burned almost beyond recognition; others had been eviscerated and reborn as luxury flats and waterside bars, or health clubs with cybercafes and solariums, personal trainers and corporate-membership schemes.
The club where Dan Schofield worked was housed in one of the old low-level railway-station buildings close by the canal. He had hesitated only momentarily when Lynn had phoned: eleven thirty would be fine.
Several young women slicked past her on their way to an hour or so of ergonomically calibrated exercise-an aqua workout in the pool maybe, or a little holistic tai chi-each one fashionably dressed for the occasion, makeup perfectly in place. In her blue-black jeans, black cotton top she'd had for more years than she cared to remember, short corduroy jacket and clumpy shoes, Lynn felt just a smidgeon out of place.
Beyond the enquiry desk, a tanned individual in an official health-club vest and eye-wateringly tight shorts was flexing his muscles for all to see.
'Dan Schofield?'
He shook his head without breaking a sweat.
'He's around somewhere. You'd best ask at the desk.'
She did. A quick call and Schofield appeared. Late twenties? Round about the same age Christine Foley had been when she died. And where the man she'd seen first was all overdeveloped muscle and curly dark hair, Dan
