Terry Brook got in touch with Resnick ahead of the Fire Investigator's report. Any doubts that the fire had been started accidentally could be dismissed. Some crude kind of petrol bombs had been used, hurled through windows at both the front and back of the house, more or less simultaneously.
The youth on whose floor Marcus Brent had allegedly slept was Jason Price, currently studying entry-level Music and Sound Technology at South Notts College and with two previous brushes with the police to his credit. Both youths worked in Marcus's father's music shop on Saturdays and in whatever spare time they could scrounge. Though the shop always stocked a certain amount of rap and reggae, dub was what it specialised in, what set it apart from the big chains and the independent opposition: rare vinyl alongside remastered versions of classic King Tubby and new recordings by bands like Groundation and Bedouin Soundclash.
When Anil Khan spoke to him, Price was surly and affable by turns: he and Marcus had been out with mates, just hanging out, i'n it? Then down to Stealth-DJ Squigley and Mista Jam. He didn't know nothin' about no fire, no Billy Alston, nothin'. Not till later, aw'right? Marcus came back and crashed at his crib like he sometimes did. Time, man? Come on, I dunno what time, but late, like, late, i'n it? Aw'right?
As alibis went, it was all vague in the extreme. They took them in for questioning, the pair of them, applying pressure where they could. Meantime, officers searched Price's flat for whatever they could find incriminating, hoping, if not something as obvious as an empty petrol can or a bottle of paint thinner, then clothing that had been splashed with petrol or still had a residual smell of smoke.
There was nothing.
Both Marcus and Jason stuck to their stories.
Disappointed, Khan thanked them for their cooperation, trying hard not to react to the smug grins on their faces.
Bill Berry caught Resnick on the way out and insisted on a catch-up over a pint. Make that two. By the time Resnick got home, Lynn was asleep on the front-room settee, head lolling to one side, half-drunk mug of tea grown cold on the floor alongside.
Resnick stood watching, his feelings for her such that, had she woken and seen them on his face, she might have been frightened by what they revealed. They spoke, neither of them, about their personal emotions a great deal.
It was 'love' and 'sweetheart,' a kiss in passing and a squeeze of the hand, a quick hug or cuddle, the reality of what each truly felt buried beneath the mundane and the day-to-day. A few weeks before, when the call had come through to say she had been shot, he thought he had lost her and, in that moment, his life had stopped, the blood refused to pump round his body.
She stirred and moved her head and, as she did, a small sliver of saliva ran from one corner of her mouth onto her cheek. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Resnick stooped and dabbed it away.
'Charlie?' As if from a dream, she blinked herself awake. 'I'm sorry, I must have dropped off.'
'No harm.' With a smile, he brushed the hair back from her face.
'D'you want something to eat?' he asked.
'I suppose I should.' With a small grunt of effort, she sat up straight.
'I'll see what I can find.'
Scraps. Bits and pieces of this and that. Small bowls of leftovers covered in cling film and pushed to the back of the fridge. He fried up some cooked potato with garlic and onion, added half a tin of cannellini beans and a few once-frozen peas, then sliced in some cold pork sausage from God-knows-when. In a bowl, he whisked up eggs with black pepper and a good shake of Tabasco, and, when everything else was starting to sizzle, poured the mixture over the top. The result, served with hunks of bread and the last knockings of a bottle of Shiraz, was close to a small feast.
'You're a wonder, Charlie.'
'So they say.'
'In the kitchen, at least.'
'Aye.'
It was a while before either of them spoke again, just the contented sounds of two people eating, with the occasional promptings from a hungry cat and in the background the brushed sound of Lester Young's saxophone, a track Resnick had set to play, Lester with Teddy Wilson, 'Prisoner of Love.'
'I talked to Dan Schofield today,' Lynn said. 'The man Christine Foley was living with when she was killed.'
'And?'
Lynn paused, her fork partway to her mouth. 'Nice enough bloke. On the surface, anyway.'
'You think he might be involved?'
'I'm not sure. If he is, I can't yet see how.'
'He's got an alibi?'
'Yes. Cast iron, so far.' She ate a piece of sausage. 'You know what I find fascinating? There's this woman, the dead woman, Christine. Attractive in a conventional kind of way. Reasonable education, a year or so of college. Works for a building society until her daughter's born, then, when she starts nursery, gets a part-time job behind the counter in a chemist's, thinks about possibly retraining as a pharmacist. Everything about her perfectly ordinary, and yet there are two men, about as different from one another as chalk and cheese, both of them in love with her, think she's the greatest thing since I don't know when and can't stand the thought of living without her.'
A grin came to Resnick's face.
'What?'
Still grinning, he shook his head.
'You think it's sex, don't you?' Lynn said. 'You think she was this incredibly passionate, inventive creature in the sack.'
'What I was thinking,' Resnick said, 'maybe she was a great cook. You know, the kind who can whip up astonishing dishes from almost nothing.'
Lynn laughed.
Resnick poured the last of the wine. 'Any idea what you're going to do next?'
'I don't know. Wash up? Do some ironing? Go to bed?'
'I mean about the investigation.'
'Oh, talk to a few of Christine Foley's friends, I think. People she worked with, try and get a different perspective.'
Leaning across the table, half out of his chair, Resnick kissed her on the lips.
'What was that for?' Lynn asked, surprised.
Smiling, Resnick shrugged. 'Good luck?'
Seventeen
Ryan Gregan had insisted they meet in the Arboretum, down near the pond and the bandstand. Just over the road from the cemetery, you know?
Resnick knew.
Many times, when he'd been stationed up at Canning Circus, he and his sergeant, the redoubtable Graham Millington, had eaten a quick sandwich lunch while staring at the elaborate tombstones, talking their way through whichever investigation was uppermost in their minds. Now Millington, a few years Resnick's junior, had wangled a transfer down to Devon, where his wife hailed from, and was doubtless cycling round the lanes that very moment, keeping an eye out for sheep rustlers while whistling his way through the Petula Clark songbook.
Resnick shuddered at the thought.
Not just the constant repetitions of 'Downtown' and 'Don't Sleep in the Subway,' but the prospect of all those high, winding hedges and undulating hills and fields. Lynn had been right: short term apart, the country was not for him. The other man's grass, in this case, not greener at all.
Gregan was sitting on one of the benches beyond the bandstand, shoulders hunched, rolling a cigarette. He
