crack cocaine in the UK was at its height and gangs were moving in from Jamaica in large numbers. No matter how straight he might be now, if he had commissioned the shooting of Lynn Kellogg, it was likely he'd used whatever contacts he'd made in the past. And there were instances she knew, well documented, where a gunman had been brought into the country on a false passport, carried out two shootings, and been back on the plane twenty-four hours later.
'More coffee?' Resnick asked.
'No, thanks. I'm fine.'
'You're sure?' Resnick was half out of his chair.
'All right, then, go on. But if I start climbing walls later, you're to blame.'
The moment Karen, following Resnick, walked into the kitchen, both of the cats, who'd been waiting hopefully by their bowls, turned and fled.
'A clear case of colour prejudice if ever I saw one,' Karen said, amused.
'Tall, authoritarian women, they're not used to it.'
She laughed. 'Authoritarian, is that what I am?'
'You've got an air about you.'
'God knows, some days I need it. There's still enough men out there who don't like taking orders from a woman. And a black woman, especially. Though some of them might not admit it.'
Resnick nodded, rinsing the coffeepot under the tap.
'How about Lynn?' Karen said. 'How did she cope, being a woman in charge?'
'Okay, I think. People liked her, she earned their respect.'
'She'd got her promotion quickly.'
'It was deserved.'
'There wasn't any tension between the two of you? Professionally?'
Resnick put the base of the coffeepot aside. 'Was I jealous, do you mean?'
'I suppose so, yes. I mean-and correct me if I'm wrong-but you were already a DI when she started out.'
'And here I am, still a DI, and she's…' The words stuck in his throat. 'She was the same rank and likely to have been promoted higher.'
'Yes.'
'And you want to know how that made me feel?'
'Yes.'
'It made me feel proud. It didn't make me jealous, or angry. It didn't even make me feel bad about myself, as if somehow I was washed up or left behind. Okay? It didn't make me feel as if my masculinity was threatened, and it didn't mean I couldn't any longer get it up.'
He stared at her hard, just this side of losing his temper.
'That's what you wanted to know, isn't it? One of the things you've come to ask? How things were between us? Had I been taking the Viagra? Keeping her satisfied? Or had she been going over the side, having an affair? Had I? Maybe she was going to leave me, walk out? The second time in my life. How would that make me feel? Enough to push me over the edge? Enough to take her life?'
The blood had risen to his face, and his voice was loud and unsteady. His fists were still clenched, but down by his side.
'You're right. I have to know. I have to ask. In my position, you'd do the same.'
Resnick pushed his hands up through his hair. 'I know.'
'And things between you, they were okay?'
'I think we were happy enough, yes. Not ecstatic, not anymore. That doesn't last. And we both worked hard at what we did-Lynn especially. Long hours, stress, not much time to yourselves. You don't need me to tell you how that is. But there were no big traumas. Any little niggles, we ironed them out. An ordinary couple, I guess you'd say, just like lots of others.'
'Ordinary couples.' Karen smiled ruefully. 'I wonder if they really exist.'
'Well, if they do, that's what we were.'
The coffee was ready. Resnick dug out two folding chairs and carried them out into the garden. There was more warmth in the sun now, and only the flimsiest of clouds remained. Somewhere within earshot, someone was using an electric mower, having an early go at his lawn.
'This trip Lynn made to London,' Karen said, 'the afternoon before she was killed.'
Resnick told her the reason, filling in as much background as he felt she needed to know.
'You say she felt responsible. For this Andreea.'
'She thought she'd made promises she couldn't keep, yes. She felt guilty.'
'You don't know what happened when she was down there? With the girl?'
Resnick looked at her briefly and then at the floor. 'We didn't get the chance to discuss it.'
'I'm sorry.'
'No.'
'Every time I open my mouth-'
'It's okay. I think it even helps, in a way. Talking about her as if'-he glanced away-'I don't want to accept it. That she's gone. I want to believe any minute the phone's going to ring and it'll be her, saying she's sorry she's late, but something's come up and she'll be home soon.'
He turned his head sharply away and Karen sat there, knowing that he was crying and not knowing what to do or say, except that there was probably nothing, not then, and so she continued to sit there, waiting for him to pull himself together, wondering if there'd been any joy from ballistics or if any progress had been made with the prints from the abandoned car and if anyone had succeeded in tracking down Howard Brent.
'Where she went in London-Leyton, I think you said-d'you have an address?'
'There'll be one somewhere, in her notebook, most likely.'
'I've asked Anil Khan to check her movements.'
'He's a good man. Thorough.'
They both got to their feet.
'Cases she'd been working on,' Karen said, 'people she's helped put away, you can't think of anyone who might be harbouring a grudge, looking for some kind of payback?'
'No.'
'This business over the trial, the one that was abandoned-the SOCA officer involved, you don't know if he's still around?'
'Daines-it's possible. Likely.' A wry smile crossed Resnick's face. 'He sent her flowers. Lynn. When she came out of hospital. The Kelly Brent business.'
'He knew her well, then?'
'They'd met, some conference or other.'
Karen looked at him, another question on her lips, but let it ride.
'I had better go,' she said.
'You'll keep in touch,' Resnick said. 'Let me know.'
'Of course.'
Her mobile rang as she was getting into the car. Howard Brent had caught a Virgin Atlantic flight from London Gatwick to Jamaica on Sunday, March 4, two days before Lynn Kellogg was murdered.
Twenty-seven
Karen had called Catherine Njoroge over that afternoon, Catherine one of several detectives who had been reviewing the CCTV footage and pleased at any excuse to take a break.
'Howard Brent, you've been to the house, right?'
'Once, yes. With DI Resnick.'
'Good. This time you can come with me.'
