for fourteen years.'
Karen nodded. 'He was released early February.'
'And you think-'
'Convicted murderer, possibly bearing a grudge.'
Resnick shook his head. 'Barry Fitzpatrick was a coward who wouldn't say boo to the proverbial goose unless he was drunk, and even then he was never really violent. Doubt if he's ever held a gun in his life, never mind fired one. What happened to that old lady, that was out of fear, nothing else. And to think of him going after Lynn to get at me, well, prison might have changed him, sharpened him up, even, but not that much. Not ever.'
'Tick that one off, then.'
'I think so.'
Karen looked at her watch.
'What are you going to do about Daines?' Resnick asked.
'Am I going to do something?'
'I don't know.'
'Let me think about it, Charlie.'
'Okay.'
She reached for her bag, but he raised a hand. 'Coffee's on me.'
'Thanks.' She took a step away. 'Words of advice?'
'Yes?'
'Go home. Paint the house, inside and out. Take a holiday. Give yourself time. 'Unfit for duty,' it means what it says.'
In the short distance between the Victoria Centre and the police station, the heavens opened, and by the time Karen was safe inside, she was half-drenched, her hair in rats' tails.
'Turned out nice,' Ramsden said, amused.
'Fuck off, Mike.'
'Now or later?'
'Later.'
She gave him the gist of her conversation with Resnick and he listened attentively, nodding here and there, frowning at others.
'What do you think?' she asked when she'd finished.
He jutted his head to one side. 'It's not as if we're not following that line already.'
'What we've been doing is looking for Bucur and the woman and getting nowhere.'
'You've got a better idea?'
Karen nodded. 'We might try getting at it from a different angle. Dixon, DCI, ring any bells?'
'Dixon? Dock Green? Bit long in the tooth by now, isn't he?'
'Very funny.'
'Used to watch that, you know,' Ramsden said. 'As a kid. Saturdays, wasn't it? Dixon of Dock Green. Saturday teatime.' He laughed. 'Now there's a real old-fashioned copper for you.'
'Your inspiration, was he, Mike?' Karen sounded amused. 'What made you want to join the Force?'
'Get out of it! Sweeney, that's what did it for me. Jump in the motor, chase some villain halfway 'cross London, bang him up against the wall, get a couple of good whacks in when he tries to run. 'Right, son, you're nicked.''
'I can just see it. But just for now, if you could see your way to doing something more pedestrian, why not get on to Dixon for me. Central Task Force. See if he'll agree to a meeting.'
Ramsden whistled. 'Playing with the big boys.'
'They handle most firearms trafficking. Won't hurt to see what he's got to say, even if it means Daines finding out we're going behind his back. If he has got anything to hide, it even might shake him up a little. Gets panicky, he might always do something foolish, give something away. And if not-well, a few bruised feelings, soon smooth over.'
'Okay, I'll get to it.' At the door, Ramsden paused. 'Resnick,' he said, 'now he's passed along this latest brainstorm of his, you really think he's going to sit back and let us get on with it?'
Karen didn't answer.
Thirty-five
Resnick met Ryan Gregan at the same spot in the Arboretum as before, but the continuing downpour soon drove them into the bandstand, and then, with the wind whipping the rain almost horizontally against their legs, farther downhill to stand huddled up against the wall, taking what shelter they could from the overhanging trees.
'Some old weather, eh?' Gregan said, something of a gleam in his eye. 'Reminds me of Belfast, when I was a kid. Manchester, too. Followin' me round, d'you think?'
Resnick had already asked him if he'd picked up any scuttlebutt about Brent, anything that tied him into Lynn's death, but Gregan had heard nothing. Rumours, sure. There were always those. There was one, for instance, going round that Howard Brent had put a price on Lynn's head-five K according to one, ten another-but all that, Gregan assured him, was nothing more than fanciful talk.
'You're sure of that? Positive?'
Solemnly, Gregan made the sign of the cross over his heart.
Resnick asked him about the gun.
'Baikal, is it? Baltic somewhere. Lithuania? Gas pistols, that's all they are. Till some bright spark does a bit of remodelling. Lethal then.'
'Any around on the street?'
'Here? I don't think so. Manchester, before I left, a few on sale there. Not cheap. Six, seven hundred each. Be more now.' He grinned. 'Natural rise in inflation. Like the bloody rain.'
'You're certain you've not seen any here, in the city?'
'Said so, didn't I?'
'Nor talk of any?'
Gregan gave him a look. 'Is this the gun that…' He let the question dribble free.
'Yes,' Resnick said.
'I'll do what I can, Mr. Resnick. There's one or two people owe me favours. I'll see if I can't call them in.'
'You've got my number?'
'Mobile, is it?'
Resnick nodded.
'Then I have.' Gregan pulled his coat collar up higher against his neck and stepped out into the full force of the rain.
Resnick turned and walked back along the path that would take him to the Mansfield Road; his trousers were sticking, cold, to his legs and his coat was sodden: getting wetter wasn't going to make any difference. There was a slender band of light on the horizon, but, as yet, the rain showed little sign of slackening. Not for the first time, he was grateful he lived on higher ground. Those with houses down close by the Trent would already have their cellars full of water and be taking their best pieces of furniture to the upper floors.
Out on the main road, he saw a taxi approaching and raised a hand and the driver, after a hasty glance, swerved to a stop at the kerb, sending a wash of water spraying up around Resnick's legs.
Home, he stripped off all his clothes and stood a good five minutes under a hot shower before drying himself briskly down and dressing. Some of his wet things he draped over the tub, others he hung inside the airing cupboard; his shoes he stuffed with old newspaper. For once, he fancied tea, not coffee. From the shelves, he fished out an album of Kansas City jazz, upbeat and bluesy, his friend Ben Riley had once sent him from the States. Between the cupboard and the fridge, there were the makings of a serious sandwich.
