Howard Brent putting out a contract on Lynn, a price on her head-did he believe that? No more than Ryan Gregan did, he thought. Aside from anything else, if it were true, then news of it would have got back to Karen Shields and she would surely have told him.
Then again, perhaps not.
He rang Anil Khan's number, but the line was busy; the same with Michaelson. Catherine Njoroge answered promptly. If she had any doubts about talking to Resnick concerning the investigation, they didn't show. He told her what Gregan had said about Howard Brent, and she said, no, no rumours of any kind of contract had come her way; she could ask some of the squad to check with their informants, but, like Resnick, she thought if there were anything to it, it would have surfaced before now. Perhaps Gregan had pulled it out of thin air, she suggested, something to keep Resnick interested.
'Yes,' Resnick said, 'I expect you're right.'
There was a small silence, and then Catherine asked if he had a date yet for the funeral.
'Three days' time,' Resnick said. 'Friday.'
'I'd like to come if I could. If I can arrange the time. I didn't know her well, Lynn, but-'
'Of course,' Resnick said. 'That'd be fine. She'd have been pleased.'
Air caught in his throat and he swallowed hard.
'I'll be in touch,' Catherine said and rang off.
Resnick found another topcoat and a dry pair of shoes.
The rain had petered to a slow drizzle, little more than a misting in the air, and there was a vestige of a rainbow, faint over the city. The gutters were awash with running water, the pavements slick underfoot. By the time he'd reached the centre, he was ready for coffee and bought one from Atlas in a takeout cup. In the music shop, Marcus stood chatting to two black youths sporting ear studs and gold chains who took one look at Resnick and, sussing him for what he was, left without another word.
Marcus recognised Resnick right off from the time he'd interrupted the procession and mumbled something barely audible as he moved back behind the counter.
Resnick rested his coffee cup on a stack of CDs and flipped through one of the adjoining racks, lifting a CD out with finger and thumb, glancing at it and letting it slip back down.
'There's a sign,' Marcus said abruptly, coating his nervousness with belligerence. 'There. On the door. No food or drink.'
'I'm sorry,' Resnick said. 'I'll be careful.'
'Spill something there and stuff'll get ruined. You'll have to pay.'
'Detective Inspector Kellogg,' Resnick said, 'the police officer who was shot. I heard something interesting today. Your father offering a large sum of money to have her killed.'
'That's stupid,' Marcus scoffed. 'That's a stupid fuckin' lie. Why'd he do somethin' like that?'
'He blamed her for your sister's death.'
'Yeah, right. Still don't mean he'd go'n do that. That's like The Sopranos or somethin', i'n it? 'Sides'-he looked at Resnick full on for the first time-'wanted her dead, he'd've done it himself.'
'And did he?'
'Yeah. 'Cept he was in Jamaica, i'n it?'
'And Michael?'
Marcus jumped. 'What about Michael?'
'Where was he?'
'I dunno. Down London, isn't he? Learning to be this hotshot lawyer an' shit.'
'Only when the police tried to get in touch with him, to ask about your father, they couldn't find him. Left a note at his college, went round to where he lives. No one seemed to know where he was.'
'Off somewhere, i'n it, being too clever for fuckin' words. Anyway, you don't reckon he'd have nothin' to do with some-thin' like that. Mister High-an'-fuckin'-mighty.'
'You don't like him.'
Marcus shrugged. 'He's my brother, i'n he?'
'You're close?'
'What d'you think?'
'How about your father-is Michael close to your father?'
'My old man, he reckons the sun shines out of Michael's black arse,' Marcus said scornfully.
Resnick nodded and looked around. 'Blues, you got any blues? I was listening to this singer earlier. Joe Turner? I don't suppose you've got anything like that?'
Marcus looked at him questioningly, not certain if he were having him on.
'There's a few things over there.' He pointed towards the corner, close to the wall. 'Took 'em in part exchange.'
There were no more than a dozen CDs, and Resnick looked through them quickly. Muddy Waters. Johnny Winter. At the back, propping up the rest, was a DVD: Warming by the Devil's Fire, a film by Charles Burnett. Lightnin' Hopkins, Big Bill Broonzy, Dinah Washington, Bessie Smith.
'How much for this?' Resnick asked.
'Ten.'
Resnick raised an eyebrow.
'Okay. Eight. Make it eight. Eight quid, okay?'
Resnick handed over a ten-pound note and waited for his change, Marcus still not able, quite, to look him in the eye.
'You want a bag?'
Resnick shook his head. 'Thanks,' he said, careful to pick up his coffee as he made for the door.
Mid-evening. Karen and Mike Ramsden were in the pub. They had been there a while. After no little difficulty and some heavy-duty interference from Assistant Commissioner Harkin, Graeme Dixon of the Met's Central Task Force had agreed to a meeting the following afternoon.
Karen had been thinking about Resnick's doubts and assertions off and on throughout the day. Even if there were anything in what Andreea Florescu had told Lynn about Daines and the Zoukas brothers, he could have been using them, playing a clever game, leading them on until the trap clamped shut when they were snug inside it. Then again, Daines might have got too close and somehow been drawn in beyond his depth. It wasn't impossible, such things had happened before. If that were the case, Karen thought, he could conceivably have assisted in the intimidation of witnesses, though without evidence that was asking a lot to believe.
But did it go beyond that?
And how?
The fact that the gun which had killed Lynn Kellogg was of the same type the Zoukas brothers were supposedly trafficking was an interesting coincidence, but no more; making any kind of stronger link was way too much of a stretch. And besides-big question-what had Viktor Zoukas or his brother, or Daines for that matter, to gain from Lynn's death?
Some private satisfaction?
Petty revenge?
She didn't know: right now, she didn't know very much.
Ramsden was drinking pints of bitter with whisky chasers, a slightly glazed look coming to his eyes. 'You know what we were talking about before?' he said. 'All that Dixon of Dock Green stuff?'
Karen waited for what was coming.
'I saw the film a month or so back, where it all started. Dixon. Before the telly. The Blue Lamp? Some afternoon I was off duty. There's this scene, right? He walks right up to this young tearaway with a gun, Dixon, calm as you like, uniform, helmet, telling him, you know, put it down. Kid's losing it, practically pissing himself. 'Drop it, I say,' Dixon says. 'Don't be a fool.' Kid panics and pulls the trigger. Dixon, he doesn't believe it. Next minute he stops breathing.' Ramsden shook his head. 'When was that? Fifties, sometime. Copper getting shot, back then, practically unheard of. And now the bastards don't panic. They take fucking aim.'
He shuddered with exasperation.
'You're a doom merchant, Mike,' Karen said. 'Victor Meldrew in spades. Why look on the bright side, when you can be bloody miserable?'
