'Brent moved back about five years ago, since which time he's got himself involved in a couple of local businesses, part shares in a Caribbean restaurant in Hyson Green and some gimcrack record shop in Hockley. Both aboveboard as far as we can tell, but might be worth taking a look.'
Berry paused and scanned the room. 'More importantly to us, he's got something of a record. A twelve-month suspended sentence for possession of a class C drug back in '89, and a three-year stretch for aggravated assault.'
'Explains why he's not been home much,' one of the officers at the back remarked.
Laughter all round.
'So,' Berry continued, 'if Mr. Brent doesn't keep his head down and his mouth closed, I'll have the Press Office pull the rug from under him so fast, he won't know if he's on his head or his arse.'
More laughter.
The DS looked towards Resnick. 'Charlie, you want to bring us up to speed?'
Resnick positioned himself in front of a diagram showing the immediate area where the incident had taken place.
'Fortunately for us,' Resnick said, 'there were three CCTV cameras in operation at the time of the murder. One, here, at the side of Gordon House; another farther back along Cranmer Street, the direction from which DI Kellogg would have approached; and lastly, here, on St. Ann's Hill Road, just short of the intersection.
'What seems clear is that one group of youths, a number wearing Radford colours, made their way into St. Ann's along Forest Road East and Mapperley Road and entered Cranmer Street at its western end, here. They then met with a group of similar size from St. Ann's-we're talking around a dozen to fifteen-some of whom came along Cranmer Street from the other end, some cutting up alongside these houses here, where there's a lot of rebuilding going on, on St. Ann's Hill Road.'
'Prearranged, then, sir?' Anil Khan asked.
'Looks that way.'
'Turf war,' Frank Michaelson said.
'Could be.'
'Radford and St. Ann's,' Bill Berry remarked. 'Never mind the Montagues and the bloody Capulets. Not as dead set against one another as St. Ann's and the Meadows, maybe, but close enough.'
'According to DI Kellogg,' Resnick said, 'the shooter was wearing a black-and-white bandana, which, as we know, are Radford gang colours.'
'Could be a Notts fan,' someone suggested jokingly.
'Anything to do with County, he'd have bloody missed,' someone else called out.
More laughter, especially from the Forest fans in the room, Resnick, despite his allegiances, smiling along with the rest.
'Tracking down the gunman,' he said, 'that's obviously our priority. DI Kellogg will be working with a sketch artist later today, to see what they can come up with. We've spoken to Joanne Dawson, the girl who was injured before the shooting, and we'll need to talk to her again.
'Beyond that, we want as full a list as possible of all those present at the scene, those names checked through the computer, connections traced. You know the drill. Which means, aside from going frame by frame through the CCTV, talking to any local residents who might have been home, along with students from the university flats.'
'Likely in bed asleep,' someone said. 'Lazy bastards.'
'Questions?' Resnick said.
'Anything yet from Forensics on the type of gun?' Steven Pike asked.
'I spoke to Huntingdon this morning,' Bill Berry said. 'They've promised something by the end of the day. Note the 'promised.''
He rolled an invisible pinch of salt between finger and thumb and threw it over his shoulder for good luck.
'There's one last thing,' he said. 'If this is part of a gang war, we'd best be braced for what's to follow. Radford takes out someone from St. Ann's, it won't be long before St. Ann's fights back. Revenge shootings, unless we're careful. Tit for tat. I'll talk to the powers that be about stepping up patrols, but they might say they're already doing what they can. So let's wrap this up fast before the proverbial hits the fan.'
Murmurs of agreement volleyed round the room.
'Okay,' Berry said, 'all of you. Off your backsides and get to work.'
By rights, Resnick thought, he should send Anil Khan off to talk to Kelly Brent's parents and keep himself back from the firing line; maybe go and see Joanne Dawson instead, see if he couldn't persuade her to be a little more cooperative. But the temptation to meet Howard Brent face-to-face, after the things he'd said about Lynn, was too strong.
After all, get you out of the office, that's what Bill Berry had promised, bit of real police work for a change. Well, the real police work, Resnick knew well enough, that was slow, laborious routine, check and double-check, two steps up, most often, and three steps back. But out and about, interviewing suspects and the like, that was, some might say, the icing on the cake.
Lynn couldn't shake it out of her mind. It didn't matter how many times she told herself to forget about it, just someone hogging the spotlight, venting his spleen.
Used my daughter as a shield. A human shield.
Sacrificed my daughter's life for her own.
She had been taken through it in the debriefing yesterday: had replayed the incident, time after time, in her mind.
Two girls facing each other at the centre of a rough circle, one of them, Kelly, armed with a knife. As Kelly jumped past her to attack Joanne, Lynn had grabbed hold of her sleeve and then her arm, applying pressure, forcing her arm upwards, Kelly all the while struggling, kicking, lashing back with her free hand-and then the youth with the gun stepping out from the crowd as Lynn, catching sight of the movement from the corner of her eye, had swivelled towards him, the movement taking Kelly with her, the gun aiming in her direction, the youth's eyes focussed, at that moment, on her. Her, and not Kelly, close alongside her? She couldn't be sure.
How possible was it that the gunman had been shooting indiscriminately into the crowd? How possible that both bullets had been intended for Kelly Brent rather than for her?
It had all happened so suddenly, so fast, Kelly and herself so close together. And then the impact of the bullet sending her staggering back, falling, arms flailing, leaving Kelly standing, exposed, in her place.
Used my daughter as a shield.
Consciously, unconsciously, could that have been what she had done?
Sacrificed my daughter's life for her own.
In the bathroom, bent low over the toilet bowl, Lynn retched until her throat was dry, each movement jarring her chest with pain.
Sombre suit, dark tie, Resnick sat uneasily on the thin cushions of the settee, Catherine Njoroge in a plain black trouser suit alongside him, the jacket with three-quarter sleeves and wide lapels; her hair tied back with purple ribbon, hands clasped in her lap.
Facing them, so close in the small room they could have reached out, almost, and touched, Kelly's mother, Tina, sat pinch-faced, stiff-backed, dark lipstick smudged across her pale face, alternately toying with the small silver crucifix that hung from her neck or picking at skin around her fingernails that was already plucked raw. The father, Howard, leaned back into a leather chair, legs crossed, sleeves of his grey sweatshirt pushed back above the elbow, a pair of ice blue Converse All Stars, unfastened, on his feet.
No one spoke.
A framed photograph of Kelly, head and shoulders, smiling, had pride of place on the tiled shelf above the fireplace, smaller family photographs to either side. There were others on the side wall and balanced on top of the wide-screen TV: Tina and the children, Kelly and her two older brothers, Michael and Marcus; Michael, the elder boy, the more prominent of the two.
Everything in the room was neat, dusted, in its place.
A home.
The last time Resnick had been in such a home, it had been to talk to a mother whose daughter had been
