Lynn almost approached the wrong man, before she spotted Marius, standing close to the window of the buffet, glancing distractedly at the copy of the Telegraph folded in his hand. He was wearing a blue blazer, grey trousers with a deep crease, black brogue shoes that shone. There was a smart, double-strapped, leather suitcase at his side.
'Marius?' Lynn said softly, so softly that he only just heard.
'Hmm? I'm sorry?' He looked at a youngish woman, with brown hair cut, he thought, rather savagely short. A round face that seemed, somehow, to have sunk, like early-punctured fruit.
'Is your name Marius?'
'Marius Gooding. Yes, why? Have we met? You'll have to forgive me, I don't remember.'
What she was taking from her pocket was her warrant card.
'I'm a police officer. Detective Constable Kellogg. I…'
He was still smiling his well-mannered, tentative smile when he struck out, the arm that held the newspaper jerking towards her face. For an instant, Lynn was lost in tall pages of newsprint, crisp and self-righteous editorials, as Marius followed up his blow with a push and took to his heels. Twenty yards along the platform, heading for the stairs, he collided with an elderly couple, loaded down with walking boots, binoculars and rucksacks, off for a day in the Peaks. Spinning around, close to losing his footing, Marius started off again in the opposite direction, aiming for the far side of the buffet, the steps that would take him up to the bridge and the open car park, the streets beyond.
Lynn positioned herself well, feet firmly set; she made a grab for his upper arm, ducking beneath his. open hand as he made to fend her off. Her fingers grasped the sleeve of his coat and held fast Marius's impetus rocked Lynn back, but not totally off-balance.
Buttons sprang free as threads snapped.
Most of the people waiting on the platform had ceased worrying about their train. Fingers pointed; cries of 'There!'
'There!' and 'Look!'
A black porter, white- haired, too small for his blue-black uniform, hovered anxiously, wanting to do something but unsure what.
Lynn ducked again under a nailing arm and tightened her grip on Marius's opposite wrist, forcing it high towards the middle of his back.
Marius gasped with sudden pain.
'Go on, duck,' someone called admiringly.
'You show 'im right and proper.'
Releasing one of her hands, but not the pressure, Lynn caught hold of Marius's hair, just long enough at the back to give her leverage.
Marius cried out as first one knee, then the other struck the concrete platform.
'Nesh bugger!' a voice came dismissively.
'Be scraightin' next, you see if he ain't.'
And, in truth, there were tears in the corners of Marius's eyes.
'Marius Gooding,' Lynn said, a little short of breath, 'I'm arresting you on suspicion of threatening behaviour…'
'That's ridiculous! When did I ever threaten…?'
'For assaulting a police officer and resisting araest.'
The socks matched: a perfect fit. The youth with the earrings and the shaved head had remembered finding the second sock, the one that Naylor had triumphantly discovered in the kitchen, but not exactly where. Somewhere on the stairs, he thought? Out in the yard? Anyway, he had assumed it belonged to one of the other lads (knowing it not to be his, his came from a stall in the market or at Christmas and birthdays from Marks and Spencer, via his parents) and had stuffed it in the washing machine along with an accumulated load. How it had ended up wedged where Naylor had found it, he had no idea, except, socks, well, almost as if they had a mind of their own.
The Coke can still contained minute traces of what Resnick was certain would prove to be crack cocaine.
And the blood on the silk blouse? If blood indeed were what it was?
Forensic tests would be carried out with as much haste as urgent calls from Resnick himself and Jack Skelton could engender. If the blood proved to match that of the late Peter Farleigh, they were as good as there, home free. If not. 'So, Charlie,' Skelton said, turning away from the window behind his desk, clear blue sky beyond the edge of the building outside.
'Are we there, do you think, or what?'
'Nudging close. Got to be. Business with the sock, could be coincidence, but that's asking a lot. Circumstantial, though, at best.'
'This, er, friend of hers Doris Duke. She'd give evidence about seeing the blood on Kinoulton's clothing, as well as her deteriorating mental state?'
Resnick shifted his weight in the chair. Close and yet still far.
'Maybe, though what credence the jury give to her, I don't know.
Something concrete, that's what we need. Positively linking Kinoulton with the attacks, any one of them. That's what we still don't have.
IfFarieigh's hotel room had given up a clearer print that'd be a start, but no. Smudge and fudge. I can lean on McKimber again, but he's got his own reasons for not wanting to get dragged in too far.
Desperate to get back with his wife and kids, poor bugger. '
Skelton coughed, a sudden, sharp attack and Resnick waited while it subsided.
'Course, if we could lay our hands on Kinoulton herself, ask her some questions direct, it might be a different picture.'
Skelton nodded neat agreement and nicked out the sides of his suit jacket before sitting back down.
'Not to fret, Charlie; something'!! turn up. '
Once his panic and anger had subsided, Marius Gooding had apologised so abjectly, his tongue must have tasted of the interview room floor.
Over and over. You have to believe, I've never done such a thing in my life. Never struck anybody at all, never mind a member of the opposite sex, a woman. No, Lyim, had observed, but you have done other things.
'What? What other things?'
One by one, she showed him the Polaroids that had been taken inside Dorothy Birdwell's hotel suite. Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!
Without further hesitation, Marius had demanded a phone call and a solicitor. The call was to Dorothy Birdwell, who listened patiently to his pleading and then hung up without answering.
The solicitor who arrived was actually a solicitor's clerk. Heather Jardine; a forty-three-year-old Scot, divorced with two teenage children, who had abandoned a stuttering career as a playwright and enrolled in evening classes in law. She knew Lyiin Kellogg fairly well they had been through this and similar procedures before and the two women treated one another with more than grudging respect.
Jardine made sure her client was aware of his rights, had been fairly treated and asked if he might not have a cup of tea.
Lynn waited for Kevin Naylor to join her and set the tape rolling, identifying those present in the room and the time.
'All right, Marius, why don't we talk about the incident with the rabbit first off?'
After a less than ten minutes of prevarication, Marius asked if he could speak to Heather Jardine alone. This allowed, he admitted the incident with the breakfast trolley, said that he had got it ready the previous day and had intended to leave it outside Cathy Jordan's door; seeing the trolley there, waiting to be taken into the room, he had elaborated his plans accordingly.
'And what was the point?' Lynn asked.
'I mean, why go through all of this rigamorole?'
Marius didn't reply immediately. Instead, he swivelled his head and asked Heather Jardine if he had to answer, and she said, no, he did not. Another few moments and he answered anyway.
'It was a symbol,' he said.
