'Okay, Mark. Oh, and if Lynn's still there…'
But Lynn Kellogg was already in the doorway.
'Break- ins in the Park.
Five in total. Close enough to be the work of the same team. Several reports of an old post office van in the area, could have been using it to haul the stuff away in. '
Resnick nodded.
'Cool your heels on that for an hour, will you?
Fellow who was stabbed last night, he's out at Queen's, refusing to say a word. Get yourself down there, see what you can do. '
'Right, sir, will that be Mata Hari, then, or Florence Nightingale?'
Resnick looked at her carefully and she was a long way from smiling.
'Don't suppose I'm allowed to ask any more if it's the time of the month?' Millington said, after Lynn had closed the door.
'No, Graham. You're not.'
Millington shrugged inside his olive-green suit and sucked on his upper lip.
'This party I'm getting up to go to Trent Bridge, first Saturday of the Test, you've not changed your mind?'
But Resnick was already shaking his head. Watching County of a Saturday afternoon through the winter was one thing all the speed and excitement of plant germination, but at least it was over in an hour and a half. Whereas cricket. 'Oh,' Millington said, a last thought as he left Resnick's office.
'Skelton wants to see you. Something about shots 21 in the park?' And he was off, wandering in the direction of the teapot, lips puckered together as he whistled thoughtfully through the opening verse of
'Sailor*. An early hit of Petula's, but a good one.
Six When Resnick knocked and entered, Skelton was standing behind his desk looking at the first of several sheets of fax paper which were curling around his hand.
'Charlie, come on in.'
Resnick recognised neither of the other people in the room, a man and a woman rising to greet him, the man stepping forward with an uncertain smile.
'Charlie, this is David Tyrell, Programme Director of Shots in the Dark. Detective Inspector Resnick, CID.'
Tyrell was tall, taller than Resnick by an inch or more, bespectacled, his already slim body made slimmer by a suit that Resnick wagered cost more than a season ticket to County plus change.
'Inspector, good to meet you.'
Tyrell's handshake was strong, the eyes behind the glasses unblinking, but his skin had the pallor of someone who has spent too long out of the light.
'This is Mollie,' Tyrell said.
'My assistant.'
'Mollie Hansen. Assistant Director, Marketing.' Her grip was quick and cool and those five words enough to mark her as a Geordie, strayed from home. She stood there a moment longer, taking in Resnick with slate-grey eyes, the pinch of blood where he had nicked himself shaving, the speck of something yellow crusted to his lapel. A widening of her mouth, not yet a smile, and she stepped back scarlet T-shirt, Doc Martens, jeans.
'You know this festival, Charlie? The one Mr Tyrell's responsible for.'
Not really. '
Over by the side wall, Mollie Hansen sighed.
'Why don't we all sit down?' Skelton suggested.
'See what we've got.'
Tyrell crossed his legs, drew a cigarette packet from his pocket and, almost in the same gesture, pushed it back from sight.
'Shots has been running four years. It's a crime and mystery festival, films mainly, TV, more recently, books as well. Each year we invite special guests, stars, I suppose you'd call them, to some extent built the programme around them. You know, Quentin Tarantino, Sara Paretsky, people like that.'
Knowing neither of them, Resnick nodded. He felt the strength of Mollie Hansen's gaze, weighing him up for what she thought he was.
'This year,' Tyrell continued, 'we've got Curtis Woolfe. The director. His first public appearance in fifteen years. '
'Sixteen,' Mollie said quietly.
Tyrell ignored her and carried on.
'For the book side of things, we've managed to get Cathy Jordan to come over from the States. Which is great.'
'Except…' began Mollie.
'Except she's been receiving threatening letters.'
'Which is why we've come to you.'
Cathy Jordan, Resnick was thinking. Jordan. He wondered if he should know the name, wondered if he did. The last crime novel he'd tried to read had been an old Leslie Charteris found inside a chest of drawers he'd bought in an auction at the Cattle Market. He had never finished it Skelton was holding the faxed copies out towards him and Resnick stood and took them from his hand. The words were typed and faint, not easy to read.
You know, I really do think you've been allowed to pursue what is after all a very limited talent altogether too far.
It's one thing, of course, for people who should know better to be taken to the point where they will award you prizes, quite another for you to have the brazen effrontery to accept them.
Remember Louella Trabert, Cathy, remember what happened to her?
Resnick looked up,
'Louella Trabert?'
'She's in one of her novels,' Tyrell said.
'A character.'
'A victim,' Mollie said.
Resnick was watching her, the tilt of her chin, the flushing high on her cheeks.
'What does happen to her?' he asked.
'She gets dragged from a car in the middle of the night, with her children left strapped in the back seat. These guys haul her off into the woods, strangle and rape her. Next morning one of the kids gets free and finds her upside down, tied by her ankles to a tree, her body slit from neck to belly with a hunting knife. Gutted.'
'Not exactly,' Tyrell said.
'Jesus! How exact do you want it to be?'
Resnick glanced at the other letters and set them back down.
'You're taking these seriously? She's taking them seriously? Cathy Jordan.'
'Seriously enough to let us know,' Tyrell said.
'But not enough to prevent her coming.'
'They were posted in America?' Resnick asked.
Tyrell nodded.
'New York. Where she lives.'
'And she's no idea who sent them?'
'Apparently not.'
'Well,' Resnick moved back to his seat.
'Maybe she feels she'll be safer over here anyway.'
Tyrell looked over at Mollie, who was already reaching down towards the black leather bag by her feet.
25 'This arrived this morning,' Mollie said, the envelope in her hand.
Seven Dear Cathy, I keep waiting for you to make the announcement, go public, seize the moment during one of those chat shows you're always on whenever I switch on the TV. You know, one of those quiet moments, snuggled down on the set tee with Letterman, or laughing with Jay Leno and then, out of the blue, leaving aside all
