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Fisher sat at the scrubbed oak table and waited for Kiley to do the same.

‘Bought this place for a song in sixty-four. All divided up since then, rented out. Investment banker and his lady friend on the top floor – when they’re not down at his place in Dorset. Bloke above us, something in the social media.’ He said it as if it were a particularly nasty disease. ‘Keeps the bailiffs from the sodding door.’

There were photographs, framed, on the far wall. A street scene, deserted, muted colours, late afternoon light. An open-top truck, its sides bright red, driving away up a dusty road, fields to either side. Café tables in bright sunshine, crowded, lively, in the corner of a square; then the same tables, towards evening, empty save for an old man, head down, sleeping. Set a little to one side, two near-abstracts, sharp angles, flat planes.

‘Costa Rica,’ Fisher said, ‘seventy-two. On assignment. Never bloody used. Too fucking arty by half.’

He made tea, brought it to the table in plain white mugs, added two sugars to his own and then, after a moment’s thought, a third.

‘Tell me about Lisa,’ Kiley said.

Fisher laughed, no shred of humour. ‘You don’t have the time.’

‘It ended badly, Kate said.’

‘It always ends fucking badly.’ He coughed, a rasp low in the throat, turning his head aside.

‘And you think she might be harbouring a grudge?’

‘Harbouring? Who knows? Life of her own. Kids. Grandkids by now, most like. Doubt she gives me a second thought, one year’s end to the next.’

‘Then why …?’

‘This woman a couple of days back, right? Lisa’s age. There she is on TV, evening news. Some bloke, some third-rate comedian, French-kissed her in the back of a taxi when she was fifteen, copped a feel. Now she’s reckoning sexual assault. Poor bastard’s picture all over the papers. Paedophile. That’s not a fucking paedophile.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d sooner bloody die.’

Kiley cushioned his mug in both hands. ‘Why don’t you talk to her? Make sure?’

Fisher smiled. ‘A while back, round the time I met Kate, I was going to have this show, Victoria Miro, first one in ages, and I thought, Lisa, I’ll give her a bell. See if she might, you know, come along. Last minute, I couldn’t, couldn’t do it. I sent her a note instead, invitation to the private view. Never replied, never came.’

He wiped a hand across his mouth, finished his tea.

‘You’ll go see her? Kate said you would. Just help me rest easy.’ He laughed. ‘Too much tension, not good for the heart.’

Google Map said the London Borough of Haringey, estate agents called it Muswell Hill. A street of Arts and Crafts houses, nestled together, white louvred shutters at the windows, prettily painted doors. She was tall, taller than Kiley had expected, hair pulled back off her face, little make-up; tunic top, skinny jeans. He could still see the girl who’d stood in the empty pool through the lines that ran from the corners of her mouth and eyes.

‘Lisa Arnold?’

‘Not for thirty years.’

‘Jack Kiley.’ He held out a hand. ‘An old friend of yours asked me to stop by.’

‘An old friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then he should have told you it’s Collins. Lisa Collins.’ She still didn’t take his hand and Kiley let it fall back by his side.

‘This old friend, he have a name?’ But, of course, she knew. ‘You better come in,’ she said. ‘Just mind the mess in the hall.’

Kiley stepped around a miniature pram, various dolls, a wooden puzzle, skittles, soft toys.

‘Grandkids,’ she explained, ‘two of them, Tuesdays and Thursday mornings, Wednesday afternoons. Run me ragged.’

Two small rooms had been knocked through to give a view of the garden: flowering shrubs, a small fruit tree, more toys on the lawn.

Lisa Collins sat in a wing-backed chair, motioning Kiley to the settee. There were paintings on the wall, watercolours; no photographs other than a cluster of family pictures above the fireplace. Two narrow bookcases; rugs on polished boards; dried flowers. It was difficult to believe she was over sixty years old.

‘How is Graeme?’

Kiley shrugged. ‘He seemed okay. Not brilliant, maybe, but okay.’

‘You’re not really a friend, are you?’

‘No?’

‘Graeme doesn’t do friends.’

‘Maybe he’s changed.’

She looked beyond Kiley towards the window, distracted by the shadow of someone passing along the street outside.

‘You don’t smoke, I suppose?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘No. Well, in that case, you’ll have to join me in a glass of wine. And don’t say no.’

‘I wasn’t about to.’

‘White okay?’

‘White’s fine.’

She left the room and he heard the fridge door open and close; the glasses were tissue-thin, tinged with green; the wine grassy, cold.

‘All this hoo-hah going on,’ she said. ‘people digging up the past, I’d been half-expecting someone doorstepping me on the way to Budgens.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Me and my shopping trolley. Some reporter or other. Expecting me to dig up the dirt, spill the beans.’

Kiley said nothing.

‘That’s what he’s worried about, isn’t it? After all this time, the big exposé, shit hitting the fan.’

‘Yes.’

‘That invitation he sent me, the private view. I should have gone.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I was afraid.’

‘What of?’

‘Seeing him again. After all this time. Afraid what it would do to all this.’ She gestured round the room, the two rooms. ‘Afraid it could blow it all apart.’

‘It could do that?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She drank some wine and set the glass carefully back down. ‘People said it was just a phase. Too young, you know, like in the song? Too young to know. You’ll snap out of it, they said, the other girls. Get away, move on, get a life of your own. Cradle snatcher, they’d say to Graeme, and laugh.’

Shaking her head, she smiled.

‘Four years we were together. Four years. Say it like that, it doesn’t seem so long.’ She shook her head again. ‘A lifetime, that’s what it was. When it started I was just a kid and then …’

She was seeing something Kiley couldn’t see; as if, for a moment, he were no longer there.

‘I knew – I wasn’t stupid – I knew it wasn’t going to last forever, I even forced it a bit myself, looking back, but then, when it happened, I don’t know, I suppose I sort of fell apart.’

She reached for her glass.

‘What’s that they say? Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you strong. Having your stomach pumped out, that helps, too. Didn’t want to do that again in a hurry, I can tell you. And thanks to Graeme, I had contacts, a portfolio, I could work. David Bailey, round knocking at the door. Brian bloody Duffy.
Harper’s Bazaar.
I had a life. A good one. Still have.’

Still holding the wine glass, she got to her feet.

‘You can tell Graeme, I don’t regret a thing. Tell him I love him, the old bastard. But now …’ A glance at her watch. ‘… Mr Collins – that’s that I call him – Mr Collins will be home soon. Golf widow, that’s me. Stops him getting under my feet, I suppose.’

She walked Kiley to the door.

‘There was someone sniffing round. Oh, a good month ago now. More. Some journalist or other. That piece by Kate Moss had just been in the news. How when she was getting started she used to feel awkward, posing, you know, half-naked. Nude. Not feeling able to say no. Wanted to know, the reporter, had I ever felt exploited? Back then. Fifteen, she said, it’s very young after all. I told her I’d felt fine. Asked her to leave, hello and goodbye. Might have been the
Telegraph
, I’m not sure.’

She shook Kiley’s hand.

When he was crossing the street she called after him. ‘Don’t forget, give Graeme my love.’

The article appeared a week later, eight pages stripped across the Sunday magazine, accompanied by a hefty news item in the main paper.
Art or Exploitation?
Ballet dancers and fashion models, a few gymnasts and tennis players thrown in for good measure. Unhealthy relationships between fathers and daughters, young girls and their coaches or mentors. The swimming pool shot of Lisa was there, along with several others. Snatched from somewhere, a recent picture of Graeme Fisher, looking old, startled.

‘The bastards,’ Kate said, vehemently. ‘The bastards.’

Your profession, Kiley thought, biting back the words.

They were on their way to Amsterdam, Kate there to cover the reopening of the Stedelijk Museum after nine years of renovations, Kiley invited along as his reward for services rendered. ‘Three days in Amsterdam, Jack. What’s not to like?’

At her insistence, he’d worn the hat.

They were staying at a small but smart hotel on the Prinsengracht Canal, their’s one of the quiet rooms at the back, looking out onto a small square. For old times’ sake, she insisted on taking him for breakfast, the first morning, to the art deco Café Americain in the Amsterdam American Hotel.

‘First time I ever came here, Jack, to Amsterdam, this is where we stayed.’

He didn’t ask.

The news from England, a bright 12 point on her iPad, erased the smile from her face: as a result of recent revelations in the media, officers from Operation Yewtree yesterday made two arrests; others were expected.

‘Fisher?’ Kiley asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ When she tried to reach him on her mobile, there was no reply.

‘Maybe he’ll be okay,’ Kiley said.

‘Let’s hope,’ Kate said, and pushed back her chair, signalling it was time to go. Whatever was happening back in England, there was nothing they could do.

From the outside, Kiley thought, the new extension to the Stedelijk looked like a giant bathtub on stilts; inside didn’t get much better. Kate seemed to be enthralled.

Kiley found the café, pulled out the copy of
The Glass Key
he’d taken the precaution of stuffing into his pocket, and read. Instead of getting better, as the story progressed things went from bad to worse, the hero chasing round in ever-widening circles, only pausing, every now and then, to get punched in the face.

‘Fantastic!’ Kate said, a good couple of hours later. ‘Just amazing.’

There was a restaurant some friends had suggested they try for dinner, Le Hollandais; Kate wanted to go back to the hotel first, write up her notes, rest a little, change.

In the room, she switched on the TV to catch the news. Over her shoulder, Kiley thought he recognised the street in Ladbroke Grove. Officers from the Metropolitan Police arriving at the residence of former photographer, Graeme Fisher, wishing to question him with regard to allegations of historic sexual abuse, found Fisher hanging from a light flex at the rear of the house. Despite efforts by paramedics and ambulance staff to revive him, he was pronounced dead at the scene.

A sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, broke from Kate’s throat and when Kiley went across to comfort her, she shrugged him off.

There would be no dinner, Le Hollandais or elsewhere.

When she came out of the bathroom, Kate used her laptop to book the next available flight, ordered a taxi, rang down to reception to explain.

Kiley walked to the window and stood there, looking out across the square. Already the light was starting to change. Two runners loped by in breathless conversation, then an elderly woman walking her dog, then no one. The tables outside the café at right angles to the hotel were empty, save for an old man, head down, sleeping. Behind him, Kate moved, business-like, around the room, readying their departure, her reflection picked out, ghost-like, in the glass. When Kiley looked back towards the tables, the old man had gone.

Read on for an extract from John Harvey’s new Resnick novel,
Darkness, Darkness
, out in paperback on 25 September

Thirty years ago, the Miners’ Strike threatened to tear the country apart, turning neighbour against neighbour, husband against wife, father against son.

Now, the discovery of the body of a young woman who disappeared during the Strike brings Resnick out of virtual retirement and back into the front line to assist in the investigation into her murder – forcing him to confront his past in what will assuredly be his last case.

THE SNOW HAD
started falling long before the first car departed. It fell in long, slanting lines, faint at first, then thickening. It gathered in corners and against the sides of buildings, funnelling between the broken brick and tile and rusted car parts that littered the back yards and paltry gardens. Covering everything. The sky a low, leaden grey, unrelenting.

By the time the cortège pulled away from the small terrace of houses, there was little to see in any direction, flakes adhering fast to the windows, all sound muffled, the dull glow of headlights fading into the surrounding whiteness.

Resnick was in the third car, sharing the rear seat with a solemn man in a threadbare suit he took to be one of Peter Waites’ former colleagues from down the pit. In front of them sat an elderly, pinch-faced woman he thought must be a relation – an aunt, perhaps, or cousin. Not the one surviving sister, who was riding in the first car with Waites’ son, Jack. Jack home for the funeral from Australia with his teenage sons; his wife not having taken to her new father-in-law the one time they’d met and grateful for the ten thousand or so miles that kept them apart.