Living Proof (15 page)

"Every time you do those things, one woman to another..."

Cathy Jordan was on her feet, pointing.

"I do not do those things."

"Yes, you do!" It was the original questioner, closer to the stage now and pointing.

"And as long as you go on perpetrating this myth of female weakness, it will go on happening."

"That's a crock of shit!"

"Is it? Is it, Ms Jordan? Well, I hope next time you open your paper and read about some poor fifteen-year-old, or some old woman of eighty being raped and beaten, you should think about that a little more carefully."

"Jesus!" said Cathy, slamming back down into her chair.

"I don't believe this is happening."

"All right," Jakubowski said, raising both hands in an appeal for calm.

"Thank you very much, thank you very much indeed. I'm sure we all appreciate your point, but now I feel we should move on. Yes, thank you, there's someone over there..."

Cathy continued to sit there, taking no further part in the discussion, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of her as her anger began slowly to subside.

Twenty-five The photographs of Peter Farleigh had been enlarged and pinned, head height, to the wall. Slightly below them, to left and to right, the other, earlier, non-fatal victims: Paul Pynchon, from Hinckley, stabbed in the red-light district near the Waterloo Road; Marco Fabrioni, beaten and tied up on the Forest; Gerry McKimber, the sales rep stabbed in his hotel room; a quick drawing from memory of the still-anonymous man who had disappeared from hospital after being found, stabbed and naked, on the Alfreton Road. The one they were now, thanks to the rare flash of inspiration from Divine, calling Polo after his sock.

Maps, dates, approximate times.

Details of wounds, weapons used.

Data.

Three colour ten by eights of Marlene Kinoulton, left profile, right profile, full face: the woman identified by the waiter in the hotel where Farleigh had been killed.

There were twenty officers in the room, most with mugs or styrofoam cups of tea. Players' Silk Cut between their fingers, Benson King Size; expectation adhering to the walls like yellow smoke.

Skelton, straight-backed, stood near the main door, watching. His responsibility, not his show. Resnick rose purposefully to his feet.

"Pynchon, Fabrioni, McKimber, Polo, Farleigh: five stabbings, one fatal. Five male victims, all of them and this is not entirely confirmed, but I think we can assume it for now engaged in some kind of sexual activity involving prostitution."

Resnick paused, making sure of everyone's attention.

"Now if we look at where the attacks took place, they break down into two basic groups: outside, in the red-light area, and inside, in one hotel or other. From that first group, two attacks those on Pynchon and on the Italian were carried out by more than one person, male as well as female, and the injuries received were more general.

Personally, I think we can disregard these as having any direct connection with Peter Farleigh's murder. Our friend. Polo, I'm not so sure about.

"We think he was running from his attacker, that's the only reasonable assumption, and that would place the attack in the same general area as those on Pynchon and Fabrioni. But what have we got?

A single wound, no more. Nothing to suggest the kind of group attack that took place in the earlier cases. So, let's presume, one assailant. All the other evidence suggests a woman, some kind of assignation that went wrong. Likely, but only conjecture. The wound is interesting, though; a single blow with a sharp implement, most likely a knife, in an area that closely corresponds to where most of the stab wounds in Farleigh's body were found. So, although Polo's stabbing is the incident about which we know least, and therefore it might be convenient to push it to the back of our minds, I don't want that to happen. Not yet. It may connect. "

He paused, glanced over towards Skelton, who avoided his eyes and fidgeted instead with the knot of his tie. What did that mean, Resnick wondered? That I'm going on too long and he's bored? Or does he think I've got it wrong? Barking up the wrong tree? Maybe his tie was simply too tight.

"Now," Resnick said, moving towards the photographs, heads turning to watch as he pointed with the first two fingers of his right hand.

"These pair, McKimber and Farleigh, this is where our main focus has to be. Look at the similarities. Both men attacked in hotel rooms, attacked with knives, stabbed more than once. In both instances, the most likely scenario, the assailant was a woman. A woman who was there for the purposes of prostitution, though it's only in McKimber's case we know that for a fact."

Lynn Kellogg's arm was raised.

"Surely, sir, we don't even know that?

The woman he claims stabbed him, she's never been identified. "

"That's right."

"So, he could be lying. I mean, we've only his word."

"Right, he stabbed himself," Divine called out, sarcastically.

"No," Lynn snapped back.

"But it could have been a man, right. A boy.

Men are prostitutes too, you know. "

"Okay," Resnick raised his hand for silence.

"We're going to be talking to McKimber again. I'm seeing him myself. I'll bear what you've said in mind. You're right, it wants double-checking. No harm."

He moved across to the pictures of Marlene Kinoulton. "This is the woman identified by the waiter in the hotel restaurant as the one Farleigh was talking to earlier on the evening he was killed. They'd been eating at separate tables till Farleigh went over and joined her. Afterwards they went out, the waiter thinks, into the hotel bar, and although the barman confirms that Farleigh was there with a woman, sat there with her until past eleven, he wasn't able to confirm the identification. His general description of the woman Farleigh was with is close enough though, for us to take this woman, Kinoulton, very seriously.

"She is a known prostitute, here in the city, we've established that.

Also works in Sheffield, Leicester and Derby. "

"Anywhere she can get a Cheap Day Return," somebody said.

Resnick waited for the laughter, what there was of it, to fade.

"On five previous occasions, she's been issued a warning for soliciting in the big hotels. She wants finding and fast. Mark, Kevin, you're already liaising with the Vice Squad, she's your target, down to you.

As I've said, I'm talking to McKimber. The rest of you, we have to keep checking other guests at the hotel, the rest of the staff, so on. We really need another ID to back up the one on Kinoulton. Or some positive forensics. We're also going to do a little digging into Farieigh's work, appointments kept on this trip, general background.

Why he chose to stay in a hotel in the city when an hour's drive at most would have seen him home. " He looked around.

"All right.

Questions? Sergeant Millington's got your assignments. Let's be diligent. Not miss anything. Let's get this wrapped up as fast as we can. "

"You think I'm wrong?" Resnick asked. He and Skelton, out in the corridor, officers spilling past them, Voices raised from the stairs, banging of doors, the same old chanting of telephones.

No. why? "

Resnick shrugged.

"If I thought you were going down the wrong road, as your superior officer, I'd say so. Only..."

Resnick looked at him expectantly. A shout, distant, from the area of the cells, was followed by a metallic slamming sound, then silence.

Skelton stood back, nodding, still fiddling with his tie.

"Not wanting to chuck a spanner in the works, Charlie, not at this stage. But like you said, tunnel vision, it's a dangerous thing."

"Yes," Resnick said.

"Thanks. Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

i 138 Breakfast had been a rushed affair, needing to be in at the station early, make certain everything was up and ready for the briefing.

Now, Resnick stood in line behind a pair of purple-shirted tax accountants, waiting for the assistant at the deli to make him a couple of sandwiches for the drive down into the neighbouring county, something tasty on dark rye and caraway, an espresso for now and another for the journey. The tape machine in his car had been on the blink for weeks, all he'd been able to listen to was GEM-AM, recycling the glorious moments of some- body's youth, though rarely, it seemed to Resnick, his own. But now it was fixed and he could play the new to him Joshua Redman to his heart's content: "Moose the Mooche',

"Turnaround',

"Make Sure You're Sure'.

Clicking the seat-belt into place, Resnick turned the key in the ignition and switched on the stereo, tenor sax loping in at mid-tempo as he eased out into the midmorning traffic.

Twenty-six The pub was flat against the main road, a thin line of pavement all that separated its windows from the heavy lorries shuddering down towards the A5, the M69, the M6. Inside four men, worn down by middle-age, sat at four separate tables, nursing pint glasses through until lunchtime. All four looking up when Resnick entered, but none looked up for long. The landlord, restocking shelves behind the bar, paused to glance at Resnick's warrant card, listened to his question and pointed towards the stairs.

"First floor, back." If the radio had been switched on and if it had been playing David Whitfield or Perry Como, Resnick would not have been surprised.

There were three boards, bare along the landing, and each one of them creaked.

"Gerry McKimber?"

A tall man, spindly with a nose like a wedge that had been driven hard, and not quite straight^ into the centre of his face, McKimber stared at Resnick's identification, then stepped back, shaking his head.

"Christ! It's not taken her so bloody long!"

"Her?"

"I told her I'd pay, Jesus, she's knows I'll pay just as soon as I can. She knows I've lost my fucking job, for Christ's sake, what does she expect?"

"Mr McKimber?"

"I've told you..."

Mr McKimber. "

What? "

140 "You're talking about maintenance, child support?"

"No, I'm talking about winning the fucking pools!"

"That's not why I'm here."

"Not? Not the pools, then?" He laughed, more a bark than a laugh.

"Not here to tell me that? Half a million quid? Am I going to let it change my life?"

Resnick shook his head.

"Well, thank Christ for that.

"Cause I forgot to post the sodding coupon."

"Mr McKimber, can I come inside?"

There were two beds pushed back against the far wall, narrow divans low to the floor, only one of them recently used. On the other, McKimber had piled, not neatly, some of his possessions, cardboard boxes, motoring magazines, clothes. A wardrobe, a table, what might euphemistically have been called an easy chair. The single window, with a view over beer crates and barrels and an outside urinal, was open a crack.

McKimber stubbed out the cigarette that had been smouldering in the ashtray and lit another. He held the packet towards Resnick, who shook his head.

"If it's not that cow, then what is it?" But then he saw Resnick's face and thought he knew.

"You've caught her, that cunt as stabbed me? You've got her, right?"

"Afraid not."

"Then what the fuck... ?"

"There's been another incident..."

"Like that? Like what happened to me?"

"Similar. Enough to make us think there might be a connection. I need to talk to you again."

McKimber walked towards the window and looked down, pushing fingers back through his unkempt hair. "You know, at first she never believed me, the wife, I don't know why. It was a fight, she said, you were in a fight. Some pub or other. Same as before. Why bother making up an excuse? Why bother lying?"

^IcKimber turned back into the room, cigarette cupped in his hand.

"As if what I'd said, you know, what really opened, the hotel and that, as if somehow she'd never dave minded so much."

He went over to the bed, sat down.

"I used to get into these scrapes.

Once in a while. You know what it's like, on the road Travelling.

Well, you can imagine. Chatting Up people all day, trying to. Half the time getting doors closed in your face. Abuse. You wouldn't believe the gbuse. Come evening, had a bit of a meal, too far to go home, too tired, what do you do? Well, me, like a lot of men, I like a drink. Trouble is, when I drink I suppose I get careless 'bout what I say. Don't care who hears me, either. Gets me into trouble, I admit it The firm, they'd warned me, Gerry, this has got to stop. So many last warnings, I never believed them and then they gave me the push for something else altogether, but that's another story. "

He drew on the cigarette, releasing the smoke, slow, down his nose.

"The wife, see, she'd been on at me, an' all. Forever on at me. Just once more, Gerry McKimber, you come home looking like you've been in a brawl and you're out of my house. My house!" McKimber repeated his barking laugh.

"Not now. Not when she's crying out for me to pay something towards the sodding bills. Oh, no. Now it's our house again. Our house!"

He looked across towards Resnick, who waited, listening, prepared to listen, saying nothing.

"This business with the woman, the one as cut me, the wife, she thought I'd made it up. Of course, I never told her, what I never told her, that I was, like, paying for it, you know. Christ, I wasn't about to tell her that now, was I? Paying for it. Give her that satisfaction. No, what I said was, what I told her, this woman and I, we get talking in the bar, one thing rolls into another, I've had a few too many to know properly what I'm doing, next thing she's with me, up in the room. Would she believe that? Not for 142 weeks would she fucking believe that, blue in the sodding face from telling her. Well, it was the truth, more or less the truth, I didn't want her mingeing on at me for something I'd never done. Jesus! When I finally get it through her thick head I'm not lying, what does the stupid cow do? Fucking slings me out!

"All my stuff, clothes, everything, out the window, out the door. Out the house. Receipts, samples. God knows what, all over the front garden, next door's, up and down half the bloody street. Some of it I never even bloody found.