Wasted Years (21 page)

Ruth held the glass by the stem, tight, wondering if some kind member was in the entrance hall already, letting Prior know his wife was sitting there, taking drinks from a sodding copper. She could see Rains’s reflection mirrored above the bottles, so fucking good-looking it made you want to throw up.

“Another?”

She didn’t answer and he took her silence for agreement and bought a large gin. Ruth waited for him to start in on Prior’s activities, how did it feel being married to a villain? He surprised her by asking her how it felt, not being able to sing any more.

“Not able? How d’you mean?”

“Don’t suppose he takes to the idea much, does he? Wife up on stage, on show? Bit old-fashioned about things like that, I should imagine.”

Before they were married, Prior had gone everywhere to see her. Step out onto the stage and there he was, somewhere at the back of the room, leaning, smiling. Later, it was, “Jesus, Ruthie! You have to start that caterwauling, every minute of the bloody day?” At first, career going nowhere, bands breaking up around her, record contracts not materializing, she had found it difficult to mind. The joy had gone out and all that was left were torn vocal cords and hard work.

“Don’t you wish,” Rains said, “you could do it again, now and then, just for the hell of it?”

Ruth stubbed out her cigarette, automatically reaching for another. “It’s been too long. Any voice I might’ve once had’s gone.”

He put his hand over the one that was bringing the cigarette to her lips. “Maybe then you shouldn’t smoke so much?”

She shook him free. “My father, that’s what you want to be? My agent? You’re short of an act for the police smoker? What?”

Rains waited until she was looking full into his face. “I like you. Talking to you, it’s good. I like that. Paying you a bit of attention, I reckon it’s too long since anyone’s done that. You deserve better. That’s all.”

Ruth sat there, you cocky young bastard, you’re so full of shit; but listening all the same, knowing he was lying, enjoying every word.

When he arrived back at the house all the lights were out and Resnick assumed that Elaine had grown tired of her own company, caught a cab to someone welcoming. But she had gone to bed early, her face blinking back at him from the pillow when he switched on the light. She covered her eyes and he snapped it back off.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks.”

The usual courtesies.

Resnick spread the coffee beans across the palms of both hands, lowering his face towards them. Even so, it lingered: sweet-sour smell of the sheet, oil of violet on the breath. In the living room he thought of playing Parker’s “Lover Man,” one of those bruised ballads Billie Holiday sang with Lester Young. Either, he realized, would reduce him further into self-pity. He fetched a notebook from the desk by the window and wrote up that day’s conversation with Martin Finch. If anything went wrong, he was going to need all the accurate documentation he could muster.

Almost an hour later he called Ben Riley on the phone.

Ben’s voice was quiet and Resnick wondered if there was someone there with him, the woman who had witnessed the incident with the shotgun or someone else. “What’s the matter, Charlie? Can’t sleep?”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Not to fret. What can I do for you?”

“That deal today, with Finch? You think it was all right?”

“Will he follow through, you mean?”

“Yes,” Resnick said.

“Depends who he’s more frightened of, us or Prior.”

They talked some more, Resnick reluctant to put down the phone.

“You know what I was on about the other day,” Ben Riley said eventually. “About getting out.”

“Leaving the force?”

“Quitting the whole bloody lot, lock, stock, and barrel. Well, I’m serious. Maybe didn’t think I was at the time, but I am. I’m getting out, Charlie. Started looking into it, serious. Got an appointment to talk to the union rep later this week.”

Resnick’s stomach was hollow and chilled. “Where the hell’d you go?”

A pause and then, “The States, perhaps.”

“Don’t be daft. Whatever it is you’re running from here, ten times as bad over there. New York. L.A. You’d be …”

“Big country, Charlie. Not all cities, you know.”

“If it’s a quiet life you want, what’s wrong with Devon? Cornwall?”

At the other end of the phone Ben Riley sighed. “It’s not a quiet life I’m after, Charlie. It’s a new one.”

Not knowing what to say, Resnick said nothing. “Get to bed, Charlie,” Ben Riley said. “Maybe see you first thing? Breakfast, eh?”

“Maybe,” Resnick said and rung off.

There was a half inch of coffee cold in the bottom of the cup and he tipped enough Bell’s into it to make it half full. Drank it standing at the foot of the stairs. At the bedroom door he listened to the sound of Elaine’s breathing and knew that she was deep in sleep. In the bathroom, he switched on the shower and stood under it for a long time, head bowed. Then went to bed.

Thirty-One

“Chancy business, Charlie. Can’t say it’s the way I’d have played it.”

“No, sir.”

Skelton was in the midst of compiling the duty roster, colored pins and stickers strategically placed at the four corners of his desk, each ready to be slotted into place. He reminded Resnick of those elderly men at the BR Travel Centre, just aching to be asked the quickest way to get from Melton Mowbray to Mevagissey on a Sunday, calling at Wolverhampton and Weston-super-Mare on the way.

“Conspiring to provide a known villain with an illegal weapon, that’s the way the courts might see it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Still, now it’s set in motion, best let it play itself out. But I want a close eye kept, Charlie, understood? A close eye.”

Resnick turned towards the door.

“Can’t remember, Charlie—squash, that your game or not?”

“Not exactly,” Resnick said.

Skelton nodded. “Bit of difficulty finding partners.” His gaze drifted down in the direction of Resnick’s gently spreading stomach. “Could do a lot worse than give it a thought. Getting to the age when it pays to look out for these things—health, fitness—doesn’t pay to let them slide.”

Resnick gave it some thought while he was enjoying a smoked ham and brie sandwich, light on the mustard, heavy on the mayonnaise. That and other things. Brushing his fingers free of crumbs, he crumpled up the empty bag and dropped it in one of the black and gold litter bins around the square. Time to do a little more house hunting, he thought, crossing towards the old post office building dividing King and Queen streets.

The young woman at the first desk had a complexion like sour milk. “Oh, that would be our Mr Gallagher,” she said in response to Resnick’s inquiry. “He’s just stepped out of the office for a moment. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Resnick was in the middle of declining when the bell above the door sounded and Gallagher returned, different suit today, a charcoal gray. He had the early edition of the local paper under one arm, a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut, and a packet of twenty Benson Kingsize in his hand. He handed the chocolate to the young woman and slipped the cigarettes into his own pocket. He seemed to recognize Resnick, but not the exact connection.

“Richmond Drive,” Resnick prompted him.

“Ah, yes, of course. You’re interested then?”

Resnick nodded.

“Good, good. Not been on the market for long and already we’ve had a lot of interest.”

“It is empty, though? Vacant possession?”

“Oh, yes. People that lived there moved abroad. France, I seem to remember.” He gave Resnick a professional smile. “Do you have somewhere to sell?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we can help you there. Handle both ends. But first things first …” He reached for a leather-bound appointment book. “You’ll want to view the property.”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“But surely you can’t …”

“My wife’s already been round the house.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, you didn’t say. I …”

“Yes. Matter of fact, you showed her round yourself.”

Gallagher was thumbing back in his book. “I don’t remember …”

“Well,” Resnick said, a pace closer, “I’m sure you do a lot of that kind of thing.”

Gallagher glanced up with a quick, uncertain smile; he was still turning, back and forth, from page to page. “I’m afraid I still don’t …”

“Probably no reason you should. My wife, come to think of it, she didn’t have a lot to say about it either.”

“If I could have the name?” Gallagher said.

“Oh, Resnick. Mrs Resnick. Elaine.”

The appointment book slipped from his hand and he caught at it, steadying it against his body at the second attempt. Much of the color seemed to have left his face. He made a guttural, stuttering sound that never threatened to become real words.

“If there’s anything else,” Resnick said, “you can get in touch at the station. I expect Elaine mentioned I’m a policeman. Detective sergeant. CID.”

“What the hell were you doing, Charlie?”

Elaine had been waiting for Resnick the moment he turned the key in the front door; not waylaying him exactly, but there at the center of the hall, close to the foot of the stairs. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might have had a drink or two to steady her resolve.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

He gave her a what-do-you-think? look and made to go past her into the kitchen.

“No, Charlie. No, you don’t. We’re having this out, here and now.”

He tried again and physically she blocked him, pushing her hands against his arms. “Talk to me, Charlie. Talk.”

He looked into her face. “I don’t think I’ve anything to say.”

“Really?” Head to one side, sarcastic. “You surprise me.”

“I’d like to think you’d surprised me.”

She hit him, fast and unthinking, her open hand smack across his cheek, the edge of her ring catching his lip. When he moved his tongue, Resnick could taste blood.

He walked around her and this time she made no attempt to stop him. Resnick got as far as the back door and realized he didn’t know what he was doing there.

“Running out again, Charlie? Another football match to go and see?”

He turned to face her. The anger had scarcely diminished in her eyes.

“You went into where he worked and threatened him.”

“He?”

“Philip.”

So: Philip Gallagher. Phil. “I didn’t threaten him.”

“No? Well that was certainly the way it felt to him. I’m a police officer. Sergeant in the CID. Christ, it’s like a bad film.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Not on your social calendar too much these days. Films. Nor a lot else, for that matter. Forgetting the football, of course. Late-night drinking, no danger of forgetting that.” She laughed, shrill and short and bitter. “We used to go to the pictures, Charlie, I don’t know if you remember. Cinema. Dancing. Even the theater once or twice, although you did have a tendency to fall asleep after the interval. Still—used to do a lot once upon a time, you and me.”

“Why do I think this is turning into some kind of an attack on me?”

“Is it? Maybe because that’s the way you feel. Catholic guilt, Charlie. All that stuff you thought you’d disowned.”

Resnick leaned away from the door. “I should’ve thought if there was any guilt around …”

“I should have the monopoly?”

“You were the one sneaking off in her lunch hour.”

“Sneaking off?”

“Making love to another man.”

The bottle that she’d opened was close to where she was standing and she poured herself another glass of wine. The bottle was nearly empty. “We weren’t making love, Charlie, Philip and I. What we were doing was fucking. There’s a big difference.” Slowly, she carried her glass of wine towards him. “What you and I do—used to do—that was making love. Tender, Charlie. Careful. Solicitous. What we do, myself and Philip, other people’s beds, we fuck!”

He swung his arm and she saw it coming, trying to block him and not quite succeeding, the heel of his hand catching her at the front of the left temple, alongside the eye. The glass she had been holding shattered against the floor. Elaine stumbled backwards, the worktop saving her from falling.

Resnick moved towards her, arms outstretched, apologizing; instead of flinching, she lifted her face towards him, daring him to strike her again. Resnick wrenched the back door open and slammed it behind him, unable to see where he was running, half-blinded by the tears of shame and anger in his eyes.

Thirty-Two

“If you were going to hit anyone,” Ben Riley said, “you should have had a crack at him.”

“Wouldn’t do any good,” Resnick said.

Ben Riley shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. And, by my reckoning, nine out of ten people’s think the same.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re right.”

“Come on, Charlie. It’s a bit late to be bloody reasonable. And he was, if you’ll pardon the expression, screwing your wife.”

“Not a crime.”

“Isn’t it?”

Resnick got up from the table and started to pace haphazardly about.

“For God’s sake, Charlie, have a drink.”

“Better not.”

“Some coffee then.”

“All right.”

“I’ve only instant.”

“Never mind. Forget it.”

Ben had been ironing shirts when his friend had arrived, bending over the board with a bottle of Jameson close to hand and a celebration of George Jones’s ten years of hits in the cassette deck. He’d switched it off when the doorbell had rung and hadn’t felt moved to turn it back on. He doubted if Resnick was ready for “Nothing Ever Hurt Me (Half as Bad as Losing You),” never mind “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will).”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You want me to go round, talk to her?”

Resnick shook his head.

“You’re sure? ’Cause I will.”

“Thanks, no. It’s hard to see how it would help. It’s something we’ve got to sort out for ourselves.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He pointed at the bottle and Resnick shook his head. “Just give it a little time, eh?”