Cold Light (38 page)

Michelle shook her head, pushed Gary aside while she swept the remaining Rice Krispies into the dustpan.

“Make him come back here and eat it, that's what you should do. Teach him a bloody lesson fast enough.”

Michelle shot him a look and tipped the cereal into the bin. “There's tea in the pot. Likely cold. If you want fresh, you can make it yourself.” And she shooed Karl into the other room and closed the door behind them: let him take his rotten temper out on himself.

The cats had decided it was time Resnick saw to their welfare. Dizzy had attracted his attention, weaving in and out of his legs, nudging his head against Resnick's ankles.

Downstairs in the kitchen, radio tuned to the World Service, Resnick had forked Whiskas into their bowls, ground the first coffee beans of the day, and looked to see what else there was for breakfast other than toast.

Near the back of the fridge he found a section of smoked sausage, which, when he held it close to his nose, failed to give off any warning signs. Using a sharp knife he sliced the sausage into rings and pushed them to one side of the board, lifted a pan on to the stove and poured in some olive oil, set the gas to low. A few cloves of garlic he peeled with his hands, making much use of his nails. An onion, and then he'd be there.

Bud made his familiar pathetic wail and without looking Resnick used his foot to shift Dizzy from the smallest cat's bowl.

The onion he sliced into half and half again, knife cutting down, smaller and smaller each time. By the time he had finished, he could scarcely see what he was doing for the tears. Resnick sniffed and fumbled for a handkerchief; finding none, he reached for the tea towel instead. When his eyes were clear he saw at last something he should have recognized before.

Two of the cats' bowls were overturned as he ran to the door, Pepper leaping for safety to the refuge of the largest pan. Only with his coat on, car keys in his hand, did he remember the gas, and dash back to the kitchen to switch it off. Hearing him coming, Miles and Bud cowered in corners, Dizzy stood his ground and arched his back.

“Where's Karl gone now?”

“I thought he was with you.”

Gary was up some steps he'd borrowed from the neighbors across the street, trying to do something about the hole in the roof. Already there'd been a stream of shouts and swearing and, from experience, Michelle knew he was about to explode. But when Michelle had come back in with the baby, Karl, who she'd thought was stretched out on his stomach watching cartoons, was nowhere to be seen.

“Gary, where …?”

“I told you, I haven't fucking seen him!”

From their bedroom, the answer came in a scream. Karl was alongside the wardrobe when Michelle got there, continuing to scream, staring at his hands. The knife lay on the floor before him, smeared with blood.

“Oh, Jesus!”

When she ran to him, Karl turned away and threw himself against the wall.

“Karl, Karl, it's all right. Let me see. Let me see, now, sweetheart, let me see.”

Gary stood just inside the doorway, saw the knife. “What the fuck you been doing, you stupid little bastard? What the fuck you, doing, sticking your nose where it's got no business? Eh? Eh?”

“Gary. Shut up and leave him alone.”

“I'll leave him alone.”

“Gary!”

He grabbed Michelle by the arm and half-pulled, half-pushed her out of the way. Karl saw the blow coming and threw up his hands, but the force of the punch knocked them aside and the fist struck the boy smack on the side of the head.

Karl let out a cry and toppled into the corner, weeping.

“Gary, you bastard! You pathetic, cowardly bastard!” Michelle had snatched the knife from the floor and set herself between father and son, handle grasped in both hands, blade pointing towards Gary's chest. “You dare touch him again. You dare!”

Gary stared back at her, breath uneven, hands falling slowly back to his sides. What the hell did the stupid bitch reckon she was doing, turning the bloody knife on him? But when he tried moving half a pace forward, it was clear she was not about to budge. With a curl of his lip, Gary turned away. Until she had heard him lurch heavy-footed down the stairs, the slam of the front door, Michelle wouldn't move. Only then did she drop the knife on to the bed and pick the terrified child up into her arms.

Resnick hadn't been the only one for whom sleep had been more or less impossible. Kevin Naylor had finally given up at around three and taken the spare duvet into the front room so as not to disturb Debbie, settled down in the armchair, and watched a discussion between an American academic, who seemed to have written a book about bondage, and a fiercely unfunny female comedian, the pair of them arguing about the effects the increase in estrogen in the water was having on the male sperm count. Fifteen minutes of that and he quickly showered, changed, wrote a note for Debbie, and set off for the station.

There had to be something, something they'd overlooked. In the CID room, he began to go through Lynn's desk, drawer by drawer, file by file, paper by paper. Almost an hour later, increasingly agitated, frustrated, he came close to missing it. The Yellow Pages scarred with the rings of numerous coffee mugs, he had gone through pretty thoroughly, but all that was marked were pizza deliveries, Indian takeaways, taxi firms. Kevin picked up the Thomson Directory that had been underneath it and gave it a quick flick through. The first time he noticed nothing, only on the second, carrying the directory across the room to add it to the general pile, did he spot the biroed asterisk, name printed at an angle in the column beside it.

SCHOTNESS STATIONERY LTD. Wholesale Supplies
.

The address was a factory estate near the Clifton flyover.

The name written beside it was
Michael Best
.

Naylor's fingers fumbled the numbers twice and when he did get through, the phone rang and rang.

“Shit!”

“Something a problem, Kevin?”

When he saw Resnick in the doorway, Naylor could have given him a hug. Almost. “Look,” he said, grabbing the directory from Lynn's desk. “Look here.”

Taking the book from him, Resnick set it back down again to read it. “Good lad,” he said. “Well done.”

Naylor was too excited to blush.

Resnick checked his watch. “Too early to expect anyone there to set us straight. Meantime, what you can do is this. Names we took of everyone who was at that Christmas Eve do at the hotel where Nancy Phelan disappeared, that's all on file?”

“On the computer, yes.”

“Right. Get it up on screen. I wouldn't mind betting Michael Best was one of the guests.”

Across the room, Resnick picked up one of the photo-fit posters awaiting distribution. Not a perfect likeness, which was maybe why he'd not seen it immediately, but now he didn't think there could be any mistake. “
Later, then. Let me buy you a drink later
.” A dark-haired man in a dress suit, his eyes pursuing Lynn down the bar.

“Sir. Take a look at this.”

Schotness Stationery were one of two small firms who had shared their celebrations on the third floor of the hotel and M. Best was listed among their guests.

Resnick was reaching for the nearest phone when it rang. It was Sharon Garnett, calling from King's Lynn. “Just had something delivered for forwarding, addressed to you, personally. It's a tape.”

Fifty-two

Lynn woke to the sound of Michael masturbating close by where she lay. Without moving her head, she could see the outline of his body, rocking forwards and back in the almost dark. Closing her eyes again, she could only listen as he gasped towards his climax, unable to block out the final shuddering sigh as he came.

Lynn waited, held her breath. She had talked him into letting her have back her jeans, complaining of the excessive cold. He had loosened the chain that held her cuffs a little at nightfall, sufficient for her to be able to draw her arms up against her back. Nevertheless, she was stiff, sore; the side on which she had mostly lain was numb.

She heard Michael moving and realized he was looking down at her to see if she were awake. Tense, when his finger touched her cheek she managed not to react. For several minutes he stood there, bending forward, stroking her face. When she thought she could endure it no longer, he went away.

The caravan door clicked shut and she heard the key turning in the lock. Nothing now that she could do but wait. Continue waiting. Any attempt she had made the previous evening to engage Michael in conversation had come to nothing. Just, now and then, that recognizable smile—you think I'm going to fall for that? Think I don't know what you're doing?

Somewhere, Lynn knew, they would be looking for her. Resnick and others—officers that she had never met and would never know—using everything at their disposal, searching, following every clue. But what were they? What were the clues? She had come so close that last evening to telling Resnick Michael's name. Instead, she had put down the phone. Put off the moment. Why? As long as she lived, she might never know. Not that that need be so very long a time.

Resnick was in King's Lynn within the hour, motorcycle escort all the way, headlights and sirens. Sharon Garnett's sergeant greeted him with a strong handshake, a quiet, “Anything we can do to help you land the bastard,” as Resnick walked past. They sat in a small low-ceilinged room with a view out over wet cobbled streets. Quite close, a church bell was insistently ringing. “I wish they'd give over with that bastard thing,” the sergeant remarked. Sharon looked towards Resnick, waiting for a signal to play the tape.

Though he was expecting it, Lynn's voice made him start and he missed the first few words.

… I have to tell you that I'm all right. I mean, I've been given something to eat and drink and so far nothing bad has happened to me. I'm being well looked after, I suppose. I'm not in any pain. The reason
… She hesitated. …
the reason I'm here is that
… Another hesitation, longer. Some movement of the microphone. Crackling …
the reason
… Without a break, the man's voice, close to anger, interrupting.
She's here because she thought she could outsmart me, that's the way of it. Outwit me. Use me, that too. Get inside my defenses. And she's got to learn, you've got to learn, like I told you, that's one thing you can't none of you do. Another pause, short, and then, And that includes you, Mr. Resnick, that includes you
.

“That's it?” Resnick said. “That's all?”

Sharon nodded. “We played it right through, both sides.”

“Nothing about a ransom, then,” the sergeant said. “Not like last time.”

“That was a game,” Resnick said.

“Nasty bloody sort of a game.”

“His kind. But it's gone beyond that now. He knows that.”

Sharon Garnett looked at him. “You know who he is, don't you?”

“We've got a good idea.”

“How come?”

“Staring us in the face,” Resnick said. “More or less.”

A fresh-faced PC knocked on the door and waited for the word to come in. “Inspector Resnick? Call for you. Shall I put it through here?”

It was a short journey from the stationery warehouse to where Michael Best lived in a rented house on the outskirts of Ruddington, south of the city. A short street of anonymous, flat-fronted buildings that stopped abruptly at the entrance to a field. Curtains twitched as the two cars slowed to a halt outside number five; the front door opposite opened and a man and woman came out to stand on their path and gawp. A word or two from Kevin Naylor sent them, reluctantly, back inside.

Millington was in no mood for niceties. He gave the nod to Divine, who grinned and sent the sledgehammer crashing against the front door, through wood and glass, and with a second swing they were inside.

The upper part of the house seemed hardly to have been used, a few boxes, mainly empty, a broken stiff-backed chair which someone had made an unsuccessful attempt to mend. Balls of dust fluffed around their feet where they walked. The bathroom was downstairs at the back, a converted scullery with black spots of damp high on the walls; toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving things were missing. In the kitchen the cupboards contained mostly tinned food—Baxter's pea and ham soup, HP baked beans, seven tins of sardines. A nub end of bread at the back of a chipped enamel breadbin, going green.

In the small front room a framed photograph of Michael Best and an older woman, enough like him to be his mother, hung above the tiled mantelpiece. She with her head half-turned towards him, Michael looking slightly bashful, self-conscious, the woman's pride clear in her eyes.

Shelved in the alcove behind the one armchair, Michael Best's library of books on running a smallholding, horticulture, tips for the independent businessman, the commercial growing and marketing of flowers. There were a pocket guide to Byzantine Art, a selected poems of Andrew Marvel, two paperbacks by Thomas Clancy. Beside a handy guide to hyacinths and gladioli was a copy of
Killing for Company
, the story of Dennis Nilsen.