McBride. ‘There’d have been a report. We could track it down.’
A faint smile on McBride’s face. ‘We could try.’
‘And Haines himself? Charlie, do you know?’
Resnick shook his head. ‘Mid-thirties then, my best guess. So sixties now. He could still be somewhere around, but . . .’
‘Could be six feet under,’ McBride said.
‘We need to know,’ Catherine said, adding his name with a flourish. ‘We need to know a great deal.’
McBride started to say something more, but thought better of it. Coughed and cleared his throat instead. Let the woman run the show as she sees fit: for now, at least.
‘Sergeant,’ Catherine said, ‘something you’d like to add?’
‘No, boss.’ Close to a growl.
‘Right, then. Charlie and I are off to Chesterfield, talk to Barry Hardwick. You can organise things here? Get Alex and Rob on the move?’
‘Manage that, boss. Do my best.’
Rather than drive straight off, Catherine motioned for Resnick to wait, took a packet of cigarettes from her bag and lit up, resting one elbow on the car roof. Resnick hadn’t even known that she smoked.
‘What is it with him, Charlie?’
‘McBride?’
‘Too young to be outranking him, is that the problem? Or just too black?’
‘Maybe that’s just the way he is.’
‘With everyone?’
Resnick shrugged.
‘Am I just being oversensitive? Is that it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Don’t say a lot, do you, Charlie? Not if it means taking sides.’
‘I didn’t know there was a side to take.’
‘No, you’re right.’ Stepping away from the car, she took one last drag at her cigarette before grinding it out with the underside of her shoe. ‘If there’s a problem it’s mine. Mine to deal with. One way or another. Now let’s go and look at that famous spire.’
Glancing back up at the building she glimpsed McBride at one of the upper windows, looking down.
It was just starting, lightly, to rain.
10
THE SPIRE COULD be seen from a distance, through a mist of rain and low, faltering cloud. Seated atop the parish church of St Mary and All Saints, in the very centre of the town, it twisted as much as forty-five degrees from the perpendicular, leaning almost ten feet away from its true centre.
‘Story goes,’ Resnick said, ‘this blacksmith from Bolsover was shoeing one of the Devil’s cloven hoofs, drove the nail in so hard made the old Devil jump right over the church, grabbed hold of the tower to stop himself falling and twisted it into shape you see now.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’ Catherine said, laughing.
‘All right, how’s this? Young girl getting married in the church, comes down the aisle dressed in white from head to toe. Turns out it’s not for show, lass’d never as much as been kissed. News gets round, there’s a genuine virgin about to get wed, right there in Chesterfield parish church, the old tower’s so surprised, twists itself into a state to take a look.’
‘Charlie, come on.’
Resnick was laughing, too. ‘Stayed like that ever since, waiting for the next virgin to come tripping up the aisle. Till that happens it’ll not twist back.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘And the real reason? I suppose there is one?’
‘Some say it was down to using unseasoned timber, some due to an overloading of lead tile. Truth is, no bugger knows for certain.’
‘Not so much different to us, then.’
They were about to pass close to the church itself and turn into Saltergate. The rain, never strong, had more or less stopped. Hardwick’s address was a few streets along, past The Barley Mow.
‘Any luck,’ Resnick said, ‘we’re about to put that right.’
After knocking on the front door several times, ringing the bell, they tried the neighbours to either side. An elderly woman appeared at one of the upstairs windows, lined face, tightly permed hair.
‘Is it Barry you’re looking for? Because he usually gets back round about now.’
‘From the pub?’
‘Bless
A faint smile on McBride’s face. ‘We could try.’
‘And Haines himself? Charlie, do you know?’
Resnick shook his head. ‘Mid-thirties then, my best guess. So sixties now. He could still be somewhere around, but . . .’
‘Could be six feet under,’ McBride said.
‘We need to know,’ Catherine said, adding his name with a flourish. ‘We need to know a great deal.’
McBride started to say something more, but thought better of it. Coughed and cleared his throat instead. Let the woman run the show as she sees fit: for now, at least.
‘Sergeant,’ Catherine said, ‘something you’d like to add?’
‘No, boss.’ Close to a growl.
‘Right, then. Charlie and I are off to Chesterfield, talk to Barry Hardwick. You can organise things here? Get Alex and Rob on the move?’
‘Manage that, boss. Do my best.’
Rather than drive straight off, Catherine motioned for Resnick to wait, took a packet of cigarettes from her bag and lit up, resting one elbow on the car roof. Resnick hadn’t even known that she smoked.
‘What is it with him, Charlie?’
‘McBride?’
‘Too young to be outranking him, is that the problem? Or just too black?’
‘Maybe that’s just the way he is.’
‘With everyone?’
Resnick shrugged.
‘Am I just being oversensitive? Is that it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Don’t say a lot, do you, Charlie? Not if it means taking sides.’
‘I didn’t know there was a side to take.’
‘No, you’re right.’ Stepping away from the car, she took one last drag at her cigarette before grinding it out with the underside of her shoe. ‘If there’s a problem it’s mine. Mine to deal with. One way or another. Now let’s go and look at that famous spire.’
Glancing back up at the building she glimpsed McBride at one of the upper windows, looking down.
It was just starting, lightly, to rain.
10
THE SPIRE COULD be seen from a distance, through a mist of rain and low, faltering cloud. Seated atop the parish church of St Mary and All Saints, in the very centre of the town, it twisted as much as forty-five degrees from the perpendicular, leaning almost ten feet away from its true centre.
‘Story goes,’ Resnick said, ‘this blacksmith from Bolsover was shoeing one of the Devil’s cloven hoofs, drove the nail in so hard made the old Devil jump right over the church, grabbed hold of the tower to stop himself falling and twisted it into shape you see now.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’ Catherine said, laughing.
‘All right, how’s this? Young girl getting married in the church, comes down the aisle dressed in white from head to toe. Turns out it’s not for show, lass’d never as much as been kissed. News gets round, there’s a genuine virgin about to get wed, right there in Chesterfield parish church, the old tower’s so surprised, twists itself into a state to take a look.’
‘Charlie, come on.’
Resnick was laughing, too. ‘Stayed like that ever since, waiting for the next virgin to come tripping up the aisle. Till that happens it’ll not twist back.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘And the real reason? I suppose there is one?’
‘Some say it was down to using unseasoned timber, some due to an overloading of lead tile. Truth is, no bugger knows for certain.’
‘Not so much different to us, then.’
They were about to pass close to the church itself and turn into Saltergate. The rain, never strong, had more or less stopped. Hardwick’s address was a few streets along, past The Barley Mow.
‘Any luck,’ Resnick said, ‘we’re about to put that right.’
After knocking on the front door several times, ringing the bell, they tried the neighbours to either side. An elderly woman appeared at one of the upstairs windows, lined face, tightly permed hair.
‘Is it Barry you’re looking for? Because he usually gets back round about now.’
‘From the pub?’
‘Bless
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