evening?
“Some Other Spring”?
“Sometimes I’m Happy”?
“I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good)”?
When the call came through, he was listening to “Body and Soul,” the ’57 version with Harry Edison taking the bridge. Resnick recognized the slight catch in Kevin Naylor’s voice as the younger officer struggled to keep his emotions in check.
“Alive?” Resnick asked, frowning.
“Yes, sir. Last I heard. The old woman, though, got to be touch and go.”
“Anyone gone to the hospital?”
“Mark, sir.”
“Not Lynn?”
“Already out. Something to do with this kid as absconded.”
“Right. Call Graham, tell him to meet me at the house. And you, stay there till I arrive. And for Christ’s sake don’t let any bugger trample over everything.”
Without waiting to hear Naylor’s reply, Resnick set down the receiver and headed for the door. Near enough eleven thirty and it was going to be a long night. He found his car keys on the table in the hall and grabbed a topcoat from the hooks inside the door. Long and likely cold.
Unaware, though she was never really that, Billie Holiday sang on in the empty room.
Graham Millington, burly, hands in pocket, was pacing the pavement inside the area that had been cordoned off, firing an occasional scowl in the direction of those bystanders who were still lingering in the wake of the sirens’ call. Naylor stood in the doorway, face paler than usual in the fall of the street light, one of those faces that were forever young until the day that suddenly they were old.
Resnick parked at the opposite side of the street and strode across.
“Break-in, looks like,” Millington said, falling into step.
“Entry?”
“Round back. Shimmied in through the window.”
“How many?”
“Hard to say as yet. By sight of what’s in there, happen half a hundred of ’em.”
Resnick blinked. Something was pulsing away behind his left temple, some premonition of pain.
“I’ve this minute had a call from Mark,” Naylor said. “Woman’s in the operating theatre, crushed skull. Brain damage, sounds like. Serious.”
“And the husband?”
“Be okay, I think. Cuts and bruises. Shock.”
Resnick turned towards the street, faces indistinct between curtains pulled back. “Witnesses? Anyone seen running away?”
Naylor fidgeted uneasily on the step. “None come forward, sir, as yet.”
“Chances are this wasn’t the only house broken into. Get yourself about, find out what you can. We’ll organize a proper house-to-house first thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think he’ll ever break the habit?” Millington asked, watching Naylor in sports jacket and khaki trousers walking towards the next-door house.
“Which habit’s that?”
“Calling you sir.”
Resnick didn’t bother to reply. He was looking at the turmoil in the small back room, like one of those newspaper photographs showing the spread of damage some distance from the epicenter of an earthquake. A small world turned upside down.
“Something got him in a rare snit,” Millington said.
“Him?”
“Them. Maybe.”
Resnick surveyed the shattered ornaments, broken picture frames, the shards of mirrored glass. In his mind’s eye it was the work of one man, one pair of hands, a sudden unleashing of bewildered rage. Which was not to say that others had not been present, looking on.
“It happened up here,” Millington said, close by the foot of the stairs.
Resnick nodded, cast his eyes around one last time before going up. Shielded by the seat of a fallen chair, something caught his eye, shiny and plastic, a library card, computerized. Gloves already on, he bent down and picked it up carefully between forefinger and thumb.
The moment Resnick entered the bedroom it was like stepping back in time. The way the blood seemed to have spun, spiraling around the walls, across the bedspread and the wardrobe face. And the smell of it. The smell he could never clear from his mind.
“Looks like they got
“Some Other Spring”?
“Sometimes I’m Happy”?
“I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good)”?
When the call came through, he was listening to “Body and Soul,” the ’57 version with Harry Edison taking the bridge. Resnick recognized the slight catch in Kevin Naylor’s voice as the younger officer struggled to keep his emotions in check.
“Alive?” Resnick asked, frowning.
“Yes, sir. Last I heard. The old woman, though, got to be touch and go.”
“Anyone gone to the hospital?”
“Mark, sir.”
“Not Lynn?”
“Already out. Something to do with this kid as absconded.”
“Right. Call Graham, tell him to meet me at the house. And you, stay there till I arrive. And for Christ’s sake don’t let any bugger trample over everything.”
Without waiting to hear Naylor’s reply, Resnick set down the receiver and headed for the door. Near enough eleven thirty and it was going to be a long night. He found his car keys on the table in the hall and grabbed a topcoat from the hooks inside the door. Long and likely cold.
Unaware, though she was never really that, Billie Holiday sang on in the empty room.
Graham Millington, burly, hands in pocket, was pacing the pavement inside the area that had been cordoned off, firing an occasional scowl in the direction of those bystanders who were still lingering in the wake of the sirens’ call. Naylor stood in the doorway, face paler than usual in the fall of the street light, one of those faces that were forever young until the day that suddenly they were old.
Resnick parked at the opposite side of the street and strode across.
“Break-in, looks like,” Millington said, falling into step.
“Entry?”
“Round back. Shimmied in through the window.”
“How many?”
“Hard to say as yet. By sight of what’s in there, happen half a hundred of ’em.”
Resnick blinked. Something was pulsing away behind his left temple, some premonition of pain.
“I’ve this minute had a call from Mark,” Naylor said. “Woman’s in the operating theatre, crushed skull. Brain damage, sounds like. Serious.”
“And the husband?”
“Be okay, I think. Cuts and bruises. Shock.”
Resnick turned towards the street, faces indistinct between curtains pulled back. “Witnesses? Anyone seen running away?”
Naylor fidgeted uneasily on the step. “None come forward, sir, as yet.”
“Chances are this wasn’t the only house broken into. Get yourself about, find out what you can. We’ll organize a proper house-to-house first thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think he’ll ever break the habit?” Millington asked, watching Naylor in sports jacket and khaki trousers walking towards the next-door house.
“Which habit’s that?”
“Calling you sir.”
Resnick didn’t bother to reply. He was looking at the turmoil in the small back room, like one of those newspaper photographs showing the spread of damage some distance from the epicenter of an earthquake. A small world turned upside down.
“Something got him in a rare snit,” Millington said.
“Him?”
“Them. Maybe.”
Resnick surveyed the shattered ornaments, broken picture frames, the shards of mirrored glass. In his mind’s eye it was the work of one man, one pair of hands, a sudden unleashing of bewildered rage. Which was not to say that others had not been present, looking on.
“It happened up here,” Millington said, close by the foot of the stairs.
Resnick nodded, cast his eyes around one last time before going up. Shielded by the seat of a fallen chair, something caught his eye, shiny and plastic, a library card, computerized. Gloves already on, he bent down and picked it up carefully between forefinger and thumb.
The moment Resnick entered the bedroom it was like stepping back in time. The way the blood seemed to have spun, spiraling around the walls, across the bedspread and the wardrobe face. And the smell of it. The smell he could never clear from his mind.
“Looks like they got
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