Read Online Cold in Hand by John Harvey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Harvey
Tags: Mystery
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out, not for no fight. Taken some mates with her, 'course she had, don't go down no St. Ann's on me own, no way. When they got there, everything had been cool at first, just a lot of shouting, not much more, then Kelly come out with the knife.
Whoever'd fired the gun, she didn't know who he was, never saw him, blood streaming down my fuckin' face, how could I? Just heard the noise, the shots, you know, and then everyone screaming. Kelly's laying there, blood streaming out of her. Sorry for her in a way, I's'pose, the lyin' bitch, but then, she never should have started it, should she?
"The boy who fired the gun," Catherine said, one more try before leaving, "someone said he was wearing Radford colours."
"No," Joanne said. "I don't think so. Don't see how he could be. Ask any of them I was with and they'll tell you. Not one of our lot, no way. You ask 'em. Go on."
Ask they did, and kept on asking.
Stone wall.
Seventeen of the twenty-three shown on CCTV had been identified and all but one of those interviewed, some on two separate occasions. More than half had had run-ins with the police before, a few anti-social behaviour orders, supervision orders, nothing too serious. The missing names were still being chased down. Meantime, Marcus Brent's college had confirmed that on the day of the shooting his group had been visiting a supermarket warehouse in Wellingborough.
Resnick sat at his desk, subdued.
He read reports, listened to officers, shuffled schedules, prowled the corridors like a wounded bear.
When he'd phoned Lynn to check how she was and given her the gist of what had happened, she thought at first he was winding her up, spinning a yarn. "What on earth were you thinking about?" she asked, when she realised it was true.
"I don't know. I wasn't, probably. Not clearly, anyway."
"You're telling me!"
"I just felt—I don't know—angry. Felt I had to say something."
"But then? You shouldn't have gone anywhere near him, especially not then."
"I know, I know."
"And don't you ever let me hear you say you were doing it on account of me."
Resnick rang off.
Five minutes later, he called back to apologise, and then, only partly mollified, went scowling off to the canteen.
He was heading back towards the Incident Room, bacon sandwich and a large tea later, when he met Catherine Njoroge coming from the other direction.
"I never thanked you for the other day," Resnick said.
She looked back at him, uncertain.
"Outside the Brent house. I might have had a go at him. You stopped me from doing something stupid."
Catherine smiled. "Perhaps I should have been there today?"
Resnick grinned, despite himself. "Word gets around."
"We're only human," Catherine said.
"Contrary to rumour."
Catherine smiled again and started to walk on, then stopped. "Have you spoken to Michaelson, boss?"
"Not recently."
"I think perhaps you should."
Frank Michaelson was wiry and quite spectacularly tall, six-seven or -eight, depending on whom you believed. From an early age, when his height had become apparent, his teachers and sports coaches had tried their best to talk him into playing basketball, but running was Michaelson's thing, distance running in particular. Marathons, half-marathons, cross-country, 10K. Show Frank anything with a K at the end of it, the joke went, and he'll be stripped down to his shorts and lacing up his running shoes before you've drawn your next breath. Handy, he liked to point out, when it came to chasing little buggers through the back alleys off the Alfreton Road.
When Resnick found him, he was crouched over one of the computer screens, his body bowed practically in two.
"Got something, Frank?"
"Could be, boss. Not sure. This lad here, Alston." He pointed at the screen. "First off, swore blind he wasn't there. Then, when he saw that wasn't going to work, he tried fobbing us off with someone else's name. Got it out of him in the end. Reason, far as I can make out, he didn't want us looking at him any
Whoever'd fired the gun, she didn't know who he was, never saw him, blood streaming down my fuckin' face, how could I? Just heard the noise, the shots, you know, and then everyone screaming. Kelly's laying there, blood streaming out of her. Sorry for her in a way, I's'pose, the lyin' bitch, but then, she never should have started it, should she?
"The boy who fired the gun," Catherine said, one more try before leaving, "someone said he was wearing Radford colours."
"No," Joanne said. "I don't think so. Don't see how he could be. Ask any of them I was with and they'll tell you. Not one of our lot, no way. You ask 'em. Go on."
Ask they did, and kept on asking.
Stone wall.
Seventeen of the twenty-three shown on CCTV had been identified and all but one of those interviewed, some on two separate occasions. More than half had had run-ins with the police before, a few anti-social behaviour orders, supervision orders, nothing too serious. The missing names were still being chased down. Meantime, Marcus Brent's college had confirmed that on the day of the shooting his group had been visiting a supermarket warehouse in Wellingborough.
Resnick sat at his desk, subdued.
He read reports, listened to officers, shuffled schedules, prowled the corridors like a wounded bear.
When he'd phoned Lynn to check how she was and given her the gist of what had happened, she thought at first he was winding her up, spinning a yarn. "What on earth were you thinking about?" she asked, when she realised it was true.
"I don't know. I wasn't, probably. Not clearly, anyway."
"You're telling me!"
"I just felt—I don't know—angry. Felt I had to say something."
"But then? You shouldn't have gone anywhere near him, especially not then."
"I know, I know."
"And don't you ever let me hear you say you were doing it on account of me."
Resnick rang off.
Five minutes later, he called back to apologise, and then, only partly mollified, went scowling off to the canteen.
He was heading back towards the Incident Room, bacon sandwich and a large tea later, when he met Catherine Njoroge coming from the other direction.
"I never thanked you for the other day," Resnick said.
She looked back at him, uncertain.
"Outside the Brent house. I might have had a go at him. You stopped me from doing something stupid."
Catherine smiled. "Perhaps I should have been there today?"
Resnick grinned, despite himself. "Word gets around."
"We're only human," Catherine said.
"Contrary to rumour."
Catherine smiled again and started to walk on, then stopped. "Have you spoken to Michaelson, boss?"
"Not recently."
"I think perhaps you should."
Frank Michaelson was wiry and quite spectacularly tall, six-seven or -eight, depending on whom you believed. From an early age, when his height had become apparent, his teachers and sports coaches had tried their best to talk him into playing basketball, but running was Michaelson's thing, distance running in particular. Marathons, half-marathons, cross-country, 10K. Show Frank anything with a K at the end of it, the joke went, and he'll be stripped down to his shorts and lacing up his running shoes before you've drawn your next breath. Handy, he liked to point out, when it came to chasing little buggers through the back alleys off the Alfreton Road.
When Resnick found him, he was crouched over one of the computer screens, his body bowed practically in two.
"Got something, Frank?"
"Could be, boss. Not sure. This lad here, Alston." He pointed at the screen. "First off, swore blind he wasn't there. Then, when he saw that wasn't going to work, he tried fobbing us off with someone else's name. Got it out of him in the end. Reason, far as I can make out, he didn't want us looking at him any
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