He broke off at a movement back along the line of the fence, near a small thicket of trees: just a fox, treading its almost dainty way from one dustbin to the next.
At a little after two, one of the lights suddenly went on upstairs and both men were instantly on the alert, but not so many minutes later it went out again; most probably one of the children, Naylor thought, woken by a dream and needing to take a sleepy pee.
By the time they were relieved, a false dawn was rising behind the shadows of the buildings and a low mist was curling, silvery gray, above the gardens and their neatly trimmed hedges. All too soon, the hum of traffic that had never quite faded to silence would accelerate them into a new day.
Eleven
When Lorraine slid back into the bed in the early hours, Derek had moaned a little and stirred, turning toward her, one arm pushed across her body. Only gradually had she pushed it back. After that she lay there, unable to sleep, listening to the almost unbroken monotony of Derek’s breathing. Since their row in front of the policeman, when she had let the alcohol and her tongue get the better of her, neither she nor Derek had spoken about what had happened. Both Sean and Sandra had walked round them on tenterhooks, unnaturally quiet, aware, as kids usually are, that something important was going on, without understanding exactly what it was.
Lorraine eased herself out from under the covers and into her slippers and dressing gown. Outside, it was breaking light. She set the kettle to boil and made tea. After yesterday’s drinking, her head wasn’t aching as much as it should. She tried to imagine Michael and where he was—hiding somewhere, hungry and cold, desperate—but no clear picture came to her mind. She remembered the look that had come to his eyes when he held her. Anger and something she didn’t want to recognize. “You don’t love him, do you? Derek. Even if you ever did, you don’t love him any more. I can tell.”
Then Derek himself had burst into the room, and Michael had been led away and she had not known when she might see him again. She still didn’t know. He could be a hundred meters from the house or less; he could be a hundred, a thousand miles away. She didn’t know.
She heard footsteps, Derek’s, at the top of the stairs. Since his old Saab had given up the ghost, Resnick had been loath to replace it with something new. In need of transport, he either borrowed a vehicle from the station car pool or used one of the city’s many taxis; mornings like this—crisp and clear, the sky a pale wash of blue—he opted for shank’s pony.
Walking through the Arboretum, rose gardens rising to his left, Resnick realized he was thinking about Preston. Though he couldn’t bring to mind the exact statistic, he knew close to nine hundred prisoners absconded every year. Knew, too, common wisdom said most of those not recaptured during the first few days remained at large. A surprisingly small number managed to leave the country, a handful more changed their identity and settled into a quiet, law-abiding life; most went underground and in the fullness of time resumed the same criminal activities as before. If they were caught, most often it was chance, simple coincidence, or because they were arrested for some new crime.
The prevailing police attitude, as Skelton had suggested, was we did our job once, nicked and tried and put away: if they get out again, not down to us; why waste the energy, bust our balls doing it all again?
Resnick waited for a gap in the morning traffic and crossed Waverley Street into the cemetery and the wavering path that would take him up through a succession of ornate Victorian tombstones and out on to Canning Circus and the Alfreton Road.
There were things about the escape he wanted to know. Had it been simply opportunist or planned? And, if the latter, who had helped and why?
He stopped off at the deli in the middle of the Circus for a coffee and an apple
At a little after two, one of the lights suddenly went on upstairs and both men were instantly on the alert, but not so many minutes later it went out again; most probably one of the children, Naylor thought, woken by a dream and needing to take a sleepy pee.
By the time they were relieved, a false dawn was rising behind the shadows of the buildings and a low mist was curling, silvery gray, above the gardens and their neatly trimmed hedges. All too soon, the hum of traffic that had never quite faded to silence would accelerate them into a new day.
Eleven
When Lorraine slid back into the bed in the early hours, Derek had moaned a little and stirred, turning toward her, one arm pushed across her body. Only gradually had she pushed it back. After that she lay there, unable to sleep, listening to the almost unbroken monotony of Derek’s breathing. Since their row in front of the policeman, when she had let the alcohol and her tongue get the better of her, neither she nor Derek had spoken about what had happened. Both Sean and Sandra had walked round them on tenterhooks, unnaturally quiet, aware, as kids usually are, that something important was going on, without understanding exactly what it was.
Lorraine eased herself out from under the covers and into her slippers and dressing gown. Outside, it was breaking light. She set the kettle to boil and made tea. After yesterday’s drinking, her head wasn’t aching as much as it should. She tried to imagine Michael and where he was—hiding somewhere, hungry and cold, desperate—but no clear picture came to her mind. She remembered the look that had come to his eyes when he held her. Anger and something she didn’t want to recognize. “You don’t love him, do you? Derek. Even if you ever did, you don’t love him any more. I can tell.”
Then Derek himself had burst into the room, and Michael had been led away and she had not known when she might see him again. She still didn’t know. He could be a hundred meters from the house or less; he could be a hundred, a thousand miles away. She didn’t know.
She heard footsteps, Derek’s, at the top of the stairs. Since his old Saab had given up the ghost, Resnick had been loath to replace it with something new. In need of transport, he either borrowed a vehicle from the station car pool or used one of the city’s many taxis; mornings like this—crisp and clear, the sky a pale wash of blue—he opted for shank’s pony.
Walking through the Arboretum, rose gardens rising to his left, Resnick realized he was thinking about Preston. Though he couldn’t bring to mind the exact statistic, he knew close to nine hundred prisoners absconded every year. Knew, too, common wisdom said most of those not recaptured during the first few days remained at large. A surprisingly small number managed to leave the country, a handful more changed their identity and settled into a quiet, law-abiding life; most went underground and in the fullness of time resumed the same criminal activities as before. If they were caught, most often it was chance, simple coincidence, or because they were arrested for some new crime.
The prevailing police attitude, as Skelton had suggested, was we did our job once, nicked and tried and put away: if they get out again, not down to us; why waste the energy, bust our balls doing it all again?
Resnick waited for a gap in the morning traffic and crossed Waverley Street into the cemetery and the wavering path that would take him up through a succession of ornate Victorian tombstones and out on to Canning Circus and the Alfreton Road.
There were things about the escape he wanted to know. Had it been simply opportunist or planned? And, if the latter, who had helped and why?
He stopped off at the deli in the middle of the Circus for a coffee and an apple
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