Cold Light by John Harvey Page B

room, leaving Natalie to cry upstairs. Michelle looked at Lynn uncertainly.
    â€œYou go up,” Lynn said. “I’ll see to the tea.”
    When Lynn came in from the kitchen, three mugs of fresh tea balanced on a breadboard she was using as a tray, Michelle was sitting in an easy chair with curved wooden arms, the baby restless against her breast. Gary was on the settee, pretending to watch the TV, sulking quietly.
    Lynn drank her tea, chatting to Michelle about Natalie, keeping things as light as she could. She would have liked to have gone upstairs, taken a look at Karl, but sensed that if she asked Gary would object. Better to have another word with the social worker, let them do what they were trained to do.
    When she got up to leave, Michelle went with her to the door, Gary grunting something from where he slouched that could have been goodbye.
    Moving past Michelle at the door, Lynn said quietly, “If you need someone to talk to, get in touch. Phone me. All right?”
    Michelle stepped quickly back inside, shutting out the cold.
    Later, as she lay curled away from Gary, listening to the suck and whine of his breathing, Michelle was unable to sleep, thinking about it. Not what Gary had said only minutes after Lynn had gone, about keeping things from him; not the ache in her ribs where he had punched her, low where it wouldn’t be seen. Not those, but what he’d said when she’d asked him, the policewoman, if he’d gone out again that night, Christmas Eve. Why he’d lied.

Thirteen
    â€œKevin?”
    â€œShhh!”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œEarly. You go back to sleep.”
    â€œThe baby …”
    â€œI gave her a drink and she went off again.”
    Debbie rolled on to her side, face to the pillow. It was dark in the room, even the gap at the top of the curtains, where they refused to meet, offering no light.
    â€œYou’re on an early.”
    â€œYes.” Dressed in all but his jacket, Kevin sat on the edge of the bed, close to her bare arm.
    â€œI’m sorry, I forgot.”
    Lightly stroking her shoulder, Kevin smiled. “Doesn’t matter.”
    â€œYou used to hate that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Slowly lifting her face, a thin skein of spittle stretched from the pillow to the corner of her mouth until it snapped. “When I used to forget your rota, which hours you were on.”
    â€œI used to hate a lot of things.” Her mouth was damp and warm and musty from sleep. “Love you,” he said.
    â€œI know,” Debbie said. She brought her other arm around him, crook of her elbow tightening against his neck. One breast slipped free from the Snoopy T-shirt she wore in bed.
    â€œI’ll be late.”
    â€œI know,” Debbie said.
    She kissed him hard and let him go.
    Pulling the front door shut and stepping out on to the street, the same, now familiar feeling closed cold around his stomach: how close he had come to losing this, all of it, letting it go.
    Resnick had woken something short of four, finally got up at five. When he had opened the garden door to Dizzy, the black cat had entered with sprung step and hoisted tail as if there were nothing new in this. Below freezing outside, Dizzy’s fur was sleek and tinged with frost.
    Resnick warmed him milk in the pan, testing the temperature with his finger before pouring it into the dish. The cat’s purrs filled the kitchen as it ate and Resnick sipped hot black coffee: a secret between them, no one else awake.
    The first news of Nancy Phelan’s disappearance would go out on the local news at six, would possibly rate a minor mention on the national network an hour later. Jack Skelton had called a meeting for nine. The evidence, such as it was, would be assembled, evaluated, broken down; assignments would be made, which interviews warranted following up, which gaps had still to be filled. Her father’s pain and anger on the phone. Doing everything we