her cigarette, half-smoked.
Resnick was already looking at his watch.
‘In danger of missing something, Charlie?’
‘Jazz at the library, West Bridgford. Nottingham Youth Jazz Orchestra.’
‘Thought it was books, more usually, libraries.’
‘New strategy.’
‘Downloads, Charlie, that’s the new strategy. E-books. Read them on your Kindle, mobile phone.’
As if responding to the words, her own mobile started to ring. Slipping it from her bag, back half-turned, she read the caller ID and declined the call.
‘Little thanks for us, here, Charlie,’ she said, moving towards the car. ‘This investigation. However it turns out. Too many people getting on with their lives. Haines, Barry Hardwick, even Jill. What good will it do now, dredging all this up? That’s what she thinks, what she said, more or less. Better, as far as they’re all concerned, for Jenny’s body to have stayed where it was buried, underground.’
Car in gear, she reversed back on to the road and away.
17
THEY GATHERED WHERE the road forked, well shy of the first houses, the light just beginning to break. Men like Danny who were camping out in the fields, others who were billeted in the village; a dozen or more of them standing in twos and threes, heads down, stamping their feet against the cold; muffled conversation, bursts of occasional laughter, soft glow of cigarettes against the blackened hedgerow.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ says the man next to Danny. ‘Should be fuckin’ here by now.’
‘Don’t fret, they’ll be here right enough.’
‘Less’n they’ve been turned back already.’
‘Look on’t cheerful side of things, why don’t you?’
Others are beginning to wonder aloud where they’re going. Markham or Harworth? Bentinck, maybe. Ollerton.
‘Silverhill,’ says one with certainty. ‘It’s bloody Silverhill, I bet you.’
‘Where the fuck’s that then?’
‘Fuck knows.’
They can see headlights now, faint, orange, approaching through the morning mist. Three cars and a Ford Transit. Windows wound down, a shouted greeting. Danny recognises Steve, Stevie, he’s ridden with him before. And Woody, too. A laugh, Woody. Bit of a mad bastard, but all right.
Someone jumps from the lead car and hurries to the hedge to take a piss. It’s not bloody Silverhill at all, it’s Clipstone.
Danny and the bulk of the others clamber into the back of the van.
No seats, save at the front; someone’s spread a length of old carpet on the floor in back but every bump and pothole in the road jars right through you. And it stinks of too many bodies clamped close together, stale farts and cigarette smoke.
‘Who was that bird I saw you chattin’ up at the Welfare?’ someone asks Danny.
Danny grins and tells him to shut the fuck up.
They goad him a bit longer and he sits there laughing, lapping it up really, legs stretched out, back resting against the side of the van.
‘Time you got married, youth. That’ll take wind out your sails,’ one of the older men observes.
‘Not done that for you, has it?’ one of the others says. ‘Nobbin’ around still wi’ best of ’em.’
‘Bollock off!’
Danny’s thinking about the woman from the Welfare and not for the first time, either. Something about her, the way she looked back at him when he offered to buy her a drink. Defiant, yes, but something more. And when she left, later, doing her best not to look at him across the room, but looking just the same.
Where the Ollerton Road crosses with Netherfield Lane and the A616, the little convoy draws to a halt. Traffic cones warding them over to one side. Police in uniform. More than a few. Danny can see them over the driver’s shoulder. Step out of the vehicle. Driving licence. Destination.
‘Now turn this lot around and fuck off back where you come from.’
They’re not local, Danny can tell. Tell from their accent. The driver of the first car is arguing and they’re offering to arrest him.
‘What charge?
Resnick was already looking at his watch.
‘In danger of missing something, Charlie?’
‘Jazz at the library, West Bridgford. Nottingham Youth Jazz Orchestra.’
‘Thought it was books, more usually, libraries.’
‘New strategy.’
‘Downloads, Charlie, that’s the new strategy. E-books. Read them on your Kindle, mobile phone.’
As if responding to the words, her own mobile started to ring. Slipping it from her bag, back half-turned, she read the caller ID and declined the call.
‘Little thanks for us, here, Charlie,’ she said, moving towards the car. ‘This investigation. However it turns out. Too many people getting on with their lives. Haines, Barry Hardwick, even Jill. What good will it do now, dredging all this up? That’s what she thinks, what she said, more or less. Better, as far as they’re all concerned, for Jenny’s body to have stayed where it was buried, underground.’
Car in gear, she reversed back on to the road and away.
17
THEY GATHERED WHERE the road forked, well shy of the first houses, the light just beginning to break. Men like Danny who were camping out in the fields, others who were billeted in the village; a dozen or more of them standing in twos and threes, heads down, stamping their feet against the cold; muffled conversation, bursts of occasional laughter, soft glow of cigarettes against the blackened hedgerow.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ says the man next to Danny. ‘Should be fuckin’ here by now.’
‘Don’t fret, they’ll be here right enough.’
‘Less’n they’ve been turned back already.’
‘Look on’t cheerful side of things, why don’t you?’
Others are beginning to wonder aloud where they’re going. Markham or Harworth? Bentinck, maybe. Ollerton.
‘Silverhill,’ says one with certainty. ‘It’s bloody Silverhill, I bet you.’
‘Where the fuck’s that then?’
‘Fuck knows.’
They can see headlights now, faint, orange, approaching through the morning mist. Three cars and a Ford Transit. Windows wound down, a shouted greeting. Danny recognises Steve, Stevie, he’s ridden with him before. And Woody, too. A laugh, Woody. Bit of a mad bastard, but all right.
Someone jumps from the lead car and hurries to the hedge to take a piss. It’s not bloody Silverhill at all, it’s Clipstone.
Danny and the bulk of the others clamber into the back of the van.
No seats, save at the front; someone’s spread a length of old carpet on the floor in back but every bump and pothole in the road jars right through you. And it stinks of too many bodies clamped close together, stale farts and cigarette smoke.
‘Who was that bird I saw you chattin’ up at the Welfare?’ someone asks Danny.
Danny grins and tells him to shut the fuck up.
They goad him a bit longer and he sits there laughing, lapping it up really, legs stretched out, back resting against the side of the van.
‘Time you got married, youth. That’ll take wind out your sails,’ one of the older men observes.
‘Not done that for you, has it?’ one of the others says. ‘Nobbin’ around still wi’ best of ’em.’
‘Bollock off!’
Danny’s thinking about the woman from the Welfare and not for the first time, either. Something about her, the way she looked back at him when he offered to buy her a drink. Defiant, yes, but something more. And when she left, later, doing her best not to look at him across the room, but looking just the same.
Where the Ollerton Road crosses with Netherfield Lane and the A616, the little convoy draws to a halt. Traffic cones warding them over to one side. Police in uniform. More than a few. Danny can see them over the driver’s shoulder. Step out of the vehicle. Driving licence. Destination.
‘Now turn this lot around and fuck off back where you come from.’
They’re not local, Danny can tell. Tell from their accent. The driver of the first car is arguing and they’re offering to arrest him.
‘What charge?
Similar Books
