say.”
“The man, what did he look like?”
“He were a big bugger, I’ll tell you that.” And then, as the WPC appeared at Resnick’s shoulder, “Beggin’ your pardon.”
“Tall,” Resnick asked. “Heavy—what?”
Winscale studied Resnick for some moments. “Tall as you, I’d say; close enough, anyway. Not near as fat.” Standing behind Resnick, Mary Clive suppressed a giggle. “Like running smack into a wall of anthracite, I’ll tell you that.”
“How about his face?”
“Not got a clue. Not really. Don’t forget it was coming fast dark. ’Sides which, it all happened so quick.”
“If I showed you a photograph …”
“Be wastin’ your time.”
“And the voice? He did speak?”
“A little, aye. Hard, you know. Like he was used to snapping out orders. Army, maybe, something of the sort.”
“Any kind of an accent?”
Winscale gave it some thought. “Nothing strong. Not as jumped out. If you’d said he was local, I’d not be surprised. Closer to Yorkshire than here, mind. Sheffield, say.”
“And there’s nothing else about him you can remember?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Winscale spread his hands on the table. “Seems to me, you got an idea, pretty much, as to who the bastard is already.”
Resnick pushed the chair back from the table. Whatever Mary Clive had done to the tea, it still tasted stewed, stewed and slightly sweet, but anything at that hour of the morning was welcome enough. “Your car,” he said to Winscale, “if you’re right and this is who we think, my guess is it’ll get dumped, likely not come to any harm. We’ll need to check it over, if and when that happens, but you’ll get it back in one piece.”
Winscale chuckled. “Best thing as could happen, far as I’m concerned, bastard thing gets wrapped around a tree somewhere, written off. Insurance can buy me some kind of van, four-wheel drive.”
“Don’t count your chickens,” Resnick said.
“Christ!” Winscale laughed. “Don’t tell me the bugger’s had them away as well.”
“Seems to be snapping out of it well enough,” Resnick observed, “considering.”
They were standing outside the front door of the cottage, the skies brightening around them, mist still waiting to be burned off the ground.
“Told me he was trapped beneath ground once,” Mary Clive said, “working down at the face. Some sort of cave-in, apparently. Sixty-two hours before anyone tunneled through wide enough to drag them out. This would have been a picnic compared to that.”
Resnick glanced round at the close rows of vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, arched sticks of runner beans, tomatoes under a cold frame, the ragged gaggle of hens. He’d noticed a sign propped inside, ready to set out on the road: Fresh Farm Produce, Free Range Eggs. “Bought this with his redundancy money, I dare say. Put it to better use than some.”
“His wife left him after the strike. He bought this place soon after. Just enough for one, or so he says.”
Resnick smiled. She was a plain-faced young woman in her late twenties, stockily built; she had a ready smile and twice the confidence of her colleague.
“You seem to have got on with him pretty well,” Resnick said, nodding in the direction of the cottage. “Life story, almost.”
“Glad for someone to talk to after what he’s been through.”
“See if you can’t talk him into going to accident and emergency, have that wound checked out. Put a call through for an ambulance; better still, drive him yourself. He should have an X-ray, at least.”
She smiled back with her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” Contacts, Resnick thought, tinted blue.
Carl Vincent was standing a short way off, talking to Rothwell. He broke off what he was saying and walked across toward Resnick. “What d’you think, sir? Our man or not?”
“Could well be.”
“But why make his move when he does? Why not wait till he’s farther down the motorway, closer to London?”
Resnick had
“The man, what did he look like?”
“He were a big bugger, I’ll tell you that.” And then, as the WPC appeared at Resnick’s shoulder, “Beggin’ your pardon.”
“Tall,” Resnick asked. “Heavy—what?”
Winscale studied Resnick for some moments. “Tall as you, I’d say; close enough, anyway. Not near as fat.” Standing behind Resnick, Mary Clive suppressed a giggle. “Like running smack into a wall of anthracite, I’ll tell you that.”
“How about his face?”
“Not got a clue. Not really. Don’t forget it was coming fast dark. ’Sides which, it all happened so quick.”
“If I showed you a photograph …”
“Be wastin’ your time.”
“And the voice? He did speak?”
“A little, aye. Hard, you know. Like he was used to snapping out orders. Army, maybe, something of the sort.”
“Any kind of an accent?”
Winscale gave it some thought. “Nothing strong. Not as jumped out. If you’d said he was local, I’d not be surprised. Closer to Yorkshire than here, mind. Sheffield, say.”
“And there’s nothing else about him you can remember?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Winscale spread his hands on the table. “Seems to me, you got an idea, pretty much, as to who the bastard is already.”
Resnick pushed the chair back from the table. Whatever Mary Clive had done to the tea, it still tasted stewed, stewed and slightly sweet, but anything at that hour of the morning was welcome enough. “Your car,” he said to Winscale, “if you’re right and this is who we think, my guess is it’ll get dumped, likely not come to any harm. We’ll need to check it over, if and when that happens, but you’ll get it back in one piece.”
Winscale chuckled. “Best thing as could happen, far as I’m concerned, bastard thing gets wrapped around a tree somewhere, written off. Insurance can buy me some kind of van, four-wheel drive.”
“Don’t count your chickens,” Resnick said.
“Christ!” Winscale laughed. “Don’t tell me the bugger’s had them away as well.”
“Seems to be snapping out of it well enough,” Resnick observed, “considering.”
They were standing outside the front door of the cottage, the skies brightening around them, mist still waiting to be burned off the ground.
“Told me he was trapped beneath ground once,” Mary Clive said, “working down at the face. Some sort of cave-in, apparently. Sixty-two hours before anyone tunneled through wide enough to drag them out. This would have been a picnic compared to that.”
Resnick glanced round at the close rows of vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, arched sticks of runner beans, tomatoes under a cold frame, the ragged gaggle of hens. He’d noticed a sign propped inside, ready to set out on the road: Fresh Farm Produce, Free Range Eggs. “Bought this with his redundancy money, I dare say. Put it to better use than some.”
“His wife left him after the strike. He bought this place soon after. Just enough for one, or so he says.”
Resnick smiled. She was a plain-faced young woman in her late twenties, stockily built; she had a ready smile and twice the confidence of her colleague.
“You seem to have got on with him pretty well,” Resnick said, nodding in the direction of the cottage. “Life story, almost.”
“Glad for someone to talk to after what he’s been through.”
“See if you can’t talk him into going to accident and emergency, have that wound checked out. Put a call through for an ambulance; better still, drive him yourself. He should have an X-ray, at least.”
She smiled back with her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” Contacts, Resnick thought, tinted blue.
Carl Vincent was standing a short way off, talking to Rothwell. He broke off what he was saying and walked across toward Resnick. “What d’you think, sir? Our man or not?”
“Could well be.”
“But why make his move when he does? Why not wait till he’s farther down the motorway, closer to London?”
Resnick had
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