been thinking about that. “Not so far from East Midlands Airport. Maybe fancies his chances of getting out of the country more from there, rather than getting caught up in all that extra security at Gatwick or Heathrow.”
“Need a passport, though, just the same.”
“Not so difficult,” Resnick said. “Even inside. Couple of thousand, that was the last price I heard quoted. Get you a passport so well put together you’d be hard put to tell the difference.” He smiled wryly. “No need to stop there, either. National Insurance number, credit account, invent yourself a new life for the right money. University degree, if it’s what you fancy.”
“And you think Preston would’ve been able to lay his hands on that kind of money?”
“I think he might. From what little I know, he could be the careful sort, keep a little stashed away.”
“He’d need help, then. Someone on the outside he could trust.”
“No doubt.” Resnick scuffed at the ground with the toe of his shoe, checked his watch. “Not a lot more we can do here. And no sense hanging around till Scene of Crime’ve tipped themselves out of bed. Too much like waiting for the kettle to boil. If they come up with anything, they’ll be in touch soon enough. We’d be best occupied closer to home.” He grinned. “Move now, we should have time to stop for a bit of breakfast on the way.”
Vincent smiled back, thinking, is that the motorway services, then, or the Little Chef on the A49? Two Early Starters, bacon crispy and well done, coffees, brown toast.
Fifteen
They were six miles short of the city when a message came through on Resnick’s mobile: meet Sharon Garnett at Queen’s Medical as soon as possible. Resnick was getting to feel more like a hospital consultant every day.
Vincent dropped him by the main entrance. Sharon was waiting just inside the doors, tired skin pouched around her eyes. “Getting to be a habit,” she said.
Resnick nodded. “Fill me in.”
They started walking along the central corridor.
“Forest Recreation Ground,” Sharon said, “early hours. Jason Johnson drove in there with his girlfriend, Sheena Snape. Jason’s sister, Diane, along with them. They’d been there a while when this fire-red Porsche convertible drives up, parks nearby. Just the one person inside.” Sharon took a beat. “None other than Anthony Drew Valentine. Not just a Premier League pimp but, if the rumors are to be believed, a major drug dealer of this parish.”
Resnick steadied his pace. “What happened?”
Sharon smiled. “The details are still open to question. But the net result’s this—Johnson’s in Intensive Care with a bullet wound to the neck and Valentine’s in a private room on the floor below, a stab wound in the groin.”
“Weapons?”
“The knife was easy enough to find; one of the paramedics took it out of Valentine’s leg. No sign of the gun. There’ll be a search party in there now.”
They walked on toward the lifts. “Jason’s been on the critical list since they brought him in,” Sharon said. “They rate his chances as sixty-forty. He lost a lot of blood, but I don’t know if it’s just that. Maybe there’s some infection. They’re being cagey, not saying.”
“Any possibility of talking to him?”
Sharon shook her head. “They’ll page me if it looks like he’s rallying round.”
“And Valentine?”
Sharon laughed and rolled her eyes. “Fat bastard! I know him from when I was working vice. The kind who’ll piss all over your boots and tell you it’s raining.”
“What’s his story about putting a bullet in Jason Johnson’s neck?”
Sharon laughed. “According to him, he’d driven in there looking for a bit of peace and quiet. I think the actual phrase he used was ‘nocturnal meditation.’” She laughed again, caustically. “Talk about a little education being a dangerous thing. Specially for a nigger like Drew Valentine.”
Resnick looked at her sharply; he knew that if
“Need a passport, though, just the same.”
“Not so difficult,” Resnick said. “Even inside. Couple of thousand, that was the last price I heard quoted. Get you a passport so well put together you’d be hard put to tell the difference.” He smiled wryly. “No need to stop there, either. National Insurance number, credit account, invent yourself a new life for the right money. University degree, if it’s what you fancy.”
“And you think Preston would’ve been able to lay his hands on that kind of money?”
“I think he might. From what little I know, he could be the careful sort, keep a little stashed away.”
“He’d need help, then. Someone on the outside he could trust.”
“No doubt.” Resnick scuffed at the ground with the toe of his shoe, checked his watch. “Not a lot more we can do here. And no sense hanging around till Scene of Crime’ve tipped themselves out of bed. Too much like waiting for the kettle to boil. If they come up with anything, they’ll be in touch soon enough. We’d be best occupied closer to home.” He grinned. “Move now, we should have time to stop for a bit of breakfast on the way.”
Vincent smiled back, thinking, is that the motorway services, then, or the Little Chef on the A49? Two Early Starters, bacon crispy and well done, coffees, brown toast.
Fifteen
They were six miles short of the city when a message came through on Resnick’s mobile: meet Sharon Garnett at Queen’s Medical as soon as possible. Resnick was getting to feel more like a hospital consultant every day.
Vincent dropped him by the main entrance. Sharon was waiting just inside the doors, tired skin pouched around her eyes. “Getting to be a habit,” she said.
Resnick nodded. “Fill me in.”
They started walking along the central corridor.
“Forest Recreation Ground,” Sharon said, “early hours. Jason Johnson drove in there with his girlfriend, Sheena Snape. Jason’s sister, Diane, along with them. They’d been there a while when this fire-red Porsche convertible drives up, parks nearby. Just the one person inside.” Sharon took a beat. “None other than Anthony Drew Valentine. Not just a Premier League pimp but, if the rumors are to be believed, a major drug dealer of this parish.”
Resnick steadied his pace. “What happened?”
Sharon smiled. “The details are still open to question. But the net result’s this—Johnson’s in Intensive Care with a bullet wound to the neck and Valentine’s in a private room on the floor below, a stab wound in the groin.”
“Weapons?”
“The knife was easy enough to find; one of the paramedics took it out of Valentine’s leg. No sign of the gun. There’ll be a search party in there now.”
They walked on toward the lifts. “Jason’s been on the critical list since they brought him in,” Sharon said. “They rate his chances as sixty-forty. He lost a lot of blood, but I don’t know if it’s just that. Maybe there’s some infection. They’re being cagey, not saying.”
“Any possibility of talking to him?”
Sharon shook her head. “They’ll page me if it looks like he’s rallying round.”
“And Valentine?”
Sharon laughed and rolled her eyes. “Fat bastard! I know him from when I was working vice. The kind who’ll piss all over your boots and tell you it’s raining.”
“What’s his story about putting a bullet in Jason Johnson’s neck?”
Sharon laughed. “According to him, he’d driven in there looking for a bit of peace and quiet. I think the actual phrase he used was ‘nocturnal meditation.’” She laughed again, caustically. “Talk about a little education being a dangerous thing. Specially for a nigger like Drew Valentine.”
Resnick looked at her sharply; he knew that if
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