center of the city.
The problem is, he thought, you probably don’t know that you’re doing it. Although—he grinned at his reflection in the driving mirror—between young Lynn Kellogg and Jack Skelton, there’s no shortage of folk to tap me on the shoulder, steer me back towards the straight and narrow.
Straight and narrow, straight certainly, that was the superintendent: if Resnick ever found out Skelton’s parents had made him wear a brace on his back through his formative years, he’d be less than surprised.
Jack Skelton sat in the armchair, forward, his back to the curtained window. The traffic on the road seemed distant, quiet. He hadn’t bothered to get up and switch on the light. He could see the outline of his sports bag where he had left it, smell the faint sweat of his squash clothes. This time he had lasted eighteen minutes without looking at the ticking clock.
Nine
Miles met Resnick the instant his feet touched the pavement; the cat had recognized the sound of the car’s engine from the end of the street and come running. Now he made his welcoming cry from the irregular stones atop the wall, strutting, tail hoisted high as he presented, turn upon turn, his fine backside. Resnick reached up a hand and stroked the smooth fur of the cat’s head, behind and below the ear.
“Come on,” said Resnick. “Let’s get something to eat.”
Miles ran along the wall before jumping to the ground, wriggling between the bars of the gate even as Resnick was opening it.
Before he reached the front door, Resnick was aware that Dizzy was there, too; as usual, silent and seemingly from nowhere, he had materialized at the crucial moment. Right now he was nudging Miles out of the way, laying claim to be the first through into the house.
Resnick switched on the light and bent to scoop the post from the carpet. Four envelopes and a business card. He set the chain and slid the bolt.
It struck cold walking through the hallway, and Resnick tried to remember when he had last bled the radiators; maybe it was later than he’d thought and the system had closed itself down for the night.
Pepper had wedged himself between bread bin and coffee maker, two paws protruding. The tip of Bud’s tail showed, a muted white, curling past a leg of the kitchen table.
Miles and Dizzy nudged against either side of Resnick, meowing shrilly.
“Hush,” he said, knowing that it would do no good.
Tin opened, he forked some into each of the bowls, green, blue, yellow, red, then sprinkled a shower of dried heaven-knows-what over the top. The full-fat milk he gave them, keeping the semi-skimmed for himself. What time was it? Once he’d ground two handfuls of dark beans and poured in the water, he felt relaxed enough to remove his coat, loosen his already loose tie, unfasten and ease off his shoes. In the living room he selected some Lester Young from the shelf and switched the stereo on low. New York City with Johnny Guarnieri: three days past Christmas ’43 and just shy of New Year, shining and plump like a fat, silver apple. Back when everything must have still seemed possible. “I Never Knew.” “Sometimes I’m Happy.”
Back in the kitchen Resnick lifted Dizzy away from Bud’s bowl before slicing bread, rye with caraway. He scooped the contents from a tin of sardines in soya oil, sliced a small onion and spread the rings across the fish; there was a large enough piece of feta cheese to be worth grating. He picked up the business card and took it, with his sandwich, towards the music.
Claire Millinder’s signature, diagonally across the bottom of the card, red felt-tip, was rounded and neat. Tried contacting you, work and home, it read. Why don’t you get yourself an answerphone?
“A microwave, that’s the answer,” Graham Millington had told him. “That way, you wouldn’t have to eat those sandwiches all the time.”
“Never quite understood, Charlie,” Jack Skelton had said one strangely slack afternoon, “what
The problem is, he thought, you probably don’t know that you’re doing it. Although—he grinned at his reflection in the driving mirror—between young Lynn Kellogg and Jack Skelton, there’s no shortage of folk to tap me on the shoulder, steer me back towards the straight and narrow.
Straight and narrow, straight certainly, that was the superintendent: if Resnick ever found out Skelton’s parents had made him wear a brace on his back through his formative years, he’d be less than surprised.
Jack Skelton sat in the armchair, forward, his back to the curtained window. The traffic on the road seemed distant, quiet. He hadn’t bothered to get up and switch on the light. He could see the outline of his sports bag where he had left it, smell the faint sweat of his squash clothes. This time he had lasted eighteen minutes without looking at the ticking clock.
Nine
Miles met Resnick the instant his feet touched the pavement; the cat had recognized the sound of the car’s engine from the end of the street and come running. Now he made his welcoming cry from the irregular stones atop the wall, strutting, tail hoisted high as he presented, turn upon turn, his fine backside. Resnick reached up a hand and stroked the smooth fur of the cat’s head, behind and below the ear.
“Come on,” said Resnick. “Let’s get something to eat.”
Miles ran along the wall before jumping to the ground, wriggling between the bars of the gate even as Resnick was opening it.
Before he reached the front door, Resnick was aware that Dizzy was there, too; as usual, silent and seemingly from nowhere, he had materialized at the crucial moment. Right now he was nudging Miles out of the way, laying claim to be the first through into the house.
Resnick switched on the light and bent to scoop the post from the carpet. Four envelopes and a business card. He set the chain and slid the bolt.
It struck cold walking through the hallway, and Resnick tried to remember when he had last bled the radiators; maybe it was later than he’d thought and the system had closed itself down for the night.
Pepper had wedged himself between bread bin and coffee maker, two paws protruding. The tip of Bud’s tail showed, a muted white, curling past a leg of the kitchen table.
Miles and Dizzy nudged against either side of Resnick, meowing shrilly.
“Hush,” he said, knowing that it would do no good.
Tin opened, he forked some into each of the bowls, green, blue, yellow, red, then sprinkled a shower of dried heaven-knows-what over the top. The full-fat milk he gave them, keeping the semi-skimmed for himself. What time was it? Once he’d ground two handfuls of dark beans and poured in the water, he felt relaxed enough to remove his coat, loosen his already loose tie, unfasten and ease off his shoes. In the living room he selected some Lester Young from the shelf and switched the stereo on low. New York City with Johnny Guarnieri: three days past Christmas ’43 and just shy of New Year, shining and plump like a fat, silver apple. Back when everything must have still seemed possible. “I Never Knew.” “Sometimes I’m Happy.”
Back in the kitchen Resnick lifted Dizzy away from Bud’s bowl before slicing bread, rye with caraway. He scooped the contents from a tin of sardines in soya oil, sliced a small onion and spread the rings across the fish; there was a large enough piece of feta cheese to be worth grating. He picked up the business card and took it, with his sandwich, towards the music.
Claire Millinder’s signature, diagonally across the bottom of the card, red felt-tip, was rounded and neat. Tried contacting you, work and home, it read. Why don’t you get yourself an answerphone?
“A microwave, that’s the answer,” Graham Millington had told him. “That way, you wouldn’t have to eat those sandwiches all the time.”
“Never quite understood, Charlie,” Jack Skelton had said one strangely slack afternoon, “what
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