Cutting Edge by John Harvey Read Free Book Online Page A

stairs. He was already late for his appointment with the DCI. He wondered whether Ed Silver had woken and, if so, if he were still in the house. Remembering his remark about the cleaver, Resnick felt a twinge of apprehension on behalf of his cats. No, he thought, stepping out on to the street, if he tries anything funny Dizzy’ll soon sort him out.
    Ignoring his car, Resnick crossed in front of the traffic at an ungainly trot and set off downhill past the new Malaysian restaurant, raincoat flapping awkwardly around him.
    “Kevin,” said Lynn, unable to lift the testiness from her voice.
    “What?”
    “We’ve been sitting here for almost twenty minutes and you’ve either said nothing or gone on about some nurse you reckon fancied you.”
    “So?”
    “So I thought we were supposed to be comparing notes, seeing if we’re any closer to understanding why that doctor was attacked.”
    “Funny. I thought we were having a tea break. Bit of relaxation. Besides, I never asked you to sit here.”
    “Maybe you’d prefer me back in uniform—just a different kind.”
    “Maybe I would.”
    When she stood up, Lynn scraped her chair back loudly enough for several others to turn around. “If you’re thinking of going over the side,” she said, “I should keep it to yourself.”
    “What’s the matter, Lynn?” said Naylor. “Jealous?”
    “You bastard!”
    She pushed her way between the close-set tables, the backs of jutting chairs, her normally ruddy cheeks redder still.
    “What’s up?” said Mark Divine, all mouth and mock concern. “Getting your period?”
    Lynn Kellogg rocked back on her heels, swiveling to face him. Divine standing there with his tray balanced over one arm, the rest of the canteen watching.
    “Yes,” she said, “matter of fact, I am.”
    Once before, in the CID room, she’d struck out at him, smack across the face, marks from her fingers that hadn’t soon faded. She moved a half pace towards him now and his arm went up instinctively for protection. There was a large glass of milk on the tray, a cream cake, pie and chips.
    Lynn reached out and took a chip. “Thanks, Mark. Nice of you to be so concerned.”
    The roar from the rest of the canteen cowboys was still loud around Divine as he found a seat, echoes of it following Lynn all the way back along the corridor.
    “Espresso?”
    “Large.”
    Resnick looked at the girl as she turned away. Short hair like bleached gold at the tips, mud at the roots. Two silver rings in her left ear and a fake diamond stud at the side of her nose. He hadn’t seen her before and he wasn’t too surprised. Mario would take on a girl, teach her to work the machine and then she’d leave.
    “Thanks,” he said as she set down the small cup and saucer, brown and white. He gave her one pound thirty and she looked surprised. “Half’s for the next one,” Resnick explained.
    “Tomorrow?”
    “Ten minutes.”
    There had been a period of almost six weeks when the stall had closed down and Resnick had felt bereft. Usually, when he went to the indoor market near the Central police station and shopped at either of the Polish delicatessens, or bought fresh vegetables, fish, he would stop off at the Italian coffee stall for two espressos. Sometimes—the luxury of half an hour to kill, more than usual to read the paper in—he would have three and spend the rest of the day tasting them, strong and bitter, at the back of his throat. Then, suddenly, no warning: it was closed.
    Resnick had asked around. He was, after all, a detective. There were rumors of grand changes, expansion, everything from toasted ham and cheese to microwaved lasagna. One morning, local paper under one arm, half a pound of pickled gherkins, soused herring and a dark rye with caraway in a carrier bag, it was open again, Mario himself behind the counter. There were new covers on the stools, fresh red and green paint on the counter, the cappuccino machine had been moved from one side to the other.