Cutting Edge by John Harvey Read Free Book Online Page B

Everything else seemed the same. Resnick had greeted Mario like a long-lost brother, a material witness he had never thought would show up at the trial.
    “Coffee? Wonderful coffee!” sang Mario, as though he had never seen Resnick before. “Best coffee you can buy!”
    “What’s happened?” Resnick asked. “What’s been happening?”
    “The wife,” Mario said, “she had a baby.” Explaining nothing.
    Then, as now, Resnick drank one espresso and slid his cup back across the counter for another.
    Across from him a mother and daughter, similar hair styles, identical expressions, listened to Mario declaring undying love to the pair of them and were pleased. A serious young man who had strolled in from the poly refolded his Guardian as he spooned chocolatey froth from the top of his cappuccino. No more than eighteen, a woman prised the dummy from her three-year-old’s mouth so that he could drink his banana milk shake. Along to Resnick’s right, a man with check cap and a hump glanced around before slipping his false teeth into his handkerchief, the better to deal with his sausage roll.
    “Inspector.”
    “Ms. Olds.” Resnick recognized the voice and didn’t turn his head. He waited until Suzanne Olds had climbed on to the stool alongside him, careful to smooth down the skirt of her light gray suit, the hem settling several inches short of the knee. She lifted a small leather bag into her lap and snapped it open; its matching satchel, containing court notes and papers, rested by her feet.
    “Ah!” cried Mario. “ Bellissima! ”
    “Stuff it, Mario!” she said, enunciating beautifully. “Or I’ll have this man arrest you for sexual harassment.”
    Resnick walked through the Center with her, a tall woman in her mid-thirties, slender, an inch or two under six foot. Standing on the escalator, passing between the Early Learning Center and Thornton’s Chocolates, Suzanne Olds made him feel shabby, she made him feel good. She was talking about a case she was in the middle of defending, three black youths who had been stopped by a police car on the edge of the Forest, two in the morning. Illegal substances, backchat, a charge of resisting arrest.
    “Why do it?” she asked, buses pulling away behind her, turning right into Trinity Square. “When there are real crimes to be solved.”
    “Hospital doctor attacked!” called the paper seller. “Slasher at large!”
    “Enjoy your say in court,” Resnick said, already moving.
    “Next time the coffee’s on me,” she called after him, but Resnick failed to hear her, her voice drowned in the sound of traffic as he hurried away, fists punched deep into his pockets.

Eight
    “Ah, Tom.”
    “Tim.”
    “How’re we today? Feeling better?”
    “A little.”
    “Good. That’s the spirit.”
    Tim Fletcher felt like shit. He winced trying to lever himself up in the bed; with one arm covered in bandages and the other attached to a drip, it wasn’t easy.
    The consultant stood near the end of the bed, white coat open over a pair of ox blood brogues, beige trousers, a gray tailored shirt with a white collar and silk tie in red and navy diagonal stripes. His face was full around the jaw, more than a little flushed below pouched eyes; the pupils themselves were unclouded and alert. He took the file containing Fletcher’s notes from one of the junior doctors, gave it a peripheral glance and handed it back.
    “If you cut us, do we not bleed?” Laughing, the consultant took hold of Fletcher’s toes through the blanket and gave them an encouraging shake. “Gave the lie to that one, eh, Tom? Those buggers who think we’re made of stone.”
    He lifted his head for the approval which his entourage duly gave.
    “Well,” he said, “young chap like you, should heal quickly. Soon be ready for a spot of physio … Physio, yes, Sister?”
    “Yes, Mr. Salt.”
    “Soon have you back on your feet again.”
    “Arsehole!” murmured Fletcher, as soon as the consultant and his