Ash & Bone

by John Harvey

The lorry turned off into the left-hand lane and Karen accelerated into the space, swung hard right, cutting up not one vehicle but two, then left again and down through the first set of lights, pulling wide round a 43 bus.

  'You enjoy this?' Elder asked.

  'Love it.' Karen grinned.

  * * *

  Vanessa was pale-faced and puffy-eyed. The bruises round her neck had intensified in colour. She made them coffee without bringing the water properly to the boil and the granules floated around the surface, only partly dissolved. Her account of the attack and what had led up to it was flat and emotionless, as if she were describing something that had happened to a distant friend rather than to herself. Only when she spoke of the moment Kennet had first jumped out at her, the knife to the side of her face, did her voice falter and break. Elder could see a faint red line traversing the skin.

  'The man you reported seeing across the street,' he said. 'You think that was him as well?'

  Vanessa waited a moment before answering. 'No, I'm not sure.'

  'It hardly matters,' Karen said. 'From what you've said, it looks as if he was stalking you. Building up to last night.'

  'Agreed,' said Elder. 'But if it was him, it suggests a pattern. Watching. Following.'

  'You're thinking of Maddy, aren't you?' Vanessa said. 'What happened to her?'

  Both Karen and Elder looked back at her.

  'You think he killed her.'

  'In the circumstances,' Karen began, 'we have to consider —'

  'Oh, come on!' Vanessa almost shouted, suddenly angry. 'Don't give me that crap.'

  'It's a possibility,' Elder said.

  'It's more than a bloody possibility.'

  'Maybe.'

  'Sod maybe!' Flushed, Vanessa went towards the door, stopped and turned back. Nowhere to go. 'Kennet, what's he saying?' she asked.

  'So far, nothing.'

  'He threatened me with a knife; half-choked me. He was going to rape me.'

  'I know,' Karen said. 'I know.'

  'He was going to kill me.'

  Karen reached for her hand, but she pulled away; crossed to the sink and turned on the cold tap and then nothing, simply stood there, watching it run.

  After a few moments, Elder went over and switched it off. When he brushed her shoulder accidentally she jumped.

  'We ought to go,' he said quietly.

  'Then go.'

  'Vanessa,' Karen said at the door, 'you should arrange to see somebody.'

  'Somebody?'

  'You know what I mean. A counsellor. They'll sort it out at the station, I'm sure.'

  Vanessa stared back at her hopelessly. 'Don't let him get away with this.'

  'Don't worry. We won't.'

  * * *

  Kennet was sitting up in bed, propped against a number of pillows, his recent stitches standing out like tiny bird marks along the plane of his face. Seeing Karen and Elder he actually smiled.

  'Back in the land of the living,' Elder said.

  'Just about.'

  'Luckier than some.'

  'There are questions,' Karen said, 'about last night.'

  'You mean when I was attacked?'

  'You were attacked?'

  'Of course.' Kennet touched his fingertips to his coming scar. 'Bloke who stitched me up reckoned I was lucky not to lose an eye.'

  'And Vanessa, what was she lucky enough to escape with?'

  'Anything that happened to her, self-defence.'

  'Wait,' said Karen. 'Wait. You're claiming she attacked you?'

  'Of course. Asked me up, started fooling around, everything going along fine and then — wham! — swung at me with the bloody bottle. Out of nowhere.' He shook his head. 'I knew she'd been drinking, but not that much. Not like that. Out of control. If I'd known that I'd never have agreed to go back with her after the pub.'

  'She invited you, that's what you're saying?'

  'Yes, of course. What else?'

  'The knife,' Elder said. 'What about the knife?'

  Kennet looked back at him, all wide-eyed astonishment. 'What knife?'

  'The one you threw away just before you ran full pelt into the bus.'

  'I don't know anything about any knife.'

  'We'll see.'

  Ten minutes later Elder and Karen were standing in the corridor outside. Kennet had persevered with his story: Vanessa had been the one to attack him, breaking a bottle across his face, and any injuries she might have sustained had been a result of him trying to restrain her. In the end he'd left her swearing and screaming and headed home, so stunned by what had happened that he'd not been thinking where he was going when he stepped out into the road and got side-swiped by a bus. No hard feelings, he hoped she was okay, nothing much more than a thick head.

  'How long d'you think he'll stick to that?' Karen said.

  'As long as he can.'

  'Any prints on the knife?'

  'We can hope,' Karen said.

  Elder was looking at his watch. 'Another twelve hours before he has to be charged.'

  'Time enough.'

  The doctor agreed there was no reason Kennet couldn't be released from hospital that afternoon. By which time they would have heard back, not only about the knife, but also have the results of the search of his flat. Time enough, Karen thought, was probably right.

  41

  When Elder's mobile rang, not so many minutes after leaving the hospital, Maureen Prior was pretty much the last person on his mind. Her train was due in at St Pancras in forty minutes. It was important they met. No more than an hour of his time.

  The cafe was French, a small patisserie set back from the main road that ran immediately south from the station. There were a few tables on the pavement, maybe half a dozen more inside. Bread, croissants, baguettes and a gleaming espresso machine. Two women of a certain age, smartly dressed, sat near the rear window drinking coffee; a silver-haired man, camel coat folded over the back of his chair, was reading Le Monde and eating a croque-monsieur. Elder, who had used St Pancras enough over the years, had no idea the place was there.

  It was warm enough, just, to sit outside.

  Jet trails criss-crossed overhead and the sun was a rumour behind a screed of grey.

  A young man, white-aproned, brought them coffee.

  'How did you know about this?' Elder said, looking round.

  'Charlie told me about it.'

  'Charlie?'

  'Charlie Resnick. He said it would be a good place to meet.'

  'You've been talking to him.'

  Maureen smiled. 'About London cafes?'

  'About Bland. And Katherine.'

  'I had to talk to someone. Someone I could trust.'

  That would be Resnick, Elder thought. 'What did he say?'

  She smiled again. 'Not a lot. He's a great listener, Charlie.'

  'He wasn't surprised?'

  'About Bland? No, not really. Rumours aside, he'd never liked him overmuch. Too much time down in the smoke. Infects the lungs, rots away from the inside. His words. Reckons the only reason Bland left the Met when he did was to keep a step ahead of CIB.'

  'He was never actually charged?'

  'With corruption? No. Allegations, unproven. Usual story. Had his card marked a few times, apparently, but that was it.'

  'So,' Elder said, 'is there a plan?'

  'It's what I wanted to talk to you about. And I thought in person. Rather than risk a call.' She lifted her cup of coffee from its saucer. 'Getting paranoid in my old age.'

  'Careful,' Elder said. 'No harm in that.'

  'How about you, Frank? You taking care down here?'

  'In the big city? Yes, I think so.'

  'Near a result?'

  Elder's turn to smile, just with his eyes. 'I think there's more than one game.'

  'There always is, Frank. There always was.'

  The coffee, though, was perfect. Strong, not bitter. Elder listened attentively. As a plan it was simple enough, straightforward; the chances of success all the more certain f
or depending upon Bland's greed.

  'Summers, he'll play along?'

  'I think so. Further in over his head than he's comfortable with. Might see this as a way out.'

  'And Katherine, it won't put her in any danger?'

  Maureen thought a little before answering. 'No more than she's in already.'

  Elder nodded. 'You want me to talk to her?'

  'Later, Frank. When it's over.'

  'You'll let me know when it's going down?'

  'Better still,' Maureen said, 'I'll let you know when it's done.'

  * * *

  Steve Kennet left hospital handcuffed to a uniformed officer the shape and size of a small tank, Paul Denison walking closely behind. The one call Kennet had been allowed, to a firm of solicitors, had yielded up Iain Murchfield, left holding the fort that Thursday afternoon. Any wetter behind the fucking ears, as Ramsden was to remark, and he'd fucking drown.

  Karen had corralled Elder the instant he reappeared and from her expression he knew that the news, some of it at least, was good.

  'See why he was cocky about the knife. Must have wiped it off on his clothes as he ran. But not as thorough as he thinks. Thumbprint on the base of the blade. Partial, but clear.'

  'And it's a match?'

  'Waiting for confirmation now.'

  'How about his place? Anything interesting there?'

  'Not a lot. Few borderline videos. Clothes, shoes, usual stuff. I told Mike to go back, try again.'

  'Kennet's here?'

  'With his lawyer. Deciding strategy.' Karen grinned. 'Kid just out of college. Looks as if he'd need a strategy to tie his laces in the morning.'

  At a little after four the call came through from Forensics. The partial print was a match. But partial, nonetheless.

  They ushered Kennet into interrogation ten minutes later, the exact time noted scrupulously by Karen at the beginning of the interview. In Ramsden's continued absence Paul Denison, slightly nervous himself, sat alongside her. Elder sat in an adjacent room, listening on headphones.

  Kennet leaned forward, forearms resting on the table edge, faint signs of strain beginning to show around his eyes. Beside him, seated a little way off, Iain Murchfield had a notebook open on his knee, pen in hand.

  Karen's hair was pulled back, the front of her suit jacket buttoned, her gaze rarely leaving Kennet's face.

  'I'd like you to tell me,' she began, 'what happened last night, from the time you met Vanessa Taylor in the Bull and Last pub until you both went back to her flat.'

  In a flat monotone, Kennet repeated, with a few additions, the version of events he had given in the hospital.

  'You still maintain that PC Taylor hit you with the bottle without cause or reason?'

  'Other than that she was pissed out of her head, yes.'

  'And the injuries that she sustained…'

  'Were on account of me trying to stop her taking my eye out, yes. Going crazy, wasn't she?'

  'And that includes the marks to the side of her face?'

  'I don't know. What marks?'

  'Cut marks.'

  'I don't know. Glass from the bottle, I suppose. Glass bloody everywhere.'

  'This injury was caused by a knife.'

  Kennet leaned away from the table. 'I don't know about that.'

  'You didn't attack PC Taylor with a knife?'

  'No.'

  'Hold it against her throat?'

  'No.'

  'Hard enough to break the skin.'

  'Look, look.' Kennet agitated now. 'I've said. I know nothing about a knife. Okay?'

  'No?'

  Kennet emphasised each word. 'There was no knife.'

  'Really?' Karen said, slightly amused.

  Kennet turned towards his solicitor. 'How much longer have I got to put up with this?'

  'Detective Chief Inspector,' Murchfield said, dredging up what little gravitas he could find, 'I must complain about the degree to which you are harassing my client.'

  Karen looked at him with a mixture of sardonic amusement and contempt. 'The knife I'm referring to, Mr Kennet,' she said, 'is the one you threw away as you were trying to make your escape.'

  'That's bullshit. That's untrue. Sheer bloody fabrication.'

  A line came to Elder, watching; something about protesting too much.

  'In that case,' Karen said, 'I'd like to hear your explanation of how your print came to be on the blade?'

  'What blade? What bloody print?' His chair scraped back as he swung round towards Murchfield. 'You. Do something, will you? Sitting there watching them fit me up.'

  Murchfield flipped his notebook closed. 'I must object again to the manner in which you are questioning my client.'

  'Objection noted.'

  'And remind you, should it be necessary, that the time remaining in which you must decide to charge my client or else release him is running down.'

  'Fine,' Karen said. 'You're right. Let's get him charged. How about inflicting grievous bodily harm for starters? Offences against the Person Act, 1861. Paul, take him down to the custody sergeant, make sure he's properly charged and cautioned. We'll see if that changes his perspective on things. This interview halted at four twenty-three.' She got to her feet. 'Thank you, Mr Murchfield, for your welcome advice.'

  * * *

  'What do you think?' Karen asked.

  Elder made a face. 'With all the testimony we can bank on as to Kennet's past behaviour, if it comes down to his word against Vanessa's, most juries are going to take hers. But in terms of hard evidence, one partial print looks pretty sad.'

  'Mike'll come up with something, don't worry.'

  But by seven that evening, that's exactly what they were doing.

  Kennet had been duly charged and was preparing to spend his first night in the cells; on the following morning, Friday, he would appear before the magistrate and bail would be vigorously opposed. But when Ramsden returned it was with a long face and bad news. 'Unless you include a stack of Brentford programmes going back ten years, nothing iffy in sight.'

  'You searched the van as well?' Elder said. 'The one he uses for work.'

  'What d'you think I am, a fucking amateur?'

  'Sorry.'

  'No problem.'

  But Elder's mind was suddenly elsewhere: the first time he'd seen Kennet, spoken to him, outside the house he was working on in Dartmouth Park, Kennet with a roll-up, wanting a light.

  'He's got a car,' Elder said. 'As well as the van.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Saloon, four-door. Dark blue. Ford, I think, but I couldn't swear.'

  'Lee,' Ramsden said, 'check it out. As long as it's registered to him, we're quids in.'

  'Well done, Frank,' Karen said. 'Well remembered.'

  'We'll see,' Elder said. 'We'll see.'

  42

  Elder got back to Finchley at about seven. The morning when Karen had first told him of Kennet's arrest seemed a long way off. A couple of aspirin, he thought, and a long soak in the bath.

  His mobile rang before he could turn on the taps, adrenalin pulsing at the sound of his daughter's voice.

  'Katherine, are you okay?'

  'Yes, why?'

  'Nothing. Just, you know…'

  'You sound worried.'

  'Not specially, no. Bit of a headache. Busy day.'

  There was a brief silence and then, 'I wanted to ask you, this business, the police, you do know what's going on?'

  'I think so, yes.'

  'Only Rob… well, what they're asking him to do… he's not sure who he can trust.'

  'Who's he been talking to?'

  'This woman, policewoman. Maureen. Her mostly.'

  'Maureen Prior. You can trust her, believe me.'

  'Bland, though, he's one of them.'

  'No. No, he's not. Not really. Not any more.'

  'I don't know.'

  'When's he meeting him, Rob? When's he meeting Bland again?'

  'Soon, I think. The next couple of days.'

  'As soo
n as that's done with, maybe you should get away for a bit. Just till things calm down.'

  'Rob's got friends up Hull way. Family too.'

  'Why don't you go up there then? Just for a week or so.'

  'You don't mind?'

  'Mind what?'

  'Me and Rob, being together like that.'

  'It's not what I'd choose.'

  'But you don't mind?'

  'You're old enough to make your own decisions.'

  'Make my own mistakes, that's what you mean.'

  A pause. 'Maybe.'

  There was a man's voice, just audible in the background, Rob's most probably, Elder thought, and then Katherine saying, 'Look, Dad, I'd better go.'

  'All right. Just be careful. The two of you. And keep in touch, okay?'

  'Okay.'

  'I love you,' he added, but the line was already dead.

  Elder took one swallow of whiskey and then another. He remembered how she had been when he had found her, a prisoner in the jerry-built hut sheltering against rock, high on the North York coast. The stench of rotten fish and drying blood. The bruises discolouring her face and back. Was this something else he was helping to draw her into, some new danger? Or had she chosen that herself when she started hanging out with the down-and-outs in Slab Square, going out with someone who, in no matter how small a way, dealt drugs? It was difficult to care and not to judge.

  While the bath was running, and despite her assurance that she would contact him, he rang Maureen Prior. 'Falling into place, Frank,' she told him. 'Another couple of days, that's all we need.'

  'Katherine said.'

  'You've spoken to her then?'

  'She rang earlier.'

  'She's a good kid, Frank.'

  'Not a kid.'

  'You know what I mean. She's strong.'

  'She's had to be. She'd have gone under, else. I thought she had.'

  'I'll keep an eye out for her, you know that. Do any more, put someone babysitting her, there's a good chance Bland'll catch wind.'

  'I know.'

  'I'll be careful. Do what I can.'

  'Thanks, Maureen.'

  'Look after yourself, Frank.'

  'Do my best.'

  He topped up his glass and carried it into the bathroom. No message from Karen yet about Rennet's car, which probably meant they were still chasing it down. At ten tomorrow, Kennet himself would go before the magistrate. That would buy them time. And tomorrow he would talk to Sherry, go over what it was he'd been able to unearth. The water was a touch too hot and he ran a quick burst of cold, whisking it round before lowering himself in. When she was a baby, eighteen months or less, he would lift Katherine into the bath with him and she would splash and laugh, slippery like a fish between his hands. Times like that, they never came back. Had he said 'I love you' knowing she was no longer on the line? 'I love you, Katherine,' he said aloud, tears in his stupid eyes.