by John Harvey
43
The car was a Ford Mondeo five-door estate, S reg, with a little over 18,000 on the clock. It was found parked on Tollington Way, close to the back of the old Royal Northern Hospital. There were a pair of Kennet's work boots in the back, speckled with plaster and paint, and overalls and a woollen check shirt folded round one another alongside. Old copies of the Sun and Mail. A spiral-bound London A-Z, well-thumbed. Parking tickets. Snickers wrappers and a half-eaten roll of mints. Several audio cassettes in the side compartment, driver's side: Queen, David Lee Roth, U2, Springsteen's Greatest Hits. A box of matches with only five remaining. A pair of worn leather gloves. A red-and-black thermos flask that still smelt faintly of coffee. A paperback Patricia Cornwell, turned down on page 121. Jump leads. A screwdriver. A chamois leather, stiff and darkened with use. A rusted can of WD-40; a plastic bottle of Holt's concentrated all-seasons non-smearing screen wash and another of Comma Xstream De-icer. An empty 2-litre container that had once held engine oil. And in the wheel space, snug beneath the spare wheel, a small metal box which contained, carefully wrapped in a piece of material that looked to have been torn from an old denim shirt, a single earring, green and gold and in the shape of a moon; a plain silver bracelet; a pendant necklace with a fine silver chain; and a watch with a mid-brown leather strap, a Lorus, with a plain front and the name Maddy Birch engraved on the back, together with the date, 15.07.81.
* * *
Karen drank a large black coffee in the canteen and then splashed cold water in her face in the cloakroom. 'Take it easy,' she told herself. 'Easy. Chill.'
At a little after ten, Steven Kennet had been remanded in custody until the 27th at a specially convened magistrates' court, his application for bail denied. Now he was back in the interview room, throat dry, looking as if he had barely slept. Beside him, his solicitor fiddled with his pen, removing the cap and then replacing it, the same action over and over again.
Ramsden thought if he carried on like that he might just reach across and grab the pen, then stick it up his bony arse.
'This interview,' Karen began, 'timed at eleven forty-seven…'
Steadily she led Kennet through the same events as on the previous day, the same denials, letting him dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole.
'Mr Kennet,' Karen said nonchalantly, almost an afterthought, 'do you own a dark blue, 1998, Ford Mondeo estate?'
Even from where he was watching, through glass, Elder could read the jolt of apprehension that flickered across Kennet's eyes.
'Mr Kennet?'
'Yes.'
'Do you own —'
'Yes, I said yes.'
'My client,' Murchfield intervened, 'would appreciate a break at this time. It's now very nearly —'
But Karen cut him off with a brusque, 'I'm sure he would,' followed by, 'I wonder, Mr Kennet, if you could identify this?'
Ramsden held up the necklace, secure inside a plastic evidence bag.
Kennet paled. 'No,' he said, 'I've no idea.'
'Or this?'
The earring.
'No.' A vigorous shake of the head.
'Or this?'
The bracelet.
'No.'
'Mr Kennet, these items were found in the boot of your car.'
Recovering, Kennet shifted heavily in his seat and shrugged. 'Nothing to do with me. I've never seen them before.'
'Secure in your car, carefully wrapped and hidden away.'
Kennet stared back at her, silent, sullen.
'Where you left them.'
'Jesus, I just told you —'
'You've told me nothing.'
'Okay, I'll tell you again. These things, they're nothin' to do with me. I've never seen 'em before, okay?'
'You've no idea how they came to be in your possession?'
'They weren't in my fucking possession.'
'They were in your car.'
'Says who?'
Ramsden smiled. 'Says me.'
'Then you fucking put 'em there.'
Karen leaned back away from the desk. There was sweat accumulating in the palms of her hands and she wiped them against her trouser legs. Sweat in the air, too: hers, his, everyone's.
'A little over an hour ago,' Karen said, 'one of my officers showed this bracelet to Jennifer McLaughlin and she identified it as hers.'
A pulse, Elder noticed, had begun to tick in the corner of Kennet's left eye.
'This earring,' Karen said, holding up the evidence bag, 'was identified by Jane Forest as belonging to her.'
'So?'
'Jennifer McLaughlin and Jane Forest, both women with whom you have had relationships.'
Kennet stared back at her, unblinking.
'So can you explain how these items came to be hidden away inside your car?'
'No. I can't. Except that someone put them there.'
'And that someone, Mr Kennet, was you.'
Kennet swung round on his chair, his knee knocking against Murchfield's leg, the impact jarring the pen from the solicitor's hand.
'You,' Kennet said, 'when are you going to do something instead of just sitting there while they do me fucking over?'
Murchfield stammered, blushed, reached down to retrieve his pen.
'There is one further item,' Karen said, almost succeeding in keeping the tone of virtual triumph from her voice as she dangled the watch, in its bag, in front of Kennet's face.
'This watch. Maddy Birch's watch. You can see her name clearly engraved, there on the back. You see? You see the name, Mr Kennet? The name and date? Mr Kennet, for the tape recorder please? Do you agree that the name on the back is that of Maddy Birch?'
'Yes.'
'That this watch belonged to her?'
'Yes.'
'Can you then tell me, how it came into your possession?'
Kennet looked back at her and shook his head.
'Mr Kennet?'
'No. No, I can't.'
'Well, I suggest to you that she was wearing it the night she was killed.'
'I don't know.'
'And that was when you took it from her body.'
'No.'
'After you had raped her.'
'No.'
'Murdered her.'
'No.' The sweat on Kennet's forehead was clearly visible now, his upper body rolling a little, side to side, as if he were being punched.
'Mr Kennet, I put it to you, on the night of Wednesday the twenty-sixth to Thursday the twenty-seventh of November, in the vicinity of Crouch End Community Centre, you attacked and raped Maddy Birch, then stabbed her repeatedly with a knife until she was dead.'
'No.'
'She was wearing this watch, wasn't she? That evening?'
Kennet raised both hands, clenched, and as Karen sat quickly back out of range and Ramsden threw out an arm to ward off a possible blow, he brought them down full force on the centre of the desk.
'She couldn't have been wearing the watch. Not then. I'd already taken it, weeks before.'
Karen brought her breathing back under control. 'Say that again.'
'The watch, I'd already taken it. Weeks before.'
'And how did you do that?'
'I broke into her flat. When she wasn't there.'
'When was this?'
'End of October some time. Tuesday, Wednesday, I don't know. Middle of the week.'
'And had you done this before?'
'Broken in? Yes, but not there. Not Maddy's place. Others. Jane. Jennifer.' He almost smiled.
'And each time, you take away what? A souvenir?'
'Yes. I mean, not always, no.'
'Nothing else?'
'How d'you mean?'
'You don't take anything else?'
'Not take, no.'
'What then?'
'I don't know, I… sometimes I just stand there. Not doing anything. Sometimes, you know, look at things.'
'What kind of things?'
Kennet shrugged; now he was talking he was more at ease. 'Depends. Clothes. Di
aries, sometimes. Anything.'
'Panties,' Ramsden suggested scornfully. 'Knickers. Underwear.'
'Sometimes.'
'Jerk off into them, do you?'
'No.'
'Mr Kennet,' Karen said, 'when you're alone in these places, these rooms, do you ever indulge in any kind of sexual activity?'
He looked at her carefully before answering, her eyes, her mouth. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'I masturbate. Into a condom. Take it home. That the kind of thing you mean?'
'I think, Mr Murchfield,' Karen said, 'your client can have a break. Twenty minutes, no more. This interview suspended at twelve nineteen…'
* * *
'What do you think, Frank?'
They were standing outside, the sky overcast but the temperature a good five degrees warmer than the day before. Karen had come as close as this to snagging one of Ramsden's cigarettes and was munching her way through a Bounty instead.
'You had him sweating, no doubt about that.'
'Like a Turkish bath in there.'
'All that stuff about the murder really had him in a state. Once he'd copped to the break-ins, though, different again. Proud of it, almost. Relieved, certainly.'
'You think I let him off the hook?'
'I don't see what else you could have done.'
'You said yourself. It was as if he'd got away with something.'
'You'll keep on at him. If there's anything else there, you'll make him crack.'
Karen stuffed the last piece of Bounty into her mouth, screwed up the wrapper and pushed it down into her jacket pocket. Black today, funereal black.
'Frank, the other night. At my place. We've never really talked about it.'
'Maybe there's no need.'
'Not worth remembering, then?' Just a hint of a smile.
'That's not what I meant.'
'I just don't want you to think…'
'What?'
'You know, that it meant anything… anything special, I mean, between us.'
There was an amused look in Elder's eyes. 'You mean we're not engaged?'
She punched him, quite hard, on the arm.
'I don't want you to expect…'
'Believe me, I don't expect anything.'
'You're sure? Because if…'
'Listen, listen. It was great. I had a great time. A total surprise. But a one-off, okay? I understand.'
'Okay.' With a quick glance round to make sure no one was looking, she kissed him on the cheek.
'Though of course if I go back inside with your lipstick on my face…'
She went to punch him again, but this time, laughing, he dodged out of the way.
44
Elder had barely parked outside his flat when his mobile began to ring. Katherine, he thought. Maureen. Instead it was Framlingham's familiar burr. 'That place of yours, Frank. Presentable, is it?'
'You should know.'
'Twenty, thirty minutes. I'll be there.'
He arrived within fifteen, bearing gifts. Scottish oatcakes, a chunk of Mrs Kirkham's Lancashire cheese, a bottle of wine.
'Thought you might be peckish, Frank. Must have been a busy day.'
'Busy enough.'
'This Kennet, enough to hold him at least?'
'I think so.'
Framlingham unwrapped the cheese and set it on a plate. 'Your thought that Grant might be an informant, protected that way, doesn't seem to pan out. But as a line of inquiry, not without its worth.' He was ferreting for a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer. 'Aussie plonk, Frank. Garlands Shiraz. Family winery near Mount Barker.'
The cork came free with a pleasing pop.
'Mike Garland, he's the cellar master, knows what he's about.'
Framlingham brought the glass to his nose to sniff the bouquet, then drank, holding the wine for a long moment in his mouth before swallowing.
'Lovely stuff, Frank. Tobacco, spice, liquorice, plum.'
Elder cut off a piece of cheese and it crumbled against the knife.
'This whole business,' Framlingham said, 'Grant and Mallory, unravelling that makes reading Ulysses like Harry bloody Potter. Key thing is this, though. For years now, going back to when he was a DI, Mallory's registered informant was Lynette Drury. Former prostitute, more recently brothel keeper and, more importantly, before that, shacked up with a known villain named Ben Slater.'
Framlingham broke an oatcake in two and set cheese deliberately on each half.
'The contact between Mallory and Slater seems to have come first. As much as twenty years ago, '84. Along with three others, Slater was up on trial for a payroll robbery out at Romford. Five days in, the judge ruled no case to answer. Slater and the rest walk free.'
And what's Mallory's connection to this?'
Framlingham smiled. 'Mallory was in the Special Patrol Group called in by the team on the ground. This is a couple of years before it was disbanded.'
And he'd be what then? Thirty? A little more?'
'Twenty-nine.'
Nodding, Elder tried the wine.
'So now,' Framlingham said, 'we move on two years later to '86. There's a series of armed robberies in the Home Counties, all of them within a thirty-mile radius of London. Post offices, building societies. By this time Mallory's moved on to the Territorial Support Group with the rank of sergeant. Slater's put under surveillance, his phone bugged, everything. Finally arrested on one charge of robbery after a raid on building society offices in Colchester. Thanks to a tip-off, the TSG are there in force. At the trial, however, one of the officers crucially fails to identify Slater as being present. No need to tell you which one. Slater walks free. Begins proceedings against the Met for harassment and wrongful arrest, which he later drops. For a while, things go quiet. Then in '89 there's an armed robbery, appropriately enough at Shooters Hill. Securicor van rammed into on the edge of Woolwich Common. Four men got away with eighty thousand in used banknotes. Slater and another man called Warland were questioned but not charged.'
'Mallory's involved?'
'Not yet. Eighteen months later, this bloke Warland's stopped for speeding going north out of the Blackwall Tunnel. Turns out he's got half the proceeds of a supermarket robbery in the car with him, a sawn-off shotgun in the boot. Plus a quantity of illegal drugs on his person. Of course, he rolls over. Coughs to the Woolwich Common job, names names. Slater for one.'
'Slater's arrested?'
'Arrested and charged.' Framlingham ate some more cheese, drank some more wine. 'When he comes up before the magistrate, the police case against bail's not as strong as it might be. Surprise, surprise. Slater skips the country, probably to Spain. Looks as if he stays away until some time in '92. By which time Mallory's a detective inspector in the Flying Squad.'
'The Sweeney.'
'Absolutely. With Maurice Repton his DS, holding his hand. Dennis Waterman to his John Thaw. It's around here Ben Slater's former girlfriend, Lynnette Drury, is registered as Mallory's informant. What connection there was between them before that it's impossible to say. But my guess is they'd been close for years. The pack of them.'
'Where exactly does Grant come in?'
'Not so much later. Slater stays clean as a cat's arse till '95. Then he's suspected of a bullion raid at City Airport. Gold ingots. Three quarters of a million pounds. And this is the first time Slater's name is linked with Grant. Familiar story. They're both arrested and charged but the case falls apart when it comes to court. The evidence of one of the principal witnesses is tainted and the jury's directed to ignore just about everything she's said.'
'She?'
'Drury. Lynette Drury.' Framlingham's smile lingered longer this time. 'Rumour has it her relationship with Mallory went well beyond the terms regarding informants laid down by the Yard.'
'They were lovers?'
'The way you put it, Frank, it sounds old-fashioned, almost charming. For all I know, she was still shtupping Ben Slater at the same time. Grant, too, for that matter.'
'And there's nothing more recent, lin
king them all together?'
'Until Mallory kills Grant. No, apparently not. But who knows?'
'Someone,' Elder said. 'Somewhere there's someone.'
'How about Lynette Drury? What she knows would fill a book and a half.'
'Have we got an address?'
'Funny you should ask.' Framlingham took a slip of paper, folded, from his breast pocket. 'There. Blackheath. Two years old, she might have moved on since then.'
'Surely you'd know?'
With a lazy movement, Framlingham's arm snaked out towards the wine. 'Best finish this off, Frank. Can't abide the waste.'
* * *
Not so long after Framlingham had left, Elder's mobile rang again. 'Bland,' Maureen said. 'He's taken the bait. This weekend maybe, Monday at the latest.'
45
The house was off the southern edge of the Heath, a tall Victorian villa set well back from the road behind high hedges and an iron gate. The gate complained a little as Elder raised the latch and pushed it back. In the edge of dark earth, between shrubs and grass, a pair of blackbirds searched for worms. Heavy curtains hung across the upstairs windows, the lower ones covered in patterned net. What looked to be the original stained glass was still in the front door. On a different day, under different skies, he could imagine the house seeming forbidding and grim; but this morning, pastel blue overhead and church bells ringing down in the Vale, it was anything but.
Elder rang the bell and a dog barked and then was still.
Footsteps on the stairs and along the hall.
'At least,' said the man who opened the door, 'you're not the Jehovah's Witnesses. Unless they've taken to dressing down.'
The man himself was wearing a black T-shirt and off-white cotton trousers that left little to the imagination; his hair was fair and cut short - not as short as a soccer player or a supporter of the BNP, but short enough to be fashionable. The dog was an off-white wire-haired terrier, which the man nudged out of the way with his foot.