Ash & Bone

by John Harvey

  Vicki didn't look as if she'd been sleeping much at all.

  She was wearing baggy sweat pants and a loose cotton top and she was letting her hair grow out; the only traces of make-up were at the corners of her eyes where she'd failed to wipe them away. In some strange way, Elder thought she looked more attractive than before.

  'You're not working,' Elder said.

  'Can't be arsed. Besides, Didi, she's thinking of chucking it in, going to Australia. This mate of hers, she's got a job dancing. Sydney. Says it's great. Thought I might tag along. Why not? Nothing to keep me here.'

  'You'd work as a dancer?'

  'Oh, yeah. Just see it, can't you? That'd be faking it and no mistake. Five minutes, they'd have me good and sussed. Out on my ear.'

  'What then?'

  'Same sort of stuff I do here, I suppose. Demonstrations, sales. Bit of modelling maybe. Catalogue stuff, you know? Got to be something, hasn't there? Better'n this.' She coughed and fidgeted a tissue out from her sweat-pants pocket. 'Bastards like that Repton, sneaking round.'

  'He's been to see you again?'

  'Oh, yeah.'

  'Tell me.'

  Vicki pushed a hand up through her hair. 'First it was like before, right? Wants to know if anyone's been to see me, asking questions. No, I said, course not. Why would they? I never mentioned you. Didn't want to drop you in it, did I? Then he changed tack, didn't he? Come out with all the smarm. Why don't we go out for a drink, something to eat, enjoy ourselves? All the while he can't take his eyes off my tits. Tongue hanging out so far he could practically lick his own dick.'

  Elder smiled. 'It was a no, then?'

  'Too bloody right.'

  'And you've not seen him since?'

  'Be feeling sorry for himself, won't he?' She snorted dismissively. 'His sort, they can never get it up anyway.'

  'His sort?'

  'Something about them, blokes like him, you can see it in their eyes. Get off on watching. Or that business, you know, where they stuff oranges in their mouths and pretend to hang themselves — what's that called?'

  'Self-asphyxiation.'

  'Yeah, that's it. Sad bastards.'

  'And you think Repton's one of those?'

  'Yeah. Wouldn't be surprised.' Suddenly her face brightened. 'Maybe I could get a job as one of them sex therapists, what do you think?'

  'Maybe you could.'

  'Bet you need qualifications though, even for that. Some bloody degree. NVQs.'

  Elder was looking at the clip-framed photograph across the room.

  'Lovely, isn't it?' Vicki said, following his gaze.

  It showed the two of them, Grant and Vicki, together, standing in front of a low stone wall, the sky behind them a tremulous blue.

  'Mykonos,' she said. 'Last year.'

  Elder nodded.

  Vicki blew her nose. 'He was a good bloke, you know? Straight.'

  'Are there any others?' Elder said. 'That I could see.'

  There were only a few that she'd been keeping flat in the back of a book, mostly shots of her and Grant, one of him on his own.

  'Any idea where this was taken?' Elder asked.

  Vicki shrugged. 'Cyprus, I think.'

  He handed the photographs back.

  'He never talked about Mallory, I suppose?'

  'Jimmy? Talk about the copper? Why would he do that?'

  'I don't know — some history between them. Bad blood.'

  Vicki shook her head. 'Never as much as mentioned him. Never heard of him, had I? Not till the bastard shot poor Jimmy dead.'

  47

  St Ann's was one of those areas in the inner city which had, amidst much protest, been largely demolished in the sixties at the expense of new, more modern housing; now some of it was being knocked down and replaced again. The flat which Summers had fingered as a dealer's safe house was on the upper floor of a block of twelve, six and six. Only one of the lights in the central stairway was still functioning; the narrow walkway stank of sour piss and sick and excrement. More than half of the flats were boarded up and several of the others had old sheets or blankets draped across the windows in place of curtains. One, close to the head of the stairs, had a small light shining above the bell-push at the centre of the door, artificial flowers inside a plastic holder alongside, a sticker proclaiming Jesus Loves You, a mat on the ground, worn but clean.

  Bland came up the stairs first, Eaglin behind him. Both men were wearing leather jackets, black and brown respectively, jeans and trainers. For heavy men they were soft upon the stairs. Bland's Audi was parked a street away. Both men were armed. Eaglin was holding a heavy-duty torch in his left hand.

  The flat they were looking for was at the far end, black material taped across the windows.

  Hip-hop beats drifted up from the floor below.

  Bland stood with his ear pressed to the door, listening, before stepping back.

  'Police,' he shouted through the letter-box. 'Open up!'

  No response.

  With a look at his partner, Bland took one pace back and then another, swung his leg and drove the underside of his foot against the side of the door, close to the lock. As the door splintered open and swung back, Eaglin ducked inside, Bland following, both with pistols drawn.

  'Police!' Eaglin shouted in the darkness. 'Armed police.'

  And switched on the torch.

  The room was bare, save for a few posters still remaining on the walls; save for Resnick sitting in a lopsided easy chair, trying not to smile.

  'What the fuck!' Eaglin said, rooted to the floor.

  'Ricky,' Resnick said pleasantly. 'Dave.'

  'Charlie,' Bland said, recovering, 'what are you doing here?' But inside he already knew.

  Eaglin also. Dropping the torch, weapon at his side, he spun round and went back fast through the door and as he did a searchlight hit him full on. Two armed officers were on the walkway opposite the stairs, one kneeling, one standing with legs slightly apart. Both were aiming their MP5 rifles at Eaglin's chest.

  'Drop the gun,' came the instruction. 'Drop it now.'

  Eaglin dropped the gun.

  'Now kick it away. Over here. Over here.'

  Resnick and Bland were still staring at one another inside the flat.

  'We got a tip-off,' Bland said. 'Some scum using this as a safe house. Drugs stashed. Money too.'

  'This is official?' Resnick said.

  'Of course. What else?'

  'You'll have a warrant then?'

  'Charlie, come on. We just got word, less than an hour ago. There wasn't time.'

  'I know just when you got word,' Resnick said. 'And who from. What you promised him, too, his share of what you took down. I'll play you the tape later, Ricky. Refresh your mind.'

  Outside, Eaglin was face down on the concrete, arms cuffed at his back.

  * * *

  When the call came, Elder was sitting with a glass of Jameson's, reading, the radio doodling in the background.

  'It's done,' Maureen said. 'Safe in custody, both of them.'

  'Talking?'

  'Not yet. But they will.'

  'Okay, Maureen. Thanks.'

  Elder walked to the window and looked out, not really seeing anything, thinking about Katherine. Relieved that it was over, that part of it at least.

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

  Wondering if she were truly safe, for now at least.

  You're old enough to make your own decisions.

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

  Happy even, what chance was there of that?

  * * *

  Framlingham woke him at a little after six thirty.

  'Coffee on, Frank? I'll bring the croissants. My treat.'

  Elder was only just out of the shower, still towelling himself down, when the buzzer sounded. He let Framlingham in, switched on the kettle, and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

  'Knew if I didn't get to talk to you first thing,' Framlingham called after him, 'we'd
likely be looking at day's end. Maybe even tomorrow.'

  'Busy, then?'

  'Meetings, Frank. Forward planning. Position papers. Targets. Bloody government's target mad.' He got two plates out of the cupboard. 'When this country finally goes under, it's not going to be invasion or revolution or even some God-forsaken plague, it's going to be paper, the sheer weight of bloody paper, committee after committee, report after report, commission after commission. It'll sink us, Frank, between the North Sea and the bloody Atlantic, you mark my words.'

  Elder came back into the kitchen wearing dark trousers and a faded blue shirt.

  'Hard to get better than these,' Framlingham said, setting down two fat croissants, one on each plate. 'Picked them up in Hampstead on the way through. Bakers in South End Green. Bloody marvellous.'

  'How strong?' Elder asked, before spooning coffee into the jug.

  'Strong.'

  Elder switched off the kettle and waited a few moments before pouring in the water. What Framlingham, with a wife and house the other side of London, was doing this far north in the relatively early hours of the morning, he didn't ask.

  'So,' Framlingham said, 'something important, you said in your message.'

  Barely touching coffee or croissant, Elder recounted in detail his conversation with Lynette Drury, while Framlingham ate, drank and listened. When Elder had finished, he sat a short while longer, thinking.

  'Any chance she'd stand up in court?'

  'Doubtful.'

  'Not even to shop Mallory?'

  'I really don't know. No love lost between them, that's pretty clear. Maybe if there was a way she could shop him without taking down Slater at the same time, but who knows?'

  Framlingham reached across and appropriated a piece of Elder's croissant. 'Shame you weren't wearing a wire.'

  'Likely inadmissible anyway.'

  'Stick with it, Frank. Something about Grant put the wind up him and whatever it was, it hasn't gone away. And we need to find out what it was. Could haul him in, of course, face him with some of those allegations, but I'm not sure that's the best way to go.'

  He steepled his fingers together and pressed hard enough for the blood to drain from the tips.

  'Keep pushing, Frank. We're getting close.'

  48

  Elder caught up with Graeme Loftus early: Loftus already pumped up, rumours of something major about to go down, striding out across the car park, wearing his red hair like a flag.

  'A word,' Elder said, stepping out.

  Loftus had either to barge into him or stop short.

  'What the fuck about? No, wait. Wait. I didn't recognise you at first. It's that murder again, right? Maddy Birch? Look, I've already answered all your questions about that. I mean, don't get me wrong, I hope you get the guy, right? But just get out of my face, okay? It's nothing to with me. Nada. Nothing.'

  Elder didn't move.

  Several other officers, passing, turned their heads and slowed their pace but nobody stopped.

  'It isn't Maddy Birch,' Elder said. 'Not exactly.'

  'What then?'

  'A few more questions about the shooting.'

  'Shooting?'

  'Come on, Loftus.'

  'Christ! What is it with you people? Grant, you mean? The same bloody stuff over and over again.'

  'It's called police work. At least, it used to be.'

  Loftus half-turned away, shaking his head. 'All right, okay. Let's get it done.'

  'Here?'

  'Here.'

  'After the two shots, the ones that killed Grant, you were the first in the room, yes?'

  'Yes. I mean, just seconds maybe. But yes, I was first through the door.'

  'And you saw what? Exactly.'

  Loftus released his breath slowly, keeping himself in check. 'Like I told you before. Detective Superintendent Mallory's standing with his back to me, right arm raised, pistol in his hand. At least that's what I assume. From where I'm standing I can't actually see the weapon, but Grant, he's down and wounded. Dying if not already dead. And Birch, she's sort of crouching, head down, between the two of them.' He looked Elder square in the face. 'There. That's it.'

  'When you described the incident to the inquiry, you said Maddy had blood on her face.'

  'So?'

  'So now you're saying she was facing away from you, away from the door.'

  'That's right.'

  'Then how did you see blood on her face?'

  'God! Does it matter?'

  'Everything matters.'

  'All right, then I suppose I must have seen it later, the blood, I mean.'

  'You suppose?'

  For a moment Loftus closed his eyes. 'Yes, I saw it later. I must have. She had her head down, facing away.'

  'You could only see what? Her back? The back of her head?'

  'Yes.'

  'And she was positioned between yourself and Grant?'

  'Yes.'

  'Shielding him?'

  'Partly, yes.'

  'You could see what? His head?'

  'He was sort of kneeling, leaning forward. I could see he'd taken a shot to the head.'

  'Nothing more?'

  'Not really, no.'

  'So, just to be clear, from where you were standing inside the room, you could see Detective Superintendent Mallory but not his weapon; you could see Maddy Birch from behind, crouching down, and the head and maybe the shoulders of the wounded man.'

  'Yes.'

  'You couldn't see Grant's hands?'

  'No, I just said —'

  'Neither hand?'

  'No.'

  'Nor anything he might have been holding?'

  'For fuck's sake, no!'

  'You didn't see him with a gun?'

  'No.'

  'You didn't see the gun?'

  'Not then, no.'

  'Not in his hand and not on the floor?'

  'How many more fucking times?'

  'Then how did you know it was there?'

  'What?'

  'You heard me, how did you know it was there? It's in your testimony. A .22 Derringer, on the floor beside Grant's leg. You saw it or so you said.'

  'Then I did.'

  'But now you've just said —'

  'I couldn't see it when I very first went into the room. Not from where I was. That's what you asked.'

  'So you saw it when?'

  'When the Detective Super stood away. He was pointing at it, showing it to Birch, I imagine.'

  'Then the only person who could have seen the Derringer in Grant's hand and then on the ground, because of the way she was facing, was Maddy Birch?'

  'Yes, I suppose so.'

  'Yes, definitely, or yes, you suppose?'

  'All right, yes. Definitely yes. Now, can I go?'

  Elder stepped aside. 'Be my guest.'

  Loftus pushed past and strode away.

  * * *

  The Merc was parked with its offside wheels on the pavement, outside Elder's flat. Maurice Repton was sitting neat behind the wheel, George Mallory alongside him. The windows on either side had been lowered several centimetres and both men were smoking. Mallory got out of the car as Elder approached and dropped his cigarette to the ground.

  'Frank Elder?'

  'Yes.'

  'You know who I am?'

  'I know.'

  He was older than he looked in his photograph, Elder thought, heavier too. Ash down the front of his three-piece suit. His eyes were tired, his face a little grey, as if, maybe, he'd not had the best day.

  'I thought,' Mallory said, 'it was time we met.'

  'Why's that?'

  A smile leaked around Mallory's face. 'Don't play dumb with me, Frank. Act the fool. Oh, you might be a puppet of some kind, I realise. Framlingham's toy. His Spring-Heeled Jack.'

  He pronounced each syllable of Framlingham's name distinctly, separately, each segment more dismissive than the last.

  'Robert Gentleman Farmer Framlingham. Or so he'd have us believe. Streak of piss in his count
ry tweeds. Behind you somewhere is he, working your strings? Well, we've got history, Robert and me, did he tell you that? Came after me once before, when he was with CIB. The Ghost Squad.' Mallory laughed. 'Difficult being invisible when you're seven foot tall with green wellies and a shooting stick. Five charges he brought against me and each and every one of them refuted. Denied. Dismissed. Case fucking closed. Except he doesn't like that, your Robert, so he's got you weaselling about, sucking the pus out of every dirty little rumour, every little half-baked mendacious lie. And you'll do his bidding, won't you, Frank? Have been up to now. Suborned, that's what you are. What you've been. Fucking suborned. Play the cards whichever way you can, as long as what? As long as my hand comes down with the ace of spades? Forget it, Frank. There's nothing there. Just jism floating in the fucking breeze. Fairy dust, Frank. Nothing real.'

  He poked his finger hard against the centre of Elder's chest.

  Repton chortling in the car, enjoying the show, the boss going off on a rant. Ian Dury crossed with Laurence fucking Olivier. Sir Larry to you. Poor old bastard turning in his grave. Both of them, come to think of it.

  Mallory wasn't through. Home-going commuters stepped round them with no more than the odd word, the odd glance.

  'Going back through my records, Frank, past arrests. Villains I've put down. Those that've walked away. That fucking anorak Sheridan. Searching for a pattern. Something to hang me with, hang me out to dry. Maddy Birch, you even figured me for that. Come on, Frank, don't deny it, don't be shy. What did you think? I'd climbed into my Ripper kit one night, just for the fun or it? Just for the crack? How you must have been disappointed now it's turned out to be someone else. Wouldn't have been winding young Loftus up this morning, else.'

  Mallory took a step closer: no further to go without Elder stepping aside.

  'No, Frank. Not my style, that kind of thing. Messy. Too much risk. Here…' He pressed his index finger, once, twice, against Elder's body. 'Head and heart, Frank, head and heart. Ask Grant. He'd tell you if he could.'

  Mallory laughed in Elder's face, mint and garlic on his breath. 'You've got a daughter, Frank. Up north. No better than she should be, by all accounts. Drugs, wasn't it? Heroin? Cocaine? I'd look to her, if I were you. Something nasty happened to her once. A shame for it to happen again.'

  Elder leaned back and punched him in the face, Mallory forewarned enough to turn his head aside and ride with the blow. A stumble back and blood at the side of his mouth, a smile alive in his eyes.