by John Harvey
‘You interviewed my daughter without a solicitor being present?’
‘She was offered legal representation and declined.’
‘And without the presence of an appropriate adult?’
‘There was no need …’
‘What?’
‘In my assessment there was no need.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Your daughter is how old?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Exactly. No longer a juvenile.’
‘That’s not the only reason … Here, look. Look it up on your fucking computer. Guidance for Appropriate Adults under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, Codes of Practices, 1984.’
‘I’m fully aware …’
‘Really?’
‘Fully aware of the stated reasons for having an appropriate adult present and after taking those into consideration, made my decision accordingly.’
‘Mentally disordered or otherwise mentally vulnerable, isn’t that what it says?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t think that applied?’
‘No. Clearly not. Or I wouldn’t have made the determination I did.’
Elder shook his head in disbelief. ‘Do you know anything about Katherine at all?’
‘A little.’
‘You’d spoken to her before? Before yesterday?’
‘Once. Informally. An informal interview.’
‘And what opinion did you come to? About her state of mind?’
‘I thought she was nervous, perhaps a little more than usual, but in similar situations, as you might know yourself, that can often be the case.’
‘Nervous, that was all?’
‘Lacking in confidence, perhaps. But still able to express herself clearly.’
‘And not mentally vulnerable?’
‘No.’
‘Did you happen to notice her wrists? I imagine there are still scars.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘I thought it was possible evidence of self-harm.’
‘But not a sign of mental vulnerability?’
For a moment Hadley closed her eyes.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Sorry!’
‘On consideration, I should have given what I saw greater significance. But if I or my officers have been in any way responsible for causing your daughter undue distress I apologise and I assure you … No, let me finish … I assure you everything was done to put her at ease. Everything. But, let me remind you, this is a murder inquiry.’
‘In which she’s a suspect?’
‘Not currently, no.’
‘Then you were interviewing her as what? A potential witness?’
Hadley shook her head. ‘A person of interest.’
‘How so?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that.’
‘Does that mean you might have cause to interview her again?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘In which case …’
‘In which case, I shall do my best to ensure that an appropriate adult is present to support, advise and assist her throughout the process and to ensure that her rights are respected.’
‘And if that person is myself?’
Hadley hesitated before giving her answer. ‘I’m sure the considerable experience I believe you have will enable you to assist her in the best ways possible.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, Mr Elder, as you’ll understand, there are things I need to attend to. But please make sure we have your contact details so that we can get in touch with you as soon as possible should it become necessary.’
This time Elder agreed to shake her hand.
Elder rang the flat and Abike answered. Katherine was still sleeping. One or other of them could be there with her for most of the day. Just a little way along Kentish Town Road, he spotted a Turkish restaurant with what appeared to be an old shop sign preserved above. He was enjoying his lamb kebab with chilli sauce when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Joanne, he thought, ringing to find out how he’d got on, but although it was a Nottingham number it wasn’t one he recognised.
‘Frank Elder, this is Colin, Colin Sherbourne. Notts CID. I don’t know if you remember me. Your daughter’s abduction. I was just a DC.’
‘Yes. Yes, at least I think I do.’
Tall, almost gangly. Thin-faced. A moustache.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. Maureen, Maureen Prior, you’ll remember her, she suggested trying the cop shop in Penzance. I spoke to someone called Cordon. He gave me your number.’
‘What was it you wanted?’
‘Adam Keach.’
‘What about him?’
‘He was being transferred from Wakefield down to Lincoln and there was an accident. Pile-up on the A1 just short of Retford. He’s escaped. He’s on the loose.’
3
29
The central police station had moved across town and was now at the head of Maid Marian Way, close by the Playhouse and the cathedral. Colin Sherbourne was gangly no longer, the rest of his body thickened out to match the length of his limbs; moustache still in place, but neater, carefully trimmed. Three-piece off-the-peg suit, pale blue shirt, dark tie. Handshake firm when he met Elder at the lift.
‘Frank, long time.’
Elder nodded.
‘Could’ve wished for better circumstances.’
Elder followed Sherbourne into his office, everything neat and stowed away, the faint smell of aftershave, a clear view out through the window onto Derby Road.
‘So,’ Elder said, ‘what the fuck happened?’
Sherbourne sat, waited for Elder to do the same. ‘Keach was being transferred from Wakefield over to Lincoln. Coming off the A1 on to the A57 this Ford Mondeo comes straight at them, the van they’re transporting him in. Wrong side of the road, must’ve been doing sixty, seventy miles an hour, out of control. Driver does his best to swerve out of the way, only succeeds in getting hit broadside on. Impact sends the van over on to its side, Mondeo goes through a virtual somersault, spins across the road and ends up upside down like a bloody turtle.’
Elder could do little but shake his head.
‘Driver of the Mondeo went through the windscreen – was he wearing a seat belt? Was he fuck! – pronounced dead at the scene. His passenger’s in Queen’s Meds with more cuts, lacerations and broken bones than you’d care to count. Driver of the van got away with severe bruising, as much from the airbag as anything, cuts to both face and hands. Other prison officer, the one inside with Keach, handcuffed to him, struck his head on the side of the van when it turned, lost consciousness. In Queen’s himself, concussion.’
‘And Keach?’
‘Injuries, no way of knowing. What we do know, before anyone else arrived at the scene he was able to use the keys attached to the officer’s belt, unlock the cuffs and do the proverbial runner.’
Elder pictured it for a moment, heard the scrape of metal on metal, the sound of breaking glass.
‘Sounds like a right fucking shambles,’ he said. ‘Starting with whatever box-ticker decided Keach was fit to be transferred from a category A prison to catogory B …’
‘Been a good boy, hadn’t he? Played the game. Said he was sorry, truly contrite. Said his prayers.’
‘And why just one escort? I thought two was standard.’
‘Two if you include the driver.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Staff shortage, most likely. Either that or Keach was no longer considered highly dangerous, one officer’d do.’
Elder shook his head. ‘Whoever made that decision, let’s hope it doesn’t come back to haunt them.’
‘Amen to that.’ Sherbourne glanced at his watch. ‘Briefing in ten minutes, why don’t you sit in?’
The incident room was crowded. Twenty-plus officers, some in uniform, some not. The blown-up photograph of Keach on the board took Elder by surprise. When he’d last seen him he’d
been early thirties, lean-faced, wild-haired, staring eyes; just shy of forty he was fleshier, thick-lipped, all the intensity gone from the eyes. Elder wondered what it would take to bring it back.
Sherbourne stepped front and centre, pointed to the photo.
‘Adam Keach, seven years into a life sentence with a tariff of thirty years. Absconded around eleven-thirty this morning when the prison van in which he was being transported from HMP Wakefield to Lincoln was involved in a serious accident and is currently on the run. First indications suggest the accident was no more than that, rather than being orchestrated to facilitate Keach’s escape, but obviously that needs to be checked. Car involved in the incident, a Ford Mondeo, stolen in Gainsborough earlier that morning. Couple of scrotes joyriding, out of their heads on smack most likely, but we’ll see. Kenny, that’s your bailiwick. Don’t let me down.’
A bearded officer off to one side of the room raised a hand in acknowledgement.
‘Unfortunately,’ Sherbourne continued, ‘the helicopter had been called to an incident in the south of the county in which firearms were involved, so there was some delay in getting it to where the accident had taken place. By which time Keach had gone to ground. The area around is largely rural, open fields, a scattering of buildings, farms and the like, though south of the A57 it’s Clumber Park and south of that you’re into Sherwood Forest.’
‘Holed up in’t Major Oak, likely,’ some wit suggested.
Sherbourne ignored him.
‘The nearest village is Ranby, north off the A1. Nearest services some little way north of there at Blyth. My best guess, he’ll lay low, hope to wait till dark. What he’s going to be looking for, transport, a change of clothes. But for now the chopper’s still up, there’s patrols on the roads. Catch him before nightfall and we can have him snug inside Lincoln with his mug of hot chocolate before the cock crows. After that, it’s the long haul.’
The buzz of conversation in the room rose and fell and Sherbourne’s voice rose above it.
‘Right, I want a check on all known associates, family, you know the drill. Parents still living fairly locally as far as we know, Kirkby-in-Ashfield. Need to be seen. Jason, down to you. Then there are two brothers, Mark and Dean …’
He broke off as one of the officers raised her hand.
‘Yes, Simone?’
‘Mark, he’s known to us, boss. A little form, nothing spectacular, petty thieving and the like. Last known address here in the city, St Ann’s.’
‘Good. Good work. Pay him a visit, you and Billy. And the rest of you, let’s knock on some doors, make some calls. But before you do, wait up, someone I want to introduce you to.’
Elder stepped away from the wall.
‘Frank Elder was a DI here on the Notts force quite a few years back. Any of you long enough in the tooth might remember. It was Frank who was largely responsible for putting Keach behind bars. Recently he’s been working with the Devon and Cornwall Major Incident Team and in the current situation, I intend to lean on him as much as possible.’
Hands were raised in greeting, sounds of approval.
‘Frank, anything you want to say at this point?’
‘Thanks, Colin. Just two things, I think. The first is this. When Keach carried out his crimes he was doing so, in part at least, to impress a man named Alan McKeirnan, currently serving a life sentence for the murder of Lucy Padmore in 1989. McKeirnan had an acolyte called Shane Donald who was released on licence some little time back and did have connections with the Nottinghamshire area. It’s possible Keach might have known Donald in prison. That might be worth checking.’
He paused, took a breath.
‘The other thing is this. Colin chose, for my sake I think, not to mention it, but the girl, the young woman Keach abducted and sexually abused was my daughter, Katherine. So I have the strongest possible motivation for seeing him back in custody as soon as possible – and before he can hurt or harm anyone else. Thank you.’
Elder stepped back, Sherbourne shook his hand, and the team set to work.
30
Katherine rolled over and stretched: arms, torso, legs, toes. Remembered mornings when she would be out of bed at or before first light, splash water on her face, pull on her running clothes, her shoes, and out. A few stretches and then a steady jog, building as she went and hitting a steady pace before picking up speed into a final sprint. Then more exercises, warming down, using weights, and into the shower. Feeling exhausted, refreshed: ready for the day.
Three evenings a week at the track, being put through her paces by the coach; Sunday mornings unless there was a race in prospect. Nervous always as it came closer, the adrenalin starting to kick in. Glancing round the changing room, weighing up the opposition. Girls she’d seen before, seen before and beaten; others from out of the county, tall, sleek and self-assured. All the time the coach’s words bubbling under: keep calm, keep cool, keep your form.
Christ, she’d hated it sometimes. Nerves chewing at her gut as she got down into her starting position, spikes pushing back against the blocks. Head up. Head down. The gun. Sixty metres before she seemed to open her eyes, know what was happening, where she was. Runners on either side. Going past. Seventy-five, eighty. Fuck!
The coach with his arms around her shoulders. You did well, you did great. Can’t beat everyone, can’t expect to win every time. Knocked something off your PB, though, I bet. Second or two at least. His hand for a moment on her back, ruffling her hair. Don’t worry, you’re getting better all the time.
Another person: not her. A life she’d left behind.
‘You used to be a runner, right?’ Chrissy had said one day. ‘Like what’s-her-name? Dina something-or-other?’
Katherine shook her head. ‘No, not me.’
Feet on the floor, she waited for her breathing to steady and made her way to the bathroom. Abike had left the radio playing, something classical, Radio 3. A note from Chrissy, lipsticked on to a napkin from Itsu: Off to get my tits out again – back soon.
Out of the shower, Katherine dressed and dried her hair. Put bread in the toaster, coffee in the pot. Chrissy’s coffee but with any luck she wouldn’t notice. Warm enough, maybe, to sit out on the balcony. Someone down there in a parked car, radio turned up loud, the bass echoing upwards. The yapping of a small dog. Police sirens fading into the distance. A plane overhead. Balancing coffee and toast on a couple of upturned flower pots, she unlocked her phone, checked for messages, swiped right for Top Stories in the news.
Suspected terrorist attack in Amsterdam.
Hot, twenty, and the world’s youngest billionaire.
Escaped rapist and murderer on the run.
Katherine doubled forward as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Dropped her phone and covered her face with her hands. After several moments, she arched slowly back and sucked in air.
Retrieved the phone.
Adam Keach, sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of sixteen-year-old Emma Harrison and the rape of …
Katherine stood up abruptly, stumbled, tried to right herself and stumbled again, losing her balance and falling towards the balcony edge. Pitching forward, she grabbed hold of the rail.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ Chrissy called through the open balcony door. ‘’Cause if you’re thinking of jumping it’s a long way before you hit the ground.’
Chrissy held her while she cried. Listened as Katherine told her of her ordeal, words spilling from her mouth like stones. The imprisonment, the pain. Waking from some impossible nightmare to the sound of her father’s voice – Katherine. Kate, it’s me. Then another voice, laughing, cruel. Beautiful, isn’t she? At least she was. After that she could recall nothing: nothing until she was in the ambulance, woozy from gas and air, clinging to her father’s hand. Alive when she feared she would be dead.
Katherine’s phone rang where she had left it, out on the balcony, and Chrissy picked it up.
‘Kate,’ she said, going back into the bedro
om, ‘it’s your dad.’
Katherine shook her head.
‘She’s just lying down now,’ Chrissy said. ‘Why doesn’t she call you back in a little while?’
‘I was wondering if she’d heard …’ Elder began.
‘About the guy escaping? Yes, she’s heard.’
‘And she’s okay?’
‘She will be.’
Chrissy broke the connection and crossed into the kitchen, filled the kettle at the tap. She was still trying to process what Katherine had told her. Wondering how you ever got over something like that happening to you. Realising you never did.
31
The house where Joanne was living was high on the northern edge of the Park, a semi-private estate near the city centre, architect-designed in concrete and glass. From the upper level there were views clear across the Trent Valley to Belvoir Castle and the Leicestershire hills.
She had moved in with Martyn Miles when their affair was at its height, Elder having retreated, tail between his legs, to Cornwall, and then, when the heat had gone out of the relationship and Miles had moved on to pastures new, he’d left Joanne the use of the house, rent free, for as long as she wished. For which kindness, Elder hated him all the more.
He had booked into the Premier Inn and phoned Joanne from his room, explaining why he was there. She’d already heard of the escape on the news. Come round about six, she’d said, six-thirty. I should be home by then.
She greeted him at the door. The hallway deep, faced with pale wood, sunken spotlights pale overhead. ‘Frank, come on in. Hang up your coat. I was just getting myself a drink.’
She stood at the centre of the double-height living room, wine glass in hand. Tall, one of the first things he’d noticed about her, tall and slim. Katherine’s inheritance. A dinner dance it had been, one of those vaguely formal charity affairs, his commanding officer wielding a three-line whip; Joanne had been there with someone else, arm candy for a local bigwig, a dress that seemed to be painted on and heels that made her taller still. He couldn’t believe she’d give him a second look. But she did.
‘Time for a little fresh air,’ she’d said, taking his arm.