Ash & Bone

56

It was a grey end-of-January day: one of those days that promises nothing save that, sooner or later, it will be over. Elder had lain awake since five, thinking, trying not to think. By six-thirty he was showered, dressed, had drunk orange juice and two cups of coffee, walked down the street to buy a paper and bought three; he read slightly differing versions of Repton's murder, more wishful thinking than factual statement, the few known certainties spun together with fantasies involving gangland executions and Turkish drug barons exacting revenge. Only one report, as an aside, mentioned that Repton had been one of the officers involved in the police operation, three months before, in which a high-profile criminal, James William Grant, had been shot and killed. Enough to leave a taint of retribution hanging in the breeze.

Head and heart, Elder thought, as he shrugged on his coat.

Head and heart.

He was at Framlingham's office well before eight and Framlingham was there before him, silver thermos on his desk. Elder suspected he had been there all night.

'Take a look at this, Frank,' he said, handing Elder a fax.

The blurred image of two girls stared back up at him: school uniform, white blouses, striped ties not quite tight to the neck, faked smiles.

'Jill and Judy Tremlett. Disappeared from home, May seventeenth, '96. Last seen at a nightclub in Colchester, friend's eighteenth birthday. Some reports have them leaving with an older woman, never been identified. According to others, one of the girls, Judy, complained of feeling sick and went outside for some fresh air. Jill went after her. When their father arrived to pick them up, just before midnight as arranged, they were nowhere to be seen.

'Usual procedure followed. Everyone at the club was questioned, the route home searched in case they'd started walking, thumbing a lift; drivers checked. It seems as if for a time the father was in the frame, but it came to nothing. No personal belongings were ever found, no shoes, no clothing, nothing. No sight or sign. They were seventeen.'

Elder was seeing again the grainy video images, remembering Lynette Drury's words. Boys and girls, all hand-picked, paid for. And George, he was in the thick of it, wasn't he? Lapping it up. Girls, especially; he liked girls, did George. Two or three at a time. Young girls. An older woman, Framlingham had said, never been identified.

'There are better pictures,' Framlingham said, nodding towards the fax. 'I'm having them biked across. In case you're not sure.'

Elder shook his head. 'I'm sure. It's them.'

Framlingham sighed. 'Slater's old place out at Manningtree. I've spoken to the secretary of the Foundation. Seems they use the place for courses mainly. Alternative medicine, holistic therapy, that kind of thing.' He looked at his watch. 'Should have a search warrant within the hour.'

'You think that's where they are?' Elder said.

'It's a start, Frank. It's a start.'

Karen Shields had spoken to her boss, urged, pulled strings; the technology was there but not everyone had the same access, not every case was given the same priority, justified the same expense.

'She was one of ours,' Karen kept saying. 'Remember that. One of ours.'

By mid-morning what she needed was up on the computer: a three-dimensional reconstruction of Maddy Birch's body, in outline, showing the extent and depth of the stab wounds to both arms and torso. Sheridan, operating, introduced, its dimensions exact, the shape of the knife found in the roof. Zoom in on one of the wounds, the deepest first, and then move the image of the knife across and down. Some contraction of the skin around the exit point, no more than you would expect, but otherwise as perfect a fit as you could wish. In and out. Clean.

Karen swallowed and the sound seemed unnaturally loud.

She watched as Sheridan repeated the process with a second wound, lower in the torso, left-hand side. Another match. This knife, or one identical in every aspect, had almost certainly been the cause of Maddy Birch's death. Almost. Karen could see the defence barrister arguing the odds in court. Computers are like statistics, you can manoeuvre them to prove anything you need.

'Mike,' she called across the room. 'Anything back from Forensics yet?'

Ramsden shook his head.

'Get them for me on the phone.'

The officer at the other end never stood a chance. 'What do you mean,' Karen said, her face tight with anger, 'you're still processing my fucking request? And don't tell me to watch my fucking language, just do your fucking job. And fast.'

When she put the phone down, the office gave her a small round of applause.

Two minutes later, she rang back. 'Look, I'm sorry about just now. I had no right to talk to you that way and… Yes, yes, yes, that'd be great. Fine. Just as soon as you can. Yes. No. I do understand. Of course. And thanks again.'

Ramsden looked at her enquiringly.

'Patience,' Karen said with a grin. 'Patience. All in good time.'

Out here closer to the coast, the wind was keener, the sky the grey of blue-grey slate. Magwitch, Elder thought. Great Expectations. The Essex marshes. He wondered if Jill and Judy Tremlett had been given the book at school. What expectations they'd had themselves. Seventeen. The same age as Katherine.

A pair of magpies hopped down from the branches of a nearby tree and played desultory chase across the grass. The place looked as if it had been given a face-lift since it had been sold on, the exterior painted blue and gold.

Framlingham was walking round the perimeter of the grounds with the chair of the trustees. Framlingham in greenish tweed, the chairwoman wearing a pale suit with a full shirt, hair pulled back from her face, nodding as she listened, interposing the occasional question, then nodding again.

At the end of their third circuit, the woman went back inside and Framlingham cut across to where Elder was standing.

'Coffee in the lounge,' Framlingham said. 'Ten minutes. Decaffeinated, I don't doubt. She's going to get hold of the surveyor's report they commissioned before the sale. Might give us a clue where to look first.'

Elder looked towards the line of trees and beyond. They got it sorted. Ben and George between them. Made it go away. 'They don't have to be here,' he said. 'They could be anywhere.'

'Think, though, Frank. It would have been the middle of the night. Party going on, plenty of people still around. Two kids picked up not so many hours before, promising them God alone knows what. I doubt they'd want to go far, risk discovery.' Framlingham pushed his hands down into his jacket pockets. 'No, you're right. They could be anywhere. But what my water tells me, they're somewhere here.'

With a sudden rattling cry, one magpie followed the other back into the trees.

Forensic Services rang back at twenty past one. Karen was eating a chicken salad sandwich at her desk, drinking from a bottle of mineral water.

It was the same officer as before.

'Detective Chief Inspector Shields?'

Karen gave a wary yes.

'I'd just like to hear you say you're sorry, ma'am. One more time.'

'You serious?'

'Yes, ma'am. Quite serious.'

Karen cast her eyes towards the ceiling and crossed her fingers. 'I'm sorry.'

'Very good, ma'am. Now you can have your reward.'

As Karen listened, asked questions and listened again, the smile spread wider and wider across her face.

Rising from her desk and crossing the office, she waited until she was close enough to Ramsden that her voice remained a whisper. 'Kennet. Get him in the interview room, soon as you can.'

After setting the tape rolling, she let Ramsden ask the first few questions, teasing away again at Kennet's alibi as if that was all they had. Ten minutes in, Kennet relaxed, she produced the two knives: the one found near Vanessa's flat, the one from the roof in Dartmouth Park.

'What do you think, Steve?' she said, almost offhand. 'Similar, aren't they? Don't you think?'

'Kitchen knives,' Kennet said. 'So what?'

'They are similar, though?'

'If you say so.'

'Part of a set.'

'Yeah?' As if it didn't matter; as if he didn't care.

Karen held them closer, almost within reach. 'Take a good look. Same kind of handle, same rivets, same carbonised steel. Good knives, professional.'

'Fell off that Jamie Oliver's lorry,' said Kennet with a smirk.

'Whoever bought these, Steve,' said Karen, not to be deterred, 'they cared about their utensils. Cared about their tools. Wouldn't you say? Someone who knows the value of a good blade.'

Kennet shrugged and shifted a little on his seat.

'I asked Jane about them.'

'Who?'

'Jane Forest. You remember. She says she was there when you first brought them home. Says you were really proud.'

'You can't believe her. Not a bleedin' word.'

'Why's that?'

'Mental, isn't she? Doctors, pills, the whole bloody time. Mental.'

'I wonder why that is?' Karen said, looking at him hard.

Kennet held her stare but not for long.

'Come on, Steve,' Karen said. 'Save us all time. Admit it, they're yours.'

'Prove it.'

Karen leaned back in her chair and smiled. 'This,' she said, 'is the part I like.' For a moment, her tongue touched the edge of her lips. 'This knife, the smaller one, the one with which you attacked Vanessa Taylor, has your thumbprint clearly on the blade, in addition to being identified by PC Taylor herself. And this, the knife you attempted to hide -'

'I did no such -'

'The sample taken from the blood found on the blade matches your DNA profile exactly.'

'There was no blood!' Kennet swayed to his feet, kicking back the chair. 'There was no fucking blood!'

'Not much,' Karen acknowledged quietly. 'Microscopic, but enough.'

'It's a fucking lie!'

'Sit back down,' Ramsden said, advancing on Kennet from the desk. Two uniformed constables had come through the door.

'You might suggest to your client,' Karen said amiably to Kennet's solicitor, 'that calming down would be a good idea.'

Kennet took a pace towards her and then stopped, shoulders slumped.

'You'll be taken to the custody sergeant,' Karen said, 'and charged with the murder of Maddy Birch. Now get him out of here.'

She remained sitting there for fully fifteen minutes, alone, until the sweat had dried on her skin and the smell of adrenalin had all but faded from the room.