Ash and Bone

10

The press conference was packed to the gills. Television cameras, tape recorders, a smattering of old-fashioned spiral-bound notebooks, ballpoints at the ready. On the raised platform, a technician made a last-minute check of the microphones. The noise in the hall ebbed, and flowed. Out front, a Press and Public Relations officer had a quick word with the reporter from Sky News. Bar a terrorist attack or a celebrity scandal, the timing should guarantee blanket coverage on all the terrestrial channels, plus satellite and cable. BBC Radio was taking a live feed into its five o'clock news. A curtain twitched to one side, a door opened and, stern-faced, they shuffled in.

The platform was rich in seniority and rank. Assistant Commissioner Harkin took centre stage, to his right the Detective Chief Superintendent in command of Homicide West. Seated at the far left, Karen Shields was the only woman, the only black face amongst all those sober-faced and sombre-suited white men.

Arguments that she'd be better occupied elsewhere had been brushed aside: Public Relations liked to get her on camera as often as they could.

In her absence, Lee Furness was busy liaising with Forensics and overseeing the local area inquiries, while Mike Ramsden had travelled north to interview Maddy Birch's mother. Alan Sheridan, her office manager, was accessing the Sex Offenders Register, searching through computerised records of similar crimes. Only Paul Denison was temporarily idle, twiddling his thumbs in the car park waiting for Karen while she was stuck, unhappily, behind a microphone.

Bald head shining a little in the lights, the Assistant Commissioner began his statement: 'We are, all of us, shocked and saddened by the death of a colleague in this tragic and senseless way.' Using his notes sparingly, he spoke of Maddy Birch as a resourceful and dedicated officer who had shown extreme bravery only recently in going up against an armed and dangerous criminal when she herself was unarmed. 'All of us within the Metropolitan Police Service,' he concluded, 'have a grim determination to bring Maddy's killer or killers to justice as soon as possible.'

Flash bulbs popped.

Harkin gave brief details of the circumstances of Maddy's death and went on to give assurances that the Homicide officers leading the investigation would be able to call on the support, as necessary, of other Operational Crime Units, as well as the facilities of the National Crime Intelligence Service. Karen, finally, was introduced as one of the officers who were, as he put it, dealing with the minute-by-minute, the day-to-day, the real nitty-gritty. No one, least of all Karen, had warned him that, because of its possible links to slavery, it might no longer be politically correct to say nitty-gritty.

The first question was hurled almost before Harkin had finished speaking: was it true that Maddy Birch had been sexually assaulted prior to her death?

'Until the post-mortem has been carried out by the Home Office pathologist,' he said, 'any such assumptions are purely speculation.' It was an answer guaranteed to increase such speculation tenfold.

Numerous questions followed about the exact nature of the attack, most of which were either deflected or referred back to the initial statement.

'Given the similarity of circumstances,' asked the reporter from CNN, 'do the police think there is a connection between this murder and that of the woman killed while out jogging in Hackney in February?'

They'd been expecting that one.

'Be assured,' Harkin responded, 'there will be the closest contact with officers conducting that investigation.'

He did think, then, there was a connection?

'As I say, we are exploring that avenue alongside several others.'

'Nobody has yet been charged with the Victoria Park murder, is that correct?'

That was correct.

'And all three men arrested in connection with the murder have since been released?'

That was so.

Harkin sighed. 'If we could concentrate our attentions on the tragic death of Detective Sergeant Birch…'

But the crime correspondent of the Guardian was already on his feet. 'The assistant commissioner alluded to the police operation in which Detective Sergeant Birch was involved, and which resulted in the death of a fellow officer and the fatal shooting by the police of William Grant – I wonder, can he tell us what progress is being made in the inquiry into those events presently being carried out by the Hertfordshire Force?'

'I'm afraid I don't see that has any relevance here.'

'But the inquiry is still ongoing?'

'You have my answer.' Harkin's face was set in stone.

'I think,' the Public Relations officer began, 'if there are no further questions…'

'I have a question for Detective Chief Inspector Shields.' Eyes turned towards the Home Affairs correspondent from the BBC. 'As a woman officer, does this case have a special resonance for you?'

Fuck, Karen said inside her head.

Twenty cameras flashed in her direction.

'As a police officer,' Karen said, 'all cases of this seriousness, especially where the deaths of fellow officers are involved, resonate equally.'

Off to one side, the PR officer nearly wet himself with joy.

'Gentlemen,' said Assistant Commissioner Harkin, rising to his feet. 'Ladies. Thank you for your time.'

Seeing Karen Shields approach across the car park in his rear-view mirror, Denison turned the key in the ignition.

'How did it go, ma'am?'

Karen slammed the car door closed. 'Stop ma'aming me and drive the fucking car.'

Not too well, then, Denison thought.

Karen buckled herself in and stared straight ahead. Hendon to Kentish Town, half an hour if they were lucky, three-quarters if not.

Vanessa's commanding officer was waiting for them in reception. 'PC Taylor's in my office. You can talk to her there.'

'Thank you.'

Vanessa jumped to her feet when the door opened. She was wearing her police uniform, the top button of her tunic fastened tight at her neck; there was a slight but unmistakable smell of perspiration in the room.

Awkwardly, Vanessa held out her hand and then, before Karen could respond, let it fall by her side.

Sitting, Karen introduced Denison and herself.

'Maddy Birch,' Karen said, 'you knew her. You've got some information, I believe.'

'Yes. As soon as I heard what had happened – I'm sorry, I still can't believe it – as soon as I heard, I went to my inspector here and asked to be put in touch.'

Karen nodded. 'I'd like to record this conversation. I take it you've no objection?'

'No, of course not.'

Denison placed the pocket recorder on the desk between them and switched it on.

'Very well, then, in your own time.'

Vanessa told them about Maddy's growing fears that she had been watched and followed; her feeling that someone had been inside her flat.

'She didn't report any of this?'

'No.'

'Do you know why?'

Vanessa wriggled a little in her seat. 'It wasn't as if she had any proof. I think she was worried she might not be believed. That people might think she was, you know, imagining things.'

'And you? What did you think?'

'Did I believe her?'

'Yes.'

'Not at first. Not if I'm to be honest, no. Ever since the Grant business, that young officer getting killed, it had really shaken her up. You could tell. I thought maybe it was a reaction to that. Nervous, you know. But then, when she said someone had broken into her flat, I believed her then.'

'And she didn't have any idea who this person – if it was one person – might have been?'

'No, not really'

'You don't seem sure.'

Vanessa fidgeted with her hair. 'Well, there was this one time we were in the pub and Maddy thought she saw someone she knew. Her ex.'

'Ex-husband, lover, what?'

'Husband. Terry.'

'And how did she react?'

'She didn't say anything at first, not to me. But you could tell, yes, she was surprised. Thinking she'd seen him.'

'They weren't in touch?'

'No. Not at all. Quite a while, at least. He'd moved away. North Wales, I think she said.'

'And when she saw him, her reaction, was it just surprise?'

Vanessa took her time, wanting to be clear. 'No. I think it was more than that. More as if she was afraid, you know?'

Mugs of tea sat on a metal tray, untouched. Paper squares of sugar and plastic spoons. Karen noticed the low background hum from the central heating for the first time. Mike Ramsden was up in Lincolnshire talking to Maddy's mother. Where was it? Louth? Surname Birch, she remembered. Maddy must have resumed her own name after the divorce.

'When she told you about her flat being broken into, she didn't say she thought it might have been him? Terry?'

'No. And by then she was saying it probably hadn't been him at all. Just someone who looked a bit like him, that's all.'

'Enough like him to make her afraid.'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose so.'

Karen could feel her nerve ends tightening, a scenario beginning to play out in her mind, and had to will herself not to let it race too far ahead.

'That night, after the pub, you didn't notice anyone hanging around, acting suspiciously at all? Anyone who might have been him?'

'No. I've been thinking about it, but no.' Vanessa looked bereft, on the verge of tears.

'Here.' Karen tore open two packets of sugar and emptied them into one of the mugs of tea. 'Drink some of that.'

'Do I have to?' Vanessa smiling despite everything.

'God, no.' Leaning forward, she switched off the tape. 'Where's the nearest pub?'

'End of the street.'

'How long will it take you to get out of that uniform?'

Pocketing the recorder, Karen got to her feet. 'Paul, get through to the office, have somebody check on Maddy Birch's file. Her married name might be somewhere there and I missed it. And see if you can raise Mike, tell him to give me a call.'

Karen bought a vodka and orange for Vanessa, Coke with ice and lemon for herself, tonic water for Denison.

'Paul here's not old enough to drink, anyway,' she said.

Denison blushed.

When Vanessa asked how the investigation was going, Karen shrugged and shook her head. 'Ask me in a couple of days.'

The television over the bar seemed to be showing a rerun of some soccer game or other; at least it wasn't the news. At the far end of the room a number of gaudy machines were vying with one another for the most annoying electronic jingle. Most of the tables were taken by solitary drinkers, men nursing pints of whatever bitter was on special offer.

'You liked her, didn't you? Maddy.'

'She was great. A laugh, you know. But not silly, like some. Sensible. And straight, no side to her, you know what I mean? Said what she felt. She…' Vanessa's face wobbled and she fumbled for a tissue in her bag. 'It was all getting to her, you know? That's why…' She gulped air and brought her hands to her mouth. 'That's why I suggested yoga. I thought it would help, make her less stressed out.' She was unable now to hold back the tears. 'That bloody place. If it hadn't been for me, she'd never have gone. Never have been there. Never have got herself bloody killed.'

Karen leaned closer and put her arm around the other woman's shoulders.

Denison looked more embarrassed than usual.

'Listen,' Karen said. 'Vanessa. If she was right, if someone was following her, intending to do her harm, it would have happened anyway. And if it was something else, pure chance, there's nothing you or anyone else could have done. Okay?'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose so.'

'Good.'

Vanessa blew her nose loudly.

'Here,' Karen said. 'Drink up.'

At which moment Karen's mobile started to ring and she stepped out on to the street.

Mike Ramsden's voice was indistinct.

'Is this a crap line or are you whispering?'

'It's a crap line.'

'Listen, Mike. I want to know the name of Maddy Birch's ex. Address too, if you can get one. Anything else about him. How things were between them. Threats. Animosity. Anything. All right?'

'Do what I can.'

'Okay, soon as you get a name, call me back.'

Karen broke the connection.

In the hallway of the small terraced house in Louth, Mike Ramsden slipped his phone back down into his pocket and looked for a moment at the photograph, framed and hanging on the wall, of a young Maddy Birch at her passing-out parade. Behind him, in the living room, there were more photographs, a scrapbook full to overflowing, open on the low table beside Carol Birch's chair. For the best part of an hour he had been sitting opposite her, balancing an empty cup and saucer in the palm of one hand, pretending to listen. 'I only moved up here to be near her and then she up and moved to London.'

Ramsden sighed and turned back into the room. 'What about boyfriends?' Karen was asking Vanessa. 'Good-looking woman, not old, there must have been someone?'

'I don't think so. No one special. I mean, if we were out, blokes would try it on, you know, giving her the chat, but she didn't seem interested. It was more like, if anything was going to happen, she wanted it to be more than just a one-night stand, you know?'

Karen knew: only too well.

'So, no one at all?'

'Oh, one guy maybe. This roofer she met.'

'Roofer?'

'Yes, you know.' Vanessa gestured vaguely upwards. 'One of those blokes always up scaffolding, doing a lot of shouting, replacing tiles. Steve was his name. Steve Kennet.'

'How long ago was this?'

'Few months back, maybe more.'

'And this was serious?'

'Not really.'

'You know where he lives, this Steve?'

Vanessa shook her head. 'Archway somewhere.'

Karen made a note of the name; if it came to it, he shouldn't be all that difficult to find.

Less than ten minutes later Ramsden rang her back. 'Name's Patrick. Terence Patrick. I've got an address in Prestatyn: 15 Sea View Terrace.'

'Current?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Shouldn't be too hard to check. Listen, Mike, if I don't get back to you inside the hour, I want you to meet me there tomorrow morning. Prestatyn. Eight. Eight thirty. I'll catch an early flight to Liverpool or Manchester and drive over.'

'And how am I supposed to get there from the wilds of fucking Lincolnshire?'

'Leave early.'

Karen pressed 'disconnect' and looked at her watch. She needed to get back to the office, make some calls. She thought they'd got as much out of Vanessa Taylor as they were going to get for now. They could always talk to her again. She was thinking about Terry Patrick, how he might have heard the news of his ex-wife's death. If and when and what he'd felt. If he hadn't known already.

Thinking about Maddy's mother, trying to imagine how you began to come to terms with what had happened. If you ever did. Children were supposed to outlive their parents, wasn't that the way it was supposed to be?