Ash and Bone

16

Mindful of the season, and remembering Katherine sitting open to the elements on a city-centre bench, Elder bought her a double-weight wool scarf, long enough to wind round her neck more than once and then tuck snugly down. When she had first visited him in Cornwall, almost two years before, he had pointed out Eagle's Nest, the house where the artist Patrick Heron had lived and which dominated the landscape where Elder had then been staying; now he bought her a slim book with reproductions of the paintings Heron had made of the shrubs and flowers in his granite-bordered garden. He added a box of dark Belgian chocolates and, at the last minute, a pair of blue Polartec gloves, parcelled them up and sent them, along with a card, to Nottingham, first class.

Several days later, uncertain, he bought a card for Joanne, simple, nothing fancy, quickly wrote 'Happy Christmas, Love Frank', sealed it and slipped it into an already crowded postbox.

That was it.

He had cousins somewhere and when he had lived in London and later in Nottingham they had exchanged greetings at Christmas and, sporadically, on birthdays, but since his move west, they had lost touch.

Instead of a turkey, he ordered a prime leg of lamb from the butcher's on Fore Street and, having grown up in the days when most shops had still closed for several days over the holiday, stocked up with vegetables and milk and bread. For some minutes he lingered over a small Christmas pudding before settling for a pack of mince pies and a carton of double cream.

The last weekend before Christmas itself, he drove up-country and watched Plymouth Argyle outmanoeuvre and outplay Notts County by three goals to nil, his first live match in years and watched in a mixture of blinding sunshine and driving rain, County willing and eager but lacking purpose or plan, the phrase 'headless chickens' coming easily to mind.

On Christmas Day, he put the lamb in a slow oven and set out for a walk that would take him almost to the opposite coast, certainly well within sight of St Michael's Mount, before turning back. Forecasts of heavy rain and high winds regardless, he was rewarded with clear skies and no more than a single shower. A long, slow bath and a glass of whiskey on his return and lamb that fell away from the bone at a glance.

Joanne's card, as spare and functional as his own, stood on the kitchen shelf between a large jar of Branston pickle and a bottle of HP sauce. Though he'd willed himself, without success, not to listen for the post van on the lane, persuaded himself, as best he could, there was no likelihood that she would send him anything, the absence of an envelope bearing Katherine's writing, a card with her name, cast a pall, longer and deeper, over each and every day.

For Elder, as for Karen Shields, the new year started early, a grey Monday at the nub end of December, the north London headquarters of Homicide West.

Elder was in the room when Karen arrived, together with a tall man wearing a Barbour jacket and twill trousers, whom she recognised as Robert Framlingham, head of the Murder Review Unit.

'Karen,' Framlingham said, extending his hand. 'Good to meet you at last.'

So that was the way it was going to be. She was surprised it had taken this long.

Introduced, she shook hands with Elder; his grip was dry and strong and no more lingering than her own.

'The Maddy Birch case,' Framlingham said. 'I've asked Frank here to take a look, see if he can't lend a hand.'

Elder was dressed in a dark suit that had seen somewhat better days, pale blue shirt and inoffensive tie, shoes that, though recently shined, were as creased as the lines around his eyes. Karen wondered how he had got the scar on his face.

'You're shunting me aside,' Karen said.

'Not at all,' Framlingham replied. 'That's not the way we work at all.'

'Oh?'

'No. Frank will sit down with you and your team, review the progress in the investigation so far…'

'Mark my card.'

'Not in any way. What Frank will do, in full consultation with you, is try to point up areas which will open up the inquiry to new ground.'

'But it's still my investigation?'

'You are the lead officer, yes.'

'In charge.'

'Absolutely.'

Bullshit, Karen thought. Bullshit.

'Frank here knew Maddy Birch,' Framlingham said. 'Worked with her in Lincoln.'

Karen looked across at Elder, his face giving nothing away.

'Well,' Framlingham said cheerily, 'the sooner you and Frank sit down and talk the better.'

After raising an imaginary glass, he walked away.

'You want to get some coffee?' Karen asked. 'Talk things through.'

'What I'd like to do,' Elder said, 'is read through the log, the pathologist's report. Familiarise myself with what's been done. Tapes of any interviews. And then I'd like to drive out to where she was killed. Look around. We can talk after that.'

Karen looked at him through narrowed eyes. 'Whatever you say.'

'I'm sorry,' Elder said.

'No. No, you're not.'

DS Sheridan was the office manager: cheery, somewhat portly, still possessed of a Potteries accent which flourished after standing with the home supporters at the Britannia Stadium, which he did whenever he could, Saturdays Stoke City were at home.

'Call me Sherry, everyone else does.'

Elder explained what he needed and found himself set up with a corner desk, a tape player with headphones, a rackety but still functioning PC, and, until the files began arriving in profusion, plenty of elbow room.

Shutting out the rise and fall of background noise as well as he could, Elder read and listened and read some more, only stopping when his vision blurred and his head began to throb.

Towards the end of the morning, Karen's sergeant, Mike Ramsden, came over and introduced himself, the pair of them discovering a few acquaintances in the Met in common.

'Fancy a bite in the canteen?' Ramsden said.

'Later in the week definitely,' Elder said. 'Right now, I'd better push on.'

Ramsden gave Elder a suit-yourself look and moved away. How to win friends and influence people, Elder thought; second time today. By four thirty, he realised he had read the same page on the screen three times without taking in more than a few words.

One of Elder's main concerns about coming up to London had been where he would stay and what it would cost; but Framlingham had assured him something would be arranged and, on arrival, had handed him a mobile phone and two sets of keys: one to a no-longer-new maroon Vauxhall Astra and the other to a flat in a small block near the top of Hendon Lane, close by Finchley Central station.

The car ran better than its looks suggested it might; the flat, presumably maintained as a safe house for the Witness Protection Scheme and suchlike, was well equipped, recently cleaned, and totally anonymous. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom. Roberts radio in the kitchen; TV and VCR in the living room. With the windows closed it was almost possible to shut out the sound of traffic from the nearby North Circular Road. There was butter and a pint of milk in the fridge, a sliced loaf in its wrapping, biscuits, a jar of instant coffee, a packet of PG Tips and some strawberry jam.

Elder walked along past the Tube station to Ballards Lane and bought a hearty chunk of cheddar cheese, a packet of bacon, eggs, oranges and bananas, a bottle of Jameson's and some dark Nicaraguan ground coffee. Not all in the same shop.

When she had stayed with him in Cornwall, Katherine had teased him about the way in which, having drank nothing but tea for years, he had become a real coffee snob. Well, he had reasoned, there were worse things to be snobbish about.

Back at the flat, he spooned coffee into a plain white china jug, and, while it was standing, cracked the seal on the Jameson's and poured himself a small glass. Reading through the files, he could see why Maddy Birch's former husband, Terry Patrick, had looked such an almost irresistible suspect, and he could read Karen Shields's anger and disappointment between the lines. Not only had Patrick seemed picture perfect, he was, after so many hours of effort, the only serious suspect she had.

Cross-checking the records of the Sex Offenders Register and the National Criminal Intelligence Service, the computer had flagged some twenty names, all but three of whom had so far been checked and eliminated. Elder wondered how many of these warranted looking at again.

As for the forensics, he couldn't think of many cases he'd worked on where the evidence had amounted to so little. No blood save for the victim's own. No stray hair, no shred of skin. It was hard to believe: so hard it had to be worth persuading Forensic Services to look again, re-examine the clothes and the body.

And he wanted to talk to – who was it? – sliding his glass to one side, he fumbled through his notes – Vanessa Taylor, Maddy's best friend. Maybe this guy, as well. The roofer. Kensit? Kendrick? Kennet. Came over as so reasonable on the tape, talking about the times Maddy had stood him up at the last moment, evenings cancelled whenever she had been thrown some unexpected overtime. Like a south London boy who'd somewhere picked up a few lessons in gender and the negotiation of personal space. Elder slipped the headphones free. Maybe Kennet had never been that involved, not enough to really care. Maybe he was just a nice bloke. There were still some around.

Stretching, Elder walked to the window. The tail lights of vehicles sparkled and blurred as they moved in slow procession towards Finchley Lane, the Great North Way, the M1. Men and women, mostly men, hurried home from the station, backs bowed, heads bent into the wind. Here and there, umbrellas sprouted; spots of rain against the glass. He should phone Joanne and tell her where he was, let her have this number just in case. In case of what?

Dad, I'm never going to be like I was before.

On impulse, he called Maureen Prior first.

He and Maureen had worked closely together for three years in Nottinghamshire, right up to the time of his retirement, and then again last year, when Katherine had been abducted. As an officer, she was efficient and perceptive; her judgement fair but unyielding. At work, she was intolerant of fools, time-servers, anyone who stepped outside the line. But as a person, as a woman, Elder knew next to nothing about her. She had never divulged anything about her private life and all of the speculation that usually arose round unmarried women officers had simply evaporated away. Elder knew where she lived and nothing more: he had never been invited past the front door.

'I thought you'd turned your back on all that,' Maureen said, when he outlined what he was doing in London.

'So I had.'

'But this was different?'

'Something like that.'

'I'd like to think you'd do the same for me, Frank, if the circumstances were the same.'

'What's that?'

'Saddle up that white horse of yours and ride up out of the west.'

'Bollocks, Maureen.'

She laughed, a low chuckle. 'Hope you'll be all right, Frank. Working with a woman.'

'Shouldn't I be?'

'Depends.'

'I worked with you.'

She laughed again, more open this time. 'That was easy, Frank. You scarcely thought of me as a woman at all.'

Joanne, when he spoke to her, was taciturn, distracted, her mind elsewhere.

'How's Katherine?'

'Oh, you know, much the same.'

'I don't suppose she's there?'

He could hear voices, muffled, Joanne with her hand, he imagined, not quite covering the phone.

'No, Frank, I'm sorry, no.'

Which, in the circumstances, probably meant yes. Joanne currying favour. He didn't push it.

They exchanged a few words about Christmas, Joanne's plans for New Year's Eve, and that was that. As soon as the call was over, suddenly hungry, Elder made himself bacon and eggs, slices of soft white bread buttered and folded over, more coffee. Switching on the radio, he worked his way through the pre-sets: a low rumble from down near the bootstraps which the DJ informed him came from the late, great Johnny Cash; something languidly classical; someone with a faint Scottish accent explaining the intricacies of European Union budgeting; fevered commentary on Coventry versus West Ham; a jolt of violent, acerbic sound, like the contents of an old-fashioned kitchen being demolished around someone playing electric guitar – the thrash metal he'd read about somewhere?

Opting for the orchestral concert, he angled his legs round on the settee. Maddy's killer: had she known him or had she been taken by surprise? Opening the envelope, he looked at the photographs of the wounds. Vicious and deep. Vicious and yet whoever had delivered them had retained a degree of control, of calm; calm enough not to have left any apparent clues, to have taken scrupulous care. Controlled anger: anger and control.

Training, then?

Elder closed his eyes.

Army? SAS?

Under the wash of music, he drifted off.

All that coffee, he thought, waking fifteen minutes later to the sound of the announcer's voice and bright applause, how could I fall asleep?

He tried the TV. On one channel, a disparate group of men and women were clambering their way, laboriously, through the jungle; on another, the same people, or others that looked just like them, were sitting around on settees, not speaking, doing nothing at all. So easy to switch off.

The volume of traffic had eased back. High up where he was, he could see the strange, muted glow thrown up by the city, a false, unchanging day for night. Back down in Cornwall the sky would be close to black and scored through with stars, Cassiopeia, Pegasus, the Plough.

He pictured Maddy walking – running? – though a dark space he had not yet seen, except in photographs. The movement of branches in the wind. Foxes following a trail across back gardens; the cry, unworldly, of cats on heat. Clouds across the moon.

Something moving in the thickets of shrub and bush down by the old railway line.

A voice.

Did he call out?

Maddy. Her name.

Trying to conjure up her face as she turned towards the sound, Elder could only see her eyes picked out green in the shadow of the cathedral light, her mouth broadening into a smile and then closing round his in a kiss.

You didn't have her, Frank. Just wanted to… But somehow you let her get stuck inside your head.

Freeing the cord from the hook around which it had been looped, Elder lowered the blind. Another small whiskey before turning in. The sheets unwelcoming and cold. After catnapping as he had, he thought it would be hard to get to sleep, but not so. A few small shifts of position and the next thing he knew he was stretching awake by habit, the hands on his watch showing six o'clock.