Ash and Bone

41

When Elder's mobile rang, not so many minutes after leaving the hospital, Maureen Prior was pretty much the last person on his mind. Her train was due in at St Pancras in forty minutes. It was important they met. No more than an hour of his time.

The cafe was French, a small patisserie set back from the main road that ran immediately south from the station. There were a few tables on the pavement, maybe half a dozen more inside. Bread, croissants, baguettes and a gleaming espresso machine. Two women of a certain age, smartly dressed, sat near the rear window drinking coffee; a silver-haired man, camel coat folded over the back of his chair, was reading Le Monde and eating a croque-monsieur. Elder, who had used St Pancras enough over the years, had no idea the place was there.

It was warm enough, just, to sit outside.

Jet trails criss-crossed overhead and the sun was a rumour behind a screed of grey.

A young man, white-aproned, brought them coffee.

'How did you know about this?' Elder said, looking round.

'Charlie told me about it.'

'Charlie?'

'Charlie Resnick. He said it would be a good place to meet.'

'You've been talking to him.'

Maureen smiled. 'About London cafes?'

'About Bland. And Katherine.'

'I had to talk to someone. Someone I could trust.'

That would be Resnick, Elder thought. 'What did he say?'

She smiled again. 'Not a lot. He's a great listener, Charlie.'

'He wasn't surprised?'

'About Bland? No, not really. Rumours aside, he'd never liked him overmuch. Too much time down in the smoke. Infects the lungs, rots away from the inside. His words. Reckons the only reason Bland left the Met when he did was to keep a step ahead of CIB.'

'He was never actually charged?'

'With corruption? No. Allegations, unproven. Usual story. Had his card marked a few times, apparently, but that was it.'

'So,' Elder said, 'is there a plan?'

'It's what I wanted to talk to you about. And I thought in person. Rather than risk a call.' She lifted her cup of coffee from its saucer. 'Getting paranoid in my old age.'

'Careful,' Elder said. 'No harm in that.'

'How about you, Frank? You taking care down here?'

'In the big city? Yes, I think so.'

'Near a result?'

Elder's turn to smile, just with his eyes. 'I think there's more than one game.'

'There always is, Frank. There always was.'

The coffee, though, was perfect. Strong, not bitter. Elder listened attentively. As a plan it was simple enough, straightforward; the chances of success all the more certain for depending upon Bland's greed.

'Summers, he'll play along?'

'I think so. Further in over his head than he's comfortable with. Might see this as a way out.'

'And Katherine, it won't put her in any danger?'

Maureen thought a little before answering. 'No more than she's in already.'

Elder nodded. 'You want me to talk to her?'

'Later, Frank. When it's over.'

'You'll let me know when it's going down?'

'Better still,' Maureen said, 'I'll let you know when it's done.'

Steve Kennet left hospital handcuffed to a uniformed officer the shape and size of a small tank, Paul Denison walking closely behind. The one call Kennet had been allowed, to a firm of solicitors, had yielded up Iain Murchfield, left holding the fort that Thursday afternoon. Any wetter behind the fucking ears, as Ramsden was to remark, and he'd fucking drown.

Karen had corralled Elder the instant he reappeared and from her expression he knew that the news, some of it at least, was good.

'See why he was cocky about the knife. Must have wiped it off on his clothes as he ran. But not as thorough as he thinks. Thumbprint on the base of the blade. Partial, but clear.'

'And it's a match?'

'Waiting for confirmation now.'

'How about his place? Anything interesting there?'

'Not a lot. Few borderline videos. Clothes, shoes, usual stuff. I told Mike to go back, try again.'

'Kennet's here?'

'With his lawyer. Deciding strategy.' Karen grinned. 'Kid just out of college. Looks as if he'd need a strategy to tie his laces in the morning.'

At a little after four the call came through from Forensics. The partial print was a match. But partial, nonetheless.

They ushered Kennet into interrogation ten minutes later, the exact time noted scrupulously by Karen at the beginning of the interview. In Ramsden's continued absence Paul Denison, slightly nervous himself, sat alongside her. Elder sat in an adjacent room, listening on headphones.

Kennet leaned forward, forearms resting on the table edge, faint signs of strain beginning to show around his eyes. Beside him, seated a little way off, Iain Murchfield had a notebook open on his knee, pen in hand.

Karen's hair was pulled back, the front of her suit jacket buttoned, her gaze rarely leaving Kennet's face.

'I'd like you to tell me,' she began, 'what happened last night, from the time you met Vanessa Taylor in the Bull and Last pub until you both went back to her flat.'

In a flat monotone, Kennet repeated, with a few additions, the version of events he had given in the hospital.

'You still maintain that PC Taylor hit you with the bottle without cause or reason?'

'Other than that she was pissed out of her head, yes.'

'And the injuries that she sustained…'

'Were on account of me trying to stop her taking my eye out, yes. Going crazy, wasn't she?'

'And that includes the marks to the side of her face?'

'I don't know. What marks?'

'Cut marks.'

'I don't know. Glass from the bottle, I suppose. Glass bloody everywhere.'

'This injury was caused by a knife.'

Kennet leaned away from the table. 'I don't know about that.'

'You didn't attack PC Taylor with a knife?'

'No.'

'Hold it against her throat?'

'No.'

'Hard enough to break the skin.'

'Look, look.' Kennet agitated now. 'I've said. I know nothing about a knife. Okay?'

'No?'

Kennet emphasised each word. 'There was no knife.'

'Really?' Karen said, slightly amused.

Kennet turned towards his solicitor. 'How much longer have I got to put up with this?'

'Detective Chief Inspector,' Murchfield said, dredging up what little gravitas he could find, 'I must complain about the degree to which you are harassing my client.'

Karen looked at him with a mixture of sardonic amusement and contempt. 'The knife I'm referring to, Mr Kennet,' she said, 'is the one you threw away as you were trying to make your escape.'

'That's bullshit. That's untrue. Sheer bloody fabrication.'

A line came to Elder, watching; something about protesting too much.

'In that case,' Karen said, 'I'd like to hear your explanation of how your print came to be on the blade?'

'What blade? What bloody print?' His chair scraped back as he swung round towards Murchfield. 'You. Do something, will you? Sitting there watching them fit me up.'

Murchfield flipped his notebook closed. 'I must object again to the manner in which you are questioning my client.'

'Objection noted.'

'And remind you, should it be necessary, that the time remaining in which you must decide to charge my client or else release him is running down.'

'Fine,' Karen said. 'You're right. Let's get him charged. How about inflicting grievous bodily harm for starters? Offences against the Person Act, 1861. Paul, take him down to the custody sergeant, make sure he's properly charged and cautioned. We'll see if that changes his perspective on things. This interview halted at four twenty-three.' She got to her feet. 'Thank you, Mr Murchfield, for your welcome advice.'

'What do you think?' Karen asked.

Elder made a face. 'With all the testimony we can bank on as to Kennet's past behaviour, if it comes down to his word against Vanessa's, most juries are going to take hers. But in terms of hard evidence, one partial print looks pretty sad.'

'Mike'll come up with something, don't worry.'

But by seven that evening, that's exactly what they were doing.

Kennet had been duly charged and was preparing to spend his first night in the cells; on the following morning, Friday, he would appear before the magistrate and bail would be vigorously opposed. But when Ramsden returned it was with a long face and bad news. 'Unless you include a stack of Brentford programmes going back ten years, nothing iffy in sight.'

'You searched the van as well?' Elder said. 'The one he uses for work.'

'What d'you think I am, a fucking amateur?'

'Sorry.'

'No problem.'

But Elder's mind was suddenly elsewhere: the first time he'd seen Kennet, spoken to him, outside the house he was working on in Dartmouth Park, Kennet with a roll-up, wanting a light.

'He's got a car,' Elder said. 'As well as the van.'

'You're sure?'

'Saloon, four-door. Dark blue. Ford, I think, but I couldn't swear.'

'Lee,' Ramsden said, 'check it out. As long as it's registered to him, we're quids in.'

'Well done, Frank,' Karen said. 'Well remembered.'

'We'll see,' Elder said. 'We'll see.'