Ash & Bone (21 page)

'These days —' Martyn began.

'Don't get to thinking she's like those skinny models you're so fond of.' Joanne said, her voice shrill. 'Doing cocaine and God knows what else every five minutes of the day.'

'One of your fantasies, sweetheart, not mine.'

'Fuck you,' Joanne said, swigging down what was left in her glass.

'All I'm saying is, Frank,' Miles went on, 'these days you can never tell. Well, you'll know that yourself, better than anyone.'

'For Christ's sake, Martyn, stop trying to get him on your side.'

'I didn't think it was a matter of sides.'

'No?'

'No.'

'Because if it is, why don't you tell him what you told me when you heard Kate had been arrested. See how far he's on your side then.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, leave it out, Joanne…'

'Why? Because it doesn't suit you now? For Frank to know what you really think?'

'Now you're being stupid.'

'Am I?'

Miles gave Elder a look as much as to say, You see how unreasonable she's being.

'I think,' Elder responded, 'I might like to know what it was you said.'

'He said it was no more than she deserved.'

'What I said was, it might not be such a bad thing.'

'Why was that, Martyn?' Elder said. 'I'm not sure I understand.'

'You know, Frank. These past months, the way she's been. And now it seems drugs as well.'

'And you think being locked up in a police cell will make her see the light?'

'It might scare some sense into her, yes.'

'Don't you think she's been scared enough?'

'That was a year ago, Frank. She can't keep hiding behind that forever.'

'Listen to yourself,' Joanne all but screamed. 'Just bloody listen to yourself. You don't understand a bloody thing.'

'And you do?'

'Yes, I fucking do.'

'That's it. That's it. Get hysterical,' Miles said. 'Great help all round.'

Tears welled in Joanne's eyes.

'Martyn,' Elder said. 'Maybe you should let Joanne and I talk.'

'Fine.'

* * *

The lanterns on the patio shone small candles of light through the window, their reflections doubled and redoubled in the glass. Nursing a fresh glass of wine, Joanne stood close against the window, staring out, and Elder wondered if in some way it made her feel invisible. Or was it something to do with how she felt, what might happen at a touch? He could see her face, its contours in the glass, not quite real, white against the dark. The small triangle of skin where the hair parted at the nape of her neck.

It was past midnight by now, Elder thought, closer to one.

The reflection of his face slid over hers and merged. Slowly, he touched her shoulder with his hand.

'Frank.'

When she said his name a small circle of mist blurred the glass before her face. She said his name again and turned and when she turned it was into his arms. Eyes closed at first, he held her close, her head beneath his chin, feeling her heart race against his chest.

Minutes passed.

Minutes passed and her breathing steadied and she lifted her face towards his. 'I'm sorry,' she said.

With a slow shake of his head, he stepped away.

'I need a cigarette,' she said and crossed the room.

Elder went through into the kitchen and ran the tap, drank water from a glass. Whoever Joanne had in to clean had worked hard on the bottoms of the burnished pans, hanging in perfect order from a polished metal rail high on the wall.

In the living room, Joanne was sitting at one end of the settee and he sat opposite her on a pale curve of cushioned chair that gave a little with his weight.

'What will happen?' Joanne asked.

'To Katherine?'

She looked back at him as if to say, What else?

'They could charge her with possession with intent to supply, in which case she'd almost certainly be released on police bail. But I don't think they will.'

'Because of you?'

'That wouldn't matter one way or another.'

'What then?'

'I don't really think it's Kate they re interested in. It's him. Summers. I think they were hoping if they pressured her, she'd give them something they could use against him.'

'And she won't?'

'It doesn't look that way.'

'God.' Joanne took a last drag at her cigarette and ground it out in a hollow globe of glass.

'How long has she been seeing him?' Elder asked. 'Summers. D'you know?'

Staring at the floor, Joanne shook her head. 'I don't know who she's been seeing, Frank. Not recently. She won't talk to me. About anything. And if I ask her, she just flies off the handle and storms out. Martyn's right, she's been running wild and I don't know what to do.' She looked at him then. 'She's our daughter, Frank.'

'I'll talk to her. If I can.'

Joanne pulled a folded square of tissue from a pocket in her dress, dabbed her eyes and lit another cigarette.

'You'll stay, Frank.'

'I don't think so.'

'This time of night…'

'I'll go to a hotel'

'There's no need.'

He shook his head. 'It's easier.'

'Martyn won't be back, not tonight.'

'It isn't that.' He crossed towards her and aimed a kiss at the top of her head. 'I'll see you tomorrow, okay?'

'Okay.' She reached up for his hand but he was already on his way towards the door.

Outside, any wind there'd been had dropped and the air, as he walked back down through the winding criss-cross of roads towards the city centre, was heavy and still.

Against all odds, Elder slept like a stone. The radio alarm on the small bedside table woke him with inane chatter, slightly off station. In the bathroom mirror his face looked tired and drawn; a thin scar, where Adam Keach had cut him with a knife, ran from the centre of his forehead down along the bridge of his nose, stitch marks like tiny perforations to each side.

The hotel dining room was busy with business people in dark suits, enjoying the full English behind the
Telegraph
or the
Mail.
In the buffet, the scrambled eggs were congealed and the catering tomatoes swam in a sea of their own juice. The toast, brought to the table too soon, was scarcely brown and almost cold.

'Coffee or tea?' the waitress said with a charming smile, her heavily-accented voice, to Elder's ears, from South America or Spain. Though he asked for coffee, she brought him tea regardless, and he had neither the heart nor the energy to complain.

He met Maureen Prior in the Starbucks on Lister Gate, close by the entrance to the Broad Marsh Centre. She was seated at a table in the rear when he arrived, unobtrusively dressed in brown and beige. He might have seen her in bright colours once, but couldn't easily remember when. Her hair, medium-length, mid-brown, softened the sharp oval of her face.

'Good to see you, Frank.'

'You, too.'

He went to the counter to collect the coffee he'd ordered, carried it back and sat down.

'I'm sorry about Katherine,' Maureen said.

'Thanks.'

'She's been charged?'

'No, thank God.'

'Special pleading then.'

'Not on my part. No favours asked.'

'She's your daughter, Frank. Five grams in her bag. Difficult to see her walking away else.'

Elder told her what had happened, what little he knew, and she listened carefully, breaking off pieces of muffin almost absent-mindedly with one hand.

'They think she's lying, obviously,' she said when Elder was through. 'Covering up for Summers.'

'You know him? Anything about him?'

Maureen shook her head. 'Drug Squad, any idea which officers are involved?'

'Resnick mentioned a name. Bland.'

Maureen smiled. 'Ricky Bland.'

'You know him?'

'By reputation.'

'Which is?'

'Bit of a chancer. Gets results. One way or another. Came up from the Met, oh, good few years back now.'

'You don't like him.'

'I said, I don't know him.'

'You know what I mean.'

Maureen ate some of her muffin. 'What I've heard, let's say he sails close to the wind. Came under investigation once, him and a partner. Eaglin? I'm not sure of the name. Quantity of crack cocaine confiscated and then disappeared. There was some rumour Bland and whoever had sold it back to the dealer they'd taken it from in the first place.'

'Nothing proved?'

Maureen laughed. 'Answer that for yourself, Frank. They're still out there, working. Putting the bad guys away. Some of them, at least.'

'You think they were guilty?'

The laugh transposed into a smile. 'You know me well enough, Frank. Everyone's guilty in my eyes.'

Watching Maureen eat had made Elder hungry and, seeing him eyeing the plate, she pushed it towards him. 'What about you, Frank?'

'What about me?'

'How's it going in London?'

'Not so badly.'

She looked at him seriously. 'When it's over, you ought to consider coming back up here.'

He shook his head. 'It's too complicated. Besides, if I wanted more there's plenty where I am. Devon and Cornwall have just brought four detectives out of retirement and they're scoping round for more.'

'Sheep rustling at a premium, is it?' The smile back on Maureen's face. 'Someone playing fast and loose with the mackerel fleet?'

'Six murders in eight days. One of them specially nasty, couple in a garage badly beaten, then shot.'

'You're not tempted?'

'Not what I went down there for.'

'If you were up here you'd be near Katherine.'

'Not where she wants me to be.'

'You think she means it?'

'I know she does.'

Maureen resisted the temptation to say more. 'Ricky Bland, you're going to see him? I could come with you if you like.'

'It's good of you, but no, it's okay. An address though, just in case he isn't pulling overtime.'

Maureen was already reaching for her mobile. 'Just let me make a call.'

The house was in Mapperley Plains, a once-new development near the golf course, UPVC windows and frosted-glass aluminium-framed doors. A blue Audi A6, dented, stood outside the garage. The front lawn was in need of a final mow, the grass already beginning to clutter up with leaves.

Elder knocked on the door and rang the bell.

Nothing seemed to happen.

An arthritic Honda saloon came cautiously along the street, slowed down almost to a halt, then continued on its way. Neighbourhood watch, Elder thought.

He rang the bell again.

This time there was movement within, an inner door opening and then bolts being released, locks turned. The man who appeared was mid-forties with a thick stubble and close-cropped hair, a V-neck jumper hastily pulled over an otherwise bare chest, patterned boxers and bare, muscular legs.

'Richard Bland?'

'Who the fuck are you?'

'Frank Elder. I used to be on the job.'

He looked at Elder keenly, squinting a little into the light. 'This better be good, pal.'

'Katherine Elder, she was arrested yesterday. Possession of heroin. She's my daughter.'

Bland looked at him again and pulled the door wider. 'Come on in. Tryin' to get some kip. Three late nights on the fuckin' trot. Thought you were one of them bleeding-heart collectors, famine in fuckin' Sumatra or somewhere.'

Dust had gathered in small circles in the corners of the hall. The room Bland led Elder into was almost bare, crumpled clothes and cans and empty take-out boxes on the floor. The Venetian blinds were two-thirds closed.

'Cunt took all the furniture when she left. Had a van come round when I was out. Sleeping upstairs in a fucking sleeping bag.' He pointed towards the kitchen door. 'There's beer in the fridge, help yourself.'

When Bland came back down, blue shirt outside his jeans, he grabbed some beers for himself, lit a cigarette, and instructed Elder to get hold of the pair of plastic folding chairs that were leaning up against the wall.

They sat outside on a small patio, looking out over a rectangle of unkempt lawn, bare borders, a line of recently planted saplings. In amongst the hum of traffic, children cried and dogs set off a chain of barking. January notwithstanding, there was some warmth in the sun.

'Get shot of this fuckin' place,' Bland said, 'soon as I fuckin' can. Get back into the city. One of them new flats, by the canal. Only thing, minute I sell it, the bitch gets fuckin' half.'

Elder said nothing.

'You married?'

'Not any more.'

'Know what I mean then.'

For a while they swapped war stories about life on the force, Bland quizzing Elder a little about his time with Serious Crime, elaborating on the spread of drugs, the steady influx of guns.

'Fuckin' Noddies out patrolling St Ann's in body armour with Walther P990s holstered at their fuckin' hips like Clint fuckin' Eastwood. Me, I can walk into a crack house or down some alley in the Meadows and all I've got is a finger to stick up their arse, always supposing they'll bend over and oblige.' He coughed up phlegm and spat it at the ground. 'Every kid dealing out there on the streets has got a Glock or some converted replica stuck down the back of his designer fuckin' underwear. Niggers driving round in thirty thousand plus of motor with their fuckin' rap music blaring out and an Uzi under the fuckin' front seat. All very well to say it's one another they're killin', only problem with that they're not killin' one another fuckin' fast enough.'

He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the empty Heineken can and lit another.

'Your kid,' he said, 'she was carrying for the bloke she was with, Summers, no fuckin' doubt. Thought a night in the cells might get her to turn him over, but it didn't. No worries, we'll get him another way.'

'And Katherine?'

Bland popped another can. 'Needs to reconsider the company she's keeping.'

'Tell me about Summers,' Elder said after a moment.

'Rob Summers. Robert. Early thirties. Moved here from Humberside twelve or thirteen years back to go to university. Hung around ever since the way some of 'em do. Too idle to get up off their fuckin' arses and move somewhere else. That or too fuckin' stoned.' Bland swallowed down some beer. 'Started selling a little dope when he was still a student, nothing too serious. Carried on ever since. Low-level, just below the eyeline, you know the kind of thing.'