Ash & Bone (24 page)

Estelle stood now by one of the rose beds, late morning, wearing an old green woollen coat, slacks tucked down inside calf-length Wellington boots, a pair of scuffed brown gardening gloves on her hands. The trouble with January, it was too late to plant more bulbs, too early for much else; all she could usefully do was tidy up the beds, cover the mess left by one or other of next door's cats, nip off the odd brown leaf with her secateurs.

She thought how ugly the rose bushes were, pruned back, their hard green stems poking up blind into the air.

Somewhere in her mind she heard the car approaching, then a silence, then, faint, the front doorbell. If the door to the conservatory had not been open, it was unlikely she would have heard it at all. Not that it mattered: whoever it was, another of those smartly dressed Mormons or someone collecting for the church bring-and-buy, they would soon lose patience and go away.

Nearer the bottom of the garden a sparrow was giving itself a bath in the dirt, its wings spraying up a film of loose soil. Helped by the cold air overnight, the ground had dried out quite well; the sky today a washed-out blue-grey smeared with cloud and the temperature in single figures, eight or nine at most.

The side gate clicked open and when Estelle turned she saw the black detective who had, for a moment, held her hand. Tall, she hadn't remembered her as quite so tall; as tall as Gerald she could swear, the heels of her boots making sharp indentations in the lawn.

'Mrs Cooper. Estelle. How are you this morning?' Smiling, smiling, smiling. 'I rang the bell, but I suppose being in the garden, you didn't hear. I hope you didn't mind me finding my own way round?'

'No, of course not. Not at all.' What else was she supposed to say?

'You do all this yourself?' Karen Shields said, looking round. Though in all probability meant as praise, to Estelle's ears it came out more as accusation. Is this all you do with your life?

'Gerald helps with the heavy work sometimes, that is, he used to. And Jake, now he's older, he —' Abruptly she stopped: why was she saying this?

'Estelle?' Karen asked gently. 'Are you okay?'

She looked up at her, that large commanding face with those red, red lips. Beautiful, was that the word?

'Estelle?'

'Mm? Yes, of course.' Of course what? She didn't know.

'Why don't we go inside?' Karen said. 'That cup of tea you offered last time. Something to keep out the cold.' Walking back towards the house, she took Estelle's arm.

* * *

They sat in the conservatory, the door now closed, the corners of glass beginning to mist over. Here and there a flower, brick red or butterfly white, still clung to one or other of the geraniums, their upper leaves healthy and green, those gathered round the base shrivelled brown and paper thin.

Tea was in broad-brimmed white cups with a gold line faded around the rim; the china teapot in its cosy sat on a tray with a matching milk jug and sugar bowl, though the sugar remained untouched. Rich tea biscuits fanned out on a plate. Paper serviettes.

Karen took her time, listening while Estelle pecked at conversation like a bird, waiting for what might be an opportune moment.

In the end she dropped her question into the silence, like a pebble falling slowly into the well.

'Estelle, I know this will be difficult, and if there was any way I could avoid asking you I would, but when you said there were things Steven Kennet wanted you to do, things you felt uncomfortable with, I need you to tell me what they were.'

Estelle's hand shook and tea spilled from her cup into her saucer and from there into her lap. 'How silly of me,' she said, dabbing at it with her serviette. 'I'm sorry, what was it you said?'

* * *

When Karen left an hour and a half later, her face was rigid with anger and hurt, her mind alert. During the course of their relationship Kennet had persuaded Estelle to take part in a number of scenarios in which they played out the act of rape. Sometimes where they were living, sometimes in cheap hotels, and sometimes, after dark, on Wimbledon Common and Hampstead Heath.

In those instances, what he had her do, against her will, was walk along the path pretending to be lost, whereupon he would appear as the apparently kind stranger, offering to show her the way. Or sometimes, wearing a mask, he would jump out at her, grab her arms and throw her to the ground.

Towards the end of the relationship, when she wouldn't agree to play along, he raped her for real.

Karen called Mike Ramsden from her car before switching on the ignition and slotting the seat-belt buckle into place.

'Mike? I want Kennet back in for questioning. ASAP. Drag him down off a roof if you have to.'

One last glance back at the house before she drove away.

* * *

Steven Kennet was nowhere to be found. He had failed to show up for work that morning, no reason, no excuse. His home address was a flat off Seven Sisters Road, between Finsbury Park and the Nag's Head. No reply. One of the couple who lived above said they didn't think he'd been home last night. Came in and drove away. A van. 5 cwt Ford van, dirty white. They hadn't seen him that morning either.

'Keep looking,' Karen said. 'Keep a watch on the flat. Let's get a description ready for circulation, details of the van.'

* * *

When Tara's mother delivered Jake and Amber back home just before four and there was seemingly no one in, she simply bundled them back into the Toyota and drove them along to number 35 with Tara, where she gave them all chocolate biscuits and juice and then, after they'd played together and the Cooper telephone remained unanswered, some pasta with M & S tomato sauce.

As far as Jake and Amber were concerned it was an unlooked-for treat.

Tara's dad went to the house as soon as he came home and knocked loud upon the door; he let himself into the garden by the side passage and found the conservatory locked, the whole house in darkness. Shouting yielded nothing.

They thought of phoning the police, but decided to wait until Gerald Cooper arrived from work, at least he would have a key.

Gerald, as it happened, caught the early train and was back by seven, to find a note from Tara's parents pinned to the door. He thought he'd have a quick G & T before going to fetch the kids. God knows where Estelle had gone off to, silly mare.

He found her in the lounge, hanging from the chandelier, the kitchen stool she'd brought in to stand on kicked away.

Elder read bad news in Karen's face before hearing the words.

'Shit,' he said. And then, 'Poor woman.'

'Yes.'

'How are you feeling?'

'How am I? What difference does that make? She's dead, for Christ's sake.'

'You went to see her yesterday? Spoke to her?'

A laugh choked from Karen's throat. 'Yes, I spoke to her.'

'How was she?'

She looked at him as if he were some kind of fool. 'How do you think she was? I cosied up to her and calmed her down and made her tell me about that arsehole Kennet raping her.'

'He raped her?'

'He raped her. Sometimes in some kind of sick game she went along with and sometimes for real.'

'She told you this?'

'She told me this and then I left her alone, alone in that house with her gardening gloves and her fancy fucking teacups and her fake fucking chandelier.' There were tears running freely down Karen's face. 'And yesterday afternoon when I wanted that bastard brought back in, he'd fucking disappeared.'

Elder eased her chair away from the desk. 'Sit down a minute.'

'I don't want to sit down.'

'Sit down, have some coffee, let's talk this through.'

'I don't want any fucking coffee either.'

'Karen.'

'What?'

'Sit down. Come on.' Firmly but gently, he took hold of her arm. 'Let's sit.'

Karen sighed and did as she was told; she found a tissue in her bag, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Elder pulled another chair round from the other side of the desk and sat opposite her, close enough to have held her hand.

'It's not your fault, you know.'

'Oh, no. Yes, it is. Of course it is.'

'You didn't do any of those things to her.'

'I made her talk about them, think about them.'

'You were doing your job.'

'My fucking job.'

'Besides, you think they weren't on her mind, all the time? You think she could forget? Ever?' He was thinking of Katherine, standing in Rob Summers's house, back before Christmas.
Dad, I'm never going to be like I was before.
'It's Kennet,' Elder said. 'That's who's to blame. What we've got to do is make sure he doesn't do it again. Make sure he pays.'

* * *

Jennifer McLaughlin was serving a customer with something for a sore throat and sympathising: a lot of it about this time of the year. Elder went in and begged ten minutes of her time. Together with Karen they walked along the Broadway, Jennifer taking the opportunity for a cigarette; Karen doing her best to inhale but getting only petrol fumes instead. Starbucks was full so they went on past the circle to Pizza Express.

Karen began her questions as delicately as she could, but Jennifer, a good decade and a half younger than Estelle Cooper by age, and several generations by attitude and experience, was largely unfazed.

'We quarrelled about it, yes, course we did. All that play-acting stuff. Don't know now why I went along with it as long as I did.' Pausing, she looked Karen in the eye. 'Except, well, it was exciting at first. You know? You know what I mean? It's only afterwards you think, God, what was going on there at all?'

'And when you fell out on holiday,' Karen said, 'is that really what it was about? More of the same?'

Averting her face, Jennifer slowly released a wavering line of smoke. 'Yes,' she said.

'We'd like you to come in and make a statement,' Karen said. 'I presume that's okay?'

'Now? You don't mean now?'

'Later this afternoon would be fine. When you finish work. We can give you a lift both ways if that would help.'

'All right.' She looked at them again, first one and then the other. 'He has done something this time, hasn't he? Something serious.'

'It's possible,' Elder said.

'Dear God,' Jennifer whispered and crossed herself.

'If it were necessary,' Karen said, 'you'd be prepared to give evidence in court?'

'Oh, yes.'

'You don't know the names of anyone Steven went out with before, do you?' Elder asked. 'We'd like to talk to as many as we can.'

Jennifer reached for her pack of cigarettes. 'I don't know, I might. If I think about it, you know. Names he's mentioned. Not above a bit of bragging, as you might imagine. But offhand there's only that —' The cigarettes slipped from her hand. 'Only that policewoman, the one who was killed. Oh, God. Oh, my good God!' A sudden shiver running through her, every vestige of colour bleached from her face.

* * *

In the end, Jennifer McLaughlin came up with three names, going back, she thought, a good few years. One might have been working in Waitrose, another a nurse. All were — or had been — north London-based.

'You and me then, Frank,' Karen said. 'Bit of old-fashioned legwork. What do you say?'

Elder picked up the CD box and glanced at the front: a round-faced black man with short cropped hair, saxophone balanced over one shoulder, hands together as though in prayer. 'Stanley Turrentine,' Elder called towards the kitchen. 'Should I have heard of him?'

No reply.

Saxophone and what? Organ?

'Sorry,' Karen said, carrying through two newly rinsed glasses and the bottle of Aberlour she'd spotted on special offer on their visit to Waitrose. 'You said something but I couldn't hear what.'

'Turrentine, is he famous? '

'Celebrity-famous or the jazz-cognoscente kind?'

'Either.'

'Maybe a little bit of the latter.' She poured two quite generous measures of Scotch, handed one to Elder, and raised her own. 'Cheers.'

'Cheers.'

'I saw him a few years back at the Jazz Cafe.' Karen smiled. 'Back in my clubbing days.'

'Now you sit around in the evenings knitting and doing crochet.'

'Something like that.'

The whisky was good, warm on the back of the throat. They'd eaten at a place on Upper Street, Turkish; had to stand in line twenty minutes or so for a table, but it had been worth it. Lamb kebabs and rice, hot sauce, a bottle of red wine.

'He played this,' Karen said, listening. 'You know it?'

Elder shook his head.

'"God Bless the Child".' She sang a few bars.

* * *

During the course of a long afternoon they'd managed to track down and talk to two of the three women whose names Jennifer McLaughlin had remembered.

Maria Upson, a nurse working in Orthopaedics at the Middlesex, had confirmed pretty much everything about Kennet they either knew or suspected; she'd gone out with him for nine months and now regretted almost every minute of the last six.

'Men,' she said, with a not totally disparaging glance towards Elder, 'get to know them, or think you do, let them slip under your guard and they either turn into five-year-olds who want cuddling and cosseting or else they're Fred West.' She didn't need to add which Kennet resembled most.

Lily Patrick was a trainee manager at Waitrose and the picture she painted was different: Kennet was kind, funny, considerate. Okay, he did once climb through her second-floor bedroom window in the middle of the night and scare the wits out of her, but that was to deliver a dozen red roses and some red balloons on her birthday. 'You know, like the Milk Tray man.'

'And sexually,' Karen said, 'he didn't ever suggest anything you felt uncomfortable with?'

'No.' Blushing, but just a little. 'What kind of thing?'

'Games, acting out fantasies. That kind of thing.'

'We did act out a bit of
Romeo and Juliet
once. You know, the balcony scene. After we'd seen the movie.'

'I was thinking of something a bit less romantic'