Ash & Bone (30 page)

'I think, Mr Murchfield,' Karen said, 'your client can have a break. Twenty minutes, no more. This interview suspended at twelve nineteen…'

* * *

'What do you think, Frank?'

They were standing outside, the sky overcast but the temperature a good five degrees warmer than the day before. Karen had come as close as this to snagging one of Ramsden's cigarettes and was munching her way through a Bounty instead.

'You had him sweating, no doubt about that.'

'Like a Turkish bath in there.'

'All that stuff about the murder really had him in a state. Once he'd copped to the break-ins, though, different again. Proud of it, almost. Relieved, certainly.'

'You think I let him off the hook?'

'I don't see what else you could have done.'

'You said yourself. It was as if he'd got away with something.'

'You'll keep on at him. If there's anything else there, you'll make him crack.'

Karen stuffed the last piece of Bounty into her mouth, screwed up the wrapper and pushed it down into her jacket pocket. Black today, funereal black.

'Frank, the other night. At my place. We've never really talked about it.'

'Maybe there's no need.'

'Not worth remembering, then?' Just a hint of a smile.

'That's not what I meant.'

'I just don't want you to think…'

'What?'

'You know, that it meant anything… anything special, I mean, between us.'

There was an amused look in Elder's eyes. 'You mean we're not engaged?'

She punched him, quite hard, on the arm.

'I don't want you to expect…'

'Believe me, I don't expect anything.'

'You're sure? Because if…'

'Listen, listen. It was great. I had a great time. A total surprise. But a one-off, okay? I understand.'

'Okay.' With a quick glance round to make sure no one was looking, she kissed him on the cheek.

'Though of course if I go back inside with your lipstick on my face…'

She went to punch him again, but this time, laughing, he dodged out of the way.

Elder had barely parked outside his flat when his mobile began to ring. Katherine, he thought. Maureen. Instead it was Framlingham's familiar burr. 'That place of yours, Frank. Presentable, is it?'

'You should know.'

'Twenty, thirty minutes. I'll be there.'

He arrived within fifteen, bearing gifts. Scottish oatcakes, a chunk of Mrs Kirkham's Lancashire cheese, a bottle of wine.

'Thought you might be peckish, Frank. Must have been a busy day.'

'Busy enough.'

'This Kennet, enough to hold him at least?'

'I think so.'

Framlingham unwrapped the cheese and set it on a plate. 'Your thought that Grant might be an informant, protected that way, doesn't seem to pan out. But as a line of inquiry, not without its worth.' He was ferreting for a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer. 'Aussie plonk, Frank. Garlands Shiraz. Family winery near Mount Barker.'

The cork came free with a pleasing pop.

'Mike Garland, he's the cellar master, knows what he's about.'

Framlingham brought the glass to his nose to sniff the bouquet, then drank, holding the wine for a long moment in his mouth before swallowing.

'Lovely stuff, Frank. Tobacco, spice, liquorice, plum.'

Elder cut off a piece of cheese and it crumbled against the knife.

'This whole business,' Framlingham said, 'Grant and Mallory, unravelling that makes reading
Ulysses
like
Harry
bloody
Potter.
Key thing is this, though. For years now, going back to when he was a DI, Mallory's registered informant was Lynette Drury. Former prostitute, more recently brothel keeper and, more importantly, before that, shacked up with a known villain named Ben Slater.'

Framlingham broke an oatcake in two and set cheese deliberately on each half.

'The contact between Mallory and Slater seems to have come first. As much as twenty years ago, '84. Along with three others, Slater was up on trial for a payroll robbery out at Romford. Five days in, the judge ruled no case to answer. Slater and the rest walk free.'

And what's Mallory's connection to this?'

Framlingham smiled. 'Mallory was in the Special Patrol Group called in by the team on the ground. This is a couple of years before it was disbanded.'

And he'd be what then? Thirty? A little more?'

'Twenty-nine.'

Nodding, Elder tried the wine.

'So now,' Framlingham said, 'we move on two years later to '86. There's a series of armed robberies in the Home Counties, all of them within a thirty-mile radius of London. Post offices, building societies. By this time Mallory's moved on to the Territorial Support Group with the rank of sergeant. Slater's put under surveillance, his phone bugged, everything. Finally arrested on one charge of robbery after a raid on building society offices in Colchester. Thanks to a tip-off, the TSG are there in force. At the trial, however, one of the officers crucially fails to identify Slater as being present. No need to tell you which one. Slater walks free. Begins proceedings against the Met for harassment and wrongful arrest, which he later drops. For a while, things go quiet. Then in '89 there's an armed robbery, appropriately enough at Shooters Hill. Securicor van rammed into on the edge of Woolwich Common. Four men got away with eighty thousand in used banknotes. Slater and another man called Warland were questioned but not charged.'

'Mallory's involved?'

'Not yet. Eighteen months later, this bloke Warland's stopped for speeding going north out of the Blackwall Tunnel. Turns out he's got half the proceeds of a supermarket robbery in the car with him, a sawn-off shotgun in the boot. Plus a quantity of illegal drugs on his person. Of course, he rolls over. Coughs to the Woolwich Common job, names names. Slater for one.'

'Slater's arrested?'

'Arrested and charged.' Framlingham ate some more cheese, drank some more wine. 'When he comes up before the magistrate, the police case against bail's not as strong as it might be. Surprise, surprise. Slater skips the country, probably to Spain. Looks as if he stays away until some time in '92. By which time Mallory's a detective inspector in the Flying Squad.'

'The Sweeney.'

'Absolutely. With Maurice Repton his DS, holding his hand. Dennis Waterman to his John Thaw. It's around here Ben Slater's former girlfriend, Lynnette Drury, is registered as Mallory's informant. What connection there was between them before that it's impossible to say. But my guess is they'd been close for years. The pack of them.'

'Where exactly does Grant come in?'

'Not so much later. Slater stays clean as a cat's arse till '95. Then he's suspected of a bullion raid at City Airport. Gold ingots. Three quarters of a million pounds. And this is the first time Slater's name is linked with Grant. Familiar story. They're both arrested and charged but the case falls apart when it comes to court. The evidence of one of the principal witnesses is tainted and the jury's directed to ignore just about everything she's said.'

'She?'

'Drury. Lynette Drury.' Framlingham's smile lingered longer this time. 'Rumour has it her relationship with Mallory went well beyond the terms regarding informants laid down by the Yard.'

'They were lovers?'

'The way you put it, Frank, it sounds old-fashioned, almost charming. For all I know, she was still shtupping Ben Slater at the same time. Grant, too, for that matter.'

'And there's nothing more recent, linking them all together?'

'Until Mallory kills Grant. No, apparently not. But who knows?'

'Someone,' Elder said. 'Somewhere there's someone.'

'How about Lynette Drury? What she knows would fill a book and a half.'

'Have we got an address?'

'Funny you should ask.' Framlingham took a slip of paper, folded, from his breast pocket. 'There. Blackheath. Two years old, she might have moved on since then.'

'Surely you'd know?'

With a lazy movement, Framlingham's arm snaked out towards the wine. 'Best finish this off, Frank. Can't abide the waste.'

* * *

Not so long after Framlingham had left, Elder's mobile rang again. 'Bland,' Maureen said. 'He's taken the bait. This weekend maybe, Monday at the latest.'

The house was off the southern edge of the Heath, a tall Victorian villa set well back from the road behind high hedges and an iron gate. The gate complained a little as Elder raised the latch and pushed it back. In the edge of dark earth, between shrubs and grass, a pair of blackbirds searched for worms. Heavy curtains hung across the upstairs windows, the lower ones covered in patterned net. What looked to be the original stained glass was still in the front door. On a different day, under different skies, he could imagine the house seeming forbidding and grim; but this morning, pastel blue overhead and church bells ringing down in the Vale, it was anything but.

Elder rang the bell and a dog barked and then was still.

Footsteps on the stairs and along the hall.

'At least,' said the man who opened the door, 'you're not the Jehovah's Witnesses. Unless they've taken to dressing down.'

The man himself was wearing a black T-shirt and off-white cotton trousers that left little to the imagination; his hair was fair and cut short - not as short as a soccer player or a supporter of the BNP, but short enough to be fashionable. The dog was an off-white wire-haired terrier, which the man nudged out of the way with his foot.

'Frank Elder.'

'Don't tell me, you're standing as an independent in the local elections. For sustainable resources and the recycling of waste, against gay marriages.'

'Is that an issue?'

'Gay marriages? Not for me. Unless you're about to make me an offer.'

'For fuck's sake, Anton,' came a woman's voice from the interior, 'stop the second-rate cabaret and let the man in.'

She was a slim figure in a wheelchair, a shawl round her shoulders, rug across her knees. The chair was battery-operated and she eased the toggle forward to bring herself to the door. Her face, Elder saw, was deeply lined, the skin twisted tight around her unaligned left eye, as though perhaps she had suffered a stroke.

'I'm Lynette Drury,' she said, her voice a harsh rasp.

'Frank Elder.'

'Is this official, Frank? Should I be calling my lawyer out of Mass?'

'I don't think so.'

She stared at him with her good eye, as if making up her mind. 'I don't get that much company these days, Frank, I can afford to turn it away.'

Adroitly, she manoeuvred her wheelchair round and back into the house.

'Anton, do you think you could demean yourself long enough to find us something to drink?'

Anton peeled off right, the dog at his heels. Elder followed Lynette Drury into a high-ceilinged room with windows to the back and side, the garden at the rear largely lawn surrounded by shrubs and small, spiny fruit trees, rose bushes pruned well back.

'You're not the usual kind, Frank, but you've still got the smell about you.'

'Takes a while to wash off,' Elder said.

'Ben didn't send you?'

'No.'

'George Mallory neither.'

Elder shook his head.

'Thought not.' She gestured towards the dark, polished table near the window. 'Get me a cigarette, will you, Frank? Light it for me?'

She inhaled deeply enough to bring on a fit of coughing and summon Anton from the other room to pat her back and wipe spittle and dark lipstick from her mouth.

'What?' she said. 'No lecture?'

Anton shot her a look over his shoulder as he left.

'"You've got to stop, you're killing yourself,'" she mimicked, then laughed. 'Does it look like I'm alive, Frank? Is that what this looks like?'

She coughed again, more controlled this time. 'Anton,' she called towards the doorway, ' where's that fucking drink?'

The answer was the popping of a cork and Anton, moments later, reappearing with two glasses of champagne, the bottle in an ice bucket on a silver tray.

'Cheers, Frank. Your good health. Got to be some little perks, eh? Otherwise what's the point?'

'Cheers.'

'All right,' she said to Anton, 'you can get back to your Gameboy or whatever it is you get up to in the servant's quarters. Polishing the silver.'

'I've sold it already.'

'That and your skinny arse.'

Elder sipped some champagne; if it were high class or £6.99 from Tesco he had no idea. The bells seemed to have stopped ringing. Presumably all the good people of Blackheath were already on their knees.

'Each month,' Lynette said, 'Ben sends a case of champagne. Saves him coming round in person. Rubs a little Vaseline over his conscience. And he pays for Anton, of course. Though he's probably knobbing him as well. Not that he's queer, don't get me wrong. Ben, I mean. Just doesn't care what he fucks as long as it's tight.'

She coughed again and some of the champagne spilled across the purple veins at the back of her hand.

Elder lifted away the glass.

Anton appeared for a moment at the door, then, reassured, went away again.

'But my guess,' she said, 'it's George Mallory you're more interested in. More than Ben. Am I right?'

'Maybe.'

'Georgie-Porgie, kissed the girls and made them cry. He did that, all right. And now he's running scared, isn't he? Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. He could be standing in the middle of a fire, flames up to his armpits, and swear blind everything was hunky-dory. But he sent that creep Repton round, didn't he? A sure sign. Maurice Repton smarming up to you in one of those neat little suits he likes to tell you are custom-made by some tame tailor out at Winchmore Hill, used to be a cutter in Savile Row.'

'Maurice with all those questions. Anyone been to see me, sniffing round. CIB or whatever they're called nowadays. Change their fucking names as often as a whore's knickers. No, I says. Number of visitors I get these days, anyone'd think I've got the fucking plague. HIV. If anyone does, Maurice says, you will give us a call? Let us know. Us, like they're husband and fucking wife.'