Ash & Bone (37 page)

'There are better pictures,' Framlingham said, nodding towards the fax. 'I'm having them biked across. In case you're not sure.'

Elder shook his head. 'I'm sure. It's them.'

Framlingham sighed. 'Slater's old place out at Manningtree. I've spoken to the secretary of the Foundation. Seems they use the place for courses mainly. Alternative medicine, holistic therapy, that kind of thing.' He looked at his watch. 'Should have a search warrant within the hour.'

'You think that's where they are?' Elder said.

'It's a start, Frank. It's a start.'

* * *

Karen Shields had spoken to her boss, urged, pulled strings; the technology was there but not everyone had the same access, not every case was given the same priority, justified the same expense.

'She was one of ours,' Karen kept saying. 'Remember that. One of ours.'

By mid-morning what she needed was up on the computer: a three-dimensional reconstruction of Maddy Birch's body, in outline, showing the extent and depth of the stab wounds to both arms and torso. Sheridan, operating, introduced, its dimensions exact, the shape of the knife found in the roof. Zoom in on one of the wounds, the deepest first, and then move the image of the knife across and down. Some contraction of the skin around the exit point, no more than you would expect, but otherwise as perfect a fit as you could wish. In and out. Clean.

Karen swallowed and the sound seemed unnaturally loud.

She watched as Sheridan repeated the process with a second wound, lower in the torso, left-hand side. Another match. This knife, or one identical in every aspect, had almost certainly been the cause of Maddy Birch's death. Almost. Karen could see the defence barrister arguing the odds in court. Computers are like statistics, you can manoeuvre them to prove anything you need.

'Mike,' she called across the room. 'Anything back from Forensics yet?'

Ramsden shook his head.

'Get them for me on the phone.'

The officer at the other end never stood a chance. 'What do you mean,' Karen said, her face tight with anger, 'you're still processing my fucking request? And don't tell me to watch my fucking language, just do your fucking job. And fast.'

When she put the phone down, the office gave her a small round of applause.

Two minutes later, she rang back. 'Look, I'm sorry about just now. I had no right to talk to you that way and … Yes, yes, yes, that'd be great. Fine. Just as soon as you can. Yes. No. I do understand. Of course. And thanks again.'

Ramsden looked at her enquiringly.

'Patience,' Karen said with a grin. 'Patience. All in good time.'

* * *

Out here closer to the coast, the wind was keener, the sky the grey of blue-grey slate. Magwitch, Elder thought.
Great Expectations.
The Essex marshes. He wondered if Jill and Judy Tremlett had been given the book at school. What expectations they'd had themselves. Seventeen. The same age as Katherine.

A pair of magpies hopped down from the branches of a nearby tree and played desultory chase across the grass. The place looked as if it had been given a face-lift since it had been sold on, the exterior painted blue and gold.

Framlingham was walking round the perimeter of the grounds with the chair of the trustees. Framlingham in greenish tweed, the chairwoman wearing a pale suit with a full shirt, hair pulled back from her face, nodding as she listened, interposing the occasional question, then nodding again.

At the end of their third circuit, the woman went back inside and Framlingham cut across to where Elder was standing.

'Coffee in the lounge,' Framlingham said. 'Ten minutes. Decaffeinated, I don't doubt. She's going to get hold of the surveyor's report they commissioned before the sale. Might give us a clue where to look first.'

Elder looked towards the line of trees and beyond.
They got it sorted. Ben and George between them. Made it go away.
'They don't have to be here,' he said. 'They could be anywhere.'

'Think, though, Frank. It would have been the middle of the night. Party going on, plenty of people still around. Two kids picked up not so many hours before, promising them God alone knows what. I doubt they'd want to go far, risk discovery.' Framlingham pushed his hands down into his jacket pockets. 'No, you're right. They could be anywhere. But what my water tells me, they're somewhere here.'

With a sudden rattling cry, one magpie followed the other back into the trees.

* * *

Forensic Services rang back at twenty past one. Karen was eating a chicken salad sandwich at her desk, drinking from a bottle of mineral water.

It was the same officer as before.

'Detective Chief Inspector Shields?'

Karen gave a wary yes.

'I'd just like to hear you say you're sorry, ma'am. One more time.'

'You serious?'

'Yes, ma'am. Quite serious.'

Karen cast her eyes towards the ceiling and crossed her fingers. 'I'm sorry.'

'Very good, ma'am. Now you can have your reward.'

As Karen listened, asked questions and listened again, the smile spread wider and wider across her face.

Rising from her desk and crossing the office, she waited until she was close enough to Ramsden that her voice remained a whisper. 'Kennet. Get him in the interview room, soon as you can.'

After setting the tape rolling, she let Ramsden ask the first few questions, teasing away again at Kennet's alibi as if that was all they had. Ten minutes in, Kennet relaxed, she produced the two knives: the one found near Vanessa's flat, the one from the roof in Dartmouth Park.

'What do you think, Steve?' she said, almost offhand. 'Similar, aren't they? Don't you think?'

'Kitchen knives,' Kennet said. 'So what?'

'They are similar, though?'

'If you say so.'

'Part of a set.'

'Yeah?' As if it didn't matter; as if he didn't care.

Karen held them closer, almost within reach. 'Take a good look. Same kind of handle, same rivets, same carbonised steel. Good knives, professional.'

'Fell off that Jamie Oliver's lorry,' said Kennet with a smirk.

'Whoever bought these, Steve,' said Karen, not to be deterred, 'they cared about their utensils. Cared about their tools. Wouldn't you say? Someone who knows the value of a good blade.'

Kennet shrugged and shifted a little on his seat.

'I asked Jane about them.'

'Who?'

'Jane Forest. You remember. She says she was there when you first brought them home. Says you were really proud.'

'You can't believe her. Not a bleedin' word.'

'Why's that?'

'Mental, isn't she? Doctors, pills, the whole bloody time. Mental.'

'I wonder why that is?' Karen said, looking at him hard.

Kennet held her stare but not for long.

'Come on, Steve,' Karen said. 'Save us all time. Admit it, they're yours.'

'Prove it.'

Karen leaned back in her chair and smiled. 'This,' she said, 'is the part I like.' For a moment, her tongue touched the edge of her lips. 'This knife, the smaller one, the one with which you attacked Vanessa Taylor, has your thumbprint clearly on the blade, in addition to being identified by PC Taylor herself. And this, the knife you attempted to hide —'

'I did no such —'

'The sample taken from the blood found on the blade matches your DNA profile exactly.'

'There was no blood!' Kennet swayed to his feet, kicking back the chair. 'There was no fucking blood!'

'Not much,' Karen acknowledged quietly. 'Microscopic, but enough.'

'It's a fucking lie!'

'Sit back down,' Ramsden said, advancing on Kennet from the desk. Two uniformed constables had come through the door.

'You might suggest to your client,' Karen said amiably to Kennet's solicitor, 'that calming down would be a good idea.'

Kennet took a pace towards her and then stopped, shoulders slumped.

'You'll be taken to the custody sergeant,' Karen said, 'and charged with the murder of Maddy Birch. Now get him out of here.'

She remained sitting there for fully fifteen minutes, alone, until the sweat had dried on her skin and the smell of adrenalin had all but faded from the room.

They'd taken a table in a side room, a bit of a hike to get served, but it was a small price to pay for privacy and a little elbow room. Karen had left her credit card behind the bar and a clear maximum that, the way Mike Ramsden was throwing down large Scotches with beer chasers, wasn't going to last a whole lot longer. Sheridan had wandered off and found a quiz machine and was busy testing himself on Sports Trivia 1960-1990.
Which non-League player, coming on as a substitute in extra time, scored a hat-trick in the FA Cup Quarter Final of…
Furness was prepared to swear he'd seen Denison saying a Hail Mary in the Gents and then crossing himself before sticking two fingers down his throat and throwing up so that he could carry on drinking.

'I owe you one, Frank,' Karen said. She was wearing a pale lavender suit with a soft short-sleeved purple top, the suit jacket back at the table, her arm brushing his as they stood jammed up against the bar waiting for another round.

'Nonsense,' Elder said, raising his voice above the general clamour.

'You were the one who made us look at Kennet again after I'd dismissed him out of mind.'

'You'd have got back around to him sooner or later.'

'Later, most likely.'

Elder shook his head. 'Don't do yourself down. You did a good job. All of you did.'

She smiled. 'Do you always find it this hard to take a compliment?'

He found himself smiling back. 'Probably.'

'Anyway, I'm buying you dinner by way of saying thanks. And no arguments.'

'Okay. When's this?'

Karen glanced at her wrist. 'In about an hour's time.'

'You're serious?'

'Table's booked.'

Elder looked back across the room. 'People will talk.'

Karen smiled again. 'Look at me, Frank. I'm an almost six foot tall black woman of African-Caribbean descent, who's got herself promoted to quite a senior position in Homicide. You think people don't talk?'

* * *

They got away shortly after nine, the taxi-driver, for once, leaving them to their own devices.

'What you said before,' Elder began, a little hesitantly, 'about being black…'

And tall, Frank, don't forget that.'

All right, and tall. But you know what I mean, being a black DCI.'

'What about it?'

'I was just wondering…'

'Do I get any hassle?'

'Yes.'

'To my face, no. Behind my back, I don't care.' Karen leaned back and crossed her legs. 'Most times, women get promoted over a certain level, there's always blokes, you know, who did she have to fuck to get there? With me, it's more, who've the BPA got by the balls this time.'

'And that doesn't get to you?'

She fixed him with a look. 'What am I going to do? Throw a hissy-fit? Bitch back? I've lived in this country since I was four years old, Frank. Some things you stand up for, the rest, you just let it bounce off and carry on.'

Karen laughed. 'Was a time, I'd not have done this without thinking twice.'

'Done what?'

'Taken some white boy out to dinner.'

'I'm honoured then.'

'You should be.'

'Where are we going anyway?'

'It's a surprise.'

Elder grinned. 'I'm from the sticks, remember. Anything much beyond a trip to the local Wimpy's a surprise to me.'

'Okay,' Karen said. 'We're going to Moro. If that means anything.'

'Should it?'

'It's a Spanish restaurant. Not a Wimpy Bar. And you're supposed to be impressed. You have to book weeks in advance to get into this place. Even on a Monday.'

'What did you do? Offer to arrest the chef?'

'Something like that.'

The cab dropped them at the corner of Clerkenwell Road and Rosebery Avenue and they walked past a succession of closed shops and small cafes until they came to a restaurant on the right-hand side of the narrow street. Nothing auspicious from the outside.

Karen hesitated before pushing open the door. 'I should have said. It's not a table exactly. The best they could do was two seats at the bar.'

In the event, when Karen gave her name there'd been a cancellation and they were shown to one of several small tables close to the window facing out on to the street.

'Wine, Frank? Red or white?'

'Red's fine.'

After a little hesitation, Karen picked out a Bobal Tempranillo '01 from the list.

Elder settled into his seat and looked around. The interior was crowded, busy; a steady buzz of overlapping conversations, interrupted by the odd raised voice, the occasional guffaw. Towards the rear of the room, a clutch of thirty-something men in dark suits, who looked as if they'd been there since finishing work, were making more noise than most. On either side of their table, handsome couples gazed into one another's eyes, out on either a first or second date.

Elder hadn't been sure what to expect from the menu, his knowledge of Spanish cuisine not stretching far beyond paella or chorizo, but neither appeared to be there. Karen ordered a starter of broad beans and Serrano ham and he followed suit.

'Tell me about the forensics on the knife,' he said.

'You really know how to woo a girl, Frank.'

'Is that what I'm supposed to be doing?'

'God, no.' A smile creased the corners of her eyes.

'So tell me.'

'I'd been busting this poor guy's balls. In Forensic Sciences. Dickenson? Dickerson? Finally he tells me they've found a microscopic sample of blood, right at the base of the blade, close against the handle. Only reason, I suppose, it didn't get wiped away. Anyway, when he says this I'm thinking okay, fantastic, it's got to be Maddy Birch's blood. Put that with what we've got from the computer simulation and we've got this nailed as the weapon for sure.'

'Is everything all right?' the waiter asked, leaning towards them.

'Fine,' Karen answered, not looking up.

The waiter went away.

'So,' she continued, 'there I am getting all excited and I ask him, assuming I know the answer, but just to hear him say it, the blood, it's a match with Maddy Birch, right? And he says, No. I could have shouted at him down the phone, really lost it, but I'd done that already.'