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.'

42

Elder got back to Finchley at about seven. The morning when Karen had first told him of Kennet's arrest seemed a long way off. A couple of aspirin, he thought, and a long soak in the bath.

His mobile rang before he could turn on the taps, adrenalin pulsing at the sound of his daughter's voice.

'Katherine, are you okay?'

'Yes, why?'

'Nothing. Just, you know…'

'You sound worried.'

'Not specially, no. Bit of a headache. Busy day.'

There was a brief silence and then, 'I wanted to ask you, this business, the police, you do know what's going on?'

'I think so, yes.'

'Only Rob… well, what they're asking him to do… he's not sure who he can trust.'

'Who's he been talking to?'

'This woman, policewoman. Maureen. Her mostly.'

'Maureen Prior. You can trust her, believe me.'

'Bland, though, he's one of them.'

'No. No, he's not. Not really. Not any more.'

'I don't know.'

'When's he meeting him, Rob? When's he meeting Bland again?'

'Soon, I think. The next couple of days.'

'As soon as that's done with, maybe you should get away for a bit. Just till things calm down.'

'Rob's got friends up Hull way. Family too.'

'Why don't you go up there then? Just for a week or so.'

'You don't mind?'

'Mind what?'

'Me and Rob, being together like that.'

'It's not what I'd choose.'

'But you don't mind?'

'You're old enough to make your own decisions.'

'Make my own mistakes, that's what you mean.'

A pause. 'Maybe.'

There was a man's voice, just audible in the background, Rob's most probably, Elder thought, and then Katherine saying, 'Look, Dad, I'd better go.'

'All right. Just be careful. The two of you. And keep in touch, okay?'

'Okay.'

'I love you,' he added, but the line was already dead.

Elder took one swallow of whiskey and then another. He remembered how she had been when he had found her, a prisoner in the jerry-built hut sheltering against rock, high on the North York coast. The stench of rotten fish and drying blood. The bruises discolouring her face and back. Was this something else he was helping to draw her into, some new danger? Or had she chosen that herself when she started hanging out with the down-and-outs in Slab Square, going out with someone who, in no matter how small a way, dealt drugs? It was difficult to care and not to judge.

While the bath was running, and despite her assurance that she would contact him, he rang Maureen Prior. 'Falling into place, Frank,' she told him. 'Another couple of days, that's all we need.'

'Katherine said.'

'You've spoken to her then?'

'She rang earlier.'

'She's a good kid, Frank.'

'Not a kid.'

'You know what I mean. She's strong.'

'She's had to be. She'd have gone under, else. I thought she had.'

'I'll keep an eye out for her, you know that. Do any more, put someone babysitting her, there's a good chance Bland'll catch wind.'

'I know.'

'I'll be careful. Do what I can.'

'Thanks, Maureen.'

'Look after yourself, Frank.'

'Do my best.'

He topped up his glass and carried it into the bathroom. No message from Karen yet about Rennet's car, which probably meant they were still chasing it down. At ten tomorrow, Kennet himself would go before the magistrate. That would buy them time. And tomorrow he would talk to Sherry, go over what it was he'd been able to unearth. The water was a touch too hot and he ran a quick burst of cold, whisking it round before lowering himself in. When she was a baby, eighteen months or less, he would lift Katherine into the bath with him and she would splash and laugh, slippery like a fish between his hands. Times like that, they never came back. Had he said 'I love you' knowing she was no longer on the line? 'I love you, Katherine,' he said aloud, tears in his stupid eyes.

43

The car was a Ford Mondeo five-door estate, S reg, with a little over 18,000 on the clock. It was found parked on Tollington Way, close to the back of the old Royal Northern Hospital. There were a pair of Kennet's work boots in the back, speckled with plaster and paint, and overalls and a woollen check shirt folded round one another alongside. Old copies of the Sun and Mail. A spiral-bound London A-Z, well-thumbed. Parking tickets. Snickers wrappers and a half-eaten roll of mints. Several audio cassettes in the side compartment, driver's side: Queen, David Lee Roth, U2, Springsteen's Greatest Hits. A box of matches with only five remaining. A pair of worn leather gloves. A red-and-black thermos flask that still smelt faintly of coffee. A paperback Patricia Cornwell, turned down on page 121. Jump leads. A screwdriver. A chamois leather, stiff and darkened with use. A rusted can of WD-40; a plastic bottle of Holt's concentrated all-seasons non-smearing screen wash and another of Comma Xstream De-icer. An empty 2-litre container that had once held engine oil. And in the wheel space, snug beneath the spare wheel, a small metal box which contained, carefully wrapped in a piece of material that looked to have been torn from an old denim shirt, a single earring, green and gold and in the shape of a moon; a plain silver bracelet; a pendant necklace with a fine silver chain; and a watch with a mid-brown leather strap, a Lorus, with a plain front and the name Maddy Birch engraved on the back, together with the date, 15.07.81.

* * *

Karen drank a large black coffee in the canteen and then splashed cold water in her face in the cloakroom. 'Take it easy,' she told herself. 'Easy. Chill.'

At a little after ten, Steven Kennet had been remanded in custody until the 27th at a specially convened magistrates' court, his application for bail denied. Now he was back in the interview room, throat dry, looking as if he had barely slept. Beside him, his solicitor fiddled with his pen, removing the cap and then replacing it, the same action over and over again.

Ramsden thought if he carried on like that he might just reach across and grab the pen, then stick it up his bony arse.

'This interview,' Karen began, 'timed at eleven forty-seven…'

Steadily she led Kennet through the same events as on the previous day, the same denials, letting him dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole.

'Mr Kennet,' Karen said nonchalantly, almost an afterthought, 'do you own a dark blue, 1998, Ford Mondeo estate?'

Even from where he was watching, through glass, Elder could read the jolt of apprehension that flickered across Kennet's eyes.

'Mr Kennet?'

'Yes.'

'Do you own —'

'Yes, I said yes.'

'My client,' Murchfield intervened, 'would appreciate a break at this time. It's now very nearly —'

But Karen cut him off with a brusque, 'I'm sure he would,' followed by, 'I wonder, Mr Kennet, if you could identify this?'

Ramsden held up the necklace, secure inside a plastic evidence bag.

Kennet paled. 'No,' he said, 'I've no idea.'

'Or this?'

The earring.

'No.' A vigorous shake of the head.

'Or this?'

The bracelet.

'No.'

'Mr Kennet, these items were found in the boot of your car.'

Recovering, Kennet shifted heavily in his seat and shrugged. 'Nothing to do with me. I've never seen them before.'

'Secure in your car, carefully wrapped and hidden away.'

Kennet stared back at her, silent, sullen.

'Where you left them.'

'Jesus, I just told you —'

'You've told me nothing.'

'Okay, I'll tell you again. These things, they're nothin' to do with me. I've never seen 'em before, okay?'

'You've no idea how they came to be in your possession?'

'They weren't in my fucking possession.'

'They were in your car.'

'Says who?'

Ramsden smiled. 'Says me.'

'Then you fucking put 'em there.'

Karen leaned back away from the desk. There was sweat accumulating in the palms of her hands and she wiped them against her trouser legs. Sweat in the air, too: hers, his, everyone's.

'A little over an hour ago,' Karen said, 'one of my officers showed this bracelet to Jennifer McLaughlin and she identified it as hers.'

A pulse, Elder noticed, had begun to tick in the corner of Kennet's left eye.

'This earring,' Karen said, holding up the evidence bag, 'was identified by Jane Forest as belonging to her.'

'So?'

'Jennifer McLaughlin and Jane Forest, both women with whom you have had relationships.'

Kennet stared back at her, unblinking.

'So can you explain how these items came to be hidden away inside your car?'

'No. I can't. Except that someone put them there.'

'And that someone, Mr Kennet, was you.'

Kennet swung round on his chair, his knee knocking against Murchfield's leg, the impact jarring the pen from the solicitor's hand.

'You,' Kennet said, 'when are you going to do something instead of just sitting there while they do me fucking over?'

Murchfield stammered, blushed, reached down to retrieve his pen.

'There is one further item,' Karen said, almost succeeding in keeping the tone of virtual triumph from her voice as she dangled the watch, in its bag, in front of Kennet's face.

'This watch. Maddy Birch's watch. You can see her name clearly engraved, there on the back. You see? You see the name, Mr Kennet? The name and date? Mr Kennet, for the tape recorder please? Do you agree that the name on the back is that of Maddy Birch?'

'Yes.'

'That this watch belonged to her?'

'Yes.'

'Can you then tell me, how it came into your possession?'

Kennet looked back at her and shook his head.

'Mr Kennet?'

'No. No, I can't.'

'Well, I suggest to you that she was wearing it the night she was killed.'

'I don't know.'

'And that was when you took it from her body.'

'No.'

'After you had raped her.'

'No.'

'Murdered her.'

'No.' The sweat on Kennet's forehead was clearly visible now, his upper body rolling a little, side to side, as if he were being punched.

'Mr Kennet, I put it to you, on the night of Wednesday the twenty-sixth to Thursday the twenty-seventh of November, in the vicinity of Crouch End Community Centre, you attacked and raped Maddy Birch, then stabbed her repeatedly with a knife until she was dead.'

'No.'

'She was wearing this watch, wasn't she? That evening?'

Kennet raised both hands, clenched, and as Karen sat quickly back out of range and Ramsden threw out an arm to ward off a possible blow, he brought them down full force on the centre of the desk.

'She couldn't have been wearing the watch. Not then. I'd already taken it, weeks before.'

Karen brought her breathing back under control. 'Say that again.'

'The watch, I'd already taken it. Weeks before.'

'And how did you do that?'

'I broke into her flat. When she wasn't there.'

'When was this?'

'End of October some time. Tuesday, Wednesday, I don't know. Middle of the week.'

'And had you done this before?'

'Broken in? Yes, but not there. Not Maddy's place. Others. Jane. Jennifer.' He almost smiled.

'And each time, you take away what? A souvenir?'

'Yes. I mean, not always, no.'

'Nothing else?'

'How d'you mean?'

'You don't take anything else?'

'Not take, no.'

'What then?'

'I don't know, I… sometimes I just stand there. Not doing anything. Sometimes, you know, look at things.'

'What kind of things?'

Kennet shrugged; now he was talking he was more at ease. 'Depends. Clothes. Diaries, sometimes. Anything.'

'Panties,' Ramsden suggested scornfully. 'Knickers. Underwear.'

'Sometimes.'

'Jerk off into them, do you?'

'No.'

'Mr Kennet,' Karen said, 'when you're alone in these places, these rooms, do you ever indulge in any kind of sexual activity?'

He looked at her carefully before answering, her eyes, her mouth. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'I masturbate. Into a condom. Take it home. That the kind of thing you mean?'

'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.

44

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.'

45

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.'

She paused, collecting her breath. Ash fell from the end of her cigarette.

'Course, like I told him, no one ever came near. Till you.'

Elder took what remained of the cigarette from between her fingers and replaced it with the glass of champagne.

'Should I tell them about you, Frank? Maurice and George. What do you think?'

'I think it's up to you.'

'We'll see, we'll see. See how you behave, what it is you want. What you want to know. What do you want to know, Frank?'

'What it is has got Mallory rattled, that would do for starters.'

She looked at him lopsidedly across the top of her glass. 'Wouldn't it, though? Just wouldn't it.'

After several moments' thought, Lynette swung her chair around and repositioned it close to the rear window.

'Bring that over, would you, Frank?'

'That' was a small rosewood table with an ashtray and a coaster for her glass, which Elder refilled before lighting her another cigarette. He carried across a curved-back wooden chair and set it down close by.

There was little sign they were a relatively short drive from the heart of London, a short walk down the hill to the tat and turmoil that was Lewisham. Or that visitors, on this fine January morning, would be strolling across Greenwich Park to the Observatory, then down the sloping paths towards the Maritime Museum and the Cutty Sark.

Out in the garden nothing moved. The faint shadows of bushes, cast by the winter sun, seemed to have been painted, soft grey, upon the grass.

Lynette coughed before she spoke. 'I had a card from Ben a few days back, Cyprus. The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, to be exact. Sort of New Year's card, I suppose. He did have a place in Paphos, down in the south. Had it for years. Went there every winter, didn't we, for a while. Ben and me. A few others, sometimes. Friends. George and Maurice, for instance, they came out a few times, early on.'

She released a slow stream of smoke towards the glass.

'Got too busy, Paphos, too many tourists. Too many fucking expats. That was why Ben sold up, moved across the island. Kyrenia. Lovely spot. And besides, no extradition is there? Turkish Republic' She laughed, a short breathless sound. 'What they gonna do, send in the fucking SAS, drag him out?'

Elder turned the stem of the glass between his fingers. How far to let her take her own time, go where her own mind took her? When to push?

'Why aren't you there with him?' he said, gently as he could.

Another laugh that she washed down with a shaky gulp of champagne. 'Me? Why doesn't he want me? What sort of a stupid fucking question is that? What the earthly fuck would he want me for? Like this?'

'He obviously cares for you.'

'He what?'

'You said yourself, someone to look after you, the champagne.'

'And you think that's because he fucking cares?'

'Why else?'

She grasped his arm, just above the wrist. 'To keep me fucking quiet, that's why. Buy my fucking silence. Buy me off.' Elder thought she would let go, but she tightened her grip instead. 'We had it planned, didn't we, Ben and me? Agreed. More or less from the first. All the time I was with George, even, that never changed a thing. We were going to go off there one winter, Cyprus, and never come back. Retire. Enjoy the rest of our lives in the sun. Look, over there. Above the fireplace.'

The photograph was in a filigreed silver frame. A younger, almost beautiful Lynette Drury - striking, certainly - lit up by the sun; beside her, a handsome, dark-haired man with a strong, almost aquiline nose and dark eyes that stared out while the rest of his face attempted a smile.

'That's what it was going to be,' Lynette said, 'the rest of our fucking lives. And no matter how… how filthy it all became, that was what I clung on to. The rest of my life in the fucking sun.'

Her nails were digging deep into Elder's arm, close to breaking the skin.

'Well, I'm not, am I? Not going fuckin' anywhere. I'm going to die here in this place with just a poof for company while him and Mallory are out there living the life of fucking Riley after all… after all the…'

A fresh fit of coughing doubled her forward and Elder prised her hand from his arm, then patted and rubbed her back, low below the shoulder blades. He thought Anton might reappear, but there was no sign; perhaps he was content to listen outside the door.

'Ben and I, we were living together. Not married, not official, but it had been a long time. I was running this place in Streatham, girls, you know, young, some of them, almost as young as they looked. That was when I met George Mallory. One of the girls, she had a bit of trouble with this punter. Went for him with a knife. Panicked. Next thing you knew, emergency services everywhere. Ambulance. Police. George was there. Promising to make it all go away. And he did. Only there's payback. Wants me to be his snout, doesn't he? No way, I tell him, I'm not turning Ben in, not for anyone, but he says no, that's not what he means. Play this right, and we all stand to gain. Your Ben, he knows what's going on, got his nose in the trough. Have a word with him, see what he says. So I do, and Ben says fine.

'Couple of months later there's this robbery, Hatton Garden. Diamonds. Big reward. Ben knows who took it down. He tells me, I tell George, they're caught cold, most of the stuff recovered. The Yard only passes on five grand to me, right? Reward money for giving the information leading to the arrest. George and me, we split it down the middle. Lovely. Six months later, more of the same. Next thing I know he's coming on to me. Wants to set me up in a flat somewhere. I told Ben, thinking he'll tell him to fuck right off, but instead he says, yes, why not? Not going to do us any harm, is it, you and me having someone like Mallory in our pockets?'

She stared out of the window, sipped more champagne.

'That's how it was, for years. Favours going back and forth. Little celebrations. Parties. Pop singers and second-rate movie stars. Yanks, some of them. Hollywood, you know. Rubbing up against real villains, loved that, didn't they? LSD, horse, cocaine. Boys and girls, all hand-picked, paid for. And George, he was in the thick of it, wasn't he? Lapping it up. Girls, especially; he liked girls, did George. Two or three at a time. Young girls. Not, you know, really young, he's not some bleeding paedophile. That kind of thing I won't go near it, won't touch it, makes my skin crawl, but young, you know, fifteen, sixteen, not been around the block too many times. In the end it all went too far. You don't want to know how and I'm not telling you. Not ever.'

Elder was about to ask anyway, but Lynette didn't give him the chance.

'Things settled back down,' she said. 'Went on pretty much as before. Ben got hooked up with Will Grant and they pulled off a couple of tasty scores. Tasty himself, Will Grant, I'll say that for him.' She gave Elder what would once have been a coquettish glance. 'Once or twice the law got too close and George had to straighten things out, make them go away. Then, a few years back, there was this big falling-out after they done this job at Gatwick. Law comes sniffing round, as per usual, and someone's only dropped Grant right in it, name and number, and of course he thinks I've grassed him up. Reckons George has persuaded me to roll him over. It's not true, not for a bloody moment, but Grant's not having any, real paranoid by now, thinks they're both out to stiff him of his share of almost a million, Ben and George both. Won't be persuaded. No way to turn him round. Oh, when the case fell apart and they all walked free, he let on it was okay, all pals again together, forgive and forget. But no, whatever trust there'd been had gone. George, especially. Always figured Grant for a loose cannon after that.'

She stubbed out her cigarette.

'Grant had threatened him, that was the problem. I know where the bodies are buried, George, remember that. Said he had something could put George inside for life.'

'You know what that something was?'

'Me? No, no idea. Just talk, more'n likely. But George, he believed him, I know that. I'd not often seen him worried, really worried, but that's what he was.'

'Worried enough to kill Grant if he got the chance?'

Lynette looked at him with her good eye. 'George would kill his own mother if he thought she might turn against him.'

Anton had come back into the room. 'Time for your nap before lunch.'

Lynette swore and smiled and brought the wheelchair back around. 'Nice to have met you, Frank. Come and see me again some time.'

'I'd like that.' He placed a card on which he'd written his London address and mobile number down on the arm of her chair.

'Lying bastard.'

Elder smiled and raised his glass.

46

Karen Shields and Mike Ramsden were gradually wearing Kennet down, chipping away at the carapace of half-truths and denials he'd constructed around himself, teasing out each incident in which he had broken into the flats or houses of various women living alone, some whom he knew well, others whom he scarcely knew at all. They persuaded him to talk, sometimes haltingly, sometimes, despite his own best interests, almost with relish, of the sexual life he had persuaded, cajoled, or bullied the women in his life to share: fantasies of forced sexual activity and rape which were often played out in public places where the risk of discovery added an extra frisson.

But on Maddy Birch's murder, they could not shake him. He remained adamant he was not involved. And as long as there was still no evidence, other than the circumstantial, to link him to the crime, they were stymied.

'Bastard keeps it up,' Ramsden said, 'he'll have me halfway believing he's telling the bloody truth.'

'About Maddy? Maybe he is.'

'You reckon?'

'In here, no. I think he's guilty as hell. But unless we can prove it, break him down…'

'Yeah.'

'We've got to find out what he was doing, Mike. The night she was killed. If he wasn't watching Jackie Chan and downing a few pints on the Holloway Road, what was he doing? Maybe he was drinking somewhere else? Somewhere closer to where Maddy was killed. Filling in the time till she was through with her yoga. Getting himself up for it, who knows? Let's have Lee and Paul back round the pubs with a photograph, Tottenham Lane, Crouch End, Hornsey Rise.'

'Okay.'

'And Mike, another thing. That story of his about getting up early the next morning to go to work - if he was, to all intents and purposes, still off on holiday, why was he going to work? And where?'

'Self-employed, isn't he? Work when you feel like it.'

'Even so. Let's nail it down.'

'That's a joke, right?'

'What?'

'Nail it down. Building. Kennet's job…'

'Mike?'

'Yes?'

'No time left for jokes.'

Attention to detail, Karen thought, check and double-check. That's what brought most cases to a satisfactory conclusion. That and sheer luck. She hoped their luck hadn't run out.

Meanwhile, the process by which Grant's assets would be claimed by the Crown had begun its slow and tortuous progress. His bank accounts had been traced and were being examined; the sale of his penthouse flat would eventually be negotiated. There were no records of him having had a safety deposit box.

The clothes and paraphernalia that had been removed from the flat itself were sitting in a succession of cardboard boxes, which it took two officers a good half-hour to locate and transfer to a room where Elder could examine them, article by article, piece by piece.

Suits, jackets, shirts, shoes. Toiletries, gizmos, histories of Stalingrad, Berlin and both the First and Second World Wars, some, as far as Elder could tell, unread, their spines uncracked. A few vinyl albums with bent and ragged sleeves: the original Dusty in Memphis, Otis Redding's Otis Blue. CDs that mixed Phil Collins and Simply Red with pop singers from the sixties, more Dusty, Lulu, Sandie Shaw. Some Aretha Franklin. The Temptations. A couple of DVDs: Titanic, Pearl Harbor. And videos: The World at War in a boxed set, Cross of Iron, Apocalypse Now, Das Boot. A slew of old musicals: Funny Girl, Top Hat, Follow the Fleet, An American in Paris, Carousel. A stationery box which had once housed A4 paper and now held photographs.

Elder spread them out across the table. Holiday snaps, beaches, umbrellas, tanned bodies, exotic plants; celebrations, faces mugging for the camera, champagne, cigars. Three men standing outside a nightclub, slightly the worse for wear, dressed to the nines, startled by the sudden flash of light: Grant, Mallory and a man Elder recognised from the framed picture in Lynette Drury's house as Ben Slater. There were photographs also of Grant and Slater in the changing company of others: in restaurants and bars, relaxing round the pool, the race track, the dogs, a hospitality box at Chelsea, the departure lounge at Heathrow.

Elder shuffled them around.

Grant and Mallory ringside at a boxing match - Elder lifted it up and turned it towards the light - Maurice Repton in the background, almost edged out of the frame.

Grant and Mallory.

I know where the bodies are buried, George, remember that.

Something could put Mallory inside for life.

How far did it go? How thick the stew?

Elder tapped the photos back into piles and replaced them in the box.

Close to two hours later it was all being resealed and replaced.

* * *

Vicki Wilson was sharing a flat near Gloucester Road with two others. Andrea was a make-up artist, working mostly on corporate videos and the occasional pop promo for MTV; Didi, real name Deirdre, was a dancer at a revue bar in Soho. When Elder called, Andrea was out filming and Didi in bed sleeping.

Vicki didn't look as if she'd been sleeping much at all.

She was wearing baggy sweat pants and a loose cotton top and she was letting her hair grow out; the only traces of make-up were at the corners of her eyes where she'd failed to wipe them away. In some strange way, Elder thought she looked more attractive than before.

'You're not working,' Elder said.

'Can't be arsed. Besides, Didi, she's thinking of chucking it in, going to Australia. This mate of hers, she's got a job dancing. Sydney. Says it's great. Thought I might tag along. Why not? Nothing to keep me here.'

'You'd work as a dancer?'

'Oh, yeah. Just see it, can't you? That'd be faking it and no mistake. Five minutes, they'd have me good and sussed. Out on my ear.'

'What then?'

'Same sort of stuff I do here, I suppose. Demonstrations, sales. Bit of modelling maybe. Catalogue stuff, you know? Got to be something, hasn't there? Better'n this.' She coughed and fidgeted a tissue out from her sweat-pants pocket. 'Bastards like that Repton, sneaking round.'

'He's been to see you again?'

'Oh, yeah.'

'Tell me.'

Vicki pushed a hand up through her hair. 'First it was like before, right? Wants to know if anyone's been to see me, asking questions. No, I said, course not. Why would they? I never mentioned you. Didn't want to drop you in it, did I? Then he changed tack, didn't he? Come out with all the smarm. Why don't we go out for a drink, something to eat, enjoy ourselves? All the while he can't take his eyes off my tits. Tongue hanging out so far he could practically lick his own dick.'

Elder smiled. 'It was a no, then?'

'Too bloody right.'

'And you've not seen him since?'

'Be feeling sorry for himself, won't he?' She snorted dismissively. 'His sort, they can never get it up anyway.'

'His sort?'

'Something about them, blokes like him, you can see it in their eyes. Get off on watching. Or that business, you know, where they stuff oranges in their mouths and pretend to hang themselves — what's that called?'

'Self-asphyxiation.'

'Yeah, that's it. Sad bastards.'

'And you think Repton's one of those?'

'Yeah. Wouldn't be surprised.' Suddenly her face brightened. 'Maybe I could get a job as one of them sex therapists, what do you think?'

'Maybe you could.'

'Bet you need qualifications though, even for that. Some bloody degree. NVQs.'

Elder was looking at the clip-framed photograph across the room.

'Lovely, isn't it?' Vicki said, following his gaze.

It showed the two of them, Grant and Vicki, together, standing in front of a low stone wall, the sky behind them a tremulous blue.

'Mykonos,' she said. 'Last year.'

Elder nodded.

Vicki blew her nose. 'He was a good bloke, you know? Straight.'

'Are there any others?' Elder said. 'That I could see.'

There were only a few that she'd been keeping flat in the back of a book, mostly shots of her and Grant, one of him on his own.

'Any idea where this was taken?' Elder asked.

Vicki shrugged. 'Cyprus, I think.'

He handed the photographs back.

'He never talked about Mallory, I suppose?'

'Jimmy? Talk about the copper? Why would he do that?'

'I don't know — some history between them. Bad blood.'

Vicki shook her head. 'Never as much as mentioned him. Never heard of him, had I? Not till the bastard shot poor Jimmy dead.'

47

St Ann's was one of those areas in the inner city which had, amidst much protest, been largely demolished in the sixties at the expense of new, more modern housing; now some of it was being knocked down and replaced again. The flat which Summers had fingered as a dealer's safe house was on the upper floor of a block of twelve, six and six. Only one of the lights in the central stairway was still functioning; the narrow walkway stank of sour piss and sick and excrement. More than half of the flats were boarded up and several of the others had old sheets or blankets draped across the windows in place of curtains. One, close to the head of the stairs, had a small light shining above the bell-push at the centre of the door, artificial flowers inside a plastic holder alongside, a sticker proclaiming Jesus Loves You, a mat on the ground, worn but clean.

Bland came up the stairs first, Eaglin behind him. Both men were wearing leather jackets, black and brown respectively, jeans and trainers. For heavy men they were soft upon the stairs. Bland's Audi was parked a street away. Both men were armed. Eaglin was holding a heavy-duty torch in his left hand.

The flat they were looking for was at the far end, black material taped across the windows.

Hip-hop beats drifted up from the floor below.

Bland stood with his ear pressed to the door, listening, before stepping back.

'Police,' he shouted through the letter-box. 'Open up!'

No response.

With a look at his partner, Bland took one pace back and then another, swung his leg and drove the underside of his foot against the side of the door, close to the lock. As the door splintered open and swung back, Eaglin ducked inside, Bland following, both with pistols drawn.

'Police!' Eaglin shouted in the darkness. 'Armed police.'

And switched on the torch.

The room was bare, save for a few posters still remaining on the walls; save for Resnick sitting in a lopsided easy chair, trying not to smile.

'What the fuck!' Eaglin said, rooted to the floor.

'Ricky,' Resnick said pleasantly. 'Dave.'

'Charlie,' Bland said, recovering, 'what are you doing here?' But inside he already knew.

Eaglin also. Dropping the torch, weapon at his side, he spun round and went back fast through the door and as he did a searchlight hit him full on. Two armed officers were on the walkway opposite the stairs, one kneeling, one standing with legs slightly apart. Both were aiming their MP5 rifles at Eaglin's chest.

'Drop the gun,' came the instruction. 'Drop it now.'

Eaglin dropped the gun.

'Now kick it away. Over here. Over here.'

Resnick and Bland were still staring at one another inside the flat.

'We got a tip-off,' Bland said. 'Some scum using this as a safe house. Drugs stashed. Money too.'

'This is official?' Resnick said.

'Of course. What else?'

'You'll have a warrant then?'

'Charlie, come on. We just got word, less than an hour ago. There wasn't time.'

'I know just when you got word,' Resnick said. 'And who from. What you promised him, too, his share of what you took down. I'll play you the tape later, Ricky. Refresh your mind.'

Outside, Eaglin was face down on the concrete, arms cuffed at his back.

* * *

When the call came, Elder was sitting with a glass of Jameson's, reading, the radio doodling in the background.

'It's done,' Maureen said. 'Safe in custody, both of them.'

'Talking?'

'Not yet. But they will.'

'Okay, Maureen. Thanks.'

Elder walked to the window and looked out, not really seeing anything, thinking about Katherine. Relieved that it was over, that part of it at least.

Rob's got friends up Hull way. Family too.

Wondering if she were truly safe, for now at least.

You're old enough to make your own decisions.

Make my own mistakes, that's what you mean.

Happy even, what chance was there of that?

* * *

Framlingham woke him at a little after six thirty.

'Coffee on, Frank? I'll bring the croissants. My treat.'

Elder was only just out of the shower, still towelling himself down, when the buzzer sounded. He let Framlingham in, switched on the kettle, and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

'Knew if I didn't get to talk to you first thing,' Framlingham called after him, 'we'd likely be looking at day's end. Maybe even tomorrow.'

'Busy, then?'

'Meetings, Frank. Forward planning. Position papers. Targets. Bloody government's target mad.' He got two plates out of the cupboard. 'When this country finally goes under, it's not going to be invasion or revolution or even some God-forsaken plague, it's going to be paper, the sheer weight of bloody paper, committee after committee, report after report, commission after commission. It'll sink us, Frank, between the North Sea and the bloody Atlantic, you mark my words.'

Elder came back into the kitchen wearing dark trousers and a faded blue shirt.

'Hard to get better than these,' Framlingham said, setting down two fat croissants, one on each plate. 'Picked them up in Hampstead on the way through. Bakers in South End Green. Bloody marvellous.'

'How strong?' Elder asked, before spooning coffee into the jug.

'Strong.'

Elder switched off the kettle and waited a few moments before pouring in the water. What Framlingham, with a wife and house the other side of London, was doing this far north in the relatively early hours of the morning, he didn't ask.

'So,' Framlingham said, 'something important, you said in your message.'

Barely touching coffee or croissant, Elder recounted in detail his conversation with Lynette Drury, while Framlingham ate, drank and listened. When Elder had finished, he sat a short while longer, thinking.

'Any chance she'd stand up in court?'

'Doubtful.'

'Not even to shop Mallory?'

'I really don't know. No love lost between them, that's pretty clear. Maybe if there was a way she could shop him without taking down Slater at the same time, but who knows?'

Framlingham reached across and appropriated a piece of Elder's croissant. 'Shame you weren't wearing a wire.'

'Likely inadmissible anyway.'

'Stick with it, Frank. Something about Grant put the wind up him and whatever it was, it hasn't gone away. And we need to find out what it was. Could haul him in, of course, face him with some of those allegations, but I'm not sure that's the best way to go.'

He steepled his fingers together and pressed hard enough for the blood to drain from the tips.

'Keep pushing, Frank. We're getting close.'

48

Elder caught up with Graeme Loftus early: Loftus already pumped up, rumours of something major about to go down, striding out across the car park, wearing his red hair like a flag.

'A word,' Elder said, stepping out.

Loftus had either to barge into him or stop short.

'What the fuck about? No, wait. Wait. I didn't recognise you at first. It's that murder again, right? Maddy Birch? Look, I've already answered all your questions about that. I mean, don't get me wrong, I hope you get the guy, right? But just get out of my face, okay? It's nothing to with me. Nada. Nothing.'

Elder didn't move.

Several other officers, passing, turned their heads and slowed their pace but nobody stopped.

'It isn't Maddy Birch,' Elder said. 'Not exactly.'

'What then?'

'A few more questions about the shooting.'

'Shooting?'

'Come on, Loftus.'

'Christ! What is it with you people? Grant, you mean? The same bloody stuff over and over again.'

'It's called police work. At least, it used to be.'

Loftus half-turned away, shaking his head. 'All right, okay. Let's get it done.'

'Here?'

'Here.'

'After the two shots, the ones that killed Grant, you were the first in the room, yes?'

'Yes. I mean, just seconds maybe. But yes, I was first through the door.'

'And you saw what? Exactly.'

Loftus released his breath slowly, keeping himself in check. 'Like I told you before. Detective Superintendent Mallory's standing with his back to me, right arm raised, pistol in his hand. At least that's what I assume. From where I'm standing I can't actually see the weapon, but Grant, he's down and wounded. Dying if not already dead. And Birch, she's sort of crouching, head down, between the two of them.' He looked Elder square in the face. 'There. That's it.'

'When you described the incident to the inquiry, you said Maddy had blood on her face.'

'So?'

'So now you're saying she was facing away from you, away from the door.'

'That's right.'

'Then how did you see blood on her face?'

'God! Does it matter?'

'Everything matters.'

'All right, then I suppose I must have seen it later, the blood, I mean.'

'You suppose?'

For a moment Loftus closed his eyes. 'Yes, I saw it later. I must have. She had her head down, facing away.'

'You could only see what? Her back? The back of her head?'

'Yes.'

'And she was positioned between yourself and Grant?'

'Yes.'

'Shielding him?'

'Partly, yes.'

'You could see what? His head?'

'He was sort of kneeling, leaning forward. I could see he'd taken a shot to the head.'

'Nothing more?'

'Not really, no.'

'So, just to be clear, from where you were standing inside the room, you could see Detective Superintendent Mallory but not his weapon; you could see Maddy Birch from behind, crouching down, and the head and maybe the shoulders of the wounded man.'

'Yes.'

'You couldn't see Grant's hands?'

'No, I just said —'

'Neither hand?'

'No.'

'Nor anything he might have been holding?'

'For fuck's sake, no!'

'You didn't see him with a gun?'

'No.'

'You didn't see the gun?'

'Not then, no.'

'Not in his hand and not on the floor?'

'How many more fucking times?'

'Then how did you know it was there?'

'What?'

'You heard me, how did you know it was there? It's in your testimony. A .22 Derringer, on the floor beside Grant's leg. You saw it or so you said.'

'Then I did.'

'But now you've just said —'

'I couldn't see it when I very first went into the room. Not from where I was. That's what you asked.'

'So you saw it when?'

'When the Detective Super stood away. He was pointing at it, showing it to Birch, I imagine.'

'Then the only person who could have seen the Derringer in Grant's hand and then on the ground, because of the way she was facing, was Maddy Birch?'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'Yes, definitely, or yes, you suppose?'

'All right, yes. Definitely yes. Now, can I go?'

Elder stepped aside. 'Be my guest.'

Loftus pushed past and strode away.

* * *

The Merc was parked with its offside wheels on the pavement, outside Elder's flat. Maurice Repton was sitting neat behind the wheel, George Mallory alongside him. The windows on either side had been lowered several centimetres and both men were smoking. Mallory got out of the car as Elder approached and dropped his cigarette to the ground.

'Frank Elder?'

'Yes.'

'You know who I am?'

'I know.'

He was older than he looked in his photograph, Elder thought, heavier too. Ash down the front of his three-piece suit. His eyes were tired, his face a little grey, as if, maybe, he'd not had the best day.

'I thought,' Mallory said, 'it was time we met.'

'Why's that?'

A smile leaked around Mallory's face. 'Don't play dumb with me, Frank. Act the fool. Oh, you might be a puppet of some kind, I realise. Framlingham's toy. His Spring-Heeled Jack.'

He pronounced each syllable of Framlingham's name distinctly, separately, each segment more dismissive than the last.

'Robert Gentleman Farmer Framlingham. Or so he'd have us believe. Streak of piss in his country tweeds. Behind you somewhere is he, working your strings? Well, we've got history, Robert and me, did he tell you that? Came after me once before, when he was with CIB. The Ghost Squad.' Mallory laughed. 'Difficult being invisible when you're seven foot tall with green wellies and a shooting stick. Five charges he brought against me and each and every one of them refuted. Denied. Dismissed. Case fucking closed. Except he doesn't like that, your Robert, so he's got you weaselling about, sucking the pus out of every dirty little rumour, every little half-baked mendacious lie. And you'll do his bidding, won't you, Frank? Have been up to now. Suborned, that's what you are. What you've been. Fucking suborned. Play the cards whichever way you can, as long as what? As long as my hand comes down with the ace of spades? Forget it, Frank. There's nothing there. Just jism floating in the fucking breeze. Fairy dust, Frank. Nothing real.'

He poked his finger hard against the centre of Elder's chest.

Repton chortling in the car, enjoying the show, the boss going off on a rant. Ian Dury crossed with Laurence fucking Olivier. Sir Larry to you. Poor old bastard turning in his grave. Both of them, come to think of it.

Mallory wasn't through. Home-going commuters stepped round them with no more than the odd word, the odd glance.

'Going back through my records, Frank, past arrests. Villains I've put down. Those that've walked away. That fucking anorak Sheridan. Searching for a pattern. Something to hang me with, hang me out to dry. Maddy Birch, you even figured me for that. Come on, Frank, don't deny it, don't be shy. What did you think? I'd climbed into my Ripper kit one night, just for the fun or it? Just for the crack? How you must have been disappointed now it's turned out to be someone else. Wouldn't have been winding young Loftus up this morning, else.'

Mallory took a step closer: no further to go without Elder stepping aside.

'No, Frank. Not my style, that kind of thing. Messy. Too much risk. Here…' He pressed his index finger, once, twice, against Elder's body. 'Head and heart, Frank, head and heart. Ask Grant. He'd tell you if he could.'

Mallory laughed in Elder's face, mint and garlic on his breath. 'You've got a daughter, Frank. Up north. No better than she should be, by all accounts. Drugs, wasn't it? Heroin? Cocaine? I'd look to her, if I were you. Something nasty happened to her once. A shame for it to happen again.'

Elder leaned back and punched him in the face, Mallory forewarned enough to turn his head aside and ride with the blow. A stumble back and blood at the side of his mouth, a smile alive in his eyes.

Repton was out of the car.

'A mistake, Frank,' Mallory said. 'When you look back, if you can, that's what you'll think.'

He spat at the ground between Elder's feet and turned away again.

Moments later, smooth as grease, the Mercedes slid out into the traffic and away.

* * *

'Beautiful, Frank,' Framlingham said, when Elder told him. 'Beautiful. Didn't I tell you we were getting close?'

Elder could still feel the hard bone of Mallory's jaw against his knuckles.

'Repton, that's who we'll go for,' Framlingham said. 'That's the route we'll take.'

'We?' Elder queried.

'Not going to let you have all the fun, Frank. Meetings with the junior Home Office minister or no. Time, I think, for a convenient bout of flu.'

Even down the phone, Elder could sense the broadness of Framlingham's smile.

49

Repton was wearing a three-button charcoal grey suit with a faint red stripe, narrow lapels and a single vent at the back; seven years old now and just beginning to take on a little surface shine around the elbows and the behind. His black Oxfords he'd buffed for fully five minutes while listening to yet another foolish politician digging the ground from under himself about Iraq. Why hadn't Blair and his cronies realised all they had to do was say we want to go in with the Yanks, kick the shit out of Saddam, secure the oil, and give our boys a good workout into the bargain. Sixty per cent of the population would have said fine; a few thousand others would have marched up and down waving banners, but no more than did anyway, and once the initial push was over and we were in without too many casualties, that sixty per cent would be up around seventy.

Of course, he thought now, lighting a Benson's for his trudge across the car park, go in alone next time, instead of waiting for the bloody Americans, and the number of our casualties would be cut by more than half.

Friendly fucking fire!

At the door, he nipped the half-smoked cigarette, blew on the end carefully, and dropped it down into his side pocket for later. Waste not, want not. Any luck he'd be at his desk before George put in an appearance. Stuff been hanging around his in-tray long enough to have grown whiskers.

As soon as he pushed open the door to the long, open-plan office, he saw his luck was in. And out. No George Mallory, but that long streak of piss Framlingham and Frank Elder along with him.

What the fuck was this all about? Payback for last night?

'Maurice, good to see you.' Framlingham's voice could have been heard three fields away, never mind between those walls. 'Frank and I thought it was time for a little chat.'

'What about?'

'Oh, you know, this and that. Loose ends. I don't doubt we'll go into details later.'

'Bollocks,' Repton said, shaking his head. 'I'm not going anywhere. You've got no jurisdiction. You —'

Framlingham lowered a friendly hand on to Repton's shoulder. 'Maurice, Maurice. No need to be hostile. Whatever this is, I'm sure we can work it out to the best of your advantage.' He gave the shoulder a squeeze. 'Yours at least.'

Repton glanced around: several heads turned in their direction, others bent judiciously over their desks. everyone listening.

'Come on, Maurice. We'll take my car, what do you say?' And then, as they were walking towards the door. 'Nice suit, Maurice. Good cut. You must let me have the name of your tailor.'

* * *

Up in Nottingham, Dave Eaglin was still stonewalling like a tail-ender facing up to Australians at Trent Bridge. Stubbornness, grit, and a dodgy technique. Self-preservation uppermost in his mind. Sooner or later, his interrogators would slip one through his defences and that would be that. Game over.

In another similarly airless and anonymous room, Ricky Bland was playing a different game. More attacking, more imaginative but mired in risk. Ian Botham. Andrew Flintoff. You scored your ton against the odds or went down fighting.

'Wait, wait a minute, Charlie. Wait. That tape, the conversation you claim I had with Summers —'

'Claim? It's your voice, Ricky, clear as day.'

'Maybe, maybe.'

'No maybes about it.'

'Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say it could be me.'

'Ricky.'

'Could be, okay?'

'We've got photographs of you and Summers talking, timed. We've got the tape, timed. What do you think? Right. They coincide. It's you on the tape, tapping Summers for information, offering him a deal.'

'Come on, Charlie. Wise up. Get your head out the sand. What d'you think? We get what we need out of this scum without offering them something in return? What d'you think's going on out there, Charlie? It's not helping old ladies across the fucking road. There's a serious fucking drug problem that we're just about keeping the lid on. Just. And never mind the odd handgun, there's thirteen-year-old kids out there riding round with grenades and fucking rocket launchers. It's a war, Charlie, a fucking war.'

'With rules.'

'Fuck the rules!'

'Exactly.'

'Fuck the fucking rules!'

'Exactly.'

Bland lurched forward. 'Okay, listen. You know how long I've been out there, on the streets? Down in the smoke and then up here. You know how long?'

'Too long?'

'Not so fucking long I'm losing my fucking brain. What? You think I'd let that creep Summers cut some kind of a deal in his favour? Let him run rings round me? I was out there doing this stuff when he was still crapping his fucking nappies, for fuck's sake. You know that? Promise him stuff, of course I promise him stuff. Promise him whatever he fucking wants. Ten per cent of cash? Okay, finder's fee. Half the drugs to go back out on the street? Why not? It's all baloney, Charlie, you know that. Use your common sense. Use your brain. It's not real, it's never gonna happen. Summers, he's gonna get fuck all. It's just what I need to say to bring him along, make sure he plays ball.'

'Like in Forest Fields, just over a week ago.'

'What?'

'Crack, heroin, nine thousand in cash. Another tip-off from Summers, I believe.'

Bland angled back his head and laughed. 'There was never nine grand, nothing near. A few hundred, as I remember. Enough crack to keep you and me and a couple of others happy for the rest of the day. Whoever told you anything else's a fucking liar.'

'You didn't give Summers some of the proceeds of that raid?'

Just for a moment, Bland hesitated. Front foot or back?

'A few grams of H, that's all. Keep him sweet.'

'You knew he'd sell it back on the street?'

Bland shrugged.

'What if I told you instead of selling it, he handed it over to the police?'

'I'd say someone was lying or Summers has lost his fucking mind.'

'And the rest of the proceeds from that raid, Ricky, the rest of the drugs, the cash, they're where? Logged somewhere? Evidence? Search and seizure?'

'They're safe, that's all you need to know.'

'Safe? Safe where?'

Bland leaned back and tugged his tie even looser at his neck; the front of his shirt was dark with sweat. 'Hot in here, Charlie. How about a fucking drink?'

* * *

The pub was at the bottom of Hornsey Rise, set well back from the pavement, a board promising hurling and Gaelic football on large-screen TV. Its wood-and-glass fascia had seen better days. A ratty nondescript dog, tied to one of several outside tables, barked at Furness and Denison as they approached the door and nipped hopefully at their ankles.

The interior was dark and smelt of disinfectant and stale beer.

At a round table close to the window, an elderly black man with white hair was playing patience with a dog-eared pack of cards. A woman of similar age and classic dimensions, the kind Furness thought only still existed in old seaside postcards, was sitting on a patched mock-leather seat near the fire, nursing a small drink in a tall glass.

It was the kind of pub, Furness thought, people meant when they said, admiringly, it's a real old-fashioned local, not been tarted up like the rest. Said that and then headed off for the bright lights and shiny wood of a Pitcher and Piano, an All Bar One.

The barman had his shirtsleeves rolled back and tattoos snaking up both arms, a silver ring piercing the corner of his left eyebrow and a stud through the centre of his lower lip.

'Get you?' he said, affably enough, glancing up from a well-thumbed copy of Love in the Time of Cholera.

Furness nodded at Paul Denison and Denison took out the single sheet, showing Kennet full-face and profile.

'Don't suppose you've seen him?'

The barman barely gave it a second glance. 'Not for a good while now. Other side of Christmas, certainly.'

'You know him then?'

'Used to come in here quite a bit. After work, like, you know. Pint of Guinness, maybe two, and then he'd be on his way. Lived around here, that'd be my guess.'

'The other side of Christmas, you said. You couldn't be more specific?'

The barman folded down a corner of his book and let it fall closed. 'Time and date, you mean? I don't think so. Early December, maybe? No, wait, wait, it was November, the end of the month. I know because…' He looked past them, towards the man playing cards. 'Ernest, your seventieth, when was that exactly?'

Ernest placed a black ten on a red jack. 'Tuesday, the twenty-fifth day of November, 2003.'

'We had a bit of a party for Ernest, got some food in, dug out the Christmas decorations early. Picture of Ernest in his prime here over the bar. Full uniform - what was it, Ernest?'

'Second Royal Fusiliers.' Red queen on black king.

'What's all this got to do with Kennet?' Furness said.

'Who?'

'Kennet.' Tapping the picture. 'Him.'

'Oh, right. He came in, didn't he? Next day. Later than usual. Eight thirty, nine? Asked me about the photograph, I remember that. Still up, you see. Started to pour him his Guinness, but no, whisky he said. Doubles, two of them. Standing there, where you are now. Quite chatty he was, more than usual. Bit hyper I thought. Just back from Spain, he said, holiday.'

'He didn't say anything about meeting someone? Later?'

'Not to me, no. Not as I recall.'

'How about where he was going? After this, I mean.'

The barman shrugged. 'Home, I suppose.'

'Thanks for your help,' Furness said.

'Drink before you go? On the house.'

Furness gave Denison a glance. 'Yes, why not? Small Scotch, maybe.'

'Lee,' Denison said.

'What?'

'Better not.'

Furness shook his head and stood away from the bar. 'Another time,' he said.

'Suit yourself,' said the barman and opened his book.

'Blessed are the pure at heart,' Furness said, as he followed Denison through the door. 'Blessed and thirsty, too.'

* * *

'What the flying fuck,' Mallory said, 'is going on?'

'Not here,' Repton said.

'Not here? Not fucking here? Farmer fucking Framlingham and that deadbeat Elder come waltzing in without so much as a by-your-leave, and next thing you're going off with them in Framlingham's fucking four-by-four. Nice little drive, Maurice? Giving the motor a spin? Got the picnic basket out later? Spot of lunch? Hamper in the fucking trunk?'

'Not here,' Repton said again.

Mallory's face was puce, fingernails digging deep into his palms.

'Then you'd better say where, Maurice, and soon.'

* * *

Karen's call tracked Elder down at his flat, late afternoon.

'We've placed Kennet near the scene of the murder, the day after he came back from Spain. Had a drink in a pub on Hornsey Rise, close to the time. Right between his flat and the place Maddy was killed. He could have walked from there to the community centre in five minutes, ten tops.'

'Good work,' Elder said. 'I mean it. Really good work.' And then excused himself to go across to the entryphone. There was a parcel downstairs waiting for collection.

50

By the time he had arrived downstairs, whoever had delivered the package was nowhere in sight. A padded envelope the size of a hardback book, with his name printed on the front. Elder shook it, prodded it, carried it back upstairs. Inside the envelope the contents were swathed in bubble wrap, a video tape with a title handwritten on the edge. Singin' in the Rain. Just that and a date.

Who, Elder wondered, was sending him home-taped movies and why?

Not certain when he'd last eaten, Elder thought he'd do it right; phoned out for a pizza and some garlic bread and, when they arrived, opened a bottle of Becks from the fridge.

A mouthful of pizza, and he slotted the tape into place; pressed 'play' and leaned back. For a copy, the picture quality wasn't too bad. Fine, in fact, until the scene, maybe a quarter of the way through, when Debbie Reynolds, in her pink cap and little pleated skirt, pops up out of the cake. Then abruptly the image twisted, caught and jarred, and changed to black and white. An interior, blurred and poorly lit. Some kind of party scene. Men in dinner jackets, black tie; others with jackets discarded, white shirts, braces. Women in low-cut dresses. Champagne. And, as if on cue, a face Elder knew. Like watching a veteran actress in her heyday, cigarette in one hand, glass in the other, wearing a pale dress that reached to the floor, Lynette Drury crossed the room and, for one moment, looked directly at the camera, as if she were the only person present who knew that it was there.

Elder pressed 'pause' and searched the screen for someone else he recognised, but no. When he moved on, the picture changed: the same room later. Kneeling at the low table in the centre of the room, a young woman, naked save for a bracelet in the shape of a snake on her upper arm, snorted cocaine through a rolled-up banknote, while a man, trousers round his knees, fucked her from behind.

A starburst of static and what had to be another camera, six people sitting round another table in another room, a poker game. And amongst them faces Elder knew: Mallory, Slater, Grant, and standing just behind Mallory, at his shoulder, Maurice Repton. Younger, all of them. A decade ago, Elder guessed. Possibly more.

The image broke again and reformed.

A bedroom, sparsely lit. Elder adjusted the brightness with the remote control but to little effect. Shapes moved naked across the bed, arms, legs. Three bodies, intertwined; two women and a man. One of the women detached herself and stood beside the bed. Not a woman at all. A girl, slim-hipped, no breasts to speak of, long fair hair. The man reached out for her and she evaded his hand, turning away. Surfacing from the bed, he seized her arm and pulled her back. As his arm tightened around her neck, the other hand pulled at her hair. Silently, head swivelling towards him, she shouted or screamed.

Elder could see her mouth, opening wide, but heard nothing.

He moved closer and peered at the screen.

The man had the girl in his grasp, increasing pressure, and now the other girl, similar but with shorter, darker hair, started hitting him, pummelling his back and shoulders, trying to get him to stop, but to no avail.

Suddenly, without warning, the man released the first girl and swung round towards the other, smashing his forearm into her face with such force that her head was jolted back and round and she tumbled over the edge of the bed towards the floor.

Imagining that he heard the impact, the clash of bone against brittle bone, Elder held his breath.

Now the man caught hold of the girl's ankles and dragged her back on to the bed, legs spread, and lifted himself above her.

The fair-haired girl gouged her nails down his back and, spinning, his elbow struck her full in the face so that blood shot from her nose. Grabbing her, he forced her down. His hands at her neck, squeezing, as he leaned down with all his weight.

Elder stopped the tape, rewound and watched again, looking for the moment when the fair-haired girl's body went limp, and Mallory pushed her to the floor and she lay, lifeless, as no unbroken body could have lain.

Mallory.

If there'd been doubt in his mind before, it was no longer there.

The dark-haired girl was just visible in the far corner of the room, mouth slightly open, silent, staring, one arm tight across her breasts. And for a second, possibly two, a shadow fell across her, followed by the partial figure of a man, fully dressed, walking into the room, the frame. Then nothing.

Fade to white.

To black.

To nothing.

Treasure trove.

Elder went into the kitchen on less-than-steady feet and poured a shot of whiskey, the neck of the bottle rattling against the glass.

* * *

His call to Framlingham found him in Hampstead, a terraced cottage in the Vale of Health, a hop, skip and a jump from the Heath itself. The woman who let Elder in was in her late forties, tall, wearing a generous green needlecord dress. Dark hair turning gracefully grey. Imposing was the word that came to mind.

She made no attempt to introduce herself and neither did Framlingham when he appeared, stooped, in the doorway, carpet slippers on his feet.

They sat in the small living room, not much more than an arm's length from the screen, sipping twelve-year-old Macallan and watching as the girl fell, again and again, to the floor.

'This is what Mallory was afraid of? What Grant had threatened him with?'

'I assume so.'

'There has to be more.'

'You think so?'

'We need more than just the tape, Frank. We need a place, we need names. If there are bodies buried, we need to know where they are.'

'There's a date,' Elder said, 'written on the label, along with the name. Singing in the Rain. 17th May 1996. Could be when the film was recorded - we could check the schedules - but I doubt it. If you look at them carefully, date and name, I'd say they were written at different times.'

'Then that's the date of the video, the party?'

'It's a good bet.'

'The raid at Gatwick, the one which linked up Grant to Slater, that was when?'

'1995.'

'And the case was thrown out of court?'

'A year later.'

Framlingham smiled. 'Celebration party, then.'

'Could well be.'

'For Mallory, too. Thanking him for his assistance. Let him win a few hands of poker, throw him a couple of girls.'

Elder shivered inside, remembering. 'When I was talking to Lynette Drury, she said that was what Mallory liked, young girls.'

'And that was her, Drury, at the party? You've no doubt?'

'None.'

'We should talk to her, then.'

'Sooner or later.'

'Where the bodies are buried, you think she's the one to know?'

'If they're buried.'

'If.'

Elder was thinking of Lynette Drury's face, the pain behind her eyes. And no matter how filthy it all became, that was what I clung on to. 'Yes,' he said. 'I think she knows.'

'You think she sent you the tape?'

'It's possible, yes.'

'She'll deny it.'

'Of course.'

Framlingham wound back the tape again.

'There, Frank, the man who comes into the room at the end — what are the chances that's Repton?'

'You think have another go at him first?'

'Why not?'

Framlingham rose, slightly awkwardly, to his feet. These chairs, this room, they weren't intended for a man his size. 'I'll see if I can't organise some coffee. Don't want you falling asleep at the wheel.'

51

Framlingham's office was dominated by an oil painting of his yacht, a Mistral class thirty-footer with white sails and green trim. Framed alongside it were three small watercolours of the Blackwater estuary near St Osyth Marsh that Framlingham had painted as a young man.

Framlingham himself looked comfortable behind his desk, chair eased back, one leg crossed lazily over the other. Elder stood by the side window in front of drawn blinds, feet apart, hands lightly clasped behind his back. Both men were looking at Maurice Repton, and Repton did not look comfortable at all.

The faint ticking of the clock on the shelf opposite the window was just audible beneath the ragged edge of Repton's breath.

The phone on Framlingham's desk rang unanswered and then was silent.

'You're hanging me out to dry,' Repton said.

'Maurice, nonsense. Another little chat is all.'

'A fucking summons, your office, eleven sharp.'

'You weren't expecting coffee?'

'Fuck your coffee!'

'Tea, then. It might be possible to arrange tea.'

'You're a cunt,' Repton said.

Framlingham slowly smiled, as if this were indeed a compliment. Perhaps, from Repton, it was. 'We just thought,' he said, 'you might appreciate the privacy. Rather than resume discussions in the full public view.'

'There's nothing to discuss.'

Framlingham leaned lazily forward. 'I think if there's a problem it may be rather that there's too much. A matter of where to start. Though Frank and I think what we've seen on the video might be the place.'

'What fucking video?'

Framlingham and Elder exchanged smiles.

'Singin' in the Rain' Framlingham said. 'Always a favourite.'

* * *

Watching Repton's increasingly ashen face, Elder thought about the call he'd received from Maureen Prior earlier that morning. Up in Nottingham, Bland was coming round to making some kind of a deal, the best that he could in a bad set of circumstances. In the end, Elder thought, that was what they all did. Bland and his kind. Aside from the ones who chose a gun to the head or a rope knotted tight about the neck; the ones who went silent to the grave.

* * *

Repton had sat watching the tape with scarcely a movement, scarce a word. Now that he was faced with a blank screen, a nerve twitched arrhythmically above his right eye, hands knotted in his lap. Elder eased open the blinds and light seeped back into the room.

Framlingham spoke into the silence. 'Only two ways to go, Maurice.'

Repton said nothing.

'Try saving your pal Mallory, it isn't going to happen. Isn't going to work. Besides, you've watched his back long enough. Wiped his backside. Time to save yourself, if you can.'

Repton looked at him quickly, then away. There was something troubling him about the crease in his trouser leg and he straightened it carefully with index finger and thumb.

'I need to think about it,' he said.

'Of course.' Framlingham rose to his feet. 'I need to take a slash, anyway. Five minutes, okay? Frank will be just outside the door. And no calls, Maurice, eh? In fact, Frank, why don't you relieve Maurice of his mobile, just in case?'

Sour-faced, Repton handed over his phone.

'Not armed are you, Maurice?' Framlingham said. 'Carrying a weapon of some kind? Dereliction of duty if I left you alone with enough time to put a bullet through your brain-pan.'

'Fuck off,' Repton said.

'Frank,' Framlingham said.

Elder carefully patted Repton down: no weapon.

'Five minutes,' Framlingham said, opening the door. 'Don't let them go to waste.'

When they came back into the room, Repton seemed not to have moved.

'I'm going to need assurances,' he said.

'Of course,' said Framlingham, repositioning himself behind his desk. 'That's understood. Your assistance, a case like this. Minimum sentence, open prison. Back outside in eighteen months, I shouldn't wonder.'

'No,' Repton said. 'No jail time. None at all.'

'Maurice, be reasonable. You know I can't promise that.'

'Then there's no deal.'

'Oh, Maurice, Maurice. What am I going to do? You want me to fetch CIB in on this? Here…' reaching for the phone, 'I can call them now. If you'd really feel more comfortable talking to them than me.'

'Listen,' Repton said. 'Everything you want to know George has been into, going back what? The best part of twenty years?' He tapped his fingers against his temple twice. 'It's all in here. Names, places, amounts, everything. And that stuff on the tape…' He laughed. Not a pleasant sound. 'You want to know where the bodies are?' He tapped his head again. 'But I want guarantees. One, no time inside. Two, protection, before the trial and after. Twenty-four-hour, round the clock. And then I want a new identity, new address the other side of the fucking world.'

Framlingham set the phone back down, unused. 'Maurice, I'll do what I can, you know that. But there's only so much, in good faith, I can promise.'

'Then make your calls,' Repton said. 'Firm it up. You know what I need.' He got to his feet. 'And don't try fobbing me off with any Witness Protection Scheme bollocks, either. I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my fucking shoulder, waiting to see who's going to come through the fucking door. You handle this differently. Handle this yourself. Close to your chest.'

Framlingham sighed. 'All right, Maurice. I'll do what I can.'

'This time tomorrow,' Repton said. 'And not here. I'll contact you. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'My mobile,' Repton said to Elder, holding out his hand.

Elder gave him back his phone.

'How do we know,' Framlingham said, after Repton had left the room, 'he isn't calling Mallory right now?'

'We don't.'

'In which case, let's hope self-preservation beats in his heart a shade more strongly than loyalty.'

52

Nayim had worked with Steve Kennet for five years, on and off, himself and Victor, sort of a team. Turn their hand to anything, building-wise, save for real specialist stuff. Simple electrics, plumbing, all that was fine, but something like installing underfloor heating, anything more specialised, they'd call in the experts, stand aside. Renovation though, new flooring, windows, stairs, outside work, repointing, replacing tiles, new roofs, there wasn't much they couldn't handle. Put in a loft not so long back, West Hampstead, architect designed. Some woman writer. Photos in the local paper. Signed one of her books for him, nice that. Not that he'd read it, mind.

Nayim sat next to Karen Shields on a bench in Waterlow Park, crows making a racket in the trees. A small boy being pushed on the swings. The former hospital building Nayim and Victor were working on was clearly visible, a short way down the hill.

It was cold; too cold to sit comfortably for long.

When Nayim took out his cigarettes and offered one to Karen, she shook her head. He was what, she thought, Spanish, maybe? Portuguese? Something of an accent, olive skin.

'Back in December,' Karen said, 'close to New Year. One of my officers came to that place you and Steve Kennet were working on in Dartmouth Park Road.'

Nayim nodded.

'You must have been quite a while on that job.'

'Too long. Landlord going crazy, but it's not our fault. Weather, you know? Rain. Always rain;'

Karen smiled. 'Winter in England. That's what it does. It rains.'

Nayim grinned.

'And you were what?' Karen said. 'Fixing the roof, stuff like that?'

'New roof, yes. Brickwork, guttering. Wood round the window frames, rotted away.'

'So you must have started when? Back in November some time?'

'Earlier. October, must have been.'

'Steve Kennet going off on holiday in the middle of it, that couldn't have helped.'

Nayim hunched his shoulders. 'Steve cut short his holiday, come back to work early.'

'And this was when?'

'November. Last week.'

Karen willed herself to slow down. 'When he came back,' she said, 'how did he seem?'

'Sorry, I don't….'

'His mood, I mean. Was he chatty, friendly, glad to be back?'

Nayim shook his head. 'At first, he hardly say a word. I go, hey Steve, good you're back, but he just grunt and go straight up to the roof, start work.'

'You didn't happen to notice if he had anything with him? Out of the usual, I mean?' Karen hoping against hope.

But Nayim was shaking his head. 'Just his bag of tools. Like always.'

Karen stood and brushed the seat of her trousers. 'If we wanted to take a look up there, where he was working — would that be difficult, do you think?'

Nayim looked up at her, uneasy without knowing why. 'Easy enough, I think. You can get into the roof space through the top-floor flat if you wish. If owner give permission.'

Karen nodded, smiled. 'Thanks for your time.'

As she turned, something quick and greyish brown scuttled through the leaves that had gathered between path and pond; either a squirrel which had emerged early from hibernation or a rat. On balance, Karen thought, a rat.

* * *

The leaseholder was away and not answering his mobile. Karen wasted the best part of an hour being shunted between the landlord and the management company, much of it either being asked to choose from the following options or being left on hold listening to Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons'. Finally, out of frustration, she slammed down the phone, jumped in her car and drove the few miles to the company's offices in Edgware. Once there, dark suit, stacked heels, taller than all of the women and most of the men, she got the attention she needed. The right permissions, the right keys. No more delay.

Forty minutes later, she and Ramsden, Furness and Denison in attendance, were passing the reservoir on Dartmouth Park Hill, turning right across the traffic and looking for a place to park.

The entrance hall and stairs had recently been recarpeted; the usual plethora of unsolicited mail and restaurant flyers sat neatly piled on a small table just inside the front door. Someone in the first-floor flat was practising the violin. On the floor above, the washing machine lurched into its spin cycle as they passed. A bicycle, presumably belonging to the owner of the upper flat, was on the landing outside his door.

Karen exchanged a quick glance with Ramsden before turning the key in the lock.

The entrance to the roof space was easy to find, through a drop-down door set into the ceiling between kitchen and bathroom.

'Mike?' Karen said, looking at Ramsden.

'Paul,' Ramsden said, 'up you go.'

Furness fetched a chair and held it steady. Denison pushed at the wood and slid it aside, hauling himself up and out of sight.

'What's it like up there?' Ramsden called.

'Dark.'

Furness handed him up a torch.

'You know what you're looking for?' Karen called.

'I think so.'

Not so many minutes later, he'd found it, taped to the side of one of the beams, snug against the angle and the roof itself. Thick dark tape and, Denison guessed, plastic or paper underneath.

It was both.

He passed it down and, using gloves, Karen prised away the tape, folded back the plastic and then unwound several pages from the late night edition of the Standard, dated 26 November 2003.

It was a butcher's knife with a twenty-centimetre stainless-steel blade firmly bolted all the way down the handle. Black haft, shiny blade, the tip not broken but bent very slightly to one side, as if it had been driven against something hard, like bone.

'Let's get this off to Forensics, first thing,' Karen said. 'Almost certainly he'll have wiped away any prints, but we need to check. Then compare it to the photographs of the wounds to Maddy Birch's body.'

Ramsden grinned a wolfish grin. 'That'll be sharpish, then.'

53

Under as high security as he could muster, Framlingham had set the technicians to work on the video tape: after enhancing the picture as much as they could, they had transferred it on to disk. From this they printed off a number of digital images, and it was these that Elder carried with him as he walked across Blackheath. Past six and the sky had already taken on that luminous orange glow; there were stars faintly visible above, though compared to Cornwall, precious few. One of them, he remembered reading somewhere, was some kind of satellite station and not a star at all.

Anton's T-shirt was white today instead of black, otherwise he looked exactly the same. The same sardonic, slightly camp look in his eye.

'She's in what we laughingly call the breakfast room, watching the snooker. Can't be doing with it myself. All that hushed commentary, as if they were in church. He's just kissed the ball up against the baulk pocket. Well…'

If Lynette Drury were indeed watching the snooker, she was doing so with her good eye closed.

The room smelt fetid and warm.

'Don't tire her,' Anton said.

Elder brought over another chair and sat at an angle between the wheelchair and the screen. He sat there silently while one of the players made a break of forty-seven.

'I didn't think you'd be back so soon,' Lynette said.

'Even after you sent the video?'

'What video's that?'

'Singin' in the Rain.'

'I never took to Gene Kelly much. More of a Fred Astaire fan, myself. Lighter on his feet I always thought. More debonair.'

'Something missing in the credits,' Elder said. 'My copy, at least. Nothing about the locations. The party scene in particular.'

Lynette watched as a balding man with a cummerbund barely holding in his beer gut skewed the cue ball in off the black and looked heavenwards for forbearance. 'Manningtree,' she said, still staring at the screen. 'Ben had a place out there. Not just him. Him and a few others. Country club, that's what they liked to call it. Gone now.'

'Gone?'

'Sold to some foundation. Don't know what they're called.'

'How long ago was that?'

'Three or four years, must be. Around the time Ben bought the place in Kyrenia.'

Elder took the photographs from the envelope and spread them across her lap. The pace of her breathing quickened and then slowed. They showed, in bare bones, the story of what had happened in the bedroom. It didn't take any great imagination to fill the gaps.

'I assume,' Elder said, 'there was a camera hidden in the room.'

'In every room. Whenever there was a party, Ben had them on all the time. Some years he'd make a Christmas tape, you know, highlights. Send 'em round to his friends.'

'Not this particular year,' Elder said, indicating the photographs.

'No, not that year.' Then, 'Watch what you're bloody doin'!' as the bald man's opponent clipped the yellow while attempting to pot the green.

'The two girls,' Elder said. 'Do you know what happened to them?'

She took her time answering. 'I know there was a problem. It got sorted.'

'Sorted?'

'Yes. I don't know how. Didn't want to know.'

Elder leaned forward and tapped one of the photographs, showing the girl on the floor beside the bed. 'This girl, she's dead. Neck broken, that would be my guess.'

'If you say so.'

'And this girl?' He was pointing at a young, dark-haired girl cowering, terrified, in the far corner of the room. 'What happened to her?'

Lynette's good eye flickered between the photograph and Elder's face, and then back to the screen in time to see one of the reds slide gracefully into the top pocket, the cue ball skewing back to cover the black.

'I said, they got it sorted. Ben and George between them. Made it go away.'

'Between them?'

'Fucking yes! Have I got to repeat every fucking thing I say?'

The anger in her voice brought on a fit of coughing, raising spittle to her lips.

Elder waited until the coughing had subsided. 'How exactly did they make it go away? Pay her off? What?'

'I'm trying to watch this,' Lynette said. 'And you're doing sod all for my concentration.'

'Who were they? The two girls? What were their names?'

Lynette started to cough again. 'Call Anton for me, will you? I need a fuckin' drink.'

'You used to get him girls, Mallory. Young girls. You must know who they were.'

'I need a fuckin' drink!'

Anton showed his face around the door.

'Out,' Elder said.

A drink.'

Anton hesitated, uncertain.

'Get out,' Elder said.

He went.

'You've helped us so far,' Elder said. 'Help us with this.'

'I've done nothing.'

He touched her hand and she pulled it away, turning her face towards the wall. Only gradually did he realise that she was speaking, the same sounds over and over, low, barely audible, the same names. 'Judy. Jill. Judy and Jill. Judy and Jill.'

He took hold of her arm, gently, not hard, and felt skin slip loose across bone.

'Judy and Jill,' he repeated. 'That was their names.'

She looked into his face.

'They were twins.'

* * *

Long after Elder had gone, long after one frame of the snooker had finished and another begun, Lynette propelled her chair out of that room and into another, guilt and uncertainty jostling up against one another in her brain. She thought she might still have Mallory's number somewhere. Perhaps she owed him that much at least.

54

Repton saw the police vehicle approaching from the opposite direction and checked his speed, lifting his foot from the accelerator and easing it down on the brake. Being stopped for driving under the influence was just what he didn't need. Not that he'd drunk a lot, not by some standards.

Checking the mirror to make sure the police car had continued on its way, he grinned. Not by some fucking standards! Christ! Times he and George had laid one on! Practically paralytic at five in the morning and still they'd turned in at their desk three hours later, ready for a day's graft, a day's hard sodding work. Not like today's bunch of puerile wankers! Binge drinking! They didn't know what a fucking binge was, didn't know how to fucking drink!

Shit! He'd only gone too far, hadn't he?

Too far down the fucking road.

Catching sight of his reflection as he readied to make a U-turn, he laughed out loud. Metaphors, Maurice? Fucking metaphors. Who the fuck d'you think you are? Too far down the fucking road, all right, and no mistake.

He nudged into a space between a clapped-out Escort and a white van, front wheel striking the kerb and maybe shaving the van's paint with the rear end, but good enough all the same.

Twenty past fucking two.

There was a half-bottle of Scotch in the glove compartment and he unscrewed the top and took a quick belt.

His breath came back at him off the inside of the windscreen like something out of a dog's arse.

Poetic, Maurice, he thought as he got out of the car. Fucking poetic.

'Green Lanes Sauna and Massage' was picked out in electric light above the curtained glass. Except close to half the letters were missing, bulbs gone or bust, and you had to be a regular or one of those sad shits who did the Times fucking crossword in five fucking minutes to know what it said.

Reaching for the handle and not finding it, he wondered for the umpteenth time why, when the place had had a new front door fitted a year or so back, they'd hung it the wrong way round, the handle on the wrong fucking side.

Fuck!

When finally he'd pushed it open, it sprang back too fast and he almost collided with the facing wall. Hallway the size of a kazi for fucking dwarves.

Immediately to his right, a curtain of coloured beads hung down from the ceiling almost to the floor, and he parted this with both hands and stepped into the room. Rosie, as usual, was seated at a stool behind her desk, peroxide hair black at the roots, make-up half an inch or more thick sandblasted into place. Hundred and thirty years old, God bless her, and as ugly as the day she was born. Nothing else to do, twelve hours a day, other than fill in her puzzle books, watch her pocket-sized black-and-white TV, drink cup after cup of instant coffee and smoke endless cigarettes.

'Maurice, how's tricks?'

The times he'd told the stupid cow not to use his name.

There were three girls occupying the chairs opposite the desk, two he vaguely recognised, one that was new, not one of his favourites in sight. Busy, maybe. Each of the girls in button-through white overalls and bare legs, two of them flicking lazily through magazines. Now or Hello! or some such bollocks, scarcely bothering to glance up when he came in.

The third girl, the one he didn't recognise, was leaning back, legs pulled up, bottom two buttons of her overall undone, one high-heeled shoe on the floor, the other dangling from her toes. Nails painted alternately red and blue.

'This all there is, Rosie?' His voice sounded slightly blurred to him, but who was going to give a shit? No one there.

'Veronica's upstairs.'

'That fat cow!'

'That's Edie over there. She's new.'

Edie, Repton thought, what kind of a name was that? Not that they used their real names anyway, most of them. He'd always reckoned Rosie picked them out of a hat.

'Knows what she's about, does she?'

Repton stared at the girl as he spoke and she looked back at him, holding his gaze, mouth opening in a smile. New, right enough, he thought, out to make an impression.

'Edie's from Slovenia,' Rosie said.

Heaven fucking help us, Repton thought.

He followed her up the stairs, a nice enough arse on her, the last door along the corridor standing ajar and in they went.

Repton removed his jacket as Edie closed the door behind them, reaching out to take it from him and laying it folded across the foot of the bed. Repton waving his hands and saying, 'Not like that. Not like that. Put it on a fucking hanger, for fuck's sake, you soft Slovenian cow. No offence.'

The girl taking a thin metal hanger from inside the rickety MDF wardrobe and fitting Repton's suit jacket on it, even smoothing down the shoulders — he liked to see that — before hanging it from the double hook behind the door.

It was going to be okay, Repton thought, as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it over the pillow — well, you never knew — and lay down with Edie standing alongside him and bending to unbuckle his belt, slip it through the loops, and then attend to the buttons on his fly. Buttons, that was what he'd always insisted on, none of your fucking zips. Disaster waiting to fucking happen.

He felt himself hardening and closed his eyes.

Concentrated on the slip slip slap of massage oil on Edie's hands.

First time he'd done this, he remembered, had this done, he'd been a young DC, green round the gills, the other lads putting him up to it, pulling a freebie on his behalf, some scrubber from Swansea with more than a touch of the tarbrush about her and dirt under her fingernails. The minute she'd touched him, he'd shot his load. Caught himself in the fucking eye.

Laughing at the memory, he glanced at Edie, solemn-faced, concentrating, he thought, chuckling, at the job in hand.

'Come here,' he said. 'Here, closer, here.'

Reaching up, propping himself on one elbow, he unfastened the remaining buttons of her overall. Bit of lace round the top of the bra, nipples standing firm. White knickers not much larger than your average postage stamp. No pierced navel for a change. Well, thank God for that.

Feeling himself close, he lay back and closed his eyes once more.

First thing tomorrow he'd find Framlingham and tell him to go fuck himself up the arse.

Breath accelerating, he arched his back as the girl's hand moved faster. Firmer. Faster.

He failed to hear the door open, then close.

'Maurice.' The voice was soft, almost a caress.

Repton's eyes opened in time to see Mallory's face; the ugly bulge of the silencer at the end of the gun.

'Come again, Maurice,' Mallory said and fired.

The girl screamed and, without moving his feet, Mallory slapped her with his free hand, slamming her, mouth bleeding, heavily against the wall.

Raising the gun, Mallory fired again.

Bone and tissue littered Maurice Repton's Irish linen handkerchief and the cheap pink polyester pillowcase beneath it, stained unremovably by a hundred heads and now darkening pink to red.

55

Elder was talking to Karen Shields, still a few minutes short of eight o'clock, the day not really under way, when Framlingham phoned, more of an urgency in his voice than Elder was used to.

'It's Repton. He's been shot.'

'How bad?'

'Bad as it gets.'

Karen read the concern on his face.

'How did it happen?' Elder asked. 'Where?'

'Green Lanes. Early hours of the morning. Someone walked into a massage parlour and shot him twice. Why don't you get yourself down here now? Midway between Manor House and Turnpike Lane.'

'Okay, I'll be there.'

'Serious?' Karen said.

Elder nodded. 'Good luck with Kennet. I'll phone in when I can.'

The traffic was the usual a.m. nightmare, especially after he'd taken what looked, on paper, to be the most direct route, through the middle of Wood Green. He promised himself, once this was over, never to curse the ten-minute wait to get down into the centre of Truro on Saturdays again.

Police vehicles were parked near the scene, half on the road, half off, loops of tape keeping the pavement closed for forty metres on either side of the building where the incident had occurred.

Elder left his car illegally parked on a double yellow line, a hastily scribbled note under the windscreen. Framlingham was inside talking to a DCI from Homicide and the DI from the local Wood Green nick. He continued his conversation for several moments more, introduced Elder and then drew him off to one side.

'Worst nightmare, Frank.'

'What do we know?'

Framlingham steered him outside. There were knots of people staring from the far side of the street, men in bright African-style robes or with their hair cut according to the Hasidic style; women encased almost entirely, head to toe, in black. Produce outside the various Greek and Turkish shops shone purple, red and green in the winter sun.

Framlingham lit a cigarette. 'We know Repton was shot twice, once in the head, once in the chest. Nine-millimetre rounds.' He breathed smoke out on to the air. 'Trousers round his ankles, poor bastard. What an inglorious bloody way to go.'

'Anything on the shooter?'

Framlingham nodded. 'Made no attempt to disguise himself. The woman running the place gave us a pretty good description.'

Elder read the look on Framlingham's face.

'Mallory,' he said.

'Yes.'

'No room for doubt?'

Framlingham shook his head. 'The girl who was with Repton when he bought it — here illegally, terrified out of her life she's going to be sent back to whatever Godforsaken place she comes from — she swears he called him Maurice. Before he shot him. Maurice.'

'You've got a call out for him? Mallory?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Any sign?'

'Not as yet. Not a trace. This aside, no one seems to have seen him since around nine last night. Making his travel arrangements, I shouldn't wonder. Passport's missing. Description's gone out to all the airports, ferries, Eurostar terminal, but I'm not holding my breath. He had a good two hours clear, maybe more. By this time he's probably checking into his hotel on the Costa del Sol, looking forward to his first tapas of the day.'

Or Cyprus, Elder thought. Or Cyprus.

* * *

In the interview room, Kennet looked even more tired, anxiety evident in his eyes and the way his hands were rarely still.

'This knife,' Karen said, holding up the evidence bag, 'it was found in the roof space of the house in Dartmouth Park Road where you were working.'

Kennet looked back at her and said nothing.

'You were working in that building?'

'You know I was.'

'At the time of Maddy Birch's murder.'

'No.'

'Think again.'

'No, I told you. I was on holiday.'

'You came home early. We've already established that.'

'That doesn't mean I went back to work. I was still on holiday.'

'But you did go back, didn't you? On the Thursday morning. The morning after Maddy was killed.'

'Did I? Who says I did?'

'The man you work with.'

'He could be mistaken.'

'I think not. I think you went to work that morning at eight o'clock sharp. Scarcely gave anyone the time of day. Straight up the scaffolding and into the roof, taking your tool bag with you.'

'I'd hardly leave it behind.'

'Then you were there?'

'Sometime, yes. If you say so, yes.'

'Thursday, twenty-seventh of November.'

'I don't know.'

Karen leaned closer. She could smell the sweat seeping through his pores. 'Come on, Steve, you've had a bust-up with your girlfriend, you're back early from Spain, no need to go into work, you could sit at home with your feet up, watch TV, wander down the bookies, out a few quid on the three-thirty, but instead there you go, first chance you get.'

'There was a job wanting finishing, we were way behind. It's called having a sense of responsibility, maybe you've heard of it?'

'Big on responsibility, are you?'

'I like to think so, yes.'

'Taking responsibility.'

'Yes.'

'Then why don't you take responsibility for this?' Karen had picked up the knife again and was holding it in front of Kennet's face.

'I tell you what,' Kennet said. 'You show me some proof that says conclusively that knife is mine, I'll take responsibility for it? Fair enough?'

Without taking her eyes from him, Karen leaned back against her chair.

* * *

Nearing four in the afternoon, not so far off dark, Elder had two brief telephone conversations with Katherine, both interrupted, neither satisfactory. Except that she was okay. Rob Summers was okay. He was still with the police, talking, sorting things out. She didn't know what was happening to Bland and his mate, except that she hoped they'd be put away for a very long time.

'I'll come up and see you,' Elder said at the end of the second call.

'When?'

'I don't know. As soon as I can.'

How many times had he said that when she was growing up? Not now, Katherine. Not now, okay. But soon.

Framlingham had been in and out of a string of meetings, in some of which Elder had also been involved, while during others he had been left to kick his heels. There had been sightings of Mallory, unconfirmed, on the ferry from Folkestone to Calais, boarding a flight at Heathrow bound for Miami, buying a Frappuccino in Starbucks on the Avenue de l'Opera in Paris.

'Go home, Frank,' Framlingham said eventually. 'Go home and get some rest. We've done all we can for today.'

56

It was a grey end-of-January day: one of those days that promises nothing save that, sooner or later, it will be over. Elder had lain awake since five, thinking, trying not to think. By six-thirty he was showered, dressed, had drunk orange juice and two cups of coffee, walked down the street to buy a paper and bought three; he read slightly differing versions of Repton's murder, more wishful thinking than factual statement, the few known certainties spun together with fantasies involving gangland executions and Turkish drug barons exacting revenge. Only one report, as an aside, mentioned that Repton had been one of the officers involved in the police operation, three months before, in which a high-profile criminal, James William Grant, had been shot and killed. Enough to leave a taint of retribution hanging in the breeze.

Head and heart, Elder thought, as he shrugged on his coat.

Head and heart.

He was at Framlingham's office well before eight and Framlingham was there before him, silver thermos on his desk. Elder suspected he had been there all night.

'Take a look at this, Frank,' he said, handing Elder a fax.

The blurred image of two girls stared back up at him: school uniform, white blouses, striped ties not quite tight to the neck, faked smiles.

'Jill and Judy Tremlett. Disappeared from home, May seventeenth, '96. Last seen at a nightclub in Colchester, friend's eighteenth birthday. Some reports have them leaving with an older woman, never been identified. According to others, one of the girls, Judy, complained of feeling sick and went outside for some fresh air. Jill went after her. When their father arrived to pick them up, just before midnight as arranged, they were nowhere to be seen.

'Usual procedure followed. Everyone at the club was questioned, the route home searched in case they'd started walking, thumbing a lift; drivers checked. It seems as if for a time the father was in the frame, but it came to nothing. No personal belongings were ever found, no shoes, no clothing, nothing. No sight or sign. They were seventeen.'

Elder was seeing again the grainy video images, remembering Lynette Drury's words. Boys and girls, all hand-picked, paid for. And George, he was in the thick of it, wasn't he? Lapping it up. Girls, especially; he liked girls, did George. Two or three at a time. Young girls. An older woman, Framlingham had said, never been identified.

'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.

57

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.'

She took a sip of her wine.

'So,' Elder said, 'you asked him whose blood it was.'

'What I actually said was, Who the fuck does it belong to then?'

'And he said…?'

'And he said, It's Steve Kennet's blood. I could have kissed him. Probably would have if he'd been there.'

'Just as well he wasn't. You know, work colleagues, station intrigue.'

Karen leaned back in her chair, as if to focus on him more clearly. 'That what you are, Frank? A work colleague?'

'Not for much longer.'

'The business with Mallory and Repton?'

Elder nodded.

'Where are you up to with all that?'

He told her over their main course, Karen having opted for sea bass with roast mixed squash, Elder the lamb with spicy chick-pea puree and spinach.

'So what do you reckon the chances are,' Karen said, setting down her knife and fork, 'of tracking Mallory down and bringing him back?'

'Tracking him down, I'd say pretty good. But if he's joined his buddy Slater in the TRNC —'

'The what?'

'TRNC. Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. There's no extradition treaty.'

'Asil Nadir. I remember.'

'Exactly.'

'You want some more wine?'

'Have we finished this?'

'Just about.'

'Best not.'

'You fancy something else? Brandy? Whisky?'

'Maybe later.'

Karen raised an eyebrow, amused. 'Don't count too many chickens, Frank.'

Elder drank a double espresso, watching her eat her way through a largish helping of chocolate ice cream with cardamon. Despite his protestations, she paid the bill. The restaurant had ordered them a taxi.

'You're going to have to be careful,' Karen said, settling back against the seat.

'What of?'

'Getting a reputation.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Twice now, isn't it? That you've pulled cases out of the fire. Last year and now this.'

'Luck,' Elder said, 'that's most of it. That and the people I've been lucky enough to work with.'

Karen laughed. 'You old charmer, you!'

It made sense, she said, for the cab to drop him off first. They stood on the pavement outside the small block of flats, his home but not for much longer, the driver keeping his engine idling, the meter ticking over.

It was a surprisingly mild night, mild for the time of year.

She looked beautiful, he thought, the way the light shone in her eyes.

'Say goodnight, Frank.'

'Goodnight.'

She kissed him on the mouth.

* * *

Elder stirred, waking in the darkness, not knowing if he'd been asleep for minutes or hours. Not knowing what had woken him, other than the smell, the scent of mint and garlic clear in the room.

His eyes focused on Mallory standing just beyond the end of the bed, pistol in hand.

'Sometimes you can delegate,' Mallory said, 'offload. Sometimes there's so much shit been spread around you just have to clear it up yourself.'

His eyes narrowed marginally as he raised his arm.

'Should've stayed in Cornwall, Frank. Safer by far.'

As his finger touched the trigger, he heard a sound at his back and spun around. On her way back from the bathroom, Karen had picked up the stainless steel kettle from the work surface in the kitchen. She swung it fast and hard into Mallory's face, the hard edge striking his nose full on, the flesh splitting open like an overripe plum.

Elder jumped at Mallory from behind, doing his best to wrench the pistol from his hand.

Mallory struggled and swore and Karen swung the kettle a second time to the crack of splintering bone.

Elder forced Mallory to the ground and, one foot firm in the small of his back, brought first one arm and then the other round tight behind him.

The sound Mallory made, forced between broken teeth, was not a word at all.

'Hang on,' Karen said, stepping into a pair of knickers before fetching the handcuffs from her bag. 'Any emergency,' she said, with a grin.

Elder was still far too shaken to smile back.

'Keep an eye on him,' Karen said. 'I'll phone it in.'

Elder said okay and lowered himself to the edge of the bed. Another moment, another second and he would have been dead. Head and heart.

As his breathing steadied, he listened to Karen's voice from the other room, concise and clear. He already knew he would never forget the sight of her, stepping stark naked into the room, preparing to swing a kettle at Mallory's head. And almost certainly save his life.

58

Katherine had arranged to meet Elder in the Arboretum, near the centre of the city. He made his approach down through the park from the North Sherwood Street end, looking for signs of early spring. It was almost a month since the attempt on his life; three since the murder of Maddy Birch; a shade over three weeks since the remains of Jill and Judy Tremlett had been unearthed beneath the house in Manningtree. Ash and bone.

There were crocuses, Elder saw, yellow and white along the flower-beds and here and there haphazardly amongst the grass; snowdrops also, a few, still showed pale against the dark earth.

Rob Summers was sitting with Katherine on a bench near the corner of the rose garden and when he saw Elder he stood and walked away, giving them time to talk alone.

Katherine had allowed her hair to start growing back and there was some small colour in her cheeks, though Elder thought a good meal or two wouldn't go amiss.

'Dad.'

'Kate.'

Her skin felt like newsprint against his lips.

'Did you drive up?'

He shook his head. 'Train.'

'All the way from Cornwall?'

'Came up to London yesterday. One or two things I needed to do.'

'What's her name?' Katherine said, close to a smile. 'Karen?'

'Since when has my private life been such an interest?'

'Since you had one.'

Elder's turn to smile. Two small boys, who should certainly have been at school, went by on skateboards. A girl wearing the High School for Girls uniform stopped and asked for a light; Elder couldn't oblige, Katherine could.

'You are seeing her, though?' Katherine persisted.

Elder hesitated; he wasn't even sure. 'It's not that straightforward,' he said eventually. 'Kind of job she has, it doesn't leave a lot of time for much else.'

'Like you used to be, then.'

'I suppose so, yes.'

He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

'You think that's all it takes, don't you? You always did.'

'What?'

'A quick cuddle, a hug, a kiss on the cheek. As if that made it all okay.'

'I'm sorry. I was only trying —'

'It doesn't. Make up for everything, you know.'

'Everything?'

She looked away. 'All the times you weren't there.'

There were tears in her eyes neither of them wanted to see.

'Are you saying it's my fault?'

'What?'

'I don't know. Everything. This.'

She looked at him, held his gaze, then slowly turned her head away, reaching into her pocket for her cigarettes.

'Kate…'

'What now?'

'Nothing.' The admonishment frozen on his lips.

'You want to take a walk?' he said several long moments later.

'Not specially.'

They continued to sit. Summers appeared lower down the path, walking in the direction of the bandstand, circling round.

'You and Rob, you're still…?'

'We're going to back off a little. Just, you know, chill for a while. Rob needs some time to sort himself out, get his shit together.' She smiled. 'He comes out with stuff like that from time to time. Getting your shit together. Like it was the sixties or something.'

'What's happening to him?'

'With the police, you mean?'

Elder nodded.

'He'll be charged with possession. Then probation, most likely. That's what they're saying. Get a — what is it? — Community Punishment and Rehabilitation Order. A hundred hours of community service and a couple of years in a drug rehab programme.'

'He's happy with that?'

'He doesn't have a lot of choice.'

'And you?'

'What about me?'

'What are you going to do?'

Katherine held the smoke in before releasing it slowly into the air. She was going to give it up. She was. Maybe for Lent. 'I've started seeing my therapist again.'

'You have? Katherine, that's great. I'm pleased. That's really good news.'

'Okay, okay. Don't go crazy.'

He knew he shouldn't ask, but went ahead anyway. 'I don't suppose you've thought any more about college? School?'

'One thing at a time, Dad, right?'

'Okay, I'm sorry.' Something about her expression reminded him of when she had been ten or eleven, scarcely grown, and he felt his breathing change, his chest constricting close above his heart.

Katherine stubbed out her cigarette. 'I did go and talk to someone at Clarendon. There's an open-access programme for AS level that didn't look too bad.' She sprang to her feet. 'Come on. Before you get all gooey and overcome. Let's catch up with Rob.'

'All right.'

Summers was sitting in the centre of the bandstand, leaning back against the wrought-iron railings, writing in a notebook.

'Just look at him,' Katherine said. 'He's such a poseur sometimes.'

'If you did go to Clarendon,' Elder said, 'start studying again, where would you live?'

Katherine grimaced. 'Mum's threatening to redecorate my room.'

'Maybe come summer you might even feel like running again.'

She shot him a quick sideways look. 'Not before I can walk, okay?'

* * *

Elder called in on Resnick before catching his train back down to London. Both Bland and Eaglin were trying to outdo the other in apportioning blame, offering information in exchange for a better deal.

Framlingham had asked him to attend a meeting with the Chief Crown Prosecutor about the case against Mallory, which was under continuous review. While the circumstances of Maurice Repton's death were straightforward, at least as far as the Crown was concerned, those surrounding what had happened to the Tremlett twins were less so.

The bodies of two young females had been found beneath one of the cellars, covered by quick-setting concrete. Both corpses were badly burned. It looked as if they had been placed down there and then set fire to, using petrol, presumably in an effort to destroy them beyond recognition. But even as the fire had blackened and torn apart some of their skin, other parts it had preserved. Several fingerprints were still partially clear. Moreover, a comparison of their teeth with their dental charts made identification certain.

Pinpoint haemorrhages behind Judy Tremlett's eyes suggested that she had died from strangulation; a subdural haemorrhage around her sister's brain led the pathologist to conclude that she had died from a fractured skull. In neither girl was carbon monoxide present: they had been dead when the fire had been started. Small, small mercy.

Mallory was still denying responsibility for both deaths or any knowledge of how they had occurred.

Officers from CIB were continuing to question him about a number of investigations in which he had been involved, prosecutions which, for various reasons, had failed; also several robberies which had so far remained unsolved. And Mallory, of course, was happy to string things out, feeding a little information here, a little disinformation there, all the while playing the system, delaying what was still, in all probability, inevitable.

When the meeting with the Crown Prosecutor was over, Framlingham insisted on buying Elder a drink and he was happy to accede. He was catching the sleeper back down to Cornwall later that evening and a call to Karen's mobile had been diverted to her office phone, where he had failed to leave a message.

'I'm not asking you,' Framlingham said, 'to move back lock, stock and barrel. Start another career. You're through with that, I understand. But what I'm saying is, be flexible. Give us four months of the year.'

'No way.'

'Come on, Frank. The winter, for God's sake. You don't want to spend that down there, surely?'

'Don't I?'

'Frank…'

Elder smiled and shook his head. 'Look, no promises, okay? Nothing definite, nothing set. We'll stay in touch. If there's anything you think I might be really interested in, suitable for, give me a call. I'll say yes or no.'

Framlingham held out his hand. 'Can't say fairer than that, I suppose.'

On the kerb, he fished into his pocket and took out an envelope with Elder's name on it. 'Had a call from that Shields woman this morning. Heard I was seeing you. Biked this over. Asked me to be delivery boy.'

Elder stuffed the envelope out of sight.

'Safe journey, Frank. Take care.'

There were still a good twenty minutes to go before boarding and Elder bought a coffee from the Costa by platform 1, sat down at one of the tables outside and took out the envelope. When he opened it, a ticket slipped loose on to the table top. Dee Dee Bridgwater at the Jazz Cafe. A Saturday in March. Karen had written on the back: A bit of a long shot, but if you happen to be in town…

Elder drank some coffee, stuffed the ticket back inside the envelope and tore them both in half, regretting it the instant it was done.

'Idiot,' he said and an elderly woman, going past with a suitcase on wheels, turned her head and smiled.

The ticket was in two pieces but taped together it would probably be okay. He pushed the halves down into his top pocket, just in case.

There were still ten minutes before his train.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks are due to my editor, Susan Sandon, for reading the manuscript with her usual sagacity and for suggestions without which the finished book would be a lesser thing. My thanks go also to my agent, Sarah Lutyens; to Justine Taylor at Random House (UK) for holding a more than steady fort; to Mary Chamberlain for precise and sympathetic copy editing; to Mark Billingham for providing the answers to certain crucial questions at crucial times; to Sherma Batson and Sarah Boiling for reading earlier versions of the manuscript; and finally to everyone at Random House for their friendship and support.