Ash & Bone (29 page)

'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.'

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.

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?'