Ash & Bone (7 page)

'Police, right?' Summers said. 'You're not selling something, not religious. You must be the police.'

'Not exactly.'

A smile of understanding passed across Summers's face and, relaxing his shoulders, he leaned sideways against the wall. 'Katie,' he said, putting a little singsong into his voice. 'Your old man's here.'

After a moment, Katherine appeared at the end of the hall, waited long enough to recognise her father's face, then turned away.

'I suppose you'd better come in,' Summers said.

The room was small and dimly lit, a small settee and two unmatched armchairs taking up much of the space. Shelves either side of the empty fireplace were filled with books, videos and DVDs, crammed in this way and that. More books and magazines lay in piles upon the floor. In one corner was a small TV, video recorder alongside, DVD player on top. More shelving stretched along the back wall, what had to be several hundred vinyl albums below the different elements of the stereo system, CDs in profusion above.

The smell of dope hung, faint but sweet, upon the air.

Summers lowered himself into one of the chairs and motioned for Elder to do the same. The bass beat from the speakers was repetitive and insistent.

'Get you anything?' Summers asked. 'Coffee, anything?'

'You think you could turn the music down a little?'

'Sure.' Summers pressed the remote on the arm of his chair.

'I want to talk to Katherine,' Elder said.

'That's up to her.'

'I've come a long way.'

'Cornwall, isn't it?'

'Yes,' Elder said, surprised that he knew, that she had bothered to tell him.

'Your choice, wasn't it?'

'Look.' Elder leaned forward. 'You can see the state she's in.'

'State?'

'You know what I mean.'

'I'm not sure I do.'

'Those people in the Square…'

'What about them?'

Elder shook his head.

'They look out for her,' Summers said. 'Leave her alone.'

'And you?'

Summers pushed himself up from his chair. 'Back in a minute, okay? I'll see what she says.'

Alone in the room, Elder looked around. White Stripes. Four Tet.
The People's Music.
Diane di Prima. Ginsberg. Dylan.
Drop City.
Neil Young. Several copies of the same pale green booklet on top of a stack of magazines.
Scar: Poems by Rob Summers.
Elder lifted one clear and flicked through the pages.

the snap of his cuff

a blade's edge

brilliant threads

vermilion wings

sweat coils

slow and sure

violet rope

around your neck

face blinded

I brace my back

against a sudden

blaze of light

'You read poetry?' Summers said, coming back into the room.

Elder let the booklet fall closed on his lap. 'No, not really.'

Summers sat back down.

'You write a lot?' Elder asked.

'A lot?' Summers smiled. 'I don't know about that. But yes, when I can. Poetry mostly. The occasional short story.'

'And you can earn a living doing that?'

'I wish.'

'What do you do?'

Summers smiled again. He smiled a lot. 'Teach, what else? Class at the university. Adult Ed. Bits and pieces here and there.'

'I do want to talk to Katherine,' Elder said. 'Then I'll

go.'

'She knows you're here. It's up to her.'

'If you asked her,' Elder said.

Smiling, Summers shook his head. 'That's not the way it works.'

'Rob,' Katherine said from the doorway, 'it's all right.' How long she had been standing there, Elder wasn't sure.

'You want me to stay?' Summers asked her.

'No, it's all right.' Her face was pale, tiredness darkening her eyes.

Summers touched Katherine lightly as he went past.

Elder waited for her to come and sit down, but instead she walked to the window and opened the curtains enough to be able to look out. The music came to an end, and voices could be heard, faint and indistinct, through the neighbouring wall. In the kitchen, Rob Summers was washing pots, putting them away.

'I'm sorry,' Elder said finally.

'What for?' He had to strain to make out the words.

'Whatever I've done to make you this upset. Angry.'

When she turned to look at him there were tears he hadn't anticipated on her face.

'I don't know what you expect from me,' Elder said. 'I don't know what you expect me to do.'

'Nothing.'

'You're hurting yourself, you must realise that.'

Slowly, Katherine shook her head. 'You saved me. From Keach. After he did all that stuff to me. He was going to kill me and you saved me.'

'Yes.'

'And now you wish you hadn't.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'Is it?'

'Yes.'

'You don't like me like this.'

Elder paused. 'No. No, of course I don't.'

'You want me to be like I was before.'

'Yes.'

She slid her hands across her face. 'Dad, I'm never going to be like I was before.'

How long he sat there he wasn't sure. Summers didn't reappear. Katherine left the room and then returned and the next thing he was standing beside her at the front door.

'You'll be careful,' he said.

'Yes, of course.' A smile fading in her eyes, she seemed young again, young and old beyond her years. You're seventeen, he wanted to say. Seventeen. What are you going to do with your life?

'If… if I need to get in touch?'

'Call me at Mum's.'

'Not here?'

'Bye, Dad.' Fleetingly, she kissed him on the cheek. Her hand touched his. She stepped back into the house and closed the door. A moment later, maybe two, the curtains were pulled back fast across.

* * *

Beyond Plymouth the train slowed its pace, stopping every twenty minutes or so at this small town or that. Countless times, Elder picked up his book only to set it back down. Staring out of the window into the passing dark, there was only his own face staring back. Six miniatures of Scotch lined up, empty, on the table before him: the slow but steady application of alcohol to the wound, the plastering over of helplessness and guilt. Should he have stayed? With a sweep of his hand, he sent the bottles flying, ricocheting from seat to empty seat and skittering along the floor. The few people still in the carriage tightened their faces and made themselves as small as they could.

By the time the train drew, finally, into Penzance, there were no more than a dozen or so passengers left. From the platform he could hear the sea, the waves splashing up against the concrete wall.

The taxi-driver bridled when Elder told him the address. 'It's gonna cost 'e. Hole through my exhaust goin' down that lane, had that happen before.'

Ignoring him, Elder slumped into the back.

Come morning, he knew, his head would feel like a heavy ball that had been bounced too many times. The cottage was a darkened shell. He gave the taxi-driver five pounds over the odds and stood watching him drive away, red tail lights visible between the dark outlines of bracken and stone that lined the lane and then not visible at all. Inside, he drank water, swallowed two aspirin and went to bed.

* * *

Rain, hard against the windows, woke him at three; by five he was sitting in the kitchen below, leafing through a week-old issue of the
Cornishman
and drinking tea. When eventually he stepped outside, purple light was already bruising the crest of the moor and all he could see was Katherine's face.

But within an hour the rain had dispersed and there was freshness in the air. In a short while, he would set off on a walk, possibly along the Tinner's Way, past Mulva Quoit to Chun Castle and beyond, allow his head the chance to clear. Later, he might take the car into town, spend some time in the gym; stock up on food, call in at the library, see about, perhaps, signing on for that woodworking course he'd been thinking of. Settle back into a routine. So far away, it was almost possible to forget the rest of the world existed.

Family. Friends. Responsibilities.

Maddy Birch's body was found near Crouch Hill, at the bottom of a steep path leading down to the disused railway line. A woman walking her dog, early morning, saw something flesh-coloured sticking up from between the leaves. Her 999 call was classified immediate and a patrol car arrived minutes later, driving in along the narrow lane leading past the adventure playground and children's nursery towards the community centre at the furthest end.

The body had fallen or been thrown some forty feet down the muddied bank into a tangle of blackberry bush and bracken.

The first officers at the scene called for reinforcements and began moving back the small scattering of spectators which had already started to gather. Soon the area would be secured and properly cordoned off by officers from Forensic Science Services, the body shielded by a canopy until the medical examiner had finished his preliminary investigation. Diagrams would be drawn, the scene examined in scrupulous detail, numerous Polaroids taken, measurements noted down: the whole operation captured on video.

The first two detectives from SCD1, Homicide, arrived some twenty minutes later. Lee Furness and Paul Denison, both DCs, showed their ID and spoke briefly to the uniformed officers before pulling on protective clothing. Not wanting to obliterate anything Forensics might find on the path, they scrambled down through the bracken some twenty metres further along.

Losing his footing midway, Furness cursed as dark mud smeared the leg of his overalls.

Denison reached the bottom first.

'Jesus,' he said and crossed himself instinctively. The dead woman's eyes were open and he wished that they were closed. Curly-haired and round of face, at twenty-seven Denison was the youngest in the team, younger than Furness by a full year.

The woman's skin was the colour of day-old putty, save where it had been sliced and torn.

Careful not to contaminate the scene, Furness, wearing a pair of latex gloves, prised a pair of white cotton knickers from the brambles on which they had snagged, dropped them down into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it along the top.

When they looked up, their DS, Mike Ramsden, had just arrived and was standing at the top of the bank, looking down. Burly, broad-shouldered, tall, wearing a scuffed leather jacket and tan chinos, tie loose at his neck, Ramsden epitomised the public's image, post-TV, of what a police detective should be.

'Boss here?' Ramsden called.

'Not yet,' Denison said.

'Forensics?'

'On their way.'

'Time for you two to get it sorted,' Ramsden said. 'Make a name for yourselves. Just don't go trampling over everything.'

His breath hung visible on the morning air.

* * *

Karen Shields, promoted to Detective Chief Inspector some twelve months before, was on her way to Hendon and a weekly meeting at Homicide West when the call came through. Over an excess of instant coffee and without too much rancour, she and other senior officers would review progress in the various investigations underway, pool information, prioritise.

The murder of an Afghan shopkeeper at Stroud Green, attacked by a gang of youths armed with blades and iron bars, beaten and left for dead, was foundering amidst a welter of denial, false alibis and barefaced lies. The two fourteen-year-olds they were certain had been responsible for setting fire to an eighty-six-year-old woman after breaking into her flat, had been arrested and then grudgingly released for lack of evidence. The week before, a family in Wembley, a mother and three children under ten, had been found bludgeoned to death, two of the children in their beds, one on the stairs, the mother in the garden as she tried to raise the alarm. The father had hanged himself from the top of a brightly coloured climbing frame in the kids' playground of the local park.

And then there were the young black men: investigations undertaken with DCC4, Racial and Violent Crimes. One man shot dead as he sat drinking coffee at a pavement cafe in Camden Town; another, possibly as a reprisal, gunned down as he came up the steps from Willesden Green station; a third, no more than seventeen, knifed outside the bowling alley in Finsbury Park. On and on.

Karen knew the figures: the murder rate in England and Wales for the previous year was the highest ever, with shooting-related deaths up by some thirty-two per cent. The highest overall recorded crime rate was in Nottinghamshire, though violent crime, per head of the population, was more prevalent in London, with men under the age of twenty-six the most frequent victims. Gun crime aside, the biggest increases were in stranger violence, harassment and rape. And despite the growing prevalence of guns on the streets, the most popular murder weapon by far was still some form of sharp implement. Knife. Machete. Razor. Sharpened spade.

She thought of this as, having turned her car around, she fought it back through the rush-hour traffic; single men in suits steering one-handed as they smoked cigarette after cigarette and snapped, illegally, into their mobile phones; smart young mums ferrying their children to school in SUVs.

'When you goin' to settle down, girl?' her grandmother had asked when she made her last visit home. 'Have some babies of your own?'

Home was Spanish Town in Jamaica, the progeny of sisters and cousins swarming round her like an accusation.

'Girl, you not gettin' any younger.' As if, not so many months off thirty-nine, she needed reminding.

At Crouch End Broadway, Karen steered wide past a car hesitating at the pedestrian lights, slid into the left-hand lane and accelerated up the hill. Incongruous, a giant totem pole outside the playground signalled the entrance to the lane, and she slowed almost to a halt before pulling in behind Mike Ramsden's Sierra.

A quick glance in the rear-view mirror, a hand pushed up through her tousled, short-cut hair; by rights her lipstick could do with replenishing, but for now it would have to do. She was wearing a dark brown trouser suit and boots with a solid heel that brought her as close as damn it to six foot. Well, five ten. Her don't-mess-with-me look, as she liked to think.