Ash & Bone Read online

  This evening, eyeing up one of the waiters whenever he passed their table, Vanessa reminded Maddy of that first occasion and asked her had she ever, you know, been with anyone Indian, Pakistani?

  Maddy said she didn't think she had.

  'I had this lad once…' Vanessa said, lowering her voice as she leaned forward. 'Student nurse at the hospital. Great big eyes.'

  'Just the eyes?'

  'Stop.' Laughing. 'Lovely-looking he was, beautiful skin.'

  'You'll be telling me next you had him in the storeroom cupboard amongst the bandages and bedpans.'

  'Better than that. Upstairs, on one of the empty beds. Ward was temporarily closed down because of the cuts.' Her face was flushed but it was probably due to the curry.

  'What happened?' Maddy said.

  'What d'you mean what happened?' Vanessa laughed again, louder than before. 'Too long ago to remember? Draw you a diagram if you like.'

  'Not that, you idiot. I mean what happened to the bloke?'

  'Oh, him. I dunno. Next week he'd moved on to Obstetrics. Good, though. Top Ten, I'd say.' She grinned. 'How about you? Top ten shags of all time.'

  Maddy looked warily round, prepared to be embarrassed. 'Don't joke. I'd be scraping the barrel to come up with five or six.'

  'You're kidding.'

  'You should try getting married before you're twenty-one. Trims your sails a bit, I'm telling you.'

  Vanessa crossed her knife and fork across her plate. 'You never were? Married that young?'

  'Wasn't I?'

  'How come you never said?'

  'I don't know. Don't much like talking about it, I suppose.'

  'Well, who was he? At least tell us that. What was his name?'

  'Terry, his name was Terry. Okay? Satisfied? He was this bloke, older, a bit older, and I was just a kid, still living at home, and I thought he was God's gift. Now let's just leave it, right?'

  'Right.' Vanessa shrugged and ordered two more bottles of Kingfisher. No point in pushing it further, she could see that. Not unless she fancied trolling along to the karaoke session in the pub later on her own.

  'I keep thinking,' Maddy said a few minutes later, 'that poor little lad, Paul Draper's boy, growing up without a dad.'

  'She'll find someone else, won't she? If she's any gumption. Kid'll not remember.'

  Maddy shook her head. 'You really think it's that simple?'

  'Yes. If you want it to be.'

  'Sometimes I wonder,' Maddy said, 'if you know you're even born.'

  'Fuck off,' Vanessa said, laughing. 'And pass us over that aubergine thingy if you're done with it.'

  * * *

  Shortly after midnight, the two women emerged from the raucous glitter of a late-night extension and set off, arm in arm, along the Holloway Road. Vanessa had talked Maddy into a duet version of 'Dancing Queen' which had been fine until Maddy had lost it two-thirds of the way through and faltered to a halt.

  'What got into you?' Vanessa asked. 'We were going great.'

  'I don't know. Suddenly realised what I was doing, I suppose. Up there in front of everyone. Looking a right prat.'

  'Come on,' Vanessa said, 'I'll walk you to the end of your street.'

  'You're sure? No need.'

  'No, do me good. Walk off some of that beer. Nothing worse'n waking up of a morning, feeling bloated.' She laughed. 'Less it's not waking up at all.'

  'Not funny, Nessa.'

  'Sorry.' Vanessa gave her arm a squeeze. 'Really got to you, hasn't it? What happened.'

  'Last night,' Maddy said, 'when I got home, getting ready for bed, I saw these specks of mascara here, alongside my eye. Except it wasn't mascara, it was blood.'

  Vanessa didn't say anything else until they reached the corner of Maddy's road. 'Take care,' she said, giving Maddy's arm a squeeze. 'Get some sleep, eh? Try not to think about it too much. And give me a call tomorrow.'

  'Okay,' Maddy said, 'if I can. You take care too.'

  Maddy watched for a moment as Vanessa quickened her pace, and then turned towards home. The click of her low heels on the pavement as she walked. Here and there, lights faint behind drawn curtains or lowered blinds. Of course, what had happened had got her rattled. Grant, Draper. It stood to reason. Only now that wasn't all. Her key stiffened for a moment in the lock, then turned. She knew she should never have said anything to Vanessa about being married, about Terry, fetching all that up from where it lay buried, started herself thinking about him after all this time. Terry. All abs and promises. She allowed herself a rueful smile. North Wales, the last she'd heard from him. Married again and good luck to the pair of them.

  Maddy poured the last of the orange juice into a glass and carried it into the living room. No way that would have been him, skulking mid-week round a North London boozer, staring at her from the back of the crowd. His face stopping her in her tracks, mid-chorus. Everyone clapping, laughing. 'Dancing Queen'. Just someone who looked a bit like him, that was all.

  The curtains were drawn fast across the French windows to the garden, shutting out the night. The glass was cold in her hand. She sat there until her legs began to numb, willing her eyes to close, her mind to still.

  4

  At first, Elder had wondered if he would ever get used to the weather in this part of Cornwall. Mostly, like a delinquent five-year-old, it was unable to make up its mind five minutes at a time. Sunshine followed by fierce lashings of near-horizontal rain and then sunshine again, and through it all, sun and rain, the near-inevitable wind. 'Keeps you on your toes,' the locals said when he complained. When they said anything at all.

  Then, one late, dark afternoon towards the end of October, he realised there'd been three days solid in which the fog had rolled in off the Atlantic, met and mingled with the mist veiling down off the hills, and never lifted, pressing down an immovable grey, and through it the rain had continued to fall, harsh and unyielding, and he had barely noticed.

  Sitting in the deep corner of the kitchen, illuminated by a single bulb, he had read steadily - Priestley currently, a threadbare edition of The Good Companions — rising occasionally to make tea or switch on the radio for the sound of a voice other than his own. Sometimes, setting Priestley aside, he closed his eyes and listened to one of the few pieces of music he possessed, a cassette of some

  string quartets he had picked up at the local village bring-and-buy. Local meant a good two miles across fields by hedge and stile.

  He had moved home twice since early summer, when the owner of the place he'd rented for close on two years had decided to put it up for sale. First, and briefly, he took a third-floor flat in a tall Victorian house in Penzance, with views across the harbour towards St Michael's Mount. It was not a success. Small, scarcely metropolitan, Penzance was yet enough of a town to remind him of what he'd willingly left behind: Lincoln, Leeds, Mansfield, Nottingham. After that, he had gone back across the peninsula to where he was now, a former farm labourer's cottage between moor and sea.

  The downstairs was warmed by an oil-fired stove, which heated the water when it had a mind, and on which Elder gradually retaught himself to cook. Nothing spectacular: stews, casseroles, pasta, fish. What was the point of living so close to the sea if you didn't eat fish? Mackerel, red mullet, megrim, sea bass, lemon sole, occasionally shark. His favourite, mackerel, was, providentially, the cheapest by far.

  The walls of the room in which Elder slept were bare stone save for one section on which plaster had been unevenly slapped. A second, smaller room held clothes he now rarely wore, boxes and bags, dribs and drabs of a life he scarcely chose to recognise. At some stage a bathroom had been added to the rear: the toilet seat rocked precariously when touched, the fitments bought cheaply at second- or third-hand; the bath itself, below its wide old-fashioned taps, was ringed with generations of overlapping reddish stains.

  A short distance along a narrow lane was the farm to which the cottage had formerly belonged, now dilapidated and abandoned. Sacking at the windows, rough hasp
s and padlocks at the doors. Some story Elder had part-overheard, a family feud that had turned son against father, father against son. Other farmers pastured their cattle on the fields, paying dues. Stray walkers aside, Elder scarce saw a soul from one week's end to the next.

  It suited him down to the ground.

  Three years now since his marriage to Joanne had imploded and he had retired from the Nottinghamshire Force, off with his tail between his legs, almost as far west as it was possible to go. More than a year since his daughter Katherine had been abducted by Adam Keach. Abducted, raped and almost killed. Katherine, sixteen.

  What happened to her, Frank, it's your fault. You nearly killed her. You. Not him.

  Joanne's words.

  Because you had to get involved, you couldn't let things be. You always knew better than anybody else, that's why.

  Of course, he had dreams.

  But none so bad as Katherine's.

  You'll get over this, Frank. You'll come to terms, find a way. But Katherine, she never will.

  In the spring, before the trial, she had come to visit him, Katherine. They had talked, walked, sat drinking wine. In the night, he had been woken by her screams.

  'These dreams,' she'd said, 'they will go, won't they? I mean, with time.'

  'Yes,' Elder had replied. 'Yes, I'm sure they will.'

  He had lied.

  Wanting to protect her, he'd lied.

  Now she refused to speak to him, broke the connection at the sound of his voice. Changed the number of her mobile. Didn't, wouldn't write.

  Your fault, Frank…

  Well, of course, in a way it was true.

  Adam Keach had killed another girl, a young woman, Emma Harrison, only weeks before taking Katherine. Elder had been back working for the Major Crime Unit at the time, a civilian consultant attached to the investigation. Found fit to stand trial and hoping for a lighter sentence, Keach had pleaded guilty and Elder had breathed relief. It saved Katherine from going into the dock and giving evidence, being cross-examined.

  In the matter of abduction and serious sexual assault, the judge handed down ten years. For the murder of Emma Harrison, life.

  'Life doesn't mean life though, does it?' Katherine had said. 'Not any more.'

  It was just about the last conversation they had had.

  The Notts. Force had contacted him since about another case in which they considered Elder's experience and expertise might be of use.

  'After Keach,' Elder had said, 'I'd've thought you'd've had all the help out of me you'd want.'

  'Don't come down so hard on yourself, Frank,' the senior officer had replied. 'You're the one as caught him. Brought him in. Saved your lass's life.'

  Elder had been polite but firm. Retirement suited him fine.

  'You'll go crazy down there, Frank. End up topping yourself, like as not.'

  Elder had thanked him for the thought and set down the phone.

  * * *

  The day had begun with a faint mist across the hills and then a soft rain that scarcely seemed to dampen the ground. By noon it was bright and clear, with only a scattering of off-white clouds strung out across the sky to the west. Elder stuffed his book down into one pocket of his waterproof coat, an apple and a wedge of cheese into the other, and set out towards the coast path at River Cove, just short of Towednack Head. For thirty minutes or so he sat on a boulder opposite Seal Island, eating his bit of lunch and alternately reading or gazing out at the water tumbling up, then falling back. Usually there were seals, stretched out on the rocks or swimming near the shore, rounded heads fast disappearing as they dived for fish, but not today.

  Walking back he noticed the bracken facing up the moor had turned an almost uniform rusted brown, patched through here and there with yellow-flowering gorse. Late autumn and the nights drawing ever closer in.

  He had only time to pull off his coat and unlace his boots before the phone startled him.

  'Hello?'

  'Frank?'

  'Yes.'

  'It's Joanne.'

  He knew: you didn't live with someone for twenty years without recognising each turn and intonation of her voice, even the breath drawn before speaking, the weight of a pause.

  'What's wrong?' Elder said.

  'Does it have to be something wrong?'

  'Probably.'

  The breath there, head turning aside. A glass of wine? A cigarette?

  'It's Katherine,' Joanne said.

  Of course it was. The adrenalin had started to pulse in his veins. 'What about her?' he said.

  'It's difficult.'

  'Just tell me.'

  Another pause. Longer.

  'I'm worried. Worried about her. The way she's been behaving lately.'

  'Behaving? How? What do you mean?'

  'Oh, staying out late, getting drunk. Not coming home till three or four in the morning. Not coming home at all.'

  'You've spoken to her?'

  'Frank, she's seventeen…'

  'I know how old she is.'

  'I say anything, she tells me to mind my own business.'

  'And Martyn?'

  'Martyn's got nothing to do with this.'

  Elder sighed. 'She won't talk to me, you know that.'

  'She's your daughter, Frank.'

  As if he'd forgotten.

  'When she stays out,' Elder said, 'd'you know where?'

  'She's seeing someone, I know that. I think sometimes she stays there.'

  'You think?'

  'Frank, I just don't know.'

  He sighed again. 'All right, I'll come up. Tomorrow. The day after. I'll get the train.'

  'Thank you, Frank.'

  She's your daughter.

  He set down the receiver, walked to the window and stared out. Mist plaiting itself between blackened filaments of hedge. The coming dark. Images of what Adam Keach had done to Katherine kept forcing themselves under the edges of his mind and he struggled to will them away.

  When she had been seven, possibly eight, one of the last times she let him walk her all the way to school, right up to the gates - London it would have been, Shepherd's Bush, green school cardigan, grey pleated skirt, green tights, black shoes he'd shined the night before, book bag in her hand - he'd ducked his head towards her and she'd thrown up an arm — 'Don't kiss me now!' — and run towards her friends. Shutting him out.

  Not coming home till three or four in the morning. Not coming home at all.

  Seventeen.

  Stupid, he felt, standing there. Stupid, helpless and old.

  The bottle of Jameson's was in the drawer.

  It wouldn't help, he knew that, but what else was he supposed to do?

  5

  The official inquiry into the shootings of William Grant and Paul Draper was opened within two weeks of the incidents taking place. The Police Complaints Authority, which routinely managed such matters, asked Detective Superintendent Trevor Ashley from the Hertfordshire Force to conduct the investigation, and as his number two, Ashley chose a newly promoted chief inspector, Linda Mills. Chalk and cheese. Ashley wore muted tweed jackets with leather patches on the arms and affected a voice that was slower and more up-country than his home, less than forty minutes' drive north from London, warranted. Mills had the lean and driven look of someone who began the day with a bracing shower and an energetic fifteen or twenty lengths in the pool.

  Assisted by three other officers and two civilian clerks, Ashley and Mills were allocated a Portakabin in the car park as their base, together with a pair of interview rooms in the main building. One of the first officers called in for questioning was Maddy herself.

  Taking his time, the superintendent took her through her written deposition, step by step, stage by stage, Mills watching her closely, not aggressively, occasionally making a neatly written note. Maddy wearing the same blue suit: weddings, interviews and funerals.

  'Since making this statement…' Ashley said. 'When was it? The morning after the incident? You've had no further tho
ughts? There's nothing you'd like to add?'

  'No, sir. I don't think so.'

  'Sometimes, you know, on reflection…'

  'Thank you, sir, but no.'

  'Good, good.' With a glance towards his number two, Ashley settled back in his chair.

  Linda Mills took her time. 'PC Draper and yourself, if I understand rightly, you were among the first officers to arrive at the entrance to Grant's flat?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'And this was by design?'

  'I'm sorry, I…'

  'Part of the plan outlined at the briefing that you and PC Draper…'

  'No. Not exactly.'

  'It was what, then? Accident? Chance?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'Which?'

  Maddy hesitated. 'Chance, I suppose.'

  The chief inspector glanced down at the papers in front of her. 'Not entirely.'

  'I'm sorry, I don't quite…'

  'According to your statement it was Superintendent Mallory who ordered you to move back down the stairs.'

  'Yes. Yes, that's correct.'

  Mills looked at her full on. 'Why, in your estimation, did he do that?'

  Maddy took her time; her head was starting to buzz. 'I think he was concerned for our safety.'

  'And that was the only reason?'

  'I believe he wanted us to cover any possible escape.'

  'Even though you were still unarmed?'

  'There were armed officers on the stairs. Everywhere.'

  'With orders to fire if necessary?'

  'I assume so, yes.'

  'And yet, in the event, it was Superintendent Mallory who did the actual firing.'

  Maddy hesitated slightly, without knowing why. 'Yes, ma'am.'

  'And the reason Superintendent Mallory discharged his weapon when he did?'

  'As I've said in my report —'

  'The reason was?'

  'In my report, it's —'

  'The reason, sergeant?'

  'My colleague had already been shot. Grant had shot him.'

  'And the superintendent knew this?'

  'I assume so, yes.'

  Mills sighed and sat back. Though it wasn't especially hot in the room, a slick line of sweat was making its way slowly down Maddy's back. Her hands were sticking to the sides of the chair. Superintendent Ashley slid one of the papers round at an angle. 'According to this diagram, the weapon Grant had used to shoot DC Draper was out of his reach here when Superintendent Mallory entered the room.'