Prestatyn, am I? Just some dumpy little tart with a fat arse and half a brain. Learn to take what you can get. And besides, he's not so bad, earns good money most of the time and not mean with it, like some.' She drew hard on her cigarette. 'You could do worse, believe me. A lot worse. I know.'
Karen sipped at the lukewarm coffee to the faint strains of 'Rocket Man'.
'Ooh, I love this,' Tina said, reaching towards the radio. 'You mind if I turn it up?'
Karen always thought listening to Elton John was like a quick fuck in the dark, okay till you turned on the light.
'Were you here,' Karen asked, 'when he heard about his ex-wife, what had happened?'
'Both watching the news, weren't we? Half-watching, anyway. All of a sudden Terry's shouting out 'cause he's heard her name and then there's this picture of her on the screen. Someone saying how she'd been murdered. Terry, he sort of froze. Stunned, like. As if he couldn't believe it. Ages before I could get him to say a word. Really got to him, you know.' She stubbed out her cigarette. 'Made me think twice about going out at night, even round here, on your own. Always some bastard man, out there, waiting for you.'
She turned the radio back down.
'He wrote to her, you know. Maddy. More than a few times. I'm not supposed to know. Found one of the letters in his coat pocket. Steamed it open. All this bollocks about how she was the love of his life and that. Burned it, didn't I? Tore it into little pieces and set fucking light to it. Never said anything, soft sod must've thought he'd posted it.'
She lit another cigarette.
'Maybe she was, you know? Love of his life? Least someone thought that of her, eh?'
12
Elder had finished J. B. Priestley and gone back to Patrick O'Brian. Each morning he listened to the coastal reports on Radio Cornwall: NCI St Ives, NCI Gwennap Head, NCI Bass Point. One blustery day, returning from a tramp across the fields, a beast lay dead in the otherwise deserted farmyard along the lane, legs poking stiff from either side of its distended belly, plastic sheet flapping loose about its head. When he went out again towards dusk, it had disappeared, leaving just the trail through the mud where it had been dragged.
Since returning from Nottingham, he had phoned Joanne with some regularity and asked after Katherine; every few days at first, then less often. Sometimes his daughter was there, sometimes not. She seems to have settled down, Joanne assured him. Stays home more. She's even talking about going to college, finishing her AS exams. Whoever Katherine was talking to, it wasn't him.
Elder sent her a letter, drafted carefully beforehand, trying to explain how he felt, how he felt about her. Not expecting a reply, he still checked the postbox each day, still felt the same twinge of hurt. He thought of going up again to see her, but rationalised it would only serve to make things worse. Katherine might have settled down, as Joanne had suggested, but he had not.
With the winds lashing more and more fiercely in from the Atlantic, Elder ordered another load of logs and stacked them in the lean-to at the side of the cottage, splitting some with an axe for kindling. The bottle of Jameson's in the kitchen went down a little more each evening, slow but steady.
And then, on the first day of December, a Monday, he opened a three-day-old paper and read the news: the body of a police officer had been found near a disused railway line in north London, sexually assaulted and left for dead. As soon as he saw the name, he knew who she was.
It had been sixteen years. Elder had been based in Lincoln, CID, established, not so many months off forty. The big four-O. Katherine was barely two, a toddler, agile enough at night to infiltrate herself between Joanne and himself in their bed. He had noticed Maddy Birch around the station, the odd word exchanged in passing, nodded greetings in the canteen: enough to notice the colour of her eyes, the same shade as Joanne's, the absence of rings on her left hand. Late twenties, he supposed, maybe younger still.
One evening, late, a leaving do for someone in Traffic neither of them really knew, they bumped up against each other in the crush at the bar, her hand resting for a moment on his arm as she steadied herself, the second time surely no mistake. When he'd smiled what was intended as an inviting smile, she'd looked away. Which of them had contrived that they leave together, he was never sure; maybe neither, maybe both. The cobbles on the street outside were slippery and wet, the street narrow and steep. Only natural to reach out a hand, steady her against a fall. Above and behind, lights picked out the west front of the cathedral, the stonework of the castle opposite. His fingers touched her cheek and neck. The doorway into which they half-stumbled, half-stepped was barely deep enough to hold them both. His mouth found hers, her mouth found his. She said his name. Clumsily unbuttoning her coat, his hand closed on her breast. She fumbled with the front of his clothes, gave up, gripped hard instead. The flesh of her neck was warm and soft and when he kissed her there, low in the dip between muscle and bone, she moaned and squeezed tighter and he came, standing there, came against her hand.
Oh, Christ!
She kissed him near the side of his mouth and, after a moment, when she stepped away, there was light enough to see the rueful smile upon her face.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'Don't be.' Her finger to his lips. And then, 'Come on, let's walk,' linking her arm through his.
At the foot of the hill, they went their separate ways, she a short walk to the place she'd recently bought, he in a taxi to the home where wife and child would doubtless be sleeping, somehow managing to take up, between them, most of the bed.
The central heating had switched itself off automatically and, still wearing his coat, he sat in the kitchen with a glass of Scotch in both hands, taking his mind as slowly as he could through what had happened, moments that were already uncertain, half-imagined.
Neither of them spoke of it again; nothing else happened.
It was the only time, in all the years of his marriage, that Elder had strayed.
Yet he found himself from time to time remembering, images appearing from nowhere, a kaleidoscope of touch and warmth and breath.
And now she was dead.
He read the report again.
Maddy had been at a yoga class that evening and had left alone; it was assumed she'd been attacked shortly afterwards. As yet the police were uncertain as to the exact sequence of events. What was certain was that at some point after finishing her class, getting changed and leaving the centre, Maddy Birch had been attacked, most probably raped, beaten, cut and left for dead.
Elder knew that Robert Framlingham was now based with the Murder Review Unit at Trenchard House; not so many months ago he had been in touch, eager to persuade Elder to join his team of recently retired detectives who were being increasingly used to re-examine cold cases or review investigations that had stalled. As he had with the earlier approach from Nottinghamshire, Elder had politely yet firmly declined.
Framlingham's voice, as ever, was rich and full, unlike the man himself, who was whippet thin and tall enough to make Elder crane his neck when they ever met.
'Frank, changed your mind, I'll be bound.'
'Afraid not,' Elder said.
Framlingham chuckled. 'Well, if it's about a loan…'
'Don't worry, not that.'
'Then shoot.'
'The DS who was murdered at Crouch Hill, Maddy Birch…'
