The drive north to Hertford was slow and rendered slower by a broken-down lorry and two sets of competing roadworks, cable companies digging for gold. Close to where the A10 met the M25 near Waltham Cross, the rain started to fall for the second day running. Light at first, by the time Elder had turned off towards the centre of the town, it was swingeing down with such force he had the windscreen wipers working double time. The only space into which he could shoehorn the Astra was at the extreme edge of the car park, about as far from the entrance as it was possible to be. Running, collar up, he was nonetheless soaked by the time he pushed his way inside and reported at the enquiry desk.
A uniformed constable took him up to the small office with Detective Superintendent Ashley's name plate on the door.
Ashley shook Elder's hand affably and commiserated about the weather.
'If you want to take off that coat, put it on the radiator?'
'Thanks, I will.'
Ashley himself was wearing an ageing tweed jacket with patches on the elbows and around the cuffs; Elder half-expected him to take out a pipe and begin the ritual of striking match after match, trying to get the damned thing to light.
'You're one of Framlingham's cronies, then? The old geezer brigade.'
'Is that what they call us?'
'Amongst other things. Mind you, they already call me that and worse.'
Elder thought they were probably of an age.
'Helps supplement the pension, I dare say,' Ashley went on. 'Prevents the joints from seizing up.'
'Something like that.'
'What was it in the old days? Taking over a newsagent's. Running a pub. Now it's security. Guarding some posh enclave where they expect you to touch your cap and call them sir and madam.'
'You don't see yourself doing that?'
'Would you?' Ashley grinned and eased himself back in his chair. 'Herefordshire, me. Best fishing there is. Outside Scotland, of course. Got a little place all staked out.'
Elder had heard it, or similar, many times before, and wondered if it would ever come to pass.
'You wanted to talk about Maddy Birch,' Ashley said.
'Yes.'
'What happened to her, that kind of mindless violence, like those women in London, out running in the park, well, you know the statistics as well as I do. No matter how much you massage them, violent crime, crime against the person, it's up – what? – 15 per cent last year. And there's that pillock of a Home Secretary, fannying about with fancy schemes for tracking offenders by bloody satellite, telling people on council estates if they want decent policing they've got to pay for it themselves. Talk about the blind leading the poor bloody blind.'
He raised his hands, palms outwards.
'I know, I know, I'm ranting, but that man, this government, they get my bloody goat.'
Elder smiled and waited for Ashley to calm down. The rain continued to lash against the windows outside.
'You think there might be some kind of connection?' the detective superintendent said. 'Between the Grant shooting and Birch's murder?'
'I'm not sure. I think it's possible, without really seeing how. Just casting around, I suppose.'
'I'll tell you what I can.'
'You interviewed her yourself, you and DCI Mills?'
'That's right.'
'How did she strike you?'
Ashley gave it a few moments' thought. 'A little on edge, maybe. But no more than most in that situation. Wary of being criticised. Found in the wrong.'
'And was she?'
'Not as far as I can see.'
'And her version of events, the shooting…?'
'Basically the same as everyone else's. Detective Superintendent Mallory shot and killed an armed man in the line of duty; the circumstances didn't leave him any alternative.'
'Mallory's version of events, though, the business with the second gun, it depends to a large extent on Maddy Birch's testimony.'
'Not really. Even without it, there's no real alternative. No reason for Mallory to open fire without due cause.'
'You didn't ever consider bringing her in again?'
'We thought about it, yes, at one time. DCI Mills was pretty keen. But then… Well, you know what happened then. We'd lost our chance.'
Ashley pushed an uncapped pen across the papers on his desk. 'I can't see it would have changed anything.'
Elder thanked him for his time and not so many minutes later he was back in his car, the one o'clock news just starting on the radio, the sky lightening to the south where the rain was easing.
Karen had always thought going after Loftus would lead nowhere and from what Mike Ramsden had said there was little to make her change her mind. In some instances, the haste to employ a lawyer might be seen as an admission of guilt, but with Loftus it seemed to be short temper and little else. Earlier that day, she'd had a word with his immediate superior in SO19 and all the indications were that, aside from being a little prickly, he was a good officer with a near-exemplary record. Another blind alley, Karen thought. But maybe worth exploring a touch longer, just to be sure. She would get young Denison to poke around a little, see what, if anything, he could find.
More, maybe, than the half-dozen officers and twenty volunteers who'd been searching the woods along the railway line for any sign of Maddy's watch, and had so far come up empty-handed.
Whether Elder was still up in Hertford or not, she wasn't sure. Possibly back at his flat by now, she thought, smiling, taking an afternoon nap. In retirement that's probably what you got used to.
It was some way short of three when Sheridan came bustling towards her, tie akimbo, excitement palpable on his face.
'Sherry, what's up?'
Karen listened, not quite believing. 'How come we didn't know this before?'
'Never made it on to the computer.'
'Fuck!'
Grabbing her coat from the back of the chair, she brushed Sheridan aside. 'Tell me about it on the way down. Everything you've got.'
She called Elder from the car. 'Kennet, eleven years ago his then girlfriend applied for a restraining order against him.'
'And we've only just found this out?'
'This afternoon. When she didn't follow through with the application, any record was wiped clean. Sherry found out by chance, asking around, tracking back.'
'The girlfriend, any idea where she is now?'
Karen allowed herself a smile. 'Write down this address. I'll meet you there, thirty minutes' time.'
24
Karen drove fast: roundabouts were a test of nerve, traffic lights a starting grid. After weeks of dead ends and disappointment, she was pumped up. Friern Barnet, Totteridge and Whetstone, Hadley Wood. The roads
