Only with the door finally open, did she turn.
Nothing, nobody there.
Vanessa, she said to herself, for God's sake get a grip.
In bed less than fifteen minutes later, she lay listening to each sound; another hour almost before she finally drifted off to sleep.
33
The early rain clouds had disappeared, leaving the sky above Primrose Hill a clear, crystal winter blue, the light glinting off the roof of the mosque at the edge of Regent's Park below. From his vantage point near the top, Elder watched Robert Framlingham striding up from Prince Albeit Road like a landowner out to survey the vastness of his acreage and his EC subsidy. Framlingham wearing his Barbour jacket and a pair of softly polished, hand- stitched brogues.
'Frank, good to see you.' His grip was firm and warm. 'Sorry if I'm a couple of minutes late.'
'Sit or stroll?' Elder said.
'Oh, stroll I think, don't you? You can fill me in as we go.'
For the best part of a circuit Elder talked and Framlingham was mostly content to listen, the Hill busy with dog walkers, young mums and the ubiquitous au pairs, students and skivers and OAPs, all making the most of the morning sun.
When Elder had finished, they continued to walk for a while in silence, Framlingham running it all over in his mind.
'Kennet, your mind's pretty made up then?'
'Not necessarily.'
'And Shields? What about her?'
'There's not a lot else for her to latch on to.'
'So far, Frank. So far.' Framlingham paused to ease something off the sole of his shoe. 'That business with Mallory and Repton, that young PC in the car. I wonder if I'd let that go for nothing, after all.'
Elder fixed him with a look. 'You know something that I don't.'
Framlingham allowed a smile to spread slowly across his face. 'A good deal, Frank, a good deal. And much of no conceivable use to man or beast.' He rested his hand for a moment on Elder's arm. 'All I'm saying, don't lose sight of the bigger picture.'
They shook hands.
'Your daughter, Frank. I heard just a little. I'm sorry. If ever there's anything I can do.'
A wave of the hand and he was on his way.
The Brent Cross shopping centre was just off the North Circular Road, no more than ten minutes in the car from where Elder was staying. By mid-morning, the car parks were close to full.
Vicki Wilson was standing in the centre aisle, between Next and Hennes, in front of a brightly coloured demonstration stand promising tomorrow's mobile phone today. Make-up picture-book perfect, Vicki was smiling her best professional smile and glad-handing leaflets extolling the virtues of a technological marvel which allowed you to text, take and transmit photographs, download video clips from current movie releases and the top ten singles, watch the latest Premiership goals, surf the Internet and, if time allowed, make the occasional phone call. She was wearing a short pencil skirt and a T-shirt with the manufacturer's logo snug across her breasts.
She'd been there since ten, the best part of an hour, five more to go, and her feet in those stupid shoes were aching already.
Oh, Christ, she thought, when Elder approached. Another sad bastard, can't take his eyes off my tits. Elder had walked past her once slowly, turned and come back around. When he got closer, she revised her opinion. Shit. It's only the fucking law.
'Vicki Wilson?'
'If you're asking that you already know the answer.' Her voice was sharp, east London-edged, Goodmayes or Dagenham.
'Frank Elder.'
'Here.' She pushed a leaflet into his hand.
'What time d'you get a break?' Elder asked.
'Not soon enough.'
'How about a cup of coffee?'
'Now?'
Elder tried a tentative smile. 'Why not?'
'Just hang on a minute.'
She fanned the leaflets out across the table behind her, lifted a shiny green jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it across her shoulders, picked up her bag and walked with Elder towards the lift by the corner of Marks amp; Spencer.
They sat at the end of a row of small tables overlooking one of the aisles; below, shoppers wandered past oases of green-leaved plants, plastic and real, prospering equally beneath a glass roof.
With a small sigh, Vicki eased off her high-heeled shoes. Touch a fingernail to her face, Elder thought, and it would glide like a skater on fresh ice.
'How d'you know where I was?' she asked.
'Your agency.'
'Wonder they didn't give you my address and chest measurements while they were about it.'
'They did.'
'You're fuckin' kidding.'
'Maybe not the chest measurement.'
Vicki tossed her head. 'Coppers, you're all the bloody same.'
Elder held his tongue.
'Jimmy, innit? That's what you want to talk about.'
'Jimmy?'
'James William Grant. Jimmy. It was what he liked to be called. By his friends.' Vicki stirred some of the chocolate from the top of her cappuccino into the froth and brought the spoon to her mouth. 'Come to make sure I've done what I was told, I suppose.'
'What you were told?'
'Keep my mouth shut, of course.'
'What about?'
'I don't know, do I? Fuckin' everything.'
'Who told you this?'
'I don't know, do I? Some copper, plain clothes.'
'Describe him.'
Vicki leaned back in her chair. 'Forties, maybe. Smart. Bit old-fashioned, but smart. Joking with it. Not heavy. But all with that look in his eye. Like it wouldn't pay to cross him, you know?'
'He have a name?'
'Not for me. I'd seen him, though. Seen him before. After what… after they killed Jimmy. Talking to the one who shot him. That bastard.'
'How do you know he was the one?'
'Came over and told me, didn't he? That morning. Right after it happened. I was sitting in the back of this police car, right? Didn't really know what was going on. 'Cept I knew Jimmy was dead. I knew that. Anyway, he come over, pointed his finger, right in my face, and made this sort of popping sound. Like a little kid, you know,
