'It's not your fault, you know.'
'Oh, no. Yes, it is. Of course it is.'
'You didn't do any of those things to her.'
'I made her talk about them, think about them.'
'You were doing your job.'
'My fucking job.'
'Besides, you think they weren't on her mind, all the time? You think she could forget? Ever?' He was thinking of Katherine, standing in Rob Summers's house, back before Christmas. Dad, I'm never going to be like I was before. 'It's Kennet,' Elder said. 'That's who's to blame. What we've got to do is make sure he doesn't do it again. Make sure he pays.'
Jennifer McLaughlin was serving a customer with something for a sore throat and sympathising: a lot of it about this time of the year. Elder went in and begged ten minutes of her time. Together with Karen they walked along the Broadway, Jennifer taking the opportunity for a cigarette; Karen doing her best to inhale but getting only petrol fumes instead. Starbucks was full so they went on past the circle to Pizza Express.
Karen began her questions as delicately as she could, but Jennifer, a good decade and a half younger than Estelle Cooper by age, and several generations by attitude and experience, was largely unfazed.
'We quarrelled about it, yes, course we did. All that play-acting stuff. Don't know now why I went along with it as long as I did.' Pausing, she looked Karen in the eye. 'Except, well, it was exciting at first. You know? You know what I mean? It's only afterwards you think, God, what was going on there at all?'
'And when you fell out on holiday,' Karen said, 'is that really what it was about? More of the same?'
Averting her face, Jennifer slowly released a wavering line of smoke. 'Yes,' she said.
'We'd like you to come in and make a statement,' Karen said. 'I presume that's okay?'
'Now? You don't mean now?'
'Later this afternoon would be fine. When you finish work. We can give you a lift both ways if that would help.'
'All right.' She looked at them again, first one and then the other. 'He has done something this time, hasn't he? Something serious.'
'It's possible,' Elder said.
'Dear God,' Jennifer whispered and crossed herself.
'If it were necessary,' Karen said, 'you'd be prepared to give evidence in court?'
'Oh, yes.'
'You don't know the names of anyone Steven went out with before, do you?' Elder asked. 'We'd like to talk to as many as we can.'
Jennifer reached for her pack of cigarettes. 'I don't know, I might. If I think about it, you know. Names he's mentioned. Not above a bit of bragging, as you might imagine. But offhand there's only that -' The cigarettes slipped from her hand. 'Only that policewoman, the one who was killed. Oh, God. Oh, my good God!' A sudden shiver running through her, every vestige of colour bleached from her face.
In the end, Jennifer McLaughlin came up with three names, going back, she thought, a good few years. One might have been working in Waitrose, another a nurse. All were – or had been – north London-based.
'You and me then, Frank,' Karen said. 'Bit of old-fashioned legwork. What do you say?'
36
Elder picked up the CD box and glanced at the front: a round-faced black man with short cropped hair, saxophone balanced over one shoulder, hands together as though in prayer. 'Stanley Turrentine,' Elder called towards the kitchen. 'Should I have heard of him?'
No reply.
Saxophone and what? Organ?
'Sorry,' Karen said, carrying through two newly rinsed glasses and the bottle of Aberlour she'd spotted on special offer on their visit to Waitrose. 'You said something but I couldn't hear what.'
'Turrentine, is he famous? '
'Celebrity-famous or the jazz-cognoscente kind?'
'Either.'
'Maybe a little bit of the latter.' She poured two quite generous measures of Scotch, handed one to Elder, and raised her own. 'Cheers.'
'Cheers.'
'I saw him a few years back at the Jazz Cafe.' Karen smiled. 'Back in my clubbing days.'
'Now you sit around in the evenings knitting and doing crochet.'
'Something like that.'
The whisky was good, warm on the back of the throat. They'd eaten at a place on Upper Street, Turkish; had to stand in line twenty minutes or so for a table, but it had been worth it. Lamb kebabs and rice, hot sauce, a bottle of red wine.
'He played this,' Karen said, listening. 'You know it?'
Elder shook his head.
''God Bless the Child'.' She sang a few bars.
During the course of a long afternoon they'd managed to track down and talk to two of the three women whose names Jennifer McLaughlin had remembered.
Maria Upson, a nurse working in Orthopaedics at the Middlesex, had confirmed pretty much everything about Kennet they either knew or suspected; she'd gone out with him for nine months and now regretted almost every minute of the last six.
'Men,' she said, with a not totally disparaging glance towards Elder, 'get to know them, or think you do, let them slip under your guard and they either turn into five-year-olds who want cuddling and cosseting or else they're Fred West.' She didn't need to add which Kennet resembled most.
Lily Patrick was a trainee manager at Waitrose and the picture she painted was different: Kennet was kind, funny, considerate. Okay, he did once climb through her second-floor bedroom window in the middle of the night and scare the wits out of her, but that was to deliver a dozen red roses and some red balloons on her birthday. 'You know, like the Milk Tray man.'
'And sexually,' Karen said, 'he didn't ever suggest anything you felt uncomfortable with?'
'No.' Blushing, but just a little. 'What kind of thing?'
'Games, acting out fantasies. That kind of thing.'
'We did act out a bit of Romeo and Juliet once. You know, the balcony scene. After we'd seen the movie.'
'I was thinking of something a bit less romantic'
'I don't understand.'
'Rape fantasies, perhaps.'
'Rape?' Lily wiped her hands down the front of her Waitrose overall, as if they were suddenly sullied. 'You're joking, right? This is some kind of a joke?'
'No.'
