'Nothing. Just, you know…'
'You sound worried.'
'Not specially, no. Bit of a headache. Busy day.'
There was a brief silence and then, 'I wanted to ask you, this business, the police, you do know what's going on?'
'I think so, yes.'
'Only Rob… well, what they're asking him to do… he's not sure who he can trust.'
'Who's he been talking to?'
'This woman, policewoman. Maureen. Her mostly.'
'Maureen Prior. You can trust her, believe me.'
'Bland, though, he's one of them.'
'No. No, he's not. Not really. Not any more.'
'I don't know.'
'When's he meeting him, Rob? When's he meeting Bland again?'
'Soon, I think. The next couple of days.'
'As soon as that's done with, maybe you should get away for a bit. Just till things calm down.'
'Rob's got friends up Hull way. Family too.'
'Why don't you go up there then? Just for a week or so.'
'You don't mind?'
'Mind what?'
'Me and Rob, being together like that.'
'It's not what I'd choose.'
'But you don't mind?'
'You're old enough to make your own decisions.'
'Make my own mistakes, that's what you mean.'
A pause. 'Maybe.'
There was a man's voice, just audible in the background, Rob's most probably, Elder thought, and then Katherine saying, 'Look, Dad, I'd better go.'
'All right. Just be careful. The two of you. And keep in touch, okay?'
'Okay.'
'I love you,' he added, but the line was already dead.
Elder took one swallow of whiskey and then another. He remembered how she had been when he had found her, a prisoner in the jerry-built hut sheltering against rock, high on the North York coast. The stench of rotten fish and drying blood. The bruises discolouring her face and back. Was this something else he was helping to draw her into, some new danger? Or had she chosen that herself when she started hanging out with the down-and-outs in Slab Square, going out with someone who, in no matter how small a way, dealt drugs? It was difficult to care and not to judge.
While the bath was running, and despite her assurance that she would contact him, he rang Maureen Prior. 'Falling into place, Frank,' she told him. 'Another couple of days, that's all we need.'
'Katherine said.'
'You've spoken to her then?'
'She rang earlier.'
'She's a good kid, Frank.'
'Not a kid.'
'You know what I mean. She's strong.'
'She's had to be. She'd have gone under, else. I thought she had.'
'I'll keep an eye out for her, you know that. Do any more, put someone babysitting her, there's a good chance Bland'll catch wind.'
'I know.'
'I'll be careful. Do what I can.'
'Thanks, Maureen.'
'Look after yourself, Frank.'
'Do my best.'
He topped up his glass and carried it into the bathroom. No message from Karen yet about Rennet's car, which probably meant they were still chasing it down. At ten tomorrow, Kennet himself would go before the magistrate. That would buy them time. And tomorrow he would talk to Sherry, go over what it was he'd been able to unearth. The water was a touch too hot and he ran a quick burst of cold, whisking it round before lowering himself in. When she was a baby, eighteen months or less, he would lift Katherine into the bath with him and she would splash and laugh, slippery like a fish between his hands. Times like that, they never came back. Had he said 'I love you' knowing she was no longer on the line? 'I love you, Katherine,' he said aloud, tears in his stupid eyes.
43
The car was a Ford Mondeo five-door estate, S reg, with a little over 18,000 on the clock. It was found parked on Tollington Way, close to the back of the old Royal Northern Hospital. There were a pair of Kennet's work boots in the back, speckled with plaster and paint, and overalls and a woollen check shirt folded round one another alongside. Old copies of the Sun and Mail. A spiral-bound London A-Z, well-thumbed. Parking tickets. Snickers wrappers and a half-eaten roll of mints. Several audio cassettes in the side compartment, driver's side: Queen, David Lee Roth, U2, Springsteen's Greatest Hits. A box of matches with only five remaining. A pair of worn leather gloves. A red-and-black thermos flask that still smelt faintly of coffee. A paperback Patricia Cornwell, turned down on page 121. Jump leads. A screwdriver. A chamois leather, stiff and darkened with use. A rusted can of WD-40; a plastic bottle of Holt's concentrated all-seasons non-smearing screen wash and another of Comma Xstream De-icer. An empty 2-litre container that had once held engine oil. And in the wheel space, snug beneath the spare wheel, a small metal box which contained, carefully wrapped in a piece of material that looked to have been torn from an old denim shirt, a single earring, green and gold and in the shape of a moon; a plain silver bracelet; a pendant necklace with a fine silver chain; and a watch with a mid-brown leather strap, a Lorus, with a plain front and the name Maddy Birch engraved on the back, together with the date, 15.07.81.
Karen drank a large black coffee in the canteen and then splashed cold water in her face in the cloakroom. 'Take it easy,' she told herself. 'Easy. Chill.'
At a little after ten, Steven Kennet had been remanded in custody until the 27th at a specially convened magistrates' court, his application for bail denied. Now he was back in the interview room, throat dry, looking as if he had barely slept. Beside him, his solicitor fiddled with his pen, removing the cap and then replacing it, the same action over and over again.
Ramsden thought if he carried on like that he might just reach across and grab the pen, then stick it up his bony arse.
'This interview,' Karen began, 'timed at eleven forty-seven…'
Steadily she led Kennet through the same events as on the previous day, the same denials, letting him dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole.
'Mr Kennet,' Karen said nonchalantly, almost an afterthought, 'do you own a dark blue, 1998, Ford Mondeo estate?'
Even from where he was watching, through glass, Elder could read the jolt of apprehension that flickered across Kennet's eyes.
'Mr Kennet?'
