by John Harvey
Repton was out of the car.
'A mistake, Frank,' Mallory said. 'When you look back, if you can, that's what you'll think.'
He spat at the ground between Elder's feet and turned away again.
Moments later, smooth as grease, the Mercedes slid out into the traffic and away.
* * *
'Beautiful, Frank,' Framlingham said, when Elder told him. 'Beautiful. Didn't I tell you we were getting close?'
Elder could still feel the hard bone of Mallory's jaw against his knuckles.
'Repton, that's who we'll go for,' Framlingham said. 'That's the route we'll take.'
'We?' Elder queried.
'Not going to let you have all the fun, Frank. Meetings with the junior Home Office minister or no. Time, I think, for a convenient bout of flu.'
Even down the phone, Elder could sense the broadness of Framlingham's smile.
49
Repton was wearing a three-button charcoal grey suit with a faint red stripe, narrow lapels and a single vent at the back; seven years old now and just beginning to take on a little surface shine around the elbows and the behind. His black Oxfords he'd buffed for fully five minutes while listening to yet another foolish politician digging the ground from under himself about Iraq. Why hadn't Blair and his cronies realised all they had to do was say we want to go in with the Yanks, kick the shit out of Saddam, secure the oil, and give our boys a good workout into the bargain. Sixty per cent of the population would have said fine; a few thousand others would have marched up and down waving banners, but no more than did anyway, and once the initial push was over and we were in without too many casualties, that sixty per cent would be up around seventy.
Of course, he thought now, lighting a Benson's for his trudge across the car park, go in alone next time, instead of waiting for the bloody Americans, and the number of our casualties would be cut by more than half.
Friendly fucking fire!
At the door, he nipped the half-smoked cigarette, blew on the end carefully, and dropped it down into his side pocket for later. Waste not, want not. Any luck he'd be at his desk before George put in an appearance. Stuff been hanging around his in-tray long enough to have grown whiskers.
As soon as he pushed open the door to the long, open-plan office, he saw his luck was in. And out. No George Mallory, but that long streak of piss Framlingham and Frank Elder along with him.
What the fuck was this all about? Payback for last night?
'Maurice, good to see you.' Framlingham's voice could have been heard three fields away, never mind between those walls. 'Frank and I thought it was time for a little chat.'
'What about?'
'Oh, you know, this and that. Loose ends. I don't doubt we'll go into details later.'
'Bollocks,' Repton said, shaking his head. 'I'm not going anywhere. You've got no jurisdiction. You —'
Framlingham lowered a friendly hand on to Repton's shoulder. 'Maurice, Maurice. No need to be hostile. Whatever this is, I'm sure we can work it out to the best of your advantage.' He gave the shoulder a squeeze. 'Yours at least.'
Repton glanced around: several heads turned in their direction, others bent judiciously over their desks. everyone listening.
'Come on, Maurice. We'll take my car, what do you say?' And then, as they were walking towards the door. 'Nice suit, Maurice. Good cut. You must let me have the name of your tailor.'
* * *
Up in Nottingham, Dave Eaglin was still stonewalling like a tail-ender facing up to Australians at Trent Bridge. Stubbornness, grit, and a dodgy technique. Self-preservation uppermost in his mind. Sooner or later, his interrogators would slip one through his defences and that would be that. Game over.
In another similarly airless and anonymous room, Ricky Bland was playing a different game. More attacking, more imaginative but mired in risk. Ian Botham. Andrew Flintoff. You scored your ton against the odds or went down fighting.
'Wait, wait a minute, Charlie. Wait. That tape, the conversation you claim I had with Summers —'
'Claim? It's your voice, Ricky, clear as day.'
'Maybe, maybe.'
'No maybes about it.'
'Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say it could be me.'
'Ricky.'
'Could be, okay?'
'We've got photographs of you and Summers talking, timed. We've got the tape, timed. What do you think? Right. They coincide. It's you on the tape, tapping Summers for information, offering him a deal.'
'Come on, Charlie. Wise up. Get your head out the sand. What d'you think? We get what we need out of this scum without offering them something in return? What d'you think's going on out there, Charlie? It's not helping old ladies across the fucking road. There's a serious fucking drug problem that we're just about keeping the lid on. Just. And never mind the odd handgun, there's thirteen-year-old kids out there riding round with grenades and fucking rocket launchers. It's a war, Charlie, a fucking war.'
'With rules.'
'Fuck the rules!'
'Exactly.'
'Fuck the fucking rules!'
'Exactly.'
Bland lurched forward. 'Okay, listen. You know how long I've been out there, on the streets? Down in the smoke and then up here. You know how long?'
'Too long?'
'Not so fucking long I'm losing my fucking brain. What? You think I'd let that creep Summers cut some kind of a deal in his favour? Let him run rings round me? I was out there doing this stuff when he was still crapping his fucking nappies, for fuck's sake. You know that? Promise him stuff, of course I promise him stuff. Promise him whatever he fucking wants. Ten per cent of cash? Okay, finder's fee. Half the drugs to go back out on the street? Why not? It's all baloney, Charlie, you know that. Use your common sense. Use your brain. It's not real, it's never gonna happen. Summers, he's gonna get fuck all. It's just what I need to say to bring him along, make sure he plays ball.'
'Like in Forest Fields, just over a week ago.'
'What?'
'Crack, heroin, nine thousand in cash. Another tip-off from Summers, I believe.'
Bland angled back his head and laughed. 'There was never nine grand, nothing near. A few hundred, as I remember. Enough crack to keep you and me and a couple of others happy for the rest of the day. Whoever told you anything else's a fucking liar.'
'You didn't give Summers some of the proceeds of that raid?'
Just for a moment, Bland hesitated. Front foot or back?
'A few grams of H, that's all. Keep him sweet.'
'You knew he'd sell it back on the street?'
Bland shrugged.
'What if I told you instead of selling it, he handed it over to the police?'
'I'd say someone was lying or Summers has lost his fucking mind.'
'And the rest of the proceeds from that raid, Ricky, the rest of the drugs, the cash, they're where? Logged somewhere? Evidence? Search and seizure?'
'They're safe, that's all you need to know.'
'Safe? Safe where?'
Bland leaned back and tugged his tie even looser at his neck; the front of his shirt was dark with sweat. 'Hot in here, Charlie. How about a fucking drink?'
* * *
The pub was at the bottom of Hornsey Rise, set well back from the pavement, a board promising hurling and Gaelic football on large-screen TV. Its wood-and-glass fascia had seen better days. A ratty nondescript dog, tied to one of several outside tables, barked at Furness and Denison as they approached the door and nipped hopefully at their ankles.
The interior was dark and smelt of disinfectant and stale beer.
At a round table close to the window, an elderly black man with white hair was playing patience with a dog-eared pack of cards. A woman of similar age and classic dimensions, the kind Furness thought only still existed in old seaside postcards, was sitting on a patched mock-leather seat near the fire, nursing a small drink in a tall glass.
It was the kind of pub, Furness thought, people meant when they said, ad
miringly, it's a real old-fashioned local, not been tarted up like the rest. Said that and then headed off for the bright lights and shiny wood of a Pitcher and Piano, an All Bar One.
The barman had his shirtsleeves rolled back and tattoos snaking up both arms, a silver ring piercing the corner of his left eyebrow and a stud through the centre of his lower lip.
'Get you?' he said, affably enough, glancing up from a well-thumbed copy of Love in the Time of Cholera.
Furness nodded at Paul Denison and Denison took out the single sheet, showing Kennet full-face and profile.
'Don't suppose you've seen him?'
The barman barely gave it a second glance. 'Not for a good while now. Other side of Christmas, certainly.'
'You know him then?'
'Used to come in here quite a bit. After work, like, you know. Pint of Guinness, maybe two, and then he'd be on his way. Lived around here, that'd be my guess.'
'The other side of Christmas, you said. You couldn't be more specific?'
The barman folded down a corner of his book and let it fall closed. 'Time and date, you mean? I don't think so. Early December, maybe? No, wait, wait, it was November, the end of the month. I know because…' He looked past them, towards the man playing cards. 'Ernest, your seventieth, when was that exactly?'
Ernest placed a black ten on a red jack. 'Tuesday, the twenty-fifth day of November, 2003.'
'We had a bit of a party for Ernest, got some food in, dug out the Christmas decorations early. Picture of Ernest in his prime here over the bar. Full uniform - what was it, Ernest?'
'Second Royal Fusiliers.' Red queen on black king.
'What's all this got to do with Kennet?' Furness said.
'Who?'
'Kennet.' Tapping the picture. 'Him.'
'Oh, right. He came in, didn't he? Next day. Later than usual. Eight thirty, nine? Asked me about the photograph, I remember that. Still up, you see. Started to pour him his Guinness, but no, whisky he said. Doubles, two of them. Standing there, where you are now. Quite chatty he was, more than usual. Bit hyper I thought. Just back from Spain, he said, holiday.'
'He didn't say anything about meeting someone? Later?'
'Not to me, no. Not as I recall.'
'How about where he was going? After this, I mean.'
The barman shrugged. 'Home, I suppose.'
'Thanks for your help,' Furness said.
'Drink before you go? On the house.'
Furness gave Denison a glance. 'Yes, why not? Small Scotch, maybe.'
'Lee,' Denison said.
'What?'
'Better not.'
Furness shook his head and stood away from the bar. 'Another time,' he said.
'Suit yourself,' said the barman and opened his book.
'Blessed are the pure at heart,' Furness said, as he followed Denison through the door. 'Blessed and thirsty, too.'
* * *
'What the flying fuck,' Mallory said, 'is going on?'
'Not here,' Repton said.
'Not here? Not fucking here? Farmer fucking Framlingham and that deadbeat Elder come waltzing in without so much as a by-your-leave, and next thing you're going off with them in Framlingham's fucking four-by-four. Nice little drive, Maurice? Giving the motor a spin? Got the picnic basket out later? Spot of lunch? Hamper in the fucking trunk?'
'Not here,' Repton said again.
Mallory's face was puce, fingernails digging deep into his palms.
'Then you'd better say where, Maurice, and soon.'
* * *
Karen's call tracked Elder down at his flat, late afternoon.
'We've placed Kennet near the scene of the murder, the day after he came back from Spain. Had a drink in a pub on Hornsey Rise, close to the time. Right between his flat and the place Maddy was killed. He could have walked from there to the community centre in five minutes, ten tops.'
'Good work,' Elder said. 'I mean it. Really good work.' And then excused himself to go across to the entryphone. There was a parcel downstairs waiting for collection.
50
By the time he had arrived downstairs, whoever had delivered the package was nowhere in sight. A padded envelope the size of a hardback book, with his name printed on the front. Elder shook it, prodded it, carried it back upstairs. Inside the envelope the contents were swathed in bubble wrap, a video tape with a title handwritten on the edge. Singin' in the Rain. Just that and a date.
Who, Elder wondered, was sending him home-taped movies and why?
Not certain when he'd last eaten, Elder thought he'd do it right; phoned out for a pizza and some garlic bread and, when they arrived, opened a bottle of Becks from the fridge.
A mouthful of pizza, and he slotted the tape into place; pressed 'play' and leaned back. For a copy, the picture quality wasn't too bad. Fine, in fact, until the scene, maybe a quarter of the way through, when Debbie Reynolds, in her pink cap and little pleated skirt, pops up out of the cake. Then abruptly the image twisted, caught and jarred, and changed to black and white. An interior, blurred and poorly lit. Some kind of party scene. Men in dinner jackets, black tie; others with jackets discarded, white shirts, braces. Women in low-cut dresses. Champagne. And, as if on cue, a face Elder knew. Like watching a veteran actress in her heyday, cigarette in one hand, glass in the other, wearing a pale dress that reached to the floor, Lynette Drury crossed the room and, for one moment, looked directly at the camera, as if she were the only person present who knew that it was there.
Elder pressed 'pause' and searched the screen for someone else he recognised, but no. When he moved on, the picture changed: the same room later. Kneeling at the low table in the centre of the room, a young woman, naked save for a bracelet in the shape of a snake on her upper arm, snorted cocaine through a rolled-up banknote, while a man, trousers round his knees, fucked her from behind.
A starburst of static and what had to be another camera, six people sitting round another table in another room, a poker game. And amongst them faces Elder knew: Mallory, Slater, Grant, and standing just behind Mallory, at his shoulder, Maurice Repton. Younger, all of them. A decade ago, Elder guessed. Possibly more.
The image broke again and reformed.
A bedroom, sparsely lit. Elder adjusted the brightness with the remote control but to little effect. Shapes moved naked across the bed, arms, legs. Three bodies, intertwined; two women and a man. One of the women detached herself and stood beside the bed. Not a woman at all. A girl, slim-hipped, no breasts to speak of, long fair hair. The man reached out for her and she evaded his hand, turning away. Surfacing from the bed, he seized her arm and pulled her back. As his arm tightened around her neck, the other hand pulled at her hair. Silently, head swivelling towards him, she shouted or screamed.
Elder could see her mouth, opening wide, but heard nothing.
He moved closer and peered at the screen.
The man had the girl in his grasp, increasing pressure, and now the other girl, similar but with shorter, darker hair, started hitting him, pummelling his back and shoulders, trying to get him to stop, but to no avail.
Suddenly, without warning, the man released the first girl and swung round towards the other, smashing his forearm into her face with such force that her head was jolted back and round and she tumbled over the edge of the bed towards the floor.
Imagining that he heard the impact, the clash of bone against brittle bone, Elder held his breath.
Now the man caught hold of the girl's ankles and dragged her back on to the bed, legs spread, and lifted himself above her.
The fair-haired girl gouged her nails down his back and, spinning, his elbow struck her full in the face so that blood shot from her nose. Grabbing her, he forced her down. His hands at her neck, squeezing, as he leaned down with all his weight.
Elder stopped the tape, rewound and watched again, looking for the moment when the fair-haired girl's body went limp, and Mallory pushed her to the floor and she lay, lifeless, as no unbroken body could have lain.
Mallory.
If there'd been doubt in his mind before, it was no longer there.
The dark-haired girl was just visible in the far corner of the room, mouth slightly open, silent, staring, one arm tight across her breasts. And for a second, possibly two, a shadow fell across her, followed by the partial figure of a man, fully dressed, walking into the room, the frame. Then nothing.
Fade to white.
To black.
To nothing.
Treasure trove.
Elder went into the kitchen on less-than-steady feet and poured a shot of whiskey, the neck of the bottle rattling against the glass.
* * *
His call to Framlingham found him in Hampstead, a terraced cottage in the Vale of Health, a hop, skip and a jump from the Heath itself. The woman who let Elder in was in her late forties, tall, wearing a generous green needlecord dress. Dark hair turning gracefully grey. Imposing was the word that came to mind.
She made no attempt to introduce herself and neither did Framlingham when he appeared, stooped, in the doorway, carpet slippers on his feet.
They sat in the small living room, not much more than an arm's length from the screen, sipping twelve-year-old Macallan and watching as the girl fell, again and again, to the floor.
'This is what Mallory was afraid of? What Grant had threatened him with?'
'I assume so.'
'There has to be more.'
'You think so?'
'We need more than just the tape, Frank. We need a place, we need names. If there are bodies buried, we need to know where they are.'
'There's a date,' Elder said, 'written on the label, along with the name. Singing in the Rain. 17th May 1996. Could be when the film was recorded - we could check the schedules - but I doubt it. If you look at them carefully, date and name, I'd say they were written at different times.'
'Then that's the date of the video, the party?'
'It's a good bet.'
'The raid at Gatwick, the one which linked up Grant to Slater, that was when?'
'1995.'
'And the case was thrown out of court?'
