by John Harvey
“I know. We can’t ignore it, I know that.” She glanced up at him. “We need your help, Frank. Going through all that stuff again.”
Elder shook his head. “I don’t think so. I fucked up last time, remember? If someone’s going to trawl back through the Fowler case, it shouldn’t be me.”
He picked up a stone and sent it skimming across the lake.
“Yes, it should,” Prior said. “You know it better than anyone else. And besides, you know how many investigations we’ve got ongoing right now? How many murders since the turn of the year? It’s no secret, we’re stretched to breaking. And now the chief constable’s got the Home Office breathing down his neck, threatening to send in people from outside, another force.”
“Better the devil you know—that what you’re saying?”
“Something like that.”
Elder picked up another stone and sent it sailing out after the first, remembering, in that instant, standing on the sand at Mablethorpe with Katherine when she was five or six, throwing pebbles at the turning tide; Joanne sitting behind a windbreak higher up the beach, with a thermos and a pile of magazines.
“Bernard Young,” Elder said. “He’s still the superintendent in charge?”
“I spoke to him this morning,” Prior said. “He’ll be glad to have you onboard. Civilian consultant, whatever the going rate. I should think they’ll even help with somewhere to stay.”
“How about the assistant chief constable? You can’t just waltz it past him.”
Prior glanced at her watch. “Bernard should be seeing him about now.”
“Pretty confident, weren’t you? That I’d come around.”
“I’ve known you a long time, Frank.”
It was true: And aside from the fact that she was good at what she did, he knew next to nothing about her at all.
What had she said about Claire Meecham? Her choice. Keeping herself to herself. It’s what some people do. Though she didn’t flaunt it, Maureen was an attractive woman, presumably with needs and desires of her own.
“Okay,” Elder said, “I’ll do what I can.”
IN THE THREE YEARS THAT BERNARD YOUNG HAD BEEN detective superintendent in command of what had been the Major Crime Unit, he had seen its name changed, its staffing numbers and resources cut, the unit itself under threat of being closed down. “Two more years to retirement,” he would tell anyone with an ear to listen. “Two more years and I’m off to this place I’ve got picked out in the Yorkshire Dales; reread every word of bloody Thackeray and breed tropical bloody fish.”
That afternoon he was wearing a sad-looking serge suit, vest buttons undone, striped tie loose at the neck. The high colour in his cheeks suggested he’d been neglecting the pills prescribed to keep his blood pressure under control; either that or he’d taken a nip at the bottle of Lagavulin he was known to keep in his office desk.
The core of Maureen Prior’s squad was gathered together: two detective sergeants, four DCs, and two civilians, one to manage computer access, the other to handle the flow of telephone enquiries and paperwork. Stretched thin was the term that came to mind.
“Some of you know Frank Elder here,” Young said. “Most of you, I dare say. He was a DI in the unit and a damned good one—before he took a strop on and buggered off down to Cornwall, that is. But he’s worked with us a time or two since, one way or another, and he’s fit to do so again. Maureen’ll fill you in on the details. What I’m saying is, give him all the support he needs. He’s not an outsider, he’s one of us. And you’ll not need me to tell you how much we need a result here. Any of you with half an eye on the City ground’ll know the way Forest have been playing they’re set to flush ’emselves down the toilet, and if we don’t keep our heads above water we’ll likely do the same. So let’s do the business on this, okay? Eye on the fuckin’ ball.”
Shuffling of bums on seats; murmurs of agreement all round.
“Now,” Young said, rising to his feet. “I’ve got to put on a penguin suit and eat rubber chicken with the chief constable and the lord fucking mayor. If His Worship will excuse the expression. When what I’d rather do is be joining you lot down the pub.”
With something of a flourish, he waved an arm toward Maureen Prior and wandered out of the room. Small conversations flared up and faded again as she got to her feet. Photographs of Claire Meecham and Irene Fowler were already pinned to the wall behind where she stood. Details and descriptions of how and where they’d died.
Clearly and concisely, Prior went through the connections between both cases. Two middle-aged women, strangled and their bodies treated in this perversely respectful way. Eight years between the two incidents. A long time. An interval that raised, some of them might think, distinct possibilities. If—and it was a big “if”—the same person was responsible, had they been in prison in the meantime? Out of the country? Or were there other reasons they still had to find? Other victims even?
Prior let this last question hang, disturbingly, tantalizingly, over their heads before moving on.
“So,” she continued, “two murders, and the most recent, that of Claire Meecham, will be the major focus of the investigation. Frank here will be concentrating on Irene Fowler, trawling back through the files, reassessing evidence, reinterviewing key witnesses. That’s what we’ve brought him in, primarily, to do. The rest of us will pitch in and help as and when he needs it, as and when we can.”
Faces turned toward Elder, some appraising, others positive, smiling, a few thumbs-up into the bargain.
“Before we send him back in time, though, there’s a few things Frank can tell us about Claire Meecham. He was looking into her disappearance, up to her body being discovered. Frank...”
She stepped aside, as Elder got to his feet. Quickly, he filled them in on what he’d learned about her background, her work history, perhaps most importantly, the life she’d kept hidden from her sister.
After answering a few questions, Elder sat back down.
“Right,” Prior said, her final rallying cry. “We know a little, we have to learn a whole lot more. The last weeks of Claire Meecham’s life in particular: where she was, who she was with. With luck and a well-placed kick up IT’s arse, we should have a full computer history in the next two days: once we’ve got that, everyone she was in contact with in the past twelve months will have to be tracked down and interviewed. Up until then, we’ll concentrate on those names that Frank’s already pulled out of the file. Then there’s family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, you know the routine. Check, prioritize, check again.”
She didn’t need to add that all relevant databases, including the sex offenders register, would need to be accessed and scrutinized.
“Claire Meecham and Irene Fowler,” Prior said finally. “There may not be a link, but if there is we’ll find it, I’m certain of it. Just remember, nothing’s written in stone. Stay open. Stay open and stay focused, okay?”
She stepped back.
“Any questions?”
THE NEXT MORNING ELDER MOVED OUT OF HIS HOTEL and into a serviced apartment in the Ice House, a converted seven-storey building close to the National Ice Centre. The apartment itself was sparsely but quite stylishly furnished, with a floor that was clean enough to eat off, should the situation demand, and a small balcony which afforded a view out across the city.
More by chance than design, he had stumbled over a small Italian restaurant close by, in the old fruit and vegetable market on the edge of Sneinton, a matter of minutes from his new base. Jennie assured him she would find it without difficulty.
When Elder arrived, a little earlier than arranged, more than half of the dozen or so tables were occupied. He took a seat in the far corner, between the wall and the smoked glass separating them from the street, and signalled to the waiter that he was waiting for someone else to join him.
He had managed to see Katherine the previous evening, a quick drink in the pub she described as her local, an old stripped-down boozer now mostly p
atronized by students, a few of the aging regulars relegated to the corners, where they sat facing inward, clutching their pints, doubtless complaining about the noise.
Katherine had seemed pleased enough to hear that he was sticking around a while longer, but preoccupied, her mind fixed somewhere else. When he taxed her about this, outside on the street, she told him she was worried about an essay she should have finished and handed in, one extension already and three days overdue. Elder had nodded understanding^, without quite believing it to be the truth. When was it, he wondered, the age at which children began lying defensively to their parents as a matter of course?
Now he glanced again at his watch and wondered about ordering a glass of wine. Jennie had said she might bring Derek with her, but when she walked in, some ten minutes later, she was alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Took me longer to find than I thought, and then I couldn’t find anywhere to park the bloody car.”
“It’s fine,” Elder said. “I’ve not been here long. Have a seat. Let’s get something to drink.”
The waiter was already heading their way.
Jennie was dressed more soberly today, smartly nonetheless, her makeup toned down. Attractive enough still to turn heads.
“So,” Elder asked, “how’ve you been?”
“Okay, I suppose.” Jennie lit a cigarette, slipped her lighter back into her bag, and released a slow plume of smoke. “I had to phone Claire’s children—Jane was in a terrible state, wouldn’t stop crying; James was not a great deal better, truth be told. And then, for him, there’s all the business of coming over for the funeral, though until we know when it is...”
“I’m sorry,” Elder said.
Jennie managed a quick smile. “I still don’t think I’ve taken it all in. Not that Claire’s dead, I know that. Just... you know... everything. Everything else.”
The wine arrived and she emptied a third of her glass at a single swallow.
“It’s like I never knew her, you know? Who she really was. And I don’t know why she kept so much to herself. I don’t know if she was embarrassed or ashamed or what.”
“Perhaps she thought you wouldn’t approve.”
“Of her seeing men? Having a life?”
“It’s possible.”
Jennie shook her head in disbelief.
“After her husband died,” Elder said. “Maybe she thought she had to behave in a certain way.”
“The grieving widow.”
“Something like that.”
“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” Jennie said. “I was the one telling her to go out and enjoy herself. Begging her to. A good time, that’s what she deserved. What she’d earned. After nursing Brian the way she did. I told her so. But no, that’s all right for you, she used to say, that kind of thing, you’re still young.”
Jennie drank some more wine.
“If only she’d told me about it, meeting blokes through the Internet, all that. We could have talked about it together, had a laugh.”
Only the need to decide what they were going to eat warded off more tears. After ordering, Jennie asked about the investigation, how it was going to proceed, and Elder told her what he could.
“This other murder,” Jennie said, after listening, “the one from before, you think it’s the same man?”
“It’s possible. There are too many similarities to ignore. But that’s all it is, a possibility.”
“And that was what? Eight years ago, you said?”
“Yes.”
Jennie leaned toward him. “Then why Claire? Why now?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
As the food arrived, Jennie stubbed out her cigarette. Elder’s pasta was fresh and plentiful, the gorgonzola sauce strong but not too sharp; Jennie ate maybe half of her chicken salad and switched to mineral water from wine. “I’ve got to make a call I’m dreading this afternoon. One of our sales reps, it’s just not working out, we’re going to have to let her go.”
“You’ll tell her that over the phone?”
“No. I’ll ask her to come in and see me, but she’ll know what it’s about. This past quarter she’s been on probation. Her figures, they’ve improved a little, but not enough.”
“The price of being the boss,” Elder said.
When they were outside on the pavement, Jennie rested her hand on his arm. “Whatever you find out about Claire, you will tell me?”
“Yes, of course,” Elder said, uncertain if he would tell her everything.
“I’d better run,” Jennie said. A quick squeeze of his arm and, with a chatter of heels, she was briskly on her way.
Turning, Elder went back inside, time for an espresso before meeting Maureen to go over what they knew so far.
Chapter 14
1965
HE WAS DRAWING TODAY, DRAWING AND COLOURING, NO stopping him. Covering each new sheet of paper with feverish strokes, thick strong lines across the page, sometimes pressing on pencil or crayon so hard the end would splinter and break. Splashes of colour that he would shade in, then darken. Purple over red over brown over blue.
Alice pushing him all the while. “Tell me about this. I like this. This part here. These dark lines. It’s hard to put into words, I know, but try. It doesn’t matter what you say, you know that. Tell me.”
And the boy not answering.
Sitting skewed at the table, not able to turn his back on her, not exactly, but with his left arm and shoulder round, shielding as much as he could.
“Show me. Let me see. I want to see. And you want me to. You want me to and at the same time you don’t.”
The boy fumbled for another colour and swore as the crayon spun out of his hand; seized a pencil instead and scored thick lines across the centre of the paper until the lead snapped.
“Perhaps you should take a break now? Have a rest? Maybe that’s enough for today, don’t you think?”
He grabbed at the piece of paper with both hands, screwed it tight into a ball and threw it across the room.
And started again.
Alice eased back, brought her breathing under control.
Slow and even.
Be patient.
Wait. Just not too long.
The boy’s breathing was ragged, loud; his mouth open. Half out of the chair, he was leaning across the table, rocking it with each mark he made.
After what seemed an age, he sat back, letting the crayon he’d been using fall from his hand.
“Let me see.”
For a moment, he looked at her, then pulled the paper toward him, against his chest.
“You don’t want me to see it. You do and yet you don’t.”
With a sudden movement, he flourished it before her.
Almost obliterated by a mesh of violent strokes, crude but unmistakable, the figure of a woman sat hunched, holding her vagina wide open. It was as lewd and startling, Alice thought, as a statue on the corbel table of a medieval church, or an image scratched deep into a lavatory wall.
“What is it?” Alice said.
He swung his head away.
“Name it. Give it its name.”
No movement.
“It’s a vagina.”
“No.” The voice was quiet, his head still bowed and turned aside.
“It’s a vagina.”
Suddenly he was looking at her. “You,” he said. “It’s you.”
“It’s my vagina, is that what you mean?”
“I said, it’s you,” he almost screamed. “It’s fuckin’ you!”
His face thrust toward hers, eyes narrowed, lips parted.
Alice blinked.
“My vagina. Is that what you mean? Is that what you’ve drawn?”
“Don’t. Don’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“That word.”
“Vagina.”
“Don’t keep saying that.”
“It’s only a word.”
“She sa
ys it’s wrong.”
“Who?”
“It don’t matter.”
“Your teacher?”
“No.”
“Your mother? Your mother says it’s wrong to say vagina.”
“Stop it.”
The boy seized hold of one of the crayons, and biting down into the soft flesh inside his lip, he began to draw thick lines back and forth over the colours that had been there before.
His hand moved faster and faster until the crayon gouged through the page and he hurled it against the wall. Seizing the sheet of torn paper, he ripped it in half and in half again, continuing to shred and tear until there were only scraps that slipped and fumbled through his hands.
Then, crying, he kicked back his chair and stumbled round, stooping to pick up the chair again and raising it above his head before smashing it against the wall with force enough to break one of the legs. Then, with a howl, falling to his knees, he slammed his face down on the desk and covered it with his arms.
At last, Alice thought: at last we might be getting somewhere.
Chapter 15
THE CROWD IN THE GALLERY WAS SMALL, SOME TWENTY to thirty people occupying several rows of stacking chairs: a mixture of students and the generation Elder had been led to believe were gradually taking over the world, those who had passed retirement age with cash in the bank and their brain cells still intact.
“Stieglitz and Early American Photography”: an illustrated lecture by Vincent Blaine.
Elder waited, then slipped into an empty seat as the image on the screen changed: a photograph of tall buildings pushing slenderly up from dark, almost black shadow, was replaced by a silvery, largely featureless sky, in which the sun, or possibly the moon, was sleeved behind a smudge of whitening cloud.
Blaine was compact and neat, mid-fifties, not tall, with a trim gray beard and moustache and short graying hair. Not unlike Stephen Singer, Elder noted with interest; at first glance, not unlike him at all. Blaine wore glasses with rectangular frames that he removed sporadically as he spoke.
“Remember,” Blaine was saying, “the name Stieglitz gave to the photographic gallery he ran in New York. He called it An American Place. The America of the cities and the America of the natural world.”
