by John Harvey
THEY SAT IN THE HIGH-CEILINGED SECOND-FLOOR living room of Anna Ingram’s house, every available light in the room switched on and the heavy velvet curtains drawn closed. Anna sat with a brandy glass in one hand, the other tight around her upper arm. Brian Warren sat across from her, his long legs angled somewhat awkwardly away from the restored chaise lounge, a glass of good whisky within reach.
Anna had washed her face in cold water, changed her top, brushed out her hair, waited until her pulse had steadied, then poured them both drinks and sat down.
She had said nothing to Warren other than the fact that something had spooked her and now she told him, as clearly as she could, what she had heard and seen.
“He meant you harm, then,” Warren said when she’d finished. “That’s what you think.”
“It’s not rational, I know. I mean, why should he? He could have thought I was a prostitute and wanted... I don’t know, it could have been no more than that.”
“You know prostitutes sometimes get attacked.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And, clearly, you thought he might attack you.”
“Yes, but as I say, not for any reason. Not really. I just allowed myself to become scared, that’s all.”
Warren picked up his glass. “It’s a shame, I realize, but perhaps you have to think again about walking around here after dark.”
“Brian, it’s where I live.”
“I know.”
“I can’t allow myself to be marooned.”
Warren nodded, understanding. “You’ll report it to the police?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, what is there to really say?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Anyway, what were you doing round this way?” Anna smiled. “Aside from waiting to rescue damsels in distress.”
Warren smiled an easy smile in return. “It’s my bridge night. The club up on the Mansfield Road, near where the old lido used to be. One of the other members is a bit wonky on his pins. I usually walk him home, make sure he gets back safely. He’s just around the corner from you here.”
“Well, I’m glad you were there.”
Warren raised his glass. “Me, too.”
When he had finished his drink, Anna asked him if he would like another and he shook his head. “Very kind, but perhaps I’d better not. I can stay a bit longer, though, if you’d like. If it would make you feel any easier.”
“No, it’s all right.”
“You’re sure?”
“Brian, it’s nice of you. But I’m fine now, really.”
“Just as you say.”
He hauled himself to his feet.
“There is just one favour,” Anna said.
“Anything.”
“Don’t mention this to Vincent. You know what he’s like. He’ll only fuss.”
“Of course not.” He placed a finger across his lips. “Not a word.”
At the door, he turned and kissed her gently on the top of the head.
“Goodnight, Brian. And thanks again.”
“Goodnight.”
When he had passed through the gate and out of sight, she locked and bolted the door and stood there for several moments before climbing the stairs.
Chapter 33
THE FLIGHT BACK FROM BARCELONA WAS TWICE delayed, giving Elder ample opportunity to resist buying cheap booze or overpriced cologne and to treat himself to another chunk of Sons and Lovers. As he read on, he found himself beginning to sympathize more and more with his daughter’s view of Paul Morel, who was in danger of becoming a right little know-it-all. Katherine was correct, too, he thought, about the way Paul was messing about this girl he was seeing, this Miriam—never knowing what he wanted and, it seemed to Elder, too scared of the consequences. And his mother not helping, not able to hide her resentment, one of her sons dead by then and Paul, her favourite, being, she felt, taken from her. Jealousy, that’s what it was, plain and simple. The mother and Miriam pulling in opposite directions and Paul dithering in the middle. Not pulling any punches, either, the mother. What was it she said to Paul when they were arguing? I’ve never had a husband, not really. Then kissing him. Fervently, is that what Lawrence had said?
Elder wondered how many times his own mother had kissed him after he was past the age of twenty or so? Oh, a peck on the cheek at Christmas, birthdays, the increasingly few times they met. As if, having done her job and brought him up as best she could, she—she and his father both—had been happy enough to step aside. Step back. Let him get on with his life just as they got on with theirs.
He had buried them both a little over ten years ago, his mother first, cancer; and then, little more than nine months later, his father, a heavy fall and with it the onset of pneumonia that stubbornly resisted antibiotics for too long; a catalogue of ensuing ills, too much pressure on his heart.
Elder folded down a corner of the page and slipped the book into his pocket; his flight had at last been called.
IT WAS EVENING BY THE TIME HE WAS BACK IN HIS FLAT in the city. There were three messages on his cell: Joanne, Jennie Preston, and Maureen Prior. When he phoned Joanne back all he got was her answerphone; Jennie Preston the same. Maureen Prior picked up at the second ring.
“Frank, we need to meet. Tomorrow, first thing.” No niceties, no “Did you have a good trip?” “The super’s got a meeting with the assistant chief constable at eleven; I’ve got to brief him before then.”
“Usual place?”
“Half eight. Bacon cobs are on me.”
Elder poured himself a small whisky and sat facing the blank, dark glass of the window, trying to marshal his thoughts. Only when his arm slipped off the edge of the chair and he jerked awake did he realize he’d dropped off to sleep.
Ten minutes later he was in bed, fast off.
MAUREEN PRIOR WAS THERE BEFORE HIM, PLACING HER order at the counter. “Bacon and tomato?” she asked Elder as he entered. “Bacon and sausage, or just plain bacon?”
“Plain bacon.”
They sat in the farthest corner, the café quiet at that time; Prior smart today in a black trouser suit, black cotton top, black boots, her hair pulled back.
“It’s the usual bullshit, Frank. Pressure trickling down. The force has not had a good press these last twelve months, you know that. Several high-profile cases dragging. What they need is a result. A good result. The super’s going to be on me like a ton of bricks.”
Elder nodded, sighed. HP Sauce with his bacon cob, yes or no? Having decided yes, no matter how hard he shook the bottle, no sauce would come out.
“Frank!”
“Yes?”
“Pay attention, will you?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just this...”
“Here. For pity’s sake give it to me.” Taking the sauce bottle from him she hit her hand smack against the bottom.
“Thanks.”
Maureen shook her head. “Johns—what do you think?”
Elder leaned back. “I just don’t know. The whole business, I don’t know if we’re any closer or further away. And what I learned about Johns—all right, there’s a clear pattern of sadistic relationships, sadistic on his part at least, women held almost in thrall. But all that does is confirm what we more or less know.”
“That’s not what I want to hear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Singer, Dowland, your pal Mr. Blaine...” She shook her head. “Johns was our best bet.”
“Maybe he still is.”
Prior released a long, slow breath. “Is that what I tell the super? Is that the best we’ve got?”
“For now.”
“Jesus, Frank.”
“All right, we keep digging at Johns. And meantime, retrench, regroup. Start going through everything again. From the beginning, if necessary. See what we’ve missed.”
Prior pushed away her plate. “I haven’t got the taste for this any more.”
JENNIE PRESTON REACHED HIM MIDMORNING AND HE D
ID his best, without any great success, to reassure her about the progress they were making.
“Claire’s daughter,” Jennie said, “Jane. She’s coming up to stay with me. For the funeral.”
“They’ve agreed to release the body, then?”
“Yes. I never said thank you, did I? For your help.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think it was down to me at all.”
“James is coming over from Australia. They’d like to meet you. Talk about the investigation.”
“I don’t know...”
“I thought, if you were coming to the funeral.”
“I’m not sure. They might be better off talking to someone else.”
“They want to talk to you.”
Elder was silent.
“You will come, though?” Jennie said. “To the funeral?”
“I’ll try.”
“Wilford Crematorium, twelve o’clock, Friday.”
“All right, if I possibly can.”
“Joanne’s promised to come. She said she might try and bring Katherine.”
“Like I say, if I can.”
Elder phoned the salon and asked for Joanne.
“She hasn’t come in today,” the receptionist said, “she wasn’t feeling too well.”
Elder walked through the centre of town, along Warser Gate and Bottle Lane, down past St. Peter’s church, and then across Maid Marian Way and into The Park. At first he thought there was nobody home. It was only after he had rung and knocked several times that Joanne came to the door.
She was wearing a cream-coloured robe, tied at the waist, bare feet just showing underneath. Her hair was held back by a broad green band.
“Frank,” she said, surprised, and he smelt the alcohol on her breath.
“They said at the salon you weren’t well.”
“And you came round to see how I was, how sweet.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Oh, you know.” She wafted a hand vaguely through the air. “One of those days. Didn’t feel up to it, I’m afraid.”
Elder stood his ground, feeling slightly foolish, not knowing whether to stay or leave.
“Well,” Joanne said, stepping back. “I suppose you’d better come inside.”
Going into the living room she slipped and Elder steadied her, his hand on her arm.
There were magazines open on the settee and scattered here and there on the floor. A few old newspapers. A copy of The Da Vinci Code.
“Having a bit of a clear-out?”
She looked at him as if through a haze. “A drink, Frank. Since you’re here, let me get you a drink.”
There was a wineglass, a third full, next to a bottle of unoaked chardonnay. There were other glasses, last night’s blurred with lipstick, on different surfaces around the room. Ashtrays in need of emptying.
“I’ll just get you a fresh glass,” Joanne said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t tell me you’re drinking it out of the bottle now?” Said with an attempt at a smile.
“For Christ’s sake, Joanne, it’s scarcely eleven in the morning. I don’t need a drink.”
“God, Frank, you’re such a prude.” Her hand shook slightly as she filled her glass. “In fact, you’ve got worse. You know that? Since you went down to that fucking place. Fucking Cornwall. You used to know how to have a good time, have fun.”
“Is that what this is?” he said, looking round the room. “Having fun? Hanging around the house half-dressed because you’re too pissed and pilled up to go to work? Suddenly that’s your idea of fun?”
Sitting down on the settee, she misjudged the height and landed awkwardly, spilling wine over her hand and down the front of her robe.
“Suddenly, Frank? I don’t think it’s so sudden, do you?”
Slipping the catch, he slid back the glass door to the garden, letting in fresh air. “Why don’t I make some coffee?” he said.
“Because I don’t want any fucking coffee.”
“Suit yourself.”
In the kitchen, he found a jar of Carte Noire and set the kettle to boil. There was milk in the fridge but little enough else. Butter, several small yoghurts, mineral water, a tub of what might be hummus, half an avocado turning brown.
He made two coffees regardless and took them back in. Joanne was sitting at one end of the settee, her legs angled tightly up in front of her, smoking a cigarette.
Elder put her coffee on the table within reach and carried his own across to one of two S-shaped chairs.
For a while neither of them spoke.
Joanne stubbed out her cigarette and picked up her coffee. One sip and she made a face. “Sugar, Frank. There’s no sugar.”
He fetched sugar.
When he came close she caught hold of his hand. “I’m not always like this, you know. I’m really not. Well, you know. I think you know. I mean, I couldn’t be. The job and everything. The salon. It’s just that sometimes...”
Her voice drifted away. When he freed his hand, her nails had made small indentations in his skin.
“Sometimes it gets to me, you know.” A wan smile for a moment lightened her face. “All this.”
“It was what you wanted.”
“Was it, Frank?”
“The salon, the house. Martyn.”
Joanne’s laugh broke harsh from her throat. “Two out of three, then, Frank. I suppose that’s not so bad.”
Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes and began running slowly down her face; instead of going to comfort her, Elder stayed where he was. He’d made the coffee too strong; it was acrid but strangely without taste.
Joanne found a screwed-up tissue in the pocket of her robe; sniffed, dabbed, blew her nose. “No use crying over spilled years, eh Frank? What do you think?”
Elder was remembering a game he used to play as a kid: ten places you’d rather be than here.
Joanne put the coffee aside and reached for the wine. Another cigarette. “Jennie, Frank. She manage to get hold of you?”
“Yes.”
“She wants you to go to the funeral, I think.”
“She said.”
“You’ll go?”
“Maybe.”
“You should. She’s nice, Jennie. I like her.”
“Yes.”
“Attractive, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
“She likes you, Frank. Sympathetic, that’s what she said. Handsome, too.” Joanne smiled. “Play your cards right and you never know.”
He knew he shouldn’t say it, but he did. “She’s with someone, isn’t she? More your style, that, than mine.”
“Touché, Frank. But as it happens, Jennie and Derek... these last couple of years, pretty much like brother and sister, the way I understand it.”
“That’s their business.”
“Suit yourself.” With a swish of robe, Joanne got to her feet. “I meant what I said, you know, about you coming round. It was a sweet thing to do.” She was standing close to him, close enough for either of them to have reached out a hand. “What you said before, about going out for dinner... you don’t fancy this evening, I suppose?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Never mind, it was just a thought.”
“I ought to go.”
“Yes, all right.”
At the door, he stopped and turned. “You’ll be okay?”
“No, I’m going to sit in the bath and slit my wrists. Of course, I’ll be okay.”
Perversely, the sun was shining as he stepped out onto the street. The trees in blossom or in bud. A young woman walked past pushing a small child asleep in a buggy, head to one side. An elderly man with a dog said hello as Elder passed. Ordinary people leading ordinary lives.
ELDER ATE AN EARLY SUPPER AT THE ITALIAN CAFÉ IN Sneinton Market, helping the pasta down with a bottle of wine. It was just beginning to darken by the time he had wandered home. Strange to call it that: a strange sort of home, with
little in it, aside from clothing, that was his.
He tried to read but found himself unable to concentrate, the earlier encounter with Joanne forever sidling into his mind. The usual rubbish on TV. He picked up the book again, but soon set it aside.
Outside, the temperature had dropped again, and he walked briskly to keep warm, down past the ice arena to the roundabout and the canal, along the towpath to the Trent. He stood for a while, leaning on the bridge, looking along the river past the forest grounds toward the east. How many miles before it flowed into the sea?
A shiver ran through him and he turned and headed back, collar up against the wind.
Indoors, a shot of Jameson to help him sleep.
He was just drowsing off when the phone startled him back to life. The body of a woman had been found in some allotment gardens just north of St. Ann’s, not that far from Mapperley Park.
Chapter 34
IT WAS A CIRCUS. UNIFORMED POLICE, PARAMEDICS, scene of crime officers, detectives from both regular CID and Force Crime Directorate. Close between a patch of new crop potatoes and some burgeoning shallots, a tent had been erected enclosing the body. Lights running off a small generator. Enough white protective clothing to suggest a revival meeting of the Ku Klux Klan.
Lewis Reardon, recently promoted to detective inspector, was in charge; his first murder as senior investigating officer and perhaps making himself heard too much as a result. Probably not keen on Maureen Prior being there either, though so far she’d been careful to stand aside, only offering advice when asked.
It had been Prior who had called Elder. No certainty there was any link with their own investigation, but she wanted him on hand in case.
Spotting him at the edge of the cordon she waved him through.
The dead woman was of mixed race, most probably in her forties; she was lying on her back in a shallow trench, with one leg twisted beneath her, her head at a sharp angle to the rest of her body. From the waist down she was naked; her blouse had been torn open to expose her breasts, her bra pulled down. Her eyes were open.
“Poor woman,” Prior said softly, her breath just visible on the night air.
