Body and Soul

by John Harvey

  ‘You take care yourself.’

  Vicki didn’t want to talk very much at all. With two gigs coming up later in the week, she was worried about getting a sore throat and was keeping out of draughts and gargling every couple of hours with salt water.

  ‘I might call round later, Frank. We could have a drink at the Tinner’s. But I’m not promising, okay? I’ll see how I feel.’

  Back at the cottage, Elder realised he’d scarcely eaten all day and hastily made himself beans on toast, stirring a good dollop of Worcester sauce into the beans as they were heating, then grating cheese on top once it was on the plate.

  It was that time of the day, no longer afternoon and not yet evening, when he always felt most restless, unable to settle. He picked up a book he’d bought at the charity shop in Newlyn and set it down again less than ten minutes later, realising he’d read the last few pages without taking in a single word.

  Nothing else for it, he pulled on his boots, lifted a coat down from the peg and, remembering to put the key under the stone by the door in case Vicki decided to risk her throat and arrived before he got back, set off down the path. Instead of going to the headland, he took a left turn through the village and crossed into the lane that would take him alongside the stream and up the rocky path towards Zennor Quoit.

  By the time he arrived at the top, calves beginning to ache, the first lights of the village were beginning to show. Beyond the cluster of houses, beyond the fields, the sea was a faint greeny-grey, wrinkled and still.

  He breathed in the air and turned for home.

  When he arrived, the key was gone.

  Smile on his face, he called Vicki’s name as he pushed open the door.

  The first blow hit him on the top of the right shoulder, jarring his whole body, splintering the bone. The second, delivered as he turned, struck him high to the side of the head, sending him, stumbling, back against the wall.

  In the half-light he saw his attacker step back, raise what looked like a pickaxe handle above his head, and, instinctively, he thrust up an arm to ward off the blow. When it smashed against his elbow at the end of its swing, he yelled with pain and fell to the floor.

  A boot drove into his ribs as he tried to crawl away.

  Hands grabbed at his clothes and hauled him to his knees, dragging him into the centre of the room, then forcing him down on to his back.

  ‘So, Frank, how d’you like it so far?’

  Elder blinked upwards, left eye all but closed, to see Keach standing over him, straddling his body, tapping the pickaxe handle against the palm of his hand.

  ‘Not quite, I’d guess, what you had in mind.’

  Elder kicked out as best he could and was struck, several times more, in return. Then, tossing the pickaxe handle aside, Keach drew a long-bladed knife from inside his coat.

  ‘Time to talk about Katherine,’ Keach said, and resting the point of the knife against Elder’s Adam’s apple, drew a bead of blood. ‘Unfinished business there, like I said. You did get my card? Nice touch that, I thought. But what I didn’t say, this time I’m going to be dealing with you first.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Elder spat out and, in response, the tip of the knife slipped a little deeper beneath the skin.

  ‘No last-minute rescue this time, Frank. No prince, no knight in shining armour. No daddy, saving his little darling …’

  Summoning every last vestige of strength, Elder struggled to lever him away and Keach simply laughed and increased the pressure. ‘One last thing, Frank, it was you who got me sent me to prison, remember? All those years locked away, I owe you for those.’

  He leaned down on the blade, twisting it across Elder’s throat before, with a suck of air, pulling it free.

  ‘Say goodbye, Frank …’

  Crouching over him, he drove the knife between Elder’s ribs.

  52

  Vicki had hummed and hawed for the best part of an hour before deciding yes, she’d drive across and keep Frank company for an hour or so. But not stay. Back in her bed before the witching hour and enjoying all the benefits of a good night’s sleep.

  His car wasn’t parked in the usual place and she wondered if maybe he’d taken it into his head to go off somewhere without letting her know. The door to the cottage was open though, left ajar, so she assumed he was still home.

  Stepping inside, she switched on the light.

  The first thing she saw was Elder, stretched out, face down, on the floor. Her immediate thought, he’d fallen, knocked himself unconscious. Or that he’d had a heart attack, a stroke.

  And then she saw the blood.

  Kneeling, hands trembling, she turned him over as best she could. When she lowered her face to his, she could just feel the slightest breath, faint against her cheek. One of his eyes flickered momentarily and a tight gargling sound came from his mouth as if he were trying to speak.

  ‘Keach,’ he managed, the word just audible, her ear pressed close against his mouth, a bubble of blood breaking on her skin.

  Standing quickly and stepping past him, she reached for the phone and dialled 999.

  The ambulance was there within fifteen minutes, the first of the police not long after. Cordon found Vicki, ashen-faced, in the garden, unable to go back inside.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘He’ll be okay.’

  She let her head fall against his chest and cried.

  Paramedics carried Elder out past them on a stretcher.

  ‘Did you touch anything?’ Cordon asked. ‘Inside. Anything at all?’

  Vicki nodded. ‘I turned him over. Just to see …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Cordon said. ‘Don’t worry …’ A woman PC appeared at his shoulder and he released Vicki’s grip on his arm and stepped away. ‘Later, when you’re up to it, the officer will take your statement. But now there are things I have to do.’

  ‘Frank’s car …’ Vicki said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s not here.’

  No mobile signal, Cordon was forced to use the landline. He was patched through to the Operations Support Commander at headquarters and within minutes the Firearms Unit of the Force Support Group had been dispatched and the police helicopter was in the air.

  The assumption was twofold. Either Keach would seek to avoid capture by sticking to the side roads, travelling under the cover of night, or he would take the most direct route east, the A30, driving as far and fast as he could.

  After very little time, the helicopter picked up Elder’s car heading towards the Oakhampton bypass on the northern edge of the Dartmoor National Park. A decision was taken to set up a roadblock on the eastern section of the bypass and force Keach to take the B road that would lead him into the park in the direction of Coombe Head Farm. There it would be easier to position armed officers and execute a hard stop. Less danger of civilians being involved.

  Even as he sped down there, Keach must have known.

  A tractor partly blocked the road ahead of him, three police cars closing fast behind; the leader sweeping past him and then swerving sharply inwards, forcing him to brake.

  As he skidded to a halt, armed officers ran fast towards both sides of the car, shouting instructions, headlights illuminating the scene.

  ‘Armed police! Armed police! Get out of the vehicle. Put your hands on your head.’

  ‘Get out of the vehicle. Put your hands on your head.’

  When Keach pushed open the door on the driver’s side and started to get out there was a knife in his hand.

  ‘Drop the knife! Drop the knife now! Drop the knife!’

  The armed officers moved closer on all sides.

  ‘If you don’t drop the knife we will shoot.’

  Keach smiled.

  And, smiling, took a step forward, still brandishing the knife.

  Oh, fuck! the officer in charge thought, he wants us to do it. That’s what he wants. Suicide by fucking cop!

  ‘Drop the knife! Drop it! Now!’

  Keach lunged
at the nearest officer and in that instant three others opened fire.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  ‘Bastard,’ the lead officer said quietly and shook his head. Already he was thinking about the debrief with the Chief Superintendent, the written reports his team would have to make, the photographs, the video, the inevitable investigation by the IPCC. And for what? Looking down at Keach, he cleared his throat and, not wishing to contaminate the scene, swallowed hard.

  Vicki had been sitting in the corridor outside Intensive Care for several hours; if she’d been asked how many it’s doubtful she’d have known. One of the nursing auxiliaries had brought her a cup of tea and it sat beside her feet untouched. Trevor Cordon, concerned, had been there and gone, work to do, promising to return. Elder’s ex-wife and daughter were on their way.

  When one of the doctors came out, walking briskly, she intercepted him and asked about Elder’s condition. Was he conscious? Was he going to be all right? Was he in a lot of pain?

  ‘All I can tell you right now,’ the doctor said, ‘we’re doing everything we can.’ He avoided looking her straight in the eye.

  53

  Katherine was holding his hand when he died. Felt the last involuntary flinch of the fingers, saw the life fade from his eyes.

  There had been a moment, some little time before, when he had blinked his eyes open and, seeing her, had weakly smiled, and she had thought her heart must break.

  After a decent interval they raised her gently from her chair beside the bed and led her carefully away. There were procedures to follow, things they had to do.

  Outside, she clung helplessly to her mother, sobbed against her breast.

  The chapel was half full: music playing, nobody seemed to know exactly what it was. Cordon was there in uniform, the first time he had worn it in years; other officers from the local force. Colin Sherbourne sent his apologies and a wreath. A scattering of neighbours attended, some of whom Elder would barely have known; the landlord from the Tinner’s Arms. Karen Shields arrived just after the service had started, her train from London delayed. Vida Dullea had driven down, bringing Katherine’s flatmates with her and they sat together – Abike, Chrissy and Stelina – in the second row, behind Katherine and Joanne.

  The Priest in charge leading the service had asked if there was any family member who would like to speak about the deceased and Katherine had said she thought she would, but, in the event, she was too upset and the Priest in charge said of course, that was fine, she understood.

  Vicki sang ‘Body and Soul’, a cappella, faltering only in the final verse.

  Two days later, Joanne and Katherine took the urn containing Elder’s ashes out to the headland beyond the village, Vicki walking a little way behind. It was a day of patchwork clouds moving fast across the sky. Below them, as they stood, the sea drove in against granite rock and splashed back in a spume of silvered foam.

  Urn held tight in her hand, Katherine moved closer to the edge of the land: prised open the lid, and after a moment’s hesitation, cast her father to the wind. A few last ashes clung to her hand and, raising her arm skywards, she shook them free and he was gone.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  You can learn a great deal from the Internet these days, some of it even true. For myself, I’ve always found there is more to be gained from the advice of friends with different areas of expertise; during the writing of this book I’ve leaned quite heavily on Jon Morgan for his knowledge of police procedure, while taking advice from Caroline Walker on art, artists and the art world in general. Caroline’s own work can be seen at carolinewalker.org. I’m grateful also to Anna Deighton and Jane Morris, who read and commented on sections of the manuscript, and to the Two Stephs for the concept of Lesbian Bickering.

  Both my partner, Sarah Boiling, and our daughter, Molly Ernestine Boiling, read early drafts of the manuscript and made cogent suggestions, Molly being especially atuned to the mysteries of young women’s lives and scrupulous about correct punctuation.

  As has long been the case, my editor, Susan Sandon, has been unstinting in her encouragement and meticulous in her attention to detail; without her enthusiasm it is possible this book would never have been written – or, at the very least, finished once it had been started. My agent, Sarah Lutyens, has been equally encouraging throughout, and Mary Chamberlain has proved herself, once again, to be amongst the very best of copy-editors.

  Loved reading BODY & SOUL? Don’t miss out on the first book in the Frank Elder series.

  Turn the page to read the first two chapters of FLESH & BLOOD …

  1

  Soft and insinuating, the cat brushed against his face and Elder, still three-parts asleep, used his arm to push it away. Moments later, it was there again, nudging itself against him, its purr loud inside his head. Sharp, the cat’s claws kneaded the soft flesh at the top of his shoulder, the back of his neck. Beneath him, the pillow was rank with sweat. With an effort he turned and lifted the animal clear, its thick coat matted and damp, skin flaccid and loose across its meagre ribs. The bright slits of its eyes yellow in the almost dark.

  As Elder struggled himself upright, the cat twisted inside his grasp and bit deep into the base of his thumb. With a curse, he dropped it down on to the bed and it jumped, hissing, to the floor. When he brought his hand to his mouth, the taste of blood was sour and bright.

  And now there were other cats, close in groups of two or three, emerging from the shadow round the edges of the room. Elder could hear the faint rasp of their feral breathing, ragged and low. Throwing back the sheet, he began to pull on his clothes, the cats close about him now, rubbing against his ankles, running over his bare feet.

  When he held the door open and tried to urge them out, they slithered back between his legs and moved in a softly undulating mass towards the stairs.

  In the room above, eyes stared back at him, unblinking, and, as he stepped forward, something pliant and smooth gave beneath the bones of his foot. Hairless, a swathe of newborn kittens writhed, mewling and blind, along bare boards. Vomit caught in his throat. From somewhere close above his head, a full-grown cat launched itself towards him, claws unsheathed. A ribbon of blood fell from his upper arm, another laced across his cheek. The door he had come through stood closed.

  Shaking, Elder crossed towards a further set of stairs. At the top, the tread gave way beneath his weight and he had to brace himself against the walls before jumping clear.

  Through gaps in the roof, light spilled, weak, across the floor.

  Nothing moved.

  On the far side of the room was a narrow bed. Not empty. Quite. Beneath a blanket, grey and threadbare, something lay curled. The skin on Elder’s legs and arms seized with cold. His body cramped. He knew, or felt he knew, what lay beyond his sight. The cats, almost silent now, had followed him into the room and massed about him, quiescent, waiting. The space between the bed and where he stood was vast, a pace or so away; the blanket rough and cold between finger and thumb. When he pulled it back, it shredded in his grasp.

  The girl’s legs were pulled up tight towards her chest, her breasts small and empty, bone of her buttocks breaking through blotched skin. The stench fouled his mouth and filled his nose. One side of her face, the face of a girl, a young woman of sixteen or maybe seventeen, had all but disappeared. There were bite marks, small and deep, around the socket of the eye.

  As Elder bent forward, one of her arms reached suddenly towards him, hand outstretched and feeling for his own. Seized him and would not let him go.

  2

  From his position atop the rough stone wall, Elder tracked the progress of the bus as it trailed around the road’s high curve, the rough-hewn moor above, the fertile bottom land below. Today the sky was shade on shade of blue, and palest where it curved to meet the sea, the horizon a havering trick of light on which the outline of a large boat, a tanker, seemed to have been stuck like an illustration from a child’s book. Elder knew there would be lobster boats, tw
o or three, checking their catch close in against the cliff and out of sight from where he stood.

  He watched as the bus stopped and Katherine got down, standing for a moment till the bus had pulled away, a solitary figure by the road’s edge and, at that distance, barely recognisable to the naked eye. Even so, he knew it was her: the turn of the head, the way she stood.

  With a quick movement, Katherine hoisted her rucksack on to one shoulder, hitched it into position and crossed the road towards the top of the lane that would bring her, eventually, down to the cottage where Elder lived.

  Dropping from the wall, he hurried across the field.

  The cottages were three in a line, built for the families of labourers who, in earlier days, had worked the land. Beyond these stood a single house and studio belonging to a local artist, a pleasant enough woman who kept herself largely to herself, merely nodding at Elder when they passed on the path that led down towards the sea, rarely bothering to speak.

  ‘You’re not a writer?’ the owner had asked when Elder paid over his deposit, the first month’s rent.

  ‘No. Why d’you ask?’

  She had smiled. ‘Oh, we get ’em sometimes, hoping something’ll rub off. D. H. Lawrence, you know, he lived there with Frieda, his wife. One of the cottages. Katherine Mansfield, too, for a while.’

  ‘Yes?’ Elder had said. ‘Right, right.’

  Well, he had heard of Lawrence, at least.

  That had been something over two years ago, early spring and little enough in bud. One day Elder had been an officer in the Nottinghamshire force, a detective inspector with thirty years in, a marriage that had endured more than half that time, a daughter of fourteen – and the next, or so it seemed, he had resigned, retired, walked out on them all.

  He had gone almost as far as it is possible to go in England without running out of land, seen this place by chance and here he had stayed. Two up, two down, and little more; flagged floors, stone walls; light that when it struck right seared through the house from front to back. The occasional postcard aside, he did not write; and, after a while, not even that. He read. Tried Lawrence, but soon cast him aside. He found a small cache of dampening paperbacks beneath the stairs: Priestley, du Maurier, Dornford Yates. When they ran out he picked up cast-offs at church sales and the like. Sea stories, he found he liked those, Forester, Reeman and Alexander Kent. More recently, he’d taken a shine to H. E. Bates.