John Harvey - Ash & Bone

'She's your daughter, Frank. Five grams in her bag. Difficult to see her walking away else.'

Elder told her what had happened, what little he knew, and she listened carefully, breaking off pieces of muffin almost absent-mindedly with one hand.

'They think she's lying, obviously,' she said when Elder was through. 'Covering up for Summers.'

'You know him? Anything about him?'

Maureen shook her head. 'Drug Squad, any idea which officers are involved?'

'Resnick mentioned a name. Bland.'

Maureen smiled. 'Ricky Bland.'

'You know him?'

'By reputation.'

'Which is?'

'Bit of a chancer. Gets results. One way or another. Came up from the Met, oh, good few years back now.'

'You don't like him.'

'I said, I don't know him.'

'You know what I mean.'

Maureen ate some of her muffin. 'What I've heard, let's say he sails close to the wind. Came under investigation once, him and a partner. Eaglin? I'm not sure of the name. Quantity of crack cocaine confiscated and then disappeared. There was some rumour Bland and whoever had sold it back to the dealer they'd taken it from in the first place.'

'Nothing proved?'

Maureen laughed. 'Answer that for yourself, Frank. They're still out there, working. Putting the bad guys away. Some of them, at least.'

'You think they were guilty?'

The laugh transposed into a smile. 'You know me well enough, Frank. Everyone's guilty in my eyes.'

Watching Maureen eat had made Elder hungry and, seeing him eyeing the plate, she pushed it towards him. 'What about you, Frank?'

'What about me?'

'How's it going in London?'

'Not so badly.'

She looked at him seriously. 'When it's over, you ought to consider coming back up here.'

He shook his head. 'It's too complicated. Besides, if I wanted more there's plenty where I am. Devon and Cornwall have just brought four detectives out of retirement and they're scoping round for more.'

'Sheep rustling at a premium, is it?' The smile back on Maureen's face. 'Someone playing fast and loose with the mackerel fleet?'

'Six murders in eight days. One of them specially nasty, couple in a garage badly beaten, then shot.'

'You're not tempted?'

'Not what I went down there for.'

'If you were up here you'd be near Katherine.'

'Not where she wants me to be.'

'You think she means it?'

'I know she does.'

Maureen resisted the temptation to say more. 'Ricky Bland, you're going to see him? I could come with you if you like.'

'It's good of you, but no, it's okay. An address though, just in case he isn't pulling overtime.'

Maureen was already reaching for her mobile. 'Just let me make a call.'

The house was in Mapperley Plains, a once-new development near the golf course, UPVC windows and frosted-glass aluminium-framed doors. A blue Audi A6, dented, stood outside the garage. The front lawn was in need of a final mow, the grass already beginning to clutter up with leaves.

Elder knocked on the door and rang the bell.

Nothing seemed to happen.

An arthritic Honda saloon came cautiously along the street, slowed down almost to a halt, then continued on its way. Neighbourhood watch, Elder thought.

He rang the bell again.

This time there was movement within, an inner door opening and then bolts being released, locks turned. The man who appeared was mid-forties with a thick stubble and close-cropped hair, a V-neck jumper hastily pulled over an otherwise bare chest, patterned boxers and bare, muscular legs.

'Richard Bland?'

'Who the fuck are you?'

'Frank Elder. I used to be on the job.'

He looked at Elder keenly, squinting a little into the light. 'This better be good, pal.'

'Katherine Elder, she was arrested yesterday. Possession of heroin. She's my daughter.'

Bland looked at him again and pulled the door wider. 'Come on in. Tryin' to get some kip. Three late nights on the fuckin' trot. Thought you were one of them bleeding-heart collectors, famine in fuckin' Sumatra or somewhere.'

Dust had gathered in small circles in the corners of the hall. The room Bland led Elder into was almost bare, crumpled clothes and cans and empty take-out boxes on the floor. The Venetian blinds were two-thirds closed.

'Cunt took all the furniture when she left. Had a van come round when I was out. Sleeping upstairs in a fucking sleeping bag.' He pointed towards the kitchen door. 'There's beer in the fridge, help yourself.'

When Bland came back down, blue shirt outside his jeans, he grabbed some beers for himself, lit a cigarette, and instructed Elder to get hold of the pair of plastic folding chairs that were leaning up against the wall.

They sat outside on a small patio, looking out over a rectangle of unkempt lawn, bare borders, a line of recently planted saplings. In amongst the hum of traffic, children cried and dogs set off a chain of barking. January notwithstanding, there was some warmth in the sun.

'Get shot of this fuckin' place,' Bland said, 'soon as I fuckin' can. Get back into the city. One of them new flats, by the canal. Only thing, minute I sell it, the bitch gets fuckin' half.'

Elder said nothing.

'You married?'

'Not any more.'

'Know what I mean then.'

For a while they swapped war stories about life on the force, Bland quizzing Elder a little about his time with Serious Crime, elaborating on the spread of drugs, the steady influx of guns.

'Fuckin' Noddies out patrolling St Ann's in body armour with Walther P990s holstered at their fuckin' hips like Clint fuckin' Eastwood. Me, I can walk into a crack house or down some alley in the Meadows and all I've got is a finger to stick up their arse, always supposing they'll bend over and oblige.' He coughed up phlegm and spat it at the ground. 'Every kid dealing out there on the streets has got a Glock or some converted replica stuck down the back of his designer fuckin' underwear. Niggers driving round in thirty thousand plus of motor with their fuckin' rap music blaring out and an Uzi under the fuckin' front seat. All very well to say it's one another they're killin', only problem with that they're not killin' one another fuckin' fast enough.'

He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the empty Heineken can and lit another.

'Your kid,' he said, 'she was carrying for the bloke she was with, Summers, no fuckin' doubt. Thought a night in the cells might get her to turn him over, but it didn't. No worries, we'll get him another way.'

'And Katherine?'

Bland popped another can. 'Needs to reconsider the company she's keeping.'

'Tell me about Summers,' Elder said after a moment.

'Rob Summers. Robert. Early thirties. Moved here from Humberside twelve or thirteen years back to go to university. Hung around ever since the way some of ' em do. Too idle to get up off their fuckin' arses and move somewhere else. That or too fuckin' stoned.' Bland swallowed down some beer. 'Started selling a little dope when he was still a student, nothing too serious. Carried on ever since. Low-level, just below the eyeline, you know the kind of thing.'

'So why the great interest?'

'While or so back, six, nine months maybe, his name started cropping up. Heavy hitters now. Not round the estates, either. Clubs and the like. Upmarket.'

'You've had him in?'

Bland sneered. 'Clever bastard, isn't he? Loves the sound of his own voice. Reckons he can talk his way out of fuckin' anything. Get the Red fuckin' Sea to part if he's a mind. Talk soft tarts like your Katherine into carryin' for him, carryin' the can.'

He could see the anger rising in Elder's face and eased forward on his chair, one officer to another, man to man.

'Listen to what I'm saying, Frank, don't go wading in, doing your indignant-father thing. Okay? Don't rock the boat. Not now, now we're close. Someone coming in from outside, making him jumpy when there's no need. There's too much at stake.'