John Harvey - Ash & Bone

'I know,' Karen said. 'I know.'

'He was going to kill me.'

Karen reached for her hand, but she pulled away; crossed to the sink and turned on the cold tap and then nothing, simply stood there, watching it run.

After a few moments, Elder went over and switched it off. When he brushed her shoulder accidentally she jumped.

'We ought to go,' he said quietly.

'Then go.'

'Vanessa,' Karen said at the door, 'you should arrange to see somebody.'

'Somebody?'

'You know what I mean. A counsellor. They'll sort it out at the station, I'm sure.'

Vanessa stared back at her hopelessly. 'Don't let him get away with this.'

'Don't worry. We won't.'

Kennet was sitting up in bed, propped against a number of pillows, his recent stitches standing out like tiny bird marks along the plane of his face. Seeing Karen and Elder he actually smiled.

'Back in the land of the living,' Elder said.

'Just about.'

'Luckier than some.'

'There are questions,' Karen said, 'about last night.'

'You mean when I was attacked?'

'You were attacked?'

'Of course.' Kennet touched his fingertips to his coming scar. 'Bloke who stitched me up reckoned I was lucky not to lose an eye.'

'And Vanessa, what was she lucky enough to escape with?'

'Anything that happened to her, self-defence.'

'Wait,' said Karen. 'Wait. You're claiming she attacked you?'

'Of course. Asked me up, started fooling around, everything going along fine and then – wham! – swung at me with the bloody bottle. Out of nowhere.' He shook his head. 'I knew she'd been drinking, but not that much. Not like that. Out of control. If I'd known that I'd never have agreed to go back with her after the pub.'

'She invited you, that's what you're saying?'

'Yes, of course. What else?'

'The knife,' Elder said. 'What about the knife?'

Kennet looked back at him, all wide-eyed astonishment. 'What knife?'

'The one you threw away just before you ran full pelt into the bus.'

'I don't know anything about any knife.'

'We'll see.'

Ten minutes later Elder and Karen were standing in the corridor outside. Kennet had persevered with his story: Vanessa had been the one to attack him, breaking a bottle across his face, and any injuries she might have sustained had been a result of him trying to restrain her. In the end he'd left her swearing and screaming and headed home, so stunned by what had happened that he'd not been thinking where he was going when he stepped out into the road and got side-swiped by a bus. No hard feelings, he hoped she was okay, nothing much more than a thick head.

'How long d'you think he'll stick to that?' Karen said.

'As long as he can.'

'Any prints on the knife?'

'We can hope,' Karen said.

Elder was looking at his watch. 'Another twelve hours before he has to be charged.'

'Time enough.'

The doctor agreed there was no reason Kennet couldn't be released from hospital that afternoon. By which time they would have heard back, not only about the knife, but also have the results of the search of his flat. Time enough, Karen thought, was probably right.

When Elder's mobile rang, not so many minutes after leaving the hospital, Maureen Prior was pretty much the last person on his mind. Her train was due in at St Pancras in forty minutes. It was important they met. No more than an hour of his time.

The cafe was French, a small patisserie set back from the main road that ran immediately south from the station. There were a few tables on the pavement, maybe half a dozen more inside. Bread, croissants, baguettes and a gleaming espresso machine. Two women of a certain age, smartly dressed, sat near the rear window drinking coffee; a silver-haired man, camel coat folded over the back of his chair, was reading Le Monde and eating a croque-monsieur. Elder, who had used St Pancras enough over the years, had no idea the place was there.

It was warm enough, just, to sit outside.

Jet trails criss-crossed overhead and the sun was a rumour behind a screed of grey.

A young man, white-aproned, brought them coffee.

'How did you know about this?' Elder said, looking round.

'Charlie told me about it.'

'Charlie?'

'Charlie Resnick. He said it would be a good place to meet.'

'You've been talking to him.'

Maureen smiled. 'About London cafes?'

'About Bland. And Katherine.'

'I had to talk to someone. Someone I could trust.'

That would be Resnick, Elder thought. 'What did he say?'

She smiled again. 'Not a lot. He's a great listener, Charlie.'

'He wasn't surprised?'

'About Bland? No, not really. Rumours aside, he'd never liked him overmuch. Too much time down in the smoke. Infects the lungs, rots away from the inside. His words. Reckons the only reason Bland left the Met when he did was to keep a step ahead of CIB.'

'He was never actually charged?'

'With corruption? No. Allegations, unproven. Usual story. Had his card marked a few times, apparently, but that was it.'

'So,' Elder said, 'is there a plan?'

'It's what I wanted to talk to you about. And I thought in person. Rather than risk a call.' She lifted her cup of coffee from its saucer. 'Getting paranoid in my old age.'

'Careful,' Elder said. 'No harm in that.'

'How about you, Frank? You taking care down here?'

'In the big city? Yes, I think so.'

'Near a result?'

Elder's turn to smile, just with his eyes. 'I think there's more than one game.'

'There always is, Frank. There always was.'

The coffee, though, was perfect. Strong, not bitter. Elder listened attentively. As a plan it was simple enough, straightforward; the chances of success all the more certain for depending upon Bland's greed.

'Summers, he'll play along?'

'I think so. Further in over his head than he's comfortable with. Might see this as a way out.'

'And Katherine, it won't put her in any danger?'

Maureen thought a little before answering. 'No more than she's in already.'

Elder nodded. 'You want me to talk to her?'

'Later, Frank. When it's over.'

'You'll let me know when it's going down?'

'Better still,' Maureen said, 'I'll let you know when it's done.'

Steve Kennet left hospital handcuffed to a uniformed officer the shape and size of a small tank, Paul Denison walking closely behind. The one call Kennet had been allowed, to a firm of solicitors, had yielded up Iain Murchfield, left holding the fort that Thursday afternoon. Any wetter behind the fucking ears, as Ramsden was to remark, and he'd fucking drown.

Karen had corralled Elder the instant he reappeared and from her expression he knew that the news, some of it at least, was good.

'See why he was cocky about the knife. Must have wiped it off on his clothes as he ran. But not as thorough as he thinks. Thumbprint on the base of the blade. Partial, but clear.'

'And it's a match?'

'Waiting for confirmation now.'

'How about his place? Anything interesting there?'

'Not a lot. Few borderline videos. Clothes, shoes, usual stuff. I told Mike to go back, try again.'

'Kennet's here?'

'With his lawyer. Deciding strategy.' Karen grinned. 'Kid just out of college. Looks as if he'd need a strategy to tie his laces in the morning.'

At a little after four the call came through from Forensics. The partial print was a match. But partial, nonetheless.

They ushered Kennet into interrogation ten minutes later, the exact time noted scrupulously by Karen at the beginning of the interview. In Ramsden's continued absence Paul Denison, slightly nervous himself, sat alongside her. Elder sat in an adjacent room, listening on headphones.