Ash & Bone

As Karen listened, asked questions and listened again, the smile spread wider and wider across her face.

Rising from her desk and crossing the office, she waited until she was close enough to Ramsden that her voice remained a whisper. 'Kennet. Get him in the interview room, soon as you can.'

After setting the tape rolling, she let Ramsden ask the first few questions, teasing away again at Kennet's alibi as if that was all they had. Ten minutes in, Kennet relaxed, she produced the two knives: the one found near Vanessa's flat, the one from the roof in Dartmouth Park.

'What do you think, Steve?' she said, almost offhand. 'Similar, aren't they? Don't you think?'

'Kitchen knives,' Kennet said. 'So what?'

'They are similar, though?'

'If you say so.'

'Part of a set.'

'Yeah?' As if it didn't matter; as if he didn't care.

Karen held them closer, almost within reach. 'Take a good look. Same kind of handle, same rivets, same carbonised steel. Good knives, professional.'

'Fell off that Jamie Oliver's lorry,' said Kennet with a smirk.

'Whoever bought these, Steve,' said Karen, not to be deterred, 'they cared about their utensils. Cared about their tools. Wouldn't you say? Someone who knows the value of a good blade.'

Kennet shrugged and shifted a little on his seat.

'I asked Jane about them.'

'Who?'

'Jane Forest. You remember. She says she was there when you first brought them home. Says you were really proud.'

'You can't believe her. Not a bleedin' word.'

'Why's that?'

'Mental, isn't she? Doctors, pills, the whole bloody time. Mental.'

'I wonder why that is?' Karen said, looking at him hard.

Kennet held her stare but not for long.

'Come on, Steve,' Karen said. 'Save us all time. Admit it, they're yours.'

'Prove it.'

Karen leaned back in her chair and smiled. 'This,' she said, 'is the part I like.' For a moment, her tongue touched the edge of her lips. 'This knife, the smaller one, the one with which you attacked Vanessa Taylor, has your thumbprint clearly on the blade, in addition to being identified by PC Taylor herself. And this, the knife you attempted to hide -'

'I did no such -'

'The sample taken from the blood found on the blade matches your DNA profile exactly.'

'There was no blood!' Kennet swayed to his feet, kicking back the chair. 'There was no fucking blood!'

'Not much,' Karen acknowledged quietly. 'Microscopic, but enough.'

'It's a fucking lie!'

'Sit back down,' Ramsden said, advancing on Kennet from the desk. Two uniformed constables had come through the door.

'You might suggest to your client,' Karen said amiably to Kennet's solicitor, 'that calming down would be a good idea.'

Kennet took a pace towards her and then stopped, shoulders slumped.

'You'll be taken to the custody sergeant,' Karen said, 'and charged with the murder of Maddy Birch. Now get him out of here.'

She remained sitting there for fully fifteen minutes, alone, until the sweat had dried on her skin and the smell of adrenalin had all but faded from the room.

57

They'd taken a table in a side room, a bit of a hike to get served, but it was a small price to pay for privacy and a little elbow room. Karen had left her credit card behind the bar and a clear maximum that, the way Mike Ramsden was throwing down large Scotches with beer chasers, wasn't going to last a whole lot longer. Sheridan had wandered off and found a quiz machine and was busy testing himself on Sports Trivia 1960-1990. Which non-League player, coming on as a substitute in extra time, scored a hat-trick in the FA Cup Quarter Final of… Furness was prepared to swear he'd seen Denison saying a Hail Mary in the Gents and then crossing himself before sticking two fingers down his throat and throwing up so that he could carry on drinking.

'I owe you one, Frank,' Karen said. She was wearing a pale lavender suit with a soft short-sleeved purple top, the suit jacket back at the table, her arm brushing his as they stood jammed up against the bar waiting for another round.

'Nonsense,' Elder said, raising his voice above the general clamour.

'You were the one who made us look at Kennet again after I'd dismissed him out of mind.'

'You'd have got back around to him sooner or later.'

'Later, most likely.'

Elder shook his head. 'Don't do yourself down. You did a good job. All of you did.'

She smiled. 'Do you always find it this hard to take a compliment?'

He found himself smiling back. 'Probably.'

'Anyway, I'm buying you dinner by way of saying thanks. And no arguments.'

'Okay. When's this?'

Karen glanced at her wrist. 'In about an hour's time.'

'You're serious?'

'Table's booked.'

Elder looked back across the room. 'People will talk.'

Karen smiled again. 'Look at me, Frank. I'm an almost six foot tall black woman of African-Caribbean descent, who's got herself promoted to quite a senior position in Homicide. You think people don't talk?'

***

They got away shortly after nine, the taxi-driver, for once, leaving them to their own devices.

'What you said before,' Elder began, a little hesitantly, 'about being black…'

And tall, Frank, don't forget that.'

All right, and tall. But you know what I mean, being a black DCI.'

'What about it?'

'I was just wondering…'

'Do I get any hassle?'

'Yes.'

'To my face, no. Behind my back, I don't care.' Karen leaned back and crossed her legs. 'Most times, women get promoted over a certain level, there's always blokes, you know, who did she have to fuck to get there? With me, it's more, who've the BPA got by the balls this time.'

'And that doesn't get to you?'

She fixed him with a look. 'What am I going to do? Throw a hissy-fit? Bitch back? I've lived in this country since I was four years old, Frank. Some things you stand up for, the rest, you just let it bounce off and carry on.'

Karen laughed. 'Was a time, I'd not have done this without thinking twice.'

'Done what?'

'Taken some white boy out to dinner.'

'I'm honoured then.'

'You should be.'

'Where are we going anyway?'

'It's a surprise.'

Elder grinned. 'I'm from the sticks, remember. Anything much beyond a trip to the local Wimpy's a surprise to me.'

'Okay,' Karen said. 'We're going to Moro. If that means anything.'

'Should it?'

'It's a Spanish restaurant. Not a Wimpy Bar. And you're supposed to be impressed. You have to book weeks in advance to get into this place. Even on a Monday.'

'What did you do? Offer to arrest the chef?'

'Something like that.'

The cab dropped them at the corner of Clerkenwell Road and Rosebery Avenue and they walked past a succession of closed shops and small cafes until they came to a restaurant on the right-hand side of the narrow street. Nothing auspicious from the outside.

Karen hesitated before pushing open the door. 'I should have said. It's not a table exactly. The best they could do was two seats at the bar.'

In the event, when Karen gave her name there'd been a cancellation and they were shown to one of several small tables close to the window facing out on to the street.

'Wine, Frank? Red or white?'

'Red's fine.'

After a little hesitation, Karen picked out a Bobal Tempranillo '01 from the list.

Elder settled into his seat and looked around. The interior was crowded, busy; a steady buzz of overlapping conversations, interrupted by the odd raised voice, the occasional guffaw. Towards the rear of the room, a clutch of thirty-something men in dark suits, who looked as if they'd been there since finishing work, were making more noise than most. On either side of their table, handsome couples gazed into one another's eyes, out on either a first or second date.

Elder hadn't been sure what to expect from the menu, his knowledge of Spanish cuisine not stretching far beyond paella or chorizo, but neither appeared to be there. Karen ordered a starter of broad beans and Serrano ham and he followed suit.