Ash & Bone

While the bath was running, and despite her assurance that she would contact him, he rang Maureen Prior. 'Falling into place, Frank,' she told him. 'Another couple of days, that's all we need.'

'Katherine said.'

'You've spoken to her then?'

'She rang earlier.'

'She's a good kid, Frank.'

'Not a kid.'

'You know what I mean. She's strong.'

'She's had to be. She'd have gone under, else. I thought she had.'

'I'll keep an eye out for her, you know that. Do any more, put someone babysitting her, there's a good chance Bland'll catch wind.'

'I know.'

'I'll be careful. Do what I can.'

'Thanks, Maureen.'

'Look after yourself, Frank.'

'Do my best.'

He topped up his glass and carried it into the bathroom. No message from Karen yet about Rennet's car, which probably meant they were still chasing it down. At ten tomorrow, Kennet himself would go before the magistrate. That would buy them time. And tomorrow he would talk to Sherry, go over what it was he'd been able to unearth. The water was a touch too hot and he ran a quick burst of cold, whisking it round before lowering himself in. When she was a baby, eighteen months or less, he would lift Katherine into the bath with him and she would splash and laugh, slippery like a fish between his hands. Times like that, they never came back. Had he said 'I love you' knowing she was no longer on the line? 'I love you, Katherine,' he said aloud, tears in his stupid eyes.

43

The car was a Ford Mondeo five-door estate, S reg, with a little over 18,000 on the clock. It was found parked on Tollington Way, close to the back of the old Royal Northern Hospital. There were a pair of Kennet's work boots in the back, speckled with plaster and paint, and overalls and a woollen check shirt folded round one another alongside. Old copies of the Sun and Mail. A spiral-bound London A-Z, well-thumbed. Parking tickets. Snickers wrappers and a half-eaten roll of mints. Several audio cassettes in the side compartment, driver's side: Queen, David Lee Roth, U2, Springsteen's Greatest Hits. A box of matches with only five remaining. A pair of worn leather gloves. A red-and-black thermos flask that still smelt faintly of coffee. A paperback Patricia Cornwell, turned down on page 121. Jump leads. A screwdriver. A chamois leather, stiff and darkened with use. A rusted can of WD-40; a plastic bottle of Holt's concentrated all-seasons non-smearing screen wash and another of Comma Xstream De-icer. An empty 2-litre container that had once held engine oil. And in the wheel space, snug beneath the spare wheel, a small metal box which contained, carefully wrapped in a piece of material that looked to have been torn from an old denim shirt, a single earring, green and gold and in the shape of a moon; a plain silver bracelet; a pendant necklace with a fine silver chain; and a watch with a mid-brown leather strap, a Lorus, with a plain front and the name Maddy Birch engraved on the back, together with the date, 15.07.81.

***

Karen drank a large black coffee in the canteen and then splashed cold water in her face in the cloakroom. 'Take it easy,' she told herself. 'Easy. Chill.'

At a little after ten, Steven Kennet had been remanded in custody until the 27th at a specially convened magistrates' court, his application for bail denied. Now he was back in the interview room, throat dry, looking as if he had barely slept. Beside him, his solicitor fiddled with his pen, removing the cap and then replacing it, the same action over and over again.

Ramsden thought if he carried on like that he might just reach across and grab the pen, then stick it up his bony arse.

'This interview,' Karen began, 'timed at eleven forty-seven…'

Steadily she led Kennet through the same events as on the previous day, the same denials, letting him dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole.

'Mr Kennet,' Karen said nonchalantly, almost an afterthought, 'do you own a dark blue, 1998, Ford Mondeo estate?'

Even from where he was watching, through glass, Elder could read the jolt of apprehension that flickered across Kennet's eyes.

'Mr Kennet?'

'Yes.'

'Do you own -'

'Yes, I said yes.'

'My client,' Murchfield intervened, 'would appreciate a break at this time. It's now very nearly -'

But Karen cut him off with a brusque, 'I'm sure he would,' followed by, 'I wonder, Mr Kennet, if you could identify this?'

Ramsden held up the necklace, secure inside a plastic evidence bag.

Kennet paled. 'No,' he said, 'I've no idea.'

'Or this?'

The earring.

'No.' A vigorous shake of the head.

'Or this?'

The bracelet.

'No.'

'Mr Kennet, these items were found in the boot of your car.'

Recovering, Kennet shifted heavily in his seat and shrugged. 'Nothing to do with me. I've never seen them before.'

'Secure in your car, carefully wrapped and hidden away.'

Kennet stared back at her, silent, sullen.

'Where you left them.'

'Jesus, I just told you -'

'You've told me nothing.'

'Okay, I'll tell you again. These things, they're nothin' to do with me. I've never seen 'em before, okay?'

'You've no idea how they came to be in your possession?'

'They weren't in my fucking possession.'

'They were in your car.'

'Says who?'

Ramsden smiled. 'Says me.'

'Then you fucking put 'em there.'

Karen leaned back away from the desk. There was sweat accumulating in the palms of her hands and she wiped them against her trouser legs. Sweat in the air, too: hers, his, everyone's.

'A little over an hour ago,' Karen said, 'one of my officers showed this bracelet to Jennifer McLaughlin and she identified it as hers.'

A pulse, Elder noticed, had begun to tick in the corner of Kennet's left eye.

'This earring,' Karen said, holding up the evidence bag, 'was identified by Jane Forest as belonging to her.'

'So?'

'Jennifer McLaughlin and Jane Forest, both women with whom you have had relationships.'

Kennet stared back at her, unblinking.

'So can you explain how these items came to be hidden away inside your car?'

'No. I can't. Except that someone put them there.'

'And that someone, Mr Kennet, was you.'

Kennet swung round on his chair, his knee knocking against Murchfield's leg, the impact jarring the pen from the solicitor's hand.

'You,' Kennet said, 'when are you going to do something instead of just sitting there while they do me fucking over?'

Murchfield stammered, blushed, reached down to retrieve his pen.

'There is one further item,' Karen said, almost succeeding in keeping the tone of virtual triumph from her voice as she dangled the watch, in its bag, in front of Kennet's face.

'This watch. Maddy Birch's watch. You can see her name clearly engraved, there on the back. You see? You see the name, Mr Kennet? The name and date? Mr Kennet, for the tape recorder please? Do you agree that the name on the back is that of Maddy Birch?'

'Yes.'

'That this watch belonged to her?'

'Yes.'

'Can you then tell me, how it came into your possession?'

Kennet looked back at her and shook his head.

'Mr Kennet?'

'No. No, I can't.'

'Well, I suggest to you that she was wearing it the night she was killed.'

'I don't know.'

'And that was when you took it from her body.'

'No.'

'After you had raped her.'