Bone and Cane
Authors: David Belbin
At university in 1984 Sarah Bone and Nick Cane are very much in love, united in politics and protest. But when one chooses to join the police, they’re sent down very different paths . . .
In Nottingham, 1997, Labour MP Sarah Bone celebrates a successful campaign to secure an appeal for convicted murderer Ed Clark. But at the party she discovers, in the most frightening way, that he might be guilty after all. Driven to uncover the truth about Ed and right any injustice, she also has to fight the most important election of a generation, one she is expected to lose. Sarah needs help.
Nick Cane is fresh out of prison after serving five years for growing wholesale quantities of cannabis. As a former activist, he’d like to join Sarah’s campaign team but shouldn’t be seen talking to her now. Working illegally as a cabby for his brother, he finds he’s now a colleague of Ed Clark. And since he’s seeing Polly Bolton, the sister of the man Ed is meant to have murdered, Nick needs to find the truth as much as Sarah does.
The old chemistry sparks as the couple are pushed back together to try to expose Ed Clark. Can an MP keep her relationship with an ex-con hidden from the media? And can Nick work out who betrayed him to the police five years earlier?
Bone and Cane
introduces an original partnership for a major new crime series that moves between inner-city streets and the corridors of power to expose the criminal underbelly of the New Labour years.
‘A compelling story that threw me right back to the 1997 election. Spare, uncompromising and very well written’ Nicola Monaghan
About the Author
David Belbin is the author of more than thirty novels aimed at teenagers and his work has been translated into twenty-five languages.
He was born in Sheffield but has lived in Nottingham since going to university there; he now teaches Creative Writing at Nottingham Trent University. This is his debut crime novel for adults.
Bone & Cane
Bone & Cane
David Belbin
First published in UK March 2011
by Tindal Street Press Ltd
217 The Custard Factory, Gibb Street,
Birmingham, B9 4AA
www.tindalstreet.co.uk
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © 2011 David Belbin
The moral right of David Belbin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London WIP OLP
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 906994 13 6
Ebook ISBN: 978 1 906994 57 0
Typeset by Alma Books Ltd
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Mackays, Chatham
Contents
For James and Jane Urquhart
1
MARCH 1997
M
embers of Parliament can be many things. Campaigners. Law makers. Media personalities. Even detectives, of a public kind. One thing MPs can’t be is shit-faced in public, especially in their own constituency. In the House, it was okay to let your hair down. When you were guest of honour at a very public party, it wasn’t wise to be one drink away from legless. Sarah was well aware of this. But tonight she had a right to celebrate.
‘Another?’ The stocky man with the shaved head and fat neck had already planted two slobbery kisses on her lips. Sarah was determined to avoid a third.
‘I’m going to take a pause,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve drunk enough already.’
Ed had been inside for several years, so he wouldn’t be used to heavy social drinking. Yet he didn’t look drunk, not as drunk as Sarah felt.
The PA blasted out ‘Free Nelson Mandela’
.
‘Want a word,’ he yelled over the music. ‘Come outside for a minute.’
Ed had been given two life sentences for a double murder. The first victim was a police officer, Terry Shanks, who Ed had a grudge against. The second victim was the police officer’s young wife, Liv. She had probably been raped before she was murdered, but Ed had not been charged with that.
Sarah, campaigning in a by-election that she wasn’t expected to win, had made all sorts of promises to the voters. One of them was that, if elected, she would raise Ed’s case in the House of Commons. She’d kept her promise, even helped found the campaign group that organized tonight’s celebration. The more she found out about Ed’s case, the more dodgy the conviction had looked, but his first application for appeal was turned down. This despite the only forensic connecting Ed to the scene – a hair on the carpet – being highly questionable.
Last year, Sarah had agreed to visit Clark in Nottingham Prison. She’d not been in a prison before, so arranged for the governor to show her round.
‘You’re the first politician we’ve had for a while,’ he told her. ‘We get the occasional judge or magistrate, but mainly it’s out of sight, out of mind.’
Afterwards, the smell stayed with her for hours: stale, cooked cabbage, probably masking the stench of sweat and urine. She couldn’t forget the wretched clothes of the men on the lifer’s wing: cheap, worn-out rags that a charity shop would reject. Everything about the place made her question the justice system. It was so hopeless, so hateful. She expected prison to have taken its toll on Clark, but when they met, he was all smiles.
‘You had a wander round then?’
‘Just a short one.’
‘I could tell by look on your face. It’s grim. But you learn to get by.’
Ed was far more cheerful than ninety per cent of the people who attended her MP’s surgeries. There was no swagger about him. He even took care to look at her face rather than her chest. He had fair hair then, which made him appear younger, softer.
‘I’ve made lots of mistakes in my life, but a double murder weren’t one of them,’ he told her. ‘Terry Shanks were one of theirs, so the police needed a result. I was the obvious suspect. But you’d have to be bloody stupid to kill the guy who put you inside only a couple of weeks after they released you.’
Sarah agreed that you would. Ed didn’t come across in the least stupid. Inside, he told her, he’d taken A levels in Sociology, Economics and Law, got good grades. He planned to start an Open University degree course.
‘You’ve got to do something to take your mind off life inside. The time I did before was enough to make me go straight. I’d never risk them sending me back, no matter how much I wanted revenge. Anyway, I weren’t bothered about getting back at Terry Shanks. He were only doing his job.’
Sarah believed Ed. The more she looked into the case, the more she thought that Clark’s conviction was a classic miscarriage of justice. Strong emotions had overwhelmed both judge and jury, resulting in a flawed verdict.
That visit to Nottingham Prison was a turning point in Sarah’s new parliamentary career. She had found an area that she wanted to focus on. She joined the Howard League for Penal Reform, began reading up on prisons, wrote to newspapers and the Director of Public Prosecutions, highlighted inconsistencies in the evidence that convicted Clark. The group she’d set up circulated a petition, organized a letter-writing campaign. At last, Ed was given leave to appeal. Yesterday lunchtime, Ed Clark’s conviction had been quashed.
Sarah followed the freed man out of the ballroom. In the corridor, he squeezed her arse. Sarah didn’t complain. Today, of all days, Ed could be excused for behaving badly. Sarah was aware that Ed fancied her. Some level of desire was the background hum to most of her relationships with straight men and she had become adept at avoiding unwanted advances. Her signals were only mixed if she intended them to be.
Once they were outside, the October breeze sobered her a little. There were other people on the balcony beyond the ballroom, but none within listening distance. Without warning, Ed gripped Sarah’s left thigh with his large right hand. He leant into her right ear.
‘You and me are going to celebrate in my room. Tonight.’
‘That’s very flattering,’ Sarah began, then realized the line wasn’t strong enough to defect an ex-con the day after he’d got out. This evening, Ed’s prison humility had been replaced by a brute arrogance.
‘There are a dozen women in there who’d go upstairs with me the moment I clicked my fingers. You’re the only one I want.’
His hand moved another inch up her thigh. It didn’t pinch. Nor did it faze her: alcohol helped that way. She might have found the firmness of Ed’s grasp exciting had it come from a man she fancied.
‘I’m sorry, Ed. I have a boyfriend.’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ Ed whispered, hand stretching to the panty line. ‘You want me too. I know what makes you tick. When you visited me inside, I could see you thinking,
I hope he’s innocent, because I really want to fuck him
.’
‘You’ve got it wrong. I helped you because you’re one of my constituents, nothing more. Now I have to go.’
She pulled away.
‘My room’s number seven, when you change your mind.’
Ed wasn’t a bad bloke. He was a randy, working class lad with a home-made tattoo on one arm and a hard-on for his local MP. Sarah empathised. When you’d served four and a half years for a crime you didn’t commit, you were desperate to get your end away. But she’d never succumbed to doling out a sympathy shag, not even with men she fancied. Not even when pissed.
Tonight, Ed had handled rejection well, all things considered. She’d had to fight off more assertive approaches from half a dozen of her fellow MPs. But now it was time to leave. Sarah hurried past several couples and found herself in the corridor behind the back of the over-lit ballroom. She’d noticed a public phone booth somewhere round here.
Not this corridor. One of these days, she would get herself a mobile phone. She took a turn at the end, noting that the fleur-de-lys pattern in the pale purple carpet was starting to move about. That was what came of letting people buy you doubles. There the booth was, next to Reception, where Ed Clark was getting his key from the desk. Sarah ducked into the phone booth, out of sight.
Dan answered on the tenth ring.
‘Tell me you haven’t had a drink.’
‘I haven’t had a drink. Sounds like you have, though.’
‘Is it that obvious? Look, I could really stand being rescued. If you turn up, we could make a graceful exit. And I’d owe you one.’
‘Did you remember to have anything to eat?’
‘Finger food.’
‘And you wonder why you’re drunk. Where are you?’ She named the hotel. ‘Twenty minutes. But don’t make me hang around. I was about to turn in.’
Sarah stepped out of the booth and tried to work out the quickest route back to the ballroom. Maybe she should freshen up first. Had she passed a bathroom? There was bound to be one by Reception. Sarah looked down the hall to make sure Ed had gone.
‘Sarah!’
Ed was coming out of his room, key in hand. Before she could head him off, he was upon her, an arm hooking beneath her elbow, as if to hold her up, then locking around her waist.
‘Glad I found you, duck. I knew you’d change your mind. Sorry about before. I shouldn’t have tried it on in public like that.’
He steered Sarah towards his room. The door hung open. She’d made a real pig’s ear of this. They were within earshot of Reception. News of any incident would be all over the party in minutes. Would it be easier to go into Ed’s ground floor room, sort it out there? Ed pushed her inside and the decision became irrelevant. Number seven. She’d have noticed it when walking past if she hadn’t been so slaughtered.
