Flesh And Blood (26 page)

‘If.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I don’t think it’s ever that simple, is it? And besides, look at us. We’re not exactly in a position to judge.’

‘We don’t have ties or responsibilities and we’re old enough to know better.’

‘And you don’t think Susan was? Old enough to know what she was doing.’

‘No.’

‘Tell me again, Frank, how old’s your daughter.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘How old?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘And that’s got nothing to do with it?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Frank.’ She leaned in against his arm. ‘How old do you think I was when Susan was born?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m forty-seven, Frank. Work it out.’

‘That’s different.’

‘Why?’

‘Trevor wasn’t twice your age.’

‘No, Trevor wasn’t.’

‘Well, then…’

‘Frank.’ She rolled on to her front, one leg over his, rattling the contents of the tray.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t want to talk about this now.’

‘All right.’

He lay there for a while, holding her, and felt his eye lids closing. ‘If I’m going…’

‘You’re not.’

‘It’s the waste of a perfectly good B and B.’

‘Shut up.’

On his way to the bathroom, Elder lifted the tray from the bed and set it on the floor. ‘You can use my toothbrush,’ she called after him.

When he came back to the room five minutes later, she was asleep.

Elder climbed into bed carefully beside her and lay there for a while, listening to all the strange sounds that strange houses make until he could hear nothing at all.

Elder woke up not knowing where he was. Helen was already dressed and down in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Last night’s melon had been sliced open and set on plates. The kettle had recently been boiled and bread cut for toast. More toast.

‘You talk in your sleep,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’

‘Have I said anything incriminating?’

‘Not yet.’

The look that he gave her chilled her even as it made her laugh.

‘God, Frank. Relax. I’m not expecting anything of you, you know.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t…’

‘Two grown-ups, remember? A rare bit of fun. Rare for me, anyway. I’m not going to fall apart on you, don’t fret. Now, there’s coffee, if you want. Instant. Or there’s tea.’

‘Tea.’

‘Okay, sit yourself down next door. I’ll bring it through.’

It was still a little short of eight o’clock, the living-room quite bright with early sun. Seagulls squawked and shrilled overhead. The voices of people passing in the street outside. The photograph of Susan Blacklock above the mantelpiece looked back at him unjudging. It had all the makings of a warm day.

‘You’re going back this morning.’

‘Yes.’

‘Back to where?’

‘Nottingham, I suppose. For now, at least.’

‘And then?’

‘I don’t know.’

Helen set down cups and plates, then pulled out a chair for herself. Her hair was tied back and she looked older than the night before.

‘Your daughter?’

‘That’s part of it.’

The melon was sweet and the juice trickled down around his chin.

‘What?’ Helen said.

‘Hm?’

‘You had a dirty grin on your face.’

‘Oh, just remembering.’

There was marmalade as well as jam to go with the toast, Safeway’s own brand.

‘This Latham, the teacher, you thought there might be more to it than just the two of them copping off?’

Elder nodded. ‘I thought it was a possibility, yes.’

‘And now?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll pass on what I know to the police, the local force. The case is still open, after all. Whether they decide to take it any further’s up to them.’

‘And there’s nothing else? Nothing else you’ve found?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘This Donald,’ Helen said, ‘Shane – Shane Donald – him as did a runner. Recent.’

‘What about him?’

‘When Susan – you know – you fancied him for it, didn’t you? Thought him and that other chap…’

‘McKeirnan.’

‘That’s it, McKeirnan. You thought they might have been involved.’

‘I thought it was a possibility, yes.’

‘And now?’

Elder shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked into her eyes and then away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Letting you down.’

‘Don’t be silly. You tried. Did your best. You still cared.’

‘I made you a promise.’

A wry smile came to Helen’s face. ‘Men do. All the time. Then spend the rest of their lives regretting it.’

When breakfast was over they both knew he was anxious to be gone. At the doorway, she slipped her arms around him. ‘Last night, it was lovely, you were right.’

‘Don’t be grateful,’ he said.

She grinned and made a face.

‘I’ll see you,’ he said.

‘Really?’

This time she didn’t stay to watch him walk away.

♦

Rob Loake kept him waiting and then some. It was warm, flaming June and the inside of Loake’s office was warmer, some kind of rules and regs about ventilation Elder didn’t understand. There were dark patches beneath the arms of Loake’s shirt and his striped tie had been pulled down to half-mast, the top two buttons of the shirt undone.

‘Bastard, isn’t it?’

Elder shrugged noncommittally.

‘All right for the fucking Algarve, but this is fucking York.’ He seemed genuinely aggrieved.

‘I’ll not take too much of your time,’ Elder said.

‘No.’

Elder told him about Latham and Susan Blacklock, what he knew, what he surmised. Succinct as Elder was, Loake managed to look at his watch not once but twice.

‘And none of this came out at the time?’ Loake said when he’d finished.

‘As far as I can tell Latham was never questioned.’

Loake leaned towards him. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t been so keen pointing us at Shane fuckin’ Donald, he would have been.’ His expression was close to satisfaction.

Elder let it ride.

‘What do you expect me to do now?’ Loake asked.

‘Nothing necessarily. Though I’d have thought there was one question that should be asked.’

‘Why didn’t he come forward at the time?’

‘Yes.’

Loake made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. ‘I should’ve thought it was bloody obvious. He didn’t want his nuts cut off by the education committee for screwing under-age girls.’

‘That’s one reason, agreed.’

‘Okay, mastermind, what’s the other?’

‘Ask him.’

‘Fuck you, Elder!’ Loake was on his feet double-quick. ‘Coming in here telling me how to do my fucking job.’

Elder took an envelope from his side pocket and slid it across the desk. The veins at the side of Loake’s forehead were standing out for fine weather.

‘I’ve written it all up in there, dates and so on. If you do decide to have a word with Latham you might find it useful.’

‘Elder…’

‘If I see Don I’ll tell him you were asking for him. And I’ll see myself out.’

Why was it, Elder asked himself, the older he got the stronger the urge to throw a punch became? It was as well he’d taken retirement when he did. He was almost back at this car when his mobile phone rang. It was Maureen Prior. Someone answering to Shane Donald’s description had tried to use a stolen debit card in the centre of Nottingham.

They met in a small café off Bridlesmith Gate, one of the few that hadn’t yet been squeezed out by Starbucks and Caffè Nero. Maureen, who had been in court that morning, sat sober and smart in a grey suit, the skirt an efficient length below the knee. Elder, who was wearing shapeless trousers and a faded blue shirt, was feeling slovenly and under-dressed by comparison, uncomfortable in the heat. They hadn’t been sitting there many minutes when Maureen took off her suit jacket and folded it neatly across the back of the adjacent chair.

‘It was Dixon’s in the Victoria Centre,’ Maureen said. ‘Saturday. Trying to buy a CD Walkman. Not cheap.’

‘How sure are we it was Donald?’ Elder said.

‘Pretty sure. We got quite a good description from the young Asian guy who served him. Early twenties, hair cut really short, trainers, jeans. Skinny as a rake.’

Unless he’d changed a lot in prison, Elder thought, Donald could be mistaken for early twenties, no problem.

‘Apparently the assistant had been watching him for some little time. Thought there was something shifty about him, nervous even. Seems he’d been in the shop earlier, looking around. Assistant thought he was out to nick something if he could. Asked if he wanted any help, got no for an answer. Half an hour later, he came back in again, asked to listen to the Walkman. Said okay. Everything was fine until the machine refused his card. The assistant asked him if he’d like to pay some other way, but by then he was already on his way out of the store. That was when he checked the number against the list of stolen cards they keep near the till. Bingo.’

‘Gerald Kersley.’

‘Exactly. Kersley was robbed in a public toilet in the Greater Manchester area a couple of days after Donald absconded. Car keys. Wallet.’

‘There’s nothing else to connect them?’

‘Only circumstantial. Timing’s spot on.’

Elder picked up his cup and lifted it to his mouth before realising it was empty.

‘You want another?’ Maureen asked.

‘No, it’s okay.’

Elder shook his head and looked around. Not so many years before he would nip in here sometimes to meet Joanne on her lunch break, the salon she managed no more than minutes away. He pictured her sitting across from him where Maureen was now, picking at the salad on her plate and chatting away while Elder enjoyed a bacon sandwich and brown sauce. Nowadays it was all
focaccia
this and
focaccia
that.

‘That card,’ Elder said, ‘it could have changed hands half a dozen times by now.’

‘I know.’

‘And the description, it could be half the population almost, between eighteen and thirty.’

‘Yes.’

‘Without a recent photograph…’

‘CID in Huddersfield, they got hold of one from somewhere. Prison service, maybe. Probation? They were going to use it on some leaflets when he went missing, you know, fliers, but somehow never got around to it. Anyhow, they’re emailing it down. Probably sitting on the computer up in Mansfield now.’

‘How soon can we get hold of a copy?’

‘Just about as soon as we’ve finished this and walked to Central Station. I’ll call my office and get it sent on.’

While Maureen used her mobile, Elder finished the last of his coffee. If it was Donald, why wait till now to use one of the stolen cards? And why on earth would he choose to return to the very part of the country where he and McKeirnan had operated before?

‘All right,’ Maureen said, slipping the phone back into her bag and reaching for her coat. ‘We’re on. If you’re interested, we can check on the search for the missing girl while we’re there.’

‘Emma Harrison, is that the name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Still no trace?’

Sombre, Maureen pushed through the door and out on to the street. ‘You think it could be Shane, don’t you?’

Elder shrugged. ‘Turning up here…’

‘If it is him.’

‘Okay, if it is him. Turning up here the weekend this Emma disappears. Same age, near as damn it. Same age as Lucy Padmore, Susan Blacklock.’

‘Same age,’ Maureen reminded him, ‘as most girls reported missing.’

‘Coincidence, then?’

Maureen shook her head and set off along the pedestrianised street that would lead them to Trinity Square and the central division police station at the corner of Shakespeare and North Church Streets.

♦

Maureen signed Elder in at the desk and spoke on the internal phone to one of the office managers on the third floor. Because the operational base of the Major Crime Unit was divided between two sites, both away from the centre, it was sometimes necessary to beg space or facilities at the city force’s headquarters. After holding for a few minutes, Maureen was informed there was an office with a computer temporarily empty on the third floor. Within minutes, she was downloading the image on to the screen.

Elder held his breath as the likeness of Shane Donald appeared, Shane staring at the camera, pugnacious, vulnerable, a haunted look far back in his eyes – what he had experienced in prison, Elder guessed, what he had gone through. Then and before. The aggression that he saw, the challenge in his expression, they were new. It had been there, of course, to a degree, but previously it had been hidden, submerged, waiting for Alan McKeirnan to set it free. Now that anger, the aptitude for violence, was closer to the surface. Volatile.

‘You recognise him?’ Maureen asked.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Not changed a great deal?’

‘No, he’s changed.’

Maureen moved the cursor and clicked the printer into action.

The portrait lost some of its definition in the process, some of its texture in the transition from colour to black and white.

‘I can get a colour copy later,’ Maureen said.

‘This will serve for now.’

‘You want to try it out on the bloke from Dixon’s?’

‘If that’s okay with you.’

Maureen switched off the printer, moved the cursor to the top of the screen and clicked the mouse to shut the computer down. ‘Let’s see if they’ve turned up anything on Emma Harrison on the way out.’

♦

There were four uniformed officers, two detectives and three civilians in the incident room, the majority of them accessing new information and building up a database, or using HOLMES, the Home Office computer system, to prioritise lines of inquiry. Both Elder and Maureen knew this to be, in many ways, the most important function of all – prioritise wrongly and a vital piece of information could be shuffled back into the middle of the pack and not investigated for several days. Days which could prove crucial.