Flesh And Blood (39 page)

When she stood by him, Elder could feel the warmth of her arm against his side.

‘Helen,’ Joanne said after a while, ‘who is she?’

‘A friend.’

‘And that’s all?’

When Elder didn’t answer, she threaded her fingers through his.

Their breathing was loud in the room.

He kissed her and she kissed him back and at first he thought it was going to be all right, but when, after a few moments, they broke apart and she said something about kissing a ghost, Elder thought it sounded like a line from the book he’d just been reading and stepped away. He kissed her on the top of her head and went back upstairs to get his coat and shoes. At the door he held her hand and tried not to look into her eyes.

♦

At seven that morning, when the mail van arrived at Gartree prison, the officer on duty, who had been alerted, picked out the card addressed to Alan McKeirnan. The view across Whitby harbour was due north-west, showing the whalebone and the statue of Captain Cook clear near the cliff edge, the sands winding into the distance along the Upgang shore.

A police motor cyclist sped the postcard from Gartree to Bernard Young’s office in the Nottinghamshire Major Crime Unit. The handwriting was recognisably the same as before. ‘
Alan – Come on in. The water’s fine!
’ Safe inside its plastic envelope, the card was passed from hand to hand: Young to Gerry Clarke to Maureen Prior to Colin Sherbourne to Elder himself and then back to the detective superintendent.

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ Young said.

Elder looked at him but made no reply.

‘I’ve been in touch with the Yorkshire force, we’ll have full co-operation. By this afternoon there’ll be fifty or more officers on the ground and twice as many volunteers. There are dogs, search trained, a lifeboat crew and a team of divers standing by.’

‘Divers?’ echoed Clarke.

‘The water’s fine,’ Young quoted back at him.

‘You think he means it literally, then?’

‘I think it’s a chance we can’t ignore.’

It was Maureen who said what they were all thinking. ‘As far as we know, when he sent the card from Mablethorpe Emma Harrison was already dead.’

She was careful not to catch Elder’s eye.

‘We don’t know this is the same,’ Young said. ‘We must assume it’s not. Pray to God we’re right.’

The words as much for his sake, Elder knew, as because the superintendent thought they were true. Like the others, he knew Katherine could be already dead. Chances were she was. He forced himself to continue listening nevertheless. His daughter was in the hands of a murderer and they were still sitting there, more than a hundred miles away, the morning sun slanting across the room strongly enough for the motes of dust to shine brightly in its light.

‘Frank,’ Bernard Young said eventually. ‘Your thoughts?’

Elder leaned forward. ‘McKeirnan and Donald always denied any involvement in Susan Blacklock’s disappearance. Keach might have chosen the location because he wants to show he can go one better. So the spot where Susan Blacklock was last seen – out by Saltwick Nab – that’s where I think we should concentrate the search.’

The superintendent nodded. Clarke and Sherbourne were already on their feet.

‘We’ll find her, Frank,’ Young said. He was about to add, don’t worry, but stopped himself in time.

Elder was midway across the car park when his mobile rang.

Dread and anticipation all but trembled it from his hands.

‘Hello.’ The voice was a young woman’s, faint and distant.

‘Hello, who is this? Kate. Kate, is that you?’

‘It’s Angel.’

‘Who?’

‘Angel.’

The skin along the backs of his arms was taut and cold.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘The meeting place, with Shane…’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s the M5. The first services south of Birmingham. We’ll be in the cafeteria.’

‘What time?’

‘Half six, seven. This evening.’

Elder said nothing, shook his head. All around him car doors were opening, being closed, engines switched into life.

‘Is that okay?’ Angel said, her voice uncertain, anxious.

‘Six-thirty today. Yes, that’s fine.’

‘You’ll be there?’

‘Yes.’

The line went dead. Maureen was standing alongside a dark blue saloon, waiting. There was no way he could handle this himself now, not any part of it. ‘Maureen,’ he said, approaching. ‘Shane Donald, I’ve got a location.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘We’ll sort it on the way.’

♦

A centre of operations had been set up in one of the Whitby secondary schools, with Rob Loake the senior officer in charge. Immediately he sought Elder out and, gripping him by the arm, conveyed both anger and concern, brusque but genuine. At a quickly convened meeting, he introduced Elder and Maureen Prior to the local team and priorities were agreed. The majority of the other officers clearly found Elder’s presence unsettling and, quick words of sympathy aside, avoided talking to him as much as they could.

From the police helicopter, Elder gazed down at the slabs and pinnacles of black rock edging into the tide round Saltwick Bay; and as they circled again, he could see below them the lines of slow-moving figures inching across the fields behind the holiday park, just as they had fourteen years before.

By dusk, each and every caravan in the park would have been inspected, the farm buildings between the coast and the road checked over two square miles.

Nothing would be found.

‘Tomorrow, Frank,’ Maureen said. ‘We’ll find her tomorrow.’

Elder nodded and turned away, his hurt mirrored in her eyes.

♦

Meanwhile, across the county, the West Midland force were responding to the request to pick up Shane Donald. Two teams of four officers were deployed, after descriptions of Donald and Angel Ryan had been relayed over the internet.

The plan was simple. Matt Jolley and Andy Firebrace would approach the pair of them in the cafeteria, with Rose Pearson hanging back by the entrance, Malcolm Meade at the foot of the stairs. The second, back-up team were in their vehicle outside.

Shane and Angel were sitting towards the far side of the smoking area, with a view down over the motorway.

Angel was flicking her disposable lighter at a roll-up, Shane half-turned away from her, glaring into space.

Andy Firebrace got to within twenty metres before he was noticed.

Suddenly Shane was looking directly forward, staring at him, and Firebrace, instead of continuing, stopped and raised a hand, fingers spread.

Scraping back his chair, Shane picked out Matt Jolley to Fairbrace’s right.

‘You bitch!’ he yelled at Angel. ‘You fuckin’ bitch!’

‘No, Shane!’

With a crash of crockery, Shane upended the table and began to run, dummying in one direction and then another. Firebrace, trying to turn, became entangled with a woman carrying a small child. Jolley collided with a table and lost his footing.

Ashen-faced, Angel stood with one arm outstretched, as if to claw him back.

Rose Pearson moved to intercept him and Shane kicked her hard below the knee and caught her with his elbow high on the cheek.

‘Police! Clear the way, police!’

Andy Firebrace’s voice pursued Shane downstairs, where Malcolm Meade had already lost him amidst a coachload of senior citizens on their way back from the Trossachs and desperate in their search for the toilets and a decent cup of tea.

Two sets of glass doors led out into the car park and when Firebrace pushed his way through there were perhaps two dozen people within sight, none of them Shane Donald.

‘Where the fuck’s back-up?’ he called to no one in particular.

Rose Pearson was close to his shoulder now, holding her cheek and talking into her mobile phone.

Matt Jolley was running off right between the lines of parked cars and, yes, there was Donald, some thirty or forty metres ahead of him and almost level with the petrol pumps.

Firebrace set off in pursuit, shouting Shane’s name as loud as he could.

The police vehicle, unmarked, came fast now but late along the slip-road behind the garage, braked hard to avoid swiping a Ford Mondeo side on, and skidded to a halt, officers jumping clear.

Shane, running along the perimeter, swerved and sprinted back the other way. Matt Jolley was slowing now as Firebrace called Shane’s name and Shane, in response, vaulted onto the hard shoulder at the second attempt.

The driver of an eight-wheeler carrying metal casings south to Bristol saw Shane in the corner of his eye and, guessing his intention, struggled to pull across into the middle lane.

Firebrace’s tackle caught Shane below the waist and sent him spinning but safe across rough tarmac. Before he could struggle or kick out, Fairbrace had his arms pushed up tight behind his back and was just reaching for his cuffs when Matt Jolley seized Shane by the hair and yanked his head right back.

‘You’re one lucky bastard, you know that? If it’d been me, I’d’ve let you take your chances with the traffic.’

Firebrace slipped the handcuffs into place and locked them tight.

♦

At about the same time that Shane Donald was being arrested, Don Guiseley met Elder outside the temporary heaquarters at the school. ‘I couldn’t be more sorry, Frank.’ He took Elder’s hand in both of his. ‘Esme sends her love. She’s thinking of you, your daughter too. Praying is what she said.’

They walked along the harbour and across the bridge to the Board Inn where Guiseley bought them both pints and they sat at the same table where they’d sat before.

‘It’s a bastard, Frank.’

‘Yes.’

‘This Keach, what d’you know about him?’

‘Not a great deal. Oh, background and such, we know that. Pretty much as you’d expect. Shitty childhood and the rest.’

‘Bit like the other lad, then. Donald.’

‘Keach is more naturally violent, I’d say. All but killed someone in prison for no more than a chance remark. Brighter, too. High IQ. Took courses when he was inside, GCSEs and the like. But, yes, both loners by all accounts.’

‘And both,’ Guiseley said, ‘thinking the sun shines out of McKeirnan’s arse.’

‘Yes.’ Elder took a swallow of his beer.

‘Some well-meaning bunch of paper shufflers,’ Guiseley said, ‘reckoned it was safe to let him back out.’

‘Can’t keep them locked up for ever, Don. Not everyone.’

‘No?’ Guiseley worked tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Keach and his like, my way of thinking, any doubt, you should make an exception.’

They sat there a while longer, lingering over their pints, but, despite Guiseley’s efforts, conversation was sporadic at best. When he left, an hour later, Elder walked around both sides of the harbour, then back inland to Helen’s house, a light still showing through the curtains, Helen inside ironing, the radio playing. Elder had phoned earlier, said he would come and see her if he could, depending, and she’d told him she understood.

Now she held him and for only the second time since Katherine had gone missing he cried and she cried with him, the pair of them standing, arms wound about each other, sniffing back tears.

‘Oh, Frank…’

‘I know.’

Both knew too much: there was nothing they could say.

After a while, Helen offered Elder a drink and he shook his head.

‘Will you stay?’

‘I’d best not. You’d not thank me, like this. I’ve a room in town.’

‘If you change your mind…’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

When he walked back along the harbour, hands in pockets, there was a chill in the air that had not been there before and more stars than usual showed in the sky. Katherine, he kept repeating to himself, over and over. Katherine.

Elder woke at five, hair matted, his pillow beyond damp. The last vestiges of the dream clung to him, a blurry, rancid after-image that cleared only when he lowered his face towards the tap and splashed water, cold, up into his face.

When he sat back on the edge of the bed, his body was still faintly shaking, his feet and legs close to numb.

Some little while later, when he stepped outside, the gloom of early morning had been compounded by a sea fret, waves of mist rolling in off the sea and reducing everything to an amorphous grey. From the head of the road overlooking the east cliff, the light at the pier end was only dimly visible, the horizon unseen.

♦

Not far short of six, a runner, far enough inland for the air to be relatively clear, recognised the van from the pictures that had been shown on the previous night’s news: a small Fiat, white with grey trim and a broken wing mirror on the near side. It was standing on the verge of the broad track that twisted down from the village of Aislaby towards the junction of two roads, one of which bridged the River Esk.

He peered through the windows and, seeing nothing, continued on his way downhill, telephoning the police from a call-box a few hundred metres along the main road.

The duty officer had not long settled down to his desk, mug of tea close by his right hand, when the call came through.

Elder had walked into the communications room moments before, Rob Loake and Maureen there already, standing before the large area map on the wall. Loake chewing his way through the last of a bacon roll.

‘Sir,’ the officer said, stepping towards them. ‘Ma’am. Seems like we’ve found the van.’

‘Where?’

The officer pointed to the spot, just a few miles inland. ‘There, sir. Just short of Sleights.’

‘What the fuck’s it doing there?’

They arrived within minutes, Loake smoking as he drove, headlights on, window down.

The van was parked at an angle, facing uphill; as they approached, birds rose clamorously from the tall trees above them and flew, black, into the still grey sky.