Ash & Bone

'Katherine Elder, she was arrested yesterday. Possession of heroin. She's my daughter.'

Bland looked at him again and pulled the door wider. 'Come on in. Tryin' to get some kip. Three late nights on the fuckin' trot. Thought you were one of them bleeding-heart collectors, famine in fuckin' Sumatra or somewhere.'

Dust had gathered in small circles in the corners of the hall. The room Bland led Elder into was almost bare, crumpled clothes and cans and empty take-out boxes on the floor. The Venetian blinds were two-thirds closed.

'Cunt took all the furniture when she left. Had a van come round when I was out. Sleeping upstairs in a fucking sleeping bag.' He pointed towards the kitchen door. 'There's beer in the fridge, help yourself.'

When Bland came back down, blue shirt outside his jeans, he grabbed some beers for himself, lit a cigarette, and instructed Elder to get hold of the pair of plastic folding chairs that were leaning up against the wall.

They sat outside on a small patio, looking out over a rectangle of unkempt lawn, bare borders, a line of recently planted saplings. In amongst the hum of traffic, children cried and dogs set off a chain of barking. January notwithstanding, there was some warmth in the sun.

'Get shot of this fuckin' place,' Bland said, 'soon as I fuckin' can. Get back into the city. One of them new flats, by the canal. Only thing, minute I sell it, the bitch gets fuckin' half.'

Elder said nothing.

'You married?'

'Not any more.'

'Know what I mean then.'

For a while they swapped war stories about life on the force, Bland quizzing Elder a little about his time with Serious Crime, elaborating on the spread of drugs, the steady influx of guns.

'Fuckin' Noddies out patrolling St Ann's in body armour with Walther P990s holstered at their fuckin' hips like Clint fuckin' Eastwood. Me, I can walk into a crack house or down some alley in the Meadows and all I've got is a finger to stick up their arse, always supposing they'll bend over and oblige.' He coughed up phlegm and spat it at the ground. 'Every kid dealing out there on the streets has got a Glock or some converted replica stuck down the back of his designer fuckin' underwear. Niggers driving round in thirty thousand plus of motor with their fuckin' rap music blaring out and an Uzi under the fuckin' front seat. All very well to say it's one another they're killin', only problem with that they're not killin' one another fuckin' fast enough.'

He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the empty Heineken can and lit another.

'Your kid,' he said, 'she was carrying for the bloke she was with, Summers, no fuckin' doubt. Thought a night in the cells might get her to turn him over, but it didn't. No worries, we'll get him another way.'

'And Katherine?'

Bland popped another can. 'Needs to reconsider the company she's keeping.'

'Tell me about Summers,' Elder said after a moment.

'Rob Summers. Robert. Early thirties. Moved here from Humberside twelve or thirteen years back to go to university. Hung around ever since the way some of ' em do. Too idle to get up off their fuckin' arses and move somewhere else. That or too fuckin' stoned.' Bland swallowed down some beer. 'Started selling a little dope when he was still a student, nothing too serious. Carried on ever since. Low-level, just below the eyeline, you know the kind of thing.'

'So why the great interest?'

'While or so back, six, nine months maybe, his name started cropping up. Heavy hitters now. Not round the estates, either. Clubs and the like. Upmarket.'

'You've had him in?'

Bland sneered. 'Clever bastard, isn't he? Loves the sound of his own voice. Reckons he can talk his way out of fuckin' anything. Get the Red fuckin' Sea to part if he's a mind. Talk soft tarts like your Katherine into carryin' for him, carryin' the can.'

He could see the anger rising in Elder's face and eased forward on his chair, one officer to another, man to man.

'Listen to what I'm saying, Frank, don't go wading in, doing your indignant-father thing. Okay? Don't rock the boat. Not now, now we're close. Someone coming in from outside, making him jumpy when there's no need. There's too much at stake.'

'You're asking me?' Elder said.

'Asking you, yes, that's right.'

'And Katherine?'

'She can walk. I'll make the call. Go and get her if you like. After this.'

'All right,' Elder said, getting to his feet. 'Thanks for that at least.'

'We're all right about Summers?'

'Won't lay a hand on him, you've got my word.'

Bland swallowed down some more lager, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Need a lift back into town?'

Elder shook his head. 'It's a nice enough day, I'll walk.'

Bland followed him through to the front door. 'Where did you get this address?' he asked.

Elder hesitated. 'Maureen Prior.'

'Wasting your time there,' Bland leered. 'Had it sewn up when she was seventeen. I can put you in touch with several blokes counted the stitches, if you like.'

Elder had to restrain himself from thumping him hard.

31

The custody sergeant made Katherine sign for the contents of her pockets and her purse. As soon as she and Elder were outside, she began to walk away.

'Wait. Katherine, just wait,' Elder said.

'What for?'

'We need to talk.'

'I don't.'

He took hold of her arm and she shook him off. 'You need to talk, phone the Samaritans. See a shrink.' Anger blazed in her eyes. 'I did. See what a lot of bloody good it did me.'

He stood and watched as she strode towards the far pavement, forcing the traffic to swerve and brake: one moment she was walking past the corner of the Circus and then she was lost to sight.

He had a good guess where she would go and it wasn't home.

Don't rock the boat, Bland had asked him, leave Rob Summers alone, leave him to us. The curtains at the front of the house in Sneinton were drawn again, the same ginger-and-white cat sitting on the window ledge alongside the door. When Summers answered it, Elder pushed him back into the hall.

'Something you forgot to tell me,' Elder said. 'Left off your CV. Teaching, writing poetry, the odd story. Somehow you left out the fact you deal drugs on the side.'

'She's not here,' Summers said, 'if that's what you're thinking.'

'Of course she's bloody here.'

'All right. But she's upstairs, lying down. She's exhausted, right. Worn out.'

'Whose fault's that?'

'She's taken something to help her sleep.'

'No need to ask where she got that from.'

Summers shook his head. 'Come though here and sit down. Or do you want to stand yelling in the hall?'

The room was the same jumble as before, the same sweet afterwash of cannabis in the air. Summers switched on the stereo, but turned the volume low.

'Okay,' Elder said, 'start talking.'

Summers retrieved a packet of Rizla papers and a tin of Old Holborn from one of the shelves and began rolling himself a cigarette. 'When I was at Uni I traded a little dope, right. Mostly to friends. It's no secret.'

'You were arrested. Charged.'

'Someone ratted me out.'

'Some honest citizen.'

'Some creep.'

'You were found guilty.'

'Of possession.'

'Still a crime last time I looked.'

'Come on,' Summers said. 'A few ounces of cannabis resin. These days all that'd get you would be a nod and a wink, keep it out of sight.'

'And you got what? A suspended sentence? Probation?'

'Something like that.'

'But that's not all.'

'I don't…' For a moment, Summers seemed genuinely confused. Then, shaking his head. 'Jesus, you're dredging that back up?'