Ash & Bone

'Fuck your coffee!'

'Tea, then. It might be possible to arrange tea.'

'You're a cunt,' Repton said.

Framlingham slowly smiled, as if this were indeed a compliment. Perhaps, from Repton, it was. 'We just thought,' he said, 'you might appreciate the privacy. Rather than resume discussions in the full public view.'

'There's nothing to discuss.'

Framlingham leaned lazily forward. 'I think if there's a problem it may be rather that there's too much. A matter of where to start. Though Frank and I think what we've seen on the video might be the place.'

'What fucking video?'

Framlingham and Elder exchanged smiles.

'Singin' in the Rain' Framlingham said. 'Always a favourite.'

***

Watching Repton's increasingly ashen face, Elder thought about the call he'd received from Maureen Prior earlier that morning. Up in Nottingham, Bland was coming round to making some kind of a deal, the best that he could in a bad set of circumstances. In the end, Elder thought, that was what they all did. Bland and his kind. Aside from the ones who chose a gun to the head or a rope knotted tight about the neck; the ones who went silent to the grave.

***

Repton had sat watching the tape with scarcely a movement, scarce a word. Now that he was faced with a blank screen, a nerve twitched arrhythmically above his right eye, hands knotted in his lap. Elder eased open the blinds and light seeped back into the room.

Framlingham spoke into the silence. 'Only two ways to go, Maurice.'

Repton said nothing.

'Try saving your pal Mallory, it isn't going to happen. Isn't going to work. Besides, you've watched his back long enough. Wiped his backside. Time to save yourself, if you can.'

Repton looked at him quickly, then away. There was something troubling him about the crease in his trouser leg and he straightened it carefully with index finger and thumb.

'I need to think about it,' he said.

'Of course.' Framlingham rose to his feet. 'I need to take a slash, anyway. Five minutes, okay? Frank will be just outside the door. And no calls, Maurice, eh? In fact, Frank, why don't you relieve Maurice of his mobile, just in case?'

Sour-faced, Repton handed over his phone.

'Not armed are you, Maurice?' Framlingham said. 'Carrying a weapon of some kind? Dereliction of duty if I left you alone with enough time to put a bullet through your brain-pan.'

'Fuck off,' Repton said.

'Frank,' Framlingham said.

Elder carefully patted Repton down: no weapon.

'Five minutes,' Framlingham said, opening the door. 'Don't let them go to waste.'

When they came back into the room, Repton seemed not to have moved.

'I'm going to need assurances,' he said.

'Of course,' said Framlingham, repositioning himself behind his desk. 'That's understood. Your assistance, a case like this. Minimum sentence, open prison. Back outside in eighteen months, I shouldn't wonder.'

'No,' Repton said. 'No jail time. None at all.'

'Maurice, be reasonable. You know I can't promise that.'

'Then there's no deal.'

'Oh, Maurice, Maurice. What am I going to do? You want me to fetch CIB in on this? Here…' reaching for the phone, 'I can call them now. If you'd really feel more comfortable talking to them than me.'

'Listen,' Repton said. 'Everything you want to know George has been into, going back what? The best part of twenty years?' He tapped his fingers against his temple twice. 'It's all in here. Names, places, amounts, everything. And that stuff on the tape…' He laughed. Not a pleasant sound. 'You want to know where the bodies are?' He tapped his head again. 'But I want guarantees. One, no time inside. Two, protection, before the trial and after. Twenty-four-hour, round the clock. And then I want a new identity, new address the other side of the fucking world.'

Framlingham set the phone back down, unused. 'Maurice, I'll do what I can, you know that. But there's only so much, in good faith, I can promise.'

'Then make your calls,' Repton said. 'Firm it up. You know what I need.' He got to his feet. 'And don't try fobbing me off with any Witness Protection Scheme bollocks, either. I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my fucking shoulder, waiting to see who's going to come through the fucking door. You handle this differently. Handle this yourself. Close to your chest.'

Framlingham sighed. 'All right, Maurice. I'll do what I can.'

'This time tomorrow,' Repton said. 'And not here. I'll contact you. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'My mobile,' Repton said to Elder, holding out his hand.

Elder gave him back his phone.

'How do we know,' Framlingham said, after Repton had left the room, 'he isn't calling Mallory right now?'

'We don't.'

'In which case, let's hope self-preservation beats in his heart a shade more strongly than loyalty.'

52

Nayim had worked with Steve Kennet for five years, on and off, himself and Victor, sort of a team. Turn their hand to anything, building-wise, save for real specialist stuff. Simple electrics, plumbing, all that was fine, but something like installing underfloor heating, anything more specialised, they'd call in the experts, stand aside. Renovation though, new flooring, windows, stairs, outside work, repointing, replacing tiles, new roofs, there wasn't much they couldn't handle. Put in a loft not so long back, West Hampstead, architect designed. Some woman writer. Photos in the local paper. Signed one of her books for him, nice that. Not that he'd read it, mind.

Nayim sat next to Karen Shields on a bench in Waterlow Park, crows making a racket in the trees. A small boy being pushed on the swings. The former hospital building Nayim and Victor were working on was clearly visible, a short way down the hill.

It was cold; too cold to sit comfortably for long.

When Nayim took out his cigarettes and offered one to Karen, she shook her head. He was what, she thought, Spanish, maybe? Portuguese? Something of an accent, olive skin.

'Back in December,' Karen said, 'close to New Year. One of my officers came to that place you and Steve Kennet were working on in Dartmouth Park Road.'

Nayim nodded.

'You must have been quite a while on that job.'

'Too long. Landlord going crazy, but it's not our fault. Weather, you know? Rain. Always rain;'

Karen smiled. 'Winter in England. That's what it does. It rains.'

Nayim grinned.

'And you were what?' Karen said. 'Fixing the roof, stuff like that?'

'New roof, yes. Brickwork, guttering. Wood round the window frames, rotted away.'

'So you must have started when? Back in November some time?'

'Earlier. October, must have been.'

'Steve Kennet going off on holiday in the middle of it, that couldn't have helped.'

Nayim hunched his shoulders. 'Steve cut short his holiday, come back to work early.'

'And this was when?'

'November. Last week.'

Karen willed herself to slow down. 'When he came back,' she said, 'how did he seem?'

'Sorry, I don't…'

'His mood, I mean. Was he chatty, friendly, glad to be back?'

Nayim shook his head. 'At first, he hardly say a word. I go, hey Steve, good you're back, but he just grunt and go straight up to the roof, start work.'

'You didn't happen to notice if he had anything with him? Out of the usual, I mean?' Karen hoping against hope.

But Nayim was shaking his head. 'Just his bag of tools. Like always.'

Karen stood and brushed the seat of her trousers. 'If we wanted to take a look up there, where he was working – would that be difficult, do you think?'