Burying the Past (18 page)

This time she seemed to have hit the right note: murmurs of amusement and interest seemed to be stronger than mutters of dissent. But she was sure someone whispered to someone else, ‘We did tell her she needed a trench – fill it with newspaper and such.'

‘Not that sort of “such” though,' Fran observed. ‘To be honest with you, some of my colleagues would rather wrap up the case by saying it's clear that Dr Lovage killed Grange in cold blood and buried him. That may be the case, but – let's say anyone living in that beautiful house, amongst the lovely furniture we've found in store, isn't necessarily my first image of a cold-blooded murderer. Aerial views provide evidence of wonderful gardens too. Was she a member here? And if so, did any of you know her? I want to build up a full picture of a woman whose interest in badgers makes her sound a bit of an eccentric, to be honest. But eccentrics don't make wonderful head-teachers.' She'd dropped her voice so that she sounded almost confiding, a tactic that always worked well in brainstorming meetings. ‘And wonderful head-teachers don't usually kill people.'

Bill pushed forward a chair. ‘Why don't we all take the weight off our feet and see if we can help?'

The chic woman spoke up. ‘Someone was saying you suspected us of engaging in some conspiracy to kill this man Grainger or whatever.'

‘I would like to say quite categorically that nothing could be further from my mind at the moment. I don't expect anyone to incriminate him or herself – though if anyone steps forward to confess, then obviously I'll be interested. But all I really want is a mental picture of Dr Lovage. At this stage, I don't have a notebook with me, let alone a warrant card,' she added, needing now to be scrupulously honest. She sat down.

One or two others did the same, but it was clear there wasn't universal trust. She fished her mobile out of her pocket. ‘Actually, there's a matter here I should deal with,' she said. ‘Where's your best coverage?'

There was some laughter. ‘Ladies' loo,' came a voice. Male.

What she wanted to do in fact was text Mark, so he'd know she was safe. Being angry with him was one thing; making him worry unnecessarily about her safety was another. As a bonus, her time away from the others would give them time to make a collective decision, which she thought, with Bill's leadership, would be to stay and help her.

‘Since you don't have anything to write on,' Bill said when she returned, ‘we thought our secretary might minute what we say. If that's acceptable to you? She says she should have the notes written up by Thursday.'

And today was Monday. But Fran nodded. After all, the secretary would almost certainly want to show what she'd written to the other members, so they were happy with her record. The session began. ‘Let's start with my phone number, in case any of you recall anything after this meeting . . .'

‘When I had my mini-breakdown,' Fran said carefully as she poured Mark another small tot, ‘the shrink said to write down my decisions and seal them in an envelope so I didn't waste energy going over and over the alternatives. That was the only way I could get any sleep and the only way to get things done. I know you're not having a breakdown, but you've got so much on your plate I wonder if that technique would work with you.'

Mark nodded miserably. Fran had never walked out on him before, and he was still trembling with a mixture of fury and anxiety. However much he might want to yell at her that since she'd never had children she couldn't understand his dilemmas, he had to admit that recently he'd become Mr Indecisive – hell, even their present accommodation came courtesy of Caffy's good offices and the kindness of some superannuated pop star he'd barely heard of. He managed a thin smile. ‘I've half a mind to go on a decision-making course.'

‘Quite.' Her voice was dry, almost unsympathetic.

He should have said something else, something more important. He hoped it wasn't too late. ‘I didn't know you'd had a breakdown. You never mentioned it.'

‘I didn't sing it from the rooftops. It probably went down on my record as compassionate leave to look after sick parents. Cosmo Dix always was imaginative in such matters, and he didn't think mental health problems were popular in the service. I took a few pills, but better still had psychotherapy. So I gave up the pills and was back to work within four weeks. If I'd had any sense I'd have said one of my parents had had a stroke and then taken a few more weeks off, but I never was like that.'

Humbly, he asked, ‘Was that when you were doing half of my job, as well as yours?'

‘When Tina was ill? No. Earlier. You remember that badminton player? Anyway, I'm better now. But I'm worried about you. At the risk of starting yet another hare, have you thought about family counselling? The three of you together?'

‘More talk? We studied a play at A level, and one of the characters said something like, “
You don't get money back on a broken bottle.
” And I think that's what I should be saying about Sammie and Dave. I've left a message on Ms Rottweiler's phone by the way, telling her to send another letter saying that if Sammie isn't out of the house within seven days she'll send in the bailiffs. As for Dave, I don't want to make a song and dance about it. He might just have been trying to phone you. Let's see what transpires and only worry about it then. Hey, what are you doing?'

‘Looking for a bit of paper for you. I don't think this place runs to envelopes, but I've got the back of a shopping list somewhere.'

He laughed, but took the slip of paper and ballpoint she dug out of her bag. As he wrote, he said, ‘And since we've thoroughly broken our
no shop talk
rule, you can tell me what you got up to at the village hall.'

She pulled a face. ‘For a start, I put all my cards on the table this time, and it was a good job I did, because there's a rumour going round that I'm out to nail the whole village for the killing. And they insisted on minuting everything that was said. A plump little woman with the most amazing shorthand speeds took down everything verbatim, as far as I could see. No, no whisky for me, thanks. There's a drop of white wine in the fridge needs finishing off.'

He still had difficulty working out which immaculate cupboard door concealed what, but eventually he ran the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc to earth and even found one of Todd Dawes' elegant wine glasses before taking his place beside her. They'd agonized about using them, until Caffy had blithely assured them that Todd's wife had bought six dozen of everything when they'd fitted out the Winnebago, on the grounds that things would get broken and need to be replaced without messing up a set. They weren't even into their second dozen yet, Caffy said.

‘Marion didn't like talking about the past. They all agreed on that. In fact, someone said she'd been in a serious accident that had affected her memory. They all agreed she'd been to uni as a mature student on the back of a successful career in something quite different. They said she'd got plenty of money – well, to buy this place outright she'd need it.'

‘Outright? Wow. Some success!'

‘Some of them also reckoned that although she said she'd found charities to fund improvements at the school, she'd actually dug in her own pocket. She went to church, helped at the fête, declined to run the Sunday School on the grounds she saw enough of the kids every day, and toyed with singing in the choir, but decided her voice wasn't up to it – apparently, she found that particularly upsetting. On the other hand, someone else said he thought Marion had found the
singing
upsetting, so made the lack of voice an excuse for not going to any other choir practices.'

‘Interesting, that. Any family, any bloke?'

She squeezed his hand. ‘You old romantic, you. One of the old guys – he still has a gleam in his eye if you ask me – said she was very, very attractive but not sexy. For all her good looks, she never had that spark. Whatever that is.'

‘Look in the mirror. Anything else?' He inspected the bottom of his whisky glass but decided against any more.

‘Apparently, she once mentioned a sister, but there were no photos anywhere in the house. Some good paintings, but the sort you buy, not inherit, someone said. I think I get that. Possibly. No one knows what happened to them when she left.'

‘Do they know where she went? Was she in a hurry?'

‘Measured, someone said. Purposeful. As if she'd made her mind up. No one could get any sort of reason from her, except possibly she might be going to stay with her sister, and she promised to send a forwarding address but she never did. That upset a lot of them. They thought she was a friend, and friends don't behave like that. They didn't even know she was dead until the sign went up outside the rectory and they asked at the estate agents.'

‘Perhaps she knew she was ill and didn't want to dwindle in front of them.'

‘Maybe. I don't think Kim and her team have even got hold of her death certificate yet. I'm seriously worried about that woman – Kim, I mean. She's letting the team slack. Probably my fault for overriding her a couple of times.'

‘Or maybe she's just not got the hang of leadership yet. Not everything's your fault, Fran, though I know you like to take the blame. Look – I'm sorry, but I'm so weary I can't stay awake any longer.' Nor did he want to. He just wanted to put a full stop to the whole vile day.

F
ran and Mark had just finished breakfast – which in their borrowed palace involved stowing of used items in what they presumed was a state-of-the-art mini dishwasher, more economical with water than conventional washing up, according to Caffy, who strolled by with a friendly wave that brought them to their front door.

The stable half open, the bottom half to lean on, they felt like Toad's friends, ready for the open road.

‘Much hope of that, I suppose,' Caffy said, when Fran confided their fantasy. ‘But the good news is that our Sparks has got hold of some more cable and should be starting soon. He's been doing emergency work down in Ashford after that huge robbery. Tell me, why didn't the criminals fry themselves alive? I'd have thought stealing from a sub-station was a fairly risky enterprise. And why don't they get squashed like so many flies when they nick stuff from railways?'

‘Good questions,' Fran said cautiously. It was, after all, one of the many points that had been made by the joint police-transport police team – that inside knowledge was involved. You couldn't nick fifty million pounds' worth from Railtrack alone without knowing more than Joe Average. But she had other investigations in hand. ‘Caffy, between you and Paula you must know everyone in the restoration business. Do you know any antiques restorers? People who'd know how to take pieces apart as well as gluing them together? Work,' she added, as if Caffy wouldn't know. ‘We've got a cabinet we can't get into, and I don't want it smashed as we try to persuade it to give up its secrets.'

‘Old?'

‘Older than the house I'd say. Much fancier, at least.'

‘Did you say “smashed”?'

‘Pretty well had to stop one of my officers taking a hatchet to it.'

‘Hell.' At last Caffy's frown cleared into a hesitant smile. ‘Do you do unconventional? In the police, I mean? Oh, I suppose you used that detectorist instead of giving what they call on TV a fingertip examination. That's quite left-field.'

‘Ask the ACC (Crime),' Fran said with a grin and a jerk of the thumb.

‘The ACC (Crime),' Mark said, ‘says cheap and cheerful – but an expert. Actually, possibly not an accredited safe-breaker.'

‘Fee?'

‘Professional expenses,' he temporized.

‘Whatever those might be when they're at home. I do know of someone – really an antiques dealer. Tripp and Townend. But also a bit of a “divvy”. Like a water diviner.' She mimed a fork-shaped stick.

They exchanged a sceptical glance. ‘Have you got their details handy?' Fran asked, aware that, no matter how pleasant the conversation, she ought to be heading into Maidstone. She also knew she'd do it with a lighter heart – there was something about Caffy that made you smile after any time in her company.

‘Nope. But I'll email you as and when.'

‘The sooner the better,' Fran said. ‘I don't know how long I'll be able to keep the people with hatchets away.'

Caffy narrowed her eyes. ‘Don't tell me it's DI Thomas who's the potential vandal. Now why aren't I surprised?'

Mark smiled uneasily. ‘Maybe if you just keep it to yourself, Caffy – we don't want to escalate the tension between her and Paula.' He nodded at the plastic tape. ‘In fact, now you've made your point, I don't suppose that stuff of yours could come down?'

‘Actually no, however much it might lead to a welcome détente. The dear old Elf and Safety folk . . . And I'm sure your blue and white tape's a legal requirement too? Even if it's ugly and looks petty, Mark, think on the bright side – it designates the boundaries of the warring factions.' Turning, she blew them a kiss and headed for the rectory. Fran could have sworn it opened its arms to her in welcome.

Today, since both had meetings scheduled – in theory – to end at the same time, they could share a car: now official money-saving policy, and an economy they'd always practised anyway. Fran drove; for once, Mark, stowing the paperwork he usually perused while he was being driven, allowed himself to sit back and stare at the countryside. ‘If I could find some occupation,' he mused, ‘to keep me sane, the R option doesn't seem so bad on a morning like this. I know, I know: on a cold, wet, dreary day, when the sun never appears and the cold eats into your joints, I might long for a desk in a centrally heated office. But think of that lump sum. Think of that pension.'