Burying the Past (19 page)

‘Think of the drop in your blood pressure; think of the long walks to shift your cholesterol. Or do they fix your blood pressure? Whatever. The trouble is, after more than thirty continuous years in one institution, it's so hard to think of a non-institutional life. I'm terrified, you know. Even if it's a life shared with you,' she admitted in a whisper.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it briefly. ‘Two scaredy-cats together. But let's give it some thought, some positive thought, once this crisis is over.' His mobile told him he had a text. ‘Just think, no more being summoned by bells before seven thirty . . . Tell me,' he added fishing the mobile out of his pocket, ‘is it usual for people like Caffy to start work so early?'

‘I can't think of a single thing that's usual about Caffy. Paula says she always arrives early – takes on the role of site manager to check in the day's first deliveries, and so on. She brews her coffee and reads in the quiet periods.'

‘I wonder if she can read text-speak. This one's gibberish . . .'

Fran was girding herself to do battle with Kim Thomas and her team when Alice popped her head round her door.

‘I'm not sure you want to hear this, Fran, but Kim's stuck on the M20. A lorry's hit the bridge where the M26 splits off. She was in the middle lane when the accident happened and hasn't been able to move for an hour. She wants to know if the briefing can be delayed till she returns.'

Kim was useful, of course, but hardly indispensable, surely. Even though they still lacked a DCI, surely the rest of the team could manage to give Fran an account of their activities to date without her?

‘It's not just her, Fran,' Alice continued. ‘It's DS Harding, DC Rains and DC Bowden as well. Car-sharing, in line with the new diktat.'

Fran managed not to raise her eyebrows at Alice's tone. What had annoyed such a gentle soul?

‘Unless she's set up a video link in her car, I suppose it'll have to be. Thanks, Alice. Hey, I wonder why she called you, not me.'

‘She did call your landline, Fran – I just fielded the call. I called Traffic, by the way. It's bad. Dead driver, probably Eastern European. His cab's wedged into solid concrete. They need engineers to assess any possible damage to the bridge. And they think it'll be up to five hours before the tailback can be cleared.'

‘Shit and double shit. Very well, Alice, let's work on my in tray, shall we? See how much we can bin and how much we should file. But maybe a cup of tea apiece while we do it . . .'

‘. . . Amazing,' said Fran, an hour later, ‘how much paper this so-called paper-free communication generates. Do we really need to download all these emails? I really think another memo is due. No?' She shot Alice a sideways glance.

‘I think the secretariat are memoed out, to be honest, Fran. And it'd mean yet more paper.'

‘So it would. In that case I'll have a word with the IT people – they could just add a line to every single incoming and outgoing email saying, “
Please don't print me
,” or words to that effect. Better still, why not have a word with Sally and get her to help the new chief to have the idea? It'd suit his ideas of economy and benefit the environment.'

‘Which were you thinking of – your office environment or the big wide world out there?'

‘Many a mickle makes a muckle, as someone used to say. Let's play another game, Alice. Let's imagine I'm a detective and I have some detecting to do. But it has to be this side of the motorway – and as far away from all the A-road chaos the diversions will have caused.'

‘Can I come too?'

‘You know, I really don't see why not. How can you do your job without knowing what people the other side of the desk do? I'll clear it with the secretariat, and we'll have a trip to the country.'

‘You have to stop harassing her. She'll get an injunction, she says.' Dave's voice was more than loud enough for other people in the reception area to hear every word.

Mark stared. It was bad enough for Dave to turn up again and summon him from a meeting, but now he was talking nonsense. Quickly, he ushered him into an interview room.

‘Has Sammie said I'm harassing her? In what way?'

‘Turning up unannounced and uninvited.'

‘And carrying a bunch of balloons for my grandchildren. That's harassment, is it? Dave, does this make sense to you?' Mark sat heavily on a chair, conscious that while he really did not want to conduct family business in a room so small it hardly merited the description, he was even less keen on having Dave in his office. ‘I'd really welcome your input, son. Especially as whatever I do is wrong,' he added ruefully. As Dave drew breath, he continued, ‘If I tell her to have the whole house and be damned, what happens to all my personal stuff? And Fran's? And, of course, yours. We always kept your bedroom for you, you know, with all your treasures just where you wanted them. Your swimming cups, the football trophies.'

Dave looked embarrassed, but managed to ask, ‘The model railway layout?'

‘Do you really expect we'd touch that? After all the hours we spent organizing it?' Or was it fewer than he thought? ‘All the engines are still safe and sound in the round house your auntie Meg gave you that snowy Christmas. Hell, do you remember how cold it was in that loft?'

Dave smiled slowly. ‘It was freezing up there, wasn't it, but we still drove all the locos in, one by one. You must have cursed me.'

‘Only because you'd had measles or something and your mum was worried about you catching your death. Didn't I tie a hot-water bottle on your back?'

‘Don't remember that. I just remember being cold. My hands were so cold it was hard to fit the locos on the track.'

Mark risked one more push. ‘You see, it's not just half of
my
life that's in that house. It's half of yours. Have you been in there yet?' he asked at last.

Dave drew breath again, but exhaled slowly. At last he said slowly, ‘I almost believe you. I'm this far from it.' He held thumb and finger a millimetre apart. ‘But then, I believed what Sammie was saying. I'll go see her again, I guess. This time I'll insist we meet at the house, whatever she says. I'll try to talk to Lloyd, too.'

Mark could hardly believe his ears. ‘You will? Dave, what can I say?'

But Dave was on his feet. ‘I guess you'll have plenty of time to work that out.'

Fran thought that breaking pretty well every rule in the book was worth it just to see the expression on Alice's face as they left the building. Their first port of call was the vicarage that had replaced their rectory as the incumbent's abode. It was a smallish detached sixties house, with a flat-roofed garage alongside. The big windows probably made it hell to heat. The garden seemed to be given over to vegetables – presumably, he encouraged his runner beans in a different way from Marion Lovage.

‘The Reverend Peter Bulleid,' Fran said, deciphering the tiny scrap of paper crumpled into the slot in the electric bell-push. ‘How do I address him, Alice?'

‘Plain Mister, I think. Is he related to the railway engineer?'

‘Railway engineer?'

‘He designed locomotives. My brother's a railway buff,' she explained, almost apologetically, pressing the doorbell again. ‘You know, I don't think there's anyone at home.'

‘He's deaf,' Fran said, inclined to be dismissive of such frailty, but remembering with a pang that Mark's hearing was no longer as acute as it should be. Lesson one for those contemplating retirement, she told herself: don't sneer at age-related problems. Reaching for a business card to pop through the letters flap, she printed a request to contact her about Marion Lovage on the back. No one could say she wasn't being upfront this time.

Or when she called at the back door of the Three Tuns. She greeted Ollie with a flash of her ID and a clear introduction to Alice, specifying that she wasn't an officer but was a colleague with experience in dealing with the elderly. Alice turned not so much as a hair at Fran's lie – perhaps she considered her job gave her the requisite skills and patience. ‘How would you feel about us talking to your father?' Fran asked. ‘There's no reason why you shouldn't be present. We just want his memories of Dr Lovage, that's all.'

‘I'll phone my mum,' Ollie said, digging in his pocket for his phone and walking towards a stack of logs. ‘Signal's best here,' he said over his shoulder.

Alice turned to face the sun, as if warmth on her face was a new experience. ‘This is such a treat, Fran. Takes your mind off redundancy, at least.'

‘Redundancy? You? Over my dead body, Alice.'

‘It's just a general warning as yet. But – you know what – if I had a halfway decent deal offered I might take it. A lot of us would. I know you officers deal with dreadful stuff face to face, but we get the fallout, if you see what I mean. And maybe I'm young enough to retrain.'

‘As?'

‘God knows, to be frank. What can women do these days? Go to uni? End up with a debt like a millstone and a job in a bar instead of at the Bar?'

‘Quite.' And there she had the luxury of making a choice. At the moment, at least.

Ollie sauntered back, but he was shaking his head. ‘According to Mum, he doesn't know his arse from his elbow today. But if you like I can give her your number so she can call you when he's a bit more with us.'

Fran handed over her card. ‘We'll be there if we can. Thanks. We don't want to distress him, you know, or your mother. Actually, wouldn't your mother have known Dr Lovage as well as, if not better than, your father? WI and church flowers and so on?'

Ollie blinked. ‘Good point. Never thought of that.' Without being asked, he returned to the log-stack. He was back almost immediately. ‘He's just shat himself. Don't worry, I'll give her your number when it's a better time.'

They walked back to Fran's car in silence.

‘Is police work always like this? A series of no-shows?' Alice asked.

‘All too often. That's why we usually send a PC – cheaper. But to be honest, I was bored out of my skull and I thought you were looking a bit peaky . . . Is it just the threat of redundancy or—?'

‘I'm fine, Fran. Just the usual things. Money; food; school uniforms. We didn't manage a holiday, that was a problem – and I suppose on a day like this you want to skive. So this has been great. Even if we didn't achieve anything.'

Fran looked at her watch. ‘Ollie doesn't do midday food, but I bet we can find a place that does. My treat. Come on.'

A
flurry of texts and emails, ably assisted by the wasps that bombarded their rickety table, drew their lunch to an end. So much for their rural idyll.

The most interesting message was from Kim, who'd used her M20 imprisonment to good effect and organized a slot on the evening's local TV news to appeal for information about Frank Grange's last known activities. The programme, she added, probably wouldn't allow them enough time to ask about Dr Lovage, but she'd do her best to talk them into it. Did Fran have any preferences for an officer to front the piece?

Which was a tactful way of asking if Fran wanted to do it herself, of course.

Y not U?
Fran texted back
. Go 4 it
. Then she added a stream of instructions about setting up a team to answer what she hoped would be a deluge of responses, though she suspected at best there'd be no more than a thin trickle. But she did worry that the dead case should take precedence over one that was very much alive, and so, using the hands-free phone, she called Don to ask how things were moving.

‘Still no ID on our victim; still no sighting of the alleged killer, Cynd.'

‘Do you think it's time to find some funds for facial reconstruction people? So we can get the public at large involved? Someone must know his face, for goodness' sake.'

‘Ma'am, has anyone ever told you you're an angel?'

‘You'd better wait to see how much I can find before you ask that.'

She'd barely sat down at her much tidier desk than there was a call from reception. Someone described doubtfully as a young person was asking for her by name. Cynd! It must be Cynd! Should she call for backup to make sure Cynd didn't get away? But she didn't want her scared by a sudden inrush of officers intent – rightly – on arresting her. So she hurtled down the corridors, bouncing down the stairs in case the delay would so put Cynd off that she stomped away.

It wasn't Cynd, however. It was another young woman, dressed in a retro summer's dress, which looked as if it was genuine fifties, not this season's
homage
. She greeted Fran with confidence, shaking hands firmly and with the sort of smile that suggested that she could help Fran, and not vice versa.

‘Lina Townend, of Tripp and Townend, Antiques,' she said, producing a business card. ‘I'm the divvy – the diviner – that Caffy said you wanted,' she added.

‘Well I'm blowed,' Fran declared. ‘I was expecting—' And perhaps should have waited for Bruce Farfrae to contact her.

‘A tweedy old man with a shock of white hair and an overused twig? Sorry. Even my partner, Griff Tripp, doesn't look like that. Now,' she continued with the air of someone for whom time was money, ‘I understand you have some furniture you can't open and that someone wants to force.'

‘It's in our evidence store. There's a procedure to ID you and put you through security. I can't pretend it's anything other than tedious, but I'm sure you understand.'

‘Of course. I've got a couple of friends who are police officers – DCI Webb, whom you probably know. I'm sure Freya'll vouch for me, though she's on maternity leave. And then there's DCI Morris, once of the Met but currently on secondment to Interpol,' she added with a slight change of voice that made Fran wonder about the backstory. ‘And I believe that you know Bruce Farfrae, though he's left the police and is busily coining money in the US. He emailed me last night to ask if I could help you; he sends his apologies for not getting back to you earlier, but he was on his way back from Afghanistan – antiquities thefts.'