Burying the Past (21 page)

Fortunately, he was walking so fast she didn't have breath to point out he could have asked Kim where she was. Or more likely Alice. Except she hadn't told Alice where she'd be . . . If he was angry, she was just as angry with herself. For someone at her level to be incommunicado was outrageous. For all she'd made progress this afternoon, she'd spent far longer with Lina Townend than she'd intended – or could truly justify.

Without asking, he threw the car keys at her. ‘Put your foot down – but remember, being booked for speeding at this stage would not look good at all.'

‘How did all this come about?' she asked coolly once they'd eased out of Maidstone – well below the speed limit, as it happened, given the volume of traffic – and hit the open road. Her absence was her fault, but at least it hadn't triggered a TV programme.

‘Dave – I phoned him the moment I knew – insists it's nothing to do with him, although he admits he went to see Sammie. God, Fran, did I say “admits”? I make it sound like a breach of probation, not a young man going to see his sister. I rather think he may have told Sammie she was out of order behaving as she was, which seems to have pushed her further.'

‘You've spoken to Ms Rottweiler?'

‘Eventually. It took forever to get hold of her, but she's contacted Sammie and told her of the legal consequences of slandering me. Let's hope Sammie understands what that means.' He added, ‘She offered to get a super injunction, but I told her no – I know how you feel about hiding behind such things.'

‘Absolutely.' She didn't ask how much all this would cost, and not just in terms of money, either.

‘She's also emailed me a statement to read to Dilly – only, I have to make it sound spontaneous, unprepared. We're into damage limitation, but with luck it'll be a five-day wonder and die. Until then, I reckon we've got no option but to live the intolerable life I'm telling the great British public we already live.'

‘No problem.' It was. Something deep inside her was revolted by the whole business, but now wasn't the moment for moral probing, either of herself or of Mark, who was so tense she was scared he might have a heart attack there and then. She thought it was best to stay shtum, concentrating instead on recalling all her pursuit driving skills, while equally trying to remember where the hidden speed cameras lurked.

At last slotting the car into the space left by the Winnebago – it was presumably Caffy who had done a bit of window dressing and organized a haphazard heap of pallets to cover one set of tyre marks – Fran followed Mark to the house.

Paula, arms crossed, greeted them with a slow smile. ‘Welcome to your new abode. You're supposed to carry her across the threshold, Mark,' she began, but was swift to pick up the vibes that suggested Mark was more likely to sling her across it. ‘We've not tidied up for the cameras; at least, not out here. One room looks as if it might be a bedroom – it's the one you said would be your dining room, eventually. Take a look.' She didn't offer to lead the way – obviously, her smile said, this is your place, not mine. But with a deep, ironic bow, she passed them hard hats. ‘To be worn even in bed. Obviously.'

In silence they picked their way down the hall, which, while having a central pathway, had enough detritus along the margins to convince anyone that work was well and truly in progress. It wasn't until they were inside their new room, however, that Mark spoke – laughed, in fact. ‘Why do I think Caffy had a hand in this?' He pointed to the row of books on the wonderful broad window-sill, which would one day be covered in cushions and become one of her favourite perches, with its view down the potential garden and actual crime scene. ‘And those,' he added, pointing to the white plastic patio chairs that had once been outside near the Winnebago, but had now been wiped clean and placed one either side of a couple of packing cases with a door on top doing duty as a table. Sleeping bags lay on air beds in the far corner. ‘You don't think she's over-egged the pudding? Get changed while you think about it – Cosmo wants us in total mufti for this. Humans, not police officers, if you get his drift.'

‘Sure.' She stripped off the smart trouser suit she favoured on duty, grabbing jeans and a T-shirt. Presumably, it was Caffy who'd rigged up a scaffolding rail loaded with clothes on hangers – obviously, she'd just done a wholesale raid on the Winnebago. Even as she zipped the jeans she wondered what would have happened to Caffy if Paula hadn't recognized potential talent in the ex-prostitute and taken her into the original team of painters and decorators. She tucked her suit at the far end of the rail, easing Mark's fleece over the uniform he'd discarded for an outfit like hers, before she responded to his original question. ‘Does the place look like us or a stage set for us?' she asked aloud. Now her mouth took over. ‘How about some mugs on the table? I can't imagine you doing anything without your green tea to hand. And something else on the table? A lamp? Paperwork that suggests we slave till all hours?' To her ears, her voice sounded brittle, forced.

‘Far too much egg.' But he managed a laugh as he looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes to spare, I reckon.'

‘A damned close run thing.'

‘It's not over yet. I've got to act my socks off, and acting's not my best suit.'

‘Don't do yourself down. You deserve an Oscar for the way you play a doting and respectful acolyte to our acting chief. How did he take it, by the way, when you told him?'

‘The trouble is, Fran, he told me. Showed me the clip, in fact. And you can imagine that he was not amused. Hell, I wouldn't be, if I was in his position.'

‘Which you could have been,' she reminded him soberly.

‘Quite. And I think I'd have had no option but to resign. As it is, it's touch and go, Fran, touch and go. But we'll talk about it later – let me just read through what Ms Rottweiler wants me to say. What's the matter?'

She turned from him, her voice now cracking. ‘I can't do it. You can't do it. All our lives we've told the truth – think of all the times we've sworn to do that in court – and this is living, if not telling, a lie.'

‘You're serious. Aren't you?'

‘Yes. I know it's your interview, and I know it's your family, but – I'm sorry.'

He strode to the window, turning at last on his heel and staring at the room and at her in exasperation. She could hear the blood in her ears and throat.

Then she could hear his indrawn breath. ‘Sod it all, you're right. Absolutely right. OK. Business as usual?'

‘Not if you mean scrapping the interview. Get her to do it outside. Just as true. More honest.' It would have been more honest still if they'd left the Winnebago, but she could do nothing about that now.

‘I'd love Sammie to have the house, if she needs it,' Mark declared, against the backdrop of their peeling front door. He clutched his hard hat like a talisman. ‘But that means my son would miss out. When you're a parent, you want to be fair to everyone. So I'm thinking about not just my English grandchildren, but my US ones too. At the moment, the house is crammed with personal possessions – my son's are locked inside, too, and some of my fiancée's. I never wanted our dispute to come to this. Sammie, if you're watching – just pick up the phone and let us sort out the whole mess so you can get on with your life.'

‘Mr Turner, thank you very much. And now it's back to the studio, Debbie.' Dilly Pound finished her smile to the camera, listened to something in her earpiece, and relaxed. ‘Thanks, Martin,' she said to the cameraman. ‘Hell's bells, she sounds an absolute cow. Not that we're allowed to say things like that any more. And she
is
your daughter, Mark – sorry. So when's the wedding, Fran? And where?'

Fran would rather have asked about Dilly's life since they'd last met, which had been at her rather grand wedding to a man Fran really did not like. She was inclined to worry about Dilly's determined brightness, as if she were afraid of switching off even for a moment. But it was truly none of her business, and Dilly had asked a question and was awaiting a response. ‘The vicar we wanted to marry us is in hospital just now – cancer. So everything's on hold till she gets her prognosis. But it wouldn't be anything big, Dilly. Not at our age.' She forbore to point out that the guest list might be a little tricky, as far as family was concerned.

But Dilly understood.‘And in the present circumstances, of course . . . All the same, you want a bit of a do.'

‘And we want a bit of a house and garden to hold the do and live in, with luck, happy ever after.'

‘Fingers crossed.' Dilly smiled. ‘It'll be nice for you to sort out that skeleton of yours, won't it? Actually, we're doing a piece on that tonight. I recorded an interview with DI Kim Thomas earlier.'

‘You're not tying the two pieces together?' Mark gasped.

‘Only with a bit of continuity. All she said was that the police had found the skeleton of Frank Grange and wanted to know his last movements. We put up a pic and gave the hotline number she supplied. We didn't want to make people think they knew stuff, but wanted to nudge them a bit in case they needed it. So we just mentioned Great Hogben and several other villages round here – nothing to connect it with you personally, Mark.'

‘That's terrific. Thanks.'

‘No problem.' Dilly pulled a face, gesturing at the house. ‘Where do you cook and eat?'

‘There's still a canteen at work,' Mark said, ‘and an excellent village pub. I'd offer to take you both,' he added, with a smile at the cameraman, who'd passed the entire conversation texting and had just resurfaced, ‘but it's closed on Mondays.'

Dilly looked unaccountably disappointed. ‘Well, another time, maybe.'

‘Definitely. I'd love to invite you in to show you what the Pact team have done so far,' Fran said, ‘because they've achieved miracles, but as you can see,' she continued, pointing at Paula's official notices, ‘they're very keen on Elf and Safety so it'd be a hard hat and heavy boot affair. But you and Daniel must be some of our very first dinner guests.'
Possibly
, she added, under her breath.

‘That'd be lovely,' Dilly declared, with a smile that didn't look very happy. Fran opened her mouth, but shut it again: this wasn't the time or place to probe Dilly's feelings, and they were none of her business anyway. But then she heard herself saying, ‘We must do lunch sometime, Dilly – have a girly natter.'

Mistake.

‘Oh, Fran, that'd be lovely – I'd really like that. I can see you're up to here at the moment, but next week, maybe? Can you call me?'

At last, standing hand in hand by their demolished gateposts, they waved her and the taciturn Martin off.

Mark hung his head. ‘I never mentioned the Winnebago.'

‘So you didn't. And I think Nemesis was watching you. The Winnebago is no longer with us, sweetheart. Tonight we sleep on those air beds . . .'

P
enance, Fran decided, was right to come in the form of sackcloth and ashes. It ought probably to have come in the form of beds so short that your feet stuck over the edge and so narrow that you rolled on to the floor if you risked turning over. Mark's obligatory trek to the loo in the small hours, lit by only a torch, was probably part of the deal too, though possibly earlier penitents had been allowed a chamber pot.

And confession must have come into it.

It wasn't, of course, so much ash as plaster dust that was her penance: it was in her hair, her mouth, her nose. There was a fine collection under her eyelids. And her clothes, for all Caffy's efforts to provide a rail for them, were dust-covered – dust-filled! – too.

It wasn't Caffy but Paula who greeted them as they emerged, fully-dressed but blinking and scratching, into the fine morning.

‘So you've proved your point,' she said coolly, stirring her coffee but not offering to make them one. ‘Shall I tell Caffy to reinstate the Winnebago? Or do you want to wait and see if the TV piece generates any more press interest?'

Mark, looking like a schoolboy caught scrumping apples, shook his head slowly. There was probably dust in his brain cells too. ‘Best hang fire with the Winnebago, I suppose.' Then he produced the smile that had made Fran realize she had to share her life with him. ‘You were right all along, Paula – all our wishy-washy plans about living here while you were still working. Getting in your way, too, and wasting your time, of course.'

Paula nodded. ‘For which you are paying, Mark – so that's OK with us.'

Fran had an idea she wasn't joking. ‘You're not usually here this early, are you?'

‘The birds were clog-dancing on my roof. No point in wasting a fine day like this, not with the long-term forecast telling us to build arks. Which reminds me, how much longer will you be treating the garden as a crime scene?'

‘As long as it takes, Paula,' Fran said. ‘We're dealing with a really odd case. I'd like to say what Caffy's friend Lina found yesterday would speed things up, but I can't promise.'

Paula switched on the kettle and reached for two more mugs: presumably, this was her way of asking for details.

‘We found a collection of good quality furniture in a self-store unit,' Fran said, as if Paula wouldn't know. ‘But it took this Lina Townend to get into any of the cupboards and drawers. And a big Italian cabinet looked as if it was about to defeat even her.'

Paula nodded, reaching into a hessian carrier bag for a plastic box. Peeling off the lid, the sort that always broke Fran's fingernails, she offered thick sandwiches of dense wholemeal bread. ‘Home-made marmalade,' she said.

‘Like Paddington's,' Mark quipped, taking one. ‘Thanks.'

She ignored him, prompting Fran: ‘I take it the cabinet
didn't
defeat her?'