Burying the Past (22 page)

‘Until she slapped it in frustration it did. And then a panel shifted, and she found a lock. And then she managed to remove section after section. Like a three-D maze, as it were. She's still not sure if she's got every last one. There may still be drawers within drawers, cupboards with false bottoms. It's a work of art.'

‘And did you find anything useful?' Paula prompted, making their coffee.

‘Not yet. But Lina's gone off to do some research – to find the ultimate hidden drawer.'

‘And are you expecting a signed confession?'

‘God knows it would make our task easier.'

‘And cost the taxpayer less. On the other hand,' Paula continued, offering her a sandwich, ‘I can understand why you want to cross all the T's and dot all the I's. I would myself. My grandfather used to say that if a job was worth doing it was worth doing well. Now, I'm expecting a delivery – it would be much easier if you could move your car. And no Winnebago – right?' She smiled darkly. ‘Though you're permitted to change your minds.'

Dismissed like errant children, and still munching their doorstep sandwiches, Mark and Fran scuttled off to the car, already a few minutes behind their schedule, which had to include time for showers at work.

Fran's hair was still damp when she went into the latest briefing meeting about what she mentally termed Cynd's murder. Don Simpson looked as if he'd been working ever since she'd last seen him – which he probably had. There was good news and bad news. The bad – very bad – was that there was still no sign of Cynd. The good was that the pathologist had established that the victim's fillings weren't done by a British dentist. Apparently, there were different fashions according to where in the world they were put in.‘They have these down as Eastern European, ma'am.'

Fran had a sudden pang: she'd never let the self-store team in general and young Fred in particular know their progress so far. And it mattered, in her book at least. If you wanted the public to help you, the least you could do was update them on the way a case was going. She made a note to call them later. ‘Any particular part?'

‘Bulgaria, possibly. Or maybe Albania.'

Fran was going to ask how on earth such information could be contained in a small dab of amalgam, but Don's scarcely suppressed yawns became so emphatic that she feared for the safety of his jaw.

‘Don – go home to bed. That's an order. The rest of you, be sensible with your time. You need breaks, however macho you think it is to keep going as long as you can. Another order – right? We want this case sorted but not at the expense of you and your families.' She spread her fingers in a checklist. ‘Get on to Interpol – see what they can come up with. Borders Agency. SOCA. They're supposed to be there to fight crime, and so are we. No point in reinventing the wheel, however much we'd like to. Meanwhile, I want Cynd. Still no sightings? Come on, think outside the box. Surely there's CCTV coverage of all the places she might have been working, or where she might have got her fix?'

‘Absolutely. And there's no sign of her.' Don yawned. ‘Nor any signs – heavens, Fran, we've checked everywhere. Forensics doesn't show a struggle at the vicarage or the church – we were trying to rule out abduction,' he added.

She pointed. ‘Don – go. I don't like giving orders twice.' But she smiled with some kindness. They'd both come up through the ranks when fatigue was regarded as a weakness to ignore, and in his situation she was sure she'd have insisted on swilling endless caffeine and trying to carry on. Meanwhile, before she headed to the next briefing, she put in a quick call to the self-store, even though she could report nothing concrete.

As she left, Alice said, ‘Someone called Lina Townend called: she's still researching possible locations for secret drawers, but hasn't come up with anything yet.'

‘Hardly surprising – you're not going to put instructions out on the Internet, or the seventeenth-century equivalent, are you?'

‘You look as if you could do with a cuppa. Sit yourself down and I'll dunk a tea bag for you. Green?'

‘You're an angel.' She checked her watch. ‘But I'll have to drink it on the hoof. Next briefing's five minutes ago.'

‘Good news, ma'am,' Kim declared the moment Fran stepped into the smaller briefing room. ‘We've had a couple of calls about last night's piece on Grange. Both callers said they'd seen him years ago – and not so far from here. You're a local: you probably remember that the National Trust took over some run-down stately called Verities for some reason and kept it exactly as it was until they could catalogue everything? It was so cluttered that you had to have a timed ticket if you wanted to go round.'

‘And?' Fran prompted her, loath to admit that she hadn't a clue what Kim was talking about. If Don was a workaholic, so had she been, and her overflowing working life had been complicated by the need to take regular, exhausting trips to Devon to help her ageing parents. It would have taken the murder of Thomas à Becket himself to stick in her mind. Someone's abandoned home wouldn't have registered then – though it certainly would now.

‘Two women say they remember issuing the man with a ticket – he was very insistent, jumped the queue to get it. But he never turned up at the proper time to do the tour. One was inclined to be a bit ditzy, but the other one was very clear.'

Fran put down her mug. ‘I'd like someone to talk to them both. And to talk round their experiences there. It might take time and resources we don't really have, but they might reveal something. And I can't understand for the life of me why someone like Grange should suddenly show an interest in social history. Can you?' She took a swig. ‘Tell me, did either of them mention our Dr Lovage having worked there?'

Kim shook her head. ‘No. They were both adamant. But we'll get them interviewed again as soon as may be. And any other National Trust volunteers who might have been around Verities at the time. Mind you, fifteen years . . . A lot of Trust guides are retired when they start volunteering, which makes sense, so some of them . . .' She shrugged – the implication was clear.

Fran reported what she'd been up to, and her general lack of progress, and sent them on their way. To her shame she'd still not phoned the hospital to see how Janie was getting on. Nor could she now. She had a meeting with Ashford CID, to brief them on the latest management developments, and didn't fancy battling with a hospital switchboard while she was driving. And making that sort of call certainly wasn't a job she could delegate, to Alice or anyone else.

However, she reasoned as she left the meeting, there was no reason why she couldn't nip into the William Harvey and ask in person – she could even grab a sandwich there. Once she could park, of course. Cursing the fact she wasn't on official business and entitled to park in a reserved slot, she joined the queue of equally frustrated drivers. Until she got bored. Very bored. An official slot it would have to be. Tucking her card on the dashboard as she always did, she parked and stomped into the building.

‘G
uess all I did was make it worse.' Dave stared into his coffee cup. He and Mark sat at a table placed on the pavement, perhaps in the hope of making Maidstone look like the home of bohemian café culture.

Mark didn't care overmuch if it failed to. He couldn't remember when Dave had last suggested lunch together without a challenge in his voice: this time there had been a conciliatory, even apologetic note.

‘I don't think so,' he said almost truthfully. ‘Sometimes it's best to bring things out into the open. Not necessarily via the media, I admit.'

‘Will you have to resign?'

‘Not necessarily. Yes, probably,' he conceded. ‘My boss isn't best pleased, but neither in his place would I have been, seeing my second in command's dirty linen being washed on the midday news. Since we've already lost the two most senior officers in the force, casting aside a third might look a bit profligate. But – and don't tell Fran yet – I can see it happening.'

Perhaps it was the implied shared secret that brought a faint smile to Dave's face. ‘I can't imagine you not being a policeman.' He shook his head.

‘I'm not a policeman now, Dave. I'm Meetings Man, a Manager. Not what I signed up for at all. Fran's still making a difference. Investigating crime; putting bad guys away. I'm allocating diminishing resources, and I can see I must soon allocate myself my P45 and head off into the sunset.'

‘You'll miss it. Miss everything.'

‘Might get to see more of you and Sammie. Not to mention the grandchildren.'

Dave shook his head. ‘Distance apart, there's no reason why you shouldn't see more of my two. But Sammie – don't hold your breath, Dad.' He looked round, but dropped his voice anyway. ‘There's something real wrong there. I got as far as the front hall. There was no way I could get further, though believe me I tried. After all, as you said, a lot of the stuff in there is mine, and it would be nice to ship some of it back for the kids.' He took one last swig of the coffee.

‘The train set,' Mark agreed.

Dave responded with a smile. ‘Who's paying all the bills, by the way?'

‘Me. Everything's on direct debit. For God's sake, I couldn't leave her without light and heating, couldn't have the water cut off.' Despite what both Fran and Ms Rottweiler had suggested.

‘It was always Mum that did the tough love, wasn't it?' Dave stared at memories Mark could never share. But then he turned. ‘You were such a soft touch, you know. Sammie – she'd swear black was white, and you always believed her. And me, half the time. And you a cop, too,' he added with a jeer, which was, to Mark's ears, somewhat less hostile than his usual jeers.

‘And a very poor father.' Maybe his constant reiteration of
mea culpa
had helped improve things, and it would do no harm to continue. ‘Why did you ask about the bills?'

‘See, you
are
still a cop. And maybe a bit's rubbed off on me. The place was just too much on the warm side for such a chilly house. Even in the hall. Sorry, Dad, but it'd be just like Sammie to turn the heat on full blast even though she didn't need it on at all simply because the money's coming out of your account.' He stood, picking up the cups. ‘Another?'

‘Not for me, thanks. Tell you what, though: I could do with one of those sandwiches. It's been a long time since breakfast.' Heat full on? In August? On a day like this, even?

When Dave got back, he brought a rather grubby wooden spoon with a number on it. ‘Seems it's waitress service for food. Dad, did Sammie say anything about Lloyd?'

‘He was the reason she moved back home in the first place. She said he'd hit her.' Mark gripped the table. ‘He's not – not again?'

‘Or still. She'd got some nasty bruises.'

‘But he's an educated man – got a good job. Neither of which,' Mark said with a groan, ‘precludes him from being a violent bastard. Maybe they'd make him a clever, more cunning bastard. The nastiest piece of knitting I ever got sent down for domestic violence wasn't your drunken navvy but a prosecution barrister we could pretty well rely on to get us a conviction . . . But why would she let Lloyd into the house? She even changed the locks, remember.'

‘But that was to keep you out, Dad. And she's pregnant, remember.'

‘What about the kids? What are they having to witness? Dear God.'

‘You know what I'd say? And I'll admit I've gone pretty well into reverse on this. I'd say, get her evicted and make sure Social Services are involved. They might check on you and make you out to be Mr Bad Dad, but they might just check on the father of that unborn child.' He picked up the wooden spoon and waved it. A waitress approached with two overfull plates. ‘I said hold the fries. No fries?'

The girl – she looked a young, possibly illegal, fourteen – stared blankly. ‘You want fries? More fries?'

‘We'll have the fries,' Mark said. ‘So long as Fran doesn't know.'

‘She seems to be looking after you pretty well.' The comment sounded humorous, not grudging. Dave pushed his own portion firmly to one side and peered inside the baguette, which was supposed to have been the healthy option.

‘She is. Dave – you never talk about your own family, except to Fran, when you're both being polite. Is everything OK? I mean—'

‘Everything's fine. Truth is, I've sold my business. Made a good profit. Things were going way bad over here – so I thought I'd stick my nose in.' His hand strayed chip-wards. ‘Actually, I really came to punch your nose, old-timer – but now I'm not so sure. God, these fries are awful.'

‘They are, aren't they? So I can tell Fran I left them, with complete honesty, and bask in her praise for being virtuous. So how long can you stay?'
Please let it be long enough for us to get to know each other properly
, he added under his breath.

‘I guess until we've sorted out this Sammie business – as you pointed out, I'm involved too, far more than I knew.'

Not by his father's plight, Mark thought – but ultimately by the thought of his beloved train set. Absently, he took a chip. With extra salt you didn't notice how bad they were.

‘They say they'll let me out, drains and all if necessary, the moment my sister can get down – which will probably be tomorrow afternoon.'

‘So soon?' Fran gasped. ‘That's amazing!'

‘Och, aye. You'd expect a couple of weeks' bed rest. Not any more.' Janie patted the arm of her chair. ‘Rest is bad and exercise good. And hospitals – for all the good they do – are bad.' She smiled. ‘Talk about
Nineteen Eighty-Four.
Anyway, I'm fine. I even did the crosswords this morning, and such a luxury it is to be able to sit and work them out without having to worry about what I really ought to be doing.' She patted the
Times
and the
Guardian.
Then she shot Fran an unreadable look. ‘I was worried about my brain, after the anaesthetic, you know. And after last night.'