Burying the Past (23 page)

‘Last night?'

‘Indeed. I suppose it was all the drugs they popped into me, but I hallucinated, Fran. I thought there was an angel sitting by my bed. Not a big, shiny angel with a halo and wings – I was quite disappointed to be honest – but a wee waif of a thing. I was afraid to look at its face – but then, it was in shadow, so I wouldn't have seen much anyway. I was minded for a moment to ring the emergency bell, just to see what happened. But it took my hand and held it until I fell asleep.'

Fran asked carefully, ‘Was the angel comforting you, or were you comforting the angel?'

Another opaque glance. ‘That's a very interesting question. All I can do is think of that line from the poet –
who can justify the ways of God to men?
And the bugger of it is, I can't be sure if I've got the words right. Anyway, next time I woke, I was on my own. Which was better than the poor dear opposite, who found someone else getting in beside her. Seems the old soul in the next bed had peed herself and didn't like wet sheets, so she did the obvious thing – hopped into the next bed and told the occupant to hitch up. We had a lot of screeching, I can tell you. No wonder the angel hopped it. I might have done so myself, if I'd been able.'

Fran, no angel, took the nearest hand herself. ‘I'm not very good at praying,' she said at last. ‘Without wishing to talk shop, of course, Janie, but—'

‘Go on.'

‘I suppose it's my background – my parents were a cussed pair of Baptists, given to telling God what he should be doing.'

‘That's Baptists for you.'

‘I always suspected a humble prayer might work better than a barked command, but now I command all those people, I find I'm treating God like a recalcitrant constable.'

Janie cackled. ‘Come on, Fran: didn't Christ once heal a Roman soldier's daughter in pretty hierarchical circumstances? Now, I'll mutter the words, and you can just tack an Amen on at the end. We'll have some proper praying lessons when I'm better.'

‘Tell you what,' Fran ventured, ‘I wouldn't mind praying for that angel of yours.'

The other woman squeezed her hand. ‘I'm glad we understand each other.'

It didn't take Fran long to realize that there were far too many places in a hospital for her to continue searching alone for what she was sure was a very corporeal angel. On the other hand, since there was just the remotest chance that Janie had indeed been hallucinating, she didn't want to make a complete fool of herself by calling for reinforcements. There was no reason, however, why she shouldn't stroll down to speak to the head of security and ask for a look at the CCTV footage in Janie's ward area for the last twenty-four hours.

‘Good heavens! It's Roy Winstanley!' she declared, once she'd got herself past his suspicious minions. ‘How are you?'

‘Nearly as well as you look,' he said, clearly not sure whether to salute her. ‘Fran,' he managed – she was no longer
ma'am
, at least.

She didn't think he was on her hug and double air-kiss list, so she compromised by laying her left hand on his right when they shook hands. He'd been a perpetual constable who'd turned down every chance of promotion because he liked what he was doing too much to want step on the paperwork ladder. On the other hand, he'd opted for retirement the moment he could. And here he was in uniform again. Would this be the future for her and Mark? Still pretending to be what they once proudly were?

‘Know where I'd look for this kid first?' he asked. ‘Down the canteen. A good place to scavenge, see. All those half-eaten sarnies and cakes. People buying coffees they don't drink.'

‘Really? Drinking from the same cup? My God, I can't imagine it.'

‘If you're still imagining your nice china cup, of course you can't. But all you have to do is take the plastic lid from a paper cup and you're fine. And you don't eat the half-chewed sarnie, you eat the one they've not touched. Come and see. No, you're all right: I'll shout you a fresh bite, not a second-hand one.'

As they walked, he told her about his second incarnation: this time he'd actively sought promotion, he said, because he'd become bored and wanted a challenge. And he'd started to use the gym: all the cardiac cases around him had made him aware that he wore his belt below his belly, not around it. And – would she believe it? – he and his wife had taken up ballroom dancing. They were going on a ballroom-dancing cruise over Christmas.

‘With all due respect, Fran, isn't it time you hung up your handcuffs? And not just on the bedhead, either – didn't I hear you and the ACC were tying the knot at last? Good for you. Spend some time together while you can. You don't want to be like Ian French – get your pension paperwork on Friday, drop dead Saturday. Yes, without a word of a lie. Grab the day – there's some fancy phrase, but that's what it means. Now, I always opt for salad on wholemeal . . .'

As they sat, healthy food before them, she said, almost tentatively, ‘About retirement – I can't make up my mind, Roy. The force – except we shouldn't call it that! – has been my whole life, except when I went off to university.'

‘Do you still wake up in the morning wanting to go to work? Think you can make a difference? Yes? Well, you're not ready yet. Besides, it'd be dead funny for you, both retiring at once.'

She froze, sandwich halfway to her lips. ‘Is there something I should know?' She hoped she sounded mocking. But if she wasn't, was it something to do with Simon's suicide or with Sammie's media revelations? And, more to the point, why hadn't Mark mentioned it? Then she remembered that the jungle drums sometimes added an extra beat, and she took a bite, trying to smile casually as she chewed.

‘Only what my mates down the pub are saying. That this new bloke, Sparrow or Starling or whatever, wants a clean sweep. No one over fifty in the senior echelons, and that's for starters. People your level will be replaced by new, telly-friendly high-flyers. Only rumour, of course. But would the guv'nor mind?'

She swallowed before she replied. ‘We'd all rather jump than wait to be pushed, wouldn't we?'

‘And, of course,' Roy continued, ‘it'd be really bad for morale if all the top brass nipped off at once. Over there,' he continued, in exactly the same tone, ‘no, don't turn, just swivel your eyes – over by the drinks machine. Is that her? She's been grazing at a couple of tables.'

Apparently preoccupied with the sandwich wrapper, she checked the girl. She was thin and waiflike enough, but too tall for Cynd. ‘No.'

‘OK, when we've finished, we'll have a stroll through the waiting areas and the shop, but we've both got
copper
written all over us, so I doubt if we'll have any luck. And then we check every single screen from every single camera at every single angle.'

Mark glanced at his watch. He'd probably just got time, and if one of the four parking slots outside the Royal Mail depot was open he'd take it as an omen. He hadn't picked up his mail – kept back by Royal Mail since they didn't have a proper address yet – since he'd moved. He hadn't felt the need, since most of his communication was electronic these days, and his financial transactions were done, as he'd told Dave, by direct debit or standing order. But as he drove hopefully along Sandling Road, someone pipped him to the post – and he found himself grinning broadly at his silly mental pun. All because he and Dave were on speaking terms again. Or was it for the first time? Whatever it was, his heart sang with joy that he hadn't slung away what he thought was a broken bottle. Arthur Miller – that was the author he'd been trying to recall when he was talking to Fran the other night, and
Death of a Salesman
the A-level text. Was that what getting older meant? That things came back to you when you didn't need them?

Laughing no longer, he headed back to work.

‘G
o ahead – it's OK to use mobiles in here,' Roy declared, plonking a mug of coffee in front of Fran.

Glad to escape, if only for a few minutes, the confusion of images on the screens before her, she nodded, responding to the text.

It was from Lina Townend.
Eureka
.

End of message. So what on earth had the young woman found? And why the unnecessarily enigmatic message? She texted back a much blunter one:
What?

Back to the screens and the over-strong coffee. Roy seemed to be tracking someone, shifting the camera to get a better image.

‘No,' he said at last, sighing. ‘It's the lass we saw earlier. Here – you have a go. Sit here – it makes the screens clearer. Amazing – no matter how much you pay for your glasses, they never let you focus on exactly the place you want. You don't wear them?'

‘Should do. I've got an appointment next week. So long as I don't forget.'

‘Or get summoned to a meeting at the last minute. According to my mates, life's one long meeting for you people.'

‘Absolutely. I'm probably missing one right now. Hang on. There! Can you see her?' Cynd was, as Roy had predicted, scavenging. Thank goodness she was doing something as innocent as that, not trying to break into the pharmacy or ward drugs trolleys.

‘How do you want to play this? I can track her as long as you need. Probably,' he added with a grin. ‘I can get some of my people to pick her up, if you like. Though I'm not sure on what grounds.'

‘I think it's my job, actually, Roy. I want to talk to her about a possible manslaughter charge – but that's between you and me. But I want to do it with the minimum of fuss.'

‘Come on, you don't usually pussyfoot round killers!'

‘Most of my killers don't spend a night holding the hand of a woman recovering from cancer surgery. And she's grabbing sarnies, not drugs. Tell you what, though, keep tracking her. She may not take kindly to talking to me, after all.' With very little reluctance, she abandoned the coffee and got to her feet. Before she could leave Roy's den, however, another text came through.
Postcards
, it said.

Which left her much wiser – or not.

As she retraced her steps, she worked out her plan of campaign. An arrest and chase through corridors cluttered with vulnerable people and equally precious equipment was not on, especially since she was sure Cynd would soon elude her – if not the cameras. And she was in no doubt that if Roy saw a hint of a chase he'd bring his heavies in – rightly, of course. She was also sure the story would get straight back to her colleagues, to their immense amusement. So she would try a casual approach – one which would give Janie pleasure, too, with luck.

‘Hi, Cynd. Come to see Janie? I'm just on my way myself,' she said, as if PACE had never come into her life. ‘Let's go along together, shall we? I can never work out how to get anywhere in a hospital this size.' Setting them in motion, she wittered on in a similar vein all the way to Janie's ward. If Cynd had wanted to speak, Fran hardly gave her a chance. Still no caution, however – she'd have to work that in soon. But not until Cynd had exchanged a healing hug with Janie – assuming the poor woman was in any position to give or receive embraces.

If Janie was surprised by their joint appearance, she didn't show it – just beamed with delight.

‘Two of my favourite people!' she crowed, grasping a hand of each. ‘I've been so worried about you, young Cynd, having to manage without me. I even dreamt about you last night, just as if you were safe here beside me. Give me a cuddle, lass – no, not that side, that's the one that's been carved about.' Cynd's head firmly down, she mouthed over the sobbing girl's hair, ‘What on earth?'

Fran mouthed back, ‘I have to arrest her. Give us your blessing, will you?'

Janie's eyes rolled. But Fran thought she'd do it anyway.

At last, Fran eased Cynd to her feet. ‘I'd like you to come with me now, Cynd – we need to talk again about your rape and what you told Janie first time you saw her. But first I'd like us both to close our eyes and let her pray for us.' Eye-closing wasn't an option for Fran, of course, but she lowered them reverently and sincerely. Cynd would need all the help she could get now, from whatever direction. And so, as arresting officer, would she.

The omens looked good. Cynd held Janie's hand while the older women kissed as if all was normal. Pray God she wouldn't bolt the minute she could.

‘OK, Janie – we have to go now,' Fran said, still trying to sound as if they were normal visitors. She kept the social, calm tone to continue, ‘And Cyndi Lewis – you know I have to say these words because of what you said about the man you knifed – I arrest you . . .'

Roy appeared beside her as she stood outside the curtained cubicle in A and E. ‘No drama, then!'

‘How did I know she'd faint on the spot? A genuine faint? And that I'd get all the medics in the Western world shoving their stethoscopes in?'

‘Better than her scarpering. At least you know where she is now.'

‘And I know I'll have to waste valuable funds having her guarded here until they say she's ready to be released into custody. Shit and double shit.'

‘Could have been worse – she could have collapsed in a cell, and think of all the forms you'd have had to fill in then.'

It was only after Jill had turned up at A and E, not best pleased, Fran suspected, by Fran's interference – though that would be nothing to Don Simpson's private reaction – that Fran could leave. She took in the quickest possible visit to Janie, to assure her that Cynd had recovered consciousness and was receiving medical care. Then she could turn her attention to Lina Townend and her gnomic texts. Apparently, she'd turned up at HQ asking to speak to her, and Kim had sailed in – rightly, of course, but no less irritatingly, since Fran regarded anything to do with the cabinet as her baby. And she would have given anything to be present when Townend had eased aside the bottom of a drawer to reveal a drawer within.