Burying the Past (28 page)

‘But it's raining.'

She waited. Of course it was bloody raining, but he could scarcely spend the evening in his now redundant ACC uniform. And she needed a breather. ‘Just our jeans and stuff.' She left without waiting for a response.

Was this how prisoners starting a life sentence felt? Penned in? Desperate for space? He couldn't stay in here. Couldn't face it. But where else could he go? No money, remember. In the morning he must talk to his insurance company, but he had an idea that things wouldn't be at all straightforward.

Of course, Fran was right. They couldn't go up to the pub in their working gear. His former working gear. What the hell had he done? Why on earth had he insisted on retiring then and there? He could have gone on sick leave, while they sorted it all out – Wren had even implied that that was what he wanted him to do. He'd meant to talk to Adam before he made any rash decisions. Adam had gone, of course – but he'd allowed a fellow officer to jump to his death. All Mark had done was let his daughter set up a cannabis farm and steal thousands of pounds. How did that compare on the great moral scheme of things?

Where the hell was Fran? It didn't take that long to pick up a few clothes, for God's sake.

He took the nearest mug of tea and sat down to wait. But by now he wasn't sure what he was waiting for.

Paula and Caffy were still in the rectory, ostensibly finishing some task but, from their glances, waiting for Fran.

Caffy, wiping her hands on a turps-smelling rag, though as far as Fran could see they were perfectly clean, spoke first. ‘You may find that that TV in the Winnebago doesn't work for a couple of days.'

‘No?'

‘We adjusted the aerial so he couldn't pick up the news. And I'd venture to suggest that you find another resting place for the Winnebago. We brought it down because we thought you'd be private enough here, but we were wrong. We could hardly move for the bloody media. Some nice man called Bill Baker dropped by to see you, and he ended up driving a tractor up and down the lane most of the day, just to stop them parking.'

Fran shook her head, stupidly. ‘But I'm not insured.'

Paula looked her in the eye. ‘You're in no fit state to drive a strange vehicle anyway. And Mark can't be either.' She produced a sudden smile. ‘But we could get the person who brought it over here to drive you. Are you OK to follow? It's not as if you're tailing a Mini, is it?'

She held her head. ‘But—'

‘Pick out enough clothes to last for about four days. I'm sure the media will be interested in something else by then. After that – well, your rectory awaits you. A good half should be habitable by then. Can Mark paint? Well, a bit of emulsion therapy might be good for him. Unpaid, I have to say,' Paula added, as if she really needed to make that clear.

‘And then there's Dave – Mark's son. He needs to see his dad. He might even be on his way.'

‘We can give him map coordinates. The post code won't help much.' She looked at her watch and raised an eyebrow.

Since she'd used pretty much the same technique on Kim earlier in the day, Fran knew she'd met her match.

With surprising tenderness, Dave moved his father's plate as Mark's head fell forward on to the table.

‘I guess chicken bhuna might be the new cure for baldness, but I'd rather my father wasn't a guinea pig in the trials,' he said.

‘This takeaway was pure genius,' Fran said, refraining from pointing out that the Winnebago would smell of it for days. On the other hand, Paula would no doubt be able to suggest an effective air-freshener, so what the hell?

‘Glad you enjoyed it. Shall I help you clear? It was always my job at home.'

What should she say? Her first thought was that Mark was best left to sleep in silence. But if Dave was happy to do something he'd once done for his mother, surely she should accept?

‘How are you on dishwashers? It's Mark's job, because he reckons I don't have the spatial awareness to get the maximum in.' She rinsed the worst residues; he took the dishes from her. ‘Thanks.' Checking that Mark was still asleep, she ventured, ‘Any news of Sammie? He's worried sick she may come out with weird allegations against him. Like child molestation or something.'

‘You knew my mom, didn't you? Can you imagine she'd not have noticed if anything was wrong? And if Dad had been – harming – Sammie, she'd have grassed him up, sure as eggs. He wasn't a bad man, he was just a bad father, in that he was never there. We did have some good times. That train set.' He looked past her. ‘That was the best. You know what he said when he realized Sammie had wrecked it? “I'll get you another one, son.” See – he knew. He remembered.'

Wet though it was, she stretched a hand and squeezed his arm. ‘Of course he did. And wasn't there something with Sammie and balloons?'

He managed a smile. ‘You're right. Every birthday – so many balloons you couldn't count them. Balloons everywhere.'

‘You've inherited his gift for giving.' She nodded at the roses, now in one of Todd's vases. ‘He was so proud of you both. Pictures of you on his desk – and your mum. He used to touch them goodbye every time he went out on a risky shout. As if he was saying goodbye to you in the flesh. However much you might hate the thought of us getting married, he's never thought of me as he thought of Tina, I'm sure of that.'

‘Uh, uh. Don't put yourself down.' He made a business of checking everything in the dishwasher was straight, looked for and found the detergent and set the load off. ‘Hey – that's cool. It's almost silent. He told me he couldn't live without you, you know. Don't suppose he's ever told you that.'

‘Don't suppose he ever will. I think he only proposed because he was scared of heights. But I'm glad he did. Will you come back over for the wedding – even if you can't be his best man? Caffy's bagged that job, and I think it'd break her heart if he changed his mind and asked you instead. Which I know he'd want to do, otherwise.'

‘And I can't even lead you up the aisle!' he wailed. Then he produced a younger version of his father's smile. ‘You just try to keep me away. Hey, you want a bridesmaid wearing the worst tooth braces you ever saw? 'Cause Phoebe'd be tickled pink.'

It seemed the wedding at least would flourish, even when everything else was collapsing about their ears.

I
t took her ten minutes and a phone call to Paula to run Bill Baker's notes to earth. Why on earth had she dropped them on one of the sleeping bags? Whatever the reason, at least they were in safe hands, and she dispatched one of Kim's team to collect them. Only then did she do what she'd wanted to and hurtle down to reception, where Lina Townend was waiting, unexceptionably dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

‘Sorry I'm late, Ms Townend,' Fran greeted her. ‘I rather underestimated the journey time.' She signed her through security.

‘Yes, Caffy said you would. She's a one off, isn't she? She and the rest of the team, of course. They're the only ones my partner will allow to touch our cottage.' She slowed to a halt and stopped, looking embarrassed. ‘Look, would you mind very much if I worked without DI Thomas breathing down my neck this morning? It's hard to concentrate with such waves of hostility coming at you. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that – it was very unprofessional.'

‘No problem,' Fran said easily. ‘Someone will have to be present, but it doesn't have to be Kim.' She was quite glad to have a companion as she walked through what felt quite endless corridors, still filled with colleagues awash with gossip. If she was engaged in animated conversation, then she wouldn't have to make eye-contact with any of them, whether they were giving pitying glances or encouraging smiles.

‘She reminds me of the officers who used to run me in when I was a kid, that's the problem,' Townend continued. ‘So it's probably my fault, rather than hers. All the same . . .'

‘I thought I might bring my breakfast and watch you, if that's OK.'

‘But you're one of the bigger cheeses, aren't you? Won't it be a waste of your time?'

Of course it would, but this time she'd at least let Alice know where she was. And she'd leave her pager on. ‘Would you prefer a lowly constable? You shall have one if I can find one. Male or female?'

Townend giggled. ‘You're having me on, aren't you? If I said, “Bring me Prince Charming on a white horse . . .?”'

‘I'd say you'd got your myths mixed up, and that health and safety didn't permit the riding of dumb animals on police property – except if they're on duty, of course.'

‘So I could have a working horse or a Prince Charming.'

‘Or me with a mug of coffee and a round of toast.' What a pity she couldn't conjure up that nice lad Fred from the self-store units. He'd have made a good prince.

Fullers. According to the stonework over the door, that was what their hosts' house was called. It was a beautiful building, a little larger and definitely older than the rectory. No doubt Caffy could have filled him in, but she'd left the house to go to work before he was even awake. Fran had gone too. However, Caffy'd left him the key to her flat, which had a separate door round the back, with an invitation to help himself to breakfast, have a deep long soak (he could sing as loudly as he wanted because Todd and Jan were abroad) and a browse through her books. Acres of them, all glowing in their sense of being read and valued. No TV. Not even a trannie radio, unless one lurked in one of the immaculate kitchen units: the kitchen and bathroom were both state of the art – courtesy of Todd's money, not Caffy's, no doubt. How did she keep in touch with the real world? Perhaps reception out here on the Isle of Oxney was poor – he'd noticed the Winnebago TV was on strike this morning. She'd also left him a book of local walks, with a couple asterisked. She'd even got rid of yesterday's rain. There was a Post-it note attached.

If you're not used to walking, you might want to have your long soak after your long walk.:)

That was his morning worked out for him, then. And he was very glad, because he didn't think he could have done it himself. God, he was so tired – as if he'd not already slept the clock round. Would everything always be so much effort? He could scarcely bear to move.

The pile of paperwork Fran had taken with her to accompany her late breakfast lay untouched at her feet. Lina Townend, now dressed in white paper, with the little key they'd found last time resting in her right hand, was sitting as still as she was: simply sitting, as if listening to something. Or listening
for
something. The stillness was catching. It wasn't unlike being in church, during the silences between prayers – a similar shared concentration but also openness to something else.

Heavens, what a good job Kim wasn't here.

At last the girl got up and wandered over to the piles of furniture. Fran was desperate for her to explore the cabinet again, to take it down to its last piece. But she ignored it, heading instead to the piles of smaller items. Ah! A Victorian writing slope. That would have drawers a-plenty, wouldn't it? And a lock for the little key?

But it didn't have what Townend wanted. She moved aimlessly along, an index finger raised as if it was somehow guiding her. Amazingly, Fran knew what she was feeling. She'd had some of her best results by trusting a weird instinct, the sort you certainly wouldn't mention in the witness box, when her body had seemed to tingle with some below-the-level-of-consciousness electrical activity. In the past she'd had to fend off interruptions with a hand raised, traffic policeman style. At least the young woman didn't need to do that, but she had to shut out the sundry random noises of the building and its occupants.

Lina was drifting no longer. She had stopped and was almost frantically clearing items from the next pile. Whatever it was was near the bottom. Finally, she sank to her knees.

Fran was desperate to stand and watch. But not for anything would she have disturbed Lina's concentration.

At last she was rewarded. There was the tiniest click. So the key had opened whatever it was. Now she could stand. And watch Lina reach into something and wave an envelope in the air. She crept over, fearful of disturbing the spell and having the whole lot disintegrate before her eyes.

‘A dressing case,' Lina said, in her normal speaking voice. ‘The obvious place really. Many of them from this era – it's pretty well contemporary with that lovely writing slope – have a secret drawer where Her Ladyship can conceal . . .
billets-doux
. . . from His Lordship.' Why the hesitation? But Lina was fluent again. ‘All you had to do in this case was lift this manicure drawer and press this tiny lever. See? It's so beautifully made you'd hardly detect the drawer hidden amongst all the inlay. And here, as I said, may be what you've been looking for.'

Fran held out a tentative hand. So now it was time for the real, prosaic world of policing, with gloves, evidence bags and photos.

‘I suppose,' Lina said mildly, ‘that I'm not allowed to know what I've unearthed.'

‘Have you got time for a cuppa? Until I find out myself? Because I really ought to examine this with someone like Kim Thomas, and although you're booted and suited, she might just feel . . . Sometimes one has to make compromises, Lina.'

‘You've got to work with her,' Lina said, with a gentle smile.

‘Exactly. On the other hand, the canteen will be full of handsome young men, if not their white chargers, and I could ask a nice lad called Tom Arkwright to shout you elevenses.' Tom – one of her nicest ever protégés. The son she'd never had. What if . . .

She made her calls, one to Kim – yes, rank must take precedence – and the next to Tom, already a most capable sergeant and ready to fly upwards. How would kids like him manage if she retired? No. With Mark sick, it must be
when
she retired. And the youngsters would just have to manage.