Burying the Past (29 page)

‘Sounds good. Am I allowed to ask if the postcards were useful?' Townend emerged from the paper suit like a butterfly from a chrysalis.

‘You are. We're working on them now. Did anything about them strike you?' Fran asked carefully.

‘Your Ms Thomas asked me that. And then she phoned me to check. There was some problem about the order they'd been left in, wasn't there?' The question sounded innocent enough, but Fran suspected a mild case of grassing up. ‘The answer to your question is the gravestone, of course. I'd have expected it to come at the end of the sequence, though, not at the start. All the other pictures were of places she'd visited or lived in, I suppose – I wouldn't have minded living in that place in France, would you? – and of course you'd end up in a grave. But not someone else's. It was as if the grave was the start of her story, wasn't it?'

‘Carry on.'

‘I suppose it wasn't her family's? No? Did something traumatic happen there?'

‘Very good question,' Fran said, wondering why the hell she hadn't had the energy, and the others the nous, to find the answer already.

‘I wondered if she wanted her ashes buried there, but Ms Thomas said there was nothing in her will about it.'

‘Nope. She wanted her ashes scattered on Dartmoor, and I gather someone from the community she died in obliged when she went on her holidays.'

‘No family to be near. Sad. Or perhaps it means she's a free spirit, with no ties at all, at home wherever the four winds will take her. Or that she's made good fertilizer,' she added with a prosaic grin.

‘Don, I've got no time just now. I've got a witness waiting.' Fran jerked a thumb at the canteen.

Don Simpson looked over her shoulder. ‘That her with young Tom Arkwright? Looks as if she's happy to wait a bit longer. And I thought you'd want to know. Everything's coming together nicely. First up, we've got an ID on the man young Cynd stabbed.'

‘Allegedly.'

‘Come off it, guv'nor – she told you she had. Turns out he's a Bulgarian.'

‘Bulgarian? Ah! The Eastern European fillings. And what was our Bulgarian doing over here? I presume he had a name, by the way?'

‘Andon Yovkov. How he wormed his way into the UK I don't know: he should have been stopped at the border, but with these cuts . . .' He shrugged. ‘He was a career criminal starting at the age of fifteen – convictions in Italy and Belgium to his name. He's been on Interpol's radar, because – guess what? – his speciality is metal theft. He's got convictions for robbing everything from statues of saints to war memorials. He even nobbled a Giacometti bronze and got it melted down. So I'd guess a few church roofs will be the safer for his death. One of his mates fried alive a few weeks back up near Darlington while he was nicking the live wire from a railway line.'

‘Poetic justice. You've told SOCA the good news? Excellent.' Despite herself, she was getting sucked into the narrative. ‘But how did he come to get Cynd's knife in his ribs? And end up on his own near Bridge?'

He patted a file. ‘You asked for a complete briefing: here it is.'

‘So it is. Thanks, Don.' She tugged her hair. ‘It's no good: I can't do two things at once. I know, I know – it comes with our job descriptions these days. What I'd like you to do – and I know you won't love me for saying this – is take it down to Jill and go through it together. She's got stuff; you've got stuff. Share it. You're both so damned territorial that I could bang your heads together. And then meet me in my office, the pair of you, in half an hour. When I get there I shall expect the latest on Janie Falkirk. I just hope we've got something reassuring to tell Cynd. Apart from anything else it might loosen her tongue. OK? I said OK, Don.'

‘OK it is. I tell you this, guv'nor: that business with your old man hasn't put you off your stroke.'

She patted his arm. ‘And you'd think the less of me if it had, wouldn't you? See you in half an hour, Don. Actually, make it an hour. So I don't have to leave you kicking your heels.'

To avoid further argument, she ducked into the nearest loo, reaching for her phone.

‘Dave? I left your father asleep, but I can't imagine he'll stay that way. Now, the Pact women have enforced a news embargo on him – disconnected the TV aerial and hidden their radios.'

‘I thought they were just painters, not psychologists!'

‘The longer I do this job, the more I realize very few people are just anything. Anyway, if you contact him, just bear that in mind. Lots of your news from home, the latest on Phoebe's teeth, that sort of thing.'

‘New train sets?'

‘Precisely. Talk about the possibility of having one in the loft at the rectory – there's acres of space. Maybe you could even do a repeat of last night and take him out to lunch. But phone first – I know Caffy believes that walking's the best cure for anything and everything, and he may already have his boots on.'

‘Will do. Maybe I'll organize a picnic, to keep him away from people. I hate the way all these lovely pubs have twenty-four-hour Sky news and no sound on. Just those endless Breaking News straplines continually repeating the same breaking news.'

‘Get him started on that – he'll have a lovely chunter. And now I have to go – talk later. God bless!' Where had that come from? She stared at the phone for a moment before pocketing it. Then, of course, she had to fish it out again to call Kim.

She decided to collect Lina from the canteen herself, watching from the door for a few moments to see how she was responding to dear Tom Arkwright's obvious admiration. Between smiles, after laughter, even, her face fell into such wistful lines that Fran was reminded of Dilly, to whom she'd promised lunch. She'd meant to forget the tentative arrangement, but such sadness in the young maybe deserved an airing to older and confidence-keeping ears. Especially ones suddenly sympathetic to problems with one's lover.

Tom escorted Lina over to her. ‘You OK, guv'nor, with all this going on around you?' He looked at her closely. ‘You're not thinking of jumping ship too, are you? You'd be missed if you did – more than the ACC to be honest, for all he's a decent man who's done his best.'

‘I shall have to go sooner or later, Tom, won't I? I'm eligible already. But maybe I'll let Mark find his retirement feet first.'

‘Aye, especially as long as you're stuck in that caravan or whatever. You'd be falling over each other all the time, and there's nothing like that to cause the odd fight.' Where Tom got such homely wisdom from she'd no idea – the relative who always sent him cakes, maybe.

‘Quite,' she said, with a smile, no hint of the snub a junior officer might have expected for venturing such an observation to his one-time boss.

‘Don't forget: we all want that wedding to go ahead. I don't suppose you need an usher, ma'am?'

She gave a non-committal grin. Actually, she'd love the lad to be there, with or without Lina.

Would the youngsters fix another meeting? She pretended to check her phone to give them a moment. Perhaps they already had. She hoped so. But there was no sign of any arrangement, and she fought a strong impulse to suggest one. Maybe she'd ask Lina later. Meanwhile, there was more important stuff than affairs of the heart: there was the opening of the cache that Lina had found, which they and Kim would examine in the privacy of her office.

Doling out gloves to the others, and putting on her own non-latex, she put herself in charge of opening the packet and Kim in charge of recording each item. The first was a newspaper cutting.

Churchyard rape

West Midland Police are searching for a masked attacker who sexually assaulted a young woman in a quiet suburb late last night. A spokesman described the attack as brutal.

No names, of course. But Kim was already jotting the meagre details – not a date, not even a year.

‘Bet that's where the gravestone is!' Lina gasped. ‘Wow!'

There was another scrap of newspaper: the death notice of Margaret Minton. No age, no details at all. More scribbling from Kim.

‘She's still playing with you, isn't she?' Lina said. ‘At least you know why she called herself Marion Lovage. The first names almost the same, the surname another herb – well, lop off the -on part of the surname,' she added with relish, clearly telling Kim that she could play her game, even if Kim couldn't play hers.

‘However,' Fran said, ‘this is not a confession by any means. Is there anything else?'

‘Loads of newspaper cuttings,' said Kim, sounding more interested in them than she had in the furniture. ‘One about a newcomer to Seahouses winning a prize at a flower show; another from North Wales . . . best jam in class . . . Ma'am, these might well tie in with the photos and with the name changes. Can I get someone on to them now? While someone else phones West Midland Police, of course.'

‘Good idea. Use this to summon someone.' She passed her her phone. ‘Meanwhile, I'm two minutes late for something else.'

She was already halfway to the door when Lina squeaked, ‘Isn't that a death certificate? Shocking writing the doctor had. The name looks more like Margaret. So how can she have had her own death notice? Or has someone changed the name?'

Fran said, ‘You're right. Absolutely right . . .' She ached to stay and theorize, but said firmly, ‘The forensics people will help there. Call them as well, will you, Kim? And when you've done that, let's see if any of the dates you come up with tie in with Frank Grange. In any way, no matter how remote. Marion Lovage, I've had enough of your time-wasting – more than enough.'

F
ran wished she could say much the same, in the same ferocious tone, to Cynd Lewis when she hastened into the interview room. But that would be to bully someone who was in every sense a victim. Jill joined her, sitting to one side, to make it clear to Cynd that Fran was taking the lead – and also, perhaps, to dissociate herself a little if the questioning became as fierce as Fran's often could. The solicitor beside Cynd was a mate of Janie's, a sleepy-looking middle-aged Asian woman wearing, to Cynd's obvious bemusement, a sari. One glance at Mrs Chandraseka's eyes, however, revealed an extremely alert brain. Even if Fran had wanted to catch the girl out, Mrs Chandraseka would be having none of it.

Fran smiled. ‘How's Janie this morning?'

Cynd looked at her solicitor and at Jill, as if for permission. ‘Jill says she's fine. The drains are coming out later, right?'

Jill nodded. ‘Right.'

‘Excellent. Before we talk about the night you went to Janie's to tell her about the rape and the stabbing, I want you to tell me why we couldn't find you last Sunday or all day Monday.'

Cynd smiled. That was easy. ‘Hitched to the hospital to keep an eye on her. Got stuff to eat there. Slept in the A and E waiting room. Same the next day – held her hand that night 'cos she was moaning in her sleep.'

Fran nodded encouragingly, not least because Janie would testify it was true. ‘So you weren't running away from us? The police? For the benefit of the tape recorder, Cynd, can you speak up?'

‘A bit. I didn't so much run away as want to be with Janie. She needed me.'

Fran smiled. The angel by the bed indeed.

‘If you'd known we wanted to talk to you that evening, would you have run away?'

‘Probably. But only to the hospital. 'Cos Janie needed me more, didn't she?'

‘So how much did we need you?' Not a good question. ‘And why?' Fran added quickly.

‘Well, it wasn't to talk about me rape, was it? It must have been about sticking that bloke.'

‘Quite. Now, I'd like you to tell me a bit more about the night you were raped. Tell me all about it, just as it happened. Who was in the room?'

‘Just me. And a punter,' she added defensively. Her chin rose defiantly. ‘Only, I didn't tell you about him 'cos he's married and a nice guy. I yelled at him to fuck off and say sod all if anyone asked. He was there, and this guy bursts in, starts shoving us around. High as a kite, he was. Not me punter, the other one. Gets his thieving hands on my gear, too. I'm afraid this punter's going to try to help me, but like I said, I told him to fuck off. He's got a sick wife, miss. Wouldn't do her any good to know what her old man's up to. Not that he's up to anything very much at all. Not these days. Often he just falls asleep, and I have to wake him up when it's time he shoved off.'

Fran asked, suspecting she knew the answer already, ‘That's when his time's up – the time he's paid you for?'

Cynd looked blank. ‘It's the time he should be home with his missus.'

‘Right. OK, Cynd, carry on,' Jill prompted her.

‘I know all about them CCTV cameras, so he comes and goes where the cameras aren't likely to pick him up. But you want to look for an old guy with a bit of a limp – I think his back's bad. Maybe from lifting her.'

Fran found herself tensing. Fifty per cent of her found the sentimental picture not just cloying but unbelievable. Then she remembered the waif-like angel at Janie's bed. One thing Cynd was good at – perhaps the only good thing, but maybe you shouldn't sneer at that – was patiently holding hands.

Meanwhile, Jill was nodding. ‘Be nice to identify him, ma'am. Do you have a name for him, Cynd?'

‘Yes, but it's not one I'm going to tell you. Part of the deal, see,' she declared ambiguously. ‘Anyway, off he goes, and this guy – horrible breath, needs his teeth seeing to – jumps me. And he wants to take pictures of him doing it. No way. Fucking sick, I tell him. I got some self-respect. But I pretend to look at his sodding phone and say how brilliant it is, and while I'm doing that I reach for the knife I'd left on the table and go for him. Just enough to hurt, I thought. Hurt quite a bit – enough to make him fuck off too. So he grabs the phone and buggers off.' She opens her eyes wide. ‘Find his phone, you'll find my prints on it.'