Burying the Past (3 page)

‘You mean you couldn't face Paula doorstepping you till you coughed up. Who could? She's a real pussy-cat, but crossing her is not something I'd recommend. Not that you would. Not that anyone does more than once.' She added, ‘I only came down for a wee, anyway.'

Fran laughed. ‘You came down because it looks as if the recovery team is about to start work and you wanted to see what they were up to.'

‘I came down to say you can see much more from my ladder. But I don't suppose you want to come up, do you, Mark? No? Now what's going on?'

All three watched. There seemed to be a lot of gesticulation towards the rectory.

‘My God, they can't want to make that part of the crime scene,' Mark gasped.

‘They won't find much worth looking at,' Caffy said flatly. ‘Not after all the work we've done. And had done by subcontractors who believed in brute force and ignorance. You want to tell them that every single floorboard has been replaced, downstairs at least, and joists too, so there's nothing hidden down there. And we've had a very good look under those in the upper floors, remember.'

‘And found not so much as a bent penny,' Mark agreed. ‘Unless there's something you haven't told us?'

‘Oh, yes,' chirped Caffy, ‘like the bag of gold sovereigns we've flogged to pay for a joint holiday in the Bahamas. It's funny – you'd have expected more, really. It's almost, as Paula says, as if someone gave the place the spring-cleaning of its life before they moved out. Ironic, isn't it, given the total chaos it fell into and which we, to be fair, have exacerbated.' She pointed to the approaching car. ‘More of you lot?'

Fran drifted the three of them towards the marked police car, wearing her least intimidating expression. After all, it was bad enough to be late on your first day in action; to find your DCS chatting to the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) must be pretty terrifying. DI Kim Thomas, wearing a ridiculously elegant suit given the nature of the case, unfolded herself from the car, pulling down the pencil skirt with embarrassment. She looked straight out of school and was certainly no more than thirty-five. Her stance, all six foot of it, was as rigid as her poor mouth. ‘Sir. Ma'am.' She saluted them both, as smartly as if she was in uniform. Fran supposed that Mark's fancy dress, if not her muddied trousers, merited it.

He responded with what Fran always called his friendly salute.

‘Good morning, Kim. How's the poor tooth?' Fran asked, with a sympathetic smile.

‘Temporary crown, ma'am.' Or the nearest approximation to the words the frozen lips could form.

‘We're still at the forensic archaeology stage, as you can see,' said Mark affably, ‘so the whole investigation's a bit hypothetical. Fran and I are here only because we want to see what's going on in our garden, and Caffy Tyler is one of the team working on the house restoration. Caffy, this is DI Kim Thomas, who'll be in charge of the investigation—'

‘Assuming it actually becomes one, of course,' Caffy said, cocking a bright eye at him.

‘Quite. Fran and I ought to head back to HQ, Kim, but I'd have thought Caffy could find you a cuppa to defrost that poor mouth of yours and fill you in on how we've had the rest of the crime scene destroyed before we even guessed there might be a problem.'

‘Sir!'

Caffy, ultra-casual, nodded. ‘I'll find you some more sensible footwear too,' she said with a sudden stern glance down. ‘We might mess up crime scenes, but we absolutely don't allow stilettos on site.' She raised a hand. ‘Before you two go, I should warn you that Paula's just had some more thoughts about your move.'

‘Why doesn't that surprise me?' Mark asked. ‘Rhetorical question, Caffy.'

As always, her grin lit up her face, making it almost beautiful. ‘I thought it might be. Now, Kim, what size shoes do you take . . .?'

‘A
word, please.' Paula appeared again, brandishing her mobile. As they paused, hands on the car doors, she continued: ‘It's not good news.' She nodded back at the rectory. ‘There's one van missing, as I expect you've noticed. No?'

Like recalcitrant children, they shook their heads. Paula would have made an excellent prime minister, Mark always thought. Or Secretary General of the United Nations. Aged – possibly – in her forties, she exuded both calm and purpose. Today her eyes, her best feature in an otherwise unremarkable face, flashed with anger, though she kept her voice low and controlled.

‘The electrical contractor's van is missing,' Paula continued. ‘And it's not his fault. His yard was robbed last night – he's lost every last centimetre of cable. When I suggested he should let you people and his insurance company worry about that, and go to his supplier – any supplier – and get some more, he told me what I expect you know already. No? I'd have thought CID, Fran, might have been interested to know that every electrical wholesaler we've contacted had the same visitors last night. Quite a heist.'

‘More copper?' Fran groaned.

She had the excuse that all metal theft nationwide was now being dealt with by the Serious Organised Crime Agency, who didn't always communicate with their local colleagues as swiftly as they might have done. His excuse – well, the chaos the chief had spoken of. All the same, he felt, and Fran looked, foolish.

‘As you know, he was going to pull out every stop to finish the work here by Thursday. As it is . . .' Paula shrugged. ‘No can do. The place won't be habitable. Sorry. Can you delay your sale?'

Fran shook her head. ‘It'd mean letting down the friends we're selling to. And everyone else in the chain. Everything, absolutely everything, is in place. So we have to move in here.'

Paula shook her head. ‘I really do not recommend it. Health and Safety would have a fit.' She looked ironically at Fran. ‘And for once I couldn't blame them. It's not on. Even if I tell Sparky to go to suppliers further afield, he'll lose a day's work. You can move in this time next week. With luck.'

‘But—'

Paula had already turned on her heel and was stalking towards a knot of men who might not have been working as hard as she expected her subcontractors to work. Even her approach galvanized them into action.

‘Shit and double shit,' Fran said. ‘How come I didn't know? You might as well have my notice as well as the chief's.'

Mark's face was serious. ‘If you've ignored a call from SOCA, I might ask for it. But I can't imagine your phone's switched off?'

She waved it in front of his face. ‘But the coverage is poor round here. OK, let's head back and get things moving.'

He picked his way through the ruts while she made a series of staccato calls. If she was displeased with herself, she was even more displeased with the colleagues who'd left her in ignorance.

‘So where does that leave us?' he asked as he negotiated the crumbling pillars that once supported wrought iron gates and pulled in to the lane hardly wide enough to merit the name. ‘You're right – we can't afford not to move out now.' He shot her a sideways look. ‘Do I imagine it, or is there a great fat elephant lolling on the back seat?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Two large elephants, in fact. My house, and Sammie.' Suddenly, his face looked unutterably weary.

She braced herself. ‘I know she's your daughter, not mine, and I know I'm about to be your traditional wicked stepmother, but we may have to act on what that Rottweiler of a solicitor suggested and require her to leave your house. She's squatting. She's changed your locks. You can't get into your own home. You can't get at your clothes, your books . . .'

Mark murmured something inaudible.

‘You paid enough for Ms Rottweiler's advice, after all,' Fran reminded him, but wished she hadn't. Mention of money in a family context made her feel petty.

‘I still think it'll look bad in the press, a senior police officer – possibly acting chief constable by the end of the day – throwing his daughter on to the street. Literally.'

‘It's fortunate Caffy didn't hear you say that.
Not
literally, Mark. You've told Ms Rottweiler that you can provide her with an allowance, cash if she wants, for which she signs a receipt, enough to rent a suitable place – heavens, I've never seen so many “To Let” signs. Then you simply go back and live under your own roof.'

‘I suppose we could move to a hotel.'

Fran winced. How could a man she'd seen risk his neck to save strangers' lives be so supine? It wasn't just Mark's possessions locked behind Mark's front door; there was stuff of hers she couldn't get at. She said nothing – didn't want to whine. But buying the rectory for cash – at their age no one would give them a mortgage on such a doubtful property – and paying for all the repairs meant that two well-paid, comfortably-off people had a serious if temporary cash-flow problem and as from Thursday nowhere to call home. And moreover they were dealing with a matter of principle: how could a man let a daughter throw him out of his own house?

It hadn't been quite like that at the start. Sammie had originally taken refuge with her father claiming she'd been battered. To give her and her two children privacy, Mark had moved into Fran's tiny cottage. One day he'd gone back to find Sammie had changed every last lock.

Mark negotiated the turn on to the main road. ‘I suppose, with the chief going, this could be a good day to bury bad news . . .'

She sucked her teeth. ‘It won't be entirely buried whatever the day. Not with Facebook and Twitter.'

He groaned.

‘At least you've got that press statement that Ms Rottweiler prepared for you. She was right: Sammie's not your responsibility. After all, she's still married to a man who's the proud possessor of a well-paid job. Whatever Sammie's relationship to Lloyd, he's legally, not to mention morally, responsible for maintaining his offspring.'

‘What about paying for her to stay in a hotel?'

She suppressed a sigh. ‘Do you think she'd really stay just the one night? She'd squat there too and refuse to shift. She'd milk you dry. No, like Ms Rottweiler said, she must go back to her own place in Tunbridge Wells if it's not yet sold. Or she can always live with you, as your daughter.'

‘Live with me? Not us?'

‘You need to build bridges if she stays, and my presence would preclude that.' There was no need to remind Mark of all the hysterical abuse Sammie had thrown at her: she was used to tolerating foul language and venom when she was working – usually, but not always, from lawbreakers – but not when she was at home. ‘I can find a hotel.'

‘I wonder what state the place is in,' Mark said.

He was wavering, obviously, so she gave a verbal push. ‘Only one way to find out, my love. But I'd take the locksmith to the back door, not the front, if I were you. Less publicity. Actually,' she added, ‘I'd take up Ms Rottweiler's other suggestion that you find a negotiator to go with you. I'd hate her to start throwing things.'

‘Especially if they were mine to start with,' he agreed with a rueful smile. ‘But I can't act now, Fran – we've both got to get back to hear the chief drop his bombshell officially. And then for a week I can't see me needing to sleep anywhere except on my office floor. Can you?'

‘I can, actually. And I'd say you needed somewhere quiet to sleep. But if you can't face any more pressure, phone Ms Rottweiler and ask her to initiate Plan B. The stern final warning letter. It'd certainly be nicer if you didn't have to get your hands soiled.' Even if just one of Ms Rottweiler's letters would cost a day of Mark's not inconsiderable salary. Anything, anything, just to have a peaceful home for him to go to. Stress wasn't kind to men of his age, and although he exercised and ate a well-nigh perfect diet, she never lost the niggle of fear for his heart that she'd experienced ever since they got together.

‘Plan B it is. I'll phone her from the car park,' he said. ‘Then, Fran – into battle. I can't blame the chief for resigning, but I can't help feeling a lot of the shit he might have fielded will now be the responsibility of yours truly.'

Fran put her head on one side, Caffy-like. ‘Haven't you mixed a metaphor or two there?'

Paula was the sort of woman Fran would want beside her when the last trump sounded – or was it last trumpet? Caffy would know! – calm to the point of stolid, as she had been when she'd broken the bad news earlier. But when she phoned Fran an hour or so later, at precisely the time that all the senior officers were doing headless chicken impressions, she allowed a hint of exasperation to seep into her voice.

‘Fran, this DI of yours – is she for real?' With Paula, you never got preliminaries, polite or otherwise.

‘It's her first day at school,' Fran said.

‘Ah. In that case, you'll have to give her detention. She's being totally unrealistic in her demands. She wants all work on the house to cease forthwith. I tried reminding her who the house belonged to, but that seemed to make her all the more determined to play by the book.'

Fran remembered her own green days. ‘It would. Have they dug up that bean row yet?'

‘Nope. Talking of the bean row, now Caffy's worrying about misplacing her copy of Yeats – some poem she wants to quote. She didn't lend it to you, did she? No? It must be one of the plasterers. I had to tear her from that DI's throat when she suggested all the plaster would have to come off, by the way.'

‘All this for what might not even be a body. OK,' Fran said with a sigh, ‘I'll try to get someone to drop by and have a word with poor Kim. Not sure when. I certainly don't see me doing it. It's chaotic here—'

‘I'll bet it is, with the boss throwing in the towel. Mind you, I don't blame him. As I'm sure you know, the press are going wild. I hope they don't know where you live, because sure as God made little apples, they'll sit on every senior officer's doorstep till they can get a comment.'