Burying the Past (31 page)

‘Poor woman.' Fran groaned. ‘Why the hell didn't she do like that poor kid Cynd and give herself up? She's almost certainly have got away with it – self-defence. Not to mention the fact that he'd scared her so much he'd ruined her life.'

‘Maybe,' Lina put in, ‘she'd got so used to being devious, to pretending, that she'd almost forgotten what the truth looked like, felt like. But to give up that house, all her wonderful furniture – it's almost as if it broke her heart.'

‘She certainly didn't last very long – and I've known bereaved people die like that for no apparent reason.' With a blush Fran recalled what she'd told Mark earlier. ‘OK: we can take all this to the coroner and declare, hand on heart, that the case is closed. Well done and thank you, both of you. I'll expect an invoice, Lina – virtue doesn't have to be its own reward.'

Lina shifted awkwardly. ‘OK. But there is just one more thing, Fran.' She touched a handwritten note on a single sheet of folded paper:
To whom it may concern.
To judge from their faces they'd already looked at the contents.

Gloves on again, Fran unfolded it.

Please take responsibility for sellinxsg all the effects you have found. Use the money to pay the outstanding storage bill – outstanding in both senses, I would imagine. Any left over should be donated to the charity Don't Badger Badgers, should it still be extant. Failing that, it should go to an animal charity.

Since you obviously know your furniture, and have a considerable amount of ingenuity, I would like you to have first choice of some or indeed all of it provided you make an appropriate donation. Remember the theory that if you save someone's life you are responsible for him or her for ever. You saved my furniture, so now you are responsible for it. I would like you to have everything, but suspect that you will have to invite the Victoria and Albert Museum to look after the Italian cabinet.

Sincerely – and, should anyone ask, in my right mind,

Marion Lovage, née Margaret Minton

Fran reeled. She literally couldn't breathe.

Lina hugged her. ‘Please, please offer for what items you can afford. Then they can go back home – to their home.'

Kim said grudgingly, ‘No one has done more than you to locate the stuff, and to make sure it yielded up what it has. But Ms Townend here—'

‘Will renounce any remote rights she has,' Lina declared. ‘Fran, you ought to sit down.'

Fran sat, to find her head thrust between her knees – Lina again, she suspected. Since a firm hand remained on her head, she had no way of finding out. At last the pressure was removed.

A
cting Chief Constable Wren had certainly made the old chief's office his own, at considerable expense too – probably not his own! – but Fran sternly suppressed any nesting images that might force their way into her mind, especially involving cuckoos.

Why she had been summoned to see him she wasn't at all sure, but since she had been, she might as well take the chance to lay the Lovage bequest before him. Something with such moral and ethical implications could be dealt with only by someone at his level, though she'd rather have conferred with Cosmo first. And she'd much rather have seen him when she felt more herself: the day's events had conspired to leave her feeling weak and unfocused.

His face was impassive: surely, he wouldn't be bothering to sack her himself, even if she could think of any reason for him to do so, not after a notably successful couple of investigations.

Or was she somehow tainted by her relationship with Mark and couldn't be trusted to go quietly? If he thought that, it showed how little he knew of the ethos of loyalty and service. She might want to scream and shout if she were sacked unjustly, but for the sake of her colleagues and of the service in the abstract, she'd never risk their morale, never.

And what could explain the presence of a youngish man in the room with him? Dressed in a sober suit, the male equivalent of her own, he might have been anything, from a grudging bank manager to an overcautious accountant. His face was unremarkable, but for a pair of bright blue eyes, which might just humanize him and certainly radiated intelligence. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Harman has been with us for many years,' Wren told him. ‘I'm sure you will benefit a great deal from her mentoring.'

Fran shifted the Lovage file to her left hand and held out her right, still standing at an approximation of attention. Her smile was genuine, however – this was going to be doing what she liked so much, after all, bringing on a young person and developing his or her talents. But introducing a new officer to an old was scarcely the role of the chief constable, more the job of Cosmo, or one of his functionaries. What did Wren think he was doing?

‘Sean Murray,' the newcomer said, with a decently firm handshake.

‘DI Murray has a particular interest in dead cases, and since Kent has had such national success with its cold case reviews, he asked to be transferred here.'

Fran's alarm bells rang strongly. But for the time being all she could do was smile and nod her welcome.

And that seemed to be that. Murray showed no signs of wanting to ask any questions, nor of leaving the chief's room. But her exit was clearly expected. However, she had her own business to deal with first.

‘You are aware, sir, that I've been dealing with an investigation at Great Hogben rectory, now my own home.' She waited while he connected her with Mark. ‘You'll be glad to know we wrapped up the case this morning.' Usually, she'd have lauded her team to the skies, but she still had reservations about Kim, however well she'd acquitted herself today. ‘But there is a problem with Ms Lovage's bequest. Everything is summarized here for you. You'll understand, sir, why I can't action the bequest myself.' She plonked the file on his desk, saluted smartly, and left.

Now what? Several hours', possibly days', worth of paperwork. The synopsis of the case that she'd given Wren was no more that that, but maybe writing everything up in full was a task she could delegate to Kim. It would have her name on it, after all, an official declaration that for all Fran's interference she'd been the SIO and had carried the day. A big plus for someone newly transferred to the force. Which brought her back to the puzzle of Murray's arrival: no, no solutions presented themselves yet.

As for the Cynd's case, and the death of Andon Yovkov, they were Jill and Don's bags, though no doubt SOCA would suddenly and mysteriously claim the glory for the slight diminution in metal theft as a result of the latter.

She looked at her watch. Time to go home. First she'd better check if Mark had managed to see his GP. Had he risked driving? Or would he be relying on Dave for that?

She had a sudden frisson of fear – but told herself off: just because Mark was discovering he could love his son didn't mean he'd love her any the less. Did it? She could scarcely ask.

But Mark, picking up first ring, blithely informed her he hadn't bothered with a trip to the doctor. Dave and Caffy, Mark added with a wonderfully familiar chuckle, had only just managed to stop him flushing his medication down the loo.

‘What?'

‘I don't want to take any more pills. Not if they make me do that,' he added with a shudder.

‘We'll talk about it later,' she said.

‘Or not.' And he cut the call.

‘I'm afraid my bath won't really fit you either, Fran,' Caffy said as she pulled up beside the Winnebago, ‘but if ever a woman looked as if she needed half an hour with some essential oils, it's you. And I have to tell you your presence is not required in there.' She jerked her head sideways. ‘Mark and Dave are preparing your supper. And you know what they say about too many cooks. I've spirited some clothes out for you too. Go on, they're so busy wondering how to peel onions without crying that they'll never have noticed you've arrived. I'm off to listen to the news and tell you when it's safe to restore your TV reception.'

They headed to the flat together.

‘You've had quite a day, haven't you? What with one thing and another. And don't worry about Mark's pills – they're in my safe-keeping, so if he does decide he should take any more they'll be at hand. Mind you, I think counselling will work better – and he's agreed he does need that. He says it'll while away the hours that you're at work. Well,' she added with a smile, in response to Fran's open mouthed stare, ‘Pact isn't just about restoring houses – sometimes we have to restore the owners too.'

‘W
e must be off our heads, standing here in this weather. I know we always talked about drinks on the terrace, but not in a full-blown blizzard.'

‘Only a few flakes yet. And we have to celebrate properly moving in. No plumbers; no electricians; no decorators.' Much as he loves the Pact team, much as he owes them, it's good to have the place to themselves. ‘I know hot toddies would be more appropriate, but it really has to be champagne,' Mark says, topping up her glass.

‘Of course. And the cold's a good excuse to snuggle up together.'

Arms tight round each other, they sip in silence.

‘It'll be cold in the loft for you, working on that train set,' she says at last.

‘That can wait till Dave's moved back from the States. It's a neat solution, him renting the Loose house now it's been cleaned up. But Sammie—'

She puts a finger to his lips. ‘Nothing you can do about her at the moment – we'll just have to wait till after her trial.' She won't mention social services, which still aren't very keen on their input. ‘And in my experience, having even one child turn out as well as Dave has is a triumph,' she adds, with another hug.

‘You don't mind having Phoebe as a flower girl?'

The wedding is still growing of its own accord. But perhaps in a good way. Their deaf vicar is all too keen to let Janie take the ceremony, and Janie has declared herself ready to officiate in the spring, when they all agree the garden will be looking better. The disappearance of rival fluttering tapes has helped, and Mark seems to be enjoying acting as unpaid under gardener to the dashing young expert Caffy – who else? – has recommended. From time to time he's joined by Bill Baker, who talks as much as he works, these days, and regards a trip to the Three Tuns for a quick half as an essential part of the job.

‘Not at all. I just hope you can find a proper role for Dave and Mark junior – he must always have loved you, Mark, to name his son after you.'

He kisses her. ‘Maybe you're right. Ready to eat? But I see you've brought home a pile of work. Tonight of all nights! Fran!'

‘I know. I'm sorry. Just this once, I promise.'

‘It's this new guy Sean Murray, isn't it?'

She nods. ‘He seems to have Wren's ear in a way I really distrust.'

‘Can you imagine anyone saying that of the old chief? Anyway – has Wren come to any conclusions about Lovage's bequest? Not him, I know – his legal eagles?'

‘All in good time, he says. I know, I know – his time's no longer good but excessive. At least we have her real bequest. The house.'

‘So we do. Let's go in and not talk about work – and especially about Wren and Murray – while we're eating.' He studies her face. ‘They really are worrying you, aren't they?'

‘Yes. But sod the files. Here we are, breaking our no-shop rule, and it's all my fault. Sod the files, sod Wren and sod Murray.' For now at least. They both know she'll be up at five tomorrow to come up to speed. Meanwhile, she tucks her arm in his. ‘I can think of something very nice to do in front of that lovely log fire.'