Double Fault (24 page)

‘You'd need to be a Manager, with a capital M,' she agreed, sliding easily into her next question. ‘And how is Fran, with all this business about the skeletons hitting the media? Didn't you know? Oh, of course, your tennis morning. Well, as far as I can see, every radio news bulletin is leading with it. And presumably all the TV cameras in Kent will be zooming in ghoulishly on the same bit of Ashford.' They exchanged a grimace.

‘She'll cope. She always does. But then, she's always had a supportive boss in the past – the old chief constable was a fully-signed up member of her fan club.'

‘That guy who wanted to usurp my position as best woman, and ended up offering to escort Fran up the aisle instead?'

‘The same. He's off helping to organize the police force in Mali or somewhere, but he's promised to be back in time.' Is that what Fran would want to do, when she had to leave Kent Police? Go and sort out some unsuspecting developing country? Or would she really want to hang up her handcuffs finally and for good?

‘Lucky Mali,' Caffy said dryly. ‘And Fran had you, of course. To support her when you were her boss.'

‘I suspect I spent as much time bollocking her as being kind.'

‘That's not how she tells it – and why would a woman like Fran want a sadist as a husband?' She fetched plates and set them on the table. ‘Now, before I forget, here's your watch. Wow, that's a posh one,' she added, eyeing his wrist.

‘Posh but useless. It keeps stopping. Now I've got the other one back I'll get this repaired. I'll just get yours from the safe and then we'll eat, shall we?'

She raised a hand to stop him. ‘If you don't mind, it can stay where it is. I can't see myself ever wanting to wear it again, but to get rid of it seems like tempting providence. Meanwhile, I bought this classic timepiece at a garage.' She dug it out of her bag and put it on with a theatrical flourish. ‘Ta, da!'

‘So things are looking good with this new young man?' He took the flan out of the oven and put it on the table. ‘Sit and dig in while you tell me. Alistair, is it?'

She blushed vividly. Caffy, blushing? ‘I wouldn't tell anyone else this, especially Paula, but every time I pass an old ruin I eye it up to see if we could rescue it together. Pathetic or what? Hey, is this some of your home-made bread?'

In other words, end of conversation about Alistair.

‘So the media still think we're following up leads in France,' Ray was saying as Ed and Fran slipped into the incident room.

‘Those of them that aren't high as kites on theories about our serial killer and our failings in that regard,' Fran cut in dourly – better it came from her than anyone else. ‘Hell's bells, what a cock-up. Let's see if we can do better with this one. Let's have that good news, Ray.'

He didn't need any more prompting. ‘Thanks to Mark Turner,' he said, ‘we now have information that Stephen Harris, the man with the cleanest teeth in Kent, may not be the lily-white boy all the way through. He made a phone call halfway through a tennis match. He's since “lost” his phone, of course, but his provider's records show exactly when and to which number he made it. And three guesses who owns the phone with that number. Right: Ross Thwaite. According to the surveillance team, he's working on the Livingstone estate this morning, just as you'd expect. He arrived in his four by four; Snowdrop is still safe in his stable.' He looked from Fran to Ed, and back again. ‘Are you happy to leave him there – Thwaite, I mean, not the horse – or are you ready to start talking to him now?' If he'd had his way, Fran thought, he'd clearly have had him in for questioning, preferably under the cosh with a bit of waterboarding thrown in.

Fran watched Ed evaluating the response of the joint team. Although she outranked him, she knew she'd let him make the decision, and she'd back him, against vocal opposition if necessary. He was the one who spent his professional life chasing paedophiles; she was just an old Jill of all Trades.

But he was looking to her – not for guidance, surely, but more for approval. ‘My feeling,' he said slowly, ‘is that we let him be. Still. I know it goes against the grain, but there's still just an outside chance that she's OK, and he may yet lead us to her. If he goes anywhere out of the ordinary we're tailing him. If he simply goes home and gets his supper like any normal man and puts his feet up to watch the telly, perhaps then it's time to call on him. In fact, I'd say it is. Wouldn't you?' He turned to Fran.

‘Absolutely. Surround his cottage completely and silently. Get him. Oh, and make sure the RSPCA are on hand to look after Snowdrift.' She smiled ironically. ‘In the meantime, as before: the man so much as sneezes and we know. Hard if he takes to the woods, of course,' she mused.

One of the CEOP team shook her head. ‘Not if he goes in his 4×4. Tracking device,' she added briefly. ‘And there's a listening device in place in the cottage. Just trying to get permission for a phone tap even as we speak.'

‘Excellent.' There was nothing else to say, was there? She'd better go and check on those skeletons. And maybe – she checked her watch – pick up a sandwich.

The media team were in overdrive, involved in damage limitation, drafting statements and making encouraging noises about interviews. Fran longed to phone Don Simpson, to see if he was up to fronting a press conference, but she restrained herself: the man was entitled to his sick leave. But she phoned anyway, just to let him give his trenchant opinion on the situation. Predictably this involved a satisfactory stream of invective directed at anyone involved in cost cutting and putting budgets before the needs of victims' families. All highly un-PC, but if she'd wanted a polite conversation she'd have spoken to Wren, wouldn't she?

‘Who's going to talk to the media in tonight's briefing?' he paused long enough to ask.

‘Wren, if there's any justice in the world. Better still, our beloved government for slashing funds. Or more likely me. Trying to defend the indefensible.'

‘Tell you what, Fran,' Don said, dropping his voice conspiratorially, ‘tell them where to put their press conference. Wren's problem. Let Wren deal with it. It should be an ACC, not just a Chief Super like yourself. You're not paid to put your head above the parapet.'

‘Wren's tied up with ACPO for the rest of the day.'

She pulled the phone from her ear as he snorted. ‘What a surprise. Tell you what, then, Fran – if you have to do it, you take those crutches, right? That stumble of yours was brilliant this morning: yes, it was on TVInvicta. Something like that reminds Joe Public just how much we do for them. Except we can't walk on the sodding water – even with crutches,' he concluded.

W
ith mispers at every location where Malcolm Perkins had worked as a youth leader, which now appeared to include temporary placements in Portsmouth and Rotherham, where Fran was strongly tempted to send Tom, given his hankering after Yorkshire, the media were leaping up and down with morbid hysteria. They particularly relished the fact that Perkins was some sort of social worker, always their favourite scapegoat. Heads of Social Service departments all over the country were being dragged out for interviews. Her turn would almost certainly come later, as yet another example of policing failure.

Meanwhile, after his day in the sin bin, perhaps she should go and talk to Sean Murray, though it would leave her hard pressed to prepare for the early evening media briefing about the latest on the skeletons case. On the other hand, perhaps she shouldn't be the one to do the briefing. Not for the tempting reasons that Don had put forward, but for a quite professional one. If she wasn't thoroughly up to date on all the developments, she'd mess up. It ought to be someone with the very latest news to offer. Young Madge, for instance. She'd been on media courses recently: how would she cope with the real thing? It would be more than a baptism of fire, of course, but she was so attractive, with an air of what Fran hoped was totally spurious vulnerability, that a few hacks might be disconcerted enough to miss a stride or two. She wouldn't summon her to her office, but go down to the incident room and no more than float the idea of her fronting the bun fight. One nanosecond of hesitation from the young woman and Fran would make the decision for her.

‘You're the one who's done most of the work, Madge – you're far more up to speed than I am. If you have a moment's misgiving, tell me and I'll be there instead. I promise. But I really think the investigation would move forward more quickly if I followed up another lead. There's just a chance someone's run Christopher Manton to earth. A contact from the Met,' she lied hurriedly, ‘wants me to deal with it.'

‘That's one person whose DNA is on record – should be a doddle to prove that,' Madge declared.

‘Excellent. So all we need is a sample of this guy's. Now, you'll have gathered that this is someone else's case at the moment. Something quite different. But if you wanted to battle with the media scrum this evening, you could truthfully say I'm pursuing a lead. Of course,' she continued slowly, ‘there's no need to do this on your own. The three of you who investigated Perkins' other youth placements could appear.'

‘Like wise monkeys. Or Macbeth's witches, except Tom wouldn't quite fit that scenario.'

‘Quite. But you could all talk about how you went about your searches – the meticulous, time-consuming work. Lost Saturdays and Sundays. Cancelled dates – no, maybe that's going too far. Say how easy it would have been to assume that Perkins' death wrapped up everything. Heavens, you've all been on media courses: I'd trust you more than I'd trust myself at the moment, and that's the truth.'

The sympathetic look Madge subjected her to seemed to confirm the worst. ‘Look, ma'am, can I go and have a quick word with the others? See what they say?'

‘Of course. I've got stuff to attend to back in my office. But remember – if one of you has the slightest reservation, it's back to me.'

Madge shook her head. ‘Ma'am, we know you work miracles. But even you can't be in two places at once.'

So now it was Sean Murray time. The confrontation she'd put off all day. She just hoped he was as knackered as she was.

Mark was in front of the fridge again. He felt guilty about not waiting for Fran, but an afternoon spreading compost over the garden had left him with what he told himself was a healthy appetite. Before he could choose between a slice of the lunchtime flan or a hunk of his bread – a bit crumbly, this particular loaf, not easy to slice neatly – and some cheese, the phone went.

‘Caffy! Can you see into my kitchen? Every time I'm looking in the fridge, tempted by the unhealthy option, you phone.'

‘In that case close it now and grab yourself an apple. Are you busy?'

‘Just about to have a shower.'

‘I want to show you something. In good light. It's called Abbot's Croft. The nearest village is Westry. It's east of Stone Street. You know what it's like out there – all lanes, no real roads.'

It wasn't like Caffy to be so incoherent. He grabbed at his old professional calm. ‘Give me the map references and I'll be there. What am I looking for?'

‘Just a PACT van at the moment. It'll take you – oh, about half an hour to get here. Maybe a bit longer. No, don't bust a gut. I won't go away. I've got something to read.'

‘As if you ever didn't have. OK. Pen and pad ready. Fire away.' He wrote to her dictation. ‘Caffy, you're being sensible, are you?'

‘I'm parked too far away from what might be a crime scene to draw attention to myself or to compromise it.'

His ACC voice returned, this time the stern version. ‘This really is something serious, isn't it, Caffy? So you can show me what you've found – but from a distance. If necessary I'll call for back-up. If I do, I want you to get the hell out of there. Understood?'

‘But it might be nothing, Mark – and I know how resources are stretched. They've even got three substitutes for Fran on the evening news.'

‘If I take you seriously, I know a man or a woman who will too. Just shoot, Caffy – we're wasting time here.'

‘It's a deserted farmhouse, partially ruined, with recent four by four tracks and a horse's footprints. I'd say the horse is still at home.'

‘OK. I'm on my way. Half an hour, you said.'

‘But Mark, what if someone turns up?'

‘Did you trust me over that watch? Well, then, trust me now. Pull back to at least half a mile – no, a mile away. My car keys are in my hand. Start your engine and scoot. And then we can make a decision.'

Sean Murray was no fool. He must have been all too aware that Fran was interested in far more than a minor disciplinary defence, the way she probed the reasons for his precipitate departure. All the same, he stonewalled until he must have been bored almost to tears.

‘Why did you change your name, Sean?'

‘That's like asking me when I stopped beating my wife.' To Fran, there was less charm than anxiety behind that smile.

‘Don't be ridiculous. It's asking a question I'd like an answer to. I'm happy with your name: you can go on being Sean Murray. But you were once Christopher Manton, and that's why I want to know why you became someone else. Come on, we can check your DNA if you prefer.'

‘I don't see the point.'

‘A police officer has to do a lot of things he or she doesn't see the point of. I don't see the point of sitting here pretending that we're just talking about you bunking off for a perfectly innocent weekend here in the Smoke when you should have been investigating a horrific find in Ashford. That's bad enough, of course. Actually, as I'm sure you've heard, there have been equally grisly discoveries in other towns and cities. What do you know about them?'