Double Fault (4 page)

Now for the next one. Which should she choose? There were a couple that interested her. It would really benefit Murray to be involved in the decision.

It was well within her rights to pick up the phone and tell him to come to her office, and no one would have thought any the worse of her. But she'd always hated being on the receiving end of such summonses. Besides, the exercise was good for her. So she left the phone where it was and headed out. The sooner all the muscles started working properly the better. And limp up the aisle to Mark she would not.

She thought she heard her phone ring – but Alice would field that. She wouldn't even limp as she walked down the corridor – hey, that was good. Back straight, shoulders relaxed – any day now she'd be back to normal. Well, any week now. Hip, hip, hooray, rather than hip, hip replacement.

DCI Murray had wangled his own goldfish bowl off the main CID area. Just how she wasn't sure: it wasn't as if he had some managerial function apart from the one in the Review team. Ideally, he'd have had a room adjoining hers, but that would have meant displacing the secretarial team, and the women were so jumpy and anxious about their future she'd refused to sanction anything that would have added to their fears.

It would have been nice if he'd leapt from his chair as she hove into view, but at least he cut his phone call. It was easier to stay standing than to sit and have to get up again. ‘Sean, I've been looking at the files for the early Nineties just to check if there's anything that grabs my interest. There are a couple I'd like you to look at with me.'

‘Oh?' He was busy stowing files and checking his pockets, as if ready to leave. Why hadn't his mother taught him some manners?

‘One involves an old people's home, the other's nothing specific, not yet, just a little cluster of mispers, girls based in children's homes,' she said, as if she was expecting him to take an interest. ‘Kids barely in their teens. With all this stuff coming out about girls being groomed for prostitution I thought it might be worth a look. They may just have done a flit, of course, poor girls,' she shrugged sadly.

‘I know they say Ashford's the fourth best UK town to live in,' Sean said, clearly not agreeing with the optimistic assessment, ‘but I'd also say it must be one of the easiest to get away from. Near to the Channel for ferry or Eurostar; M20; London itself. And of course we're talking about an era with much less CCTV coverage than now.'

He was right, of course. But there was something about his tone she didn't like. So she insisted, ‘All the same, when you've reviewed the care home deaths, I think the children's home deserves a new pair of eyes …' Yours, Sean.

He was on his feet. ‘I presume it can wait till Monday.' Statement, not question, she noted. ‘It's my guv'nor's wedding this weekend, and I'm taking some time off in lieu – starting about now, actually.' He looked at his watch ostentatiously. Or was it insolently?

‘It's usual to clear it with your line manager.' And Fran couldn't remember so much as a scribbled note.

‘But he's up in London, isn't he? Getting married.' Definitely insolently.

‘Since it's the Met that pays you, I suppose he is. You'll have to accept me as a pale substitute, won't you? And I have to say, DCI Murray, that I prefer to be asked, not told.' She held his gaze. ‘I'd have said, as I'm sure your
real
line manager would, that it's fine to take the time. But you'll have to be in bloody early on Monday to get your head around all these cases, won't you? We'll talk about them at … say nine-thirty. If that's all right by your line manager. And you'll find the files on my desk when you come in.' Which meant she had to arrive at the crack of dawn to check up on him, but since she was something of a lark, that wouldn't be a problem.

As she reached the door, she turned. ‘Enjoy the wedding.'

So she'd better go and look at the files herself. She took the long way round to her office, reasoning that every pace she took must strengthen the leg. As she reached her desk, the phone rang.

‘Ah, got you at last, Fran! Don Simpson here,' a familiar voice greeted her. In his late forties and a policeman of the old school, Don was now running the Major Investigation Team. ‘I've got something in Ashford. Are you up to coming over – or will it be just young Murray?'

‘How interesting is it?' she asked offhand.

‘Very.'

‘In that case I'll come myself.' Which she'd always had every intention of doing from the moment he first spoke.

‘How did you manage to shed Murray?' Don demanded by way of greeting. He was grey-faced, all the usual beer-induced high colour washed out of him. Fatigue? Something else? How was he going to cope with a long investigation?

‘Oh, don't worry about him.' This wasn't the time or place to explode with rage, though she was sure Don would relish the story. So she concentrated on trying to heave herself out of the car without a wince or a grunt. ‘OK, let the dog see the rabbit.' Being extensively briefed during the journey was one thing: being there was another.

He pointed at a half-demolished building, but for once made no effort to accompany her. She looked at him sideways. He was more ill than tired, surely. But he'd bite her head off if she asked – hers, or, more likely, some innocent junior officer's.

They were in one of the Victorian parts of Ashford, the brick buildings amazing relics when you realized they must be less than a mile from the new station that hosted Eurostar, not to mention an extensive shopping outlet. The building lurked near the nineteenth-century railway works, some still in use, others as dilapidated as this one. In fact it was probably an old railway store – the brickwork was the same. What remained was covered in graffiti, some, though Fran hated to admit it, well executed and amusing. But now it was taped off. A stationary JCB was poised in mid-strike by one wall, like a dinosaur suddenly repelled by its meal. A brawny and heavily tattooed man in his forties, presumably its driver, was now sitting half in, half out of a police vehicle, looking as if he was about to throw up. At least someone had found him a bottle of water. Hilary Baird, a sergeant in her thirties who managed to combine consummate tact with outstanding ability, stepped forward and murmured discreetly into her ear: ‘Barry Grant.'

Fran had a sudden bizarre vision of herself as the Queen at a garden party.

As he caught sight of her, Grant got up and came staggering forwards – perhaps he recognized her from the times she'd fronted appeals on TV. ‘In there – in there!' Grabbing her arm, he pointed into what remained of the shell. ‘All staring up at me! I'd better show you! Barry Grant,' he added unexpectedly, as aware of the niceties as her sergeant, it seemed. So much for stereotypes, as she always told young officers inclined to prejudices. He thrust his right hand forward.

She shook it gently, covering it with her left. ‘Fran Harman,' she responded, with a sober smile. ‘It's all right, Barry. You just stay here.' She might have sounded kind – hoped she did – but in reality there was no way she wanted him back in the heart of the crime scene. ‘Heavens, you're frozen – I'm sure one of my officers can find you a blanket.' Shock, of course, nothing to do with the weather, which was amazingly mild. ‘And I think you'd be more comfortable if they took you away from here to give us a statement.' She looked for Hilary Baird again: her innate kindness managed to extract all sorts of revelations from the people she cosseted. ‘Sergeant Baird will look after you, won't you, sergeant?'

They exchanged smiles: no need to say anything at all.

As she picked her way over the rubble, Fran could see exactly why Grant had looked like a man recounting a nightmare. Four skulls turned their empty sockets towards her as if in silent reproach.

A
s he moved his car aside, Mark couldn't work out which was worse – having been recognized the moment he made the phone call or not being recognized by the uniformed sergeant who was driving the first response car. He introduced himself as the PolSA: ‘Police Search Advisor', he explained, unnecessarily, of course, given who he was speaking to. Mark didn't correct him, having embarrassingly missed his name. The acting chief inspector he'd spoken to on the phone, Ray Barlow, arrived next, wide-eyed behind his spectacles and with a rather too respectful smile and shake of the hand. But Mark didn't have time to indulge his own emotions now. Zac, who was grey with terror beneath his year-round suntan, was running towards them. His account was so incoherent Mark was glad he'd been able to establish the facts first. A motherly plain-clothes officer, who might as well have had
family liaison officer
stamped on her forehead just over a rather too ready smile, emerged from another vehicle and ushered the poor sod away from the action, in which he'd clearly wanted to be involved. Photos, she'd want, important information about Livvie's medical history – anything to make the search process easier.

‘So, guv'nor,' acting DCI Barlow summed up, using his fingers, ‘we've got members; kids who were assisting the coach; kids being coached; and kids wanting to go home.'

‘Right. And, once I'd spotted the problem, no one was supposed to leave till you got here. That being said, half a dozen mothers have come and gone so far, leaving all their details with a highly competent woman called Jayne – over there, the one with the sunglasses in her hair. I'll get the members to get their heads together to work out exactly who was playing on the other courts.'

‘And you say you've done a preliminary check of the premises?' the uniform sergeant demanded, as if doubting him. And why not? Just an old guy with winter-pale legs, embarrassing in shorts.

Mark said quickly, ‘Yes. Nil return.'

‘Thanks, guv'nor,' Ray Barlow said. ‘Look, I may be the one nominally in charge but Jules Warden here is the expert. He'll want the info to help lay out his plan of campaign.'

Jules, every inch a TV-issue cop, nodded. ‘Look – Mark, is it? – sorting this lot's going to be like herding cats. Could you collect the senior players, since you obviously know them, and keep them together? Tell them what we're up to? And maybe recruit a search party? Thanks.' He turned away to tackle the next imperative.

Mark nodded. ‘Just one thing, Ray: I'm not the guv'nor any more, though that doesn't mean I won't work my socks off to find the kid. Oh, I forgot to say, there's a fence with a couple of palings pulled aside so people can get access to the grounds of Hogben House if they try hard enough – or are very small. Woodland,' he added, pointing.

Jules must have picked up the last words and absorbed the implications. ‘Get your team of tennis players to check the woods, then. Usual routine. As soon as the rest of our team arrive, we'll take over.'

As he hesitated, Ray nodded. ‘On my authority, if you insist, guv.'

Most of his fellow Golden Oldies had already formed a knot by the clubhouse, though he could see that one or two more had slipped away quietly since play had stopped. Damn and buggeration. But thank God for the efficiency of Jayne, who seemed to have established him as leader and herself as deputy. She said grimly, ‘That new guy, Stephen, said he'd got a dental appointment and had to go. He's given me his address and phone number, so I suppose it's possible to check,' she added. ‘Assuming he's telling the truth, of course.'

‘Excellent. Anyone else missing? Roland? Hey, he's not taken his bike, has he? Shit and corruption!'

‘His details will be on the membership list,' Dougie said repressively, looking at Mark as if he didn't like the transformation he'd seen. ‘And you've got a copy of that.'

Best to play the incompetent penitent. ‘At home, of course. I suppose no one's got a copy here? No matter. What the police will need is a list of everyone who turned up: I can't remember, nor when everyone arrived or left. We'll probably need a group effort on that. But later. The important thing is finding Livvie. Now. The police are afraid that she may have wandered off into the woods back there,' he said, as if it wasn't his own fear. ‘Actually, I'm
hoping
she's wandered off there and that if we get together a search party we'll find her and no tears shed. Have any of us beside me got their mobiles handy?' A murmur told him that about half had, albeit in their cars. ‘Because what I was thinking we might do was go off in pairs, calling out for her. Stay within earshot of the next pair – so keep calling out for Livvie. OK? If you find anything, anything at all that might have any connection with her, stay put and phone. This is my number.' He dictated it. ‘But don't – you know—' He stopped abruptly.

‘We've all watched TV, Mark,' Jayne said. ‘We know about not disturbing crime scenes.'

‘Assuming we find a crime scene. Pray God we don't, that we just find the child safe and sound,' Mark said. ‘If there's no mobile reception, of course, split up – one stay with whatever you find, the other come back here. Call to your neighbours so they know what's happening. Dougie, would you do this with your playing cards to speed things up?'

As if glad to be back on familiar territory, Dougie obliged. No one mentioned there might be another reason for Mark wanting them in random pairs – that he didn't want any hint of possible collaboration. In – in whatever …

‘Which way shall we head?' Jayne asked.

‘Towards the house, first. I'll get one of my officers to wait there to tell you what to do next.' Hell and damnation – had anyone noticed the slip? He'd better not make the same mistake in front of his former colleagues.

He didn't. He hung back behind the knot of officers Ray and Jules were briefing until Ray clocked him. The circle widened to admit him. In his turn – after those reporting zero from the car search – he reported what he'd done.