Double Fault (5 page)

‘So we need someone to be ready by the house. Mark – is it OK to call you Mark? – will you go down there with Constable Kennaway? OK, Seb? That way you'll know if we've got the full complement as they check in. I've got local radio on to it already. All the guys checking CCTV have been alerted.'

‘Helicopter?' Mark prompted.

Barlow caught Jules's eye. ‘Seems the new guv'nor hasn't authorized it – and the latest diktat is that every major bit of expenditure has to be run past him first. And he's off on some Home Office jolly.'

Mark was ready to scream. ‘The ACC, then. Shit, they've not appointed anyone yet, have they? Bloody budget cuts!'

‘And the appointments' budget's been frozen, according to today's news, Mark. Pity, I'd have thought your Fran was a shoo-in.' There was a bit of a question in his statement.

Hell – what if she'd been approached and turned it down, afraid for his sensibilities?

‘And the lead detective superintendent's off sick,' Ray added with a final burst of despair.

‘Tell you what, Ray, if anyone would stick their neck out to get that chopper up and flying, it'd be Fran.'

Ray shook his head doubtfully. ‘But she's with the Major Review team, isn't she?'

Which was true, but there might be a subtext. People at Ray's level sometimes feared the rough side of Fran's tongue. ‘Doing one job's never stopped her interfering in another, has it?' He reached for his phone.

So what had landed in Fran's lap? She was clearly at a crime scene, as preoccupied as he'd have expected. She'd been all too willing to rock the corporate boat and scramble the chopper, but had had to cut their conversation short. At least she'd managed her now standard valediction: ‘I love you.'

PC Kennaway, a young man who clearly thought looking bad-tempered gave him professional gravitas, didn't seem best pleased to be landed with someone who ended a phone call with the words, ‘And I love you too.' But at least his first question was sensible: ‘How far is it to the house you mentioned? Walk or drive?'

‘Drive. There's a sort of porter's gate that Joe Public use – they're allowed to walk round, keeping to the paths, between ten and four. Hence the unofficial access via the broken fence.'

‘Gotcha. So would anyone open the main gates if we asked them nicely?'

‘I wish I knew. I don't know how much of the time the new owner spends here – Fran and I aren't on visiting terms, Seb. But road's quicker.'

‘Not if it's all like this track,' Kennaway said through gritted teeth, as he tried to drive faster than the potholes encouraged. He ended up swinging the car from side to side like a rally driver, doing his best to dodge the worst.

Mark hoped he wouldn't throw up.

‘Sodding locked!' Kennaway declared. ‘Clever electronics, too, so I can't just bust them open like I could a padlock and chain.' Furiously he jabbed at the entryphone again, but to no avail.

‘Leave the car here – right across the gates just in case, eh?'

Kennaway obliged, leaving the lights flashing lest anyone think they might be on a social visit. ‘But how do we get in?' His eyes took in the ten-foot walls topped, like the featureless gates, with spikes.

‘I told you. There's a little side gate for public access. We'll nip through that – it's not four yet so it should still be open.'

It was, opening on well-oiled hinges, though Mark suspected Kennaway would have preferred to kick his way in. To their right stood the house – something of an architectural hotchpotch to Mark's mind, with a plethora of Victorian accretions. No wonder the National Trust hadn't shown any signs of wanting it. Putting aside his pride in the purer lines of their Georgian rectory, he led Kennaway away to their left, where a gravelled patio looked out to the estate. A path broad enough for a car wound towards the woods. Another, marked STRICTLY PRIVATE, headed off to the right, in the direction of what Mark presumed would be the formal gardens.

‘They should be coming from the woods,' Mark said, possibly unnecessarily.

‘Yes. I can hear them.'

Did he shoot a suspicious glance in Mark's direction? Not just old and white-legged but deaf too? Possibly. As to the legs, he'd completely forgotten his tracksuit, still stuffed into his tennis bag on the edge of the courts. Probably it would have to stay there a while, as part of a possible crime scene.

Thank goodness his eyes were better than his ears. Now he could see some of the search team clearing the woods, heads down. No one waved or shouted. Even Dan's dog looked dejected, tail drooping.

‘So what do we do now?' Dougie asked, still leader.

Seb opened his mouth and closed it again. Afraid he was going to suggest they ought to go and reclaim their Zimmers, Mark jumped in. ‘You've done north-south: have any of you got time to try east-west?'

‘As long as Libby's missing, we've got all the time in the world.'

‘You mean Livvie?' Kennaway snapped.

Dougie blinked. ‘In any case,' he added more pragmatically, ‘we've got to get back to the club somehow, to put together that list you wanted – people's comings and goings – which means more walking anyway.'

‘Plus,' added Jayne, ‘I don't suppose we can move our cars until the police say so. So walk we can and walk we will. When we've done the east-west search, we regroup back at the clubhouse – yes?'

‘First one there get the kettle on,' someone ventured – but no one laughed.

Kennaway turned to respond to his radio.

Mark said, ‘I'll walk with you, if that's OK.' He turned to leave, but Kennaway wheeled round and raised a finger in the air. ‘Just one moment, Mark. I'd rather you came with me, if you don't mind. After all, you were the last person to see her, weren't you?'

‘No. That'd be me,' Jayne said.

Kennaway visibly dithered. How the hell would he make it to sergeant if he couldn't make decisions?

‘Shall I take Jayne's place, then?' Mark asked reasonably, raising his voice as a helicopter swooped towards them. Good for Fran. But his smile withered and died. The chopper wasn't the police one; it was a private one. Mark had a suspicion that it would make the police search even more complicated.

There was only one person aboard, and his expression, as he disembarked and strode towards them, was hardly welcoming. Kennaway's apparently habitual scowl was overlaid by something like terror: perhaps he'd once been caught scrumping and had a lingering fear of bad-tempered landowners.

So Mark stepped forward himself, a formal smile on his face and his hand outstretched. The words came out regrettable, unbidden. ‘Mr Livingstone, I presume.'

‘Y
ou think there may be more bodies – skeletons – there?' Fran asked the pathologist, white clad like the rest of them. Already big screens had been erected round the site, and she'd requested a temporary roof. The less media intrusion the better at the moment, especially if the child Mark was worried about was still missing. They'd want everyone's attention on that, not on those already beyond help.

‘I think it's entirely possible. It looks as if they were bricked in with a false wall. It's a good job for those working on the wall that the cavity was the right humidity.'

‘Because if it had been damp, there might have been adipocere formation, right? Grave wax?'

They exchanged a smile. For all she was old enough to be his mother – just – Dr Hemp liked to treat her as a favourite student.

‘Right. It might have preserved the body in its original shape, which might have made things easier for me – and I suppose for you. At the other extreme, if the space was very dry?'

She frowned as if puzzled, but they both knew she was pretending. ‘Then the body might become mummified in a shrivelled, leathery state. The poor JCB operator was scared enough as it was.'

‘He'd only just started,' Don put in. ‘As you can see, there's a good two thirds of the wall intact, so we'll have to brace ourselves for more.'

Hemp's frown was genuine. ‘Probably youngsters, like these?'

As Don nodded grimly, Fran clapped her hand to her mouth – couldn't ever stop herself doing that when kids were involved. ‘Youngsters?' she repeated.

‘Mid-teens, I'd say at first glance. I can be a bit more precise later.'

‘Cut off before they'd even lived.' At last she nodded. ‘Before we bugger about with the rest of the wall we'll remove these first. Give them a bit of dignity.'

‘We might have to use a different JCB operator,' Don put in with a sour grin. ‘Poor bastard.'

‘We'll take it down brick by brick, however long it takes,' Fran said, more sharply than she meant to. Her hip was hurting badly, and it was only the need to maintain team morale that kept her from popping more painkillers and going back home to her bed. Team morale? Her morale too. Better to be doing something useful than reflecting on the frailty of human life. ‘OK, where are we?' She didn't need to consult her notes to recap: ‘We have this building which was used for some twenty years as some sort of youth drama centre. Council run, right? Its clientele had more or less abandoned it for other purpose-built centres in the town, and four years ago the council were glad to close it down: it drank money and was, frankly, an eyesore. Right?'

‘Right,' Don said.

‘Can you get someone to check the misper records?'

Don looked at her oddly. Sean Murray would have been doing it if she'd had the sense to pull rank. ‘I'll get someone on to it, Fran.' He spoke to a constable she didn't know, who nodded and headed briskly away.

‘Thanks. Hell, Don, it'll be sad news for some families but at least it's news. Closure. An end to not knowing.' She clicked her fingers in irritation. ‘I've got the paper files on Nineties mispers on my desk at this moment, as it happens.'

‘Actually, Fran,' he said, almost hesitantly, ‘this might be as much a job for your review team as for MIT.'

‘Of course. We'll cooperate in any way we can. Joint Incident Room for a start. It'll be good experience for Sean Murray.'

Don looked around him ostentatiously. Murray, of course, was nowhere to be seen. ‘A shout as big as this is all hands on deck time, isn't it, Fran?'

Don had a history with her protégés – seemed to find fault with all of them. He'd recently had an unseemly professional tussle with a woman DCI she really rated and she'd had to bang heads together. She hoped he wasn't going to embark on a similar feud with Murray – her own dislike of the man was bad enough, and until his behaviour earlier, she'd have bent over backwards to support him, even in the face of just criticism. ‘He's tied up with something else,' she said flatly.

‘He never seems to be there when you need him. Can't we get rid of him and have someone else?'

In other words, someone who pulled his weight. She couldn't agree more. All the same, she said, ‘Don, the way things are, who knows what we can and can't do?'

‘Ah, you've heard the rumours about Wren. Good riddance if you ask me.'

‘Depending on what sort of chief we get next.' A mutual frown put an end to speculation. ‘OK, so we're going to need a team of forensic archaeologists, aren't we? And I've a nasty feeling we're going to have to fork out for some overtime, Don – Joe Public won't like the thought of what all this plastic sheeting is hiding.'

‘Quite. Best flip a coin to see which one of us hangs round to watch them at it, then, Fran. Head or tails?'

‘You choose, Don. And organize the archaeologists. I'll authorize any overtime necessary. But first I just want to call Mark to see how the search for that missing child is going on.'

No news. ‘We've criss-crossed the woods behind the club three or four times,' Mark said bleakly. ‘Nothing. She's just disappeared. I was there.'

Fran felt as sick as he must. But she went into bracing professional mode, as if he were one of her team. ‘So were a lot of others, Mark. Including her father. But you were the one who noticed and did something. Weren't you? Hold on to that. What next?'

‘We've got together a list of anyone at the club even for a few minutes this afternoon. Some of us are going over to that caravan site down the lane to carry on searching. Others – well, some of the guys are in their eighties, Fran, and a lot of folk have other commitments.'

He was trying to justify staying on with the other searchers, with an implicit apology for not having her supper on the table, wasn't he? ‘Of course.' She wanted to tell him not to overdo things himself but buttoned her lip. ‘Look, I'll be late home myself. Shall I bring something in for us both? About eleven?'

‘Something sinful, please. Look, my battery's low. Don't worry if you can't reach me.'

She would, of course. ‘See you elevenish. Love you.'

‘And you.'

He must be worried to have managed that.

The arrival of the archaeologists, led by a sturdy middle-aged woman called Dr Evans, with a chic hairdo completely at odds with the rest of her laid-back appearance, seemed a sign of progress, especially when they deployed themselves like a well-oiled machine. Even their lightest touch brought the rest of the brick and plaster cascading down. Those responsible for recording and bagging the debris seemed to be the ones working hardest. As usual Fran was moved by the respect almost bordering on reverence with which the whole site – the archaeologists' term, not theirs – was treated.

At last the fourth skeleton had been taken away. Dr Evans eyed the rest of the wall and then looked round for Fran, who made her way over with an appreciative smile. ‘You people have done a wonderful job.'

‘It helped that the brickwork was so friable. But we'll need better lighting and scaffolding before we tackle the rest of the wall.' Evans looked at her watch. ‘Maybe an early start tomorrow, when you've got the scaffolding set up?'