Life Sentence (16 page)

‘Imagine her with dark hair – greying, at least. Could she possibly have been a neighbour?’

‘Not that nice quiet woman, what was her name?’ her husband joined in.

‘You do know her, then?’

‘Well, it’s not a very good likeness, if it
is
her. Mind you, we hardly saw her.’

‘She kept herself to herself, you mean?’

‘She did, but that wasn’t what I meant, is it, Julie? I meant we’re hardly ever here to see her. We’ve just got back from the Galapagos Islands, Superintendent. Hey, are you sure you’re a chief superintendent? On TV it’s always a couple of detectives, usually a DCI and a constable or sergeant.’

She held up her ID again. ‘We rarely do more than flash them, I’m afraid. And I’m afraid the TV’s wrong – it’s usually one constable, two at most, that you get, but
this is a one-off case and I just fancied keeping my hand in.’

‘Better than being behind a desk on a day like this,’ he agreed, nodding out of the window.

‘Assuming it might be Miss Gray, do you have any idea what happened to her?’

‘There was talk that she sold up and moved away as soon as her parents died. There was a rumour,’ Mrs Drayton added, leaning closer, ‘that she sold the house for cash for far less than its asking price. And she tried to throw carpets and furniture and curtains in as well.’

‘Really? Now why should she want to do that?’ Fran wondered aloud.

‘A clean break, she said. She was making a clean break and going back up north,’ Mr Drayton supplied.

‘You’ve no idea where up north?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s a lot of it, isn’t there? So if you were trying to trace her…’

‘In fact,’ Mrs Drayton said, ‘I have an idea that the purchasers demanded she completely empty the house. The smell,’ she added delicately. ‘A bit musty. You know how it is.’

Mrs Drayton looked discreetly at her watch; Mr Drayton was far more open. ‘Our train, Superintendent. We can only stay another five minutes.’

‘You’ve been more than helpful as it is,’ Fran said swiftly. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t recall which estate agent dealt with the property?’

‘A local one. Burgoynes, I think. Or Butterfield. You
see so many signs, Chief Superintendent.’

‘So I see. Now, I’ll leave you to enjoy what I hope is a wonderful day. But – before I do – perhaps I could ask you one more favour? No, it’s not urgent. Could you possibly identify the person we think this is?’ She tapped the e-fit.

‘A body!’ Both recoiled. ‘If it’s our duty,’ he conceded.

‘Not a body at all,’ Fran said reassuringly. She added, more honestly, ‘Actually, it may be even more upsetting.’

Waving her energetic hosts goodbye, Fran tried another couple of Elise’s possible neighbours, now, according to their curtains, ready to tackle the world. One old lady, apparently as sane as Fran when she invited her in and offered her tea, declared with total conviction that Elise was the Prime Minister, and if only she could remember her name she wouldn’t have to go into a home, would she? The other neighbour, a man so old his skin was reptilian, laboured under the impression that Fran was there to check his colostomy bag.

Her notes recorded that for identification purposes, the Draytons were the best bet. They did not record her dry cough as she wrote the words.

The morning sun was warm, despite an increasingly searching wind. Why not leave the car where it was and go and look at the sea? Because she was supposed to be working, that was why – just as she was in Teignmouth.

So why did she turn the car not towards Hythe, but to New Romney and thence Dungeness? How long was it since she’d seen the moonscape of shingle, dominated by the nuclear power-station, that monolithic testament
to industrial brutalism somehow far more in keeping with its surroundings than the brightly-coloured eccentric little houses and bungalows that seemed to sprout at random? And certainly more appropriate than the jolly little railway station. No, today there was no narrow gauge train to catch back to the mythical somewhere she and Mark had once spoken of.

Mark? There was no reply yet to her supper invitation.

Her suit and elegant shoes were ludicrously inadequate to deal with the wind here, the sun failing in its battle against lowering clouds. Even her lungs had trouble, the air being forced in and sucked out according to whether she was facing the sea or bracing her back to it. On impulse she turned into the wind, and yelled at the top of her voice, ‘
Blow, blow, ye hurricanoes! Blow!
’ No doubt the Chief would be able to identify the play. She couldn’t. But she could identify with whoever was battling against irresistible elements.

Was there anywhere like this she could seek refuge when she was down in Devon? How could she tell, when for as many years as she could remember Devon had been Teignmouth, and one very small corner of it at that?

A refuge! A place as bleak and arid as this? A symbol of her life, more like.

She’d come so far south and west she decided not to head back to Maidstone via the Hythe junction of the M20, but to pick up one of the roads Sheila Adams had so despised, the A259. From it she could pick up a much
faster road north to Ashford, and thus the motorway. On impulse, however, she pulled into Ashford itself, parking behind the police station, where she was always sure of a decent cup of tea in the canteen, and often some friendly company, especially in the CID office. She ought to enquire about what the uniform inspector’s son, her godson, and his fiancée had on their wedding list. She could also get warm: even the Saab’s heater hadn’t been able to penetrate the Dungeness permafrost.

But she wasn’t sure whether it was the wind at Dungeness that had so chilled her. Was it not the way the Draytons had calmly dismissed any notion that they might wish to be near their children in their old age? It had always been assumed that her parents wanted her to look after them, but that might have been the family equivalent of custom and practice. Ever since their move down, her mother had insisted that Fran would have the place when they no longer needed it, to quote her euphemism. They had even signed it over to Hazel and herself, in a conscious attempt to compel Social Services to pay for their accommodation should one or both of them ever be forced into residential care. Fran had vociferously opposed the idea: she was in no need of any money, and rather thought it was her civic duty to stump up whatever was needed. But Hazel had overruled her – she was as poor as a kirk mouse, she said, drawing a laugh from her parents and even the solicitor, and if anything happened to Fran then she
certainly couldn’t do anything to help. In vain Fran had pointed out it wasn’t a matter of helping: it was simply that her parents would have to sell what was in no respect a family home, with none of the sentimental attachments that that might imply, and use the money to support themselves. Hazel and her parents were on precisely the same wavelength, and when Pa had reached ostentatiously for his heart-pills, clearly unable to deal with any stress, she’d simply buttoned her lip. After that it had been all too easy to be drawn into her mother’s ghoulish plans for changing the place to suit her, when all she’d ever want to do was scream that she wanted none of it, ever.

An irate tap on the window brought her back to Ashford. But the frown on the face at the window turned to a smile when the woman offended by her apparently illicit parking recognised her. DCI Jill Tanner, a slightly younger contemporary, pulled open the car door and welcomed her with literally open arms: ‘We’ve had a breakthrough! That new chief
superintendent
of yours – no one likes him but he’s had a real brainwave!’

‘Nothing to do with workmen’s striped shelters, I suppose?’ Fran eased out of the car and returned the hug.

Tanner’s face fell – then lit up. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s one of those bastards that insists all his underlings’ ideas are his own!’

‘We’ve all tried it on, haven’t we, Jill? I know I did,
until someone older and wiser told me it was more important to win hearts than score points. But it’s plain daft at his level: everyone knows we’re only administrators and policy-makers. Let the kid who had the idea get the praise, that’s what I say.’ She grinned. ‘He deserves it.’

‘Ah! Another of your protégés. Come along in – you’re frozen. Where have you been?’

‘Better just put my parking pass on the windscreen… Now, tell me about these workmen’s huts, and where the Great Panjandrum has got now he’s discovered them on the CCTV tape.’

Jill stopped dead. ‘One of your protégés my arse, Fran – it was your idea!’

‘You don’t need to have bright ideas when you’re as close to retirement as I am.’

They swiped their access passes. ‘But you’re going to teach at Canterbury Uni aren’t you?’ Jill asked. ‘Senior lecturer in Criminology, we heard. The job’s got your name on it.’

‘Has it indeed?’ Fran could drop her voice once they were both inside. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t put it there.’

‘I told everyone it was rubbish – you’d do better to have a part-time secondment, wouldn’t you?’ Jill led the way through to the CID office.

Fran’s welcome wasn’t guaranteed today, however, since the squad would harbour a lurking resentment that the big boys at HQ had muscled in on their abduction case. But there was a general waving of hands.

‘The idea is that someone pre-planned the whole abduction,’ Jill said. ‘Apparently Forensics have found a McDonald’s drinks cup with traces of some new
date-rape
drug, not Rohypnol, something sexier, in a bin near the market. And one of the CCTV frames shows a workman’s shelter that isn’t there fifty minutes later. Your mates are busy checking with McDonald’s about who Rebecca might have met there – apparently her parents regard it with total abhorrence, so Rebecca wouldn’t ever have let on she went there.’

‘So someone laced her drink, lurked outside in this shelter thing till she tottered by, grabbed her and kept her there till he could pop her in a van – plenty of those on market day – and drive off. There’s forward planning for you,’ Fran concluded.

‘Hmm. I wonder how soon the Great Panjandrum will work that out entirely off his own bat,’ Jill said.

‘I’d better get on the phone and let him have the idea now,’ Fran said.

Although he demurred at first, Tom was delighted to learn that he’d had another idea, and promised to get on to it straight away. He also supplied her with a list of Lotus showrooms: while she was in the area, she reasoned, she might as well do a bit of doorstepping on the local dealers. ‘And guv, the ACC’s been looking for you. Dead urgent, he said. You’d better get on the blower to him now.’

‘Thanks, Tom. Now, go and float that brilliant idea to 
the powers that be. Thanks for sharing it with me first!’ she laughed.

If her voice was steady, her hand certainly wasn’t. Why had Mark left a message like that and not simply phoned her? A glance at her mobile showed her she’d let the batteries run down. Should she use an office phone here? No, she certainly wouldn’t risk the sort of conversation she might have with Mark with all these ears cocked: if rumour had settled her future occupation so finally, it had probably already decided what she’d wear on her wedding day. Why not, with the Chief Constable setting the pace?

She accepted water from the cooler, had a word with everyone she knew, and melted away as swiftly as she could. After all, they all had work to do.

At least Ashford wasn’t a mobile black spot like so many parts of East Kent. And at least the phone jack was in the glove-box where it was supposed to be.

Mark responded first ring, his voice flooded with either pleasure or relief: it was hard to tell. But then he became apologetic. ‘Fran: I’m so sorry – I’m going to have to turn down your invitation for this evening.’

She was just framing her mouth to announce brightly that it was short notice and she quite understood when she realised he was still speaking.

‘But I wonder if you’d be very kind and help me out. The Chief’s had to drop out of some charity speaking engagement – his wife’s gone down with some bug – and he’s asked me to take his place. His wife was included in
the invitation, you see, so I could really use an escort. It won’t be quite the meal we planned for Saturday, more rubber chicken than haute cuisine, but—’ He was gabbling like a teenager trying for his first date. At least, the sort of teenager she’d been. No doubt the young did things differently these days. Fewer words, more grunts, perhaps.

Think Elaine! ‘I’d love to. Give me the details.’

She scribbled them down, doing mental calculations as he spoke. Black tie, so that meant long skirt. A hotel way out in the sticks, so one of them had better stay sober.

But he was saying something she hadn’t expected.

‘I was wondering if you’d like me to book accommodation? I’m sure expenses would stand it.’

Her turn to say something he hadn’t expected. And perhaps she hadn’t either. ‘I’m sure they would – especially if it was only one room.’

He sounded deeply offended. ‘And have it all round the office before we’d even switched off the light!’

‘Oh, Mark,’ she said, ‘don’t you think it isn’t already?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Was he feigning his anger? Or was he winding her up?

‘Just ask the Chief,’ she said, adding as lightly as she could, despite her thumping pulses, ‘Now, what time is one of us picking the other up? We have to get there, after all, whatever the rooming arrangements.’

Still uncertain of his mood and feelings, she agreed that she should collect him. Then she cut the call abruptly. She might have a car showroom to visit, but she also had a set of fuchsia underwear to buy.

‘No records at all?’ she repeated, her voice hard with disbelief. ‘You must have some idea of which salesman sold your cars. After all, don’t they survive on commission?’

The middle-aged manager opposite her, Stuart Timms according to his name-tag, smiled deprecatingly, as if granting her the right to her anger. ‘Since we took over the dealership, yes. We have details of all our transactions, down to the smallest washer for the largest car on computer. And the details are also held centrally, so up at headquarters they know exactly how many small washers the biggest car uses. But that’s now. Our predecessors were less efficient.’

‘Presumably you inherited staff records?’

‘Only for those employees we kept on. Which was not all. You’re welcome to those. I’ll be happy to get them printed off. Fortunately, unlike our predecessors, we’ve dispensed with quill pens.’

He smiled and disappeared.

Fran was amused, despite herself. Where had such an articulate man sprung from? His suit was less sharp than she’d expected, too. Despite the merchandise glossily displayed on the forecourt and indeed in the showroom itself, he was no conventional second-hand
car salesman. In fact, he was extremely attractive for a man of his age, which was almost certainly the same as hers and Mark’s.

If she allowed herself to think of Mark, and his response, opaque at best, to her suggestion, she would lose focus again. So how could she while away the time until Mr Timms’ return? Looking at the cars was one way. Would she ever again be tempted to by such an excess of gleaming automobile? What had driven Elise – or possibly Marjorie Gray – to it? She flinched at her own inadvertent pun. But why buy such a car if you can’t drive it? As for herself, she seriously doubted her ability to get in, and certainly out, with anything approaching dignity, unless they had a model for the middle-aged which came with an optional winch.

‘Go on, try it,’ Timms suggested, coming up so quietly she jumped.

‘Not my style.’

‘You never know what your style is till you try,’ he urged.

‘I know what my job is,’ she countered. ‘Looking at the paperwork you’ve been kind enough to find me.’ She flicked through them. ‘I don’t suppose you inherited an employee who’s your folk memory, did you? Someone who knew everything about everyone past and present, the sort who knows more than the person himself?’

‘You’re talking about our Harry. The cleaner. Camp as a row of pink tents but so clued up I sometimes think
he reads the contents of our waste bins for pleasure.’

‘Get a shredder. But Harry might be useful. What time does he work?’

‘Five till eight. If we’re short, he’ll stop back to do some mild valeting. But no, he won’t be in till tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

So much for a lie-in after tonight’s function. Maybe the separate room idea wasn’t such a bad one. If she was to have glorious sex with Mark, she didn’t want it inhibited by an alarm call. She smiled. ‘Where’s the employees’ door? And will he come if I ring?’

‘I’ll be here myself to make sure you’re admitted promptly.’