Life Sentence (23 page)

‘Check out every Marjorie Gray in the country! You’re joking! Wherever do I start, guv?’ If she felt
Monday-morningish
, Tom looked and sounded it.

‘Perhaps I exaggerate, Tom. Start with the obvious – DVLA, NHS, things like that. And we’re looking for someone who’s changed address within the last two years, so that should narrow it down. Especially if Elise’s solicitor can remember where she said she was moving to. I’ll check him out and also look in on the poor Draytons – see if they’ve got over their shock.’

He shuffled. ‘I did rather wonder why you hadn’t got someone from Family Liaison to check up on them if they were so upset.’

‘How did you know? Tom, you did organised Family Liaison yourself, didn’t you? Thank you. You’re a good officer and a kind young man. In whatever order.’

As she had permitted herself to hope, the Draytons were in mid-flight. This time a trip to France for Christmas shopping called. Christmas! What could she do about Christmas? She had to go to Devon, and Mark
had his family, who would expect him. How could she survive Christmas without him?

But she pulled herself up short and swiftly thanked them, hoping they’d got over their ordeal. Only when they’d talked themselves breathless about the kindness of the young lady she’d been thoughtful enough to send them did she mention Elise’s possible destination again.

‘It really is quite important, you see. After all, there may be people somewhere wondering why she never turned up.’

‘Oh, no. You see, she said she was making a completely fresh start. Somewhere with no old people, she said – we remembered that the other day, didn’t we dear?’ Mrs Drayton looked adoringly at her husband for confirmation.

‘So she wouldn’t go to Spain – too much of the old Costa Geriatrica,’ he agreed. ‘But she didn’t want to be anywhere cold. And she wanted to avoid the small town yobs – you’ve seen the pictures on TV, Chief Superintendent.’

‘I’ve locked a few up in my time,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘Now, I won’t hold you up any more, but if you do think of where she might have been heading for, you will let me know, won’t you? It’s really very important.’

Fran then tracked down Marjorie’s solicitor. He was a young man with very short hair and a suit so sharp he might cut himself, who confirmed the number of Marjorie’s First Direct bank account, and intimated,
with considerable boredom, that he had no idea where his client might have been intending to live. Fran had a fugitive impulse to slip him a tenner to see if it improved his memory. ‘Come, you must have picked up hints!’ she said as sharply as a schoolteacher.

‘I don’t know. Bath? Bradford?’

‘Or Bolton or Billericay!’ Fran suggested tartly.

First Direct were noticeably more helpful: in fact, Fran got the impression that the obliging young Leeds lass at the end of the phone would have walked down the street with a message herself if she’d been able. But even she felt unhappy to divulge information without authority, so Fran faxed a formal request.

She also had time to review all the work Tom had done tracing car-salesmen: it seemed to her that it was only just that he should be allowed to go and question the young man he had in his sights.

She sat back, letting the chair support her middle-back, and stretched. There was a gratifying crunch from her spine. But her head didn’t clear. She felt as she always did after a weekend in Devon, drained of any initiative – which was why Tom should have been spared the menial task she’d set him that morning and done the ones involving skill and judgement, like questioning the car salesman.

The phone rang. Mark? But it was only First Direct – goodness, their employees had a price above rubies. They had an address for Miss Marjorie Gray – in Birmingham.

‘What a fortunate coincidence we have a Chief Constables’ meeting up there tomorrow,’ Mark said, joining her outside the canteen. ‘The Chief wanted me to go in his stead. I was going to tell him no, it but it means I can give you a lift.’ He squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘You might need some local support and I—’

‘I trained the ACC (Crime) up there,’ she interrupted, laughing. ‘She owes me! So I can grease my own wheels, thanks! But as a driver – oh, Mark,’ she continued, dropping her voice, unable to sustain even this mild banter, ‘it’d be so good to go up with you. If you can be spared.’

‘Spared! The Chief asked me to represent him, I told you! And yes, I was going to say no because I was worried about leaving you on your own. After the weekend to end all weekends,’ he said.

‘Not much worse than usual. Oh, the complaint about my fat arms wasn’t nice. But they always did have a thing about my size – I must have been a total cuckoo in their nest. And Pa not recognising me – that was really painful.’ Tears welled. ‘After all this time, recognising Hazel, but not the daughter who trims his fingernails and holds his hand at the dentist’s. Ah, well – prodigal daughter time!’

‘You don’t think,’ he said tentatively, ‘that all that criticism of you was designed to make me think again? That Ma sees me as a rival for your affections and attentions?’

‘Surely she wouldn’t… No, I can’t imagine she sees
me as anything other than an old maid glued to the shelf.’

‘How did she get on with your fiancé?’

‘Loathed him on sight. But,’ she added with a grin, ‘he did rather ask for it. White hair and a beard. He looked a bit like an Old Testament prophet. You, on the other hand, have kept your hair colour and are a skinny-rib.’

‘So she doesn’t disapprove of me
per se
, but does disapprove of our relationship?’

She shrugged. ‘She would, wouldn’t she? But no, it’s nothing personal. I’d say you’d actually made a bit of a hit.’

‘You won’t…you wouldn’t think of ditching me to suit her?’

There was a note she didn’t recognise. ‘How could I? Oh, Mark – never!’ But then she remembered the real world, in which every weekend was taken up and Christmas – yes, Christmas was already spoken for. Her reassuring smile, the joy in her eyes, faded. She bit her lip. ‘But it’s not going to be easy. Juggling everything.’

‘Once they’re in a retirement home it’ll be easier,’ he said, as if their move was an established fact.

‘You’re right. Even if I moved down tomorrow, I couldn’t nurse Pa. Or live with Ma for more than a week without going crazy. But Ma will want Plan B. Which was them moving into a home and my going down to live in their bungalow to keep an eye on them.’

‘No one can live in that place till it’s been taken apart and fumigated! Can they?’ he added more gently. ‘And, Fran, you still have to put in your resignation and that involves three months’ notice. They may not survive that long.’

‘But they’re as tough as old boots! Oh, they’ve had a succession of minor ailments, but you know what they say about creaky gates.’

He put a gentle hand on her forearm. ‘Are you quite sure your Pa’s not a bit more than creaky?’

‘My God, I’ve not phoned the hospital yet.’ She reached for her mobile.

‘After lunch. Please, leave it till after lunch. Your getting an ulcer won’t help them.’

‘What does “poorly but stable” mean?’ Fran asked the voice with the Devon burr.

‘He’s a very old man, Dr Harman, isn’t he? And that fall shook him up proper.’

Fran smiled at the precise medical terminology. She also enjoyed his use of her civilian title, the one only Alan Pitt ever used. One day she might tell the medics that she wasn’t really one of them. Meanwhile, their spurious professional respect was useful. ‘How’s the rehydration going?’

‘He
will
keep pulling his drip out, Dr Harman. It frets him something shocking. We’re not getting him up today – let the poor old soul have a bit of peace and quiet. Now, our Dr Ahmed would like a word with you
later – what’s the best number to call you on?’

‘Why should he need to speak to me?’ She took a deep breath.

‘It’s about something we have to consider. He’s terribly old, Dr Harman. If his heart gives out…’

‘Are we talking about resuscitation? Because’ – her throat hurt as she swallowed – ‘I don’t think you should force him back. Not if he’s – going. But you should talk to my sister as well.’ She reeled off the bungalow phone number. ‘She and her husband will no doubt be visiting today. So you can do it face to face.’

Tom came in as she cut the call. Not at all to her surprise, he reached for a couple of tissues from the box on her desk and passed them across. ‘Bad news, ma’am?’

‘Expected. They want permission not to resuscitate my father. That’s all.’

‘That’s enough for anyone. A big decision. I’ll get you some water, shall I?’ His kind deed done, he was evidently keen to escape.

‘Water would be great, thanks.’ She took several deep breaths and was relatively under control, if not composed, when he returned. ‘I’m off tomorrow, Tom, to check out the flat in the centre of Birmingham. Elise told her bank she was moving there.’

He sat heavily opposite her. ‘In that case you may find the new Miss Gray – only this one’s very much a “Ms” – alive and well and living in it. I did what you said, and found as many Marjorie Grays as I could. And one’s living in Birmingham.’ He read the address from his notebook.

‘Bingo! Same address. Tell you what, just on the off-chance, let’s see if she’s got a criminal record. What wonderful things computers are!’

‘They sure beat carrier pigeons,’ he agreed, coming to stand at her shoulder.

‘Wow! Speeding, non-payment of parking fines: she’s not a lot like Elise, is she?’

‘They’re pretty trivial, though. Nothing juicy.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s clean. Our friends in Brum may have private suspicions they’ll share with me.’ She rubbed her hands in glee.

‘I suppose,’ he said, the expression on his face like a puppy hoping for a walk, ‘I couldn’t come too?’

What a cow she was to deny him this. But she, no more than Mark, would want a third person with them.

‘I’d love you to. But I want you to chase up our missing salesman and haul him in.’ She rubbed her face. ‘Tom: what did you say his name was? I’m losing the plot here!’

He cringed as if expecting a reprimand. ‘Actually it may be me, like. I don’t know that I ever told you, did I?’

‘I’m sure you did. Anyway, remind me, as it were, and tell me a bit about him. And take a seat: you look untidy stuck up there.’

‘He’s one Dean Roberts. Born and bred in Chatham – well, I suppose someone’s got to be. Got a few GCSEs. Didn’t stay on at school or go to college. Started as a car valeter or whatever you’d call it, and
used to chauffeur people back home when they’d taken their cars in for service. Very charming to old folk – very popular. Anyway, he must have had a good break, because he got into sales – commission only, to start with. If his lifestyle’s anything to with it, he must be very good at selling – fantastically good. He’s got his own flat, his own car, even a boat down in Hythe. Not bad for twenty-five.’ Tom sounded wistful.

‘You’ll get that student loan paid off one day,’ she said, wishing she could help with a discreet bag stuffed with fivers. ‘And Car Crime have their beadies on him too?’

‘Only as a contact of a contact: they’ve never thought of him as a big player. But they’re dead interested, like, in what we’re doing.’

‘Why not take one of them along with you? It’s always good to build bridges. You see, I don’t want our new Ms Gray to be able to communicate with him and if he’s in for questioning – oh, any pretext, Tom: you don’t like the ring-tone of his mobile, anything! – she won’t be able to.’

‘What about you? You won’t be doing this on your own?’

‘I shall have half of West Midlands Police backing me up, never fear. Courtesy,’ she added, with an
encouraging
grin, ‘of an ex-sergeant of mine, who’s now an ACC. Good role model for you, Tom – except, of course, she’s a woman! Sorry! Now, off you go and talk to Car Crime and set up your sting for about midday.’

He dawdled, and then seemed to make up his mind: ‘It’s better, isn’t it, to keep busy when things are bad? You were very good to me when I was worried about Dad, guv – you know you only have to ask, like, if you need…well, anything…’ He blushed but didn’t drop his eyes. ‘And I’m sure that goes for half CID out there.’

‘Thanks, Tom.’ Damn it if her eyes didn’t well with tears again. ‘I won’t hesitate. If only,’ she added, with a watery grin, ‘you’re not kind to me. You know how it is.’

He flapped a hand, smiled, and left, returning as she called him back.

‘I just wanted to know if you’d sent your mum her model car.’

‘I did better than that. I sent her one of those Day Out vouchers. She’s going to drive a rally car. And have a little Burago model of the car afterwards to sit on her fireplace, as a memento, like.’

If only they’d all been wearing uniform, the braid and buttons would have been dazzling. As it was, both Fran and her one-time protégée, the West Midlands ACC, were in mufti, though both as smart in their own trouser-suited way as Mark, resplendent in his full rig. When she’d started in the force, the idea of senior officers greeting each other with hugs would have been unthought of. Now it was as natural to greet Emma that way as to salute the West Midlands Chief Constable when they passed in the corridor as Mark went off to the CCs’ meeting.

Emma, eyeing Mark, would clearly have liked some girls’ talk, but she had her own schedule: crime didn’t stop in a city like hers just because two senior officers wanted a gossip. She introduced Fran to a charming Asian detective sergeant called Farat, from whose eyes intelligence positively radiated. Fran rebuked herself firmly for the tiniest moment of surprise she felt at the sight of a detective wearing a hijab: what a difference between shire counties like hers and a truly urban force.

If Farat was tiny to the point of petite, Fran towering
over her, she was as steely as Fran could have wished, sharing intelligence with gusto: ‘Keeping a disorderly house, prostitution—’

‘Prostitution! Our Marjorie Gray’s in her sixties!’

‘Ours isn’t. Forty – well, fifty at most. So we may get her for using false documents too. If you wouldn’t mind coming into the CID office, ma’am, I can show you what we’ve got so far.’

Fran pulled a face. ‘Couldn’t you call me guv?’

‘I’d call you gaffer if you were one of our officers.’

‘Gaffer?’

‘It’s what foremen and senior workers used to be called in factories and so on round here. Actually it sounds like someone from Hardy, doesn’t it? A yokel chewing a straw. We did Hardy for A Level, in the days before they dumbed down. Do you know, my sister says her students want to see the video of a set text, not read it for themselves! Would you mind stepping this way, ma’am?’

Fran stopped dead, hands on hips. ‘Farat, you’re doing everything except curtsey. Drop the formality, would you? I’m not bloody royalty.’

‘Sorry, ma’am.’

‘Or even gaffer? What have people been saying about me? Am I such a dragon?’

‘You’ve…you’ve just got such a reputation, gaffer. I mean, anyone who taught our ACC has got to be good. And when she does training sessions, your name always comes up. You’re something of a legend.’

‘The living dead, more like. No, I’m not quite joking.
I’ve been – still am, come to think of it – under a lot of personal stress at the moment and I’ve got a bit sloppy. I’ve missed things, let things slide. So I need you to brief me and work with me as a colleague, someone as fallible as the next woman. Tell you what, let’s find the loo – see what I mean? – and a coffee, in that order, and I’ll tell you what we’ve done so far, and then you can fill me in on the new Miss Gray…’

Fran settled herself at the visitor’s side of Farat’s desk. ‘Let’s get this straight. We have one genuine Marjorie Gray – our poor Elise. Her documents were stolen, so another woman could take her identity. But now you think she may be one of several clones, as it were. Surely, though, there’s a limit to how many middle-aged to elderly woman you need passports and other papers for. Young people of either sex, I can understand that.’

‘Madams, ma’am.’ Farat’s eyes were full of fun.

‘My God – someone to keep an eye on the young prostitutes brought in from – where did you say? Eastern Europe?’ Fran slapped her head in irritation. ‘And, of course, once you’ve got a good original, you can make excellent forgeries of documents for people of either gender. And you have bank references to back them. All kosher.’

‘Or indeed,’ Farat laughed, ‘halal! The Muslim equivalent,’ she added, when she saw that Fran was nonplussed. ‘Was this Elise of yours – you obviously think of her as that, rather than as Marjorie – a
confiding soul? The sort that would spill the beans to anyone prepared to listen?’

‘Who knows? But she probably was lonely, living almost exclusively amongst the very old – and if you found, say, a car salesperson, with an open engaging manner, you might start talking about why you wanted the car and where you were going to take it. But why a car salesman from Kent should be helping sex traders defeats me.’

‘Drugs, I’d say. There’s usually a connection somewhere. Not to mention all the ports you’ve got there, both passengers and freight. Now, here’s the file we’re preparing on the new Marjorie. We think she started life as one Sonja Kranic, sister of what was effectively a little warlord, so she was spared the worst risks attendant on being a poor girl in a poor country. If anyone made attempts on her virtue, he’d be cold meat, his genitals stuffed down his throat. She did have a husband at one point, but he seems to have disappeared – we’re not sure how. She arrived in Birmingham about two years ago, and has kept a fairly low profile.’

‘Apart from the odd speeding offence.’

‘And non-payment of fines. She’s never without a male protector, and if she is a prostitute, she’s a very high-class one. We’ve never had enough of a case to take it any further, not even hopefully to the DPP. My suspicion is that she isn’t in fact a tom herself, but, as I said, a madam.’

‘Does she live on the premises then?’

‘Goodness no! She’s too fly for that. She lives in a very chic area; the brothels are in the poorer parts of Edgbaston, though we have noticed a couple of much more upmarket affairs sprouting up under the guise of private clubs or casinos. We’ve been waiting till we could put together a cast-iron case.’

Fran sighed. ‘So many threads to pull together. All I ever wanted to do was identify Elise and find her killer. Now I seem to be dabbling in international crime and leaving young Tom to pick up the murderer all by himself.’ She didn’t regret leaving all the ensuing paperwork to him, but she did wish she could have been involved. But that was modern policing and modern crime. You had to delegate or die. Or let the case die.

‘A simultaneous swoop seems a good bet,’ said Farat hesitantly, as if unsure of the older woman’s mood.

‘Of course it does.’ Her phone rang. ‘Excuse me. Tom? All well with you?’

‘We’ve just picked him up, guv. Guess what – his call tone is that tune you keep humming under your breath.’

‘I don’t hum tunes under my breath.’

‘You always do when you’re worried – didn’t you realise? Anyway, it’s that.’

Puzzled, she wished him well and cut the call. Did she hum under her breath when she was worried? Ma always used to do that – it drove them all mad. A few bars, here and there. Often the same few bars. Over and over. And when you taxed her she was offended and insisted you were hearing things. Of all the things to inherit…

‘Right,’ she said brightly. ‘The sun’s shining out there and I always take that as an omen.’

Farat looked intently at her but simply said, ‘Now, we could drive to Gray’s flat or walk: it’s only a step and probably quicker.’

‘And that way I’d see something of the new Birmingham. Is it true you have a Selfridges and a Harvey Nicks…’

Their route took them nowhere near such shopping heaven, however. But they actually walked through the Convention Centre that was home to Symphony Hall, and found themselves in a canalised complex more attractive than anything Fran remembered of Birmingham. Then Farat struck out across a broad piazza, stopping at last outside a set of what appeared to be extremely bijou flats.

‘Number thirty-three. What a prime site,’ Farat observed, looking around. ‘Walking distance from the city centre and all its shopping, Symphony Hall and the indoor sports arena over there if you fancy Davies Cup tennis. I wouldn’t mind living somewhere like this myself.’

‘Is there secure parking? Because our Miss Gray had just bought herself a Lotus.’

‘Had she indeed! Not your average pensioner then.’

‘I think she was trying quite desperately not to be. In fact,’ Fran reflected, ‘almost all the retired people I’ve come across in this investigation have been trying
desperately hard not to be average. Perhaps there’s no such thing as average any more.’

‘My mother’s decided to take her GCSEs,’ Farat volunteered. ‘She only mastered English a couple of years ago, but now she’s really motoring. English and Arabic she’s going for. Before that I really thought she was going to be a tradition Pakistani granny. Must be something in the water,’ she concluded lightly.

‘There must be something pretty special in Birmingham’s water to take twenty years off Marjorie’s age! Oh, Farat, you should see the poor woman whose identity we think she’s stolen. A living death for the latter part of her life at least – we may never get the entire picture of her life – and now in persistent vegetative state.’

Farat nodded in sympathy. ‘It makes one see the advantage of a living will.’

‘But for the will to be implemented people have to know who you are. OK.’ Fran braced herself. ‘Let’s do it, shall we?’

The new Marjorie Gray was, as Farat had said, in her forties, with the expensive face, body and clothes of a woman used to pampering herself. She had cultivated a sexy, rather gravely voice. Behind the clear enunciation, however, lay, Fran was sure, an Eastern European accent. Disorderly house? Prostitution? There were countless innocent girls smuggled over from the former Soviet Bloc and forced into the most degrading sexual slavery. Miss Gray did not look as if degradation had
entered her personal vocabulary: if it had, she would surely be meting it out, not enduring it. Well, presumably that was what the sister of a warlord, however minor, would do.

She was politeness itself to the two officers, however, offering coffee or tea and seating them in the sort of leather-upholstered chairs that didn’t come from a down-market chain. They suited the décor of the rest of the apartment, which involved a great deal of pale wood, colour-washed walls and a couple of what looked like good paintings. Would this really have been the choice of a sixty-year-old from St Mary’s Bay? After the clutter of a parental home, would she have found acres of space healing or as intimidating as the new car?

‘You have a most wonderful view from here,’ Fran observed. ‘I didn’t know Birmingham could be so attractive.’

‘There has been a lot of investment,’ Miss Gray said.

‘Do you remember what it was like before?’ Fran asked. Then warming to her theme, ‘Intent on putting up the ugliest buildings it could, pedestrians at the mercy of the car – quite a laughing stock to us Southerners.’

Miss Gray’s polite inclination of the head suggested that they could talk about regional geography if they liked.

‘Which do you think is the most impressive change?’ Farat asked.

‘I don’t have an opinion.’

‘Ah! So you’re a newcomer too,’ Fran said, as if delighted. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘London.’

‘From the Smoke! Oh, a fellow exile! Which part?’ Fran continued her girlish enthusiasm.

‘Hendon.’ She rapped off an address, which Fran noted. ‘I have yet to understand why you are here, Detective Harman and Detective Hafeez.’

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Harman and Detective Sergeant Hafeez,’ Fran corrected her. ‘We don’t use “detective” as a title here – only in America.’

‘Wonderful country,’ Farat observed. ‘All those vast spaces. Have you ever been? Before I grow old I want to tour the world,’ she continued, an impassioned sweep of the arm encompassing myriad opportunities. ‘Even the former USSR and China!’

‘I am happy to put down roots,’ Miss Gray
enunciated
clearly.

‘So if you want to put down roots in Birmingham, where were you from originally? It’s not a Hendon accent, is it? I was at college there long enough to know the accent well,’ Fran beamed. ‘The police college.’

‘Do you live here alone?’ Farat chipped in. ‘It’s a really good investment, isn’t it? I remember the prices of these flats when they were first on sale: prices have gone through the roof, now, haven’t they?’

‘What made you choose one here? And why did you move to Birmingham? Work? What line of work are you in? Do you have a work permit?’ Dimly Fran
remembered seeing with Ian a Pinter play, where the characters cross-questioned an entirely innocent man – she thought! – in this apparently haphazard way. All she wanted to do was rattle the woman, and between them she and Farat, who joined in the game with gusto, seemed to be succeeding.

‘I don’t need a work permit! I am a British citizen.’

‘You have some evidence? Your driving licence? I notice you have several unpaid fines, Marjorie. Your birth certificate? Yes, I’d like to see your birth certificate. Yes, I’ll wait while you find it. I’ll wait all day, Marjorie. As will the Chief Superintendent here.’ Farat settled herself comfortably and started to flick through the copy of
Vogue
lying on the coffee table.

‘You have no right – leave my property immediately!’ Sonja-Marjorie made a gesture at home on the opera stage.

‘We have every right, Sonja, when we’re investigating – a serious crime.’ Fran had been afraid Farat would blow it by being too precise, but the pause seemed to create even more tension in the elegant room.

‘My papers are in the bank. If you require it, I’ll bring them to your police station.’

‘Let’s go and get them together, shall we? Or would you like to think a moment: you might have meant to take them to the bank, but actually have them safe and sound here. Why don’t you go and have a look?’ Farat asked. ‘No, you won’t need your mobile, not if you’re looking for documents.’

Fran nodded agreement, and reinforced the point by picking up the handset of the landline phone and laying it on the elegant table. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘why don’t we go and look for your documents together?’ She stopped short. Warlords had guns, didn’t they? And knives? She’d bet Ms Kranic kept other things than papers in a safe place. She and young Farat were putting themselves at unnecessary risk.

‘Where shall we look?’ Farat asked.

‘In – in my bedroom. I have a safe place there. This way,’ she added, leading the way.

You bet she had a safe place. Fran stepped in. ‘In that case you will lie on your bed, face down, hands spread while we check. I said face down, Ms Kranic! Down. Now.’