Life Sentence (3 page)

‘So why the haste? Why not wait till tomorrow morning and see?’ He shook his head as if apologising for something.

She wasn’t sure what it was.

Why not wait? Unbidden, a fantasy presented itself in which the evening they’d projected culminated in his bed. Why not? Why not have the pleasure of waking up to the sound of breathing, to warmth? Because she wouldn’t have the willpower to sneak away at three for the drive to Devon? She made herself say, ‘Whatever happens to her, there’s my father. They’re like two playing cards, Mark. Neither can stand up on their own,
but if one props the other – they can, just.’

‘Couldn’t a neighbour—?’

She snorted with ironic laughter. ‘The only one they’re still on speaking terms is stone deaf. They’ve had terminal rows with everyone, from the folk next door to three of the four GPs in the practice. No one visits them who isn’t paid to.’

‘There’s no one else in the family?’

‘My sister. Hazel. They used to have huge rows with her too. But she fell in love with a Scottish clergyman, a widower with three children, and moved to a manse in Stornaway. Since she can’t get down at the drop of a hat, she’s been rehabilitated. They speak of her with a sigh as their special girl. Girl! She’s ten years older than I am. I was the afterthought, you see. The surprise. Or the nasty shock.’ She’d never thought of it like that before – the horror of finding yourself pregnant when you’d resolved not be. They’d never spoken of their joy at having a late baby so she presumed there was none.

He looked at her steadily. Then, to her amazement, he got to his feet. ‘I’ll walk down to the car park with you, shall I?’

It was in the car park that she saw him at seven-forty on the following Monday morning. She didn’t tell him she hadn’t been home first: there was no need to go, since she kept an emergency kit here, too, fresh clothes and a complete set of toiletries and make-up. Somehow she’d make it through the day on the few hours’ sleep she’d
snatched before setting out at four in the morning. She could always resort to the last refuge of the exhausted – a Do Not Disturb notice on her door and ten minutes with her head down on her desk – across her lunchtime.

‘You’ve had a rough time then,’ he said. It was a statement rather than a question. He must have caught her with the sun running unforgiving fingers over her face.

‘Things have been easier. But the good news is that both my parents are back in their bungalow.’

‘Both? Was your father…?’

‘Don’t ask!’ But as they fell into step, she found herself saying, ‘I was right about Ma. It was an infection, and as soon as I reminded the medics they got her on to her usual antibiotics and she was lucid again within twenty-four hours.’ She managed to censor the details, much as she would have loved to pour everything into sympathetic ears. ‘But it was clear she couldn’t go straight back home, and Social Services baulked at the amount of care Pa’d need if I left him on his own, so I had a brainwave. I fixed them both respite care in a nursing home – I even secured a double room. Fine. The ambulance transferred Ma, and I managed to shoe-horn Pa into my car and deliver him. Friday, that was. On Saturday morning I mothballed the bungalow, went to check they were OK, and set off home. I’d got as far as the first Happy Eater when I had a phone call from the nursing home: Ma and Pa had decided that after all they didn’t like the
place so they’d booked a taxi and got themselves home. So would I go back and sort them out.’ If only she could have rewound the words or at least said them in a less bitter voice.

‘So you were nearly halfway back here and you had to turn tail back to Devon?’

‘Correct.’

‘And nurse them through the weekend?’

‘They slept a lot,’ she said, in exculpation. ‘I shopped and cooked – to replace all the food I’d thrown away,’ she added. Hell, as if he could be interested in such detail!

For a moment he looked unsure of what to say. At last he managed a smile. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet: would you care to join me?’ It sounded more like an invitation than an order, no rank involved.

Through the haze of fatigue she groped for the right words. Girlish enthusiasm would be wrong; neither did she want surly acquiescence. In the end she choked back a yawn and nodded. No point in pretending she had energy for anything more. Except a spurt of optimism when he put his arm round her shoulders and gave what might have appeared to any watching officers an encouraging squeeze but to her felt like a promise of support. Comradely support, she told herself.

That, even more than coffee and a full English breakfast, did much to revive her. A quick shower and she might feign positive alertness. Mark seemed inclined to linger over the meal, talking HQ gossip. The
easeful comfort of it all. If only she could put her head down and sleep.

But Mark, smiling, was urging her to her feet. ‘That case you said you’d take on: you’ll be wanting to see your new office and meet your colleagues, no doubt. I’ll walk down with you, shall I?’

‘Elise! Elise! This is really important! You must wake up. You must make a sign! You MUST. You’re not trying, are you? Damn you, try this!

‘My God, it’s left a mark. Right here on your cheek. You can actually see the mark of my hand. What if anyone sees it?

‘On the other hand, the ends might justify the means. If the new, minor pain wakes you, wouldn’t that be morally acceptable?

‘Have the doctors tried recently?

‘I’m sure that when you were first brought in, when you were in Intensive Care, they’d done all they could to bring you out of your coma. But now they’ve got other urgent cases to deal with, other matters of life and death. I suppose I shouldn’t blame them if they concentrated their efforts on them.

‘That doesn’t mean, though, not for one minute, that they should neglect you. The nursing staff – what few there are of them – certainly don’t: they do their very best. At least I’d like to believe they do. After all, you need
round-the
-clock care. I’m sure they would be first rate – if only they had enough time.

‘I have to do this, my dear. I have to. I don’t like doing it, but if no one else will, then it has to be me!

‘Oh, my God. I didn’t mean – I really didn’t mean… Such a vivid mark…

‘At least shaking you won’t leave a mark. And that might be just as effective.

‘Anything to get you out of this damned state.

‘No. Nothing. Nothing except a stain on my conscience as big as the stains on your cheeks.

‘Oh, Elise, my dear. I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.’

‘What do you think of it?’ Mark asked, standing on the threshold of her new office, just off the main CID one, as excitedly as if he’d given her some rash present. And in a way he had, Fran noted, amused and touched, despite wanting to do nothing more than sink into the fine new office chair in the fine new office with her name on the fine new door and go to sleep. Then she looked again at the nameplate: Detective Chief Superintendent Harman. That was quick! She laughed out loud. Mark must have moved mountains to get Personnel to change her designation so quickly.

‘Think! Wow, Mark, this is a dream office: carpet, this blond wood furniture!’ She explored her new kingdom. ‘Blinds that work. Lovely new computer. The furniture and equipment budget must have taken a real battering!’ she teased. Presumably this would become the new Chief Super’s office when she left – she’d feel guilty if he’d requisitioned all this especially for her. No, the room had probably needed renovating, and she’d leave so little mark on it her successor would
assume all the work had been for him or her.

He looked more bashful than apologetic. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t wangle full-time staff for you. With Martin that wouldn’t have been a problem, but we’ve got this new chief superintendent starting next week, remember…’

She wouldn’t rub her face in an effort to recall the arrangements. But she could almost hear the grindings in her brain. Frank Martin, the old DCS, had been spirited away to the Home Office, that was it, leaving a vacancy that had remained unfilled for a month or so. And he was being replaced by – ‘Someone Henson?
Ex-Met
?’ she queried. For some reason she’d not been on the selection panel. Perhaps she should have been but had had to make one of her unscheduled dashes to Devon.

‘The same. You’ll have to negotiate with him for officers as and when you need them, I’m afraid. But remember, you always have my authority to make demands.’

‘Until I’ve thoroughly absorbed the contents of the file, I shan’t need anyone. After that, one bright DC should suffice. Mark, this is terrific: thank you.’

He looked embarrassed. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind. ‘I hope you don’t mind the smell of paint.’

‘And new carpet. And – yes, good old-fashioned window polish. An olfactory feast.’

They laughed. But he sobered quickly. ‘Look: I
haven’t been able to cover all the meetings you were scheduled for this week – would you mind putting in an appearance? Just so we can update whoever takes your place?
Both
your places?’

‘Of course not. So long as I can doodle on my blotter and steal all the custard creams and be generally demob happy.’ She added more seriously, ‘I won’t let you down, Mark. I can guess who put his neck on the line for all this.’ She gestured.

‘I’m just sorry it took me so long to get all that pressure off you. Why didn’t you tell me how stretched you were, Fran?’ He dropped his voice so that as well as reproachful it might almost have been tender.

How long had her standards been slipping so obviously? But she didn’t want to bring attention back to herself. ‘I bet it was you who got the bollocking for my mess up.’

He didn’t deny it. Instead, awkward as a green boy, he asked, ‘How about another shot at dinner? What’s a good evening for you? Tomorrow?’

What should have been a maidenly blush but turned into a full-scale flush reddened her cheeks. ‘Lovely.’

‘Excellent.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I’ve got a meeting in five minutes. I’ll book a table and call you with the details.’ Closing the door behind him, he escaped.

Fran sat heavily in her new chair, staring at nothing. Why should a simple evening out be causing them both so much stress? Because it was the first time she’d been out for anything approaching a date since an abortive
evening with – she could barely remember the man’s name! Clive Richardson, that was it. At the time, he’d seemed a very desirable bachelor, the first even to interest her since she’d lost Ian, the OU tutor with whom she’d hoped to share the rest of their lives, to his heart attack. Even now she knew she mustn’t think about Ian. It’d be better to turn her memory to Richardson. She’d met him, a businessman to the tips of his BMW Seven Series, at some fundraiser for the Police Benevolent Fund, and though neither might have expected to find any rapport with the other, they’d found themselves agreeing to meet for dinner. They’d been walking through the front door of the restaurant of his choice when her mother had phoned. Pa had had a heart attack.

‘I’ve got to go down to Devon,’ she’d told Richardson.

‘Now.’ The simple word had meant they’d never see each other again. And she’d never looked for a relationship again.

So why was she even thinking about Mark as more than a friend? Damned hormones. She smashed the flat of her hand on the wall. Time for a coffee. But that was one thing he hadn’t requisitioned for her – a percolator. At least that was a task she felt up to managing. She’d nip out at lunchtime and buy one.

Meanwhile, she made her way through the general office to the water dispenser. Some of her colleagues were young men and women she’d prepared for
promotion exams: they flapped cheery but still respectful hands as she passed. Which should she pick as her dogsbody? Someone who needed a bit of confidence to develop his or her potential: there was plenty of time to sniff around a bit.

Back on her pristine desk lay something reassuringly battered: the Elise file. If she immersed herself in that, keeping her head as clear as pure water would make it, she might manage not to speculate on why Mark had gone to so much trouble. And why, despite the sort of snub she’d had to give Richardson, he’d asked her out again. No, she was jumping ahead. They were just mates, giving each other a break from solitary domesticity.

Back on safe, familiar territory, she made notes as she went.

On the evening of February 26, nearly two years before, a patrol responded to a 999 call from a member of the public, Alan Pitt. He had found and attempted to resuscitate a woman he’d found in the undergrowth near a lay-by on the B2067, between Hythe and Tenterden. There were severe head and thoracic injuries; there was also evidence of a vicious rape. Unfortunately Pitt’s activities had badly contaminated the crime scene; for some time he’d been a major, indeed, the only serious suspect. But at last forensics had appeared to confirm this story that he’d simply pulled over to take a call on his mobile, and decided the road was quiet enough for him to relieve himself in the hedge and had
heard faint groans, which he’d investigated. As he tried to help, the woman had uttered two words: ‘Poor Elise.’

By the time she’d reached the William Harvey Hospital in Ashford, the woman was deeply comatose. She had never recovered consciousness.

Elise, then. And you’d have expected that someone, frantic with worry for a sister or lover – she wore no wedding ring, nor was there even a tell-tale furrow on her finger to suggest a thief might have tugged one off – would phone to report her missing. But no one did. Anywhere in the country. She didn’t match the description of any missing persons on the official list, though her age distinguished her from the runaway schoolchildren and disaffected young adults. Nonetheless, the first thing Fran would do the next day was to ask one of her new minions to double check. Middle-aged women – the medics thought she was about sixty – tended not to disappear of their own accord. There was a lot of publicity, but her facial and head injuries had been so severe that even if photographs had not been an intrusion into her misery, no one could have recognised her. They’d done a computer-enhanced impression, but Fran never felt those as successful as the physical reconstructions in clay and she wasn’t surprised that there’d been no response.

Clothes? Hairstyle? Age?
Fran would have liked to add make-up to her list, but doubted if anyone would have registered with that when they were dealing with
life-threatening injuries. She added it anyway.

The file was, of course, a mere summary of what had been done – the day-to-day log of actions taken and the reasons for taking them. Somewhere there would be bulging dossiers clamped into box files and tagged and bagged forensic evidence. But they would have to wait for tomorrow. Because for all her good intentions, not only had she forgotten to nip out at lunchtime for her percolator, she’d forgotten all about lunch, too.

Monday evening was for washing, remember, and sleeping. And wondering what Tuesday evening might bring.

Tuesday morning brought a canteen breakfast together, with the news that Mark would have to cancel their evening because a Home Office minister had taken it into his head to announce a new initiative without consulting the police first, and all over the country people like Mark were going to have to chase figures that simply didn’t exist for a plan that was at best quixotic.

Was she disappointed or relieved? Her main emotion was relief that she could have an early night and an extra couple of hours’ sleep.

Wednesday had had a similar fate, Mark still
number-crunching
fictitious figures and she pulled in on to an interview panel for some training post because another senior woman had gone down with flu. If asked, she would have been hard put to say which was more
frustrating, the delay in her social life or the fact that she still hadn’t even seen the Elise crime scene. Her notes of the interview were scrawled over with her attempts to remember the rhyme about the Wise Men: Who, what, where, why, when? Were there any more? Who would have wanted to kill a woman like Elise? What had they used? Where had they actually killed and raped her? When had they done it? And – which was where the rhyme went wrong – above all, why? Or was ‘who’ more important? Her mind had hamster-wheeled its way through five promising candidates and one exceptional one, who was finally appointed as senior trainer in equal opportunities. Not quite a wasted day, then. Especially as in the midst of it all she’d made a decision about which of the CID team she’d ask for. A young man called Arkwright. Some time ago she’d found herself talking to him in a stalled lift: even though the engineers had got it unjammed almost immediately, they’d decided to cheer themselves in the canteen before they returned to their respective domains and duties. Tom Arkwright, a graduate like most of the new wave of recruits, had a parent problem too: his dad had cancer, which he found himself telling her all about. She felt she could have told him about her parents without it going any further, he had that sort of innocent gravitas, but she hadn’t wanted to burden him. When she saw him behind a mound of filing, still hard at it at a time when most of his mates had knocked off, she decided to rescue him.

‘I still seem to be spending all my time in committee
rooms, Tom, so I want you to be my legs. Legs with initiative, please. There wasn’t any record of Elise’s assailant’s DNA at the time of the assault, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t attacked since and no one’s bothered to tie up details. And double-check with other forces in case there’s been a prison confession they’ve forgotten to pass on. Anything to ID her, Tom – you have free rein. OK?’

On Thursday morning, Fran and Mark entered a solemn pact to let nothing interfere with what Mark referred to jokily as a decent meal. At six-thirty p.m. precisely both would religiously switch off their mobiles and change into mufti – in his case from his uniform and in hers from the formal suit that she chose for CID stints, so dark and severe it might well have been uniform.

Taking one last look at herself in the cloakroom mirror, rubbing off the red lipstick and replacing it with a softer pink, and all the time wishing that she could do feminine and frilly, she set out. She’d be early. But Mark was already scuttling towards his car, still trying to adjust his jacket round his neck. If she slowed down she’d see him tweak his tie.

Yes. He carefully felt the knot, then undid it and stuffed it in his pocket. Any moment he’d put it back on again.

He did.

So he was as unsure, as uneasy, as she. Heavens, they might be boy and girl out for their first date. She
stopped in her tracks. Was this what was happening? Had Mark actually asked her on a date?

But what if he hadn’t?

Tiptoeing back to the door, she let it slam loudly as soon as his tie was back in place and walked briskly and unromantically towards him.