Still Waters (19 page)

Dan Coveney spread his hands. ‘Not a lot. Any bank holiday weekend there’s a lot of activity on the roads. Even when people live in the countryside, and there’s a lot of that round Lenham, they tend to hunt for another bit of countryside. Or the seaside. Whatever. The result is that very few locals were around anyway, and no one registered anything unusual. Except one guy – blind as a bat, I’d have thought – was out exercising his dog and swears he saw a guy parked up in a lay-by in tears.’

‘He’s sure?’

‘That’s the trouble, guv. He isn’t. It could have been last year, or the year before that or the year before that – you get the picture. Imagine what defence counsel would make of him. Assuming he’s still alive by the time a trial comes round.’ He was as downbeat as if he were announcing an outbreak of avian flu in the next office. Was that why he irritated Iona Harris so much?

‘Of course, it’s always possible that he’ll lead us to such conclusive evidence that we wouldn’t need him as a witness,’ Fran said crisply. ‘Who’s good and patient with old-stagers? Sue, how do you get on with your granddad? OK? Tell you what, why don’t you see if young Tom’s got a spare hour
when this briefing’s over? He’s good with old folk, too.’ In fact, he’d be far better than Sue herself, but there was no need to tell anyone that.

It seemed that nil returns were to be the order of the day thereafter. It was time to inject some more pace. Once a team stopped believing in itself, the painstaking routine work would become deadly.

‘Dan, has Iona come back yet with any reports on the tests she must have run?’

He shook a miserable head. ‘Do you want me to have a quiet word with the young lady?’

‘I’ll have a loud one, thanks, Dan. Come on –
nil carborundum illegitimi,
as my first desk sergeant used to say.
Don’t let the buggers grind you down
,’ she translated loosely.

‘Why not go and talk to this Dr Harris in person?’ Pat asked, dropping into Fran’s office with a pile of paperwork for checking and signature. ‘It’s lovely out there now – all those clouds seem to have lifted and a bit of sun does us all good. And nothing beats a woman-to-woman talk without a helpful man around. I’ll tell Mark’s secretary you’re nipping out. And I’ll tell Mr Gates’ secretary you’re out following a vital lead.’

Fran shook her head emphatically. ‘Tell her I’m at a
top-level
meeting – that’ll impress Gates far more.’

Once on the road, however, she asked herself what she was doing, wasting time, not to mention all that fuel, when an email or a phone call would have done just as well. She was being stupid and irresponsible – but she wasn’t going to turn back.

Dr Harris was obviously surprised to see her, as she might well be.

‘I was just passing,’ Fran lied, ‘so I thought I’d pop in to see if you’ve got any test results for me.’

‘The Lady in the Lake case.’ Harris’s sneer was audible.
‘Cliché it may be, but maybe the media will elicit a response from the public,’ Fran parried. ‘And we need all the help we can get, don’t we? Hence I’m here now – time is of the essence, and all that.’

‘I was just going to check today’s emails,’ Harris said.

Fran had to stop herself pointing out that it was nearly four, a time most people thought was a little late for a first scan. ‘Please, go ahead.’

Harris seemed to take what remained of the day. And certainly she had a huge incoming mail. But at last she pointed. ‘There we are. They’ve been very quick.’

‘And…?’

‘That vaginal swab – did I mention I was taking one, although I didn’t expect to get anything? She’d had recent sexual activity, and they’ve actually got some DNA. No record of it on file, unfortunately, so that doesn’t get us any further forward.

‘Traces of cannabis in her blood. And cocaine. There was too much tissue damage to her nostrils for me to remark on that when I examined her,’ Harris added defensively.

‘Of course. Anything else I should know?’

‘Nope. Nothing I didn’t put in my report.’

‘Which I’ve not received yet.’

Harris started. ‘I sent it through as soon as I’d completed it.’

‘To me?’

Eyes heavenwards, Harris checked her sent mails. ‘Sorry. God knows what I was doing. I sent it to Mr Coveney, copied to DI Webb. Who the hell’s he? Ah, the bloke who was interested in Alec Minton.’

‘Finger trouble,’ Fran said lightly, adding
or love,
under her
breath. ‘So long as someone in the team’s got it, that’s fine.’

But Harris had already found another screen; her printer whispered into action and the report emerged even more quickly than Fran’s printer would have managed.

‘Thanks. Speaking of Minton, has anyone been along to organise a facial reconstruction yet?’

‘Here? No, should they have been?’

Fran nodded. ‘As long as he’s in your morgue, where else would they go?’

‘Good point.’

To hell with the morgue smell, to hell with the fact she’d already seen the photos. ‘While I’m here, I’d like a look at him, please. No, I’m not joking.’ As Harris held the door open for her, she added, ‘Have you put Minton’s DNA on file yet? Because I rather think it’s vital it should be. And I’d like a crossmatch with that found on Janine.’

‘You’re joking! An old guy like him,’ Harris said dismissively.

Fran waited until they were both looking down on the body before she said, ‘As old guys go, I’d say he was doing pretty well, wouldn’t you? And three years ago, he might have been doing even better. You said he had no major illnesses. Any minor ones? Anything that might have made him subject to great fits of fury?’

‘No. Not that I can remember. Do you want me to email you the report on him too?’ She managed a sudden smile. ‘With the hard bits in lay person’s language?’

Fran felt an awful pun coming on. Dared she risk it? ‘Speaking of hard bits, would you be able to tell if a man were impotent? That would make him lose his temper in a sexual situation, wouldn’t it?’

‘There’s too much damage to the genitals for me to tell you that. He landed with considerable force on a concrete bollard or something similar. In any case, you’d be better looking between his ears, surely, Fran. That’s the origin of most impotence.’

‘Of course.’

‘Your theory is that this guy got involved in a sexual situation with Janine down there,’ she pointed at another drawer, as casually as if it were a neighbour’s house, ‘couldn’t perform, and killed her in a frustrated rage.’

Fran nodded slowly.

‘But she’d had sex. And you think with him. There’s something that doesn’t hold water there, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ They grimaced amicably at each other.

‘I don’t. On the contrary, I’m grateful. You’ve saved me saying the same thing to a roomful of people who’d be a lot less polite than you. My brain must be turning to pulp. God, what if I’m turning senile?’ She was afraid her sudden panic made her voice crack.

Harris scrutinised her. ‘I’d say you were just tired. But I know a very good gerontologist if you need one. Meanwhile, I’ll double-check the notes I have on both Roper and Minton, and see what I might have missed. I’ll let you know if there’s anything you might find useful.’

‘Me personally, if you don’t mind.’

She got through to Pete Webb first ring. She cut across his pleasantries. ‘Pete, two questions: why didn’t you forward a report by Dr Harris you must have noticed was meant for me, and why the hell hasn’t anyone been along to do the photo-fit or whatever of Alec Minton?’ Fran leant against her car
bonnet, pleasantly warm in the sun, and surveyed all the other cars in the hospital car park as she made the call. Two or three young men seemed to be doing exactly the same thing. She just hoped she wouldn’t see some idiot trying to break into a vehicle – she didn’t want to be interrupted for a few moments.

‘Sorry, guv. It’s been frantic here. Some survey for you folk at HQ. All leave suspended till we come up with the stuff.’

‘You’re sure it isn’t security for some royal visit or something?’ she asked dryly.

‘Absolutely. The photo-fit’s right at the top of my list of things to do when I’m allowed to breathe.’

‘Take it from me now, Pete – you can breathe. So long as you give that reconstruction absolute priority. On my personal orders. Would it help if I spoke to your super direct?’

The pause was long enough to show he was giving it more thought than it deserved.

‘Oh, just get on to it, Pete. Now. I need the best you can do on my desk tomorrow. Understand? And if you haven’t got the staff to check that parish magazine, just let me know the date of the issue and I’ll check it my bloody self.’

The youths were still lolling around. She looked upwards. At least one CCTV camera, possibly two, had a beady eye on them. So at least something was someone else’s problem. She got into the car and headed back to Maidstone.

‘Since when did gathering figures take precedence over fighting crime?’ Fran demanded, trying not to pace round Mark’s office.

‘Sit down, Fran. And give me the time and date. I’ll look into it. But you must give me some nice official reason. After all, a suicide isn’t usually regarded as a major crime for which
all else must stop. Indeed, the superintendent at Folkestone’s a little concerned that you should regard it as such, and overrule his direct instruction to Webb.’

‘Of course he is. I tried to phone him to explain and apologise, but it’s hard to grovel to an answering machine.’

‘They’re not very forgiving beasts, are they? And they tend to cut one off in mid-sentence. Promise me one thing, Fran – you won’t sound off to Gates, will you? Or the chief? Let any complaints go through the proper channels.’

‘In other words, you. The chief’s been giving you a hard time, has he? I’m sorry, Mark—’

‘I didn’t say that. I may have to have a word with him on my own account. After all, I’m still technically in charge of crime, and I do wonder about priorities! But, you see, this government directive…’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else you need to get off your desk – or indeed, off your chest? Because it occurs to me that we’ve not delivered those tubs to our new home, and it’s just the evening to do it.’

‘So it is.’ She blew him a kiss and left. She hoped making her feel better hadn’t left him feeling worse. As she closed the door, an idea came to her, so she opened it again and called, ‘I’ll phone Paula Farmer to let her know.’

Gates and the chief were passing, deep in conversation. But she would have sworn that something made him blush right up his neck, then go equally pale. She was still wondering what that something might be – surely he hadn’t overheard her and surely he wouldn’t have reacted like a sixteen-year-old even if he had – when she reached her office to find a note on her desk. Sue was trying to earn a brownie point or two, no doubt.

Drat. Well, it had been a long shot anyway. There’d always be blind alleys and cops to crawl up them – and back again.

As Fran put the car into gear, Mark said, ‘I’ve just done what Paula told us to do – I looked up the Clive Granville case.’

She shot him a look. It wasn’t often a phlegmatic professional cop allowed himself to sound so angry or so upset.

‘Granville started out as a fairly petty criminal in Birmingham – drugs, prostitution, that sort of thing. Later he gravitated – as so many lowlifes seem to do! – down here to Kent, where he got involved in a spot of people smuggling too. By this time he’d got some of our people in his pocket – that might have been when you were on secondment, Fran, and I was on that infernal management course – and this is where Gates came on the scene.’

‘Rubber-heeling, right?’

‘Exactly. He met Caffy because it was her evidence that had helped net Granville and indeed the bent cops.’

‘I’m missing something here. Why Caffy?’

‘Because she was working high up on a house and saw things you wouldn’t see from ground level. And did her public duty and reported them. It’s a long story. Anyway, I’m
glad to report that Clive Granville got himself killed – nothing to do with Caffy – and so everything was nicely wrapped up. She picked up a sum from the Criminal Injuries Authority – nothing like enough, of course – for what he’d done to her.’

‘She looks OK,’ she objected. ‘Though I suppose you can’t see psychological scars.’

‘It seems to me she may have dealt with the psychological ones quite well – I know I find her a bit OTT, but that’s a matter of taste.’

‘You’re saying she’s got physical scars? Didn’t Paula say something about her always wearing dungarees?’

‘Exactly. She doesn’t want a gap between her tops and her trousers, I’d guess.’

Fran could feel herself growing cold. ‘What did the bastard do?’

‘Slashed her abdomen. Left a scar.’

‘Dear God. But why?’

‘Because at one time he was her pimp. He’d forced her into a life of drugs and prostitution so when she escaped and tried to make something of her life he objected. When she did it a second time, he took his revenge. Apparently, after her final escape his mission was to run her to earth and send her to the morgue with her intestines wrapped round her neck.’

‘Sorry to be a little later than we hoped – we wanted to pick these up and install them in their new home,’ Fran apologised.

Paula dismissed the poor tubs with a nod. They’d looked good in the garden centre, but there was no doubt that against the grander backdrop of the Rectory, they were pitifully small. But then, Mark wouldn’t have been able to lift an empty tub
large enough to look in proportion, let alone a ready-planted one.

‘Thank goodness the house is in the hands of people who know what they’re doing,’ Mark said, by way of apology. ‘And I’ve an idea that they’re going to be in your way wherever I put them,’ he added, looking helplessly round.

‘Don’t worry. Just leave them there, by the front steps. We can move them as and when.’ Paula smiled forgiveness. ‘And your being late isn’t a problem. Caffy’s only just finishing one of the corbels in the hall. It was too dark for her to work in the drawing room this morning so she decamped to where there was more natural light. I wouldn’t have the patience, I tell you. I believe she uses a dental burr for some of the finest detail. Anyway, here she is.’

Fran turned, aware for the first time how small Caffy was compared with the rest of them. What was life like for someone who had to go round looking up into other people’s faces? More to the point, what was life like for someone who had had to look over her shoulder in case her ex-pimp turned up, ready to deal the most horrible death? How did the girl manage to be so positive all the time? And how dared life deal her another bad hand in the form of Gates?

‘Hi, there!’ she greeted them all, sunny as usual. ‘Paula tells me you’ve identified the man who keeps parking here – Simon Gates, is that right?’

‘I’m afraid he’s a colleague of ours,’ Mark said, contriving all the same to leave no one in any doubt that in a dispute he would back Caffy.

‘Oh, I know that. He’s a pretty big cheese, isn’t he? But such a cold fish. Whoops! I didn’t half mix my metaphors there, didn’t I? He passed out at my feet once, in the morgue.’ She
produced an impish grin. ‘Which I thought was a bit ironic, since he was supposed to be looking after me.’

‘You’re not worried about him stalking you like this?’ Mark asked. Again, he had exactly the right tone – a blend of compassion, interest, possible anger.

Caffy blinked, as if taken aback. ‘Stalking’s a very serious term, isn’t it? I suppose he is, come to think of it. It’s a good job I never let anyone have my mobile number or he could have been on to me all the time. I suppose I hoped he was more like Gabriel Oak, really. Doing a spot of yearning. Except yearning implies a strongly beating heart and warm glances.’