Still Waters (20 page)

‘Warm! Gates!’ Paula snorted.

Caffy ignored her. ‘Not that I see myself as a Hardy heroine anyway.’

‘Not Jude?’ Fran asked, adding in a cod-rustic voice. ‘All your book learning?’

‘That’s one book I just can’t reread,’ Caffy said seriously. ‘I can’t get past the hangings. Any road up, as we said in Brum, what I’ll do is try and catch him at his yearning or stalking or whatever it is – quite by accident, you understand.’

‘You’re sure?’

She burrowed in one of her dungaree pockets and produced a screamer. ‘We all carry these,’ she said flatly, ‘on a project like this. You know, thieves, tramps, that sort of interloper. One peep out of them and they get more than a peep from this. And the rest of the team materialising from nowhere.’

‘You promise you won’t attempt this when you’re on your own?’ Fran asked.

‘Sacking offence,’ Paula said briefly.

‘So you’re all right here. What if he turns up at your home?’

Paula and Caffy exchanged a glance Fran couldn’t read.

‘I’m doubly safe there. I live with a family that’s more or less adopted me,’ Caffy said at last.

Fran had a vision of a vulnerable ex-council house. ‘Security?’ she ventured.

Paula snorted with laughter. ‘Think Fort Knox. Todd Dawes is – used to be – a pop singer.’

Fran’s eyes rounded despite herself. ‘Not
the
Todd Dawes? I had a crush on him once.’

Caffy smiled with a warmth and tenderness way beyond Gates’ range. ‘He and his wife Jan are my family now.’

Fran said no more. You couldn’t talk about someone’s dad in those terms, could you?

Perhaps Caffy picked up on her embarrassment. ‘Wherever I meet Simon, what could he do to me? Swear undying love? In which case he’s going to be a lot more upset than me.’

‘Some men turn nasty when they’re upset,’ Paula snapped.

Fran recalled her theory about Minton and suppressed a shudder. She dug out her card. ‘Phone me, please, day or night, on this number, if there’s a problem. You won’t have to battle your way through a switchboard. And we’ll be there.’

‘Thanks.’ Caffy took the card and stowed it. ‘But it might be he just wants to ask me out for a date or something.’ She sounded less certain about this theory.

‘And would you go?’

‘By taxi,’ she nodded. ‘If he took me somewhere posh enough.’ As if to reassure herself as much as them, she said briskly, ‘Oh, come on, people, this is not the Yorkshire Ripper we’re talking about. It’s a highly respectable middle-aged policeman. Who once fainted at my feet, remember.’

Fran couldn’t stop herself asking, ‘What made him pass out
when – presumably – you didn’t? It must have been a pretty nasty sight.’

‘Only this.’ Caffy wriggled out of the dungaree straps and pulled down the bib to hip level. Then she hitched up her T-shirt.

‘I think I might have passed out too,’ Mark said, staring not at some abstract scar but at the pinkish-purple puckered flesh of the initials, CG.

‘What’s so frustrating now is sitting around waiting for other people to come up with the goods,’ Fran said, loading the last plate into the dishwasher and switching it on. ‘And though I can prioritise lab tests, I can’t wave a magic wand and make them take less time. What we really need is what they’ve got in other parts of the country, mobile labs that go to scenes of crime as soon as the crime’s been detected, before the scene’s been corrupted.’

‘Put it in your next report for Gates,’ Mark suggested. ‘He wants a wish list – let him have one that’ll make his eyes water. Enough shop-talk! Come and have your feet massaged and another glass of wine.’

She stood in front of him, arms akimbo. ‘Not until you’ve phoned Sammie. Come on, Mark, she’s had all day to contact you. You’re going to have to have another go. Meanwhile, I shall go on line and see if I can find someone to value our house. But I might as well take some wine with me,’ she conceded.

If there was one thing he hated it was being railroaded into
something, especially where his family was concerned. But she was right. Sammie should have responded, if not to last night’s message then to the half a dozen other ones that he’d left during the day and that Fran didn’t need to worry about.

The answerphone yet again. No, he wouldn’t leave yet another bloody message! He slung the handset down with more passion than accuracy and had to scrabble on the floor for it, hoping to God he hadn’t broken it. He lifted it to his ear. It was working. Replacing it more gently, he stood staring it, as if willing Sammie to respond.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Eventually, however, he realised that there was no sign of Fran; if anyone might have a sensible rather than a panicky reaction to the news, it was surely she.

He found her in the room she used as her office, poring over the computer with an expression on her face halfway between puzzled and anxious. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he peered at the screen.

She whipped off her reading-glasses. ‘Here, put these on and sit here and tell me what I’m seeing on this property website.’

‘I can tell you what you’re seeing. You’re seeing Sammie and Lloyd’s house in Tunbridge Wells. With a For Sale board in front of it. That’s what you’re seeing.’

‘And, if you read on,’ she scrolled down, ‘you’ll see the magic words, No Chain.’

She left it to him to ask the obvious question, so he did. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘It looks as if what you hoped would be a helpful little chat the other night didn’t work, doesn’t it? They’re breaking up and going their separate ways. Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry. For them all. And especially the kids.’

And for the Loose house. How long would Sammie need to stay? Would this put their deal with Bill and Maeve at risk? The way the Rectory costs were mounting, they dared not renege on the deal. Hoping his voice sounded calm and reasonable, he asked, ‘But why won’t she pick up the phone and tell me?’

She spread her hands. ‘Perhaps she’s so upset she can’t talk about it yet. Perhaps she’s taken refuge with a friend to see her through the crisis.’

‘But the Loose house is supposed to be her place of refuge.’

‘Yes, but only as a place. Perhaps she needs to be with a confidante.’

‘Would you?’

Fran pulled a face. ‘I’ve never been solely responsible for the twenty-four-hour care of two demanding babies. I’ve never been in the middle of a marriage breakdown. I don’t think I’m qualified to say.’ She checked her watch. ‘I know it’s getting late, but why don’t you pop round to the house to see if she’s still there but too miserable to pick up the phone?’

How could he explain the anxiety cramping his stomach? ‘Please – come too.’

She took his hand, only partly using it to pull herself up. ‘If you want me to, of course I will.’ Which meant, in view of her previous refusals, she must feel something was seriously wrong. ‘In fact,’ she added, pointing to the untouched wine, ‘I’ll drive, shall I? Have you got your house keys?’

‘What would I need them for?’ Did she imagine Sammie lying ill, with only two howling babies for company? A glance at her serious face gave nothing away.

‘I don’t know… But take them anyway.’

‘That’s Lloyd’s car,’ Mark declared, as Fran pulled onto the drive, to find curtains drawn and lights on all over the house. ‘My God, what’s he doing to her?’

He was out of the car, pounding on the front door, before she’d even cut the engine. She wanted to shout at him to be careful, to remember that he wasn’t a young man. He might have passed his annual physical with flying colours, but factor stress into a situation and that way might lie heart attacks.

Now wasn’t the moment to voice her fears. She must simply support him in whatever way he wanted. If she had had a standard-issue ram she believed that she would have forced the door in person.

At last, however, the door opened, but only enough for her to see it was held on the chain.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ But it wasn’t Mark furiously asking the question. It was Sammie.

‘That’s exactly what I want to know!’ he thundered. She’d seen him perfectly calm in the face of armed sieges and other critical situations. Now he was almost incoherent with a potent mixture of anxiety and anger.

She stepped forward herself. ‘Your father’s been trying to reach you all day, Sammie—’

‘Who rattled your cage?’ Sammie asked.

She overrode the insolence. ‘—and has grown very concerned. Is Lloyd with you?’

Sammie pointed at her. ‘Tell her to fuck off.’

‘Don’t you dare speak to her like that!’

Fran laid a restraining hand on Mark’s sleeve. ‘All you need to know is that she’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘And that it’s OK for Lloyd to be here.’ Taking a step back, she put her hand
in the small of his back and pressed him gently forward.

She didn’t know when she’d ever been so angry. But this wasn’t her show. As she’d said, they had one priority, the second, she supposed, being not to disturb the children. How they could have slept through Mark’s onslaught she had no idea. She made a great show of walking back to the car. A glance in the door mirror showed that the front door was now fully open, with Lloyd and Sammie side by side. Their arms were firmly folded. It was clear that Mark wasn’t going to be invited into his own home. Alarm bells rang very loudly in her head.

At last he stepped forward. Grudgingly, she guessed, they stepped aside. She got in the car and watched more overtly. The conversation continued in the hall for several minutes. Then Mark turned on his heel and returned to the car.

‘There’s something up,’ Mark said, ‘and I’ve no idea what it is.’

‘Do you want us to go back in together? Or would that simply make things worse?’

‘Let’s leave it for tonight. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow, when we’ve had a few hours to calm down.’

She didn’t argue, despite a profound and inexplicable unease that tomorrow would not bring the improvement he hoped for. Instead, she put the car into gear and took the long way home, hoping that the sight of the Rectory, now illuminated by a fitful moon, would help to bring him calm.

‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, letting Caffy talk to Gates?’ he demanded suddenly.

Perhaps it was better to let him worry about something other than his family. ‘We didn’t have much choice in the matter, did we? And I can’t see Paula allowing her to take any
risks. It’s certainly preferable to us sailing in and demanding that he unhand our decorator.’

‘Do you think we should talk to the chief?’

‘Not unless Caffy asks us to.’

‘Yes, I suppose we must trust her judgement. After all, she’s no more a helpless under-educated victim than you’re a PC Plod.’

‘The fact that she’s intelligent and articulate is neither here nor there,’ she said, rather more firmly than she’d intended. ‘If she’s being stalked she’s a victim. Think of the high-profile men who’ve been stalked. They certainly weren’t helpless in the world’s terms, but they were certainly victims.’ She could have added that though he himself was scarcely helpless, she had a nasty feeling that he was going to find out what it was like to be a victim in his conflict with his daughter. Now she had seen Lloyd with the woman they had supposed he was separating from she was very alarmed.

‘But I wonder if we should have her wired before she talks to him. And certainly if she goes out for dinner or whatever with him.’

‘Wired! That’s a bit heavy!’

He sighed. ‘He’s beginning to get a reputation for losing that famous cool of his. Didn’t Pat tell you that he reduced his own secretary to tears the other day? She swears it was only because he couldn’t reach across her desk that he didn’t hit her.’

‘You’re joking! Why on earth hasn’t Pat—?’

‘Because the woman was sworn to secrecy, I suppose. I was. The chief said it was so confidential I wasn’t even to tell you. Sorry. And of course Gates’ version of events is somewhat different.’

She grimaced. ‘And we can’t mention this to Caffy, of course? Hell. OK, that wiring—’

‘I shall have to talk to the chief…’

‘It’d be protection. For her. And, you never know, maybe for him.’

He shook his head. ‘If it comes to that, I shall have to talk to the chief first. I have no option.’

The following morning, Fran was just about to settle down to collate some of the information she’d gathered on the needs of divisional CIDs when her phone rang. Of all the voices she might have expected to hear, Roo’s was probably the last. But Roo’s it was. And it was a good job she could place it, because he was too excited to give his name.

‘She’s had the baby, ma’am. We’ve got a little girl!’

‘That’s wonderful. How is she? And how’s Kanga?’

He told her all about the birth – which he assured her was natural, with him holding Kanga’s hand throughout – and assured her than the birth-weight was perfect and that Kanga was already breastfeeding her.

As much to interrupt the flow as anything, Fran asked, ‘And what are you going to call her?’

‘That’s why I’m phoning, guv. Because we were wondering if you’d mind if we named her after you.’

‘Fran’s not all that much of a name,’ she parried joyfully.

‘Francesca is, though. And actually we were wondering… well, if you’d be her godmother, too.’

‘Me? Roo, why on earth? I mean I’d be delighted, but—’

‘You were there when we needed you, guv. Both of us.’

‘But I was only… Yes, please, Roo. I’d be more than
honoured. Just let me have the details as soon as you have them.’ Young Kanga would have the christening gift to end all christening gifts. ‘And how are you?’

‘Fine, guv.’

‘How fine?’ And bother the lawyers for making this a dangerous question.

‘Fine fine. The shrink seems pretty good. And to be honest, I’ve not had time to sit and worry, not with painting the nursery and that. And there’s little Fran, of course. I’m a bit gutted about the news, though.’

‘And what news would that be?’

‘Haven’t you heard, guv? Darren Mills was saying—’

‘He’s the guy running you Underwater Search and Recovery people, yes?’

‘That’s him. Anyway, he was saying that we’re likely to be axed. The budget, guv. He says someone’s doing the figures and it’ll be cheaper to buy in a team from another force whenever one’s needed.’

‘I hadn’t heard,’ she said, hoping to sound as if such a move were the remotest of possibilities, but knowing – with a jolt in her stomach – that it was all too likely.

‘It doesn’t mean we’ll be out of jobs altogether, does it, guv?’ he asked tentatively.

Over her dead body. ‘Of course it doesn’t! Hell, Roo, you’ve all got other jobs, haven’t you – “day jobs”? I can’t imagine the streets of Tonbridge without you.’

All that expertise being discarded! She was ready to scream.

‘You’re sure? Because they say it’ll be Sussex that takes over, and I don’t really want a transfer – I don’t want to move house, not with the baby and everything.’

‘You give little Fran a big kiss from me – and Kanga,
mind! – and tell her not to worry her new woolly bootees about anything. You’ll all be sure of jobs as long as I’m here, Roo.’

Fran put her head on her desk and cried. She didn’t care to ask why or for whom.

At last footsteps outside brought her to her senses.

What if someone came in? She mustn’t be found like this. Especially as she wouldn’t know how to explain if anyone cared enough to ask. What she needed was a bit of action – preferably the sort that would upset someone else. What she must do, however, was find out if the future of the Underwater team was indeed at risk, and, if it was, on whose authority.

Every one of her mental fingers pointed at Gates, of course. Him and his bloody committees.

Of which she was a member. Many of them, if not all.

Had some motion been passed when she’d been away with the fairies, sitting doodling and fizzing with resentment? What if she and her attitude had let down her young colleagues? She surged out of her office.

Pat handed over the sets of minutes for each committee without a word, but with a definitely raised eyebrow.

‘All our decisions have to be minuted, don’t they, Pat? Absolutely all?’ Fran asked as she leafed through them. No, nothing so far.

‘Of course.’ The other woman was shocked either at Fran’s ignorance or at the suggestion that they might not have been. ‘What are you looking for, Fran? It may be that I typed up the minutes, in which case I can scan through for the item you’re after. That’d save you hours. And a few points on your blood pressure scale.’

‘Can you search for Underwater Search and Recovery team?’

‘Shall I look while you nip off to the ladies? Your mascara’s run a bit,’ Pat added, as if it were perfectly normal.

‘That’s better. You don’t look like a panda now,’ Pat declared five minutes later. ‘No, there’s no mention of the Underwater team in any of the minutes that I typed up, or in any that have been put on the network. So I think it’s fair to say that it’s not been mentioned officially at any of them.’

‘But nothing could be implemented without an official record?’