The Frozen Shroud (5 page)

He knew better than to argue with her. You could never win. He manoeuvred the car down the narrow passage leading out of the car park, a task complicated by defunct bulbs in several of the lamps fixed on the pub wall. Suddenly, he braked, before putting his foot down
after a few seconds, so that the car shot forward and out into the lane.

‘Wow!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You’ll never guess.’

He felt a stab of astonishment at what he’d seen. Two figures in the shadows. Jeffrey Burgoyne had slammed the side door of the Grim Reaper behind him, and then slapped Quin’s cheek so hard that he staggered backwards and almost lost his footing. A stinging blow on the same cheek Jeffrey had stroked a few minutes earlier.

Hannah Scarlett stuck out her tongue at the computer screen, trying to make sense of rows of figures on a spreadsheet. The numbers made her brain hurt. To round off her Monday, she was due to see the Assistant Chief Commissioner for a meeting she was sure to hate. Only one thing occupied Lauren Self’s thoughts at present. Costs must be cut. Where to swing the axe?

The silence was broken by the opening bars of the theme from
Doctor Who
. She’d forgotten to switch off her personal mobile. Any interruption was welcome, but her finance report was overdue. Swearing, she delved into the Aladdin’s cave of her bag and fished out the phone. This had better not be Marc. Each conversation with him felt like tiptoeing around the rim of a live volcano. If he wasted her time, she might be the one to explode.

The caller’s name made her blink in surprise.
Terri
.

Her oldest friend, and the world’s worst gossip. Terri
was capable of driving Hannah to distraction, but not so selfish as to gatecrash a detective chief inspector’s working day simply for a natter.

‘Hannah?’

No apology for the interruption. The way Terri spoke her name made Hannah’s skin prickle. Terri’s dad wasn’t in good health, and though they’d been estranged for a long time, if anything had happened to him, she’d be distraught.

‘Something wrong?’

‘You could say that.’ Deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m scared shitless.’

Hannah’s stomach knotted. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Stefan.’

Terri claimed to have only three faults. Eating the wrong kind of food, drinking the wrong kind of booze, and shagging the wrong kind of man. She wasn’t fat, and she wasn’t an alcoholic, but it was a miracle some of the creeps she’d fallen for hadn’t screwed her up permanently. Stefan Deyna worked in a bar, and after a good start, their relationship had sped downhill. He was now beating off strong competition to top the league table of Terri’s all-time worst mistakes. So many of her exes were lazy, feckless, two-timing wastes of space. But Stefan, unique among them, had a violent streak. As well as a not-yet-divorced wife back in Poland whom he hadn’t thought to mention until a co-worker let the cat out of the bag. His reaction had been to bluster with Terri, and break the co-worker’s cheekbone. His employer sacked him on the spot, leaving him with time on his hands to make her life a misery.

‘Has he hurt you?’

‘No, but the bastard keeps insisting I see him. I tell him to
piss off, but he won’t take no for an answer. Last night, he followed me home in a car. He doesn’t own a car, so I’d guess he nicked it. We had a row and I ended up scratching his face.’

Good for you, but
…

‘What happened?’

‘We were arguing outside my front door. He was angry, and pushed me hard enough to make me fall. I grazed my knee, you should see the bruise, but I picked myself up and launched myself at him. Dug my nails across his cheek, as hard as I could.’

Hannah winced. Terri had very long nails.

‘Let’s just say, he won’t be winning a beauty contest any time soon.’

He never would have done, but Hannah found it impossible not to give Terri a silent cheer. For courage, if not common sense.

‘You took a hell of a risk. What did he do?’

‘While he was mopping up the blood, I whipped my key out of my bag and ran inside. He was banging the door so hard, I thought he’d break it down. Or break his knuckles.’

‘You should have called me.’

‘I was about to, but the racket stopped. I thought he’d gone away, but when I looked out of the window he was sitting there in his car. In the dark. Just watching and waiting.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘About an hour. Finally, he decided I wasn’t going anywhere, and drove off. It was barely eight o’clock, but I went straight to bed, I was knackered.’

She must have been. Terri’s head seldom hit the pillow before midnight. Most of the calamities she’d got herself
into over the years had happened in the small hours, after too many Bacardi and cokes.

‘You’re not at work now?’

‘No, I invented a trip to the dentist. Bit of a risk, since I only started there ten weeks ago. But my boss is sweet, and we’re not busy, so it’ll be fine.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Pretty crap, if you want the truth. This morning, Stefan phoned again. Of course I didn’t talk to him. He kept ringing, so I took the receiver off the hook.’

‘You said you were going to buy a new phone, and change your number.’

‘I know, I know. I’ve a lot happening in my life at present, you’ve no idea. My head’s in a whirl.’

Hannah glared at the numbers on the spreadsheet, which didn’t improve the figures or make them go away. She pressed a button, and the screen went blank.

‘Get the phone sorted for a start. Will you do it today?’

‘Don’t be bossy, Hannah, please. I’m not in the mood, all right?’

‘Sorry, it’s only that—’

‘You’re trying to do the right thing?’ An exaggerated sigh. ‘Good old Hannah. You always do the right thing, don’t you?’

If only.
‘Listen, Terri, I want to help.’

‘I’ve got so much on my plate. I’d love to see you, if you’re not otherwise engaged.’

‘I can get away by six. I’ll have had enough of this place anyway by then.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, I know I’ve been lousy at keeping in touch lately.’

‘Like you said, you’ve had a lot on your plate.’ As she uttered the words, Hannah realised she didn’t know exactly what was on Terri’s plate. This new job, yes, but she never let work get in the way of fun and friendship – that was Hannah’s failing. ‘Not a problem.’

‘More than you can possibly imagine.’

Terri was calming down. It was a good sign that she was indulging in a pastime that had been a favourite since her teens: making her life sound mysterious and exciting. Hannah prayed that, if a man was involved, he was a massive improvement on Stefan, but she wouldn’t bank on it.

‘Any room to put a pizza on that plate this evening?’

‘Love to. How about we try Balotelli’s, that classy new Italian on the road out of Ambleside? It has a big bar, even a dance floor. A … friend of mine recommended it. Live entertainment most weekday nights, singers, stand-ups, you name it.’

‘Perfect.’

A rap on the door. As it swung open, Lauren Self’s immaculately coiffured blonde head appeared; it wasn’t her style to wait for a response. The ACC was waging war on closed doors – in fact, a war on doors generally. She was threatening a revamp of the office, ripping down every wall in sight to create ‘a more open environment’. She portrayed it as a chance for Hannah to get closer to her team. Hannah wasn’t status-conscious enough to regret losing her personal space, but she knew a PR ploy when she saw one. This was a neat way of saving money under the guise of democratising management and promoting an ethos of teamwork. Not that Lauren was moving into open plan herself. Someone of her seniority had far too much
sensitive and confidential business to handle. Democracy and teamwork had their limits.

Hannah glanced at her watch. Shit, she’d lost track of time. First the budget figures, then Terri’s call. She’d been due to see the ACC five minutes ago, and Lauren made up for her lack of other skills by turning punctuality into a fetish.

‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, cradling her mobile.

Lauren disfigured her lovely features with a scowl. Hannah guessed she was mentally flicking through the small print of the Proper Use of Technology Policy even as she gave a curt nod and disappeared again. Probably to ask the long-suffering folk in Human Resources to draft a Showing of More Respect to Top Brass Procedure.

‘Abject apologies,’ Terri said. ‘I suppose I’m snarling up the machinery of justice, calling you at this time.’

‘You did the right thing, ringing me.’

Terri sighed. ‘Sooner or later I had to do the right thing. Law of averages, eh? See you tonight, sweetie.’

It was almost impossible not to feel a sneaking admiration for Lauren Self, but Hannah did her best. Lauren had risen to her current eminence without trace. Cumbria Constabulary was one of the most successful forces in Britain, and somehow she contrived to claim more than her fair share of the credit. Canteen cynics hailed it as a triumph for the fifty-page Equality and Diversity Policy she championed, in that lack of experience at the sharp end was no bar to advancement. She compensated for hardly ever having locked anyone up, with a flair for politics that cabinet ministers would kill for, and a genius for being all things to
all people, especially if they were journalists. Lauren scented a photo opportunity quicker than a pig smelling muck. Her gleaming smile was a regular adornment of regional news bulletins and front pages of the local papers, while her chatty blog, tireless social networking and constant stream of tweets turned self-promotion into an art form.

Yet as Hannah walked into the office destined to remain an oasis of calm in the brave new world without walls, Lauren’s body language suggested a beaten tennis player at the post-match inquest. Her desk was spotless – a triumphant example of leadership in terms of the Clear Desk Policy – but her PC screen was so crammed with numbers, most of them red, that Hannah felt dizzy just looking at it.

‘Take a seat while you can,’ Lauren muttered. ‘It’s only a question of time before I’m asked to put the furniture up on eBay.’

Money, money, money. Researchers said crime was falling – for the moment, at least – but in the age of austerity, that wasn’t enough. The government wanted eye-watering cuts to police expenditure – without touching front-line policing, naturally. Even the most efficient forces must embark on a strategic review, also known as slash-and-burn. Vast chunks of the police estate were to be flogged off at bargain prices – assuming any developer could persuade the banks to lend them funds to buy. A hatchet had been taken to pension benefits and working conditions. Morale among the troops was on the floor, and heading down.

At first, Lauren had embraced the new agenda with gusto, and masterminded an upbeat video presentation called ‘No Pain, No Gain’. But then came a decision from on high to
halve the force’s public relations spend, and Lauren was still reeling from the shock. Worse, a national phone hacking scandal had led to fresh scrutiny of police links with the media. Professional Standards warned against reporters who got close to cops so as to wheedle out information. It was only a question of time before someone rapped the well-manicured knuckles of pretty senior officers who flirted with hacks in return for positive coverage. Lauren’s progress up the greasy pole was hampered by the fact that the people blocking her way happened to be very good at their jobs. Rumours had swept through the force that she’d applied for a couple of top posts in the south of England. In the Cold Case Review Team, there was genuine sadness that she hadn’t talked her way past the shortlist.

‘You wanted to see me.’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Lauren gestured at the numbers on the screen. ‘Unhappy reading, I’m afraid.’

Hannah made a sympathetic noise, and braced herself.

‘In times like these, Hannah, we are bound to take difficult decisions. None of us would choose such a path willingly. But we have to face up to reality. We’re all in this together.’

She coughed. Hannah waited.

‘I’m sorry to say that we simply can’t sustain the current level of resource we allocate to non-core activities that don’t fit the parameters of conventional work-in-progress.’

Listening to Lauren, Hannah sometimes regretted the absence of an interpreter fluent in management-speak. Even so, she saw where the conversational labyrinth was leading.

Lauren paused, allowing Hannah the opportunity to make
her task easier. When she sat tight, the ACC murmured, ‘All that has consequential implications for the Cold Case Review Team, I’m afraid.’

Hannah found her voice at last. ‘You’re dumping us on the scrapheap.’

Lauren frowned, like a torturer finding a captive has committed suicide just before the branding irons have heated up. ‘Please don’t jump the gun. The team has done good work since I set it up. And you’d expect me to fight tooth and nail to look after my people, wouldn’t you?’

Well, not really, to be honest.

Hannah settled for a cowardly nod.

Lauren threw a glance at a poster commissioned from an advertising agency six months ago. It said simply ‘We Deliver’, but also featured a natty logo in seven different colours, so Hannah presumed it was money well spent. At least by the standards of the time of plenty.

‘The answer is to work smarter. We need to do more for less. It’s tough, but then, life’s tough. You only have to look on your television screens to see what’s going on all over the world. We have to do our bit.’

Get on with it, the suspense is killing me.

Lauren picked up a paper clip that had escaped from its appointed niche in her desk tidy. ‘Here is what I’ve proposed to the Police and Crime Commissioner. Your direct reports will be reduced to one DS, one DC, and two admin assistants. The consultant’s fixed-term contract will not be renewed on expiry.’

Okay, then. Deep breath. May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

‘Why not get rid of us once and for all?’ Hannah demanded.
‘Do the job properly rather than inflict death by a thousand cuts, and simply prolong the agony. The workload is crushing the team already.’

‘I never said it would be easy.’

‘You’re getting rid of Les Bryant, our most experienced man.’

‘He’s retired once already, he can spend more time with his allotment or whatever they do in Yorkshire.’

Hannah bit her tongue. How easy to say something that sent her career whirling into oblivion. Was that what Lauren wanted?

‘The rest of the team – who chooses the people who stay, and those who go?’

‘You do, Hannah. It wouldn’t be right for me to interfere. You’re in charge, after all.’

So I wield the axe, and all those difficult decisions become my fault.

‘Everyone who leaves the team moves to another team? No job losses?’