The phone rang. Cosmo was clearly tempted to ignore it, but eventually stood up and reached across. ‘TVInvicta!’ he mouthed, and held up his index finger warningly. It was beautifully manicured.
Fran and Mark exchanged glances. Cosmo’s share of the conversation was mostly confined to affirmative little grunts, but at last he said, ‘To sum up, we’ll be shown the script before the programme, and the reporter will guarantee not to ask unscripted questions? Live. And not exclusive. OK.’ He winked hugely while the person at the other end spoke. ‘Six-thirty at the studio. One moment. I shall put you on hold.’ He pressed a button on his console. ‘There, endless loops of soothing Chopin, poor bugger. OK, Fran – you heard enough of that? You’re on tonight, girl. The only problem is getting you to Canterbury in time. On the other hand, we’ve got an awful lot of highly qualified drivers in the building. Shall I tell her yes, if only to spare the poor dear any more of Les Sylphides?’
‘In conclusion, Chief Superintendent Harman, what advice would you give to young people tempted to happy-slap?’ Dilly Pound asked, leaning forward deferentially, as she had throughout the interview. Either she was a very good interviewer or she really wanted to hear everything Fran had to say.
Fran smiled. ‘Don’t. Even touching someone without permission is an offence. So-called happy-slapping is a criminal assault, and my officers will treat it as such. An attack with a weapon is a much more serious affair, and incurs a heavier penalty. I’m sure your viewers know that. But what they may not know is that to publish photos of the victims on websites or anywhere else may well constitute harassment, another crime that Kent Constabulary views very seriously.’
‘Thank you, Detective Chief Superintendent Frances Harman. And we hope you soon recover completely from your injuries. And now for those numbers we promised you. Crimestoppers is…’
‘Do you have time to join us for a quick drink?’ Dilly enquired, as they unhitched their microphones. ‘You’re not on duty, are you?’ She flashed a smile.
‘Indeed not. And my partner’s driving me home.’ She had never hated the term more than now. But – as her eyes dropped to her ring – at her age fiancé sounded precious and possessive. ‘I’m sure he’d like a bitter lemon, however.’ She certainly didn’t want to leave Mark cooling his heels in the rather comfortless waiting area. It was packed with photos of past TVInvicta personalities, and images of current ones, as the next programme appeared silently on a huge monitor dominating the whole space. If you turned in the opposite direction, there was another, smaller screen, the colours subtly different. If you tried to ignore both, and picked up one of the complimentary newspapers, the tail of both eyes picked up irritating flickering images. How did the security guard and receptionist stay sane?
A minion despatched to rescue Mark, Dilly ushered Fran through to the bar, a room more spacious and a tad less pretentious than Venn’s.
‘You treat harassment seriously?’ Dilly continued in the same voice as in the studio.
‘Very seriously indeed.’
‘And stalking?’
‘Anything that threatens your life or comfort is potentially a crime. There’s legislation called The Protection from Harassment Act, 1997. You can actually be convicted of GBH for psychological harm.’ Fran dropped her voice, looking intently at Pound. ‘Are you a victim, Dilly?’
CHAPTER FIVE
Soon, very soon. I won’t be denied.
‘“I don’t think so.” What kind of answer is that? Either a woman’s being stalked or she’s not, surely?’ Fran asked Mark, as they joined the tail of cars snaking down Canterbury’s Whitefriars car park ramp to street level.
‘Why didn’t you ask the woman herself? Pound? Whatever sort of name is Dilly, anyway? Sounds like a toy duck.’
She flicked a glance at him. He wasn’t usually this tetchy, even at the end of a long, hard week. He’d been a bit grim and gruff ever since the assault, come to think of it. Since he knew exactly why she hadn’t been able to question Pound herself, Venn having swept effusively up to her and elbowing the reporter out of the conversation, she responded to his third question. ‘Short for Delilah?’
‘Would any parents actually inflict a name like that on a sweet, innocent child in its cradle?’ He glared at the tail-lights ahead. ‘My God, look at this lot. This time of night at least you’d expect the roads to be quiet.’ A curt radio enquiry to HQ elicited the information that a serious accident had closed the A2 northbound: all the diverted traffic was being funnelled through Canterbury’s already inadequate system, now in danger of becoming grid-locked.
‘Wonderful. Do we go back up and park and eat in the city? Or fight our way through to whichever route is the most promising?’
‘Ask the oracle.’ The satellite navigation system had been his Christmas present from Fran. Not very romantic, but then, what could you give to a man who had everything except time to enjoy it?
The A28 seemed the best bet.
‘Straight to yours?’ he sighed. ‘Or shall we press on to Maidstone?’
‘The central heating will be on at both,’ she said. ‘And there’s plenty in both our freezers. Or we could stop and pick up a meal. Whatever you want. You’re driving, after all.’ And she was so tired and in so much pain – she never had got round to taking those pain killers – all she wanted was a long bath with scented oils and no decision-making. She wouldn’t admit it, not even to Mark, maybe especially not to Mark, but she couldn’t even choose between an Indian and a Chinese.
‘I’ve an idea the oracle’s got it wrong. We’ve hardly moved in the last ten minutes,’ he said.
It was true. They might be within sight of the poached egg island at the foot of the car park ramp, but the A28 was as unattainable as Everest.
‘What we’ll do, then,’ he said, a hint of amusement suddenly threading through his grimness, ‘is head straight back up the ramp. We’ll park and find somewhere to eat.’ At last he could inch on to the poached egg. It took several manoeuvres to get back up again, but once he’d set the trend several others followed. ‘We’ll then dawdle back past all those estate agents and look in their windows for a dream house. We’ll take a note of all the details and then we’ll go to your cottage. Tomorrow we’ll go and check the places out.’ He got out of the car.
It would be lèse majesté to query any part of the diktat. But she had to pick up on three words, as she slowly heaved herself out. ‘A dream house?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, holding out his hands for her to grip. At least he didn’t try to lever her himself. ‘For us. What about it?’
Aware that momentous things were happening, all she could say was, ‘For us? But we’ve got two houses.’
‘Neither of which is ideal. For some reason mine oppresses you – no, don’t argue – you always put on a bathrobe before you leave the bedroom, while at your place you pad round mother-naked. I’m sick of banging my head on the beam in your bathroom. And I don’t know why you don’t, because you’re only an inch shorter than me. Let’s throw some money at both places and sell them or rent them out. And we’ll move into a new one. Then at least we’ll know which washing machine our clothes are in.’
As if they needed such an excuse. She turned to say something warm and romantic – one of them ought! – but was shouted down by a load of strangers patting Mark on the back. Where on earth had they sprung from? She turned round. It seemed they’d all completed the same manoeuvre and come back up to the car park. And no, they weren’t congratulating him on his sudden commitment to Fran, but on his brilliant idea in giving up the unequal struggle with the traffic. Next they bombarded him with questions.
‘Any idea what time this place closes? Don’t want to be stranded overnight. Can you recommend a good eatery?’
Mentally Fran ran over the places she’d like to eat and sent their fellow refugees in the opposite direction.
At last she had him to herself, as they linked arms and headed slowly towards the exit. The thudding in her ches
t was almost painful, but her voice came out as flatly mundane as if he’d asked for change for a Big Issue seller. ‘Mark, are you suggesting we live together? In one house? Properly?’
His own voice wasn’t much warmer. ‘You make it sound like living in sin. Come on, we’re adults, and have been consenting ever since we got together. Neither of us bothers God all that much. Or would you want a white wedding and a coy honeymoon?’ Now he was almost jeering.
What on earth made him so damned joyless? She would never have expected the one-knee treatment, but this seemed so off-hand.
‘Yes, actually, I would. Eventually,’ she conceded. ‘I might not qualify for a white wedding and I might not demand the Cathedral as a venue, or three weeks in the Caribbean to round it off, but yes, I’d like to be married.’ The silence deepened. ‘I’d like to be married to you, at least.’
‘But not yet.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘It wouldn’t have to be part of the house deal. Would it? We can think about it. Later – when we’ve got our heads round the idea.’
For ‘we’ read ‘Mark’.
‘I’d like – yes, the house—’
He jumped in. ‘So you think it’s a good idea. The house.’
‘I do.’ So long as they both said the words in a more formal setting later, she added under her breath.
What was going on between his ears? It clearly wasn’t very comfortable. Half her brain told her she was being supine and should have held out for what in her heart she wanted. The other half told her that sooner or later Mark would come round, but that life was too short to shilly-shally over fine-tuning. How many police fiancés had she seen killed before their Big Day? Carpe diem, that was what any serving officer should do. Hell, she was so tired.
He’d nearly blown it, hadn’t he? Not exactly a suggestion to remember! More a grudging business offer, with a waspish allusion to missing shirts. The timing, too – she looked as if she’d gone a round with Amir Khan, and from the way she moved he judged her joints were sore as well. Plying her with the mandatory champagne – they had to celebrate commitment somehow although he suspected neither of them truly liked it – prevented her from taking painkillers, too.
And here he was, turning a bad scenario into an even worse one, telling her over their starter that he couldn’t face marriage, not yet. It was tempting providence, for God’s sake. Cocking a snook at fate. If they didn’t make any grand gestures, perhaps fate wouldn’t notice, perhaps it’d just let them get on with everything. But as soon as they popped their heads above the parapet, he was terrified that something, some indefinable thing, would get one of them. Both of them. If only he could have explained all this without sounding crazy. So all he managed was, ‘Later on. When things are settled. How about that?’ Not enough. ‘I’m just so afraid…that something’ll go wrong. Like yesterday.’
Was she hurt? Puzzled. Too tired to argue? She managed a confiding smile. ‘Not with you to watch over me.’ She covered his hand with hers. The one with the less badly grazed and bruised palm. ‘Not to mention the rest of the Kent Constabulary,’ she chuckled.
‘Look at tonight! A motorway pile-up!’ Less and less celebratory. Some people said champagne made you melancholy and then maudlin. Not that he’d had enough for either, surely.
‘But we were in the traffic jam, not the pile-up,’ she objected, ‘and now we’re here. And I don’t see why we shouldn’t grab us a room in a hotel here in Canterbury so we can enjoy all this without having to worry about being a millilitre over the limit. Mark, sweetheart, we’re supposed to be celebrating quite a momentous event, not worrying about tenancy in common and power of attorney and wills and next-of-kin. Aren’t we?’ She tried to raise her eyebrow, one of her most endearing gestures, but winced. ‘I suppose,’ she added wistfully, ‘it’s a bit hard to feel romantic about a panda. Unless you’re another panda.’
‘I could go and head butt a wall so I got eyes to match? I ought to anyway. Blurting it all out like that. It was supposed to be roses and bended knees and everything.’
She hesitated. What had she meant to say? She ended up mocking. ‘With all that CCTV around? You’d have been a laughing stock – and me, too. So long as you carry me over the threshold of our new home, that’s fine by me. But not by fate, in the form of our colleagues,’ she added, fielding her phone. ‘From Jill Tanner. Shall I take it?’
He shrugged, eyes heavenward.
‘I could tell her I’m on my sick bed?’ Getting up painfully slowly, she left him and went to take the call in the lobby.
He had a feeling a nearby hotel room wouldn’t be on the agenda tonight.
Fran wouldn’t limp. She wouldn’t let herself. Not for anything would she let him down when he had made such a huge effort. She’d no idea why he’d found it so hard, and was sure all those excuses about fate really masked something else. But he’d done it, and there was only one way to celebrate a decision with such implications, such repercussions, even one that seemed to have left them both flat and exhausted, not fizzing like kids on speed. She’d never yet admitted to being too tired for sex, and she wouldn’t begin tonight, headache, face ache or any other ache. Lying still and thinking of England wasn’t an option either. He’d given love freely and without demands: she would always do the same.
So when she made her way back to the table, she tried to give the impression of a languorous dawdle. It turned into something perilously like a waddle. Or even a drunken roll. He caught her eye. They were gasping with laughter by the time she’d reached their table.
But he sobered quickly enough to pull back her chair for her and to ease it forward again. And his face was straight when he asked, ‘What did she want?’
‘Her hand holding. Can’t think why. She’s an experienced officer and usually a capable administrator.’
‘Why tonight?’
‘Not enough bodies to staff the switchboard. I told her to check her budget and press gang more.’
‘Couldn’t she have done that without your say-so?’
‘Of course she could. But there was one thing her budget certainly wouldn’t stretch to. My co-option on to the team.’
‘Yours! Someone your rank on the switchboard!’
‘Well, think of all the celebs answering phones on Children in Need. And I’ve an idea we both rolled up our sleeves and took calls when that child went missing.’ She smiled, squeezing his hand, again with her better one. ‘Neither ACCs nor chief supers make a habit of that.’
‘That was because you were there. I couldn’t have gone home and left you toiling.’ His eyes said far more, a more open declaration of love than he’d made all evening.
‘Any more than I could go over there now and leave you to twiddle your thumbs at home. Whichever home.’
‘So what did you say? That you were having a champagne meal with your lover?’
‘Not exactly. I said all the pills—’
‘Which you haven’t actually taken!’
‘—have left me light-headed and woozy, and you wouldn’t let me drive. There’s no point in working in a hierarchical organisation if you can’t blame the senior officer sometimes, is there?’
‘Are you sure you want to go into work?’ Mark demanded, watching her dress on Monday morning. ‘Absolutely sure?’
‘I’ve dossed around doing nothing all weekend, so I should be all right.’ If only fastening her bra didn’t mean compressing her palms.
It was true she’d had a restful couple of days, starting with the night at the Canterbury hotel she’d suggested. Impulses: it was so good to be able to act on them for once. Especially when he’d signed them in as Mr and Mrs Turner, reducing her to secret hysterics.
‘Those bruises—’
‘Just coming out nicely – they shouldn’t hurt so much now. It’s not as if I were on the beat. Just a meeting: quite a big one in Folkestone. Customs and immigration officers and me all discussing the latest breaches of the Tunnel’s security.’
‘Really exci
ting,’ he said sardonically.
‘Exactly. Just the sort of thing I should despatch a deputy to if I had one.’
‘Get on to Dix about it. You’re sure you can’t get out of it? It’ll be little more than a photoshoot, to convince the denizens of Kent that Something is Being Done.’
‘It won’t work, then – not since half the people I come across never seem to use the words “asylum seeker” without prefacing them with the adjective “bogus”.’
‘But given the colour of your face this morning it’ll at least be colourful. Oh, Fran, why not give yourself a break?’
‘And look at more houses?’ After wading through dozens of sheets of estate agents’ particulars, they’d driven past some of the most promising to see whether it was worth making appointments to view them. In the vast majority of cases it hadn’t been. But they were still optimistic. ‘Get thee behind me! Anyway, you can give me a lift into work first, if you wouldn’t mind. I want to slip into Jill’s briefing before I go. Then I’ll take a car from the pound.’
The curious looks she got as she strode through the corridor to Jill’s meeting amused and irritated her in equal measure. Didn’t people know what a black eye was? Her dad used to sing a song about two of them! But she couldn’t imagine anyone making up a ditty like that these days – or one about a railroad running through the middle of a house.
As for the top brass she was due to meet, it wouldn’t do them any harm to be reminded what their jobs were really about – fighting crime. And her eyes in their now purple and yellow sockets could look as shrewdly as theirs down the railway line and at plans; her knees were decently hidden by the trouser suit she always wore to such jollies.
‘…CCTV cameras,’ Jill said, and stopped, looking about her expectantly.
God, she’d heard none of it, had she? Not a word! She scanned other faces, most of which seemed to be looking serious.
Cold Pursuit Page 5
