Cold Pursuit

by Judith Cutler

  So what else was going on? When Rob was twelve and she’d let him beat her at badminton, he’d been a charming kid. Now he was presumably into mid-teens blues, more likely to yawn at her and adjust his headphones than to pick up a racquet.

  ‘You will tell me if there’s anything I can do? Take the kids out for the day?’ It sounded painfully inadequate even as she said it.

  She was rewarded with a look of contemptuous disbelief. ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that, Fran.’ With that Jill got up quietly and let herself out.

  And Chief Superintendent Joe Farmer let himself in, ducking his head shyly as she gestured him to the still warm chair.

  ‘Ms Harman,’ he said, clearing his throat and swallowing hard, as if they were teenagers at a long-ago hop and he was about to ask her to dance, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t undermine my efforts to build a team.’

  It was a very good opening. For one thing, she’d been poised to offer maternal congratulations on doing such a good job; for another the attack was so unexpected she couldn’t think of a rebuttal. So she said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow to signify puzzlement and disdain and any other challenge he might wish to read into it.

  ‘DCI Tanner is forever running to you for advice. I’m her line manager: it should be me she talks to.’

  ‘Absolutely. I thought she did. No?’

  ‘All I get out of her is that things are progressing or that she needs more resources. Not exactly consistent.’

  She grunted in sympathy. ‘Take her out for a drink and tell her. Ask her what the problem is.’

  ‘I was hoping—’

  ‘That I would? But that would be to do exactly what you don’t want me to. So let’s forget that option.’ She rubbed her face, clamping down a yawn. ‘Sorry. We didn’t get back from Birmingham till three this morning.’

  ‘But you were at your desk before I was!’

  ‘My car might have been in the car park, but I was in the canteen having breakfast. I dare say you were slaving away before I’d had my second coffee.’ Had that built a little bridge? ‘Now, this Jill business. She’s a highly competent DCI, but for some reason she seems overawed by this case – which isn’t surprising, since Chummie’s leaping from location to location like a jumping bean. What’s your take on it? Were you thinking about a profiler? Fancy a cuppa while we talk about it?’ She gestured to her machine.

  ‘I…er…black coffee, please. Fran, how well do you know Tanner?’

  This was one of those questions that required a far from straight answer. ‘I was her first sergeant. When we were both younger, we played badminton against each other. Her kids call me “auntie”. Used to. Probably refer to me as the Old Bat these days.’

  ‘So you’d know if anything was wrong?’

  ‘I’d want to know. That doesn’t mean she’d tell me. There are times when even the best of mates are aware of the hierarchies. Certainly in this building. The rate you’ve progressed through the ranks you must have noticed.’

  His turn to nod.

  But he said nothing, so she asked, ‘What do you think she ought to tell me?’

  ‘What’s her husband like?’

  She suppressed the temptation to goggle. ‘Brian? Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  An officer at that level never just wondered. Until she worked out what he was after, she would pretend the questions were just social. ‘He’s very quiet. Works in local government. Good with the kids – he’s had to be mother and father to them, of course, with Jill’s shifts. He’s a brilliant cook, as I recall – you want to get yourself invited.’

  He ignored the quip. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Do? Me? Look, Joe, I thought we’d—’

  ‘She’s your friend!’

  ‘Us, then. Because as you said, much as I’m her buddy when we’re off duty, you’re her line manager. We’ll need to tackle any problems together. You see, I’m horribly out of touch even with my close friends: until my father died in the autumn I was commuting to Devon every weekend, a real downer socially. But as you’ve no doubt heard on the jungle drums, I’m now in a new relationship, which also means I neglect my friends.’

  ‘And when did any copper at our level have a proper social life anyway?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘Or a family one?’ There was a clear waist on his wedding finger, as if a ring had recently been removed.

  ‘Don’t we have the highest divorce rates of all professional groups in the country?’ he countered.

  Oh, dear. Did she know him well enough to pursue that? On the whole she thought not. She waited, hoping her very silence might be useful, tipping her head on one side in the way that always amused Mark. And reflecting that if his marriage was a mess, then that might be why he’d thought a marital breakdown the reason for Jill’s poor performance.

  ‘OK, if you can’t think of anything, I suppose we’d better bring in Human Resources,’ he said at last.

  ‘Are you sure?’ She was damned sure she wasn’t. ‘That makes it all a bit official. And it might make Jill feel you didn’t trust her with this case.’

  ‘I don’t.’ It was a very bald statement. ‘To be honest, I think you made a bad mistake appointing her. But we’ve clearly got to live with it.’

  She’d had the same reservations herself, but wasn’t about to pass the blame on to Mark. ‘Which means supporting her through whatever her problems might be. Both professional and personal. Tell you what, Joe, why don’t we both keep our eyes and ears open for a couple of days? Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to her Ashford colleagues. And I’ll certainly make a point of drifting into her office, if you’re sure it won’t undermine you further.’ She stood to end the meeting. ‘Thanks for telling me all this. And if you think a profiler’s called for, I’ll certainly back you.’

  Farmer pursed his lips. ‘But…’

  Her phone rang. Feeling they’d made as much progress as they could, she took the call. Dilly Pound was in Reception.

  ‘I couldn’t resist opening today’s note,’ Dilly said, spreading the by now familiar sheet of A4 paper with its few laser-printed lines between them on Fran’s desk. ‘Knowing that you’d seen…him.’ There was a catch in her voice, as if she’d wanted to say his name but had stopped herself in time. But even the little pronoun sounded breathlessly tender.

  Ignoring the emotion as best she could, Fran checked the postmark. ‘Ashford!’ This was a change of gear. She hoped her voice didn’t betray how serious a change. ‘Look, you should never have received this: I’ve asked the Post Office to reroute all your TVInvicta mail to me.’ She made a note; she doubted they’d let anything further through.

  ‘I didn’t notice. I just wondered… But it sounds as if whoever it is is going to come and get me!’

  So she’d hoped that it might have been Stephen who had sent an explicit message this time. And she’d had a nasty surprise.

  Had Mr X literally come looking, or had he simply stopped commuting to London? What if – she had a frisson of irritation – Stephen had got on a train and come down himself? It wasn’t impossible. And she’d blithely assured the Chief that checking his London alibi was low priority. But surely he’d have done more than post a letter. He’d have presented himself at TVInvicta’s premises. And they were in Canterbury, not Ashford.

  If only she’d had a decent night’s sleep!

  ‘Excuse me just one minute, Dilly.’ She rerouted her phone calls, and set off in search of Tom. If he weren’t up to his ears, he could phone the conference centre for her. But she couldn’t just dive into the incident room and purloin him – not with Jill’s sensibilities being what they were. In any case she might just see or smell for herself the things that had so alarmed Joe Farmer. However good her intentions, however, Jill’s goldfish bowl was empty.

  ‘Happy to oblige, guv,’ Tom responded, as if she’d just offered him a fistful of fivers, not a battered brochure.

  ‘And come straight back to me, the moment you know som
ething. Knock on the door but wait outside. I don’t want the person in my office to hear what you’re saying.’ Or Tom to see Dilly, of course. Though she’d swear on her father’s grave he’d be totally discreet.

  Dilly was standing looking out of the window when she got back.

  ‘Is he still at Holy Trinity?’ she asked without turning round.

  ‘You don’t need me to answer that. You can simply look in Crockford’s,’ Fran countered.

  ‘How is he?’

  She replied as kindly as she could. ‘Dilly, I can’t answer any questions about yesterday’s interview, can I? If I can break his confidences, I could do the same for yours. But I do want to pursue other lines of enquiry too.’

  The woman’s face fell. ‘It wasn’t him. Who is it then, Fran?’ The question ended on a note of terror.

  Fran countered it with mundane information delivered as prosaically as she could. ‘The trouble with your being in the public domain is that we need to sort out people who might genuinely have known you and now wish to renew a relationship and those who truly believe you know them but are deluding themselves.’

  ‘I don’t want to end up like Jill Dando, dead on my own doorstep!’ Dilly’s voice rose and cracked.

  ‘Of course you don’t. And we won’t let anything like that happen,’ Fran declared with a confidence she wasn’t sure she felt. ‘Now, is there any chance you could go and stay with a friend for a bit? Someone you really trust?’ She didn’t suggest Dilly’s fiancé. What would be interesting was if Dilly herself did. ‘No one from work?’ A series of headshakes. ‘OK, then – I’d like one of my crime prevention colleagues to check over your home, just to make sure it’s got maximum security.’

  ‘You mean he might try and break in? And rape me? Kill me?’ Her voice rose towards hysteria.

  Fran might have been Dixon of Dock Green. ‘We haven’t got that far, Dilly, not by any means. None of his letters has contained anything like a threat, and this one merely hints at him making an effort to see you. But I’d rather we didn’t take any risks. Come on, there must be someone you could stay with?’ In desperation she continued, ‘Your fiancé? You have told him about all this?’

  ‘He’s at work all day.’

  In other words, no. ‘So are you. Though it might be safer if you stayed in the TVInvicta offices and didn’t go out to cover stories. That way you’re always with colleagues, and security seems pretty tight. So long as someone always walks you to your car.’

  Dilly opened her mouth to object, to point out her professional obligations, just as Fran herself would have done.

  ‘And if you do have to do an outside broadcast, at least you’ll have a cameraman with you.’ Fran took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to have to talk to Daniel about this, Dilly. He’s your fiancé: he’d want to know, and probably deserves to.’

  ‘No. I’d rather deal with this on my own. Without bothering him.’ Terror had given way to mulishness. What on earth drove this woman?

  ‘Love brings responsibilities as well as rights, you know. Wouldn’t you want to know if anything was troubling him? Would it help if I were with you?’

  ‘I don’t want him involved. He’s a very busy man. Very pressured.’

  ‘How pressured?’

  Dilly narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not suspecting him, now, are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Whom would you prefer me to suspect? Have you forgotten to tell me about any short-term relationships that went sour? You need to trust me. You really do. I’ll be totally discreet.’

  Pound shook her head.

  ‘Flirtations? I know we’ve been through this before, but what about young men at Kent University? Fellow students? Tutors? Any young man you might have lost touch with.’

  Dilly got up with something approaching a flounce. ‘You’re trying to get me to do your work for you. I thought detectives were supposed to do the detecting!’

  Fran spread her hands. ‘All I have is computer-generated letters printed by laser-printer, inserted into self-seal envelopes with lick-free stamps. London postmarks. One Ashford postmark. I don’t have an awful lot to start detecting with. Do I?’ She ended with a friendly, supportive smile that might just soften her exasperation.

  ‘I’ll forget the whole thing then.’

  ‘That’s like telling a burglar to carry on helping himself. Stalking is as much a violation of your privacy as a teenager helping himself to your jewellery.’

  ‘And you’re violating it more. A friend of mine was raped. She said telling the police about it over and over again was as bad as the rape.’

  ‘Did she go ahead with the prosecution?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just interested. Did she?’

  ‘He got life.’

  ‘So he won’t be raping any other women for a bit. Does that make her feel more or less safe?’

  For answer Dilly sat down again.

  And as if on cue Tom returned.

  Dilly, not expecting the knock, might have been shot. Fran laid a calming hand on her shoulder and popped out.

  ‘It all hangs together, like, guv,’ he reported, very obviously not peering round the door. ‘Except he seems to have forgotten a few days’ leave before the course started. He spent a long weekend with the course tutor and his wife, just a holiday like, then a couple of days working, they said, at the British Library.’

  ‘Oh.’ Try how she might, she couldn’t keep the monosyllable neutral.

  ‘Do you want me to sniff around any more? Only DCI Tanner’s back.’

  ‘Leave it for now. And say nowt to no one, eh?’

  She schooled her face back into what she hoped was an expression of quiet confidence and returned to her office. Dilly was leaning against the window, as if the view of the car park might inspire her. Perhaps it did. ‘Do you really insist on talking to Daniel?’

  ‘Not “talking” as in “interrogating”. And you could be there, if you wanted.’

  Dilly’s nod was surprisingly firm. ‘I do want,’ she said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Closer, closer. Love is as strong as death; jealousy is as cruel as the grave.

  Daniel McDine, thickset, with a shaven head, designer spectacles and a strong Estuary accent, was not Fran’s idea of how a deputy head should look or sound, but then, she’d been educated in days before senior teachers were jetted from one establishment to another in search of general educational – and personal financial – success. His government spokesman-like air of controlled truculence in a very pricey suit put her off immediately. Dilly had certainly chosen a different type of man to love this time, even though he was probably the same age as Stephen, possibly even older. Ever since they’d been introduced he’d been chuntering about being made to leave work early. He’d promised to arrive no later than three-thirty but it had been four-fifteen when he’d finally arrived. Since then, he’d taken three or four calls on his mobile; in exasperation, she’d told him to turn it off.

  Now they were all sitting together in Dilly’s late Victorian cottage, which would probably be described by an agent as bijou, with its downstairs bathroom and low ceilings, but to Fran’s mind was poky, more probably built for labourers rather than artisans. The front garden was long, with a parking space large enough for two cars just off the road. The back was more of a yard, but protected by a blessedly high wall, which some previous owner, uninhibited by today’s laws against hurting people trying to intrude into your property, had garnished with a liberal dressing of broken glass. A few tips from Crime Prevention, and Dilly’s little castle would have an adequate moat and drawbridge.

  But not a Lord of the Demesne. Not until that vague wedding sometime in the future. For his visit, Dilly had donned a solitaire engagement ring. Now why didn’t she usually wear it? The diamond certainly wouldn’t weigh her down. There was also less make-up in evidence and, knees bolted together as she perched on the edge of her own tiny sofa, she was as subdued as she’d been after Fran’s verbal assault b
ack in Maidstone.

  McDine himself passed round coffee and biscuits, neither very good. Then he sank heavily on the sofa beside his intended, leaning back against the squabs and picking up her left hand and turning the ring repeatedly. It might have been the mute switch for all she joined in the subsequent conversation.

  ‘What I can’t understand is someone at your level bothering with something as trivial as this,’ he told Fran.

  ‘Firstly, I don’t view stalking as trivial. Secondly, it’s up to my senior officers who is allocated to which case.’ She thought the idea of a hierarchy might appeal to him.

  ‘Even so – surely there’s some unit or other devoted to women’s problems.’

  ‘Like menstruation or the menopause?’ she flashed back. ‘Ah, you mean rape!’ She leaned forward, just controlling the urge to jab a finger at him in emphasis. ‘Believe you me, Mr McDine, rape can affect male victims even more deeply than it does female. As for stalkers, we get our fair share of women illegally pursuing men.’

  To her surprise, he came back for more. ‘Jactitation of marriage?’

  She burst out laughing. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard that term since my college days.’

  He stared. ‘Which college?’

  ‘Oh, Bramshill, I dare say. It certainly wouldn’t have been part of my OU doctorate.’ Let him stuff those facts up his academic backside and spin on them. Her title was something she very rarely used, except, as in the present circumstances, to inhibit someone wishing to patronise her.

  Dilly sat observing the exchange open-mouthed: apparently verbal jousting was something Daniel discouraged.

  He might have been bloodied, but he was unbowed. ‘You’re not some run-of-the-mill bobby, then.’ He flicked immaculate trouser legs. She reckoned his suit must have cost at least as much as Mark’s, but his search for fashion had put him into a high-chested Italian jacket that made him look like a pouter pigeon.

  ‘On the contrary, I believe the police recruit the highest proportion of graduates of any major employer. So you’ll find a whole swathe of Inspector Doctor Dixons of Dock Green. Or you would if we used all our titles as the Germans do. Now, Mr McDine, we’re here not to expound on the academic abilities of my colleagues but to discuss how we can improve your fiancée’s personal safety: she was very keen to have your input.’ Damn, she’d gone too far.