‘Supposed to be good for the cardio-vascular system,’ she remarked. ‘And certainly better than computer games.’
‘You don’t want to go and remonstrate with them for breaking the bye-laws?’
‘Emphatically not. Not unless you really, really, really think I ought to go and ask them if they’ve seen Rob?’
‘I think one of us ought. No, it’d better be me. You’ve had your share of teenage violence.’
He was out of the car before she could argue, affecting a casual slouch he’d never have permitted himself in everyday life. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against a chill wind the kids seemed oblivious to, he retrieved a board as it shot from under some hapless lad, offering a suddenly avuncular hand as he crumpled at his knees.
The others swarmed around the fallen hero. Fran herself was ready to call an ambulance. But soon he was on his feet, ostentatiously pulling his hoodie around his face, and apparently giving Mark lip. He responded by raising a placatory hand, and she could see his lips moving.
Suddenly she couldn’t move for terror. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. What if they knifed Mark? What if they aimed for that enticingly vulnerable area of shirt front? She was halfway out of the car when he turned towards her. No dark patch of blood. No fingers clutching an entry wound. She gibbered with relief as he returned to his seat and fastened his seat belt.
‘They said they’d last seen him at school. Two hours or more ago. There was something else, though, a tiny look there, a nuance here… Get on the radio, would you, and ask for anyone in the area to have a look.’ He set off with a spurt of gravel that made the kids turn in apparent admiration.
‘All we’re after is a little sod who smokes pot and may have had a row with his mother,’ she pointed out.
‘I just have this feeling, sweetheart – indulge me. It’s a long time since I had feelings like this.’
‘Feel away,’ she said, ‘so long as you don’t have to indulge in heroics. Not part of your job description. You’re supposed to do boring things behind desks.’
In the event, they were called on to do nothing. There was no sign of anyone at the school, cleaning staff apart. They joined the uniformed constables rooting behind the bike shelters and bus stops. At last, cold and hungry, Mark gathered everyone together and called it a day.
‘Hang on,’ she said, suddenly catching his anxiety, as they returned to the car, ‘let’s get a call through to A and E at the William Harvey. Just in case.’
Nothing.
She rubbed her face. ‘So why are we so worried about a rotten kid who’s probably doing the round of local fences to off-load his mother’s silverware?’
‘Of course he is! And do you know what? I don’t even know who the local fences are any more!’
‘Me neither. But I’ll bet I know a man who does.’
Knowing Tom would be otherwise engaged all weekend, for a while Fran toyed with going to Sunday morning service at St Jude’s to speak to the vicar about the Alpha Course members. But tact and discretion were called for, and charging up to the poor clergywoman in front of the whole congregation and possibly even the perpetrator himself was neither tactful nor discreet. She would just have to hope Tom remembered to phone the vicar between Saturday weddings.
So how could she fill a whole weekend without work? Even now, she felt she ought to be in transit to Devon, just as she’d spent practically every weekend for the past few years, cooking or gardening for her aged parents. Now Pa was dead, and Ma, under the beady eyes of her elder daughter, Hazel, had retired to a Scottish care home where she passed her days telling the staff what they were doing wrong, an activity so important she viewed Fran’s visits as an irritating interruption. So apart from occasional and irregular flights to see her, Fran’s time was pretty much her own.
Without Mark the void would have been terrifying. As it was, he had to put his foot down firmly as Fran embarked on frantic spring-cleaning sessions, either at her own home or at his. These days he tended to plan outings, even to local Kent beauty spots neither had seen for years because of work or family commitments. And now, of course, there was the thrill of the chase, in house-hunting terms at least.
And today there was Jill to visit. To her shame, Fran felt the same stomach-clench of apprehension as she’d always felt on the drive to Devon. Mark chickened out, opting instead to be dropped off at Ashford nick to talk to the duty CID inspector about stolen silverware. In any case, it would have been hard to look informal and supportive with the two of them sitting in Jill’s living room.
When she arrived, Brian was running the vac round the rest of the house. Of the kids there was no sign. She’d have put money on Tash being already up and doing something sporty, and Rob still lying somnolent in bed.
Jill looked far worse than she had the previous day, with more bruises coming out and a sort of limp exhaustion that Fran had never seen before. Her smile was decidedly wan.
Fran hardened her heart. ‘If it were you visiting me and me lying there,’ she began awkwardly, ‘you’d be itching to ask me about the accident, wouldn’t you? Did she fall or was she pushed, that sort of question. And what answer would you expect?’
‘I fell down the stairs, Fran,’ Jill said with a challenging lift of her head.
‘Of course you did. And in what circumstances?’
‘We went through this yesterday. All the clever questioning in the world won’t get me to say anything different.’
Fran didn’t doubt her. Brian had dusted the trophy shelf, and there was no sign of the circular patches. She fancied he’d rearranged the silver too to fill the gaps.
‘Did Rob get home all right? I know Tash was worried about him.’
There was a minute pause. ‘He’s growing up. She doesn’t like the extra freedom he gets. I know you had the worry of your sick parents, Fran, but you’ve never had kids. You wouldn’t understand these things.’
Any other time or person, Fran would have gone into orbit with fury. Unfortunately, anger made her more tenacious. ‘I certainly wouldn’t understand letting someone get away with domestic violence. Or with nicking my tennis trophies to feed his drugs habit.’
Jill flushed. ‘Get out!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Fran said. ‘It’s either me or Joe Farmer you need to talk to. The troops have noticed the smell of pot on your clothes. There’s open gossip about it. I’d bet my pension it isn’t you who’s using. I don’t want to accuse anyone, just protect you!’
Now Jill paled. ‘People think I’ve got a habit?’
‘No. They say you’re not well and can smell pot on your clothes. They put two and two together and made half a dozen. When I did it I came up with a different total. That it was Rob, about whom you were obviously concerned when we talked just the other day, who was smoking it. And it’s worry about him that’s making you take your eye off the ball at work. And no, before you say anything, this isn’t management harassment of a sick colleague. This is entirely off the record, just Fran talking to Jill. And I’m happy to talk equally off the record to Rob. You know, aged auntie sort of stuff. But I wouldn’t do more than pass the time of day with him without your permission, Jill. You know that.’ There was no response, so she persisted, ‘Is he happy at school, do you know?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘People often take drugs because they’re unhappy. Or, in the case of kids, because of peer group pressure. And that must make a lad from a decent home very anxious. What does a bully like more than an anxious schoolmate?’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll leave you now. Talk to Brian about what I’ve said. And to Rob, if you can. And if all else fails, call the fifth cavalry, and Auntie Fran’ll be here like a shot.’ She bent to kiss Jill’s cheek, but the younger woman pulled away.
‘Just get out.’
Brian came downstairs as she stepped into the hall. How much had he overheard?
Trying to keep her voice normal, Fran said, ‘She’s very shocked, still, isn’t she? Keep he
r away from work as long as you can, eh, Brian? Chain her to the sofa if you have to. Now, the Occupational Health people will soon be descending on her – they have to, when anyone’s likely to be off work for some time. And they’ll make sure she’s on light duties until she’s one hundred per cent fit.’ She was being craven, wasn’t she? So she added, ‘And if you think there’s something wrong with Rob, or you suspect something’s bothering him, I’m here to help. Bullying, for instance. Or drugs.’
Before he could do more than lean forward confidentially and open his mouth, the living room door opened and Jill shuffled to join them, preferring the support of the wall to her crutches. ‘I told you, get out. Stop poking your nose in. Just go.’
Brian looked from one woman to the other, gaping. ‘We were only saying the other day—’
‘Shut up. How many times do I have to tell you to leave?’
Fran stood her ground. ‘For God’s sake, Jill, some senior officers would blame you for letting him smoke pot on your premises. It’s a criminal offence, after all. But I’m your mate. Can’t you trust me to do a damage limitation exercise?’
‘You’ve no proof—’
‘But Brian’s got suspicions.’ He’d turned away guiltily. ‘Isn’t that enough? Please, just talk to each other, and to Rob. And when you’re ready, just pick up the phone.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Just as Mark was reaching for their Sunday night malt whisky, she had a text message. How like the young to choose a nice swift medium that the middle-aged needed their reading glasses to decipher. ‘It’s Tash. Natasha, I suppose. What looks like a website address. Nothing else.’
Abandoning the crystal glasses – Mark liked to make the nightcap an event – they switched on Mark’s computer, tapping in the website address almost idly. To get snow. Electronic snow, at least. He peered closer. Then leaned back. In irritation, she whipped off her reading glasses and handed them to him. Unable now of course to see herself, she pointed to the screen.
‘Password access only,’ Mark said.
‘Irritating to know all those little scrotes can access whatever’s here just like this,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘while we’re locked out. And if we play round with passwords, it’ll probably exclude us permanently. At least Tom and his mates should be able to sort it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s a bit late tonight.’
‘Surely it’ll keep till tomorrow morning.’
‘I suppose. And if our home grown geeky lads can’t suss it, there’s always the forensic computer scientists – if the budget will stretch that far?’ She eyed him hopefully.
Before he could respond, her phone sounded again. Another text, again from Natasha. This one said, ‘No Rob whole weekend.’
‘She must be worried to abbreviate so little,’ she said, trying to return the call and failing. She left a message asking for more details, and a request to phone back ASAP. ‘Do I phone Jill now or leave it till tomorrow?’
‘Neither, not after your reception yesterday. If she wants to report him missing, she’ll do it to the proper people.’
‘But he’s…and on Friday you were worried enough to drive round all the unlovely parts of Ashford looking for him.’
‘Not all, surely. OK, OK. And I admit I was worried enough to talk to Ashford nick about the missing silverware. But there’s a fine line between being there in time of trouble and interfering. You’ll kick yourself if you cross it.’
Sometimes she wished she were young enough to see anything to do with a computer as a manageable challenge, not as a matter of ill-suppressed terror. Tom and Harbijan Singh, who was about thirty, Tom’s age, and one of the few Sikh officers Fran had come across in the Kent force, looked like children offered another Christmas when, sitting in Jill’s office at eight on Monday morning, she gave them the details.
‘Probably nothing too tricky,’ Tom said with the cheerful air of someone whose weekend has been a marked success. ‘Only schoolkids, after all.’
Harbijan gave a polite smile, which showed quite clearly that he disagreed. When prompted with raised eyebrows and a grin, he said, ‘Oh, my kid brother can beat me hollow, ma’am, at anything to do with computers.’
‘If you think it’s too problematic, then, get it straight to the forensic computer scientists – I’d rather you didn’t waste your time or bugger up the task. On the other hand, you could always draft your brother in, Harbijan.’
‘I doubt if the budget would run to him, ma’am. He’s already designed and sold his own computer games – his royalties are way over my pay cheque.’
They were returning to the Incident Room when she called Tom back. ‘Your weekend’s protection duties,’ she prompted.
‘Went very well, thanks, guv. Until her poxy fiancé turned up and got very snotty with me. And with her. I wanted to smack his head. So did Dilly. Eventually she went off to his place with him.’
‘When would that be?’
‘Sunday breakfast. He dragged her off to church. And made it quite clear she’d spend the rest of the day at his place.’
‘Well, they are engaged.’
‘Not engaged enough for him to invite her to stay the night. Just enough to snarl when one of my housemates said our spare room was always available. And there’s a funny thing, like. You know the Post Office is redirecting all her mail here? There’s been nothing since Friday. When those knickers turned up at TVInvicta. Nothing Saturday or today.’
‘Really?’
‘Perhaps the bloody pervert’s run out of quotations. Or he can’t gift wrap a machete. Do you want me to phone them to make sure no one’s slipped up and let anything through to TVInvicta?’
She grimaced. ‘That doesn’t require brains; the computer stuff does. In any case, I’m going across to Canterbury to talk to the vicar of St Jude’s, so I can pop in and check up for myself.’
He nodded. Almost as an afterthought he asked, ‘What about you, guv? How was your weekend? See DCI Tanner, did you? I hope you sent her our best. I’m organising a bit of a whip-round, by the way. I suppose I couldn’t touch you for a quid?’
Fishing out a couple of tenners, she said, ‘If it looks a poor haul, let me know.’
He removed an A4 envelope from a pile in a filing stack and tucked the notes inside. ‘How’s the house hunting?’
She smiled in recollection. ‘We found a lovely black and white timbered house near Hythe. Right in the middle of our range. Perfect in every way. Except right next door, and I mean right next door, is a used car lot. Cars all over the verge everywhere. And loud music from a ghetto-blaster meant to help a bored lad valet the things. Perfect.’
‘You’ll find the right place one day soon. You mark my words. OK, guv, we’ll have this sorted by lunchtime, with a bit of luck.’
As she left, Acting Detective Chief Superintendent Joe Farmer was deep in conversation with Jon Binns, the DI she’d briefed to check CCTV installers. Farmer was shaking his head so emphatically in disagreement she decided it would make Binns’ life a lot easier if she put off talking to him till she’d got back from St Jude’s.
Why the silence from Chummie? Yes, it was only a couple of days, but he’d not missed a single one before. And this business with an Ashford-based courier? On impulse, she turned back and asked the nearest DC how the sexual assault tally was going. It was still rising, apparently, with an especially frightening attack in a village just outside Canterbury on Thursday.
‘The victim didn’t get a chance to ID him or anything like that. And there’s no CCTV, of course. And no mobile reception, so she couldn’t dial 999. She ran home and her brothers were so furious they went looking for him and totally messed the scene. So nothing new – except it’s definitely the same man. He left a hair on her coat.’
‘Nothing since?’
‘Not with the same MO. But there has been something else. The Acting DCS is going to make an announcement.’
So why hadn’t the bugger chosen to tell her? Was there time to wri
ng his neck now? But apparently he was in with the Chief, so she’d better restrain herself. It wasn’t her case, after all. Was it?
Canterbury had some of the oldest and most beautiful churches in the country, possibly the world, Fran amended generously, and she was quite looking forward to seeing this example. It would make a welcome contrast to poor St Philip’s, back in the Midlands. But as she got deeper into the sadder side of the city, out to the east, she became less optimistic. With a sinking heart, she saw a Fifties concrete bunker mercifully half covered by a wind-torn Alpha Course banner. Yes, that was St Jude’s. What perversity made Dilly and Daniel come here when they could have worshipped in any number of inspiring buildings?
Perhaps the answer lay in the priest in charge. Kicking herself for not phoning ahead, or even getting the number from Tom, Fran tried to decipher the number from the notice board, so thickly sprayed with graffiti that hardly any of the original colour was visible. As she keyed it into her mobile, however, a woman materialised at her elbow.
‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but that’s a terribly posh looking piece of equipment to be waving round just here.’ She emphasised the point with a jut from a very solid jaw. In fact, everything about her seemed solid, reassuring in an auntish sort of way. Fran realised with a pang that that was much as others might see her. Auntish. When she felt seventeen inside.
Fran pocketed the mobile. ‘Leading into temptation, am I?’
‘Not me personally.’ She pronounced it pairsonally.
‘What’s brought a Glaswegian this far south?’
‘Work. Not just mine. His.’ She nodded her Pre-Raphaelite shock of rusting red hair at the church.
Cold Pursuit Page 16
