Cold Pursuit

by Judith Cutler

  ‘No, sir. We don’t, sir. So I shall get my team on to this immediately,’ he added, more positive and enthusiastic with every syllable. It had clearly dawned on him that it was, after all, the Chief Constable he was addressing.

  Fran’s mouth was twitching with amusement. Mark had a feeling she dared not catch his eye, any more than he risked catching hers.

  Could the others feel the electricity sizzling between them? He hoped not. All he dared do was nod with professional sagacity. What he wanted was to whip her back to his office and make love to her. Since that wasn’t an option, he’d bloody well take her shopping on the way home and buy her the modern equivalent of a new hat. Or would do if they weren’t both working late on this case. What had fired him up as it had fired her? Surely more than the thrill of the chase.

  ‘I’d rather we kept back the news about our “celebrity”,’ Fran put in, as the two DCs left the room. ‘Just treat it as an anonymous lead for now. But copy me in on every scrap of information about Jim Holden. Everything.’

  ‘The way you’ve kept me informed?’ Farmer asked sourly.

  It was a pity for him he wasn’t out of earshot. The Chief said nothing, but sighed heavily, catching Mark’s eye and looking heavenwards. And he would be the one to chair the interview panel when the post was ratified.

  Mark wondered how Farmer would react to a word in his ear? In the spirit in which it was meant or simply as a grouse from a colleague’s lover?

  Farmer continued his downbeat mode in the privacy of his own office. ‘There’s nothing about a Jim or James Holden on any of the computer databases.’

  Fran breathed out very gently. ‘Chummie’s DNA isn’t on record, either,’ she reminded him. ‘Indulge me, Joe. Let’s just go with this until he’s out of the frame. Let’s bring him in and talk to him, very low key.’

  ‘We don’t want him suing us for wrongful arrest.’

  Was this why the investigation had dragged? Because the poor man was so afraid he was going to get blots on his copybook that he didn’t dare take risks?

  She smiled. ‘Bring in those two new DCIs and tell them I’m having a brainstorm and to indulge me. Tom Arkwright’s up to speed on the stalking case. And as you know Jon Binns has been burdened with my thoughts on this one. So I think they should be involved, too. Let’s bring in DC Whatshername – Sue something. Bright lass. Lots of auburn hair.’

  ‘Do you mean DC Hall, by any chance?’

  She ignored the sarcasm. ‘That’s the one. I told you how committed she was. No need to involve the whole unit unless things get interesting. My responsibility, Joe. If everything goes pear-shaped, you can blame it on the whim of an aged old biddy, and when I retire you can tell everyone it was about time too. No need for you to lose face.’ If she expected him to protest, he didn’t. Old, was she? She’d show him.

  ‘The new DCI has insisted on a profiler, by the way.’

  She gasped.

  ‘Oh, he’s come up with the usual wishy-washy psychology. Problem childhood, unusual relations with women, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Nothing more specific?’

  ‘To tie him in with your suspect? Well, he’s probably got two eyes and a nose, hasn’t he?’

  She stopped herself punching either her colleague or the air. But she wanted to do both. Celebrate she must. If she had time, she’d take time out after work to buy some truly sexy undies. No better way to celebrate than with an evening doing what she and Mark did best.

  But the work must come first.

  Jon Binns had had Holden’s personnel details faxed over. ‘A lot of blanks in the CV,’ he reported to the cabal in Fran’s office. Everyone else must know something was up, just from the sudden scurrying around, but they would have to wait.

  ‘Let’s hear what you have got,’ Fran suggested.

  ‘Jim Holden. Born West Bromwich, 1950,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose someone’s got to be,’ Tom interjected, like an excited puppy.

  She frowned him down.

  ‘Educated at Bristnall Hall Secondary Modern, Chance Tech, Gosta Green College of Advanced Technology. A variety of qualifications. Lots of jobs in industry, most in car factories. Period at what became MG Rover. Car crash in the Eighties. Off work for some years.’

  ‘Years!’ Fran interjected. ‘Must have been a bad smash.’

  ‘Worth checking if there was any other reason for his not working, ma’am?’ Sue Hall put in. ‘Such as prison?’

  ‘Of course. But the crash might have been bad enough. Any more, Jon?’

  ‘Starts picking up qualifications again, mostly non-vocational, hobby-type subjects. French, Spanish. Creative writing.’

  Tom whistled. ‘Bloody hell.’

  They exchanged a huge grin.

  ‘Tell them, Tom. Just remember, everyone, that this is highly confidential.’

  ‘Dilly Pound—’

  ‘Hang on,’ Sue Hall interrupted. ‘That’s the reporter who was so persistent at your news conference, right? And the one who interviewed you for TVInvicta when you were assaulted?’

  ‘Good-looking woman,’ Jon nodded.

  ‘OK for a bit of arm candy,’ Tom said, ‘but not all that much between the ears, like. Anyway, some bugger’s been stalking her – sending anonymous letters pretty well every day and maybe doing other things – and she asked the guvnor here for help. You can’t say she’s been exactly forthcoming and helpful, but she managed to dredge up the names of some men from her past. And it seems she fancied writing a bit of poetry, like, and turned up at a creative writing class too.’

  Jon smiled, the lovely long smile of a man solving a crossword puzzle clue. ‘Where she met our friend Jim Holden. Ah, ha!’

  But Tom was shaking his head. ‘Doesn’t work, guv. All the letters to Dilly were posted in London, remember. And if he was living in—?’

  ‘Canterbury,’ Jon said, running his finger down the record sheet.

  ‘—And working full time, like, he couldn’t have posted them. Not if he was popping up all over Kent to assault young girls.’

  Fran felt herself deflate. But for the sake of the others she mustn’t be seen to let go. ‘Let’s just forget that, just for a minute.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am,’ Sue said, ‘you can’t just ask someone to post what were presumably quite unpleasant letters for you. They’d ask questions. Especially if it was every day.’

  She shook her head as if they were importunate insects. ‘Maybe he could.’ But she couldn’t see how, not just yet. It was there, wasn’t it, tucked into some part of her brain?

  But Tom rushed in. ‘Maybe he’s got an accomplice who shares the thrills. Maybe they’re in cahoots over the assault business too.’

  ‘Hence Chummie’s ability to pop up all over the bloody county?’ Jon murmured.

  ‘Yes!’ Sue joined in. ‘What do we know of Holden’s personal circumstances? Is he married?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘No record at any point. Mind you, people don’t always, do they?’

  People like her and Mark. She didn’t want to be soiled by analogy. But she said, she hoped without missing a beat, ‘Check, please. Live-in lover; mother; maiden aunt; whatever.’

  ‘It would figure if whoever it was has recently been taken ill, wouldn’t it?’ Sue Hall said. ‘So he lost his post person and had to stay in to care for him or her?’

  Where had she dug that up from? It was a hell of a leap of logic.

  But reluctantly, Sue was shaking her head. ‘But that wouldn’t work. Whoever it was would see the same name on the same letter day after day and start asking questions.’

  ‘Unless,’ Fran said quietly, the idea surfacing at last as the memory of her encounter in Canterbury, ‘whoever posts the letters can’t see the address on the envelope. What if his post person is blind?’ She could feel the atmosphere chill. The guvnor had clearly lost it, hadn’t she? ‘OK. Let’s call a halt now. No point in speculating, not when there are hard facts out there. Jon, to Wa
tchbrief, or whatever they call themselves. Sue and Tom, off to his home address. Tact,’ she added, nodding to Joe Farmer, ‘is the order of the day. If you think a search is called for, get the warrant first. We’ll play this absolutely by the book.’

  To her amazement Farmer looked at his watch. ‘It’s after five already, but it’d be nice to do as much as we can tonight. I’ll get overtime authorised,’ he said. ‘Now, remember to keep it low key.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll remember,’ Fran said dourly.

  Everyone, Farmer to Hall, stared.

  ‘I’ve earned this last collar,’ she said.

  She should be ashamed of herself, muscling in on the youngsters’ fun like this. Truly, deeply ashamed. And part of her was. Mostly she felt the old exhilaration – she wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

  The traffic was heavy, and the rain sheeting down, so she was glad to let Tom take responsibility for driving. He and Sue exchanged a prolonged banter. Dilly Pound, eat your heart out. So she sat quietly in the back, texting Mark to explain what she was up to and receiving a message in return:!!! LOL.

  Then a call.

  ‘Jill?’

  ‘Rob’s home,’ Jill said flatly. ‘Brian’s just picked him up from the station. Do you want me to bring him straight over?’

  ‘Actually, I’m out on a job. In any case, are you asking me as a police officer or as a friend?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘As an officer I’d like him grilled now. As a friend – and therefore a nice cuddly human being – I’d suggest you all go out for a nice curry and talk family talk.’

  Jill snorted with laughter. ‘There’s only one problem with that. Can you tell me where in Ashford I can get a nice curry?’

  Jim Holden lived in a Victorian terraced house within spitting distance of Canterbury West Station, his work van parked twenty yards or so down the street. Someone had made an attempt to brighten grey pebble-dash with window boxes, but at this stage of the winter the pansies looked frowsty and bedraggled. The door was painted the most vivid yellow she’d ever seen outside a children’s fairytale book.

  She nodded at the entry. ‘Tom, just make sure he doesn’t try the back door route, would you?’

  ‘Ah. The ginnel probably runs two ways, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The what?’

  He pointed.

  ‘You foreigners!’ Sue laughed. ‘You mean the back alley!’

  Fran joined in the laughter, but looked at her watch. ‘Come on, we’re not here to discuss the vagaries of dialect.’

  Sue Hall knocked the front door, doing the honours when a middle-aged man appeared. He peered from one to the other, and finally, without saying anything, stepped back, letting them in. His appearance was as anonymous as it could be: greyish skin, greyish hair, greyish clothes. And spectacles with lenses that darkened as the light hit them.

  The front door opened into a tiny vestibule, with another door, complete with a rather fine stained glass insert, only six feet or so from the first. So they processed in single file past a closed door into a good-sized living room, presumably with a kitchen and possibly a bathroom beyond. The fireplace might have been original; the ceiling rose certainly was. There were bookshelves either side of the chimney-breast, one side occupied not by books but by individual audio-tapes and complete audio-books. The Bible – Authorised Version; Shakespeare; Dickens; modern crime fiction – someone had catholic tastes. To Fran’s mind the walls called out for mirrors or paintings, but they were bare. There was an expensive sound system, but no TV. Fran’s heart considered sinking. By the look of her, Sue’s already had.

  Fran smiled, ‘No television, Mr Holden?’

  ‘This is my sister’s room,’ he said, as if that explained everything. ‘Bigger than mine. Tidier.’

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘Eve? Still on the train home, I should think. Her first day back at work. She’s had the flu – very nasty.’

  ‘Perhaps we should be talking in yours, then. Because we wanted to ask you about what you watched on TV. Or more precisely, who.’

  There was no sign of guilt, let alone panic.

  ‘Shall we look, Mr Holden?’

  ‘If you want.’ He gestured back to the tiny entrance hall and the room off it. As he said it was small, but equally tidy, with a crucifix on the chimney breast and another Bible on the mantelpiece. If she’d hoped for pictures of Dilly to cover the wall, she was disappointed. But there was a laptop closed on table below the laden bookshelf nearer the window, with a printer on the floor beneath. A plasma TV screen dominated the further alcove. It must be clearly visible from the street. Another day and she might have given him a lecture on crime prevention.

  ‘Tell me what you watch on TV,’ she said gently.

  ‘Not very much. I’m not at home much. I work a lot of overtime.’

  She felt less sympathetic. ‘So you don’t watch the news? On TVInvicta?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Was he genuinely naïve or busy pulling wool? ‘To renew your acquaintance with a fellow student. Dilly Pound.’

  He smiled reminiscently. ‘Delia’s a much nicer name. Dilly! Where did they think that one up? These media types.’

  ‘So you’ve been writing to her, have you?’ Sue asked.

  He nodded. ‘I keep hoping for a reply.’

  ‘I think you’ll find, Jim, it helps if you put your address on the paper,’ Sue observed, her irony earning a minute shake of the head from her boss. ‘Which reminds me, what brought you down here? A long way from home, aren’t you?’

  ‘I got made redundant. MG Rover. I’d got a job in security, when they said I was fit to work. Rover went belly up. My sister was always on at me to move down here. And I thought, why not? And then I saw Delia!’ His face lit up.

  Candy from baby time. She let Sue carry on. ‘On the local or the national news?’

  ‘Both, of course. I was so proud of her when she was being broadcast all over the country, I had to write to her.’

  ‘You wrote letters, not poems?’ Sue demanded.

  ‘She didn’t like my poems. She used to laugh at them, the way they rhymed. I don’t use rhymes any more.’

  ‘Where do you get your ideas for writing now?’

  He turned and patted the Bible. ‘And Shakespeare. And,’ he added, reaching a volume from the shelves, ‘DH Lawrence. They say he’s out of fashion these days, but I still read him. I suppose it’s a Midlands thing.’

  Sue didn’t get involved in lit crit. ‘Before you saw Dilly on national TV you did nothing? Even though you knew where she was working?’ she persisted.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more.’

  ‘That’s a shame, because we’d like you to come along to Police Headquarters to talk about it. Shall I leave Eve a note?’

  He turned on her with something like exasperation. ‘If you did, how would she read it? She’s blind, officer. Blind.’

  Sue gasped audibly.

  Fran raised a minatory eyebrow and took over, still speaking gently, reasonably. ‘So how would you let her know if you were going out? Phone? Or would you rather talk a bit more here? We could have a cup of tea, if you want one? Sue, can you oblige?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no. Everything has to be just so. If you start messing about in the kitchen and leaving things in the wrong places it’ll really mess up her system.’

  ‘OK, no tea, then,’ Fran agreed. ‘Now, Jim, we know you’ve sent Dilly some letters and some flowers. They were gorgeous, by the way. You must have spent a lot of money on them.’

  ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, that’s what my grandma used to say.’

  ‘And you went to London for them?’

  ‘Eve wanted me to go with her for some hospital appointment. Women’s troubles,’ he added.

  ‘But you didn’t want them to arrive that day?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if she’d like them. I thought I could always cancel. But w
hen I saw the way she smiled at me I knew it’d be OK.’

  Oh, dear. Would he be fit to answer formal questions? Would he be fit to plead when the trial came up?

  ‘And you wore masks when you were looking through her windows,’ Sue said, obviously trying not to glace in triumph at Fran. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Look at me, officer. I’m no oil-painting. I didn’t want to put her off, did I?’

  Sue looked at her in anguish. Was he really as off beam as this?

  ‘Where did you buy them?’

  ‘Shop local, that’s me. Down the road – the place near the Cathedral. But I only wore them at night. A lot of people wear them to party in, don’t they?’

  ‘So when you followed her during the day, you didn’t bother? Tell me, Jim, why did the CCTV cameras never pick you up?’

  ‘Chance, I suppose,’ he said doubtfully.

  As if.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see her again – renew our relationship, you might say,’ he said, confident again.

  Fran might, if there’d ever been a relationship.

  ‘The trouble is, Jim, she didn’t want to renew your acquaintance. She didn’t like all your visits and letters. Pestering someone like that is called stalking, and it’s against the law. And,’ Fran added, suspecting the innocent bewilderment in his face was entirely feigned, ‘I think you know it is. Otherwise why did you post all the letters in London?’

  ‘Oh, that wasn’t me. That was Eve.’

  She really ought to get the FME to check him over to see if he was fit enough to be questioned. ‘Did she know what she was posting?’

  ‘Of course not! She wouldn’t have liked the idea of my having a young lady in case it upset our living arrangements. It may well, of course.’

  Sue smothered a giggle.

  ‘Competition entries or bills – that was what she thought they were.’

  ‘Jim, stalking’s quite a serious offence, you know. Have you got a solicitor whom you could talk to? Because there are one or two other things we want to talk to you about, too. When Eve comes home. And we’ll be applying for a search warrant.’

  ‘You will remember to put everything back exactly where you found it? I don’t want Eve to fall over anything.’