Still Waters

by Judith Cutler

  From the quality of Mark’s silence, she guessed immediately there was something wrong.

  ‘I found a memo addressed to the chief on my desk this morning, copied to me anonymously,’ he said at last. ‘Look, perhaps we should talk about this in my office.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I shan’t have a tantrum and I need to get back to the incident room in ten minutes. Let me guess: Gates has formally requested my return to Uniform? Knowing my opinion? The bastard. When I’m in the middle of a full-scale murder inquiry. Though I suppose if he sent the memo to the chief yesterday he wouldn’t know that, would he? What will you do?’

  He met her eye. ‘There’s only one thing for it – you’ll have to tackle the chief himself. I don’t think I can, since I wasn’t supposed to get the memo.’

  ‘But surely at the very least you should have been consulted? Crime’s not his purview! Only professional standards, corporate communications, and organisation and development. Not to mention,’ she added, relishing the polysyllabics, ‘change management, strategic planning, delivering best value and service improvement, service inspection and performance analysis. Crime’s still your bailiwick.’

  He raised a warning finger as her voice rose. ‘But he outranks me.’

  ‘This is a classic case of empire-building at someone else’s expense! Is he hoping to piss you off so much you retire too?’

  ‘I’m not sure he wants to be rid of you. Or me, to do him justice. The thing is, you’re popular and you’re bright and hard-working, so he may want to keep you on his bloody committees.’

  ‘I shall have to do something really bad, then, won’t I? Like forget to turn up. Or fall asleep and snore.’ She didn’t joke any more. ‘OK, the moment the chief gets back I shall be knocking on his door. Meanwhile, it’s business as usual, as far as I’m concerned. After all, neither of us has heard the news officially. Not from Gates’ mouth. Only from that memo. I wonder who leaked it…’

  ‘One of your fans, sweetheart, trusting me to do the decent thing. Actually, perhaps it’s no bad thing that Gates is off sick – if he’d been in the building I’d have shoved his damned note down his ungrateful little throat.’

  ‘It’s not his ingratitude that worries me,’ Fran protested, ‘but his incompetence and lousy priorities. I wonder what’s the matter with him.’

  ‘You mean in general or specifically?’ He shook his head, falling silent, as if trying to find a neutral topic. At last he said, ‘I wonder how long it’ll take them to flush out the reservoir.’

  ‘Long enough. But how they’ll ever get it clean enough, after all that’s gone into it—’ To her horror she found herself shuddering. Maybe she’d shudder every time she thought of it.

  He leant forward and clasped her hands.

  ‘No, don’t be kind or I shall cry. Lord, look at the time – I must be off. Don’t wait for me. I can pick up a pound car and come home when I’ve done all I can here.’ Disengaging her hands, she pushed away from the table.

  He shook his head firmly. ‘I’ve got plenty of reading here to catch up on. Just give me a bell when you’re ready.’

  And if that wasn’t enough, he stood up too, and in full view of all their colleagues gave her a kiss and a hug. There could be no doubt, then, to whose mast he was nailing his colours.

  According to plan, Friday morning saw Fran heading straight to Ashford and the William Harvey Hospital, to watch the post-mortem of what the media had promptly dubbed the Lady in the Lake and to discuss the findings with the new pathologist, about whom she knew nothing except the name, Dr Harris.

  Dr Millward, Harris’s predecessor, and Fran had been more or less contemporaries. Millward had had his own special way of involving the police presence at post-mortems, which consisted of getting the poor sap who was greenest to hold a vital instrument – worse, a vital organ – for him while he probed. His commentaries were equally idiosyncratic, full of outrageous blasphemy and a total denigration of the corpse’s previous lifestyle. Whether the bile within had matched the bile he so constantly vented, or for some other reason, Millward had suddenly succumbed to cancer, from diagnosis to death in two short weeks. Fran rather thought he’d known exactly what he was suffering from and had deliberately avoided seeking assistance – not a cure, since he’d know all too well that there was none available.

  Fran tapped at the half-open door of his replacement’s office. She found a young woman attractive enough to star in that TV series about pathologists, wearing her wellies as if they were Jimmy Choos and her overalls as if they were – Fran had forgotten who was supposed to be the latest designer for the young and size eight.

  Harris’s smile included a couple of dimples and immaculate teeth. Fran prepared to hate her.

  ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Harman? Come in. I’m Iona.’

  ‘Fran.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Such a pain of a first name,’ the younger woman said with a rueful smile.

  Fran was taken aback, but smiled encouragingly.

  ‘People always want to add something to it, instead of my surname. I own a bicycle; I own a car; I own a scalpel. Sometimes I think of abbreviating it to Ion, with a short O.’

  ‘Which gives just as many opportunities for merry quips, I should think,’ Fran said, starting, after all, to warm to her, ‘beginning with filings. I shortened mine to Fran because so many people expected a male Francis to turn up and were disappointed when it was a female Frances.’

  Issues of nomenclature out of the way, Fran and Iona turned to greet the new arrival, DCI Dan Coveney, who had just arrived, puffing slightly from the stairs.

  ‘Sorry. It’s been one of those mornings. First some prat had blocked me in, then the traffic was snarled up and then there were no parking slots left. Would anyone care for a mint? I know you always laugh,’ he told Dr Harris, who had rather ostentatiously refused one, ‘but I can’t watch a PM without my peppermint!’ He gave a nervous laugh.

  Fran believed him, accepting one herself while they donned their protective finery.

  At last Iona revealed their corpse, in all its pathetic glory. Normally Dan would have made all the notes the police considered necessary; today Fran augmented his with her own, jotting as Iona and her technician recorded each relevant observation.

  ‘Do you have any ID on her yet?’ Iona asked.

  Dan jumped in. ‘We’re routinely checking the MisPer records,’ he said. ‘And running a DNA check. But the guv’nor here thinks she recognises the lady.’

  ‘Lady!’ Iona repeated scathingly. She seemed to think there was no need to explain why the word had offended her.

  Fran, who rarely used it herself, said as if there had been no interruption, ‘There’s a chance she might be one Janine Roper, whose husband is currently in Maidstone jail for her murder. Would two to three years ago fit your time frame?’

  ‘Possibly. It depends on water and air temperature and so on.’

  ‘I’m sorry – I could have nipped into HQ first for a photo to show you.’ But she might have met the dreaded Gates.

  Iona waved aside the apology; clearly such old-fashioned things were irrelevant in her hi-tech world.

  ‘I’m hoping for an ID from her hubby,’ Dan put in.

  Even Fran winced.

  Iona stared. ‘Fucking hell! You want him to look at her? Like this?’

  ‘It might just provoke him into confessing,’ Fran said, ‘horrible though it would be. In any case, we’ve not been able to run to earth any relatives at all, despite all my team’s efforts last night. He’ll be cuffed and brought here and cuffed and taken away.’ And God knew what effect it would have on the poor grey little man.

  ‘But if he didn’t do it, think of the psychological trauma! Worse than being in jail for a crime he didn’t commit!’

  Fran nodded. Such an opinion from someone used to dealing in death must merit consideration.

  ‘But shocking him into a confession would be nice,’ Dan urged.

  Somehow h
is enthusiasm made Fran’s diminish. ‘I’m going to have to do it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’ll do it yourself?’

  Fran wasn’t sure of the drift of the young woman’s question. ‘Yes. With a younger colleague who seems to have a rapport with Roper,’ she added, lying through her teeth. If either of them had had a rapport with Roper, she thought it was herself. ‘You see, you can get rusty, after being deskbound. And every month psychologists come up with new techniques, new ideas for the best location for interviews, that sort of thing. Even the colour of the walls, would you believe. Amazing. And I wouldn’t want to let anyone down because I’m out of date.’

  It was clear none of this pleased Dan, who had no doubt registered that he was being pre-empted. So he made a little bid for power on his own account. ‘Doctorarris,’ he said, exposing another problem with her name the young woman was no doubt also aware of, ‘you’re probably more au fait with fashion than I am. Could you give a fair approximation of the date of her clothes?’

  ‘I’m into Oxfam chic.’ It was an unnecessarily firm put-down.

  What was the history here? She’d never found anything actively to dislike in Coveney, and had a very favourable impression of the young woman, but there was certainly a problem. It had better not interfere with their work together.

  Fran said, ‘I’d have thought the shoes might be helpful, Dan. Manufacturers change styles regularly, don’t they? Especially fashion shoes like those.’ Would she or Iona ever have sported such an extreme pair? Heels four inches high? Ankle-straps? And in lipstick red? And why had her killer not removed them?

  They were stowed in an evidence bag.

  ‘Clothes by Dorothy Perkins and Next,’ Iona said. ‘But – my goodness! – lingerie by Agent Provocateur. A set! What a mismatch, eh, Fran?’

  Fran nodded.

  ‘As a matter of fact, my mother always used to make my sisters put on their good undies when they went out in case they were run over. It didn’t matter about the top clothes because they’d be ruined anyway,’ Coveney said.

  ‘But these aren’t just good, they’re very expensive and very sexy,’ Iona said.

  ‘What about you, Dan?’ Fran asked idly, but registering Iona’s point. What did such underwear say about a classroom assistant whose hobby was reading? Or not reading, if Roper was to be believed.

  ‘In point of fact, Mum always confiscated my clothes at the end of every day, guv, or I’d have worn them till I became a public health risk.’

  It was always like this at a PM. The coppers nattered rubbish, anything to distract themselves while the professionals got on with the business of cutting and sawing and taking intimate swabs. Nonetheless, at the end of the session, it would be amazing how much information had found its way into police notebooks.

  Afterwards, in her office, when they were all back in civvies, Iona offered tea and a packet of chocolate digestives.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ Coveney said, taking two.

  Fran limited herself to one, but noted that Iona took none; even someone as young and lithe as she wouldn’t stay that way if she celebrated the completion of each examination with calories. And why celebrate anyway, if corpses were your job?

  ‘I know you’ll give a most detailed report full of the appropriate jargon,’ Fran said, ‘and I’m sure you and Dan will know exactly what it means.’ And no doubt the wordier it was the more Coveney would enjoy it. ‘But for ages I’ve been trapped behind the biggest mound of paperwork in the Western world, and could do with a nice everywoman version.’

  ‘It’s been on the tip of my tongue to ask you what brought you here, guv,’ Dan put in. ‘Someone your level. I expected you to take an overview of the case, not to hobnob with corpses.’

  ‘Since I was there when they found her, I thought I’d take a personal interest. It sure as hell beats a seminar on the delivery of best value and service improvement,’ she added conspiratorially.

  ‘It comes to something when you’d rather watch a stinking corpse getting cut about than go to a meeting,’ Dan grunted. ‘Mind you, I think you might be right, the number they lumber us with. And what gets me is it’s all change Tuesday, change again Wednesday.’

  Fran threw her head back and laughed. ‘Believe it or not, that’s a very useful contribution to the project I’m working on for the new DCC. Mind if I quote you? It’s all right, Dan, not by name! Now,’ she added with a brisk smile, ‘since I’m out of touch with all this hands-on stuff, can I just check I’ve got everything right?’

  Iona nodded, glancing with much more interest at her watch. Another punter in the lab? Or a lunch date? Fran suspected the latter. Well, she would just have to hang on three minutes: after all, if you were as young and lovely as Iona, it was more than likely that your lover would be patient.

  Fran read through her jottings. ‘About thirty-five. No children. Good health. Height, five-five. Weight, about a hundred and thirty pounds. Throttled. And then, judging from the verdigris marks on her skin and the deep indentations in her flesh, trussed with electric wire and slung up above the waterline.’

  ‘Nicely refrigerated up there on that concrete beam, but not frozen,’ Dan put in.

  ‘So eventually the wire corroded and she plopped down into the reservoir and started polluting it. Now, Iona, if your report contains anything really viciously technical, you’ll put a little footnote for me – OK?’

  ‘I don’t believe you, but if you insist I will.’ She stood up. It was time for her visitors to leave.

  Fran only took hints like that when she was ready, however. ‘Thank you for letting me come along, Iona. Even with the very best path report, I find I don’t get a feel for what the person was like. In fact,’ she continued, smiling at the young woman despite the latter’s now obvious urge to see them off, ‘you probably did the PM on someone else I’m taking an interest in – Alec Minton.’

  Harris looked puzzled. ‘Straightforward suicide. He had all the injuries consistent with jumping from the fifth floor of a hotel onto the road below. Nothing interesting in the toxicology, no health problems.’

  ‘Do you think—?’

  But two phones cut short Fran’s question, Harris’s and her own. To judge from her reaction, Harris’s was a personal and very exciting one, no doubt the reason she was eager for them to leave. Fran’s was a text from Mark saying that he wanted her to front a press conference in the afternoon. Oh, and Gates had been sighted in the building. Heard, rather, giving someone verbal hell over the phone.

  On consideration, Fran thought she’d rather be found at HQ, preferably in the incident room, than be caught out – in Gates’ view – effectively truanting, especially if technically the Minton case was absolutely nothing to do with her. Gesturing thanks and farewell, she took herself off, holding the door for Coveney to follow in her wake.

  They were already in the car park when Dan stopped, slapping his head. ‘We never asked if she could get any DNA off her – the murderer’s, I mean. There have been so many forensic science developments recently I can’t keep up with them all.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ Fran confessed. ‘But I’m sure Harris’ll do all that’s expected of her, and more. Now, I’m heading back to HQ. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got to stop off here in Ashford for half an hour. There’s a court case coming up and I want to make sure everything’s going along smoothly. But I’ll be with you in the incident room as soon as I can.’

  ‘With that list of reservoir hatch key-holders, don’t forget.’

  ‘And how about the key-holders to the surrounding area, guv?’

  Trumped, eh? ‘Well done, Dan.’

  Fran had often in the past found ladies’ loos excellent places for meetings, especially when she knew a man was, for whatever reason, hunting for her. So she was pleased to find DCI Joanne Pearce in front of the mirror, intent on reapplying all her make-up. Joining her, she dug for her own lipstick. One glance at the battered specimen, however, and she abandoned it as
too pathetic compared with the full palette the DCI had at her disposal.

  ‘How are you getting on with Drury?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Well, you know you suggested we got other forces involved? We decided to do that, only cast the net a bit wider. And we’ve got the French police wanting to come over to talk to him about a couple of murders in the red light district of Marseilles.’

  ‘So far afield?’

  ‘Drury did a stint as an HGV driver.’

  ‘So you could get interest from all over the place. Excellent. Do you want me to find some cash for an interpreter, just so there’s no misunderstandings between you and them?’

  Joanne shook her head, and concentrated very hard on her left eyelid. ‘My first degree’s in French, as it happens, guv.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Fran resisted the urge to ask sarcastically about her second one. She herself had had to leave the police in order to take her first degree, and her doctorate had come the hard way, too, via part-time study with the OU. ‘You will keep me informed, won’t you? Actually, if you could let me have precise details of his MO I’d be very grateful, especially if they involve wire or water. And in return I’ll copy you in on our new corpse.’

  ‘The Lady in the Lake?’

  ‘The very same. Except with her choice of sexy undies and fuck-me shoes she may not have been a lady, and she was certainly not in a lake.’ She’d need to talk to Roper about those clothes. And to find where Janine had stored the others, for Fran couldn’t imagine that they were a one-off choice. Was there far more to his wife’s evening activities than poor Roper guessed at? Or had he guessed and that was precisely the motive for his killing her? Another face-to-face interview was called for – not least to break it to him what was in store for him. She rather thought she should do that herself, even though it meant yet more hands-on work to irritate the likes of Gates. And she would certainly be there when Roper ID’d the body. One spontaneous gesture was worth a thousand words in an interview room. The trouble was, fitting it all in, especially as, for Mark’s sake – and indeed her own – she must not miss any of the meetings Gates valued so highly.