‘The wife’s been on at me to get a doctor’s appointment – and I thought the first in the morning shouldn’t have much of a wait. So I let her talk me into it.’ This from a man who always joked about dying in harness.
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Good. Before you pass out in front of my eyes. Go. Now. And if the doctor wants tests or whatever, you bloody take time off, or I’ll know the reason why. Get it? I’ll give your apologies if that damned budget meeting goes ahead. And tell you what, young Dizzy can drive you. Don’t argue.’
Terrifyingly, he didn’t. Neither did Dizzy.
The archaeologists weren’t quite under way. She had a moment to take a phone call. ‘Ray?’
‘Mark was right, Fran. The mother didn’t much appreciate one of our constables turning up at feeding time, I gather, and he didn’t appreciate having kiddie porridge slung all over him, but the raincoat was definitely missing. Cue for one of those you-said-I didn’t-say arguments, I gather. But no coat. That’s the main thing. At least she gave us a picture of her own child wearing it, so we know the make and colour and everything. So we’re doing another trawl through CCTV we’ve already had checked for one outfit to see if we’ve missed her in another.’
‘That’s brilliant. Brilliant. I’d phone Mark with the good news but I’ll have to leave it to you: I’ve a horrible idea another skull is just appearing …’ She was lying, but this wasn’t a fingers-crossed-behind-the-back lie – just a white one to get him in touch with Mark. Could hierarchies persist in the mind even when the top dog had retired? It seemed they could, in Ray’s mind at least.
It took only a few minutes before her lie became the truth, however. Twice over.
‘It seems weird, them being buried vertically – like some nod towards an ancient religion,’ she said to Dr Evans, whose colleagues were watching the pathologist examine two more skeletons.
‘I don’t think I know any burial practices like that, not in the UK,’ Evans replied slowly.
‘OK, let’s go with my original theory: that they were killed at the end of the working day and sort of slotted in the gap that was left between the wall proper and the false wall.’
Evans said aloud what Fran wanted her to say: ‘So you’re talking someone big and strong who can stay late without it being remarked. And tidy up any damaged brick or plaster work. So it’s got to be a trusted worker or more likely the site supervisor.’
‘Or both.’
‘Bloody hell. Pardon my French. Like Hindley and Brady. Sorry, other way round.’ She gripped Fran’s forearm. ‘And what if one of them killed the other when the last slot was filled, to guarantee silence? Sorry, you’re the detective.’
‘Not any more, not really. I’m the manager who enables everything to happen. And also the sounding block for professionals such as yourself. Though I have to say the last bit sounds more fantastic a theory than I’d encourage any of my team to come up with. But not impossible. At least we don’t have the scenario of someone killing all the others and then bricking himself up in the last space.’
‘That sounds more like grand opera than life. No, I don’t think even I would go there. Is it you who gets to go to the post-mortem?’
‘Not in this case – it’s actually Don Simpson’s baby, so he’ll get to go.’ When he got back from the doctor’s. She frowned. Don had to be at death’s door to take sick leave; whatever fear had driven him to the GP must be serious. ‘If not, his DCI.’
She looked at her watch. Hell. Wren had a budget meeting scheduled for half an hour’s time. Heart sinking, she phoned Alice. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Wren’s still in London, is he?’
‘You suppose right. Get yourself down here, Fran – and I’ll have a nice soothing cup of chamomile tea waiting.’
SIX
Dead teenagers, a missing child, and then all the usual crime you expect in a big county, home to countless career criminals, who preferred to be known as businessmen, and to all sorts and conditions of immigrants, legal and illegal. And that was just the high-profile stuff they had to deal with. So why were they sitting round trying to work out where to shave yet another slice off the budget? Another diktat from the Home Office, presumably. As her colleagues, minus Don, argued, she idly sketched an ivory tower. And then she heard her name mentioned.
‘The chopper, sir?’ she repeated innocently.
‘It’s hardly the news one wants to hear when one’s taking note of budget imperatives, Ms Harman.’
‘And a missing child is, sir?’
‘Have you any idea how much it costs to use the helicopter and crew for just one hour?’
‘Have you any idea how much a child’s life is worth?’
‘There’s no need to take that tone with me, Chief Superintendent.’
‘I was merely responding to your rhetorical question with one of my own, sir. As the most senior officer handy, I was addressing not a budget imperative but a policing one. As I was sure you would have done, had you been here. I understood that no one was allowed to disturb your top-level meeting. What else could I do?’
Clearly no one present would have done anything else.
Ray Barlow, obviously just as frustrated with the waste of valuable time, flashed a grin at her. But his cough was obsequious and apologetic – symptomatic of an officer who was still only on a temporary promotion. ‘The media response has been very favourable, sir. Often in these cases we’re accused of doing too little, too late. And as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the team’s media officer has managed to keep the story right up on the front page, despite Fran’s skeletons. Which would have been major, major news any other day.’
‘I’m sure it will, any moment now, when we get round to telling them about the skeletons, of course …’ Fran smiled grimly.
‘You are implying that you haven’t issued a press release, Chief Superintendent?’
Before she could respond, giving reasons she was sure they’d all appreciate, someone chimed in, ‘Sir, might we have an update on the search for the child? I’m sure we’d all be grateful. A girl of four just disappearing into thin air …’
Diverted, Wren nodded. ‘Maidstone’s Maddie is not a headline I’m enjoying. Nor the questions asked in editorials – have the police learned nothing from Portugal?’
Ray blushed to his ears. ‘First, sir, I must emphasize that we followed procedure to the letter. I’ve had very profitable informal contact with the MIT already, but now I’m requesting more formal assistance.’ He looked across at Fran.
Fran stared. Where on earth could they find all the officers that implied, particularly if Don was half as ill as he looked?
‘The sooner the better,’ Wren snapped. ‘Even if you have to put your skeletons on a back burner, Harman.’
‘It’ll be hard to, sir. Although we’ve not made a formal press announcement yet, I gather we’ve already started to contact the families whose kids disappeared at the salient time to warn them there may be news. They’re bound to talk. Meanwhile, we’re pursuing the person who seems to Don and me the likeliest suspect. While we absolutely don’t want to get Livvie out of the headlines, something as big as this is bound to attract attention, sooner or later. What I’d like to do is bring the editors together and ask for an embargo, just for a while longer. I don’t know if they’ll cooperate: you know how the media love a serial killer.’
‘I’d rather we didn’t use that term at the moment.’
From the back of the room, a voice asked, ‘How many skeletons to date, sir?’
Wren looked at Fran. She took it as permission to respond. ‘Eight.’ The ensuing murmur suggested her colleagues thought she’d been right to use the term. She waited just long enough before adding, ‘But we think that that’s all. As I say, we have a prime suspect, the man who was the youth worker at the time. But there is someone else in the frame. Whether he stays there depends on the DNA results.’
‘DNA tests on eight bodies … It would keep Livvie in the headlines if we didn’t pri
oritize them, perhaps.’ They could all see him doing the mental arithmetic and not liking it.
‘Don’s not the sort of person to let grass grow, sir: I should imagine tests on the first four, the ones uncovered last night, are already underway. And I don’t see how we can prioritize some and not the others.’
‘So what do I have to cut to pay for them?’ Wren snapped. ‘None of you realize that the budget isn’t bottomless. A few hundred here, a couple of thousand there – it all has to be paid for somehow. Possibly by making officers redundant. Not just people you know. People in this room.’
Fran blinked. The threat felt personal, and not just to her. But she threw down a gauntlet she knew she might regret. ‘Sir, I’d be happy to fall on my sword – I’m sure the few of us older ones still left would, too. But every team needs a leader. We’ve got temporary appointments, teams left to run themselves, people taking two roles. If jobs are to be done well, we need the resources – and they include officers with experience, sometimes, and certainly with authority.’
More murmurs: the mood of the meeting had certainly swung in Fran’s favour. But she was taking it in the wrong direction. And then she got distracted further. Her phone throbbed. Dizzy Aziz? Headed SOS? ‘This looks urgent, sir. May I take it?’
He probably assumed she would with or without his permission, so he graciously gave it.
Her face must have told her colleagues there was a problem. ‘Don Simpson, sir. Running MIT,’ she added, in case he couldn’t place such a senior officer. ‘Appendicitis heading briskly for peritonitis. They’re operating as soon as they can.’ She looked around. While most of her colleagues looked genuinely worried for Don, a good few were clearly already considering staffing implications. As it happened, she was too.
And so was Wren: ‘I assume that since you’re involved in the skeletons case, you can take over Don’s role.’
‘I’ve run two major sections at once in the past,’ she said frankly, ‘but that was in the days before staffing was cut to the bone. Still, we do have DCI Murray, even if he’s only on secondment. Would it be possible to give him a temporary upgrading so he could run the Major Crime Review section? He knows the team and how they work. And although DS Tom Arkwright’s due to take up a promotion in Tunbridge Wells in a couple of months, perhaps he could be persuaded to take up a temporary upgrading here. He’s been with the team from the start and is utterly reliable.’
Wren nodded. ‘Excellent heads up, Fran. We’ll have a conversation after this meeting. Twelve?’
Whatever happened to Good idea – let’s talk later?
A uniform superintendent asked, ‘How about recruiting back on short-term contracts some of the officers already made redundant? Other forces have done it. And asking others back in a voluntary capacity? I’m sure they’d be glad to help out in the Livvie search.’
Ray Barlow said, ‘I’ve already had extensive help from the old ACC.’
Why couldn’t he keep his trap shut? Big mistake, unless Fran was very much mistaken.
‘Mark Turner? Hell, man – what if the media get hold of that? Can’t you see the headlines? Disgraced ex-cop back with the force! Get rid of him, now.’
Wren had every reason to dislike Mark, she had to accept that. No one would want to come into a new post to find the popular choice had turned it down and had swiftly become a mouthpiece for the resentment about mandatory cuts sweeping through the whole service. Then to have the same man behaving oddly in the extreme and resigning with maximum speed – it put the force in a bad light. But their resources were now so depleted that she might have hoped Wren would put aside his natural resentment and embrace the return of a highly experienced officer working as a volunteer.
How many pairs of eyes were on Fran? But she wouldn’t allow herself to catch any of them as she took a calming breath. ‘With due respect, sir, I hope that’s not going to be minuted,’ she said quietly. ‘Mark left because he was having a stress-induced episode.’ Loathsome term but useful. ‘He saw retirement as the only option. Personally I’d rather he spent his time looking after his grandchildren and playing tennis, and I have a deep-rooted objection to anyone being asked to do highly skilled work for free, but surely a volunteer of his calibre is worth ten pressed men.’
Ray decided to risk his career. ‘Mark chaired the APCO committee that instituted the nationwide policy that is now driving the investigation; he reported the child as missing before anyone else realized there was so much as a problem; he’s come up with two good leads and provided vital international help, thanks to a contact.’ He shot the swiftest glance at Fran. ‘Given the present situation, I’d say his presence was worth the tiny risk that the media might not approve. In any case,’ he continued slyly, ‘TV Invicta might put a different spin on it – Have-a-go-police-heroine’s husband back in the saddle. That sort of thing,’ he added with a blush, as he recalled they weren’t yet married. But he came up with one more argument. ‘And who, really, is to know? He’s offered to join the team taking phone calls from the public: he’ll be completely anonymous.’
A uniform superintendent mimed applause. ‘There is just one thing, sir – while all this talk goes on, we’re not doing what we’re paid to do: fighting crime. There’s a child to be found. There’s a mass murderer wandering the streets. What are we doing sitting on our fannies chewing the fat? You want cuts? It’s your job to make them. Or to fight shoulder to shoulder with the other chief constables and resist them. That’s up to you. But if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a major traffic incident on the M20 to sort out.’
The meeting didn’t so much break up as disintegrate.
Twelve-five, and here she was, waiting like a naughty schoolgirl outside the head’s study. She expected, and probably deserved, a bollocking. But she might, if she were quick enough, wrong-foot him. And she knew from Alice that he had to be out of the building by twelve-fifteen at the very latest.
At last she was admitted to the Presence. She made no effort to sit – no point. Even while Wren was drawing breath, she said, ‘DCI Murray’s upgrading, sir?’
Taken aback, possibly by her lese-majesty, he said, ‘It was a surprising suggestion.’
So he knew – of course he did – that she and Murray disliked each other.
‘Never look a gift horse – or an intelligent officer – in the mouth.’
‘What are his feelings?’ he asked, closing his laptop and stowing it in a very nice leather case. Designer, by the look of it. Somehow she didn’t think he’d got it at discount at the Ashford Outlet.
She’d have loved to ask if he’d remembered to encrypt the data. ‘I’ve not been able to consult him. He’s taken time off in lieu to go to a Met colleague’s wedding. His former guv’nor.’
‘What? With all this going on? And you let him?’
Tempted though she was to point out that Sean was Wren’s protégé, not hers, it would not have improved the situation. Nor would reminding him that Murray had been wished on her without any consultation. As for Murray’s ongoing relationship with the Met, that had been Wren’s decision, too.
He picked up his case.
Fran answered his question: ‘Technically his line manager’s in the Met, of course, and he’d already granted him leave. No reason not to – he wasn’t to know we were about to have two major cases on our hands within five minutes of Sean’s leaving the building. If you were to consider his temporary upgrading, you might want his position to be regularized, so he’s answerable to someone here. I know you’re in a rush, sir – shall I contact HR and get them to do the necessary? And for Tom Arkwright, of course.’
What he’d have said had his secretary not popped her head round the door to tell him his car was waiting, she didn’t know. ‘Yes, I’m on my way,’ he snapped. But it was clear that whoever was expecting him was of more importance than a stroppy DCS, so she could walk away congratulating herself on having – at least temporarily – got away with it again.
Human Resources were ha
ving their own crisis, by the look of it, but at last she got someone to fish out the appropriate contract details and email them off, together with a short explanation. Once she knew the offer was official, she thought she might do the friendly thing and phone her congratulations through herself. His phone rang out, not even going to voicemail. OK, a text, then, asking him to make contact immediately to hear good news. There. She’d better learn to think of it as good news herself. As for Tom, she’d test the waters before offering him the step up. After all, he had a perfectly good promotion in the pipeline, and since his relationship with Sean wasn’t much better than her own, he might prefer to head off into the glorious sunsets of Tunbridge Wells.
‘Acting DI sounds good,’ Tom said, summoned to her office with a request to pick a sandwich for them both en route. ‘Of course there’s a downside, or you wouldn’t have asked me quite so cautiously.’
‘The downside is that I wouldn’t be your boss any more. Not directly. You’d be answerable to Sean Murray; he’s being offered a temporary upgrading too. You’ll have heard on the grapevine about Don Simpson.’
‘About young Dizzy Aziz carrying him like a baby into the doctor’s surgery and then into A and E? Blues and twos and topping a hundred, Fran.’
In other words, topping a hundred and twenty. ‘That bit hadn’t reached me. Good for Dizzy. So Don’s going to be off for the duration, which means I take control of MIT as well as keeping an eye on our Review team.’
He looked at her sideways. ‘Will the leg be up to it?’
‘The medics say I should be able to drive in ten days or so,’ she told him, lopping four days off their estimate. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve got Dizzy or Hilary.’
‘So you have. What’s your advice, Fran?’
She pulled a face. ‘Two months’ salary at the new level, then you move anyway? Money in the bank and CID status to take with you? But I’m not sure what sort of a guv’nor Sean will be: you might prefer the status quo and less hassle. Perhaps,’ she said, by way of explaining Murray’s abrasiveness to her, ‘he’s just one of those blokes that still don’t like being answerable to a woman.’
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