‘Is he – is he OK? I mean …’ Flora managed.
‘I’ve not seen him. There’s someone called a police liaison officer who will probably have moved in with him and his wife and son while we – while the police find Livvie.’
Flora might have noticed his slip, but she was too busy picking up on his last few words to say anything. ‘Are you sure they’ll find her? Alive, that is.’ Her voice nearly broke on alive. Brave lass to ask the unaskable, all the same.
‘I could do one of two things here, Flora,’ he said gravely. ‘I could switch on a smiley face and say of course. That would be treating you as a child. Or I could treat you as an adult and tell you that honestly and truly I don’t know. Any more than the police do.’
Emily, who’d been gnawing her lower lip during the whole exchange, widened her eyes. ‘But you are the police, aren’t you?’
‘Not any more. I was, but then I was ill so I retired.’
‘But it was you who – you know, sort of bossed us all. I thought …’ She blushed again.
‘You don’t stop being bossy just because you’ve given up the job,’ he said, almost blushing himself at the recollection of his treatment of Fran. ‘And I’m afraid police officers find it extra hard to switch off. We always want to ask questions – what if … what next … what should I do …’ He smiled. ‘Just now I’m itching to ask you if you’ve remembered anything else that can help. I’m sure you told my former colleagues everything you remembered at the time, but you might have thought of things since. Things you might think are too trivial to report to anyone,’ he prompted, ‘but might just be a missing piece. I mean, the other night I couldn’t have told the man who was interviewing me what make of car a certain person drove, but then, when I was thinking about something quite different, up the information popped.’ He was talking too much, wasn’t he? He’d lose Flora, if not the younger Emily, if he kept rattling on like that.
‘Would something like a car be … sort of important?’ Emily asked.
She wasn’t talking about a car though, was she?
‘Anything could be important.’
‘Or not, of course,’ Flora chimed in.
‘When I was a cop I’d rather have had a hundred pieces of information I couldn’t use than miss one I needed.’ Somehow he must stop himself asking point-blank what one of them had seen or heard in case they froze into denial.
They nodded, still doubtful. Emily looked wistfully at their bikes, clearly wishing they’d never started this and were heading home. Or was he jumping to conclusions? In any case, he had to admit that their parents were braver than he might have been in their situation, letting them swan round on their own in a place where a sexual predator must surely be on the loose. In fact, that was the next important thing to do: get them to call home and explain what was delaying them.
A car was bumping along the track. He permitted himself no more than a glance.
‘How would you know if you needed it?’ Flora asked. Another blush.
‘When you were a kid you must have done jigsaws. Right? Well, imagine that a police investigation is a giant jigsaw, being put together by dozens of people. That’s just the police officers involved. Add in things like CCTV – more pieces being put in by more people.’
‘Sounds like total chaos,’ she said, as if refusing to admit she might be interested.
‘Oh, it is,’ he admitted cheerfully. ‘Organized chaos, mostly. Now, imagine this case is the jigsaw. All these pieces coming in. More and more when people respond to TV appeals. By now the people in charge must have a huge picture spread out. But they don’t have all the important pieces.’
‘You don’t have one with the kidnapper’s face on it,’ Emily put in brightly. Ignoring Flora’s scowl, she continued, ‘Everyone says she might still be alive, that’s why she needs to be found now.’
‘She might. I hope she is. All the people at HQ hope she is. They can only work at their best if they believe they’ll succeed. But they all know that the missing piece of the jigsaw, wherever it is, isn’t in their possession.’ That wasn’t wholly true, but he had to do something to prompt them. The car had parked and only one person got out: any moment now the little bubble of concentration that held the three of them together would be burst.
‘So talking wouldn’t be sneaking?’ Emily confirmed, sliding her eyes towards him.
‘No.’
‘But what if we said the wrong thing? Got someone into trouble?’
‘If they had done something wrong, then – well, you might have grassed them up but you might have saved Livvie’s life. And if they hadn’t done anything wrong, the police would quickly establish that they weren’t part of the jigsaw. And you absolutely wouldn’t get into trouble for saying it.’ He changed his voice from calm and reassuring to authoritative: ‘Now, first of all you must phone home. Or text. Must. No argument.’ He raised the index finger that had silenced a thousand arguing junior officers, including, of course, Fran herself. ‘How do you think your parents would feel if you were a minute later than you promised to be? And what would they say if you talked to the police without them knowing? Now, both of you.’
He gathered up the balls he’d scattered while they texted.
‘Would you like to talk to a woman officer I know very well? It’d be like talking to your mum or your grandma,’ he added, disloyally. Did Fran ever refer to him as a grandpa? ‘I could get her to come here or go to your home, so your parents would know exactly what was going on.’
‘We couldn’t just tell you?’
‘Of course you could. But you’d have to talk to a real police office sooner or later.’ He paused, wondering what on earth his ears were telling him.
‘Weird,’ Flora said.’ Sounds as if one’s on his way now.’
All three turned. Blues and twos heralded a police car clearly not coping well with the track.
‘Let’s go and introduce ourselves, shall we?’ he suggested with what he hoped was a convincing smile. He picked up his bag. He and the girls were falling into step when he realized all was not well. The person who’d driven up was pointing in their direction, practically jumping up and down with what looked like fury.
‘Who’s rattled his cage?’ Flora demanded.
‘Go and collect your bikes and wait by the police car. I’ll find out,’ Mark said, trying not to sound as grim as he felt. ‘Promise me you’ll stay by the police car. Get in if necessary. Go on: scoot.’
Because it was quite clear that he was about to be manhandled by the furious would-be player. Manhandled and subjected to a whole stream of abuse he didn’t want the girls to hear. Though, come to think of it, he’d heard just as bad outside many a school playground.
‘I don’t care,’ his assailant was telling the community support officer, not the fully fledged constable Mark would have hoped for. He was lacing his comments with a lot of words Mark hadn’t heard since he’d retired. ‘I don’t care if he used to be a policeman. I don’t care if he was prime minister or archbishop of Canterbury. The man’s clearly a paedophile. Grooming young girls. He’s got to be the one who did young Livvie in. Look at the smarmy bastard!’
The PCSO, who had in these days of radical economies come on his own, looked from one man to another, with an occasional glance at the girls, now huddled together and in tears – and hopefully out of range of the tirade of blasphemous invective. Clearly he hadn’t a clue what to do. By now all the players had abandoned their games and had formed a loose circle round the protagonists.
Keeping his voice as mild as possible so the girls weren’t treated to a scene, Mark said, ‘The man’s got a point, officer. But your priority should be those kids. Why not lock me in your car – though I promise you I’ve no intention of trying to escape – and call for assistance? Ask for DCI Ray Barlow. Got that? DCI Barlow. That’s really important. And make sure you also ask for a colleague trained in interviewing young people, because apart from this guy’s accusation, which clearly needs inves
tigating, the girls may have information about the Livvie case. Cuff me if you want,’ he added, holding out his hands. One day he’d dine out on this, God willing.
‘What about Mr – er—?’ the PCSO asked.
‘Perhaps he should wait in his car, too,’ Mark said, suddenly desperate to laugh.
It was a long and hot nineteen minutes before Ray Barlow arrived, again on his own. With Mark still incommunicado in the response vehicle, Ray questioned his accuser, the PCSO and then the girls, whom he shepherded away from all the action. Mark couldn’t have faulted him, except that it left him stranded even longer. At last he knew he must attract the PCSO’s attention: ‘I’m sorry, officer,’ he gasped as the door opened, ‘but it’s so hot in here I’m afraid I might pass out.’
His assailant told his audience that frying in hell was too good for him, but the PCSO showed a smidgen of initiative, leaving the driver’s door ajar and asking the two largest tennis players to make sure Mark didn’t stir. He now appeared to be taking a statement from the assailant.
Now another police vehicle approached – Mark hoped bleakly that there wasn’t a major incident about to go down, or his former colleagues would be woefully short of transport. This one was driven by a woman: at last, a real constable! However, Ray waved her back as she parked, got out of the vehicle and approached him. Ray was still listening to the girls, prompting them from time to time, just as he’d done. For everyone’s sake, not least his own, Mark hoped Ray would be more efficient at eliciting information than he had been.
At long last, Ray escorted the girls back to the woman officer. Emily, however, hung back, arguing so quietly Mark couldn’t hear – those wretched ears! Monday, yes, Monday, he’d get them tested – but plainly refusing to do as she was told. She reminded him of a small dog, refusing to go walkies, legs braced, head back. Ray summoned the PCSO, who then dragged his reluctant way to Mark. Pushing his head down needlessly hard to prevent him hitting it as he got out of the car, he then grabbed him by the arm – rightly, as Mark forced himself to admit, lest his prisoner tried to make a run for it – and frogmarched him into Ray’s presence.
Ray was clearly almost wetting himself in a desire not to laugh. ‘Ferris, I believe you haven’t been formally introduced to our former Assistant Chief Constable, Mr Mark Turner. Mr Turner is working closely with me in the search for the missing child, Livvie. Emily, here, and Flora had approached him with information that they thought might be useful. I’m afraid Mr Purton got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He may have overreacted,’ he added dryly, still not meeting Mark’s eye.
‘Not at all,’ Mark lied. He assumed the smooth PR voice that had kept him going during his spell as ACC. ‘In his position, seeing an old man on friendly terms with two schoolgirls, I’d have been very suspicious too. No need for tears, Emily – all’s well that ends well.’
The girls looked balefully at Purton, who clearly wanted to huff and puff even longer, with a lot more interesting epithets, but was disconcerted by Mark’s response, as were the previously hostile players, who continued nonetheless to mutter.
In response to a jerk of the head from Ray, the PCSO ostentatiously herded the players back to the courts, as if practising recently acquired skills in crowd control.
‘Are you really all right, Mr Turner?’ Emily called. She shook off the woman officer’s warning hand and came nearer. ‘That crazy idiot didn’t hurt you, did he? Because it was us who came to talk to you, wasn’t it, Flora? And you made us text home and said we should talk to a proper policeman.’
‘Which I guess you’ve just done,’ Mark said, with an encouraging smile. ‘But don’t tell me what you said. It’s between you and the police now, and no one else needs to hear.’ He looked meaningfully at Purton, who responded by stalking back to his car and grabbing his tennis bag. Funny: half an hour ago the two of them might have suggested a couple of sets against each other. But Purton would have to take his place at the wall or wait his turn. He didn’t feel particularly sympathetic.
‘Are you OK to drive, Mark? To follow me?’ Ray asked quietly. ‘Because I think when I brief the team you’ll want to hear what those kids said.’
THIRTEEN
They were just concluding a very efficient briefing on the skeletons case: Malcolm Perkins had been certified dead two months ago, after a distressingly prolonged battle with motor neurone disease. He’d never left any confession. But in the years he had managed to work as a youth worker, there had been no reports of any suspicious disappearances. Fran had managed not to snap that they should be investigating the unsuspicious disappearances too. But Madge had jumped in and done that for her: it would be a huge use – and possibly waste – of hours, but they owed it to the Ashford victims to establish everything they could about the possible murderer. Stoke-on-Trent; West Bromwich; Taunton: they had a lot of ground to cover.
‘And, with Tom’s assistance, we’re checking all the other Ashford mispers of the relevant period to see if any of them might have been the killer and simply scarpered,’ she added, suppressing a yawn. ‘Ma’am, how much longer will the press embargo last? I’m feeling really bad that we’ve not notified the parents of the ones we’ve identified. And worse that the tests on the others have been postponed.’
The whole team echoed her frustration, which of course Fran shared.
‘Only till Monday. And I have to admit that though I promised I’d go and talk to the bereaved families myself, I can’t see me being able to, not until the Livvie case is solved.’ She could hardly explain that she’d been ordered to investigate the whereabouts of one of their colleagues on top of everything else. And then she realized they were all waiting expectantly. ‘Oh, and the embargo? It’ll hold till tomorrow, and I’ll ask the chief constable to press for a further extension, but—’ She shrugged, but wished, as her shoulders creaked, that she hadn’t. ‘Now, as you know, the overtime budget has been slashed. What little remains is being directed at the Livvie case – which is coming in at about a million a day so far. Personally I don’t think it’s being wasted. When she’s found, I shall argue for more funds for this case. Since I can’t pay you to work extra hours, I shan’t ask you to work them. In fact, I’d say you all deserve a break. I probably won’t say the same thing when the embargo’s been lifted, of course. It’ll be all systems go – and then some!’
It wasn’t until they left the room that she caught Tom’s eye. He fell into step with her, strolling casually down the corridor, just as a son might with his mother. ‘You might have to pass some of your work on possible other victims to someone else,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve got some news. Absolutely confidential. Seems we need to look for Sean Murray.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing to do with the rumour that a senior CID bloke did a runner? The word was, though, that although he said he was hightailing it to a wedding, it was something to do with a girlfriend. Though I also heard a rumour that the voice he spoke to on the phone was a man’s. Some thought it might be Don Simpson’s voice, in fact.’
They exchanged a quizzical look. ‘What a strange rumour. OK, Tom, you report to me and no one else.’
‘Report?’
‘Report. The thing that worries me most,’ Fran said, ‘is that Murray once remarked that Ashford was the easiest place in the country to get away from. I know Maidstone hardly hits those heady heights, but once you reach Ashford, in what – half an hour? – the same applies. Or you could simply get a train from Maidstone to London and disappear.’
Tom wrinkled his nose, as if she’d asked him to choose between flavours of crisps. ‘Hard to disappear anywhere these days, isn’t it? He’ll have his car reg picked up on all manner of CCTV and motorway cameras. If he tries to use his credit card – more data. Mobile phone traceable, too.’
‘In that case it shouldn’t take you long to run him to earth, should it?’ she smiled affably. She might have been asking for cheese flavour, or salt and vinegar. Heaven forbid she’d ask for either, of course, wit
h those inches to keep off.
‘You really are serious?’
‘The chief’s orders, no less. And the chief wants me to update him at ten tonight.’
‘Ten! Does he have any idea how many hours you’re putting in on the Livvie case? Not to mention Don’s skeletons?’
‘I doubt it. Nor how much time off in lieu you’re owed. But that’s what folk like you and me do, isn’t it, Tom? We get on with things.’ She patted his arm, and headed off to Murray’s goldfish bowl to check what he might have taken with him.
It looked as if he’d never meant to stay long. Other people personalized their space; Murray’s was quite anonymous. Thumbing through his meagre and extremely tidy possessions unnerved her. It was like picking over the property of the dead. At least the paper files he’d been working on were safely locked away, and she didn’t fear for one minute that he’d failed to encrypt any information on the laptop he’d walked off with. She should have felt reassured. But she didn’t. Not wholly.
One way of easing her back and leg pain was to lie on the floor, head supported by a couple of books, with knees bent and feet slightly apart. The idea was to relax into the pain, which paradoxically had the effect of releasing it. It might be – was – effective, but it was hardly the position to be found in by casual visitors to her office, especially when she had relaxed so deeply she actually fell asleep. At least Ray seemed as embarrassed as she was, though Mark, a pace behind him, naturally took little notice. She declined a joint offer to help her to her feet, rolling over and doing a quasi-press up to return to the vertical. What a pity she spoiled the performance by needing the desk to provide final leverage.
‘Back bad again?’ Mark asked, gathering up the books and searching for a vacant spot on the desk.
‘Prevention rather than cure,’ she lied. But it was Mark who’d asked, so she conceded, wishing she could just sob on his shoulder and ask him to make the pain go away, ‘OK, it’s not so good. But you suffer an injury in one place, it’s bound to have repercussions in others,’ she added brightly for Ray’s benefit. ‘Or should it be, for others? Anyway, you both look pregnant with news?’ She had an idea that that was a quotation from something; if she cared to know from what, Caffy would be able to tell her off the top of her head. She gestured at the chairs: Ray cleared both of them, dumping files on the floor. Then she remembered her conversation with the chief, and sighed. ‘I’ve got some news myself, Ray – and it mostly affects you, Mark. Apparently Zac and whatshername – his wife – wanted you both beside them at their next appeal: the chief’s vetoed the idea of Mark appearing before it even got put to you. No civilians to sully our TV presentation,’ she declaimed in a vague attempt to mimic Wren’s precise tones. She raised and dropped her hands to signify the pointlessness of arguing about it. ‘We had a high-level meeting at his golf club,’ she continued ironically. ‘Sene Valley, no less. Cut short because he had a meeting in the bar.’
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