Double Fault

by Judith Cutler

  Wren’s face was a study in incomprehension: clearly he’d always been highly motivated.

  ‘Love? Religion?’ she persisted. ‘So he joined the Met and came to us – and then ran away the moment he heard Don Simpson telling him that human remains had been discovered.’

  He never had much colour, but now he was ashen. ‘You’re saying that Sean Murray could be a mass murderer?’

  ‘I’d rather say I’d like to eliminate that as a reason for him to disappear off the face of the earth,’ she said steadily. And, as it happened, truthfully.

  Fingers so tightly interlaced that the knuckles gleamed white against the purpling flesh, he stared at the desk. Then he looked her straight in the eye. ‘Do it. You have my official permission. But if any word of this gets out—’ He was about to bluster threats he almost certainly wouldn’t be able to fulfil.

  ‘It won’t, sir,’ she said curtly, and left the room.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Start low, finish high! Come on, Mark, take that right hand up higher. Think Excalibur! You’re leading a charge!’ For the moment, for no matter how short a moment, Zac seemed to have forgotten his pain by concentrating fully on the coaching session.

  As for himself, Mark had never worked harder on his backhand. He started low and finished high as if his life depended on it – more, as if Livvie’s life depended on it. He wasn’t so engaged, however, that he was unaware his presence was causing comment, if not some consternation. News of yesterday’s incident had clearly got around. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here after church, but, as he’d told Fran, it had been Zac’s idea. He was glad he’d included the whole family in the prayers of intercession he’d said earlier. Zac and Bethany, who were christening, Christmas and Easter churchgoers – heavens, was Easter only last week? – had arrived a little late and flustered, with young Jack clutching a cuddly dinosaur, of all things, and although they were a different generation from the elderly congregation, they must have felt the glow of sympathy that enfolded them.

  Casually Zac called him to the net, as if to demonstrate a bit of technique that he’d missed. ‘Are those guys planning to set up a lynch mob?’ he asked, pointing to the centre of his racquet head, but indicating with pointed glance an animated group of young men.

  ‘You might have to cut me down from the hanging tree,’ Mark said, not quite joking.

  ‘There was some kid over by your car. Tell you what, I’ll stroll over as if I’m getting something out of my boot. I’ll see what he’s up to. And you can work on your serve. Remember what I said about taking the ball as high in the air as you can reach?’ He jogged briskly from the court, as if heading for his car, but swerving at the last moment and disappearing from view with a huge bellow of rage. The players stampeded towards the source of the noise. Mark abandoned all pretence of trying to achieve topspin and joined them.

  Zac had the junior captain pinned against the side of someone’s Chelsea tractor – with luck, the young man’s own, since all he would be able to see was his face getting nearer and nearer the paintwork, which was nicely smudged where his sweaty face repeatedly hit it. Any moment now the sweat would be diluted by blood: the thuds of flesh and bone against metal were getting decidedly louder.

  ‘Hold it, Zac.’ Once he’d used that voice to carry across a swarm of hooligans. And here it was again, surprising everyone, not least himself. ‘Zac, stop. It won’t bring finding Livvie any closer. Zac, I said stop it.’ The poor bugger’s rage and terror, all those hours of viciously painful and frustrating waiting needed to be vented somehow, but not like this. ‘Grab him, for Christ’s sake!’ The tall guys who’d guarded Mark himself the previous day obliged.

  Mark had a chance to glance at his Audi. It now wore the legend PEDAPHIL SCUM scratched into the side – it looked like a bunch of keys job.

  At last Zac turned sobbing from his target. Mark shoved his way through the melee to gather him up into his arms, as he’d held Dave when Tina had died. If only Fran were here – she’d know what to do or say. Over Zac’s shoulder, he projected his voice again. ‘Some of you know there was trouble here yesterday. Some of you may know what it was, and why. Whatever your own feelings about my playing here today, for God’s sake consider Zac’s. Does he need this sort of shindig? Use your heads, for heaven’s sake.’

  There was muttering. He’d no idea how things might go. But at last the A team captain, a young man whom Mark had only met a couple of times, since their games were literally leagues apart, caught Mark’s eye, as if wanting permission to say something.

  He coughed: speechifying was clearly not his thing. ‘Harry Mansfield, sir.’

  Expected to smile and nod in acknowledgement, Mark obliged. He tried not to show how tickled he was by the courtesy, which reminded him of Marco, always being far more polite with his Sirs and Ma’ams than any English boy.

  Mansfield cleared his throat again. ‘If Zac wants you here, sir, we want you here. And we don’t want little shits like Toby around the place. Mark, I give you my word that that damage will be sorted. I’ll talk to Toby’s dad about paying. If he doesn’t come up with the goods, the club will.’ Reddening to the ears, he shoved towards the two men and held out a conciliatory hand.

  Someone started to clap. Mark held his breath. Would the pace increase to real applause or continue to sound as if he was being given the bird?

  Zac pulled away, his face still working. Then he actively man-hugged Mark. The clapping was definitely applause.

  Mark blushed. ‘Look, we’re still looking for that poor child.’ Damn, that slip of the tongue again! ‘Like I said in church this morning, the police need information, any tiny snippet, some scrap of what could be nonsense. Yesterday afternoon those girls came up with what may well be a real gem, though they were almost too embarrassed to mention it. Please, search your memories. I know you’re not Golden Oldies, but something might have occurred on Sundays just like this one that might have struck you as odd but without a context meant nothing at all. I’ve already put the senior investigating officer’s contact details on the noticeboard. Please – copy them down and use them, whatever time of night or day anything occurs to you.’

  ‘There was a rumour about horses,’ a woman with a Sloane Ranger voice said.

  ‘There still is. And we – the police – would be more than grateful if you would check any stabling to which you have access. As I told the girls yesterday, it’s not grassing someone up. It’s literally helping the police with their enquiries. It could be the difference between a life saved and a life lost. Livvie’s life saved and Livvie’s life lost.’ He’d hoped to use that as an exit line, not to resume his coaching session but to go and retrieve his things and head home in the scarred Audi.

  ‘What about search parties? The villagers helped in that case in North Wales, didn’t they?’ Sloane Ranger continued. ‘I know most of us are weekenders, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help.’

  It was hardly the spontaneous upsurge of community spirit the police might have hoped for, but it was an offer, and would do poor Zac no harm.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t. But I’m only a club member like yourself. The person to contact is DCI Ray Barlow. He’ll know about search teams.’

  ‘What about that woman who was on TV last night? She looked as if she’d got her head screwed on.’

  That’s no woman; that’s my fiancée. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Harman?’ Who would welcome an uncoordinated barrage of well-meaning offers like a hole in the head. ‘She’s in overall charge of the Kent team, which is working alongside a unit from a national police organization called CEOP. But Ray Barlow’s your man. He was the one who came out here yesterday to talk to Flora and Emily. He’ll know which of his team is organizing search parties. For Zac’s sake, for Livvie’s sake, please do all you can.’ Another exit line, surely to God.

  ‘So what would your advice be?’ The same woman.

  He smiled at her. ‘Get the names of everyone here prepared to mak
e up a search team. Or who can offer other skills.’ If only one of them could pilot a chopper with thermal imaging equipment. ‘Do it straight away, and then call Ray. The sooner the better, I promise you.’

  He and Zac withdrew to the sidelines. ‘Thanks for saving my bacon, not to mention the poor old motor.’

  ‘Bastard. Yeah, it was touch and go.’

  ‘Do you think this lot’ll be able to organize themselves?’

  ‘Dot, the one who spoke: she’s a barrister. Saul over there is a brain surgeon. Sadie works as a dinner lady. Alastair’s a civil servant.’

  ‘I’d back Sadie,’ Mark said. ‘Look, you should be back home with Bethany and Jack.’

  ‘Not to mention Ermintrude,’ Zac said, with the nearest thing to a smile Mark had seen from him for days.

  ‘Ermintrude?’

  ‘The family liaison officer. It’s her smile. Always there. Just like the cow’s on Magic Roundabout. Not that she’s a cow in any other sense. Nice woman. Emma Poole. But I shall be so glad to see the back of her.’

  ‘The moment Livvie’s back, you will. No, actually, she may hang on a bit longer to keep the media at bay, of course. But you should be getting back home anyway.’ He flicked a look at his watch – Tina’s watch. It had stopped. ‘Must be almost lunchtime – don’t want to miss your Sunday roast.’

  ‘Come too. Beth always cooks too much. Likes bubble and squeak the next day.’

  ‘Zac, I’d love to. But you know that the media are watching your place like hawks. What rubbish would they make of me popping into your house?’ He slapped him on the arm. ‘Home, Zac – for Bethany and Jack’s sake.’

  As he waved him off he couldn’t resist drifting towards the knot of players, all, it seemed, talking and gesticulating at once. Of its own accord, his thumb found Ray’s phone number. He explained briefly what was going on, was passed to a CEOP man, Sergeant Terry, who was running the search today.

  ‘After yesterday, I don’t want to be an intermediary,’ he said.

  ‘Fair dos. Put me on to their leader.’

  He handed his phone to Sadie.

  Sitting at her desk biting a knuckle didn’t seem very useful, so Fran lay down on the floor and bit the knuckle instead. She really did not want Sean Murray to be a killer, reformed, presumably, or otherwise. Ought she contact Tom to see if there was any trace of him yet? No, that was Met business, thanks to Wren. What about the locations where Malcolm Perkins had worked? Was it too early to chase the officers who were looking into possible incidents in West Bromwich, say, or Stoke or Taunton? Probably: after all, they were supposed to be working the minimum of overtime.

  What she really, really wanted to do was check with the technical team. She wanted news of the photo. After lunch, the young woman had said. In other words, join the queue, which she’d explained was longer on Sundays because there was only, of course, a skeleton staff. Pause for ghoulish laughter.

  Fran had a brief, nostalgic yearning for – could almost taste! – a good old-fashioned Sunday lunch. The sort her mother had cooked, with the meat roasted in too hot an oven, so it was always cremated outside and bloody inside.

  One day, one summer’s day, she ought to go up to Scotland to see her mother. Her sister said she was still her old self. Which meant that Fran was hardly overflowing with enthusiasm for making the journey.

  The phone rang. It took painful moments to lever herself up, but she reached the phone before the line died.

  ‘Ray Barlow, Fran. Mark’s visit to the tennis club.’

  Her stomach clenched. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Oh, someone vandalized his car, but apparently the club are picking up the bill for that.’ Ray sounded very offhand.

  ‘But Mark – is he all right?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be? Anyway, the incident elicited a lot of support for Zac, which Mark naturally put to good use: he rounded up all the Sunday crowd, which is apparently quite different from the weekday players, and got them involved. You might want to come along to the next briefing and hear all about it.’

  Might indeed. If she wasn’t very careful, she’d defuse her anxiety for Mark by losing her temper with the messenger. But she couldn’t completely rein in her sarcasm. ‘Were you by any stretch of the imagination expecting me not to be at the briefing, Ray? Good. I might be doddery but I’m not senile yet, thank you very much.’

  ‘No, guv. Mark’ll be there, by the way.’

  ‘And I rather think I ought to hear of any new developments before the briefing, don’t you? The phone’ll do. Sod it, there’s someone knocking at my door.’ Time to get off her high horse. ‘See you at the briefing, Ray. Come on in!’

  The door inched open, to reveal the face of the young technical support officer to whom she’d entrusted the two photos. Perhaps she’d laid on the need for absolute discretion a bit too thick: the girl, who might have been twelve, no more than thirteen, looked terrified. But at least she was wearing her ID; Fran could greet her by name.

  ‘Micki! Come along in. I was just on my way to see you.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’ve done the work you asked. Only took a moment when I got to it.’

  Fran opened her mouth to snarl. Hadn’t she asked for it to be given absolute priority? But then, she probably wasn’t the only officer with urgent demands, and after lunch was the time Micki had given. She transformed the snarl into a weary smile. ‘Thanks, Micki. Is that a written report? Excellent. But sum it up in a word for me: are the photos of the same person?’

  There was no reply when she knocked on Wren’s door. His phone was switched to voicemail, but she felt the most revealing message she could leave was one simply asking him to call her as soon as he could. She sent a similar text. And then she did the only thing she could: she staggered back to her office and lay down on the floor, carefully setting her phone to give her an alarm call. Not that there was any need to. There were some occasions when you couldn’t switch off your brain and this was one of them.

  SEVENTEEN

  Although she was laughing as she came into the room for the six o’clock briefing, Mark had rarely seen Fran look so tired. Not so much tired as old: this was how she’d look in ten years’ time. The strong sunlight angling across her face didn’t help, of course: it was no wonder that celebs of her age were always lit full face, much kinder to wrinkles active or latent. Then she spotted him, lurking amongst Ray’s team, and her smile blew him away all over again. It was all he could do not to go across and wrap her protectively in his arms. But, as she valiantly pulled herself upright and squared her shoulders, he knew she’d hate that. She was here to do a job and nothing would stop her, bar an earthquake or a lightning bolt.

  There was a little courtesy tussle: who would lead? Ed Chatfield, the CEOP super, gestured to Ray, who looked under his brows at Fran. Nodding and smiling at Ray encouragingly, she leant back in her chair, folding her arms, like a casting director not expecting to be entertained but hoping nonetheless.

  ‘First of all, we have a development from the tennis club. A different group of players,’ Ray explained. If only someone would take him on one side and teach him how to present information coherently to a large group. He was fine one-to-one, but this was all over the place. ‘Some of them confirmed actual sightings of a horse. And suspicions that the rider might have been stopping to perv at the players – at least, that’s what one or two of the women allege. The men just thought they had an audience, and probably raised their game accordingly. The horse in question is confirmed as being large and black. All over. And no, we don’t know what name it answers to,’ he added, sliding his eyes in Fran’s direction.

  ‘Not Snowflake?’ she obliged, scratching her head like the class dunce. ‘Or was it Snowdrop?’

  ‘Not even Snowstorm. As to the rider, he was wearing a helmet, so any description is bound to be vague. But one of the men – Harry Mansfield, who’s the A team captain – says he’s sure he’s come across him in the park and been reprimanded by him for not ge
tting off his bike quickly enough. Which would suggest that it might be our friend Ross Thwaite.’ He said the name with the flourish of someone who has laboured long and hard to tug a recalcitrant rabbit out of a particularly tight hat, and considers he has earned the ensuing gasp of admiring applause.

  Probably most of the team were simply too tired to react with much more than relief.

  With a final burst of bravado, Ray asked, ‘So when do we pick him up?’

  The CEOP super put out a warning hand. ‘I don’t know much about gee-gees, Ray, but I do know it’s not a crime to own more than one.’

  Ray stuck to his guns, probably unwisely. ‘On the other hand, it wasn’t particularly helpful of Thwaite to let us assume he only had that dear little Snowdrop in his stable. He’s got stuff to explain.’

  Mark knew who his money was on in the debate; the only question was how Fran would handle the issue.

  ‘What do the rest of you think?’ she mused slowly, as if they were all equals. ‘Is this the best moment? If he really has abducted Livvie, you know, I’d like to find her before we interfere with his movements in any way. There’s no point in having him in for questioning if he’s going to clam up and refuse to tell us her whereabouts. It has been known.’