‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam,’ she declared, as she nipped off to the loo, ‘though I suppose he might be better dressed.’
She returned to find Mark still waiting for their escort. There was nothing for it but to look around, as if they’d strayed into a National Trust property.
Surely a room like this – what a fireplace! – ought to have been filled with classical statues, not display cases full of truncheons and other constabulary memorabilia. And look at that grand staircase! For the moment, however, they were not to ascend it. They were to follow a pin-thin young woman whose badge identified her as a senior security officer, along the wide corridor that led – inevitably – to the offices of the higher echelons. She knocked at a mahogany door and silently left them to it.
The door opened to reveal a beautiful airy room that was roughly the size of their living room, with Victorian proportions which to Fran’s mind were slightly less elegant than those of their newly restored Georgian rectory. She fell into step beside Mark as they approached the desk of the assistant chief constable. Bowed with an age that was probably nearer fifty than forty, and maybe even a couple of years more, he was so nondescript Fran saw him for a moment as Mole, for some reason ensconced in Toad Hall rather than Mole End. The rather vulgar overweight cherubs in some of the heavy gilt frames would certainly have been more at home in Toad’s establishment.
‘Colin Webster.’ He shook their hands with a surprisingly small, very cold hand, before gesturing to comfortable seats facing a big OT screen. Registering with what appeared to be disapproval how damp they were, he switched on a small but welcome heater, the red elements of which made them all glow orange. His hospitality didn’t extend to switching on his coffee machine or offering biscuits from a tin beside it.
‘Change of plan,’ Webster began, as if begrudging the effort of speaking in complete sentences. ‘Teething problems after the merger. I gather Gerry Barnes brought you here.’
They could read the crib-sheet on his desk, outlining their qualifications and experience. They’d packed in a lot of both, between them. He didn’t seem pleased; perhaps he felt intimidated. ‘How do you propose to divide the work?’
‘It depends how it needs to be divided, Colin,’ Mark parried. ‘After all, we’ve both been on the Review Officers’ National Course, though at different times; we’re both fully accredited.’ Clearly he wasn’t about to be patronized by an equal. Ex-equal.
‘Of course. Your room is on the floor above this one, though you don’t get quite as nice a view.’
Fran couldn’t stop herself looking towards the floor to ceiling windows, currently steamed up and revealing nothing more than a cascade from an overflowing gutter.
‘When you’ve got up to speed on the case, I’ll allocate resources. Within reason. We’re under pressure at the moment—’
‘When is a modern force ever not?’ Mark asked.
‘Worse: we’ve got a murder in Warwick and an unrelated one in Tamworth.’ Webster’s face suggested that they were mere administrative inconveniences. ‘Your fee—’
‘We agreed with Gerry that we’ll donate it to the Police Benevolent Fund,’ Fran put in. ‘All we’re claiming is expenses.’
‘Expenses?’ Panic filled Webster’s eyes. Yes, another senior officer driven by budgets. ‘I gather you’re renting somewhere; you should have been told that there is accommodation available here.’
Gerry had mentioned that. Single accommodation, food supplied by the canteen which closed at five. ‘We like our own roof,’ Mark said firmly. ‘We found a cottage with the fag-end of a rental period left so we got it dirt cheap. Near Ombersley, so it’s very convenient.’
Webster ticked a box. Literally. ‘You will of course notify HR of any change of address. And car, of course.’
As for the cottage, they’d not actually seen it yet. Having left home soon after four, they’d meant to check in before they started work. However, the traffic was so bad on the rain-drenched M25 that what was usually a three hour journey had become six and they’d had to come straight to Hindlip.
Webster checked his script again. ‘What I want is a simple review of a misper enquiry. Some twenty years ago a young woman and her child went missing in the northern part of the Wyre Forest.’
‘That’s the district or the ancient woodland?’ asked Mark.
‘Woodland. You know the area?’ Webster looked surprised.
‘I took my grandchildren on the Severn Valley Railway in the summer.’
‘Oh. Anyway, Natalie Foreman and her son Hadrian went missing here.’ He touched his keypad and a map appeared on the screen. ‘No sighting dead or alive since.’
Mark snapped his fingers. ‘Wasn’t there something about a baby too?’
Fran joined in: ‘Left in a car? About the time we had that major manhunt in Sandwich and were all working eighteen hour days,’ she added aside to Mark.
‘That’s another thing. No overtime unless it’s absolutely vital, vital to the point of desperate, and I sign it off myself. Personally. Any questions?’
‘One thing we’d certainly like to know,’ Mark began reasonably, ‘is why this case has taken on a sudden urgency. Is there someone in CID we should be talking to?’
The hunted expression returned. ‘It’s not their bag – drat!’ His phone warbled to announce a text. He checked. ‘It’s the chief’s secretary. I’m late for a meeting.’ The clear implication was that it was their fault. As he stood he fished a bubble-pack of tablets from his pocket and popped two. He and a strong smell of Gaviscon ushered them from the room. ‘Up the stairs. Turn left. The door should be ajar. This is your key code.’ He grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled barely legible numbers.
‘Takes you back, doesn’t it, all that stress?’ Fran remarked, pushing open the door of their new domain. To judge from its position and dimensions it had probably once been a bedroom for a less important guest. She headed for the window and threw it up. ‘A nice view of some kennels – enough to house an entire force’s dogs.’ With a face full of rain she closed it again. She turned back towards twin desks pushed together so that the occupants would face each other.
‘Feng shui,’ Mark mused. ‘Which would you prefer – back to the door or back to the view?’
‘Just to be contrary, I’d turn them round through ninety degrees, so we can both see who’s coming through the door.’
He laughed. ‘All the time I was in the force, I never met a cop who liked sitting with their back to a door. Or who didn’t try to grab a seat at a restaurant table with their back to a wall. Is it part of the DNA? Let’s just move these boxes on to the floor.’ He peered inside first one, then another. ‘There’s not a lot in any of them.’ He passed them to her; she stacked them in date order along a wall.
As they heaved the desks into position, there was a knock on the door; they turned simultaneously. ‘Come in,’ they sang in unison.
It was Iris, carrying another cardboard box, which she put, after some hesitation, on a desk. ‘Talk about being caught red-handed. Black-handed rather. Look at the pair of you! But what on earth were they doing, giving you furniture this old? They must have dug it out of some store room. And the cleaners haven’t exactly exerted themselves, have they?’ Iris produced a couple of tissues from her pocket and wiped both chairs, then, less thoroughly, the desk tops. She held up the tissues, grey with dust, triumphantly. ‘That’s better. Now, I’m on my coffee break so I haven’t got more than a minute, but I bet no one’s had time to give you a conducted tour. I haven’t myself, to be honest. But there is a canteen – just follow the signs.’
‘I’m surprised they’ve still got one.’
‘They’ve closed them at the other major hubs. How about that for a trendy word? And of course, they’ve shut down loads of police stations. Such a palaver there’s been about saving this place. But there’s so many working here it’d be hard to relocate them, that I will admit. Over nine hundred. And I for one am not arguing; I only li
ve just down the road. Anyway, I found you a spare kettle and some mugs. There’s tea and coffee and little pots of milk here too.’ She smiled and headed for the door.
‘All this is so kind of you,’ Mark said, opening it for her. ‘Thank you very much.’
Iris returned his smile, and then looked him up and down. ‘They say you were an ACC, but you haven’t any side. Not that most of the folk working here have, but you should have met some of the people coming on courses.’ Her voice changed almost imperceptibly; before his hearing aids he wouldn’t have noticed it. ‘Now, my husband used to be in the force, and I reckon you might find him useful. He was on this here cold case of yours when it was still hot, if you follow me.’ She checked her watch. ‘He’ll be in the Bull down in Fernhill at about one. Lovely chips. Ask for Ted Day.’ She closed the door behind her.
TWO
‘I’d like to know more about the case before we talk to Iris’s husband,’ Fran said. She took the kettle Mark had filled and plugged it in. The only place for it was the floor.
He looked round for a proper home for it and the crockery mugs, which he inspected gloomily before simply putting them on his desk. ‘They don’t look very clean.’
‘Some departing colleagues probably abandoned them, the way climbers leave detritus on the face of Everest.’ She looked and sniffed. Someone – Iris, no doubt – had done their best with bleach, but tea stains were still etched deeply into the glaze.
Mark stared at the jar of coffee. ‘Is it worth nipping down to the car and getting the emergency supplies we meant for the cottage? On the other hand …’ They stared at the rain.
‘You know what,’ Fran confessed, ‘I’m already missing the cake young Tom used to bring in.’
‘But we never have cake at home. Blood sugar. Cholesterol.’
‘And I don’t miss it at home. But the moment I step back on to police property I do. Talk about Pavlov’s dogs. Could you hear them, by the way?’
He patted his hearing aids and grinned. ‘When you opened the window. All I hear now is rain.’
‘Me too.’
Armed with Iris’s instant coffee, they sat down opposite each other, instantly in work mode. ‘OK, why not talk to this guy Ted? One of the original team? He could point us in all sorts of useful directions.’ He added plastic milk. Would he get round to drinking the thin brew? He looked round in vain for a thirsty plant.
‘I didn’t really want anyone, even little grey Colin, to fill us in on what they were hoping we’d find. You know how you get all this medical research proving things they want us to believe anyway? You’ve often said they’ve probably been very selective with their statistics.’
‘And you’re afraid that we too will find what we’re looking for, not necessarily the truth. Good point. So you want us to read through this lot before we break our vow of silence?’ There was no doubting his disbelief.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘If we just identified our predecessor’s main line of enquiry … Come on, it’s not yet midday. Let’s divide it between us and speed-read as much as we can. There’s not much, after all. We spend a few minutes putting together our ideas, then we can beard this Ted character in his den …’
The door opened as they reached for the first box. Colin Webster, carrying a card file and a notebook and pencil. He clearly noticed the changes they’d made, but didn’t remark on them.
‘I need a heads up of what you’ll need other than manpower.’
Mark almost did a double-take: even an ACC as unassuming as he’d been would never have been a self-appointed office boy. But he managed to reply smoothly, ‘Phone. Computer. Screen. Electronic display board. Printer.’
‘I’m sure there’ll be spare equipment in stock.’ He sounded less than confident.
Mark added to his list. ‘Waste bin. Table for the kettle and coffee maker.’
‘Coffee maker?’ Clearly disconcerted, Webster looked around.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get our own. But we’ll need somewhere to put it.’
‘Of course. And somewhere for your mugs and so on.’
‘More important,’ said Mark, lest Fran start to giggle, ‘we shall need a room nearby for the team we shall no doubt acquire.’
‘I’ll ask for a few volunteers to join you.’
‘Excellent – a mixture of old heads and thrusting youngsters, hopefully. And not too few of either, please.’
Webster looked at his watch and stood up. ‘We’ll talk over lunch. Twelve thirty in the canteen.’
Mark said, apparently idly, ‘I always used to leave the premises at midday – breathe in a bit of fresh air, stretch the old limbs.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s still raining cats and dogs—’
Mark couldn’t stop himself: ‘Yes, we heard them—’
‘If you want exercise, there’s a gym available for staff use, and a regular lunchtime aerobics session in the sports hall.’ Suddenly Webster didn’t seem like a mild little animal any more. ‘Twelve thirty. Oh, and here’s a list of the officers working on the case at the time. With current contact details.’ He closed the door with a snap.
‘So much for meeting Ted Day,’ Mark grumbled. ‘Though he’s right about the weather, and I wouldn’t mind checking out the gym.’
‘So much for meeting Ted Day this lunchtime,’ Fran corrected him. ‘But I have an idea those chips will be calling us quite loudly for supper if Iris tells us Ted drinks there in the evenings too.’
Over their usual midday salads Mark tried to probe rather than be probed. It was clear that Webster wanted the sort of instant judgement that he and Fran knew was impossible. Thwarted, Webster waved over a number of men who might be wearing plain clothes but who were clearly old-school flatfeet. All would obviously have been nearing retirement even in the normal course of events. These days management had worked out that older people earned more than young, so they were clearly heading for the chop. But not yet. They’d been part of the original missing person case and would be delighted to give the incomers the benefit of their wisdom on what had happened to young Natalie Foreman and her kid.
‘Mrs Phil Foreman, of course,’ said one, sitting heavily opposite Fran. ‘A WAG, for heaven’s sake. We all know what WAGs are like, all plastic tits and Gucci bags.’
In one acronym a possibly decent woman, probably a dead woman, had been dismissed as an avaricious airhead. Had one of her own team used such a pejorative term, Fran would have made sure they never did again. Here she confined herself to raising an eyebrow.
It still worked. The miscreant dropped his eyes, chuntering something under his breath. She had a suspicion that he wouldn’t clamour to join their team.
Mark’s voice was super-calm as he said, ‘Fran and I are still working through all the files. We really need your help, but I’d hate to waste your time by asking silly pointless questions. Can you help us another lunchtime when we’re better prepared?’ He looked at his watch. He flashed a glance at Fran, who produced one of her least favourite clichés, and one of her most duplicitous smiles.
‘Tomorrow we want to hit the ground running, so we need to spend every minute getting up to speed.’ Least favourite cliché number two. Cue for her and Mark to rise as one, even if it meant missing out on coffee. Fran’s ears, still sharper than Mark’s, caught the C word, but couldn’t tell if it applied to her or Natalie. Since the ACC didn’t rebuke the user, she could hardly turn round to do so. But she wouldn’t forget.
Mark bought a couple of bottles of water on the way out. Webster, who’d caught up with them and might have been about to speak, stopped abruptly as a man and a woman approached.
Mark had more residual respect for hierarchies than Fran had ever possessed in the whole of her career. It was clearly all he could do not to stand stiffly to attention and salute as Webster did when the chief constable, in full uniform, swept past him. Accompanying him was a short woman, very elegant, with a very expensive hairdo, who managed a good stride despite her viciously hig
h heels. Fran nodded, equal to equal. She got a gracious smile in response. Nothing from the chief, who, come to think of it, looked as drained as Webster. Sending Mark on ahead, she nipped down to speak to Iris.
It seemed that the woman was not a local MP – in Fran’s experience they could be relied on to reduce even the most braided and macho officer to jelly – but someone even more powerful, the police and crime commissioner, someone elected to oversee policing in his or her area. The idea had been met with pretty universal dismay amongst serving officers, not least because their hundred thousand a year salaries would each have paid five constables’ wages. Fran had been as hostile as anyone, but had to concede that while wild rumours flared round many appointments, some commissioners appeared to be earning their salt. This one, Iris told her, was called Sandra Dundy. If anyone could have given her the local view of Dundy it was Iris, of course, but an influx of visitors prevented Fran questioning her.
Mark rolled his eyes when Fran reported back. ‘The commissioner? She looked like – OK, what did you make of her?’
‘At first glance? She could be just a small woman trying to stand up for herself in a world of tall testosterone-fuelled men. Or equally, a Thatcher-like power-freak making up in ruthless efficiency what she lacks in inches. Let’s reserve judgement.’
‘Iris’s take?’
‘She didn’t have a chance to tell me. Anyway commissioners aren’t our problem. Not like those case papers.’
As Fran had remarked, there’d been remarkably little in the bulky boxes. Surely there was paperwork missing? Was it just bad record-keeping? Or was there a more sinister explanation: something had been removed? Or was it – and mentally she winced – that she and Mark had been away from the job too long and should have stayed in Kent reviewing the progress of their sprouts and cabbages? In the past she’d always juggled too many cases, had had too little time to reflect. Action plans happened on the hoof, not behind a desk. Somehow she needed to generate some familiar adrenalin.
Green and Pleasant Land Page 2
