Green and Pleasant Land

by Judith Cutler

  ‘I know there are,’ she said humbly, kicking herself again. They might live in the Garden of England but that was no excuse for south of Watford snobbery. ‘I’m sorry, Ted. I really am. I seem to have left my brain behind at some motorway service area or other. We’ve got friends in Little Aston who live near Roman Road, a millionaires’ row if ever there was one! That’d be an easy commute, wouldn’t it? Or Knowle, or Dorridge?’

  ‘That’s the sort of place,’ Ted conceded. ‘On the other hand, to be fair, the Albion weren’t a Premier League club like they are now. They were down in the Second or Third Division. So it would be a definite demotion for the lad.’

  She nodded, still anxious not to make further mistakes. ‘Can I pick up on one thing you said earlier? At one point you used the word officially. Which implies to me that you know stuff unofficially.’

  ‘Or Iris wouldn’t have fixed us all up on the blind date, would she?’ Mark observed, trying to give Fran a bit of moral support. Although she got on so well with most people, she certainly wasn’t hitting it off with Ted, who continued to look at her inimically. ‘You’re sure you couldn’t manage another half, Ted?’

  ‘OK, you’ve twisted my arm.’ As Mark headed to the bar, Ted grinned at Fran, but still not altogether kindly. ‘Like I said, you’d have done better to go to a decent hotel. I can’t see that even with enough gas and a log fire Snowdrop Cottage is going to be the most comfortable place on earth for high-flyers like you. I’d see you in a modern house, with proper insulation and high ceilings and double glazing and mains drainage and—’

  She met his eye. ‘I take your point, Ted. I’ve been talking like an idiot townie, and I’m really sorry. Something to do with our four a.m. start, maybe. But we do actually live in the country, near but not in a hamlet that just about sustains a pub and a church. No shop. We haven’t got mains gas or mains drainage at home either. Though I’ll admit we have nice high ceilings. And the land around us drains well. Snowdrop Cottage lies in a deep hollow, doesn’t it? It’s bound to be damp … Now,’ she continued, smiling up at Mark as he put a half on Ted’s mat, ‘what’s all this unofficial stuff?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He raised his glass in a toast, then changed his mind and put it down again, unscrewing the wine bottle and tilting it, first towards Mark’s glass, then towards Fran’s. ‘Only one of you is driving, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Me,’ said Fran. ‘My turn. Go on, Mark, it’ll help you sleep.’ She raised her glass of water in a gesture matching Ted’s. ‘To unofficial stuff.’

  ‘To my kid brother’s baby – with Natalie.’

  Fran thought she picked up the irony in Ted’s gesture before Mark did. She replaced her glass swiftly and laid a hand on Ted’s wrist. ‘It’s not that straightforward, is it? What happened, Ted?’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was a very tasteless way of breaking someone else’s secret. Everyone knew of my family’s connection with her – a connection that hadn’t ended happily, as it happens. That’s why I wasn’t involved in the case once the initial search was over. Rob and Natalie Garbutt, as was, were what the media would probably call childhood sweethearts. They were inseparable from the age of about fourteen. Real Romeo and Juliet. As it goes, the families were both quite happy – neighbours, the dads played for the same cricket club, the mums went to the same WI. You can imagine what it was like for Natalie’s mum, by the way, when the WI were asked to provide hot drinks and sandwiches for the search party.’

  By now Mark had caught up. ‘It must have been very painful for you all.’

  ‘I think Rob was over it by then – it was more than ten years later, for goodness’ sake, and he had a new partner and a baby on the way. Whatever Natalie did with her life was no skin off my nose. As for the baby, well, to be honest, with hindsight she was probably right to get rid of it, though Rob wasn’t happy at the time or for years after. He’d have been delighted to marry her and do his best to help rear it. He’d even have stood by her if she’d wanted to have it adopted. But she was adamant she didn’t want to bring a damaged baby into the world. It was her choice, she said, and she was acting on the medics’ advice. They called it a non-viable fetus. It was common knowledge in the village.’

  Fran took a deep breath: she was appalled that something as deeply personal, as private, should have become generally known. At last, she asked quietly, ‘Was there some sort of genetic problem? Because I seem to recall the baby in the car had some sort of health problem that would have shortened its life.’

  He looked at her with slightly more approval. ‘You can imagine the talk round the village, but Natalie’s mum insisted there was no connection. By the way, while I’m sure you’ll want to interview Jeanette, you ought to know that her husband’s in a bad way. But he’s as sharp as a tack, is Brian.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll tread carefully,’ Mark said.

  Ted’s glance at Fran suggested she’d find it hard.

  ‘Do you remember anything about her schoolfriends?’ Mark asked. ‘Girls she went about with?’

  ‘They’ve all married and moved away: it’s nobbut a small place,’ he said, deliberately thickening his accent.

  ‘And do you recall her bringing back any university friends?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’d have to ask her mother.’

  ‘Rob: any idea how Rob would react to an interview?’

  ‘Fancy a trip to Australia, do you?’

  ‘In this weather, I’d love one. But I doubt if the budget would run to it.’

  ‘Not now Colin Webster’s got his hands on the purse-strings – he’s a tightwad if ever there was one. What sort of team has he pulled together for you?’

  ‘He said something about volunteers.’

  ‘Did he indeed? OK, so no trip Down Under for you.’

  ‘Does Rob Skype?’ Fran asked.

  ‘He’s spending time in the Bush. But even then he was never really in the frame. They questioned him once or twice, but never under caution. All fingers pointed – round here at least – at her husband. But he came up squeaky clean. He could afford to pay for fancy lawyers, of course, but since at the time they went missing he was up in Newcastle preparing for a match he had a cast iron alibi. In any case, he was actually a devoted dad. Had lots of plans for Hadrian’s future. I’ve no idea how he dealt with Julius, poor little bugger. You were right about the health problem. Edwards’ syndrome.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, if I’m not back in five minutes flat, you won’t get your firelighters – or if you do, they’ll be ready-lit and shoved up somewhere you don’t want heat …’

  Armed with not just firelighters but dry kindling and a black plastic sack full of logs, they picked their way back to the cottage. There was a lot of lying water on the A449; local radio, cutting in uninvited on the Audi sound system, told them that the Severn was already high and that the Avon at Tewkesbury was about to burst its banks. At least their approach to Ombersley was unimpeded, and Snowdrop Cottage was still accessible, although the narrow lane was awash, as was the yard. They took their booty into the living room.

  Fran soon had a fire going, banking it up in the hope of keeping it going overnight. At least the bedroom, courtesy of the fan heater they’d left running, was cosiness itself. The feeble wall heater in the chic and elegant bathroom, currently running with condensation, might do some good if they left it on overnight, but their hopes weren’t high. Fran almost looked forward to the conversation she planned to have with the letting agent the following morning.

  FOUR

  Half an hour in the gym; a post-exercise shower; a canteen breakfast – they both felt as though they’d stepped back into their old life with the Kent Police. Their office showed signs of being equipped: a white board was already on the wall, as was an electronic screen. The workman’s activities hadn’t extended to sweeping up the plaster dust or removing the boxes the kit had come in. A computer was already up and running, the screen-saver the unfamiliar West Mercia design. No coffe
e maker, of course, but one of them at least was entitled to a lunch break and could nip out and buy one; meanwhile they’d rely on the green tea they’d brought as part of their supplies and which in any case Mark insisted was better for them.

  And now they had a new team to work with – Fran firmly suppressed the words break in. She was still inclined to beat herself up for her decided failure to impress Ted the previous evening, and had hoped that a good night’s sleep would have cleared her head. However, sleep had been no more than fitful: somewhere something had flapped and slapped intermittently in what sounded like a gale, waking her with a jerk every time she dozed off. The letting agent now had a name – Alex Fisher; he’d promised action on that as well as on the gas, but pointed out that the wind might make it too dangerous for anyone to attempt a repair. He agreed, when pressed, that if he couldn’t improve things by nightfall he might have to tell the owner that Fran and Mark would decamp, cancelling the rest of their booking and asking for a rebate.

  Fran had felt better after that, but already caught herself out yawning. The victory adrenalin had better stay with her, or she might disgrace herself in front of their new team: three of the men to whom they’d been introduced at lunch the previous day and a couple of women young enough to be their daughters. As they entered, however, one of the trio peeled off and disappeared with a casual wave. After a few moments, so did a second with what Fran tried not to think was studied insolence.

  ‘Anyone else want to leave before we settle down to some work?’ Mark asked quietly. ‘Because if you’ve got second thoughts about working for this team, now is definitely the time to go. No?’ He gave the three remaining officers the smile Fran always reckoned would pull ducks off the water. ‘So we’ve got DC Robyn Marlow, DS Stu Pritchard and DC Paula Llewellyn, right? This is my wife, Fran Harman, and I’m Mark Turner.’ Another smile.

  They all responded, but with the sort of caution that might indicate they were well aware of the former rank of these two incomers trying to be matey. ‘I don’t need to tell you that we shall expect the same dedication and hard work you’d show if you were investigating a live case. But there are a few differences, one being that neither of us has powers of arrest. If any collar-feeling has to be done, one of you has to accompany us. The shorter the investigation the better pleased West Mercia’s accountants will be. The grapevine’s probably already told you that neither of us will be keeping our fee, by the way.’

  Stu, in his mid-forties but trim enough to suggest he put in serious hours at some sort of exercise or other, put up a hand. ‘Overtime?’

  Oh, dear. Fran had hoped that wouldn’t be anyone’s priority. She shook her head. ‘Not unless the ACC – your ACC – authorizes it personally. Sorry.’

  Mark took over again. ‘Now, just in case you don’t know, this is the scenario – ah, the keyboard doesn’t seem to be talking to the screen …’

  Paula, the more strongly built of the young women, put her phone down, tossed back pretty blonde hair and stepped forward. It took her about ten seconds to fix it. ‘I seem to be your geek,’ she said with a self-deprecating smile.

  ‘Is that what you want to be, Paula?’ Fran asked.

  ‘My DCI, the one who put me forward for the job, said I should get all the experience I could – but that’s a two-way thing, isn’t it? So if it’s a geek you need …’

  So Paula had been volunteered into joining them. They’d have to make sure she wanted to stay. Fran smiled. ‘Correction, Paula – a geek we need. Us. The team. Right?’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ She glanced down at her phone. ‘Sorry – I really need to deal with this – won’t take a second.’ It didn’t. She was back in the room looking alert, if stressed, when Mark started his spiel.

  He’d hardly finished when there was a tap at the door. Iris slid into the room, handed Fran a new ID and slid out again.

  ‘There, I’m real,’ she said, hanging it round her neck. She smiled encouragingly at the other young woman, slender and elegant, with the most beautiful skin. ‘Robyn?’

  Her gender-free name matched her androgynous appearance. ‘I’m always happy doing house to house, that sort of thing, not that there seems to be much call for that in this case.’

  True, so why was she here? But there weren’t so many gift-horses that you could look any of them in the mouth. ‘If you’ve got people skills, we’ll need them, don’t worry,’ Fran declared. ‘And you, Stu?’

  ‘I was on the original team,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Excellent,’ Fran said with a smile, though she was sure Mark’s heart fell as swiftly and deeply as hers did. The last thing they needed was someone like the guys in the canteen trotting out the dogma that had driven a failed enquiry. On the other hand, he might just have been the bright-eyed bushy-tailed young officer who’d oozed good ideas which had irritated his complacent superiors. ‘So you’ll be able to fill us in on all sorts of things that don’t seem to have been kept on file.’

  Stu didn’t look as if he could.

  ‘For instance, without wishing you to be disloyal, there may have been things you felt could or should have been done differently. When you’re ready. Anything you say will stay within these four walls.’ Mark looked swiftly around the others.

  Stu pulled a face. ‘I was still wet behind the ears in those days … But I remember thinking – no, it’s probably just hindsight …’

  ‘We all have twenty-twenty vision in that situation. But spill, anyway.’

  ‘I just wondered if – with all the searching proving negative – other avenues might have been explored with a bit more thoroughness. But it was my first year as fully fledged constable, and what did I know about anything?’

  Fran smiled. ‘Thank you. That could be very useful, you know. Now, is there any particular role you’d like to focus on?’

  Stu’s eyes glazed.

  ‘How about you take responsibility for evidence?’ Mark suggested.

  ‘What evidence?’ Stu spread his hands.

  Mark spread his, more expansively, before counting off possibilities. ‘Stuff left in the car: Natalie’s mobile phone; handbag; outdoor clothes; luggage, if any; passports. Hadrian’s child seat. Could you lay your hands on them for me so we can decide what needs forensic testing? Of course at this stage you may have to nag people,’ he said.

  Fran turned to Robyn. ‘I couldn’t find any copies of Julius’s hospital records on file. Or, for that matter, any medical information about Hadrian. I know he was supposed to be just a healthy toddler, but just in case. I dare say his GP won’t have kept any records, but could you find out who it was and make a few calls? May be a non-starter – don’t fret if it is. Now, we know Julius had Edwards’ syndrome.’ There was no need to regale them with what she’d found on the Internet. ‘It’s a terrible thing to afflict the baby and his family, of course. They must have known he was going to die right from the moment he was born. What’s the most likely hospital for him to have been having treatment in? Great Ormond Street?’

  Robyn caught Paula’s eye and raised an eyebrow. Fran froze.

  Robyn asked, ‘What about Birmingham Children’s Hospital? It might have the name Birmingham in front of it but it’s a national centre of excellence.’

  Why did people here have such passion for a nearby city? ‘Sorry. How stupid of me. Birmingham, of course. While you’re talking to them, could you ask if it’s genetic and if Natalie might have been a carrier?’

  ‘Actually,’ Stu said, ‘my kid cousin comes from Swindon or somewhere and he got treated at GOSH. So it does happen if you’ve got something really rare.’

  Fran flashed him a smile. She was just about to ask after his cousin when Stu volunteered, ‘He died.’

  There was a communal sigh of sympathy. Fran flashed a look at Mark: let him build on it.

  ‘It must be awful – beyond awful – to lose a child … of that age,’ he said quickly. He was completely estranged from his daughter, by her choice, tho
ugh thank God he had an excellent model-railway-based relationship with his son and was heavily involved with his grandchildren. His voice became gravelly with emotion. ‘Imagine what Natalie’s parents must have gone through, losing a daughter and both grandsons.’

  There was a tiny silence. One at least of the bosses was obviously human: was this a good or a bad thing? Embarrassed by the crack in his armour, Mark hoped it was good.

  Meanwhile Paula looked up from her tablet. Fran had been on the verge of bollocking her for using it during a meeting but her grim smile suggested a minor success. She put some pictures on to their screen. Five hardened officers found it hard to look. ‘Edwards’ syndrome. Usually tests pick it up in utero, it says here, and mothers are offered a termination. If Natalie was, she obviously didn’t accept. And …’ she scanned downwards, ‘no, there doesn’t appear to be any particular familial or genetic link.’

  ‘Or maybe twenty years back the test wasn’t available – or wasn’t reliable?’ Fran hazarded.

  ‘I’ll ask when I call the kids’ hospital,’ Robyn said.

  ‘Thanks, Robyn. That’d be good.’

  Perhaps they were forming into a team despite everything. She might just try pushing on another door, even though it had been one that had annoyed Ted. ‘Stu, do you recall where Natalie was going when she disappeared? Where she was leaving from, indeed?’

  ‘There was something funny about it …’

  Mark nodded encouragement. He thought he knew what was coming. Hoped it would show that Stu was more clued up than he’d feared.

  ‘We all assumed she’d been to her mother’s and was on her way home to her pad in … now where was it? Edgbaston.’

  ‘That’s a posh part of Birmingham – right? With the cricket ground?’ Fran stopped there. Winning back some Brownie points was one thing, but she didn’t want to sound as if she was toadying.

  Stu nodded. ‘I saw some pics of it; I don’t know if they were kept on file, gaffer, but there were some in the papers. Not very big, but sort of stately. Someone said it had been used for shots in a period TV series. Not the sort of OTT Southfork place you expect footballers to have.’