Burying the Past

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Five then. Now tell me all about your day – because mine’s covered by the Official Secrets Act . . .’

  THIRTEEN

  The cricket wasn’t up to much, but sitting and, to their chagrin, sometimes dozing in the late summer sun was just what they both needed. If they needed to justify time out, then they could point to the ordered chaos of the house and the garden, neither of which they dared invade, and the still-pristine state of the Winnebago, though Fran had insisted on a flap of a tiny fluffy duster and a whizz round with a mini-vac. Housekeeping heaven.

  They weren’t surprised that their presence at the match didn’t cause any comment, but both had expected a little conversation from the people in the Three Tuns, whether welcoming, which would have been nice, or expressing disbelief that anyone could have been crazy enough to take on the rectory. Amusement or resentment at the arrival of the Winnebago. Anything.

  Eventually, Mark held up a finger. ‘Listen to the accents. Shit, everyone’s a weekender. I doubt if there’s a single local here.’

  Fran pointed to the menu. ‘Even the lamb’s from Wales.’

  ‘No matter, sweetheart – the idea was for us to get out and be coddled, not for you to ask questions about Marion Lovage.’

  ‘I never! Well, just a few. Do you think, as a treat, we’re entitled to some steak – although the beef’s Scottish?’

  Before he collapsed into bed – would there ever be a time when he wasn’t tired to his very marrow? – Mark conceded under protest that Fran and he should continue to try to build bridges across the gulf separating him from Dave. He trudged, as if through deep snow, to the end of the Winnebago where he could get coverage and left a message on Dave’s original mobile suggesting Sunday lunch together. Only as he cut the call did he realize that what he’d said was ambiguous – he hadn’t mentioned Fran’s presence, which he took, of course, as a given. Also at Fran’s behest, he’d named a pub well away from Great Hogben: he couldn’t see a problem himself, but if she did, he would indulge her. She still had what he, now desk-bound, was rapidly losing – a cop’s nose for trouble and, better still, for preventing it.

  They’d both slept like the dead, awaking to bright sunshine and the realization, alarming to people who never slept in, that it was almost ten thirty, and that they simply could not reach St Jude’s in time for Janie’s service. Mark would have stayed in bed another hour – for ever, if possible, his eyes were so heavy. But duty called. So All Saints at Great Hogben it was, to find the smallish church, probably old but certainly messed about by the Victorians, about two-thirds full. Most of the congregation were older than him and Fran; the dress code seemed to be slightly less than smart casual, with cords and body-warmers in evidence on some of the men. Predictably, the women had made more sartorial effort. The hymns rang out heartily, the sermon was brief, Communion reverent and the prayers to the point. What more could a worshipper want?

  Any worshipper but Fran. She’d want to pick the vicar’s brains, wouldn’t she? So he hung back with her, gathering stray hymn-books as an excuse, and joined her to shake the vicar’s hand at the end. She might have been giving a masterclass in tactful approaches, talking briefly about the sermon to show she’d actually been listening. Then she introduced him as her fiancé, saying they’d just moved to the village. That was it. No rapid-fire interrogation. Over to you, vicar. Or was it rector, and were they usurping his house, long lost to the parish?

  This time her warmth and charm weren’t working their magic. The vicar, old enough to have retired in any other profession, fiddled with his ear and cocked his head towards her. ‘I’m terribly sorry – my hearing-aid battery’s just died. Better now than during the service. But you’re very welcome and I hope to see you again.’

  A final handshake all round and that was it. And so – via the Winnebago, to change into genuinely casual gear – to lunch.

  But not before Fran had a phone call. Since it was from Jill she took it.

  ‘I just thought you’d like to know we’ve got a body. Woods, to the south of Canterbury. Nearest village, Bridge. A young man with a single stab wound just where Cynd said it would be. It’s really Don Simpson’s case, but since he knew about my possibly imaginary corpse he thought I might like to know it’s real. And we thought you might want to come out to the crime scene,’ she added ironically, as if Fran had any choice in the matter.

  ‘Rather than sit and enjoy Sunday lunch? Yes, well . . . Tell me where.’ She jotted the coordinates as Jill dictated them. ‘You’ve organized everything?’ She knew she would have done, from white suits to the press officer.

  ‘Don did. You know, Fran, if you really are having Sunday lunch somewhere, I can always call you later – pretend this call never happened?’

  ‘It’s tempting.’ On the other hand it was even more tempting not to have to eat with and talk to Dave. But what about Mark? How would he feel about his son’s unadulterated company? ‘I’ll call you back in two minutes,’ she promised. ‘How much of that did you hear?’ she asked Mark.

  ‘Enough to make me know you ought to be somewhere near Bridge, not feeding your face near Sissinghurst. We’d best call Dave and tell him lunch is off.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the best plan? If you want to build bridges, that is? We still don’t know how long he’ll be over here for, do we? We don’t want to give the impression he’s not important to us.’ For us read you, of course. ‘He might even have news of Sammie, of course.’

  ‘Don’t sound so damned enthusiastic! Look, I’ll call him and the pub to say we’ll be late, and I’ll drop you at the crime scene. And then you can have a whale of a time inspecting cadavers and I’ll politely consume roast beef. And I really will try to get to the bottom of this phone business. Promise. Though I think it would have been easier with you there.’ He looked at her sideways. ‘What are you not telling me? I can always tell, you know.’

  ‘You know he called the night . . . I just wondered if he wanted to get hold of me and bend my ear without you. I’ve no more idea than you what he’s up to – but I don’t feel that enjoying a pleasant tête-à-tête with his stepmother elect is truly one of them.’ Had that been too honest?

  ‘I was a shockingly bad father, you know. Really, really bad. I left all the hard work to Tina – all the discipline, going to school functions, sitting with them when they were ill – everything.’

  ‘Show me a policeman who didn’t. Oh, things are better now, but in those days that was the role you accepted when you were a copper’s wife. And at least you two stuck together, not like other police couples. Why not tell him how guilty you feel? How you’d want to do things differently if you had the chance?’

  He shot her an amused glance, winding her up. ‘Sounds a bit touchy-feely to me. You’re right, of course. But Fran, tell me this: is my bad parenting wholly to blame for everything? Sammie? Dave? They both seem like creatures from another planet to me. However angry I was with my dad – and I had due cause, believe me, growing up watching his casual unkindness to Mum – I’d never have nicked his phone, or the equivalent. Thank God you had the presence of mind to get mine closed down – though he’d probably already had time to worry away at my password.’

  ‘On the principle of all those monkeys writing the works of Shakespeare? Come on, the security people said it was a grade-A password. Talk to them tomorrow, anyway – get them to check if there’s been any untoward activity on lines he shouldn’t even know about. But maybe you should ask Dave himself? Pull over here, sweetheart, and make your calls.’

  Fran, the predictable white suit a little short in the leg for her, stood with Don Simpson, Jill and the forensic pathologist surveying the young man’s body. It was already so decomposed that it was clear that unless there was anything in his pockets to help, ID would have to be by DNA – or by more searching questions, under caution, to Cynd than anyone had yet risked. Her early confession should do her a lot of favours if she ever came to trial.

  ‘All this gr
ass—’ Fran pointed. ‘Was it crushed by whoever found him? Or by us? Or was it already like this?’

  ‘The couple who found him said they’d not got in close because of the smell. They also say they’re sure it was all flattened down when they and their dog arrived.’ Don, a decent cop in his early forties, added, ‘I’d say he came along that path over there, wouldn’t you?’ It was already cordoned off. ‘The SOCO team’ll check for blood and so on.’

  ‘Would the so on involve other people, carrying something heavy, like a young man? And then – dear God – laying him down there and abandoning him?’

  ‘Going for help would be a better scenario, guv.’

  Jill said, ‘We’ve checked all emergency ambulance calls, remember – nothing at the right time on the right day. Assuming Cynd is telling the truth, of course. And assuming she may not have been, we checked a couple of days either way – nothing.’

  ‘Don, Jill – this is in good hands. Keep me informed – I’d like to be at your briefings. Let me know if your budget needs expanding.’

  ‘Expanding!’ Don snorted. ‘We’ll be lucky to have a budget if the rumours are to be believed.’

  ‘When was a rumour ever to be trusted?’ Fran grinned. ‘Come on, we have a murder here, and a rape. You have a young woman confessing: could you bear to bring her in yourself, Jill? Since she’s a victim too? It’ll be a difficult time for her, without any support. Remember Janie’s off into hospital first thing.’

  ‘Shit, so she is. I was hoping we could get Cynd bailed to her care.’

  ‘If Janie gets so much as a whiff of that she’ll call off the op,’ Fran declared. ‘And I’m not sure breast cancer will hang around for that. Shit and shit and shit.’

  ‘Do you suppose she’s sorted out a good solicitor for Cynd?’

  ‘Only one way to find out. By the way, I’d rather Cynd didn’t get landed with Whatsisname – that duty solicitor who might almost be batting for our side, not his client’s.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Don, who’d backed off during what he no doubt feared was Women’s Talk, approached again.

  Fran shot him a smile. ‘With luck, this should cost no more than a week’s pocket money to tie up – but you never know, do you?’

  The three old pros shook their heads and sucked their teeth in unison. One thing in policing was certain – you could never be certain.

  Another thing was certain – Fran would have liked to spend the afternoon here, with her team. But in truth she’d be wasting her time – worse, theirs, since they all had roles that didn’t require an old bat like her breathing down their necks. The forensic scientists didn’t want extra people messing up their site. It was hot here and very smelly. Much as she’d have liked to go with Jill to arrest Cynd and reassure Janie, she didn’t want to do anything that might damage Jill’s confidence.

  And Mark needed her. So she made her farewells, checked he was still over at Sissinghurst and bummed a lift from a disconcerted DC. ‘Meanwhile, we need the full procedure, and bugger the expense. OK?’ she concluded, knowing there’d be no dissent.

  Mark was pleased with one part of his time with Dave: he’d remembered that his son had always liked photography and had suggested he might like to take his camera – did he still always carry one? Oh, he had the iPhone that’d do everything, didn’t he! – round the grounds of Sissinghurst Castle. So lunch, in the absence of Fran, was a short and businesslike affair, simply devoted to the consumption of some indifferent salmon steaks. At some time he’d have to grill Dave on the matter of the mobile phones, but while half of him preferred the idea of having people around to stop Dave creating a scene (he used to have a terrifying capacity for tantrums – had he grown out of them?) the other half wondered if it might be better to have a little privacy to raise almost certainly embarrassing questions.

  As they joined the straggling queue waiting to pay their entrance fee – goodness, were elasticated waistbands de rigueur for Sunday National Trust visits? – Mark made his first bold move. ‘First up,’ he said, ‘let’s sort out our phones.’ He held out Dave’s, expecting his son to produce his. Perhaps expecting was too strong a word.

  ‘Sorry – I brought the other.’ He flashed the expensive one. ‘In case I wanted to take photos, of course. Yours doesn’t seem to be working, by the way.’

  ‘It wouldn’t. We’re required to notify security when we even mislay our phone.’

  ‘So that woman grassed me up!’

  ‘I did, Dave.’ It wouldn’t do any harm to fillet out a bit of the truth.

  ‘You contacted the police!’

  ‘I am the police, Dave. It’s our policy. I had no choice. And as for making it personal, forget it – I just said I’d left it on a train. Mark’s a silly old duffer, and so on.’

  ‘Fucking hell! What about that woman? She sounded very suspicious too.’

  ‘If you cut either of us, you’d find POLICE written inside. I followed procedure, son, no more and no less. But I’d rather you didn’t refer to her as that woman again. She’s Fran. My future wife. And a very good woman. Your mother was very fond of her. Now, the best place to start is up the tower – you can see all the grounds laid out at your feet.’ How about that for fatherhood above and beyond the call of duty? There was an awkward step without a handhold at each point the circular stairs met a landing. He always made a point of offering his hand to older ladies here – but he admitted secretly it might be as much for his benefit as for theirs. As for the top of the tower itself, it actually had quite a decent parapet, but even so he preferred to let others jostle for the best view and lurk towards the middle.

  ‘Did my mother know you were having an affair?’ Dave demanded as they joined another queue to climb the dreaded stairs.

  ‘Have you stopped beating your wife yet?’ Mark laughed, as if there really might be some humour in the situation. ‘There was no affair for her to know about, Dave, I promise you. In fact, when she’d come back from university – she did a course without any support from us, to our shame – Fran was seeing some badminton player. She’s county standard, you know. Was. The only thing – only! – that kept me away from you kids and Tina was the job. Pure and simple. Climbing the promotional ladder. And if you ask me if it was worth it, I’d have to say it probably wasn’t.’ Remembering Fran’s advice, he added: ‘I’m sorry I was such a bad father. Very sorry. You don’t even like me, and Sammie – well, I haven’t been able to have a conversation with her for weeks. Ah! Up we go.’

  Dave turned, and it seemed to Mark that he looked at him for the first time. ‘Are you really coming? You always used to chicken out when we did anything like this. Scared of heights, aren’t you?’ It seemed he couldn’t resist a jeer.

  ‘Shit-scared, since you ask. But needs must.’ He set off up the stairs. All the same, he was glad to stop at the first room and feign an interest in the contents.

  Dave looked at him again. ‘I’ll catch you on the way down.’

  As Mark opened his mouth to protest, Dave was up and away like a greyhound. But he wouldn’t be written off. He’d do it if it killed him. And then he remembered Fran’s face when he made jokes like that. What did he have to prove? That he cared enough about Dave to overcome his fear? Stolidly, he set off – one step at a time.

  He’d just reached the quasi-safety of the top when his new phone rang. ‘Fran?’

  ‘I’m about ten minutes from Sissinghurst. Where are you?’

  ‘Up the Castle tower with Dave.’

  ‘Idiot. Brave idiot, but idiot all the same. I shall get our colleague Inderjit here to drive me up in state to the front gate. Actually, shall I see you in the White Garden? We can’t miss each other there.’

  He noticed Dave was staring as he put his phone away. ‘What on earth are you doing up here?’

  ‘I just wanted to spend time with you, son – and I’m buggered if vertigo is going to stop me.’ But he waited till he’d got down safely before he asked, ‘How come you got the wr
ong phone, Dave? Really? And why didn’t you bring it today?’

  Something in the garden claimed Dave’s attention. He said, over his shoulder, ‘Forgot – I just picked up this one.’

  Why had he bothered with such a stupid detectable lie?

  Mark said, trying to sound reasonable, ‘Which is far classier than mine – and your new one. What’s up, son?’

  ‘Nothing’s up, for Christ’s sake! I bought a phone. You took it by mistake.’

  Suddenly, Mark could see the little tea-stained table on the up platform at Maidstone East. It had only one phone on it, the one he naturally took, since it was identical to his. Why didn’t he dare point this out? At least he asked another question: ‘So why bring that sexy iPhone with you today and not mine? Sorry to go over it again, but none of this makes sense to me.’

  ‘For God’s sake, we’ll go back to my hotel and pick it up – right? Before or after I take the photos you want me to take?’

  God, he was a spiky teenager again. Surely there must be a way of breaking these patterns.

  But now Dave was pointing, with a hand apparently shaking with rage. ‘And now who’s putting in an appearance? The fragrant Fran. God, you can’t spend ten minutes apart. You’re fucking pathetic, the pair of you!’

  ‘Body. Decomposing nicely in this heat,’ Fran greeted them, as if one of them had asked how she’d spent the last couple of hours. But it was clear from their faces that neither was interested; she got the strong impression that more problems had erupted, with the original ones still unresolved. ‘Have you explored yet?’ she asked, ambiguously, to her ears at least. ‘Or could you fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m finished here,’ Dave said, so angrily that a couple of people leaning heavily on sticks looked at him in apprehension, as if he might suddenly kick their supports from under them.

  ‘But I’ve not even started,’ Fran said, heading for the more open ground of the orchard. She didn’t look to see if the men were following; when she walked like this, they better had. At last, she turned, arms akimbo. ‘Dave, I should imagine you’re pretty angry about this phone business.’ What on earth was Mark signalling? That it had been he who’d grassed up Dave? She’d best continue in neutral terms, then, though she’d much rather have told the whole truth. She kept her fingers crossed that she didn’t slip up. ‘I’m sure he’s told you that anyone losing one has to follow policy he himself set in train.’ She waited in vain for a response. She opened her mouth to find it was saying things she’d wanted to say for some time. Why now, though? But out the words came. ‘When we first met, you thought I’d be some painted Jezebel – right? But now you can see I’m not, you still have a problem. I think it’s to do with what Sammie’s been telling you. And I also think you came here to see if you could help sort out a silly family mess.’ This wasn’t wholly true, but it gave him a chance not to lose face, didn’t it? ‘We should be allies in this, not a trio of grown-ups behaving like toddlers. Now, what’s your take on the whole thing? What do you think Sammie’s afraid of? And what problems does this cause you?’