Burying the Past

by Judith Cutler

  One of the technical staff shook his head. ‘Not so much as a bent paper clip.’

  Fran gave a bark of laughter. ‘Nothing in the house, nothing in the garden, nothing in her furniture – she seems to have been quite obsessive. Maybe we should call in a shrink.’ She stopped. ‘Hang on – she left that wheelbarrow, for all it was under six feet of muck. Has that thrown up anything useful yet?’

  ‘In half an hour, with luck.’ Kim flicked a glance at her watch. ‘We’ve got a progress briefing in twenty minutes: will you be coming?’

  ‘Cue jokes about bears or popes, Kim. I’ll be there.’ But not until she’d contacted Jill again; she liked instant replies to important questions.

  ‘Let’s start with the good news,’ Kim said. ‘We have an ID for our rectory garden victim. Francis, known as Frank, Grange. Before you feel too sorry for a man coming to such a violent end, pause to consider his CV.’ The PowerPoint presentation produced its first page. ‘As you can see, he was almost professionally brutal. First conviction: age thirteen, stabbing a teacher; next, age sixteen, aggravated stealing and taking away – left the victim of the theft for dead after running her over. That seems to have got him started on a long career of crimes against women.’ She pointed. ‘Sexual assault; rape; attempted murder; rape again. He got a good long sentence for that, largely because of the evidence given by the victim’s sister, Mary Ann Minton. Now, as you can see, the pattern is clear. Offend; time in gaol; offend; time in gaol; offend. A clear cycle.’

  An ironic voice from the back observed, ‘Prison works.’

  ‘Quite. But fourteen years ago, released from Parkhurst, this time, he stops offending. Cured! Either it’s the sea air he’s been exposed to or he’s emigrated. Or he’s been walloped on the head with a large shovel and popped into a trench to improve the quality of the runner beans. Fortunately, we’ve got plenty of mugshots of him so, although it’s a long shot, I suggest we get on to the media, in particular Crimewatch, and see if anyone can place him round here, and with whom.’

  ‘Do we need to go that far? Isn’t it a fair supposition that he tried to rape Marion Lovage and she killed him?’ the voice at the back asked.

  Fran nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’d help my budget if we could simply say that was that and move on to the next case. On the other hand, I think the coroner might like a bit more than an educated guess, don’t you? At least a suggestion as to why, having killed him, she didn’t just call the police.’ She looked down to the document in front of her. ‘The pathologist says he was killed by one blow – I’d have thought she’d have got away without a prison sentence for that. Unless, of course, she had a criminal record herself. Kim?’

  Why should the younger woman look guilty, as if a dog had eaten her homework? She almost gasped with relief when one of her team passed a piece of paper. ‘Could I just mention the wheelbarrow before we go through what we have of Lovage’s CV? It’s as clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise. And the CV?’

  ‘Almost as clean. She suddenly emerges from nowhere at a school in Lincoln with a degree and a teaching qualification. If they’re real, we don’t know where she got them. Because no British uni seems to have had a Marion Lovage on roll, either as a degree student – Geography – or on a PGCE course, not ever. No health records, no pension records, no driving licence, anything.’

  Fran frowned. ‘But there was nothing about her record at the school or at this one to suggest she wasn’t qualified? I mean, poor results, poor discipline, that sort of thing? After all, she was notably successful at improving Great Hogben Primary.’

  ‘Especially the fabric, apparently. She got all sorts of grants no one had ever heard of, and it became the go-to school for all the middle-class parents. But essentially she kept it as a village school for local people. People still speak of her as an ideal head.’

  ‘So what was her name before all this?’ Fran asked sharply. ‘Come now, you’ve had time, budget or no budget, to check that.’ She got up, looking at her watch. ‘A complete CV, including her birth weight, by this time tomorrow. Is that understood?’ She swept out. It was ordinary, basic, probationer-level police work, and it hadn’t been done.

  Perhaps it was her anger that brought a name to mind. Bruce Farfrae, the husband of a woman she’d once played badminton with. He’d once been a cop, but now he was flying solo, in the lucrative world of antiques. She had an idea he lived out in Kent, despite working for the Met. But a quick check on the Internet showed a New York business address. Nonetheless, he might be worth asking for advice about the impenetrable cabinet. She dashed off an email.

  And now to join members of Don’s team for the Bridge corpse’s PM. Happy days.

  ‘Only one call made on this, sir – and that was to DCS Harman’s number. I don’t know how the thief got hold of that.’ The geek handed back Mark’s mobile, but he was clearly still anxious.

  ‘She gave him her business card. I was overreacting, Stu – and possibly so was Fran. Someone picked up my phone by mistake, but she’s always keen on a bit of belt and braces – that’s why she contacted you and had all use stopped.’

  ‘I’d say she was right, sir, though no harm was done. Not with your password.’

  Mark felt the floor shift beneath his feet. Caffy would have forbidden the use of literally, but that was what it felt like – being in an earth tremor. They’d had one in Kent some five or six years back, which had done a lot of damage in Dover and Folkestone, and he’d not forgotten the weird experience.

  ‘And did this person try to break it?’ he asked, dry-mouthed.

  ‘Only the most amateur attempt.’ Stu’s face relaxed. ‘It’s this mixture of letters – upper and lower case – and numerals that stopped him. Something like your birthday or wedding day anyone serious would have cracked, sure as God made little apples.’

  Mark was just going to reply he couldn’t have done, since the wedding day wasn’t set yet – but then he remembered with a pang that Stu meant his first wedding. To Tina, Dave’s mother. And now Dave was trying to hack into his phone. No, he was just trying to get Fran’s number. Surely. Nothing sinister.

  Safe in his office again, he covered his face with his hands. Was it all his fault that he had a crazy daughter and an even crazier son? It was certainly his fault that he’d never learned to communicate with them. If only he could have his time again – if only he could somehow make amends by being a wonderful grandfather. But he suspected the latter was as impossible as the former.

  SIXTEEN

  In the shower – she always needed one, no matter how clinical the surroundings and indeed the whole business of a post-mortem – Fran pondered anew the frailty of life. All her tears might have been shed yesterday – and she still couldn’t believe her lack of control – but she worried herself when she found herself speculating on what might have continued but for a well-placed knife. And then she told herself off, more comprehensively than if she’d been a rookie, throwing up over her first corpse. By Cynd’s account this was a rapist. And Jill at least believed her; maybe she herself did too. So what would Cynd’s story be now they had a body to check it against? Assuming they could find Cynd, of course.

  She sailed into the briefing room to catch DCI Don Simpson in full rant: Cynd was still missing. Arms folded, she stood quietly by the door, letting him get on with it. Losing a self-confessed killer wasn’t good policing, was it? And the press would love it.

  Where on earth was Jill? There was no sign of her. No text, missing a vital meeting – that wasn’t like Jill, since her illness the most efficient of officers. But she didn’t like to ask publicly. After all, she herself had been a tad late – had she missed something Don might have said?

  Meanwhile, there was other information to absorb, mostly about trying to ID the dead man. Given that the evidence on the ground suggested he’d been carried to where he was found, Don had decided to check on what vehicles might have driven him to the point in the woodland where the
little procession must have started. There were recent tyre tracks from a large van. CCTV from Canterbury Ring Road had shown up several white vans – cue derisory cheers from the team – heading in the right direction at the right time. Several? Several hundred, more like. And it had fallen to the lot of two of the team to chase up each number plate and check ownership details. That was still ongoing.

  Poor sods. Fran had carried out similar eye-watering tasks in her time, though by the time CCTV had become so universal she’d been promoted beyond having to carry out that particular menial but vital role.

  Others in the team were going through all the mugshots of the drivers and front passengers, using all the magic of digital enhancement, which managed to produce usable material from the grainiest of shots. The clever computer then matched the faces to faces on file – how on earth had they managed without? But although the technology delighted and amazed Fran in equal measure, so far it had come up with little that was useful. Early days yet, however.

  Some more of the team were interviewing members of known gangs. Everything was going smoothly, it seemed, except that there was no DNA match on record for the young man, which would have helped everyone a very great deal.

  As for Cynd, Jill had at least acted on Fran’s information that the girl had been to Maidstone. CCTV from a number of shops showed her drifting round, in the time-honoured manner of someone about to shoplift. Naturally, the cameras followed her. But she left, apparently clean, until she reached House of Fraser. Here several items disappeared into that ultra-large bag. But then, possibly to the chagrin of the store security staff, and certainly to the surprise of the officers and her colleagues, Cynd retired to a corner – presumably she thought she couldn’t be seen there – and fished everything out that she’d taken, carrying bras and briefs as if she might be about to take them to a till. She didn’t. Haphazardly, it seemed, she wandered back to the rails she had robbed, replacing every last thing. Janie would have been proud of her. The images, grainy and jerky though they were, showed a tenacity of purpose Fran would never have expected.

  She wasn’t quite so virtuous at the station, Maidstone East. Footage showed her rooting around in the scurf of dropped tickets and gleaning one that got her on to the platform. She disappeared finally on a Canterbury bound train. She was tracked back from Canterbury West to the vicarage, talking to various people en route – but there was no sign of any drug deal going down, not involving her at least.

  There was other footage, but not much. Someone with a hoodie pulled down so far that it denied the cameras a chance of picking out any detectable feature turned up at the vicarage, but stayed only a minute or so. Whoever he spoke to was invisible. Several others of Janie’s waif and stray brigade made similar visits, some staying longer, some less. Cynd didn’t seem to leave the vicarage at all, until she walked briskly with Janie to yesterday’s morning service – the one Fran and Mark had missed.

  And she duly headed back. And that was the last they saw of her. There were some good shots of Jill approaching the vicarage, just as Janie had described. Nothing of Cynd. At all. From any angle. Anywhere.

  Someone had to ask the obvious question, so Fran did. ‘Has anyone checked the vicarage itself? Attic to cellar search?’

  ‘According to Jill, with Janie’s permission and help. She said she was as puzzled as Jill was. And very upset.’

  ‘And Jill is—?’

  ‘In court, ma’am. That Chartham Hatch domestic violence case.’

  She clicked her fingers in irritation. ‘Of course.’ Before she could continue, her pager announced its malevolent presence. ‘Looks as if I’m late for a meeting. Sorry. Don – let me know of any developments, won’t you? And let me know if you need more resources. I’ll find them somehow.’ She hoped.

  An interview with the team investigating Simon Gates’ death was the last thing she wanted, partly because she was dreading letting herself down with another outburst of emotion. But the grey familiarity of the room kept her in check. The questions were routine to the point of prosaic. She was about to flare at them that they were talking about a human being, before it dawned on her that Simon would have conducted a similar enquiry in an identical way.

  Somehow, although that silenced her, it failed to cheer her.

  Mark, on the other hand, looked almost pleased with himself as, armed with a couple of carriers with plunder from Sainsbury’s, they arrived back at the rectory, which was still festooned with two rival sets of plastic tape. He said nothing until they’d eaten Fran’s new speciality, prawn risotto, featuring some fine organic courgettes.

  ‘From our own vegetable patch next year,’ she promised as they cleared their plates.

  ‘So long as both teams have finished by then. Meanwhile, I’ve been busy in another way. I had to escort Wren round some of our outposts today, and, once I’d dropped him off, I took the chance of nipping into Loose.’

  ‘You’ve been to see her? Sammie? Well done!’ Fran leaned across the doll’s house table to chink wine glasses with him.

  ‘We shall see. But at least we managed to speak, not least because the kids ran up to me. I was carrying a bunch of balloons at the time,’ he said, half-apologetically. ‘She didn’t invite me in, because she said the place was a mess – well, with two toddlers, I suppose it must be. And I think she’s pregnant. Which means there’s a man in the picture.’

  ‘Wow! With powers of deduction like that you might be a policeman. Could we go one further and suspect that she’s back with Lloyd?’

  ‘Or that she’s found another guy? How can we tell?’

  He could have asked, she thought. But she stayed shtum.

  ‘Would the bulge be somehow different?’ His laugh was bitter. ‘Whichever, it means throwing her out is more problematical. No?’

  ‘Not when your solicitor is involved. Mark, where are you on this? The same planet as the rest of us? People can’t just completely ignore a solicitor’s letter. OK, I know she wrote back. But Ms Rottweiler said her letter wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.’

  ‘She’s my own flesh and blood—’ he began. ‘Hang on, what are you doing?’

  ‘Getting my coat. I’m going for a walk. I’ve tried to keep the lowest of profiles in any dealings with your children, but I’m about to lose my temper. I really am. So I’ll go and walk till I’m calm. OK?’ She grabbed her bag and fished out a torch. ‘See you later.’

  She half expected him to protest – even run after her. In her exasperation, she didn’t want him to, lest she said things that shouldn’t be said after one of the most frustrating days she’d had at work in years. Certainly, she wanted to shake some sense into him, but only when she was calm to start with and wouldn’t lose her temper completely. My God, what if she burst into tears again?

  To her surprise the pub was in darkness. Perhaps there wasn’t enough trade on a Monday to justify opening. But lights were on in the village hall. She moved closer. She might have told herself that this was the country and solitary walks in the dark were safe, but the lack of street lights in the village was unnerving. An outside light shone on a blackboard, with the information – hard to pick out even with her torch – that there was a Gardener’s Club meeting tonight. Mentally, she corrected the apostrophe. Even as she did so, however, an idea formed. She opened the door and slid into the back of the room.

  Someone wearing a caricature of a patched tweed jacket was packing away a venerable slide projector, the sort Moses might have used to show views of Mount Ararat. A woman who was as svelte as if she’d stepped out of her office at a bank was dispensing tea to a knot of people in their middle to later years. There were more of the latter, one couple very old indeed. At last a small but very erect man with the air of having been in one of the armed services noticed Fran and marched towards her, greeting her with a smile and a hearty pump of the hand. ‘Bill Baker,’ he said.

  Her gaffe in the pub still hot in her mind, she produced her most disarming smile. ‘I’m afra
id this time I’m not hear to learn about slug control and hostas: I need to pick everyone’s brains about a far more serious matter.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll be that policewoman then.’ He spoke loudly enough to penetrate the rattle of cups and rumble of voices. The room fell unnaturally silent.

  Fran stepped forward. ‘Good evening, everyone. As a neighbour, I’m Fran Harman, soon to be Fran Turner. Tonight, I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Harman, in charge of the investigation of the death of a man called Francis or Frank Grange. Yes, we’ve identified the skeleton found in our bean row. I don’t know if Dr Lovage ever won your produce competitions, but her runner beans must have been magnificent, with all that nitrogen.’

  This time she seemed to have hit the right note: murmurs of amusement and interest seemed to be stronger than mutters of dissent. But she was sure someone whispered to someone else, ‘We did tell her she needed a trench – fill it with newspaper and such.’

  ‘Not that sort of “such” though,’ Fran observed. ‘To be honest with you, some of my colleagues would rather wrap up the case by saying it’s clear that Dr Lovage killed Grange in cold blood and buried him. That may be the case, but – let’s say anyone living in that beautiful house, amongst the lovely furniture we’ve found in store, isn’t necessarily my first image of a cold-blooded murderer. Aerial views provide evidence of wonderful gardens too. Was she a member here? And if so, did any of you know her? I want to build up a full picture of a woman whose interest in badgers makes her sound a bit of an eccentric, to be honest. But eccentrics don’t make wonderful head-teachers.’ She’d dropped her voice so that she sounded almost confiding, a tactic that always worked well in brainstorming meetings. ‘And wonderful head-teachers don’t usually kill people.’