Burying the Past

by Judith Cutler

  Fran nodded. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Bill – I do think she killed him. We’ve got enough to satisfy the coroner. But I want to know why. I like justice – even if it’s only to someone’s memory. Now,’ she added, ‘try this hard hat for size, and come and see what the Pact women and their subcontractors have been up to.’

  ‘I’ll talk you through those notes as well. I’d forgotten she’d been on telly. Yes, some minister visited the school to sing her praises – but really to make them sound as if they were all the government’s idea. Just about the time she borrowed my axe . . .’

  ‘Hot? Your house is hot? Hot enough to worry Dave? It’s good you’ve got him on side, by the way – well done.’

  Mark returned her smile, lifting his half-pint glass to toast her gin and tonic. They’d walked back to the village with Bill, who’d accepted a quick half but then nipped back to watch some TV cricket. They’d stayed on to eat. But before Mark could tell her about his day, Ollie appeared, carrying bowls of local chicken and pea risotto.

  ‘Sorry about Dad before,’ Ollie said. ‘You’re about a month too late, I reckon, maybe two. I’ll have a go at him myself if you want – but I don’t want him rattled by new faces.’

  ‘Talk to him if you can, Ollie – but we’re not in the business of upsetting people for no reason,’ Mark said, taking the lead with Ollie as they’d tacitly agreed.

  He seemed inclined to stay and gossip, but soon a group of youngsters came in, and he wandered off to serve and incidentally control them. ‘I’ll bring you your wine as soon as I can,’ he added, over his shoulder, to Fran.

  She smiled: no problem.

  ‘A house she won’t let you into. Dave can only get into the hall – no further. What are you thinking, Mark?’

  ‘I’m hoping it’s malice, as Dave suggested. That’s the father in me. The cop – soon to be ex-cop, if my suspicions are correct – says get the house under surveillance and alert the drugs teams.’

  ‘Ex-cop? You slid that in neatly!’

  He smiled apologetically, hoping she’d never find out he’d told Dave first. ‘I can’t stay if my own home’s being used to grow cannabis. Can I? She’s made me a laughing stock over the eviction and then with her TV moment. Wren’s as furious as such a cold fish can be. Shit. Can a little bird be a cold fish? Even if I wanted to stay, if he were appointed permanently, he’d be reminding me of my inadequacies every moment of every damned meeting. So I’m sorry to break it to you like this, Fran, but I think – I know – it’s time for me to go. I can simply retire. Lump sum useful, pension generous. And the exercise of bringing the garden back from the dead will do me good.’ When to his terror she said nothing, he added, ‘Will you mind very much? Do you mind? My leaving?’

  ‘Mind? I think it calls for champagne,’ she declared. ‘If it’s a decision, not just a possible decision?’ She took his upturned hand. It was shaking as much as hers.

  ‘Conflict of interest. How can I enquire into my own property? It’ll look like a devious way of getting Sammie out without having to recourse to civil law. Actually, I’m going to talk to Adam tomorrow morning. See what he thinks about the timing. But – and this sounds really selfish of me – I wonder if you should stay put a bit longer? Or it might look as if we’re throwing our toys out of the pram.’

  She grinned. There was no other word for it. ‘One at a time it shall be, Mark. To be honest, I’m so wrapped up in these two murders, I wouldn’t have time to write a resignation letter. But I’ll support you in anything – in everything – you do. You know that.’

  ‘Even if it means heading back into work with me so I can check my emails? And my bank accounts? Just in case the electricity people have removed a huge sum by direct debit, as they’re entitled to do.’

  ‘Of course. And tell Ollie to hold the wine, too. I’ve an idea we may be about to need very sober heads.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘You want me to force my way in?’ Dave demanded, his voice squeaky over the phone, which Mark had switched to conference.

  Mark leaned back from his desk and took Fran’s hand. ‘No. Absolutely not. But it’d save some, if not all, of my face if you could ask Sammie what she’s up to. I’m going to have to resign – retire, whatever – after this debacle. I can see that now. But it’d be better for me if I had something more than an astronomical electricity bill to go on. And I mean astronomical, Dave. The direct debit payment they took emptied my bank account, though this month’s salary had just gone in, and even tipped me into the red. I’ve managed to talk my way into an overdraft.’

  ‘An overdraft? And your finances in their current state? Jesus.’

  ‘The question is, Dave, what is she heating?’

  ‘You’re the policeman, old-timer, not me. Tell you what, I’ll ride shotgun for you – only joking! – if you like. I go to the door, gain admittance, and then you barge in after – I’ll even unlock the door for you. It’s late, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t do it now. Having the kids in bed might make things easier.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’ Fran was gesticulating like a dervish: the gist seemed to be to cut the call. ‘Just park up and wait for me. Don’t do anything till I arrive. Anything at all. OK?’ He hung up. ‘What’s up?’ he asked her, tetchily.

  ‘I didn’t want you to cut the call. I wanted you to abort the project. I don’t like it,’ Fran said. ‘I just don’t. I just think a police operation should be conducted by police officers, not by – well, you and Dave. Too dangerous, in terms of the operation and the possible publicity outcomes. I’m dead against it.’

  ‘I gathered that. But I’m committed now.’ He got to his feet and opened the officer door. ‘I’m going. Are you?’

  ‘I’m bloody driving. And talking while I drive. And you’re going to listen. Think about it.’ The pace he was setting along the corridors, she’d have to talk while she had breath. ‘You’ve been to the pub. OK, not much drink, but if it goes pear-shaped, how will it look? Drunken officer burgles own home. Great. Just great. I do not, repeat not, want you to do this.’

  He paused by the door to the car park. ‘Do you think I want to do it? Do I have an option? I’m more than broke. And if I allow her to go on growing pot – as I have reasonable grounds to believe she is – I’m culpable. Right? On the other hand, if she’s just pumping fan heaters out of open windows, to make me look a fool, how would that go down with everyone? I’d be a laughing stock. And someone would leak it to the press, you mark my words.’

  ‘Just leave it to Dave to go in and check, then.’

  ‘That’s not you speaking, Fran – neither of us has ever led from the back.’

  ‘I do know you can’t just go charging in – not after everything Ms Rottweiler’s been doing. Look, pull back Dave and get another old-stager, someone like Don, to go in. You could trust him with your life.’

  ‘Fran: just drive. And I’ll make a call or two. OK? Drive. Please,’ he added belatedly.

  Dave’s hire car was outside Mark’s house, every room of which was brightly lit.

  Mark groaned. ‘That’s where my electricity’s going – to light up the place like Blackpool illuminations. It’s just her getting at me.’

  Dave was striding up and down outside the house, from time to time banging with all his might on the windows.

  ‘You need a Plan B, Mark,’ Fran said. ‘You daren’t go along with this forced entry idea – and I must stop you. Tell Dave, for God’s sake. We’ll get our colleagues on to it when we’ve all had a night’s sleep.’

  ‘You may be—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Now what?’

  Dave came hurtling over. ‘Quick. I just called triple nine. I heard a scream. I heard a woman scream. I tell you he’s attacking her again, the bastard! The door’s locked – I tried it, don’t think I didn’t. Shall we rush it again together? Have you got one of those ram things?’

  ‘Nope. And if I had I couldn’t let you use it. Fran and me – it’s our job. Fran – the old Wa
ys and Means Act, eh?’ He stripped his jacket, ready to charge the door as he’d done so often years back. But he stopped short. Where the hell was Fran?

  She was back at the car, talking rapidly into her radio, alternating it with her phone. ‘Thanks to Dave, the cavalry’s already on its way,’ she announced, cutting both calls. ‘Yes!’

  The street came alive with noise and light, and suddenly he had to act with authority, either that or let Fran take the lead. His arms and voice worked of their own accord as he directed half the team round the back and reminded everyone that children would be in the house, if not in bed asleep. And that the woman whose scream Dave thought he’d heard was pregnant.

  Only one of the team recognized him – even as he told them he was the house owner, he took that as an indictment – but most knew Fran by sight. After all, she’d been the one to go round as many nicks as she could, making sure they knew about policy first hand. She’d trained up the sergeant who was taking the lead with the raid. He felt like an outsider; just a taste of what it would be like when he retired, of course.

  Worse, he realized he’d seen more raids like this on TV than in the flesh, certainly in the last three years.

  Yelling like film cliché Apaches, the team streamed into the house. Suddenly, a couple of paramedics erupted from their ambulance and hurtled after them.

  He was following when a gentle hand touched his arm. ‘Goodness,’ said Cosmo quietly. ‘What fun they’re all having. Have they got those clever little tasers? Will they use them?’

  ‘What in hell are you doing here?’ He tried to shake free, but the hand was now gripping with surprising force.

  ‘Fran thought conceivably we might need some spin on this. And for spinning, I’m your man. I know – I know: it should be the PR folk. But can you imagine them stirring at this hour, when they’re mourning their departed comrades? And I’m very fond of you – and especially of Fran, as it happens. I was so peeved when old Adam got in first with his bid to lead her up the aisle. Ah, who’s that?’ The paramedics were stretchering someone out.

  This time Mark did run forward. ‘Sammie – my darling Sammie – what’s the matter? It’s Dad here – Dad.’ He took her hand. She shook it off.

  A paramedic elbowed him off. ‘Issues with the pregnancy. So if you wouldn’t mind, sir—’

  ‘Mind? I’ll come with you, sweetheart.’ He looked around for Fran, but there was no sign of her and he didn’t want to hold up the ambulance.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir—’ Inexorably, they eased their way past him and stowed her inside.

  ‘But—’ Like a kid he tried to batter on the door – only to find Cosmo beside him, linking arms with him with such campness that Cosmo must have been into self-parody.

  ‘My, oh my,’ he cooed, his grip on Mark fierce, for all its casualness. With his spare hand he pointed at someone being forcibly led to the police van. ‘Why did I never turn to crime? Two lovely big blokes like that, one either side – heaven.’ He added in his normal voice, ‘Did you recognize him?’

  ‘Never seen him before. Not my son-in-law.’

  ‘Not that tedious Lloyd, no.’ To Mark’s knowledge, Cosmo and Lloyd had only met once – at Tina’s funeral. That was Cosmo for you, the Cosmo who knew the name of every officer he met, whatever his rank, and all about their families and friends. ‘But could he be the father?’ He mimed Sammie’s bump. ‘No, of course, you wouldn’t know. Thank God you’ve got all your doings with your daughter fully documented, Mark, and with a legal eagle like Ms Rossiter too.’

  For a moment Mark couldn’t think who he was talking about – then he remembered the other reason why they called her Ms Rottweiler.

  ‘I’m resigning anyway, Cosmo. My God, what’s up with Dave?’ He ran faster than he knew how, faster with each of Dave’s sobs. The man baying his grief to the moon morphed into his little boy with a cut knee. His arms were round him before he remembered otherwise. ‘Let me look.’ The words came out unbidden.

  Because – just like a little boy – he was holding out something that was broken. Comprehensively. ‘They smashed my train set,’ he wept. ‘When they were growing that damned cannabis,’ he added.

  ‘We’ll get you another,’ Mark said. ‘Come on, son, we’ve got to let these guys get on with their work. It’s all right, son, it’s all right . . .’ Where the hell was Fran? She’d have known what to do. Never, everyone swirling purposefully round him dealing for real with matters that these days he only dealt with on paper, had he felt so redundant. Part of his brain told him he’d made a bleak pun.

  Fran had never been one for children, especially young, terrified ones. If they’d cried, she might have known what to do; their total petrified silence as they clung to each other in the lower level of a bunk bed worried her far more. At least they’d have dimly recognized Mark, if not as their grandfather then as a man who’d brought along, just a few days back, a lot of balloons. Where on earth was he, when he must have known he’d be needed?

  She squatted down in front of them on the filthy floor, crisp packets and Lego bricks mixed with used nappies and who knew what else. Now what? She didn’t have time to spring-clean, and there might, God forbid, even be evidence in here somewhere. Meanwhile, she had to help the kids. At last, she picked up a teddy bear at random from a heap on the floor. It was dirty enough to suggest it had been on the receiving end of a lot of attention, though why being loved precluded its being clean she didn’t know.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she asked. ‘And this?’ Another grubby bear.

  Silence.

  She wasn’t up to a spot of instant ventriloquism, so she made the bears whisper in each other’s ears, and then in hers. She told their round eyes and embroidered smiles, ‘I’m not much good at cuddling. But I bet I know someone who is. I bet Frazer’s good at hugging. And I’m pretty sure Lucilla is.’ Where the poor kids’ fanciful names had erupted from, she had no idea. Neither, to her knowledge, did Mark.

  She made the bears nod at her, and then at each other. Then they looked enquiringly at the children. Frazer gradually accepted one of them but Lucilla shook her head and removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to mutter what sounded like Blubber.

  Fran made a show of digging out all the pile of animals, one by one. At last she found another seedy looking specimen, this one with once turquoise fur, which smelt vaguely of vomit. Blubber? Blue Bear? Lucilla snatched it.

  Fran eased herself into a more comfortable position. The chaos of the police raid still raged all around them, so there was no leaving the kids until she could pass them over to more expert hands. At least her colleagues knew where she was, should Mark ask – and she’d threatened them with instant evisceration should they barge into this particular room, which had the helpful notice ‘Frazers room’ hand coloured in nursery-type scribble, Blu-tacked to the door.

  At last a gentle tap on the door was followed by a woman in her later thirties. She had the nous to drop beside her on the vile carpet.

  ‘Pat Clarke, Social Services. I’ve come to take care of the little ones.’

  ‘Good. Is it usual to keep kids in conditions like this?’

  Clarke rocked her head. ‘Post-natal depression? Alcohol? Drugs?’

  ‘I know. But not in a comfortable middle-class home, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Doesn’t some fat-cat policeman own it? It’s quite a nice place under the filth, pardon my pun. Not that he’ll be able to move back anytime soon, what with the forensics people everywhere and the decorators he’ll need. Still, on his salary . . .’

  ‘Where are you taking the kids?’

  ‘Emergency foster care.’

  That sounded bleak, and her response inadequate. ‘Their uncle’s around somewhere, as is their grandfather, but I don’t know if they’d be able to manage. Neither knows the kids at all well, and me even less.’

  ‘Specialist care, for tonight at least. We’ll talk to family members in due course, don’t worry.’

 
Family members – she hated that term. Always had. Somehow it took away warmth and loving-kindness, though her own family had abounded in neither. However, in the absence of any positive alternatives Fran didn’t argue. Heaving herself to her feet, she looked around for spare clothes – clean might be asking too much – but found nothing. ‘I’ll carry Lucilla,’ she said, ‘and that teddy – he’s called Blubber. No idea what Frazer’s is called. But he’s not going to let it go, is he? Shall I lead the way?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  With Mark, egg positively dripping from his face, closeted with Wren and Cosmo Dix, Fran got stuck into work, always the best cure for anxiety, not to mention lack of sleep: neither of them had returned to the rectory, just catnapping, when all the paperwork was done, in their respective offices. Perhaps it was good that they were apart: Fran was still more than equivocal over the way things had gone, and Mark was inclined to grumble at what he considered was her colleagues’ overreaction as they broke in. She thought they’d been entirely reasonable given the circumstances – domestic violence and drug-dealing. And they’d caught a particularly low form of life, by name of Stephen Minns, red-handed. His DNA would be scattered like confetti about the place. That called for one cheer at least. He’d been charged and had bail denied by a sensible magistrates’ court. It wasn’t up to Sammie to press charges or otherwise – the police could now initiate proceedings themselves. Not just for GBH, of course – but for running a minor cannabis farm. To Fran’s eyes, as she’d checked the crime scene with her colleagues, the damage to Dave’s precious train set had seemed wilful, a positive act of destruction. No wonder he was so devastated. She had an idea that Mark would while away his new-found leisure by building a huge layout in the rectory loft. But if it built bridges with Dave too, it would be worth the effort – even if the young man would rarely play with it.

  Meanwhile, with Sammie likely to be hospitalized for some time, the children were now being cared for by foster parents. Mark was inclined to beat himself up for not being able to take them in; Fran had managed not to grind her teeth at the thought of kids getting anywhere near the death trap of the rectory. In any case, she strongly suspected that if such a thing had been possible, it would have been she, not he, taking compassionate leave to look after them. And she’d have been worse than useless, far worse; apart from odd stints of babysitting for colleagues – including Mark, of course, in an earlier existence – she’d had next to nothing to do with children. Her doze in her chair had clearly proved to her back and neck that her own childhood was long years ago. At least they’d managed to get hold of Lloyd, who was as bemused by the events as all of them, but very much wanted, he said, to have his children restored to him. But what if it was true that he had beaten Sammie in front of them?