Burying the Past

by Judith Cutler

  All the emotion – and perhaps the amount of coffee she’d had to sink – had left her dizzy, but much as she wanted to huddle in a corner wailing for Mark, she had a meeting to go to and, moreover, to chair. Metal theft. After all, metal theft had now become personal, a point she was swift to make as she offered to vacate the chair.

  There was, however, good news. The officer injured in the train incident was well on the way to recovery. There was a universal there-but-for-the-Grace-of-God sigh. And then there was something else: the torrent of metal crime had suddenly dropped to a mere trickle, for no particular reason. With a start like that, even chairing a meeting was a pleasure. She left the room smiling.

  But not for long. It was time for the latest update with Kim’s team, to find out how they were getting on with the Lovage enquiry.

  Which was not far.

  At least this time they’d done their best. They’d contacted their opposite numbers in all the locations depicted on the postcards to see if she might have been implicated in crimes there – nil returns, so far. But since Fran had never thought she might have a middle-aged schoolteacher serial killer on her hands, she was hardly surprised. Someone was still checking the gravestone to identify the occupant, as it were, to see if it might have been one of Lovage’s ancestors. It was only when she was ready to scream with frustration that the youngest DC – the one who’d wielded the bolt-cutters at the self-store, as it happened – dashed into the room waving a piece of paper, skidding to an all-too-embarrassed halt as she saw Fran.

  ‘Deed poll, ma’am,’ she managed. ‘I’ve managed to track Lovage’s previous names. A whole chain of them.’

  Fran’s smile returned. ‘Well done. Very well done. And what have you found?’

  ‘I started on the basis that if she came into teaching late, but with no records about her qualifications, she might have got her qualifications overseas – but I drew a blank there. So I reasoned she might have changed her name – but she’d have had to tell the interview panel that, wouldn’t she? In case – like us – they looked her up and couldn’t find her?’

  ‘Quite.’ Fran smiled with pleasure.

  The DC ventured a smile back. ‘So I found she’d once been Megan Woodruff. Before that Maureen Rose. Myrtle Wild.’ She paused for them to drop in and for her colleagues to laugh. ‘I don’t think we were the only ones she’s been mocking – you know, like with those cards. Anyway, that got me to the places she lived.’

  ‘And they’re linked to the cards?’

  ‘Most of them. Not all. I couldn’t find any reason for the Cotswolds one, or Carcassonne.’ She risked an impish smile. ‘I could go and check in person, ma’am.’

  Fran responded. She had an idea this kid would go far. ‘Travelling First on Eurostar, of course . . .’

  ‘But I could do it via the Internet and the French police?’ She shot a look at Kim, as if this idea had already gone down in flames. From Kim’s thunderous expression, this might be an act of insurrection too far.

  Time for tact, which was never Fran’s strong suit. She couldn’t back the kid over Kim, but she wanted the job done, and done yesterday. She also wanted the kid, if it was really her idea, to get any plaudits going. ‘Sounds good to me, but DI Thomas may have someone else lined up to do that.’

  It was all right when the adrenaline was flowing, but as soon as she stopped, Fran could hardly keep her eyes open. A quick phone call to Sally told her that Mark was still closeted with Wren and mysteriously unnamed others, and that this time she really dare not crash the meeting to find out how things were going. The moment Mark emerged, she’d get him to call Fran – or do it herself if he was still in the company of top brass. Untarnished top brass, Fran corrected her silently. What in heaven’s name was going on? What were they doing to him? She’d half a mind to storm the bastion herself, but Mark would hate that. So there was time to fill. Lunch time, to be precise, as if such a thing had ever really operated in her career. But she needed food, and so would Jill, who was also, of course, a past mistress at missing meals.

  ‘They’re getting nowhere fast,’ Jill confided, tucking into canteen soup. ‘She’s too frail to hammer away at for long. She’s got the tail end of her cold turkey to deal with, and she’s desperately undernourished. So even if we couldn’t see it for ourselves, the FME says they can only question her for half an hour at a time.’

  Fran frowned. ‘You’ve stepped right back from the case?’

  ‘It’s hard to chase with the dogs and run with the hare. In my book, she’s a victim. It’s just this slight inconvenience of another victim that’s the problem.’

  Fran put down her sandwich. ‘But Don Simpson’s take is?’

  ‘That she’s admitted to stabbing someone and all the other stuff she’s fed us is pie in the sky. The forensic evidence is indecisive – we know she had sex, but she’d had sex with a lot of people and the place is heaving with DNA.’

  ‘The dead guy’s as well as everyone else’s?’

  ‘That proves he was there, not raping her. They’re found her DNA on his clothes too. No surprise there, of course.’

  ‘Quite.’ She applied herself to the sandwich. When Mark was a house husband, would he go into role and get into housework and home-made bread? She hoped he’d produce better filled sandwiches than this, at all events. ‘Jill, what’s the take on this business with Mark?’

  Jill didn’t drop her eyes as a less honest friend would have done. ‘That he’s been a fool, from start to finish. But I don’t think it’s tarnished his reputation as a career policeman, and I don’t think you’ll be damaged.’

  ‘He’ll resign.’

  ‘So I should hope. He’s messed up. Pressure of work isn’t an excuse, not at his level – people don’t expect ACCs to do silly things. Why didn’t you smack his head for him?’

  ‘Because – oh, a whole lot of becauses. For a start, Sammie didn’t want him to have another woman in his life and behaved extremely badly to me. So in the hopes of future bridge-building, I tried to stay out of anything to do with his family or his house. In fact when she asked to move in to his house – she said Lloyd was battering her – I was almost grateful, because it meant he moved in with me, a good sign of the commitment I hoped for. That’s for your ears only, Jill. And then when the current crisis started, whatever he wanted to do, it was impossible he’d come out of what was originally a generous impulse, to let her have the house rent-free, with any credit. Anything he’d have done, from breaking into the house to sending in the bailiffs, would have given the press a field day. And now they’ve got one in spades.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  ‘How’s it affecting the two of you?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen him since last night’s raid. The risk was that the bloody woman was just wasting heat to get at him – and a mighty good job she did of it too. Except it wasn’t exactly wasting heat, was it? Bloody cannabis, under his own roof. Literally. My God! But I’m delighted he’s going to retire: he’s been so stressed I’ve been scared.’

  ‘So the wedding will go ahead?’

  ‘Why ever not? And I’m still counting on your coming with me to pick out a dress.’

  Jill shook her head. ‘I’d leave it a bit, Fran – unless you want the media at the church door.’

  Fran felt the blood draining from her face.

  ‘Even six months down the line they’ll be pointing lenses at you if you do anything newsworthy – you must see that. And I tell you straight, a wedding in the Cathedral will be newsworthy.’

  ‘You know, I’d do it to spite them,’ Fran declared. But she added quickly, ‘I won’t, of course. It wasn’t ever in our plans. You know that. That was the old chief’s idea, remember. Never ours.’

  ‘I know that. The people busily gabbing to the media don’t. I bet you my pension your rectory’s surrounded, and all the pics they take will make it look like a sodding mansion.’

  ‘With scaffolding, at least,’ Fran said. ‘It
’s the only place we’ve got to live at the moment, Jill, media or not. We won’t be moving back into the Loose house any time soon, after all.’ She managed a bleak smile. ‘The lane to the rectory’s so narrow that maybe they won’t find it.’

  ‘And how will you reach it if they have? Helicopter?’

  Alice looked up as Fran sloped back to what she hoped would be the sanctuary of her office. ‘Mark’s still in with the boss, according to Sally. But his son’s in reception: could you face seeing him? I’ll fix a room for you.’

  ‘I better had, hadn’t I? Let him come up here – see what luxury we work in. After all, it’ll give everyone a bit more to gossip about if we have a stand-up row. I’ll go and get him now.’

  ‘I could—’

  ‘To spare me all the whispers and nudges? The pitying looks? Quite. But I’ll go anyway, thanks, Alice – because that’s the way I do things.’ Head held high, she sailed out.

  To her amazement, a number of people made it their business to stop and speak warmly to her, which had the disastrous effect of making her eyes hot, as sympathy always did. So she was far from at her best when she reached the reception area, which was occupied by several people as well as Dave. Excellent, she told herself ironically – now the world and his wife will know how Dave blames me for everything.

  But then he turned, and she saw what he was holding. However hard she fought it, told herself she was strong and had dealt with the worst humans could do to each other without losing sleep, she burst into a pounding pulse of tears.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mark felt almost light-headed with relief. Between them, Alison Brewer, the press officer, Wren and Cosmo Dix – not to mention a guy representing ACPO and thus him – had finally hammered out a press release; Wren would front the press conference, as the coldest, most inimical to criticism, in the team. Somehow Mark’s folly in helping the raid on his own home had been turned into an act of heroism, a decent, old-style cop reacting to the sound of a woman’s scream – and not just any woman, of course, but his own flesh and blood. Cosmo, to the great disgust of Brewer, had fine-tuned every cliché, management and other.

  ‘Poor George Orwell,’ he sighed at last. ‘How I love and revere that man and his pellucid prose; how I loathe this scrap of banality.’ He lifted the final draft and dropped it as if it were an offending burger-wrapper.

  As Cosmo and the others left, Wren turned and signalled Mark to a seat. ‘I think we deserve a coffee.’ He buzzed through to Sally. ‘I won’t be asking her to do things like this much longer – I shall buy a coffee-maker. Any recommendations? No?’ He sat back in the depths of the new executive chair. ‘Well, I have to tell you that I don’t know what I’d have done in your place. Apart from a super-injunction, of course. Are you going to press charges against your daughter? Theft? She and that man of hers stole a lot of your electricity, Mark. How many thousands’ worth? Criminal damage? One gathers the roof and rafters’ll never be the same, and I don’t know what your insurance company would make of a claim.’

  It was a good job Mark had to wait for Sally to come with the coffee and then leave. ‘I think Sammie might be the victim here, with all due respect. My take is that she was indeed assaulted by her then partner, Lloyd, and that her new partner, the father of her unborn child, took advantage of her frailty to move in and take over my home. At least we’ve nailed him.’ Was that a ghost of a smile that his face made almost of its own accord?

  ‘We’ll see what the CPS have to say when all our enquiries are complete,’ Wren said flatly. ‘It goes without saying you’re a witness, not part of any investigatory team. Very well, Mark, I suggest you take a few days’ gardening leave and—’

  ‘I thought I was retiring, sir, with immediate effect.’

  ‘You must do as you and ACPO think fit. In my view, that could be an admission of culpability. Even if you went on grounds of ill health, which looking at you today would not be impossible. And in any case,’ he added, less supportively, ‘we need you to be available to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘In the clichéd or the literal sense?’ Mark shot back.

  ‘Good God, man, you’ve broken the odd rule here and there, but we won’t hang you out to dry – you have my word on that.’ As if sensing Mark’s scepticism, he added with an almost quizzical smile, ‘You’re one of us, Mark – we’ll look after you. Starting with an appointment with the FME. No argument. Our duty of care. You look sick enough,’ he added, without noticeable compassion. He picked up his phone, demanding – and presumably getting – an immediate appointment for Mark. ‘He’ll be free in half an hour. Just get down there. Do exactly what he says about taking leave – and that’s an order. Don’t worry about clearing your desk or anything so banal, as that idiot Cosmo would say. That can wait till all this blows over. Go home.’ He peered again at Mark. ‘Except, of course, you don’t have one to go to, do you?’

  ‘He’s about to be my stepson,’ Fran said, gathering her authority about her, as if she had never disgraced herself by breaking down, ‘and I think I can assure you that a bunch of roses does not constitute a security threat.’ She tried to stare the reception staff down, but remembered, not too late, she hoped, the ever-present security cameras, recording her every move. So she aimed for a smile. ‘But rules is rules, so we’ll take these out to my car, Dave. No, we can’t do that either. Because I’d need to get you through security to reach the car park. Let’s go outside. I could do with some fresh air. No?’

  ‘Whole lot of pressmen out there, Fran. Baying for blood, I’d say. In the absence of Dad’s I guess they’d take yours instead.’ He produced a rueful smile. ‘Say I take these offending items back to my car and then I come back here?’

  ‘Or say we go together, chatting like old friends. That’d give them something to chew on. As for ignoring the press, we were taught that on day one. Ready? And I’ll carry the roses and tuck my hand into your arm, if that’s OK? Right!’

  ‘God, you’ve got balls. Except you might want to fix your mascara first. What’s that?’

  ‘Shit! My pager! Or, in this case, deus ex machina. I’m needed elsewhere, much as I’d rather be making a silent public statement with you, Dave.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. I think. What about Dad – any chance of seeing him?’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone in the world he’d rather see at the moment,’ she said, with painful truth. ‘Give me a second and I’ll phone his secretary – see if he’s managed to escape from the chief yet.’ No response. She tried Sally. ‘Apparently, he’s been dispatched to see a medic – chief’s orders. So you won’t be able to yet.’

  ‘I’ll come back in an hour or so?’

  ‘They’ll find some way to make you talk if you hang around here. Retire to a safe distance and I’ll call you the moment I know anything. I promise. When you can see him, see if you can persuade him to go back to your hotel with you. You’ll be able to slide out of the back entrance together. Catch you – and the roses – later.’

  ‘Sure.’ He dabbed a kiss on her amazed cheek.

  ‘I simply don’t know what to do,’ Mark said, realizing too late that he should have taken Fran, breathless for some reason, as if she’d been running, into his arms, to reassure her that all would be well. But he was still seated behind the expanse of his desk. He buried his head in his hands. Looking up, he managed, ‘I’m sorry.’

  She looked as hamstrung as he by his formality. But she took a step round the desk, arms ready to hug him. Eventually, she stooped to pull his head to her chest. ‘Rest, for a start. You look done in, and why not?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve seen Dr Brodie, I’ve got to make myself scarce.’ Brodie was the least touchy-feely FME he’d ever met, but perhaps his astringency would help.

  Fran pulled a face as if she had her doubts about the man too. ‘When are you seeing him?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘In about half an hour.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

 
‘Why?’

  ‘Not into the consulting room – just to wait with you. And then take you straight off.’

  ‘Where? As Wren pointed out, we don’t have a home to go to.’ He grabbed her hands. ‘Fran, they won’t section me, will they?’ Despite himself, his voice cracked.

  Why on earth should he think that? Perhaps the very fear was a symptom of his illness. ‘Jesus, no!’ she declared, as if she believed it. She added: ‘I’m sure the first thing they’ll do is refer you to our GP – thank goodness we’re still registered with Dr Carlisle. A few pills, a bit of counselling, a lot of rest – and we’ll find somewhere to call home temporarily at least.’

  ‘The rectory. That’s home. I know it’s crap, but it’s ours. I don’t want to go to a hotel. Understand?’ She must. She would. Whatever else had driven him to this state, money was part of it – and Sammie had deprived him not just of his home and source of income, but a whole lot of cash on top.

  She squeezed his hand. ‘Of course. I’ll get on to Caffy and warn her.’

  ‘That’s something I can do.’ With the palest smile he reached for his phone. ‘After all, she’s going to be my best woman. Isn’t she?’ It was more than a rhetorical question. Would Fran still want him, after this? ‘We are . . . You will . . .?’