She kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Tomorrow, if Caffy were free. You daft bugger, of course we’ll still need her. Unless Dave wants to fight her for the job.’
‘I’d forgotten Dave. He was a mess last night too, wasn’t he? It must run in the family. Look at me, mad as a hatter.’
She grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. ‘You are not mad,’ she said very clearly. ‘You are overworked to the point of exhaustion; Dave was upset for a variety of reasons; Sammie has – probably – post-natal depression plus a bit more depression brought on by being pregnant by a violent shit of a drug-dealer.’
He almost nodded. Almost managed a bleak half-grin.
‘OK. If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll leave you for a bit. Don Simpson and Jill Tanner are at war over their murderer-stroke-victim – someone has to bang their heads together, and it seems as if it’s me. Tell you what,’ she said, with an almost enigmatic smile, ‘put your feet up here for a bit and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ She kissed him again.
Perhaps it would be all right.
‘The long and short of it is, Fran, that we’d like you to talk to this Cynd of Jill’s,’ Don grunted, solid as if carved from the old-fashioned desk he’d hated sacrificing to new corporate designer office furniture.
Despite his gruffness, Fran detected a note of untoward kindness. Was he feeling sorry for her, hoping to take her mind off things with a spell in the interview room? She didn’t do being pitied. ‘I’m not up to date with the latest techniques,’ she countered. ‘And it isn’t exactly a meeting of true minds, you know. Get some of the kids to do it. They’ve been on all these courses: it’ll do them good to put what they’ve learned into practice.’
Jill shook her head. ‘She trusts you because you’re a friend of the Reverend Falkirk’s. Oh, and she wants to know how the reverend is before she talks. Won’t budge on that. And we don’t want her fainting again, not on our watch.’
‘And how is Janie?’
‘The hospital people don’t want to tell us – not related,’ Jill said.
‘Oh, for crying out loud! Lie your socks off. Tell them she’s a vital witness in a murder case and you want to interview her. Actually –’ Fran glanced at her watch – ‘it might be worth phoning the vicarage itself. There was talk of her going home this afternoon.’
Jill got to her feet, with a venomous look at Don, and left his office.
‘And you’ll talk to the Lewis woman?’ Don put in.
She looked at him squarely. ‘As our suspect or as a rape victim?’
‘Just get the fucking truth – ma’am,’ he added belatedly.
‘Gather together every last scrap of evidence, both of the rape and the murder, put it into some sort of order and prepare me some briefing notes. When you’ve got the latest on Janie – it wouldn’t hurt to let Cynd talk to Janie if she’s well enough – then if a couple of youngsters really can’t talk to the kid – they know her language, for goodness’ sake! – I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Make sure she’s treated kindly, Don. Very kindly. She came forward of her own accord and made the confession, after all. And she is a victim. I really, truly don’t like the idea of her being locked up a second more than necessary. If only you could get her bailed to a place of safety.’
‘She’d scarper again.’
‘She didn’t scarper the first time, Don. She went to be with Janie. Held her hand when she needed it. There but for the grace of God, remember.’ Nodding home the point, she headed back to her own office.
To find Kim arguing loudly with Alice.
‘I told you she wasn’t in her office,’ Alice said pointedly.
‘We both will be for a few minutes,’ declared Fran, opening the door and waiting for Kim to go in. She caught Alice’s eye and shook her head before following Kim.
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I was discussing another murder case,’ Fran said. ‘And you will never, ever speak to our support staff like that. They’re paid a pittance, they have very little job security, and believe me, we could not function without them. So the moment you go out you apologize. Properly. Understand? Now, what was it you wanted?’
‘That weirdo antiques dealer—’
For once Fran’s brain produced a name almost without effort. ‘You mean Ms Townend? What about her?’
‘She’s phoned saying she’s got more ideas about hidden documents. I know you’d rather be the one to supervise her, ma’am.’ Even though Kim was in the doghouse, she evidently couldn’t help a sneer in her voice.
‘One of my pleasing eccentricities, Kim, is to enjoy watching a job well done.’ She waited for her to absorb that. ‘So thank you for coming to tell me in person. Have you fixed a time yet?’
‘I said later today, that we really needed to bring the case to a conclusion.’
Fran cursed silently but fluently. Of course, Kim was right, but if ever she needed to free up time this was it. ‘And she said?’
‘She had to wait for some pot to dry, or something. But she offered nine o’clock tomorrow.’
‘Nine tomorrow it is.’ When Kim looked mulish, she continued, ‘I don’t know what weird things happen in that head of hers, but we don’t want to upset them, do we?’ She smiled sweetly and nodded in the clear direction of the door as she reached for her phone.
TWENTY-SIX
As she negotiated Maidstone’s late rush-hour traffic, Fran knew she was an accident waiting to happen. When had she lost the ability to function a hundred and one per cent with no more than a moment’s shut-eye to rely on? It had certainly gone, along with her capacity to disengage herself from her cases, however horrible, and with being able to put a full stop to the day with a hot bath and a stiff whisky.
Perhaps it was knowing that another life depended on her. She’d known Mark wasn’t coping as well as she – but his descent into irresolution and now something like dependency was terrifying. Their GP, to whom Brodie had referred Mark, had warned her that for the next few days, maybe weeks or even months, she might be dealing with the miserable, petulant, listless shadow of her fiancé. Living with someone depressed was often as bad as being depressed, he’d said.
She’d seen that when her father, previously a strong-willed dominant man, had slipped into senility. Now her mother was free of what Fran only now realized was an almost intolerable burden, she had returned to spry activity – still vile-tempered, still implacably hostile to Fran herself, but at least a human being.
But Mark was no more than middle-aged, fit and with so much to look forward to – in particular what seemed to be a reconciliation with his son. Ah, but there was the downside of his daughter. Fran had a nasty professional feeling that there was still more to come out. And how she’d ever want to speak to a stepdaughter-elect capable of treating her father like this, she didn’t know.
‘I think you’ll find you’re still supposed to keep to thirty,’ Mark murmured.
She dropped speed promptly. But at least his rebuke showed he was less torpid than she’d feared. And, of course, he’d phoned ahead to Caffy. The fact he was capable of doing something was surely a good sign – wasn’t it?
‘Did I tell you Dave brought me some flowers and security wouldn’t let them through?’ she asked. ‘Or did he manage to call you himself and tell you all about it?’
A bleak smile. ‘I’ve been a bit elusive today. And I just couldn’t face going through all my missed calls.’
‘We’ll do it together, later, shall we?’ That was how she’d jollied her father along.
‘Or I could say, “Sod the lot of them”?’
‘I know a lot will be crap. But you never know with phone calls . . . And I’d have thought Social Services might want to discuss Frazer and Lucilla’s future with you and Dave.’ Wrong. She shouldn’t have mentioned or even referred to bloody Sammie, should she?
He snorted with something like his old vehemence. Perhaps their doctor had been unduly pessimistic: God knew she hoped so. As soon as Janie was
fit – and, without any reference to Cynd, she’d called the vicarage and spoken to Janie’s sister, a woman with an accent so impenetrable it demanded subtitles, and found that Janie was home but was catching up on sleep missed in the hospital – as soon as she was up to praying again, she’d get Janie on Mark’s case.
‘If I know social services, I’ll be the last one they consult. And actually, since Sammie has point-blank refused to see me, I’d have to say that in professional terms they’d be right. For all they know I might be a rampant paedophile who’s already tried to abuse them. Or maybe I abused her. Allegedly. Fran, I never touched her, I swear. Or Dave. Or the kids.’ He covered his face. And then a little of the old Mark gleamed out. ‘Or anyone else either, for the record.’
She pulled over and parked. ‘Listen to me: I love you and trust you with my life. You are a good man. You’ve devoted every day since I first knew you to making life better for people. Making a difference. That’s what you do.’
‘How can I do that if I’m retired?’
‘You’ll find ways, I promise you. Now, it looks as if the rain’s coming on more heavily, and I think we should tackle that lane before it becomes a river. Don’t you? Won’t be much fun paddling out to the loo in the night, will it?’
‘His and hers chamber pots,’ he murmured. And then he fell asleep.
Why should the sight of the Winnebago reduce him to tears? All he’d done was warn Caffy that they’d be staying in their dining room again. And she’d gone to the trouble of getting that pop star of hers – the one Fran used to swoon over and might once more, if they ever came face to face – to lend complete strangers his property all over again. As if he was an invalid, Fran came round to ease him out of the car. Tetchily – far too tetchily – he pushed her aside.
‘Christ, woman, I’m not in my dotage.’
‘Sorry. All I wanted to do was hold your hand. I’m afraid all this kindness is going to blow me away.’ Her voice was shaking, but whether at others’ kindness or his unkindness he couldn’t tell. She’d always been so strong. But now she’d got weepy – first at Sissinghurst and now here. Was she menopausal or something? No, she was over that. So – and he told himself off for being sexist and ageist and any other -ist – was she just as bone weary as he, with just as much cause?
Fran had to keep going. She had to put one foot in front of the next, and then repeat the process. Stagger she would not. Weep at the thought of walking through the drenching rain she would not. But she didn’t want to drive. She’d scared herself, if not Mark, on the way here. Perhaps she’d be all right after a nap. But naps had to be on hold as long as Mark needed her – even if it was just to find the best mobile reception.
At last she could manage to put on the kettle. This time the sainted Caffy, or whoever, hadn’t had time to stock the fridge, but at least no one had got round to throwing out the supplies they’d left when they’d asked for the precipitate removal of the motorhome from the rectory site. So they could have green tea and a digestive biscuit.
‘I should have picked up the post,’ Mark declared.
‘When? When did you – when did either of us – have the luxury of nipping into town and leading our own lives? Just tell me.’ Her voice had risen. ‘Sorry. Look, you make the tea; I’ll nip across into the rectory and bring across our clothes and so on.’
‘But it’s raining.’
She waited. Of course it was bloody raining, but he could scarcely spend the evening in his now redundant ACC uniform. And she needed a breather. ‘Just our jeans and stuff.’ She left without waiting for a response.
Was this how prisoners starting a life sentence felt? Penned in? Desperate for space? He couldn’t stay in here. Couldn’t face it. But where else could he go? No money, remember. In the morning he must talk to his insurance company, but he had an idea that things wouldn’t be at all straightforward.
Of course, Fran was right. They couldn’t go up to the pub in their working gear. His former working gear. What the hell had he done? Why on earth had he insisted on retiring then and there? He could have gone on sick leave, while they sorted it all out – Wren had even implied that that was what he wanted him to do. He’d meant to talk to Adam before he made any rash decisions. Adam had gone, of course – but he’d allowed a fellow officer to jump to his death. All Mark had done was let his daughter set up a cannabis farm and steal thousands of pounds. How did that compare on the great moral scheme of things?
Where the hell was Fran? It didn’t take that long to pick up a few clothes, for God’s sake.
He took the nearest mug of tea and sat down to wait. But by now he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.
Paula and Caffy were still in the rectory, ostensibly finishing some task but, from their glances, waiting for Fran.
Caffy, wiping her hands on a turps-smelling rag, though as far as Fran could see they were perfectly clean, spoke first. ‘You may find that that TV in the Winnebago doesn’t work for a couple of days.’
‘No?’
‘We adjusted the aerial so he couldn’t pick up the news. And I’d venture to suggest that you find another resting place for the Winnebago. We brought it down because we thought you’d be private enough here, but we were wrong. We could hardly move for the bloody media. Some nice man called Bill Baker dropped by to see you, and he ended up driving a tractor up and down the lane most of the day, just to stop them parking.’
Fran shook her head, stupidly. ‘But I’m not insured.’
Paula looked her in the eye. ‘You’re in no fit state to drive a strange vehicle anyway. And Mark can’t be either.’ She produced a sudden smile. ‘But we could get the person who brought it over here to drive you. Are you OK to follow? It’s not as if you’re tailing a Mini, is it?’
She held her head. ‘But—’
‘Pick out enough clothes to last for about four days. I’m sure the media will be interested in something else by then. After that – well, your rectory awaits you. A good half should be habitable by then. Can Mark paint? Well, a bit of emulsion therapy might be good for him. Unpaid, I have to say,’ Paula added, as if she really needed to make that clear.
‘And then there’s Dave – Mark’s son. He needs to see his dad. He might even be on his way.’
‘We can give him map coordinates. The post code won’t help much.’ She looked at her watch and raised an eyebrow.
Since she’d used pretty much the same technique on Kim earlier in the day, Fran knew she’d met her match.
With surprising tenderness, Dave moved his father’s plate as Mark’s head fell forward on to the table.
‘I guess chicken bhuna might be the new cure for baldness, but I’d rather my father wasn’t a guinea pig in the trials,’ he said.
‘This takeaway was pure genius,’ Fran said, refraining from pointing out that the Winnebago would smell of it for days. On the other hand, Paula would no doubt be able to suggest an effective air-freshener, so what the hell?
‘Glad you enjoyed it. Shall I help you clear? It was always my job at home.’
What should she say? Her first thought was that Mark was best left to sleep in silence. But if Dave was happy to do something he’d once done for his mother, surely she should accept?
‘How are you on dishwashers? It’s Mark’s job, because he reckons I don’t have the spatial awareness to get the maximum in.’ She rinsed the worst residues; he took the dishes from her. ‘Thanks.’ Checking that Mark was still asleep, she ventured, ‘Any news of Sammie? He’s worried sick she may come out with weird allegations against him. Like child molestation or something.’
‘You knew my mom, didn’t you? Can you imagine she’d not have noticed if anything was wrong? And if Dad had been – harming – Sammie, she’d have grassed him up, sure as eggs. He wasn’t a bad man, he was just a bad father, in that he was never there. We did have some good times. That train set.’ He looked past her. ‘That was the best. You know what he said when he realized Sammie had wrecked it? “I’ll
get you another one, son.” See – he knew. He remembered.’
Wet though it was, she stretched a hand and squeezed his arm. ‘Of course he did. And wasn’t there something with Sammie and balloons?’
He managed a smile. ‘You’re right. Every birthday – so many balloons you couldn’t count them. Balloons everywhere.’
‘You’ve inherited his gift for giving.’ She nodded at the roses, now in one of Todd’s vases. ‘He was so proud of you both. Pictures of you on his desk – and your mum. He used to touch them goodbye every time he went out on a risky shout. As if he was saying goodbye to you in the flesh. However much you might hate the thought of us getting married, he’s never thought of me as he thought of Tina, I’m sure of that.’
‘Uh, uh. Don’t put yourself down.’ He made a business of checking everything in the dishwasher was straight, looked for and found the detergent and set the load off. ‘Hey – that’s cool. It’s almost silent. He told me he couldn’t live without you, you know. Don’t suppose he’s ever told you that.’
‘Don’t suppose he ever will. I think he only proposed because he was scared of heights. But I’m glad he did. Will you come back over for the wedding – even if you can’t be his best man? Caffy’s bagged that job, and I think it’d break her heart if he changed his mind and asked you instead. Which I know he’d want to do, otherwise.’
‘And I can’t even lead you up the aisle!’ he wailed. Then he produced a younger version of his father’s smile. ‘You just try to keep me away. Hey, you want a bridesmaid wearing the worst tooth braces you ever saw? ’Cause Phoebe’d be tickled pink.’
It seemed the wedding at least would flourish, even when everything else was collapsing about their ears.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It took her ten minutes and a phone call to Paula to run Bill Baker’s notes to earth. Why on earth had she dropped them on one of the sleeping bags? Whatever the reason, at least they were in safe hands, and she dispatched one of Kim’s team to collect them. Only then did she do what she’d wanted to and hurtle down to reception, where Lina Townend was waiting, unexceptionably dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Burying the Past Page 21
