Burying the Past

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Ms Townend,’ Fran greeted her. ‘I rather underestimated the journey time.’ She signed her through security.

  ‘Yes, Caffy said you would. She’s a one off, isn’t she? She and the rest of the team, of course. They’re the only ones my partner will allow to touch our cottage.’ She slowed to a halt and stopped, looking embarrassed. ‘Look, would you mind very much if I worked without DI Thomas breathing down my neck this morning? It’s hard to concentrate with such waves of hostility coming at you. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that – it was very unprofessional.’

  ‘No problem,’ Fran said easily. ‘Someone will have to be present, but it doesn’t have to be Kim.’ She was quite glad to have a companion as she walked through what felt quite endless corridors, still filled with colleagues awash with gossip. If she was engaged in animated conversation, then she wouldn’t have to make eye-contact with any of them, whether they were giving pitying glances or encouraging smiles.

  ‘She reminds me of the officers who used to run me in when I was a kid, that’s the problem,’ Townend continued. ‘So it’s probably my fault, rather than hers. All the same . . .’

  ‘I thought I might bring my breakfast and watch you, if that’s OK.’

  ‘But you’re one of the bigger cheeses, aren’t you? Won’t it be a waste of your time?’

  Of course it would, but this time she’d at least let Alice know where she was. And she’d leave her pager on. ‘Would you prefer a lowly constable? You shall have one if I can find one. Male or female?’

  Townend giggled. ‘You’re having me on, aren’t you? If I said, “Bring me Prince Charming on a white horse . . .?”’

  ‘I’d say you’d got your myths mixed up, and that health and safety didn’t permit the riding of dumb animals on police property – except if they’re on duty, of course.’

  ‘So I could have a working horse or a Prince Charming.’

  ‘Or me with a mug of coffee and a round of toast.’ What a pity she couldn’t conjure up that nice lad Fred from the self-store units. He’d have made a good prince.

  Fullers. According to the stonework over the door, that was what their hosts’ house was called. It was a beautiful building, a little larger and definitely older than the rectory. No doubt Caffy could have filled him in, but she’d left the house to go to work before he was even awake. Fran had gone too. However, Caffy’d left him the key to her flat, which had a separate door round the back, with an invitation to help himself to breakfast, have a deep long soak (he could sing as loudly as he wanted because Todd and Jan were abroad) and a browse through her books. Acres of them, all glowing in their sense of being read and valued. No TV. Not even a trannie radio, unless one lurked in one of the immaculate kitchen units: the kitchen and bathroom were both state of the art – courtesy of Todd’s money, not Caffy’s, no doubt. How did she keep in touch with the real world? Perhaps reception out here on the Isle of Oxney was poor – he’d noticed the Winnebago TV was on strike this morning. She’d also left him a book of local walks, with a couple asterisked. She’d even got rid of yesterday’s rain. There was a Post-it note attached.

  If you’re not used to walking, you might want to have your long soak after your long walk.:)

  That was his morning worked out for him, then. And he was very glad, because he didn’t think he could have done it himself. God, he was so tired – as if he’d not already slept the clock round. Would everything always be so much effort? He could scarcely bear to move.

  The pile of paperwork Fran had taken with her to accompany her late breakfast lay untouched at her feet. Lina Townend, now dressed in white paper, with the little key they’d found last time resting in her right hand, was sitting as still as she was: simply sitting, as if listening to something. Or listening for something. The stillness was catching. It wasn’t unlike being in church, during the silences between prayers – a similar shared concentration but also openness to something else.

  Heavens, what a good job Kim wasn’t here.

  At last the girl got up and wandered over to the piles of furniture. Fran was desperate for her to explore the cabinet again, to take it down to its last piece. But she ignored it, heading instead to the piles of smaller items. Ah! A Victorian writing slope. That would have drawers a-plenty, wouldn’t it? And a lock for the little key?

  But it didn’t have what Townend wanted. She moved aimlessly along, an index finger raised as if it was somehow guiding her. Amazingly, Fran knew what she was feeling. She’d had some of her best results by trusting a weird instinct, the sort you certainly wouldn’t mention in the witness box, when her body had seemed to tingle with some below-the-level-of-consciousness electrical activity. In the past she’d had to fend off interruptions with a hand raised, traffic policeman style. At least the young woman didn’t need to do that, but she had to shut out the sundry random noises of the building and its occupants.

  Lina was drifting no longer. She had stopped and was almost frantically clearing items from the next pile. Whatever it was was near the bottom. Finally, she sank to her knees.

  Fran was desperate to stand and watch. But not for anything would she have disturbed Lina’s concentration.

  At last she was rewarded. There was the tiniest click. So the key had opened whatever it was. Now she could stand. And watch Lina reach into something and wave an envelope in the air. She crept over, fearful of disturbing the spell and having the whole lot disintegrate before her eyes.

  ‘A dressing case,’ Lina said, in her normal speaking voice. ‘The obvious place really. Many of them from this era – it’s pretty well contemporary with that lovely writing slope – have a secret drawer where Her Ladyship can conceal . . . billets-doux . . . from His Lordship.’ Why the hesitation? But Lina was fluent again. ‘All you had to do in this case was lift this manicure drawer and press this tiny lever. See? It’s so beautifully made you’d hardly detect the drawer hidden amongst all the inlay. And here, as I said, may be what you’ve been looking for.’

  Fran held out a tentative hand. So now it was time for the real, prosaic world of policing, with gloves, evidence bags and photos.

  ‘I suppose,’ Lina said mildly, ‘that I’m not allowed to know what I’ve unearthed.’

  ‘Have you got time for a cuppa? Until I find out myself? Because I really ought to examine this with someone like Kim Thomas, and although you’re booted and suited, she might just feel . . . Sometimes one has to make compromises, Lina.’

  ‘You’ve got to work with her,’ Lina said, with a gentle smile.

  ‘Exactly. On the other hand, the canteen will be full of handsome young men, if not their white chargers, and I could ask a nice lad called Tom Arkwright to shout you elevenses.’ Tom – one of her nicest ever protégés. The son she’d never had. What if . . .

  She made her calls, one to Kim – yes, rank must take precedence – and the next to Tom, already a most capable sergeant and ready to fly upwards. How would kids like him manage if she retired? No. With Mark sick, it must be when she retired. And the youngsters would just have to manage.

  ‘Sounds good. Am I allowed to ask if the postcards were useful?’ Townend emerged from the paper suit like a butterfly from a chrysalis.

  ‘You are. We’re working on them now. Did anything about them strike you?’ Fran asked carefully.

  ‘Your Ms Thomas asked me that. And then she phoned me to check. There was some problem about the order they’d been left in, wasn’t there?’ The question sounded innocent enough, but Fran suspected a mild case of grassing up. ‘The answer to your question is the gravestone, of course. I’d have expected it to come at the end of the sequence, though, not at the start. All the other pictures were of places she’d visited or lived in, I suppose – I wouldn’t have minded living in that place in France, would you? – and of course you’d end up in a grave. But not someone else’s. It was as if the grave was the start of her story, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I suppose it wa
sn’t her family’s? No? Did something traumatic happen there?’

  ‘Very good question,’ Fran said, wondering why the hell she hadn’t had the energy, and the others the nous, to find the answer already.

  ‘I wondered if she wanted her ashes buried there, but Ms Thomas said there was nothing in her will about it.’

  ‘Nope. She wanted her ashes scattered on Dartmoor, and I gather someone from the community she died in obliged when she went on her holidays.’

  ‘No family to be near. Sad. Or perhaps it means she’s a free spirit, with no ties at all, at home wherever the four winds will take her. Or that she’s made good fertilizer,’ she added with a prosaic grin.

  ‘Don, I’ve got no time just now. I’ve got a witness waiting.’ Fran jerked a thumb at the canteen.

  Don Simpson looked over her shoulder. ‘That her with young Tom Arkwright? Looks as if she’s happy to wait a bit longer. And I thought you’d want to know. Everything’s coming together nicely. First up, we’ve got an ID on the man young Cynd stabbed.’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘Come off it, guv’nor – she told you she had. Turns out he’s a Bulgarian.’

  ‘Bulgarian? Ah! The Eastern European fillings. And what was our Bulgarian doing over here? I presume he had a name, by the way?’

  ‘Andon Yovkov. How he wormed his way into the UK I don’t know: he should have been stopped at the border, but with these cuts . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He was a career criminal starting at the age of fifteen – convictions in Italy and Belgium to his name. He’s been on Interpol’s radar, because – guess what? – his speciality is metal theft. He’s got convictions for robbing everything from statues of saints to war memorials. He even nobbled a Giacometti bronze and got it melted down. So I’d guess a few church roofs will be the safer for his death. One of his mates fried alive a few weeks back up near Darlington while he was nicking the live wire from a railway line.’

  ‘Poetic justice. You’ve told SOCA the good news? Excellent.’ Despite herself, she was getting sucked into the narrative. ‘But how did he come to get Cynd’s knife in his ribs? And end up on his own near Bridge?’

  He patted a file. ‘You asked for a complete briefing: here it is.’

  ‘So it is. Thanks, Don.’ She tugged her hair. ‘It’s no good: I can’t do two things at once. I know, I know – it comes with our job descriptions these days. What I’d like you to do – and I know you won’t love me for saying this – is take it down to Jill and go through it together. She’s got stuff; you’ve got stuff. Share it. You’re both so damned territorial that I could bang your heads together. And then meet me in my office, the pair of you, in half an hour. When I get there I shall expect the latest on Janie Falkirk. I just hope we’ve got something reassuring to tell Cynd. Apart from anything else it might loosen her tongue. OK? I said OK, Don.’

  ‘OK it is. I tell you this, guv’nor: that business with your old man hasn’t put you off your stroke.’

  She patted his arm. ‘And you’d think the less of me if it had, wouldn’t you? See you in half an hour, Don. Actually, make it an hour. So I don’t have to leave you kicking your heels.’

  To avoid further argument, she ducked into the nearest loo, reaching for her phone.

  ‘Dave? I left your father asleep, but I can’t imagine he’ll stay that way. Now, the Pact women have enforced a news embargo on him – disconnected the TV aerial and hidden their radios.’

  ‘I thought they were just painters, not psychologists!’

  ‘The longer I do this job, the more I realize very few people are just anything. Anyway, if you contact him, just bear that in mind. Lots of your news from home, the latest on Phoebe’s teeth, that sort of thing.’

  ‘New train sets?’

  ‘Precisely. Talk about the possibility of having one in the loft at the rectory – there’s acres of space. Maybe you could even do a repeat of last night and take him out to lunch. But phone first – I know Caffy believes that walking’s the best cure for anything and everything, and he may already have his boots on.’

  ‘Will do. Maybe I’ll organize a picnic, to keep him away from people. I hate the way all these lovely pubs have twenty-four-hour Sky news and no sound on. Just those endless Breaking News straplines continually repeating the same breaking news.’

  ‘Get him started on that – he’ll have a lovely chunter. And now I have to go – talk later. God bless!’ Where had that come from? She stared at the phone for a moment before pocketing it. Then, of course, she had to fish it out again to call Kim.

  She decided to collect Lina from the canteen herself, watching from the door for a few moments to see how she was responding to dear Tom Arkwright’s obvious admiration. Between smiles, after laughter, even, her face fell into such wistful lines that Fran was reminded of Dilly, to whom she’d promised lunch. She’d meant to forget the tentative arrangement, but such sadness in the young maybe deserved an airing to older and confidence-keeping ears. Especially ones suddenly sympathetic to problems with one’s lover.

  Tom escorted Lina over to her. ‘You OK, guv’nor, with all this going on around you?’ He looked at her closely. ‘You’re not thinking of jumping ship too, are you? You’d be missed if you did – more than the ACC to be honest, for all he’s a decent man who’s done his best.’

  ‘I shall have to go sooner or later, Tom, won’t I? I’m eligible already. But maybe I’ll let Mark find his retirement feet first.’

  ‘Aye, especially as long as you’re stuck in that caravan or whatever. You’d be falling over each other all the time, and there’s nothing like that to cause the odd fight.’ Where Tom got such homely wisdom from she’d no idea – the relative who always sent him cakes, maybe.

  ‘Quite,’ she said, with a smile, no hint of the snub a junior officer might have expected for venturing such an observation to his one-time boss.

  ‘Don’t forget: we all want that wedding to go ahead. I don’t suppose you need an usher, ma’am?’

  She gave a non-committal grin. Actually, she’d love the lad to be there, with or without Lina.

  Would the youngsters fix another meeting? She pretended to check her phone to give them a moment. Perhaps they already had. She hoped so. But there was no sign of any arrangement, and she fought a strong impulse to suggest one. Maybe she’d ask Lina later. Meanwhile, there was more important stuff than affairs of the heart: there was the opening of the cache that Lina had found, which they and Kim would examine in the privacy of her office.

  Doling out gloves to the others, and putting on her own non-latex, she put herself in charge of opening the packet and Kim in charge of recording each item. The first was a newspaper cutting.

  Churchyard rape

  West Midland Police are searching for a masked attacker who sexually assaulted a young woman in a quiet suburb late last night. A spokesman described the attack as brutal.

  No names, of course. But Kim was already jotting the meagre details – not a date, not even a year.

  ‘Bet that’s where the gravestone is!’ Lina gasped. ‘Wow!’

  There was another scrap of newspaper: the death notice of Margaret Minton. No age, no details at all. More scribbling from Kim.

  ‘She’s still playing with you, isn’t she?’ Lina said. ‘At least you know why she called herself Marion Lovage. The first names almost the same, the surname another herb – well, lop off the -on part of the surname,’ she added with relish, clearly telling Kim that she could play her game, even if Kim couldn’t play hers.

  ‘However,’ Fran said, ‘this is not a confession by any means. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Loads of newspaper cuttings,’ said Kim, sounding more interested in them than she had in the furniture. ‘One about a newcomer to Seahouses winning a prize at a flower show; another from North Wales . . . best jam in class . . . Ma’am, these might well tie in with the photos and with the name changes. Can I get someone on to them now? While someone else phones West Midland Police, of course.’
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  ‘Good idea. Use this to summon someone.’ She passed her her phone. ‘Meanwhile, I’m two minutes late for something else.’

  She was already halfway to the door when Lina squeaked, ‘Isn’t that a death certificate? Shocking writing the doctor had. The name looks more like Margaret. So how can she have had her own death notice? Or has someone changed the name?’

  Fran said, ‘You’re right. Absolutely right . . .’ She ached to stay and theorize, but said firmly, ‘The forensics people will help there. Call them as well, will you, Kim? And when you’ve done that, let’s see if any of the dates you come up with tie in with Frank Grange. In any way, no matter how remote. Marion Lovage, I’ve had enough of your time-wasting – more than enough.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fran wished she could say much the same, in the same ferocious tone, to Cynd Lewis when she hastened into the interview room. But that would be to bully someone who was in every sense a victim. Jill joined her, sitting to one side, to make it clear to Cynd that Fran was taking the lead – and also, perhaps, to dissociate herself a little if the questioning became as fierce as Fran’s often could. The solicitor beside Cynd was a mate of Janie’s, a sleepy-looking middle-aged Asian woman wearing, to Cynd’s obvious bemusement, a sari. One glance at Mrs Chandraseka’s eyes, however, revealed an extremely alert brain. Even if Fran had wanted to catch the girl out, Mrs Chandraseka would be having none of it.

  Fran smiled. ‘How’s Janie this morning?’

  Cynd looked at her solicitor and at Jill, as if for permission. ‘Jill says she’s fine. The drains are coming out later, right?’

  Jill nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Excellent. Before we talk about the night you went to Janie’s to tell her about the rape and the stabbing, I want you to tell me why we couldn’t find you last Sunday or all day Monday.’