‘I’ve got to go down to Devon,’ she’d told Richardson.
‘Now.’ The simple word had meant they’d never see each other again. And she’d never looked for a relationship again.
So why was she even thinking about Mark as more than a friend? Damned hormones. She smashed the flat of her hand on the wall. Time for a coffee. But that was one thing he hadn’t requisitioned for her – a percolator. At least that was a task she felt up to managing. She’d nip out at lunchtime and buy one.
Meanwhile, she made her way through the general office to the water dispenser. Some of her colleagues were young men and women she’d prepared for promotion exams: they flapped cheery but still respectful hands as she passed. Which should she pick as her dogsbody? Someone who needed a bit of confidence to develop his or her potential: there was plenty of time to sniff around a bit.
Back on her pristine desk lay something reassuringly battered: the Elise file. If she immersed herself in that, keeping her head as clear as pure water would make it, she might manage not to speculate on why Mark had gone to so much trouble. And why, despite the sort of snub she’d had to give Richardson, he’d asked her out again. No, she was jumping ahead. They were just mates, giving each other a break from solitary domesticity.
Back on safe, familiar territory, she made notes as she went.
On the evening of February 26, nearly two years before, a patrol responded to a 999 call from a member of the public, Alan Pitt. He had found and attempted to resuscitate a woman he’d found in the undergrowth near a lay-by on the B2067, between Hythe and Tenterden. There were severe head and thoracic injuries; there was also evidence of a vicious rape. Unfortunately Pitt’s activities had badly contaminated the crime scene; for some time he’d been a major, indeed, the only serious suspect. But at last forensics had appeared to confirm this story that he’d simply pulled over to take a call on his mobile, and decided the road was quiet enough for him to relieve himself in the hedge and had heard faint groans, which he’d investigated. As he tried to help, the woman had uttered two words: ‘Poor Elise.’
By the time she’d reached the William Harvey Hospital in Ashford, the woman was deeply comatose. She had never recovered consciousness.
Elise, then. And you’d have expected that someone, frantic with worry for a sister or lover – she wore no wedding ring, nor was there even a tell-tale furrow on her finger to suggest a thief might have tugged one off – would phone to report her missing. But no one did. Anywhere in the country. She didn’t match the description of any missing persons on the official list, though her age distinguished her from the runaway schoolchildren and disaffected young adults. Nonetheless, the first thing Fran would do the next day was to ask one of her new minions to double check. Middle-aged women – the medics thought she was about sixty – tended not to disappear of their own accord. There was a lot of publicity, but her facial and head injuries had been so severe that even if photographs had not been an intrusion into her misery, no one could have recognised her. They’d done a computer-enhanced impression, but Fran never felt those as successful as the physical reconstructions in clay and she wasn’t surprised that there’d been no response.
Clothes? Hairstyle? Age? Fran would have liked to add make-up to her list, but doubted if anyone would have registered with that when they were dealing with life-threatening injuries. She added it anyway.
The file was, of course, a mere summary of what had been done – the day-to-day log of actions taken and the reasons for taking them. Somewhere there would be bulging dossiers clamped into box files and tagged and bagged forensic evidence. But they would have to wait for tomorrow. Because for all her good intentions, not only had she forgotten to nip out at lunchtime for her percolator, she’d forgotten all about lunch, too.
Monday evening was for washing, remember, and sleeping. And wondering what Tuesday evening might bring.
Tuesday morning brought a canteen breakfast together, with the news that Mark would have to cancel their evening because a Home Office minister had taken it into his head to announce a new initiative without consulting the police first, and all over the country people like Mark were going to have to chase figures that simply didn’t exist for a plan that was at best quixotic.
Was she disappointed or relieved? Her main emotion was relief that she could have an early night and an extra couple of hours’ sleep.
Wednesday had had a similar fate, Mark still number-crunching fictitious figures and she pulled in on to an interview panel for some training post because another senior woman had gone down with flu. If asked, she would have been hard put to say which was more frustrating, the delay in her social life or the fact that she still hadn’t even seen the Elise crime scene. Her notes of the interview were scrawled over with her attempts to remember the rhyme about the Wise Men: Who, what, where, why, when? Were there any more? Who would have wanted to kill a woman like Elise? What had they used? Where had they actually killed and raped her? When had they done it? And – which was where the rhyme went wrong – above all, why? Or was ‘who’ more important? Her mind had hamster-wheeled its way through five promising candidates and one exceptional one, who was finally appointed as senior trainer in equal opportunities. Not quite a wasted day, then. Especially as in the midst of it all she’d made a decision about which of the CID team she’d ask for. A young man called Arkwright. Some time ago she’d found herself talking to him in a stalled lift: even though the engineers had got it unjammed almost immediately, they’d decided to cheer themselves in the canteen before they returned to their respective domains and duties. Tom Arkwright, a graduate like most of the new wave of recruits, had a parent problem too: his dad had cancer, which he found himself telling her all about. She felt she could have told him about her parents without it going any further, he had that sort of innocent gravitas, but she hadn’t wanted to burden him. When she saw him behind a mound of filing, still hard at it at a time when most of his mates had knocked off, she decided to rescue him.
‘I still seem to be spending all my time in committee rooms, Tom, so I want you to be my legs. Legs with initiative, please. There wasn’t any record of Elise’s assailant’s DNA at the time of the assault, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t attacked since and no one’s bothered to tie up details. And double-check with other forces in case there’s been a prison confession they’ve forgotten to pass on. Anything to ID her, Tom – you have free rein. OK?’
On Thursday morning, Fran and Mark entered a solemn pact to let nothing interfere with what Mark referred to jokily as a decent meal. At six-thirty p.m. precisely both would religiously switch off their mobiles and change into mufti – in his case from his uniform and in hers from the formal suit that she chose for CID stints, so dark and severe it might well have been uniform.
Taking one last look at herself in the cloakroom mirror, rubbing off the red lipstick and replacing it with a softer pink, and all the time wishing that she could do feminine and frilly, she set out. She’d be early. But Mark was already scuttling towards his car, still trying to adjust his jacket round his neck. If she slowed down she’d see him tweak his tie.
Yes. He carefully felt the knot, then undid it and stuffed it in his pocket. Any moment he’d put it back on again.
He did.
So he was as unsure, as uneasy, as she. Heavens, they might be boy and girl out for their first date. She stopped in her tracks. Was this what was happening? Had Mark actually asked her on a date?
But what if he hadn’t?
Tiptoeing back to the door, she let it slam loudly as soon as his tie was back in place and walked briskly and unromantically towards him.
Chapter Seven
‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I really am. But I really must ask you to show a little consideration! The two visitors per patient guideline isn’t there for nothing, you know! A big group like yours can disturb other patients. My friend, just there, is – is dying, you see… Thank you. Thank you very much. I hoped you’d underst
and…
‘So they’re decent people, Elise, despite their tracksuits and trainers and their cans of lager: no argument and they’re very much quieter, aren’t they? I was afraid there might be trouble – can you imagine my risking doing that in a public place? I’d have been lynched before I got to the end of my first sentence.
‘I lied, of course. You’re not really my friend, of course, are you? A friend is someone with whom you have some sort of meaningful interaction. You have none with me. A friend is someone with whom you share mutual tastes and interests, and I know nothing of yours.
‘I hope you were a literate lady – that you found time to read in whatever life you led. And to listen to music. Did you go to your local theatre and lament the passing of decent weekly rep? I’d hate to think that the lottery was the highlight of your week, or that you shuffled off to Bingo every Thursday. If you had, though, surely your friends would have missed you when you never returned – they’d have reported it to the police. They’ve had enough time to do so: it’s nearly two years since the accident. And I’ve been to see you pretty well every week. Is it guilt for what I did? Some sort of atonement? Whatever it is, Elise, I wish you could discuss it with me.
‘Thank goodness there seems to be no residual bruising: I truly can’t believe I hit you. They might not have let me come again if they’d found out. Worse, they might have had me charged with assault.
‘Can you assault someone who is technically dead?’
‘Heavens: look at the time! I’m so sorry – I really must fly.’
Chapter Eight
In his spot in the still half-empty senior officers’ car park, Mark flicked the radio from a wonderfully acerbic John Humphrys interview on Today to an up-beat bit of Vivaldi on Classic FM. He buried his nose in a file, the top page of which he read six times and was still no clearer about, when at last Fran’s car came into sight: yes, it was definitely her Saab. He felt his shoulders unbrace, and buried his face in paperwork again: he didn’t want to seem to be doing anything as crass as waiting for her, in case she construed it as managerial checking up. In fact, checking up it was, but since it was born of anxiety for her safety, perhaps he could be excused. The number of miles she covered in the worst circumstances every weekend put her at risk, statistically, however good a driver she was, and however safe the car. He felt almost as anxious as when his sons had gone on their first long solo journeys – irritated by their need to prove themselves, furious he couldn’t protect them from life, and imagining, every second they passed their ETA, that any moment a stern-faced colleague would present himself on the doorstep with the worst news. But the anxiety was different. He knew that. It masked or augmented, whichever way he looked at it, a dreadful fear that she would be taken from him before – but that part of his sentence he didn’t care yet to complete.
Their supper: had it been an old-fashioned first date? He’d felt as tongue-tied as when he’d first taken Tina out, thirty-odd years ago, when the fashion was for sex first and conversation, if necessary, later. But for some reason the young pair had done the best suit and nice frock thing, and had patronised the local Indian, thinking they were as trendy as tomorrow. Whereas his acne’d earlier self had stuttered and stumbled, his present incarnation had had reserves of experience of important meals to call on – even if they’d nearly failed him when it came to the matter of whether or not to wear a tie. Perhaps she’d seen his pantomime: there’d been laughter at the back of her eyes when she’d arrived beside his car punctual to the minute. Perhaps she’d also worried about her appearance. There were two distinct shades of lipstick visible, as if she couldn’t make up her mind. And although he couldn’t recall exactly what she’d worn, he knew she’d looked stunning. At least, he tried to correct himself, as stunning as an overworked, exhausted woman in her fifties could look.
What had they talked about, what had they eaten? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember: he’d been so worried since by her impending trip to Devon he’d lost the pleasures large and small he should have cherished. Now she was here, safe and sound, he could recall a not unpleasant restaurant, with quite decent food. He could remember a lot of laughter. If, once or twice, he hadn’t caught her face in repose as weary as death, he’d have taken her home there and then, he knew that. And they wouldn’t have got much sleep. But to add to Fran’s sleep debt would have been the height of irresponsibility, and his job and his marriage had sapped his ability to throw his hat in the air, not caring where it fell.
There’d be other days, other nights: he was almost sure of it. Yes, there’d be something more than the friendly goodnight kiss, which she’d suddenly dabbed on his cheek and he’d chastely returned. And as he saw the inexpressibly weary lines of her face shift upwards into a grin of delight, he was sure. Quite sure. You couldn’t feign a smile like that. It warmed the chilly morning. And brought him out of his car in something approaching a leap.
As for her, her movements were slow, and he thought he detected a grimace of pain. Where was the athletic young woman he’d once watched springing about the badminton court like one possessed? Her knees had turned pink with the effort. Soon, he’d ask her to play with him. It’d be good to turn them pink again.
‘How are you? How was Devon?’
He put out his hand, like a courtier, to steady her. In fact she rested her whole weight on it, so he steadied her with the other. She was lifting her face for a kiss, he was sure of it, the lips parted, the eyes guiding his, when they heard footsteps and were recalled to the decencies incumbent on two senior officers. So, no long Hollywood embrace, certainly no tipping her elegantly back across the bonnet in an extravagant gesture. Not this time.
As she found her feet, she found her voice: ‘I’m fine. And I may have cracked it. The problem, I mean.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I never meant to call them a problem.’
‘But they are,’ he pointed out gently, releasing her slowly.
‘To my shame, that’s what they’ve become. The man and woman who begot me, stigmatised as a problem.’ She bit her lip on her anger, turning to zap the car. ‘What I meant was, I’ve cracked the problem of them being on their own. I’ve got someone to sleep in the bungalow during the week.’
‘Excellent. Just like that?’
‘Not exactly. You see, I don’t normally have time to give the place a thorough clean.’
‘You—?’
‘The poor care workers aren’t allowed to touch anywhere their clients don’t actually use, so the spare bedroom was pretty grotty.’
‘How grotty?’
‘Well, they never open windows. Never, ever. Any of them. Windows let in draughts, a bad thing, and let out heat, an even worse thing. So they have a condensation problem.’
‘I had an aunt like that. Mould and mildew. Scrubbing with bleach was the only thing to shift them. Not just the window frames, but the walls, too. Is that what you had to do?’ He hoped he sounded interested, not furious.
‘Well, I couldn’t have asked a stranger to sleep in those conditions.’
Which meant that she did.
‘And the bedclothes always used to smell musty,’ he prompted.
‘Tell me about it. I had to waste time washing and drying blankets: they’ve never believed in duvets, resolute in their belief that nine-tenths of European civilisation must be wrong. And I’m afraid the room still smelt musty, despite all the air spray I’ve used. Pot pourri too.’ She straightened her shoulders, as if to deny the effort. ‘But the good news is Marie! She works during the day as a care assistant so she knows the job. And she’s used to babysitting people who are old or infirm. She’s got excellent references and her police check is immaculate.’
‘Sounds too good to be true,’ he said, smiling. He looked over her shoulder. ‘Where’s your overnight bag?’
‘It stays in the car till I get home. Everything goes straight into the washing machine. There’s a complete change of clothes here in my locker.’
‘Have y
ou had breakfast yet? If not, we could…’ He tailed off, suddenly awkward.
‘Do you have enough time for me to shower? I want to get rid of the old-people smell.’
There was a distinct mustiness about her, now he came to think about it. But her efficiency – bags for this, bags for that – amazed him afresh. They fell into step.
‘So a shower would be welcome,’ she prompted him.
‘Take as long as you need. My first meeting isn’t till nine-thirty. And you?’
‘Today I go back to first principles. I want a look at our crime scene—’
He stopped, half turning. ‘On your own?’ He regretted the words and, more particularly the tone, as they left his mouth.
‘On my own. I’ve asked one of the CID lads to check and double check on missing persons and so on. But I’ve always liked to check crime scenes like that alone. With an open mind. No helpful suggestions from other people. Above all, no phone calls.’
‘So you’ll be out of reach?’ He had to stuff a hand into a pocket to stop him reaching for her, she looked so vulnerable.
‘Only while I stand and think. Then I’ll switch on the mobile again.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you? It’s near a very dangerous corner. Accident black spot.’ For God’s sake, he knew she’d passed all the police driving courses going, apart from the one permitting her to drive endangered diplomats and politicians. What was he thinking of, appearing to question her competence? But she hadn’t had to take the courses on top of a gruelling weekend’s cleaning. She’d probably toiled in the garden, too, and produced those reheatable meals she’d spoken of. She might even, on reflection, feel that being cared about made a nice change. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said swiftly, all the same, ‘I didn’t mean to sound…but you do look done in.’
Life Sentence Page 4
