Life Sentence

by Judith Cutler

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tom Arkwright looked as happy as well-patted puppy; he might have wagged his tail as he placed a sheaf of papers in front of her, in the exact centre of her quite redundant blotter. (Who on earth had ordered one of those? Surely not Mark!) ‘Afternoon, ma’am. There you are. A complete list of all the Lotus dealerships in Sussex and Kent, plus one or two upmarket second-hand dealers. I know you said it was a new Elise, but you never know with those registration letters, and valeting can be ever so good. And I checked these Internet car importers too. And I got details of all the women who’d bought Elises, which is not a lot, of course. Well, not middle-aged ladies. Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean—’

  Fran laughed. ‘You’re digging your pit deeper and deeper, young Tom. I’d stop before you bury yourself alive. You’ve done well. What are these?’

  ‘Details of payment – you know, whether the person had their own finance or whether they used the one at the dealership. One lady got bought one as a present, can you imagine that, by a gentleman friend, like.’ He shifted his feet.

  ‘How old was the gentleman friend?’ she asked, not because she especially wanted to know, but she sensed that Tom didn’t want to spell it out.

  ‘Seems he was – well, a toy boy, like. You know, young enough to be her son.’

  ‘Maybe it was her son, Tom. Have you never thought of buying your mum a super car?’

  ‘Maybe when I’ve paid off my student loan and got a couple more promotions, ma’am. Until then she’ll have to put up with lavender bath salts or a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Well, get your promotions quickly, there’s a good lad. I’d hate to see her fitting a Zimmer into a Lotus boot! Work like this,’ she added, a warm smile replacing her evil grin, ‘means her dream car isn’t a lifetime away. In the meantime, you could always get her a Burago model – show her what you’d really like to give her. And your dad. How is he, by the way? What did they say when he had his check-up? Yesterday, wasn’t it?’ By now her face was serious.

  ‘That’s right. They think the chemo’s done its bit, thank goodness. So it was worth all it put him through. You should have seen him… Anyway, now they say he’s got every chance, thank God.’

  ‘You get to see him often enough? Bury’s a fair distance.’

  ‘Not as often as I like. But he won’t let me, that’s the thing. He says I ought to be building my own life, not sitting like a great garden gnome by his bed.’

  ‘Garden gnome!’

  ‘Family joke. And I’m not at my best with the sick, ma’am. But what I have managed to do is get him tickets for a Man U match – a Christmas present to die for. Shit. Oh, shit.’

  She went his side of her desk, and pulled his head on to her shoulder, letting him cry out his cry. At last, she shoved her tissue box within reach, and bustled off to activate her new percolator. Yes, it appeared to be working. The smell was good, anyway.

  ‘I’m sorry – I – It’s just now he’s getting better, I can… I can’t—’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right to cry when you have feeling you can’t express any other way. Even at work. And Tom, I promise you this is just between the two of us. Promise.’ She put the mug by one hand, squeezing the other. ‘If you do need a counsellor, that’s confidential too. And I’ll have a word with Personnel: if you want to take them both away – yes, if your mum’s been the carer, she’ll need a break too – for a nice weekend, I’ll make sure it’s all right. Now, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’

  He gulped his coffee. ‘You know, guv, I’d really rather be working. If it’s all the same to you, that is.’

  She nodded. And made herself say it out loud. ‘I understand perfectly. You know, with my parents… But don’t kid yourself. Working your socks off is all too often an excuse not to acknowledge and deal with your feelings. Finish your shift, Tom, if you want. But don’t dream of working over, not unless it’s absolutely vital. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He swigged the coffee and straightened. Whatever he’d meant to say, it came out as, ‘Ma’am – I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you look really good, ma’am.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. I don’t mind at all, so long as you’d say the same to your mum when she’s made a bit of an effort.’

  He bit his lip. ‘You know what you were saying about that car… Well, how would it be… Can you get vouchers for having your hair done and that? Because all this business with dad’s taken it out of her, like, and maybe it would perk her up. Unless you think a lady’d be offended.’

  ‘She’ll almost certainly say she hasn’t got time and it’s a waste of money at her age. But I can’t think of a nicer present for a woman, especially your mum.’ But she could never have given her mother such a self-indulgent present. Not that she hadn’t tried. She’d once booked them on to the Orient Express, only to have them refuse to go. Although the trip was only from London to York, they wouldn’t make the effort to get to London, even though she drove down to collect them and deliver them. So for years it had been whisky for Pa and silk scarves and Yardley’s Lavender for Ma.

  ‘You OK, guv?’

  How long had she been away with the fairies? ‘Fine! Now push off and sort out some pampering. Shoo!’ From the way he looked at her he was worried, but she smiled brightly and waved him to the door.

  Although she’d left most of the working parties she’d been assigned to she hadn’t escaped all the responsibilities associated with them. So she spent a couple of hours editing a report on the policing implications of the mass introduction of ID cards while Tom worked down his list, checking that each woman owner was still alive and well. Having enjoyed the adrenaline burst of successful detection, she’d rather have done it herself, but it would have been pure self-indulgence. As the Chief had pointed out, it was highly irregular for someone of her rank to get anywhere near real crime, let alone get her hands dirty investigating a specific case. So she toiled and sweated over the keyboard while Tom did what both of them would consider more interesting things.

  A tap at the door roused her from the intricacies of annexe C(i). Expecting it to be Tom, her invitation to enter was a very informal affair. But the face peering round the door was Mark’s.

  ‘Still here?’

  ‘I took TOIL earlier.’

  ‘So I see. Excellent. But there’s no need to work overtime just to prove you were entitled to it.’

  She straightened. Her back, and more alarmingly, her breastbone cracked noisily. He rolled his eyes. ‘I need an osteopath to make my joints do that. Look,’ he continued, awkwardly, ‘I don’t know what clothes you usually take down to Devon—’

  ‘Stuff that would disgrace my cleaning lady!’

  ‘Well, I’ve just had an email from my yachting mate: he hopes we’ll make up a foursome on Saturday evening with him and his wife. Dinner. Nothing OTT – smart casual, he said. OK?’

  ‘But—’ Saturday evening was her cooking evening. In the peace and calm after her parents had been put to bed by their care worker. Social services wouldn’t let her cancel assistance on the weekends she was down on the grounds that it was better for her parents’ routine not to be interrupted. But there was plenty of food in the freezer, and – ‘I wouldn’t be able to go out too early. But I’d love to come.’

  ‘Good. It’d be better if we were to come to you then: where’s a good place to eat?’

  She spread her hands, ruefully.

  ‘Sorry: I can’t imagine you eat out for pleasure when you’re down there. Or that your parents would be able to recommend anywhere. Leave it to me. I’ll sort it. Now, get your things together and I’ll walk you to your car. No, “but me no buts”!’

  ‘You’ve been talking to the Chief again – him and his dratted Shakespeare! And Tom – he’s actually heard of Walter Scott.’ Though she’d completely forgotten to talk to him about it. ‘What a literate force we must be.’ She saved her document and signed off.

  ‘If only the Home Secr
etary would give us marks for that when he draws up the league tables: it’d be nice to be top.’

  Police gossip got them to their cars. Although a light drizzle was damping everything, neither seemed in any hurry. But despite their apparent ease with each other, Fran felt the same tension that had led up to the kiss that had rounded off their dinner date. Conversation was definitely dwindling. It was like being seventeen again. Two grown people as tongue-tied as teenagers.

  She leaned across their briefcases and kissed him, on the cheek, as on their date. If that was what it had been. He responded, with a light peck on the lips.

  ‘Good evening, sir, ma’am!’

  They sprung apart as swiftly as if they’d actually been caught in flagrante. The latest inspector, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And scoring zilch for perception. They eyed each other ironically.

  ‘By nine tomorrow everyone at Headquarters will know we’re knee-deep in an affair,’ she risked.

  ‘We shall have to oblige them, then,’ he said, kissing her generously on the lips. ‘But maybe Devon will be a better ambience than the senior car park.’

  This time there were two separate weekend bags, one full of her working clothes, the ones that would smell of old people and damp walls, and a garment carrier that she would hang in the lean-to holding the washing machine and drier until the very last minute. Never quite sure what smart casual might mean in the context of country restaurants, she’d gone for safe with an Aquascutum trouser suit and a silk top. Then she’d panicked. Was black too formal? How about her new Jaeger skirt, cashmere top and pashmina? Diamonds or costume jewellery? Exasperated, she stared at herself in the mirror, arms akimbo. How could a woman who’d been responsible for life and death decisions, who’d controlled enormous budgets, who’d hobnobbed with senior politicians and civil servants without turning a hair, suddenly get the jitters? They were talking supper in Devon, for goodness’ sake, not dinner in Islington.

  To her chagrin, she nonetheless found herself zipping both outfits in; at least the shoes and bag would do for both. Perfume? What about some perfume? Even if she showered ten minutes before she left the bungalow, she’d still be aware of the mustiness on her skin, in her hair, even if the others weren’t. Some perfume would help – that new Christian Dior, for instance. And then a wry grin at herself. For others read Mark. And don’t forget the make-up. Or the new HRT patch. She was due to change that. She stared at it. She’d certainly started to feel better – could such a prosaic, innocent-looking thing be capable of turning a life around?

  There was sign of neither Mark nor his car when her taxi – she’d come in by train to save leaving her car over the weekend – dropped her. For a moment her pulse pounded as hard as if she’d been stood up in the middle of a strange city. Mobile phone? No messages. She could switch on the radio and get traffic updates – the A274 could be very bad in rain like this. Or she could sprint to her office to see if there was a message on her voice mail. Why, after all these years of trudging down to Devon and dealing with everything entirely on her own, should she suddenly want an escort and company? Even as she pulled her shoulders straight and retrieved her briefcase, however, his Volvo appeared. His face was set in the grimmest of lines. As he saw her he beamed. Would either, as they walked in to breakfast together, admit to anxiety? She was sure they wouldn’t – she would certainly keep mum. But it was just the sort of thing you confessed to your lover over your first glass of bubbly.

  Tom was already at work when she returned after breakfast. ‘’Morning, guv – cold first thing!’

  ‘Yes, and wet too. Just because you have the weekend in your sights, young Tom, doesn’t mean I shan’t land you with enough overtime to take you through till Monday.’ But her eyes twinkled and he didn’t even bother to apologise.

  ‘I may just have enough, actually, guv. These posh car women. I’m only halfway through the list so far, but I’ve found a couple of individuals who reported having had their vehicles stolen within weeks of purchase.’

  ‘I thought we agreed, Tom, no police-speak. It’s bad enough when you sneak it into your reports, but I’m not having you assailing my ears with it at this hour in the morning.’

  ‘Is after lunch OK, then, guv? Anyway, just on the off-chance, I checked to see if they were from the same garage.’

  Good lad. ‘Well?’

  ‘Nope. Seems it must be a coincidence. Bad luck, but no connection.’

  ‘Dig round for other connections. Including the less obvious ones. Any women you can’t trace? Don’t forget the garages will have notified DVLA of all the registration details and the drivers should have notified them of new addresses if they’ve moved. I know, egg-sucking time. But when you want to dash round to get explanations sometimes you forget the obvious. At least I do.’ Like worrying so much over Mark this morning. ‘Look, I’ve got a meeting in half an hour – it seems the new Detective Chief Super had already booked the day off so I said I’d cover for him—’

  ‘But how can you take off your very first day?’ Tom demanded.

  ‘God knows. Seems very weird to me. Well, starting on a Friday seems weird, but that’s Personnel for you. Anyway, we’ve managed without him this long – we can wait till Monday. Now, if you give me a few names I can get on the blower too.’ That way she wouldn’t stare at the briefing papers and speculate about Mark and the weekend. She wasn’t at all sure that she agreed any longer with Sheila Downs that it was a privilege to fall in love when you were older: falling in love with Mark seemed a dangerous and irritating distraction.

  But then, the meeting itself seemed an irritating distraction from the important business of discovering Elise’s killer. The chair was a man promoted well above his abilities, who could neither shut up the talkative people with axes to grind nor elicit valuable information from the quieter members. Half way through she’d been tempted simply to elbow him aside. As it was she contented herself with engaging in eye-contact with those she thought it necessary to prompt, and after that the meeting started slowly to get results. Please God that young Tom was moving faster than this. Two cars stolen immediately after they’d been bought. Not from the same garage. But it might have been from the same salesperson. Surreptitious as a teenager seeking an exam answer, she texted Tom to check that, too.

  There was no sign of him when, after a canteen sandwich for lunch, she got back to her office. She’d kill him if he’d gone scooting about the countryside in search of information he could have got more easily over the phone. But he came dashing in with such excitement any rebuke died before it reached her lips.

  ‘There’s a woman I’ve found who’s not there.’

  ‘Or?’ she prompted, trying not to laugh.

  ‘There’s this woman on the list and I can’t find any trace of her. No change of address, no nothing. So I went to her last known address and they say she moved up north somewhere.’

  ‘And?’ She sat down, gesturing him to the chair opposite.

  ‘She was a Miss Marjorie Gray. She lived in St Mary’s Bay. Well, I suppose someone has to. But not any more, not her, anyway.’

  ‘No forwarding address?’

  ‘No nothing. Seems she was a very quiet lady, kept herself to herself. One day she was there. Next she’d left. Someone else moves into her house. Just like that. No goodbyes, no nothing.’

  ‘Age?’ She scribbled down the information as if it was a lifeline.

  ‘About sixty, they say. Typical grey-haired spinster-lady. Sorry, ma’am. Though you’re not typical, of course.’

  ‘Granted. Spinster – so never married. Lived on her own.’

  ‘Well, only recently. Seems her parents retired down there. Then first one then the other died. And off she goes. Within about three months, they say – they couldn’t be more precise.’

  ‘Estate agents?’

  His turn to make notes. ‘And banks, too, guv – someone will have handled all that money. And a solicitor to do the conveyancing. And her GP and dentist – they�
�ll have needed to send records on somewhere.’ The lad sounded as excited as she felt.

  It took her a moment to register the phone. Mark!

  ‘Fran – any chance you could pop into my office?’

  She gripped the desk – he was going to call off the weekend, wasn’t he?

  She swallowed lest he heard the disappointment – was there no more intense word to describe her feeling? – in her voice. ‘I’m on my way.’ Aware that Tom was watching the transformation of her expression, she pulled a schoolgirl face. ‘Sounds like trouble,’ she said. ‘Can you get started while I see what’s up?’

  Mark’s face was as grim as she’d ever seen it. ‘We’ve got a child abduction. With Henson not here I shall have to take control. I’m so sorry.’

  She nodded. There was no argument.

  ‘Is there any chance you could stay and help?’ he asked, almost humbly.