Burying the Past (16 page)

‘Because I'm a nosy old bat? Mostly, you get to meet the people who lived in the house before you – pick up their vibes. But with all the work we've had to have done, there's not much chance of that, is there?'

‘Not a lot of her vibes left, either. Are you thinking Dr L – shall we say, she caused the skeleton?'

‘Off the record, he was a pretty big bloke for a small woman to kill,' Fran said. ‘I could probably manage it, if push came to shove. But she was tiny, wasn't she?'

‘Are you suggesting one of us did it? Or helped her?'

‘Absolutely not!' Fran was genuinely aghast. But as much at the realization that she'd never even considered a conspiracy of villagers as at the suggestion. ‘If such a thing had even crossed my mind I'd have been in here waving my ID as soon as we found the skeleton.'

Mark nodded. ‘I suppose we could dash back and pick them up now to flash, but it'd spoil a good pint. We're just incomers this evening, after a gossip.'

‘Maybe you should pick another subject to gossip about. I'll see to those ploughman's platters, then.'

‘Shit and corruption,' Fran breathed as they found a table. ‘Messed up there good and proper, didn't I? We'll probably be drummed out of the village.'

‘Could be. Is a village conspiracy a line you propose to follow?'

‘You sound awfully like ACC (Crime), Mark. Rightly so. But I'd say we wait and see what tomorrow brings. In fact, I might just feed him a bit about opening her storage unit, to see if it pacifies him.'

‘Don't bank on it. Hey, those look good,' he said truthfully to Ollie, who came up bringing their food. ‘Above and beyond the call of duty too. Thanks. My fiancée needs a good feed: she was dealing with a week-old body when she should have been having her lunch.'

‘Where might that be?' Clearly, he was interested despite himself.

‘Just south of Canterbury. After all this nice warm weather.' She grimaced. ‘Only a youngster, I'd say. It'll be on the local news at half ten tonight.'

‘So are you investigating this one?'

‘I told you: I'm a bean counter these days, as is Mark.' She added: ‘But I can't ask other people to deal with things I wouldn't deal with myself if I had to. So I tend to turn up to give a bit of moral support. And because I'm nosy.' And because she had to be, because of her place in the hierarchy, but there was no need to shove that down his throat. ‘I'm sorry about before. I really didn't mean to imply anything. In fact, it should all become a bit clearer tomorrow: we're opening the self-storage unit where we think Dr Lovage put her stuff. Canterbury,' she added.

‘You get around, don't you? So do you reckon you'll still have jobs when they've made all these cuts?' He addressed himself to Mark, as the more easily forgiven.

‘If getting rid of older, senior officers like us means we keep front line officers, I'd retire tomorrow,' Mark said.

‘Funny you should say that: we've started getting a police van in the village once a week. And there's a young lad going round telling farmers how to secure their tractors.'

‘Yup. We thought it was more than time they had support. Seems the farm machinery manufacturers thought it'd make their lives easier if they had a standard ignition lock for every piece of plant they made. But of course it doesn't just make their lives easier, it makes thieves' lives easier too. Only last week we intercepted three at Dover all heading for Poland,' Mark said. ‘As for your weekly visit, Fran wanted us to fund more, but the budgets . . .' He shrugged.

Ollie raised an eyebrow in Fran's direction. ‘It was you who discovered we don't all live in towns, was it? Well, I'll take my hat off to you for that,' he said grudgingly. ‘And to you for the lad talking about tractors, Mark. Look, if you're a bit more upfront about your interest, I'd say you should talk to my dad. Actually, I'd do it soon, if I were you. His memory comes and goes – though he'd more likely remember something in the past. Early Alzheimer's,' he said sadly. ‘Crap way to go, isn't it? I'd rather have a bang on the head like your skeleton.'

Fran froze. How could he know that?

Ollie's laugh wasn't particularly amused. ‘Ah, caught you there. You thought I must have done it 'cause I knew how he'd been done in. Truth is, a couple of your lads were in here and someone overheard one of them yelling down his mobile phone. So we all know.' He grinned. ‘Tell you what, I could put up one of those posters –
careless talk costs lives.
'

‘And I might have to put up another one at work,' Mark said grimly. ‘
Careless talk costs jobs.
Stupid bugger. And why do people always feel they have to shout when they have a mobile in their hands?
I'm on the train!
Heavens, we all know they're on the bloody train . . .'

T
hey were up before six the following morning. Mark had a breakfast meeting to report on his session at the Home Office, and Fran had to sprint across to Canterbury to keep her promise to Janie, who, despite her protestations of complete trust in God and the surgeon, in whichever order, was mutely terrified, staring grimly ahead the entire drive despite the beauty of the morning. Fran, who thought that in Janie's situation she'd have been gazing around trying to absorb every last memory, insisted on accompanying her to her ward and staying with her in a waiting area. But, not knowing what to say, she ended up simply holding her friend's hand in silence, which at last became unbearable.

‘My brother-in-law – he's a clergyman too – always reckoned to take away the worry of anaesthetics by saying the Lord's Prayer,' Fran ventured at last. ‘He says he usually manages to get as far as
Hallowed be Thy Name
before he goes under.'

‘I must try and get to
Thy Will be done
,' Janie said grimly. ‘I don't want to have to be brave, Fran. If I've got to go, I'd like it to be while I don't know, if you see what I mean. And may God forgive me.'

Thank God a nurse came to take her away.

As she reached the door, Janie turned abruptly. ‘Fran – that child Cynd. She slipped off somewhere yesterday afternoon, as that nice woman Jill probably told you.'

What the hell? Why hadn't Jill told her?

Janie added: ‘Bless her, Jill came up to the door as casually as if she was offering the child a lift somewhere. She does you credit, Fran. Tell her that from me. But Cynd didn't come home last night. Don't let her do anything silly. Watch out for her.'

What the hell was up? Cynd was brave enough to turn herself in; now she'd damned well skipped.

‘Of course I will,' she said with perfect truth.

And the moment she was out of the hospital, she jabbed a text to Jill, asking what was going on. She waited in vain for a response.

Thence it was back via a rush-hour-clogged Canterbury ring-road to the industrial estate and its hidden treasure. Heavens, she wasn't about to uncover Tutankhamen's tomb. She whiled away the time waiting for the others to arrive wondering why the last syllable of his name was commonly spelt with an
e
, but pronounced by the experts as if it contained a
u
.

At last the whole circus was gathered: Kim and a couple of officers Fran only knew by sight; photographers; SOCOs; Fred and Fred's boss. Bingo. Full house. Fred's boss produced a key he assured everyone was the duplicate Dr Lovage had been required to leave in his safe.

If it was, it didn't open the padlock. What the hell had the woman been up to? But Kim had apparently already thought of that eventuality, and soon the most diminutive person present, a veritable waif of a girl, was wielding bolt cutters.

At bloody last.

There was a collective groan. There was nothing to be seen except wrapping. Lovage must have bought bubble-wrap by the acre. But was it to protect or conceal further? Although Fran knew she was being fanciful, she suspected the latter. To her immense frustration the SOCOs demanded that everything be loaded into an as yet non-existent van to be taken to the lab for examination. She could have literally torn her hair at yet another delay while Kim summoned transport.

She turned to the equally frustrated storage centre employees. ‘I'm so sorry! Look,' she added, turning to her colleagues, ‘is there anything that isn't wrapped? We're like kids denied our Christmas stockings here.' Funny she should ally herself with the two men outside the team.

‘Can't see anything, ma'am.'

She turned to the men: ‘I promise you'll get photos of everything I can let you see. Believe me, I'm as fed up as you are. I wanted everything to spill out – ropes of pearls, boxes of sovereigns, like pictures of Aladdin's cave.' She spoke nothing less than the truth.

Mark stood in the corridor juggling his mobile phone – the one that had gone AWOL with Dave. For all they'd said about policy, he felt the strongest revulsion in handing it over to the geeks to see if had been interfered with. ‘Only obeying orders' smacked of supine acquiescence to unreasonable demands – hadn't half the Nazi war criminals pleaded such an excuse? Which should you put first, your family or your country? Not that there was the slightest reason to think that Dave might harbour malice to anything other than his own father – not his fatherland. Hell, there he went with Nazi-speak again. E.M. Forster, in an essay he'd read when he was in the sixth form (was this the start of senility, remembering books you'd read so long ago?), had concluded that in a choice between your friend and your country, you should betray the latter. But as a seventeen year old, Mark had disagreed: if your friend was betraying his country, he was betraying you. Now he'd have liked to be so sure.

He stared at his phone: if only it was an upmarket one that displayed the most recent calls. That was all he wanted to know. On the other hand, he needed it to be unblocked, so he could use it again. Straightening his shoulders, but trying to look casual, he plunged into what was clearly electronic media heaven and handed it over.

‘We ought to take this stuff apart,' Kim said, staring at what even Fran knew was priceless furniture, now safely locked in the evidence store. In particular, Kim had her eye on a cabinet which clearly had a lot of cupboards and drawers, but which, having no visible keyhole, simply refused to open.

‘No. Absolutely not. These are works of art. We need to get an expert on them.'

‘Budget?' Kim asked drily.

‘Quite.' Fran was equally dry. ‘Let's look at everything else in detail – from the outside, however – and see if we have any reason to proceed further. Meanwhile I'll bend my brain and see if I've got any favours I can call in. Me or Mark – he's more likely, come to think of it. What about that pretty kneehole desk – is there anything in there?'

One of the technical staff shook his head. ‘Not so much as a bent paper clip.'

Fran gave a bark of laughter. ‘Nothing in the house, nothing in the garden, nothing in her furniture – she seems to have been quite obsessive. Maybe we should call in a shrink.' She stopped. ‘Hang on – she left that wheelbarrow, for all it was under six feet of muck. Has that thrown up anything useful yet?'

‘In half an hour, with luck.' Kim flicked a glance at her watch. ‘We've got a progress briefing in twenty minutes: will you be coming?'

‘Cue jokes about bears or popes, Kim. I'll be there.' But not until she'd contacted Jill again; she liked instant replies to important questions.

‘Let's start with the good news,' Kim said. ‘We have an ID for our rectory garden victim. Francis, known as Frank, Grange. Before you feel too sorry for a man coming to such a violent end, pause to consider his CV.' The PowerPoint presentation produced its first page. ‘As you can see, he was almost professionally brutal. First conviction: age thirteen, stabbing a teacher; next, age sixteen, aggravated stealing and taking away – left the victim of the theft for dead after running her over. That seems to have got him started on a long career of crimes against women.' She pointed. ‘Sexual assault; rape; attempted murder; rape again. He got a good long sentence for that, largely because of the evidence given by the victim's sister, Mary Ann Minton. Now, as you can see, the pattern is clear. Offend; time in gaol; offend; time in gaol; offend. A clear cycle.'

An ironic voice from the back observed, ‘Prison works.'

‘Quite. But fourteen years ago, released from Parkhurst, this time, he stops offending. Cured! Either it's the sea air he's been exposed to or he's emigrated. Or he's been walloped on the head with a large shovel and popped into a trench to improve the quality of the runner beans. Fortunately, we've got plenty of mugshots of him so, although it's a long shot, I suggest we get on to the media, in particular
Crimewatch
, and see if anyone can place him round here, and with whom.'

‘Do we need to go that far? Isn't it a fair supposition that he tried to rape Marion Lovage and she killed him?' the voice at the back asked.

Fran nodded enthusiastically. ‘It'd help my budget if we could simply say that was that and move on to the next case. On the other hand, I think the coroner might like a bit more than an educated guess, don't you? At least a suggestion as to why, having killed him, she didn't just call the police.' She looked down to the document in front of her. ‘The pathologist says he was killed by one blow – I'd have thought she'd have got away without a prison sentence for that. Unless, of course, she had a criminal record herself. Kim?'

Why should the younger woman look guilty, as if a dog had eaten her homework? She almost gasped with relief when one of her team passed a piece of paper. ‘Could I just mention the wheelbarrow before we go through what we have of Lovage's CV? It's as clean as a whistle.'