Burying the Past (27 page)

‘I'll come back in an hour or so?'

‘They'll find some way to make you talk if you hang around here. Retire to a safe distance and I'll call you the moment I know anything. I promise. When you can see him, see if you can persuade him to go back to your hotel with you. You'll be able to slide out of the back entrance together. Catch you – and the roses – later.'

‘Sure.' He dabbed a kiss on her amazed cheek.

‘I simply don't know what to do,' Mark said, realizing too late that he should have taken Fran, breathless for some reason, as if she'd been running, into his arms, to reassure her that all would be well. But he was still seated behind the expanse of his desk. He buried his head in his hands. Looking up, he managed, ‘I'm sorry.'

She looked as hamstrung as he by his formality. But she took a step round the desk, arms ready to hug him. Eventually, she stooped to pull his head to her chest. ‘Rest, for a start. You look done in, and why not?'

‘As soon as I've seen Dr Brodie, I've got to make myself scarce.' Brodie was the least touchy-feely FME he'd ever met, but perhaps his astringency would help.

Fran pulled a face as if she had her doubts about the man too. ‘When are you seeing him?'

He looked at his watch. ‘In about half an hour.'

‘Do you want me to come with you?'

‘Why?'

‘Not into the consulting room – just to wait with you. And then take you straight off.'

‘Where? As Wren pointed out, we don't have a home to go to.' He grabbed her hands. ‘Fran, they won't section me, will they?' Despite himself, his voice cracked.

Why on earth should he think that? Perhaps the very fear was a symptom of his illness. ‘Jesus, no!' she declared, as if she believed it. She added: ‘I'm sure the first thing they'll do is refer you to our GP – thank goodness we're still registered with Dr Carlisle. A few pills, a bit of counselling, a lot of rest – and we'll find somewhere to call home temporarily at least.'

‘The rectory. That's home. I know it's crap, but it's ours. I don't want to go to a hotel. Understand?' She must. She would. Whatever else had driven him to this state, money was part of it – and Sammie had deprived him not just of his home and source of income, but a whole lot of cash on top.

She squeezed his hand. ‘Of course. I'll get on to Caffy and warn her.'

‘That's something I can do.' With the palest smile he reached for his phone. ‘After all, she's going to be my best woman. Isn't she?' It was more than a rhetorical question. Would Fran still want him, after this? ‘We are . . . You will . . .?'

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.

A
s 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.'