Burying the Past (6 page)

‘You'll have to keep them short, then – champagne corks pop at seven sharp.'

Fran always preferred face-to-face, so, hoping Jill Tanner, another officer she'd taken under her wing, was still on the premises at six thirty, she dropped into CID to see her. She trapped Jill as she grabbed her coat with one hand and bag with the other. Presumably, Jill was regarded as too low in the pecking order to be invited to the drinkies.

‘Car park? I'll walk with you,' Fran said. ‘How's things?' she continued as they strode off together. ‘Family?' A while ago she wouldn't have risked the question; now they were trying – cautiously, sometimes, and Jill, it seemed, always aware of their difference in rank – to repair their friendship.

‘Fine. Rob's talking of getting an apprenticeship his Gran's found him; he still prefers her to us. Natasha's glued to her iPhone, but they're predicting good exam grades, so I suppose I can't argue. You took a risk speaking up for me for this job,' Jill observed, holding a door for her.

If Jill didn't want to mention her spell on antidepressants, Fran wouldn't either. ‘Nonsense. You were the obvious person. How did you get on with that kid this morning?' She kept step for step with Jill as she skipped down a flight of stairs. ‘Does she have a name yet, by the way?'

At last the pace slowed. ‘Sinned.'

She couldn't believe Jill had mispronounced Sinead. ‘Sinned? As in
peccavi
?'

Clearly, Jill hadn't done Latin A level. ‘Cynd, as in Cyndi Lauper. Cyndi Lewis. We got her to the unit: she's been swabbed and given all the drugs she might need, but she obviously won't know about the Aids issue for a bit. The problem is, while the medics can see she's had sex, and there's plenty of evidence to show it was rough, there's still the small business of the stabbing. What sort of girl keeps a knife under her pillow? And uses it after sex, not before?'

‘Do we have a stab victim yet?'

‘No. Nor any reports from any hospital in the whole of the county. But there
is
someone else's blood at the scene. She says her assailant – she says he's white, by the way, twenty to twenty-five, apparently his breath was really bad – was wearing a leather jacket, so perhaps the knife stuck in that, not his flesh, and he's decided that in the circumstances he won't make a complaint. So I really want to find him, not as a victim, but as a suspect. After all, being raped in your own home, be it never so humble, etcetera, is traumatic, and I want to find Chummie and stop him doing it again to someone else.'

‘Absolutely. Throw everything at it, including the kitchen sink. I suppose there's no record of any other similar rapes? Lesser offences?'

‘Nope. Nothing to go on. Precious little new to go on, semen and other samples apart. And, of course, checking them takes time. And – before you say it – money. There was evidence of forced entry, by the way, though it's not absolutely clear when, so probably the story holds together. Possibly,' she conceded.

Fran picked up the element of doubt. ‘CCTV?'

‘No one in a balaclava and leather jacket within three streets. Mind you, I suppose you wouldn't wear a balaclava on a warm night for fear of attracting attention.'

They shared a laugh.

‘And, of course, a leather jacket could go in a backpack . . . Assuming you get the guy, is she up to a trial?'

Jill sucked her teeth. ‘Touch and go. Unless she has to be in the dock herself because she really did kill the guy.'

‘Pray God it doesn't come to that. God and the Director of Public Prosecutions, of course. They seem to be getting more sensible about taking folk to court when they've killed intruders into their own homes.'

‘I'll get Janie Falkirk to tackle one aspect of the case while I do the other. Hey, you're not really going to be getting married at St Jude's, are you? It's such a tip. Right in the middle of the red-light area, too.'

Fran grabbed handfuls of hair. ‘How come everyone knows more about this bloody wedding than I do?'

Jill ignored the question. ‘Did you know there's a nice bridal-wear shop just opened in Canterbury?'

‘Oh, spare me a meringue outfit!'

‘Fran,
they're
all size zero, as far as I could see,' Jill said with a chortle, letting herself into her car. ‘But there are some cracking mother-of-the-bride outfits, which would be just the ticket for you, and they make them to measure, apparently.'

Fran said something she'd never imagined she'd say. ‘Jill, if we ever get ten minutes to spare, would you come along with me to help me choose? Once we've found a church and set the date, of course.'

‘Of course. But you will get that splendid woman Janie to officiate, won't you? See you tomorrow!'

A
part from the fact that they had a fixed rule not to talk shop at home, there wasn't much in the way of a home for Mark and Fran to go to. Each room was already stripped down as far as they could manage, before the removal men came in on Thursday, when the buyers would move in. So after the drinks party they stopped off at a pub, only to find as they sat down and reached for a menu that they were joined at the bar by a pizza delivery man, who handed over his burden to an embarrassed barman.

‘You know you're supposed to come to the back door,' he hissed. ‘Sorry,' he said, addressing Mark. ‘Chef's night off, and this is what he feeds his face on so he doesn't have to cook. But I can rustle up something plain if you like. I do a pretty mean steak, and my mum reckons my chips are better than the boss's.'

‘Two steak and chips it is, then, please. And a large jug of tap water.'

As they sat, they had their usual bicker about who should drive; eventually, Fran gave way more speedily than usual – a glass of red wine was becoming a pressing need.

‘Not a bad send-off for the old bugger,' Mark said, sinking back against the squabs of an ageing banquette that still smelt of long-dead cigarette smoke. ‘Better than the proper one will be, probably. Though he does like a bit of pomp, doesn't he? A few speeches and toasts?'

‘And he'll lead me down the aisle beautifully,' Fran agreed. ‘But I don't see us at the Cathedral, Mark. Unless you really want to—?' she added quickly.

He said nothing, eyeing her glass of wine. She pushed it towards him, and he drank absently. Goodness knew where he was. But he was probably at least as tired and twice as stressed as she was, so she said nothing until the barman, who'd brought their cutlery, rolled in proper linen napkins, left them on their own again.

‘In fact,' she said bravely, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible, ‘there's no point in even thinking about it while everything's up in the air like this. But I'm so proud of you for turning down the chance to be chief.'

For the first time he smiled. ‘No-brainer, that one, Fran. It's going to be bad enough being picked over by Devon and Cornwall Police, not to mention the Police Standards people, when they investigate Simon's death, without taking on the pressure of being chief. A heart attack at this stage is not on my agenda, believe me. Ironic, isn't it, that Simon was once in the rubber-heel brigade himself? What must it do to a man's psyche, always to be sniffing out his colleagues' mistakes? I bet you forget what it's like to have a friend.'

‘Which is possibly why he became so infatuated with Caffy and saw no way out but to end it all. I wish she wasn't so phlegmatic sometimes. I know, I know, I'm sure it was the way she learned to deal with being a prostitute, but even so.'

‘Thank God for whoever it was that sorted her out. She's got an amazing mind, Fran – she ought to be more than just a decorator.'

‘You know she's more than just anything, Mark. She's been on every course going about restoration and period materials and so on. I just wish she could find a nice bloke: she must be thirty at least, and the old biological clock must be ticking.'

‘You old romantic.' He took her hand and smiled with great affection. ‘I'm glad I've got you.' He kissed the hand, in what she always found the most erotic of gestures, and played briefly with her ring. Her actual engagement ring, no longer just a pretty jewel. Perhaps the wedding was still on. ‘Actually, rumour has it she did have a bloke, a cop with the Met, but he couldn't hack her past. Or maybe she was just too overpowering in other ways. I wonder what her idea of a stag night will be. What if it involves that pop star that adopted her? Todd Dawes?'

She smiled nostalgically. ‘I had pictures of him all over my bedroom wall when I was a kid. God, he was so sexy. Look, he'd be wasted on mere stags. My hen party, on the other hand—' She broke off as the barman approached with their food, wishing she'd had a moment more to check he really was prepared to go ahead with the wedding. Really, truly. Cross your heart sure. But he was talking about it all with something like amusement.

‘I didn't think you'd be frozen veg people so I did a couple of salads. The dressing's my own recipe,' the young man said, putting a jug in front of them, ‘but I shan't be offended if you want a packet of salad cream. Not everyone likes balsamic vinegar and virgin olive oil.'

‘We do. And –' Mark sniffed like a Bisto kid – ‘garlic!' He waited till they were on their own before saying, ‘Now, tell me about our skeleton.' Before she could point out that a corpse might not be the best company for supper, he added quickly, ‘Has it put you off the house? Do you want to pull out?'

‘It's a bit late for that, Mark. But I take your point. If you really wanted, we could always do it up and sell it – though probably at a huge loss, the way the market's going.' Her heart hurt as she made the offer.

‘Hideaways in Kent will always fetch a high price in one area of the market,' he pointed out with a quizzical smile. ‘Come on, we both know there are more criminals lurking in remote Kent houses than you can shake a truncheon at.'

She returned his grin. ‘No one shady shall buy our dream home,' she declared. ‘Even if we have to have ghosts exorcized, I draw the line at that. Truly. All houses have secrets and sadnesses, especially old ones. Who knows who suffered what in my cottage?' She stopped and tucked into her salad. No point in reminding Mark that his beloved wife had actually died in his house. Not to mention what was going on there now. She bit back the question she was desperate to put: had he contacted his solicitor to start proceeding to evict Sammie? She flushed, but for another reason. ‘I'm sorry – it's
our
cottage. You're not a visitor, for God's sake.'

‘It won't be yours or mine soon,' he said soberly. ‘Has Paula said anything more about the rectory wiring?'

‘She wasn't on site when I went to look at the skeleton,' she said. ‘But truly, Mark, with or without electricity, I can't see it working. Not if young Kim wants to strip it down to its bones again. And even if she doesn't, there'll be no comfort anywhere. I know we could shower and eat at work, but I can't fancy using the Portaloo in the middle of the night with only a torch to guide us. It'll have to be a short-term let.'

‘A bottom of the range, tiny short-term let? It's all we can afford with the wedding coming on too.'

‘Bugger the wedding!' she said, not meaning it at all.

‘Bugger the grotty short-term let, too. Or rather, instead. I've been chasing round like the proverbial blue-arsed fly all day but I did remember one thing – I phoned the Rottweiler. The letter will be in Sammie's hand tomorrow.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘But I thought you wanted her out!'

‘Of course I do. But I don't think she'll take it lying down. Do you?'

‘Not really. Which is why I had a word with Cosmo Dix.'

‘Cosmo! But he's Human Resources, not PR!' And had told her she wouldn't be organizing the collection for Simon, not if she took his advice.

‘A wilier old bird you'd never find. He says – and I think he may have something – that, for all its horrors, camping at the rectory would be a better deal as far as the media are concerned. Who could argue against people wanting their own place back if they're living in a tip? And it'll have the added bonus of stopping Kim undoing all the Pact team have done. How's about that? After all, we do want to hold the reception there, and the sooner all this is sorted the sooner we can reclaim the garden too.'

It all seemed too good to be true. Perhaps it was. Because then he said, ‘Or we could always accept retirement and run. It'd make financial sense, what with the lump sums and all. It's what the chief's advising.'

‘He's what?' She repeated, more quietly, ‘He's advising what?'

‘Actually, he suggested a sideways move for me – to Bramshill, to teach there. Assuming they'd have me. Failing that, some university with a criminology department might want me.'

He sounded so appalled by the prospect that she said briskly, ‘I doubt if that would wash. The Grove of Academe's been deforested. Even worse cuts in higher-education funding than we've got. If they need staff, they'd want someone young and part-time and cheap. You'd be far too expensive. Tell me, just assuming the chief or his successor can dispose of you, what are their plans for me? Before or after he's given me away, that is?'

‘He'd still like you to take over cold cases. But not at your present salary. More as a part-time consultant.'

‘Blow that for a game of soldiers. Cancel the old bugger's wedding invitation,' she added with a laugh, but not a happy one.

‘It's just his way of trying to tie up all the loose ends before he left. And, poor man, he's got absolutely no say in what happens next. But I think cuts and senior staff reductions'll be very much what his successor wants. Needs! Retirement – or even redundancy – would certainly ease our cash-flow problems, and there's no denying our pension provision's not bad. At the moment. There is a case for jumping ship.'