Burying the Past (8 page)

‘What the hell? You don't get traffic jams in the country! Especially not at seven thirty in the morning!' Mark beat the steering wheel in exasperation.

‘Farm plant – you know, those mega-tractors or combines or whatever. Or maybe even a Bulgarian driver with an insistent satnav. Look, there's a gate. Why not turn there? We'll get off work early tonight – by which I mean while it's still light – and come and see the house then instead.'

‘Nope. Farewell drinkies with the neighbours, remember?'

She squeezed his hand affectionately. ‘Never mind, I'll contrive an official visit here during the course of the day and update you. No, that's not good enough, is it? You want to hug it yourself. Well, you'll have to ask yourself for half an hour's lunch break.' When he didn't laugh, she looked at him harder. ‘OK, what's up?' Hell, he'd not got round to checking hotels, had he? And he didn't want to confess.

He completed his manoeuvre carefully and set the car in motion before replying: ‘Sammie.'

She managed to stop herself screaming. ‘Ah. The letter. What did she say?' And why had he kept quiet for twenty-four hours?

‘Nothing. Nothing that I know about. I'd have said, wouldn't I? Yes, I would, Fran – I know I tried to keep you at arm's length, but not now. I need your savvy, apart from anything else.'

‘What savvy?'

‘The bit that got me on to Ms Rottweiler. Maybe I should phone her later – assuming I have time.'

‘That's one hell of an assumption, sweetheart.' As was the assumption he'd have the will to do it. But she didn't want him to see how anxious she was getting – not just about somewhere to lay their heads, but about him and his inertia. ‘See – my phone's active already. Hell. I'd forgotten that disciplinary panel I'm supposed to be chairing. Thank God we got stuck in traffic – I like excuses with the foundation of truth.'

Released from a bleak committee room four hours after going in, Fran wanted to cry with frustration. In her youth, when she'd made stupid mistakes, she'd stood to attention in front of her sergeant – at worst, her inspector – and ridden out the bollocking. Occasionally, she'd have muttered an apology in the hopes of stopping the tirade, but it was only when the guv'nor was ready that she'd been sent out with a flea in her ear. And she'd done the same in her turn. Now it was all official and minuted and – God, she hated the whole time-consuming, paper-generating farce.

Not to mention the fact she'd missed the skeleton's autopsy and had to respond to the load of calls that had stacked up during her meeting. People who knew her made a point of leaving only brief messages, so she wasn't surprised when Kim's voice snapped, ‘Phone me urgently.' Belatedly, she'd added, ‘Please, ma'am.'

She was, however, a little surprised to find a text saying much the same thing; she wasn't used to getting reminders. But then Kim was a newcomer to her team, so perhaps she should forgive her. She texted back that she was in a meeting – well, she might well be – and would respond as soon as she could. In other words, as soon as she'd checked the other messages to see if they made equally urgent demands. She rather thought the summons to meet the new acting chief constable might, in official terms at least. Not in terms of genuine importance, of course. However, as long as she was a team player, she'd better play by team rules.

Mark arrived at the conference room just as Fran did. As he held the door for her, he hissed, ‘It's Wren – that guy from Hampshire who's flitted onward and upward and never let his feet touch the ground.'

‘Never! That little guy?' she hissed back. ‘And don't you mean twig, not ground?'

Shit! Any moment he'd get the giggles. For the duration of the meeting he must not catch her eye in any circumstances. This in itself would be hard, since he would be standing like some sort of overgrown page boy at the new acting CC's shoulder, and leading the applause.

Fortunately, it fell to the chairwoman of the police committee to introduce Paul Wren. Since she was only five feet tall, it was possible for her at least to look up to his new boss. Mark knew he was being illogical – no, worse, despicable – but he didn't want always to be peering down at this young-old man, who in his and Fran's early days would have been lucky to land a job as an office boy. He'd certainly never have been accepted as a cadet; not in the days when you had to be five foot ten to get in.

But Paul Wren obviously used the gym, as you could see from the movement under his shirt – he'd opted for the more casual uniform shirtsleeves look as he pulled himself up straight, tucking his elbows and his tummy in as if he were about to pose for the centrefold of some ladettes' mag. Actually, he looked more like a pouter pigeon than a wren. Hell, if only he'd had a less prejudicial surname. Do not laugh. Do not let your mouth twitch. Dear God, twitchers are birdwatchers, aren't they? Bloody hell.

Above all, do not look at Fran. Do not speculate what Fran might be thinking as Wren trots out his spiel to his new colleagues.

The Big Society seemed to be at the heart of his statement of intent. And it was wrong to blame him for that, of course. It had been put there by the Prime Minister, no less. Had the Prime Minister spoken about citizens' journeys, of community-based and -orientated decisions? Probably. He'd almost certainly spoken about increased accountability, which was fine by Mark. He'd seen too much policing involving nudges and winks to people who should have known better than to nudge and wink back. So accountability was fine, as was the idea of scrutinizing perks – he'd never indulged in demanding personal cars driven by official police drivers or anything else remotely like a freebie; he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd started to sport a halo. He liked the idea of restorative justice, in theory, though how it would work in practice he didn't care to think. Reducing bureaucracy – huge tick for that. Perhaps the little man was growing in stature as he spoke.

Or not. For now he was talking about cuts. All the senior officers present smiled in anticipation of the promise that Mark would have given first, had he been in Wren's position – a total, all-out fight against cuts in staffing at whatever rank and in whatever function, officers and civilians. But it seemed that cuts were to be embraced. An army of special constables was being recruited countrywide, Wren declared. They would bring untold expertise to the incompetent professionals that were Mark's friends and colleagues – and they would do it all for free.

If Mark had been delivering this address, he wouldn't have liked the silence that greeted that section.

Now Wren was talking about prioritization of resources. It seemed he wanted to take a leaf out of the Met's book: that if officers thought there was no chance of getting a result, they shouldn't pursue investigations.

Fortunately, it wasn't Fran who interrupted, but someone he'd always suspected was a bit of a yes-man. ‘Might one ask, sir, what sort of crime we might not investigate? Are we to have official guidelines?' There was so much irony in the man's voice that Mark was surprised it didn't drip all over the floor. Amazing how one's opinion of another could be changed by two sentences.

As he stared at the floor, he mentally reviewed all the cases he'd pursued just because he wanted justice to be done. Sometimes it was impossible to bring the miscreant to court – perhaps a witness was too old or frail. But at least the scrote that had committed the offence knew that the Law was after him, that the police had him in their sights. Not to investigate? The words of his resignation letter began to shape themselves in his head, arranging themselves into well-ordered clauses, not management-speak clunking phrases, either, the sort that must have George Orwell spinning in his grave – except Orwell would have hated that cliché too.

Now Wren was talking about meetings to establish priorities. Mark had a terrible fear that long-unsolved crimes, Fran's cold cases, would not be high on the list. Meanwhile, people as angry as him were firing off notional crimes – domestic violence and rape, for instance, both types of violence with poor conviction rates. Or drunken assaults. Or—

Wren declared, in a tone not admitting any more argument, that talks would involve colleagues from the Crown Prosecution Service and other police services.

By now people were definitely looking at Mark. Were they expecting some support – which he would have liked to give – or some bland welcome? The silence grew. There were mutters.

Stepping into the breach time, then.

‘Thank you, Mr Wren, for a most interesting synopsis –' (he wouldn't use the word summation wrongly, not for anyone's money) – ‘of the policies our masters would like us to consider. I'm sure we all look forward to detailed discussions with you as you settle into post.' Looking round, he gathered up familiar eyes and led the politest round of applause he'd ever heard. Too late it dawned on him that the people the eyes belonged to might be regarding him as a figurehead in their all too obvious rebellion.

Fran might have been reading his mind. She contrived to hang back as his colleagues streamed – or possibly steamed – from the room. It was unlike her, as was the way she tucked her arm into his. ‘Didn't Wat Tyler come from Kent?' she murmured as they drifted slowly along the corridor.

‘You expect me to march on London?'

‘Maybe not. Poor Wat didn't have a happy ending, did he? But at least you'll be able to keep the brakes on this Happy Chappy's little schemes.'

‘Possibly. Fran, I've never been keen on trades unions and strikes, but my God, I can see why we need them. Sack all the highly-trained, efficient, experienced people we utterly depend on and bring in squads of unpaid do-gooders? I thought community support officers were policing on the cheap. But this!'

She brought him to a stop. ‘It's not exactly news, Mark.'

‘I know. But to hear the man embracing it! Dear God! All my life I've fought crime, and now it seems I've got to fight management. I know it involves you too,' he added belatedly. ‘At least you've got real cases to tackle. You can still make a difference, as we always wanted to do. But all I shall be fighting is this runt of a civil servant.'

‘Sweetheart,' she said quietly, ‘you don't have to. There's the R option, remember? Think about it: in the course of your career you've been shot at, bottled, had ribs broken, lost a few teeth – all in the course of duty, you'd say. Same as I would. But having a heart attack or a stroke as a result of the stress that this is likely to cause – that's not heroism, it's folly.' She looked around, either to check no one could overhear or to try and blink away the tears he'd seen gathering. His Fran – tears? ‘Do you remember bollocking me once, when I'd put myself at risk? And you said you didn't know how you'd survive without me? Please, please don't take yourself from me now.' The pressure from her fingers was almost painful. Forget the almost.

He gripped them back. ‘First anti-stress move. Let's book ourselves into a good hotel, not a cheapo one, and worry about the expense later when we get our credit card bill. Incidentally, I had a call from Ms Rottweiler. Apparently, she's had a letter from Sammie threatening counter legal action. She says we can discount it because it wasn't from a solicitor – anyone in her profession would just have simply advised a client to grab all our offers with both hands and to run. But it's clear Sammie isn't about to cave in. So we have two immediate options: we send in the bailiffs, as Ms R suggests, or go in ourselves.'

She grabbed her hair and tore at it. ‘Oh, Mark. Let's just make a decision and stick to it! We've had enough faffing round. We're in the most awful shit, for God's sake. Hell, we've been on enough decision-making courses. Let's decide now.'

Just the moment for his pager to have a tantrum. Feeling, probably looking, guilty, he checked it. ‘Sodding emergency meeting. Now.' Feeling as if he was handing over a giant packing-case, he said, ‘Fran, can you make a decision for us? I'll accept it. God knows when you'll have time, of course. But I promise I won't moan whatever it is.'

Raising an eyebrow in an expression that made him long to kiss her, she expressed all the cynicism she was capable of in two syllables. ‘Oh, ah.'

‘Promise. Finger wet, finger dry, cross my heart and hope to die.'

All the fun drained from her face. For a moment he thought she was ill. ‘Do – not – ever – even – say – that. Please.'

‘I'm sorry. You know what I mean.'

‘And you know what I mean. Go on – off to your meeting.' She turned first. Surely that wasn't a sob she was suppressing? Not his Fran.

S
o many people stopped Fran to ask why Mark had refused to stand as acting CC that by the time she had reached the sanctuary of her office she was ready to scream. If Mark's stress levels were through the roof, hers were at least ceiling high. She was the one to make a decision, was she? OK. But after she'd dealt with all her phone messages.

Kim. She'd phone Kim first. But the number was unobtainable – she must be out of mobile range. Perhaps she should go out there. Even an argument at the rectory was better than a further barrage of enquiries, though she was afraid she wasn't likely to deal kindly and patiently with what she saw as silly box-ticking on Kim's part. It didn't make it any better to know that a perfunctory enquiry was just what Wren would applaud.

But even as she headed out of the building, her phone rang. She'd have silenced it, except that the call was from Janie.

‘There's a lot this lass Cynd's not told you, I reckon. And for all that Jill's a decent woman, I reckon you'd do better.'

‘Janie, how would Jill feel if I came barging in? Have another talk to Cynd yourself, maybe?'