Burying the Past (9 page)

‘Do you think I haven't been talking to the poor lass?'

‘And you've got a parish to run. I'm sorry. But I'm in the middle of a fight now, and I just can't do this evening. I can't miss my own farewell drinkies, can I?' she pleaded. With a sigh, she added, ‘Tomorrow morning, half seven? Before the removal guys come?'

‘Fran, chick, you expect a teenager to be up at that hour? I'd forgotten your move. I'll maybe have yet another wee talk to Jill myself. How about that?'

‘I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Janie Falkirk – you're a saint.' Fran closed the phone and stowed it. She could do with a bit of Janie's sanctity herself, couldn't she?

And a cup of tea. She'd have made Mark sit, and for once she'd take her own advice. What was there that a phone call couldn't fix? Cheaper than petrol, she reminded herself. So she headed back to the canteen, found a quiet corner, and sat and sipped. The green tea Mark favoured didn't press as many of her buttons as dear old builders', but she found herself unable to swig nice dark brown brews any more. Soon, at least, she felt able to try Kim again. ‘I'm sorry I didn't get back to you earlier, Kim. And there's no chance I can come out. I've been in a succession of meetings, including one with the acting chief constable.'

‘What's he like?'

What did she expect? ‘Short and sort of – I know it's an old-fashioned word – dapper. Oh, he does weights, you can see that.' She clapped a metaphorical hand over her mouth. All the things she wanted to say about Wren – that he was a manager, not a cop, that he used meaningless strings of words and other people's ideas – were not the sort of things to share with a junior officer, especially one who considered you lax in your practices. ‘He brought with him very bad financial news, the implications of which will no doubt be communicated to us all formally in the fullness of time. In the short term, he's reining in budgets on all enquiries, which will certainly affect us.'

‘But this is a murder enquiry!'

‘We may have to skin our cat a different way, depending on what the boffins tell us. Any news from them? Tell them if we don't get something soon the case may be closed without a proper resolution. Yes, Kim, blackmail them, for goodness' sake. Play as dirty as you like. OK. Now, what's the problem?'

‘It's those women . . . I'd call it total non-cooperation, ma'am.'

‘In other words, Paula won't let you get the plaster off the walls without a directive from the Vatican?'

‘From you, at least, ma'am.'

‘I hate to say it, but the new chief wouldn't permit it, even if I wanted to. I'm in a difficult situation here, Kim. I told the old chief about my conflict of interests, which could possibly be resolved if Harry Chester were back. As for the new chief, even at my level you need two weeks' notice to speak to him. And Mark's not exactly disinterested, is he? Impartial,' she added, suspecting that Kim might think she meant
un
interested. ‘Anyway, have you managed to find a detectorist to scan the place?'

‘Early this evening.'

‘Well done. Now the bad news. I want you to get back to HQ to set in train every bit of paper enquiry you can. Fingers are cheaper than feet, Kim. I want everything, absolutely everything, that you can find about Marion Lovage's past. Past address, past jobs, relatives, friends – assuming any are still alive. I want a full picture of her. And chase the boffins, remember – we need a date of death first thing tomorrow.'

‘I want to be back here when the detectorist comes,' Kim said, with a note of defiance.

‘Bloody hell, of course you do. I wish I could be. OK. First thing tomorrow you're on the paper-chase.'

‘Very well, ma'am.'

If only she could be there for the detectorist herself . . .

Almost certainly the Pact team would still be on site. She speed-dialled Paula.

‘First off,' she said, adopting Paula's own manner, ‘you can tell me what's up between you and Kim.'

‘She's one of those women who have to be right, isn't she? I told her, we'll go to court as expert witnesses to state that we found absolutely no artefacts, incriminating or otherwise, in the house itself. We drew your attention to the suspicious patch because of our expertise. Actually,' she added, with what in anyone else would have been an evil chuckle, ‘I've pointed Lady Muck in the direction of another suspicious patch near the old midden.'

‘Isn't a midden just a heap of shit?'

‘How appropriate. Actually, this one's a slightly odd shape – as middens go. So perhaps I really am helping the police with their enquiries. Meanwhile, since, for all your years of making life-changing decisions, you two couldn't organize a piss-up in your own brewery, we've borrowed – this is what's really got up Kim's nose – an old motor-caravan for you to sleep in here until we've at least finished a bedroom and a bathroom. OK?' She didn't wait for an answer, perhaps because it wasn't a question.

Fran stared at the phone. It seemed that a decision had been made.

‘Are you sure about this motor-caravan?' Mark asked, after the farewell party, collapsing on to the bed in their denuded bedroom. ‘I thought we'd agreed on a luxury hotel?'

‘We did. But we hadn't told Paula. Do you fancy calling her and saying no thank you? No? I thought not.'

‘I wonder who they borrowed it from . . . Hey, what if it's Todd Dawes?'

Fran sat bolt upright and then swooned back.

Pointedly ignoring her, he asked seriously, ‘Is this Todd guy the sort of person we should accept loans from?'

‘According to Caffy, he's a Good Man, who saved her life. He also saves others' lives – he and his wife have set up a foundation which, while not as large as the Gates', does impressive fully accounted work in Africa. Todd—'

‘I don't like the way you say his name! You sort of breathe it, reverentially,' he complained.

‘You should hear the way I speak your name! I practically salute as I say it. And that's just while I'm cleaning my teeth.'

‘Glad to hear it. I like a bit of respect.'

‘Is that all you like? Since it's our last night here I thought you might like . . .'

F
ran was just stowing their toilet bags and her make-up in a carrier bag Sainsbury's supermarket had promised would last a lifetime when her phone announced the arrival of a text. Another bloody meeting on a day off she'd booked the moment they knew the removal date. Three-line whip, according to the secretariat.

She began to text back, envying every kid a quarter of her age who could press their thumbs apparently at random and produce something intelligible, if not to people like her, at least to each other. At last, she deleted the whole garbled message and dialled the direct line back. There were times when speech was better than abbreviations, especially with the removal lorry due any second.

‘This meeting – no can do. Mark's already en route, but one of us has to supervise the removal men. And there they are at the door. Oh, grovelling apologies, if you wish, but the answer is still no.'

Cutting the call, she hurtled down the stairs, cursing the impulse that made the removal team hammer on the door as if trying to awaken the dead. She flung it open furiously – to find herself confronting not Mr Pargetter or any of his team, but a young man whose face was strangely familiar, though she'd have sworn she'd never met him before.

He had the ultra clean, ultra smart look of a man about to sell her religion in some American form. So she wasn't surprised by his light US accent or by the manner of his speech, though the content disconcerted her – momentarily, at least.

‘So you're the painted Jezebel I've heard about,' he said flatly.

Unable to detect any irony in his tone, she hoped her eyebrows didn't rise too much. ‘I may well be. Or the Whore of Babylon.' She didn't point out that her garb of jeans and T-shirt scarcely suggested an intention to seduce anyone. ‘But you have the advantage of me,' she added coolly. Hell, she knew this guy from somewhere, didn't she?

He fished with a well-manicured hand in his inside jacket pocket, producing a visiting card with a flourish that convinced her he knew he was putting her at a disadvantage: such small print called for reading glasses, or the stretched-arm squint of those whose eyes were already benighted by the long-sight of middle-age. What did they call it? Presbyopia, that was it. She supposed it was something that her brain still threw out useful bits of information.

David L. Turner. Financial Advisor.

Trying to take in the whole situation, again her brain threw up something she didn't want – didn't you spell
adviser
with an
e
? But she'd seen it both ways. And she shouldn't even be reacting to such trivia.

‘You're Mark's son?' she managed eventually, adding more lamely, with a beam she didn't think was forced: ‘We didn't expect you, Dave. Or is it David? How lovely to meet you again! After all those years . . . Well, you were only a child . . . Welcome to the cottage, such as it is.' She threw open her arms to embrace him, but since he didn't step forward, converted it to a gesture inviting him inside.

He gave no sign of having heard her and ignored the invitation. ‘I phoned my father when I flew in last night. Got some message about his voicemail being full.' Sounding aggrieved, he added, ‘I tried emailing too.'

He'd flown over, no doubt, in response to some hysterically urgent communication from Sammie. But she must not put words into his mouth. This wasn't her battle, not yet. Not until she and Mark were man and wife – and she had, in the face of his neat correctness, a sudden surge of relief that they really were about to marry.

‘I'm afraid our computer's in that box over there,' she said, pointing and raising her voice slightly over the rumble of the removal van inching as close as it dared to the gate. ‘And although he's got his laptop with him, it's so chaotic at work I should be surprised if your father gets a moment to open his personal mail. Look, I wish I could offer you a cup of tea, but, as you can see, the removal men are just about to empty the place.' She waved to Mr Pargetter – dressed, as always, as if he was heading for a day at a particularly respectable office – and his strapping team.

‘Starbucks?'

‘Nothing like that in the village, I'm afraid. And our tea shop doesn't open till ten. No! That's to go in my car!' she yelled, digging in her pocket and zapping open the doors for the youth carrying her Sainsbury's bag. ‘And that box!' she added as his mate headed off with her kettle and tea bags. Where was their common sense? And this young man's, thinking he could turn up unannounced and expect a welcome, and still be standing with an evangelical smile on his face? ‘Let me phone your father,' she added, trying to sound gracious. ‘I can make it sound official.'

‘It wasn't my father I wished to see; that will come later. Isn't there some place we could sit down?'

As if on cue Mr Pargetter emerged from the living room, carrying her favourite armchair as if it was no heavier than a deckchair. He was followed by the lads hefting the sofa. They made it quite clear that they did not like being wilfully obstructed.

She edged him on to the tiny front lawn. ‘I'm sorry. This isn't the way I'd have wanted to renew our acquaintance,' she said, retiring behind slightly ironic formality. ‘I always hoped we'd meet again before the wedding, but not like this.'

‘Wedding?' His bland expression gave nothing away. Unless, perhaps, his eyes narrowed slightly.

If only she could take the words back; if she knew Mark, he'd not quite got round to updating his son. She couldn't entirely blame the police for that, of course, but she'd try. ‘Mark's deeply involved in a major reorganization – he's been working fourteen, sixteen hour days recently.'

‘So the decision to marry is a recent one?'

‘The intention has always been there.' She used her thumb to jiggle her ring, so that the stones glinted in the sunlight. ‘It's just a matter of choosing the time and the location. Our boss – ex-boss – fancies Canterbury Cathedral,' she added flippantly, instantly regretting it as he asked:

‘And what does your marriage have to do with him?'

She stepped aside to let a mattress through. ‘Long story.' Years of practice meant she could take a deep breath without it being obvious. She took one now and tried a different approach, with a smile she hoped appeared genuine. ‘Your father calls you Dave – hell, I always called you Dave. You were Driver Dave when you played with your train set, weren't you? But the name on your card is David. Which do you want me to call you?'

‘Dave's for family.' Which didn't, from his tone, include her.

She was within an inch of retorting that in that case he could address her as Detective Chief Superintendent, but bit her tongue in time. Instead, she put out her hand, choosing to ignore what he'd implied. ‘Then welcome, Dave – though a poor one it is. We seem to have arrived at an impasse. I can't leave the cottage. You don't want me to call your father. I can't dispatch you somewhere convenient to bring back coffee. All I can hope is that Mr Pargetter has a spare mug so that when he breaks for a brew we can join him.'

He ignored her hand. If only she could read his inscrutable features. He was as unlike Mark as Sammie was, and resembled Sammie not a jot.

‘May I suggest something else, then? That you nip over to Loose and spend the day with Sammie, and then join us in our new village for a pub supper this evening? Great Hogben, the Three Tuns. Any problem, call me – my in-box is empty. Here.' She found her bag and fished for a business card. ‘I wish I could offer to feed you, but as you can see . . .' With an ironic smile she pointed to a box marked POTS AND PANS in Mr Pargetter's hands. God knew what Mark would say when he found their promised quiet evening on their new territory, if not in their new house, hijacked this way.