Cold Pursuit

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Seems Friday’s her day off. Well, since she’ll be doing weddings tomorrow and services on Sundays, I suppose it makes sense. I said I’d phone her tomorrow—’

  ‘Between weddings, I hope!’

  ‘I didn’t leave a message. You never know how these things will be construed,’ he added, quoting her usual instructions verbatim.

  ‘Good. Now, one more thing – can you get on to the witness protection people? Dilly will need a safe house at least until the CCTV is working properly and all her locks have been changed – you knew she kept a key under a spare flowerpot, did you?’

  ‘Seems she’s thought of that: she’s got those fixed.’

  ‘Who by? We don’t want some load of cowboys doing those, too.’

  ‘I’ll go and check, guv.’

  She suppressed a laugh – any excuse to go and talk to her again and be the macho but caring cop. And Dilly, who had been so grey and negative with Daniel McDine, would blossom in the sunlight of his obvious admiration.

  ‘But some of those safe houses aren’t very nice, guv. I mean, protecting scrotes turning Queen’s Evidence is one thing, and they shouldn’t expect the Ritz, like. But she’s a lady.’

  ‘Tom, Tom, what happened to all that equal opportunities training? There are no such things as ladies any more! OK, I know what you mean. Tell the protection people you don’t want some flea-ridden council house.’

  A venture into the Incident Room found everyone engaged in something apparently useful, except for DI Jon Binns, who was staring at a screen crammed with columns of figures. He blinked as she approached, then again, harder, as if his eyes hurt. ‘Budget balancing,’ he said, running his hands across a prematurely balding pate, to which, for some reason, he hadn’t taken the clippers.

  ‘Not someone your rank,’ she frowned.

  ‘The last Chief Super was taken ill before he could manage it.’ He sounded apologetic, as if it was his fault.

  ‘And DCS Farmer?’

  ‘Has problems with the software. And I can quite see why. It’s very cumbersome.’ That was loyalty for you. But it deserved a better reward than it was likely to get.

  ‘If you know a better program, jot down the details and I’ll take it to whoever. Or Joe Farmer can. You’re supposed to be detecting, not number crunching.’

  ‘I was training to do both – to be a forensic accountant. With my background I thought I could be really useful.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I fancied something a bit more active. As soon as I got my inspector’s exams, I baled out. And here I am.’

  She sat opposite him. ‘How do you fancy doing a bit of detecting for me? I thought I’d already asked one of the DCIs to look into the CCTV firms, but maybe I didn’t.’ She explained.

  DI Binns looked totally blank, but agreed to liaise with Tom.

  ‘So I need a list of all their employees, from the people in charge of deciding the location of the cameras to the guys actually fitting them. It’s rather a lowly task, but could you get on to it? Or delegate, if you wish.’

  ‘I’ll get on to them the minute I’ve finished this lot of figures, shall I?’

  ‘You could do that,’ she said not unkindly. ‘Figures are important, Jon, but lives much more. Why not save that page and do as I asked? I’ll make it OK.’ He looked so young and vulnerable she added, with a grin, ‘Promise.’

  Shaking her head at her soft heartedness – Jon Binns was thirty-five if he was a day – she toddled off to leave Farmer a concise note.

  Surely, surely she’d spoken to Jill about her suspicions! Maybe not. Anyway, things were at last in train on that front.

  Perhaps it was because it was Friday that all the managerial issues were resolved extraordinarily quickly. Jill’s caseload, naturally falling into two sections, was put under the supervision of Farmer and Fran, but not under their day-to-day care, with two more DCIs to be brought in. Farmer seemed inclined to argue; Fran had to restrain herself from kicking him hard on the ankle. Let detectives detect, she wanted to say, we’ve got to administrate. But she said nothing, because her administrative load was almost zero these days, and she had an irresistible urge to detect. And eschew the rest. Especially meetings. Especially policy meetings.

  ‘And most especially of all Home office policy meetings,’ she concluded, as Mark put the car into gear.

  ‘When you know all your carefully worked out plans will be eliminated because of some Downing Street minion scribbling on a table napkin,’ he agreed. ‘Whatever happened to that idea of marching drunken louts to cash machines to pay instant fines?’

  ‘Someone discovered they couldn’t remember their names, let alone their PIN numbers?’

  They shared a cynical laugh.

  ‘But how did you fix that Dilly protection business?’ he asked. ‘A bit ad hoc, surely?’

  ‘Entirely ad hoc! But clearly the poor woman can’t stay in that house on her own, not until someone’s fixed the CCTV stuff so a bit of wind won’t blow it haywire. And if young Tom Arkwright really does have a spare room in his house share and is happy to spend his weekend minding her when she isn’t with that fiancé of hers, that’s a damned sight easier than popping her in a safe house which is far below the quality that he seems to think is her due. The Chief, too. He’s really smitten, isn’t he?’

  ‘The Chief or Tom?’ he laughed.

  ‘Both! And I must say, the Chief’s wife apart, that is, either bloke would be better than her current options. Especially young Tom.’

  ‘But he’s years younger than she is!’

  She said, as sharply as if they were in a meeting, ‘If the age difference were reversed, you wouldn’t raise even half an eyebrow.’

  ‘You’re right.’ But he didn’t seem to accept the rebuke. ‘I’d leave that to you. You do it so much better than I, especially now all those bruises have healed.’

  ‘I meant it, Mark. Why, I’m older than you—’

  ‘But only by a month, for goodness’ sake. OK, I was out of order. Sorry. Now, do you really insist on us both going to Jill’s house? You don’t think she might find the two of us a bit intimidating?’

  ‘Not if you hide behind a nice big bunch of flowers. And one of us washes up. Her kitchen was in a bit of a state.’

  ‘So you buy this “fell down a messy staircase excuse”?’

  ‘Let’s reserve judgement. So long as we go as Fran and Mark and leave all our braid and buttons behind.’

  Jill let them in herself, hobbling back to her sofa as Fran announced she was about to make a cup of tea and disappeared into the kitchen. The very fact that she didn’t argue told Mark she must be in pain.

  ‘You’ll be getting an official visit from Pers – from Human Resources – to talk about your return to work. I’m more interested in how long it will be before you and Brian can thrash us at tennis again,’ he said conversationally.

  Now why had Jill glanced at the silver trophies on the mantelpiece and on two shelves of what was designed as a bookcase? He’d seen that involuntary look before, when he was an active cop raiding premises, the sort of eye-movement that told the onlooker that Chummie was hiding something – and, more to the point, where he was hiding it. What was it that Jill didn’t want him to look at? After a few minutes’ conversation on this year’s Wimbledon prospects, Mark drifted over to look more closely at some of the cups. Everything was a little tarnished, but what worried him far more were a couple of clean circles in the dust that covered everything. Big circles meant big trophies. To ask what had happened to them would, he suspected, elicit little more than a string of lies – if Fran were correct in her surmise that Rob was on drugs, it might well be that he’d nicked them to feed his habit. And when had Fran not been right?

  ‘I gather Natasha’s taken after you in being sporty? Cricket, if not tennis?’

  Jill would clearly have preferred Wimbledon to Lord’s as a venue for her possible hour of triumph. ‘At least it’s not rugby. I couldn’t bear that.
The risks… And it’s so unfeminine.’

  ‘I didn’t think they did frilly dresses in tennis any more. Or ordinary shorts, come to that,’ he added. ‘All that sculptured stuff – looks as if it’s been sprayed on!’

  She nodded. ‘I tried to get a new tennis dress in the Outlet this summer. Bright orange. Imagine that at Wimbledon. Nowhere to stow your tennis balls, either. Quite impractical.’

  ‘Neater than the weird beach clothes the men seem to wear. Like cut off pyjamas.’ What on earth was keeping Fran? Small talk with junior officers had never been his forte, especially not at six on a Friday. ‘What time do they get in, your kids?’

  ‘When they feel hungry.’ Her smile was unconvincing, to put it mildly.

  ‘They’re a worry, aren’t they? My two – I still want to tell them to work harder, drive more slowly, drink less, give up smoking. But the more I tell them, the less they take any notice. Mind you, they are in their twenties.’

  ‘How do they get on with Fran?’

  It was such a direct question he was taken aback, almost offended.

  ‘Well. Very well,’ he said with finality.

  But she didn’t let go. ‘They don’t see her as a replacement for Tina?’

  ‘Why should they? She isn’t.’

  ‘I thought – I’m sorry, I thought – you know, the ring.’ Jill touched her left hand. ‘At least, it’s what everyone assumes. And there was a pile of estate agents’ particulars on Fran’s desk the other day.’

  She was digging herself in deeper and deeper. He made a huge effort. ‘Fran and I – Fran isn’t looking to be a replacement mother. What woman of any sense would, with two adults? Our relationship – hers and mine – isn’t… In a sense, it’s none of their business.’ Nor of Jill’s, either. Where the hell were Fran and the bloody tea? Perhaps attack was the best means of defence. ‘You and Brian – how long have you been together, Jill?’

  ‘Twenty years, give or take.’

  Twenty years sounded a bit too memorable to give and take. It was the sort of length people celebrated publicly. So what on earth did she mean?

  At this point Fran came in, almost as if she’d been waiting for some sort of cue. ‘So when’s the party? Come on, most police marriages don’t last half that time. Balloons, a conjuror – you deserve the works!’

  ‘Let’s wait till it’s twenty-five years,’ Jill said. ‘Then you can do everything in silver.’

  She spoke lightly but he was sure there was some under-current there. He looked to Fran for confirmation. A tiny lift of one eyebrow confirmed his suspicions. But she jumped straight in.

  ‘So how good are Natasha and Rob at cooking? Or is Brian bringing something in? Because if not, I’m no Delia, but I could knock up something for you all. From jars and packets,’ she added, her face comic in confession.

  ‘There are plenty of those. I’m sure I can manage…’

  ‘I’m sure you can: the question is, should you have to?’ Fran bit something back. ‘Now, by the looks of you, you ought to be in bed. Can I help you?’

  Jill’s relief was palpable. But then her face fell. ‘That’s when it happened. When I fell. I’d just stripped the bed.’

  The implication was that she missed her step because she had her arms full of bedlinen and couldn’t see where she was going. Was she telling the truth? Was there a monster pile of dirty linen lying somewhere, or had Fran loaded the machine when she’d brought her back from the hospital? A quick glance at Fran showed a studiously blank face.

  Fran chipped in quickly. ‘No problem. Just tell me where I’ll find the clean sheets and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘Airing cupboard. But—’

  Fran did her greyhound act and vanished up the stairs. Craven, he stood and said, ‘Always easier with two. Back in two minutes.’

  Fran greeted him with a bundle of bed linen and a serious face. ‘Load the washing machine. I’ll be back down in a second. See if there’s anything else to make a full load while you’re at it,’ she added, at the top of her voice. In other words, go into the kids’ rooms too.

  He didn’t like this one scrap. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Socks, T-shirts…’

  From downstairs came a wail. ‘Don’t bother. Honestly. Please.’

  Quite. All the same, he popped his head round a couple of doors. Of the two rooms, Natasha’s was much the untidier – he could have culled a dozen T-shirts, but gathered four at random. But Rob’s smelt rank, like a rugby club changing room, full of sweaty garments and testosterone. And something else – not a sporting venue smell this at all! Pot. Strong, heavy pot. Skunk.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As Mark got downstairs, arms full, knowing he had to say something to Jill, the front door burst open, and a young woman hurtled into the hall.

  ‘Who are you? And what are you doing with my things? You fucking pervert!’ She flung herself at him, grabbing handfuls of fabric and pulling.

  Young woman? No, just a young teenager to judge by her face. But she was tall and strong.

  ‘Hang on, Natasha!’ Fran shouted. ‘That’s Mark. He’s with me. Your mother’s had a fall and we’re just—’

  ‘Fran?’ Her face lightened, and after one more scathing glance she turned to the stairs. ‘Where is she?’ The T-shirts fell to the floor as she bounded away.

  ‘I’m fine! In here!’ That was Jill’s voice.

  ‘Mum? What’s up?’

  He’d forgotten how noisy family life could be. Automatically he picked everything up and made for the quiet of the kitchen while he could. It was as immaculate as ten minutes of Fran’s energy could make it. He loaded the machine, but could see no sign of detergent. It must be in one of the units, but, despite his years of official practice, searching still felt like trespass, so he gave up and dug deep for some control as he went back to the living room. What he ought to do was tell Natasha to stop her hissy-fit and make herself useful.

  Instead he hung on as a spectator.

  ‘Rob? How should I know? We’re not joined at the hip!’

  How old might she be? Fourteen at most.

  ‘I just hoped… So you’ve no idea where he is?’ Jill almost pleaded. What a good job her team couldn’t see her now. Had he been so spineless with his kids?

  Natasha produced a shrug theatrical enough to turn a Frenchman green with envy. But perhaps there was too much guignol: did the girl protest too much?

  He stepped in. ‘Natasha, would you be good enough to show me where the detergent is? And set the machine – it looks like a flight deck with all those controls.’ Always mix steely power with a touch of humour, that was his motto. A smaller shrug preceded her flounce into the kitchen.

  ‘Your mother’s had a bad fall,’ he said, as on her knees she burrowed under the sink. ‘Any idea how it happened?’

  Another shrug as she surfaced with the Persil.

  ‘And she’s plainly worried about your brother – Rob, is that it? It wouldn’t be grassing him up if you told her where he is.’

  She couldn’t have measured the detergent more carefully if she’d been about to transmute some base metal into gold.

  ‘I think you’re worried about him, too. And I think you’re worried because you really don’t know where he is.’

  Her head dropped slightly. She might have been trying not to let him see her biting her lip. Still facing the machine, not him, she made a show of rearranging the laundry and fishing out a vivid pink top. ‘You put that in with them everything’ll come out pink,’ she explained.

  He took this as a sign of a thaw.

  ‘That’s why I never wear fuchsia,’ he said. ‘Any help, Natasha. Anything at all.’ He placed his card on the surface in front of her, and added Fran’s for luck. ‘Just between ourselves. Your mum doesn’t need any more stress, does she?’ Neither did Natasha. So he drifted back into the living room, slowly enough for her to call out if she wanted to.

  ‘Your theory is that young Rob is into pot,’ he said to Fra
n, fastening his seat belt.

  ‘Not just a theory – not if your nose is accurate,’ Fran retorted, ‘which I’m sure it is.’

  ‘And it’s having a detrimental effect on his psychological state, to psychosis, even, leading to random violence towards his mother. It’s well enough documented.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘Of course, it could be simply being sixteen.’

  She overrode him. ‘Or, if you were right about the gaps in the silverware, maybe she challenged him about nicking her cups and he got violent then?’

  He put the car into gear and backed out of Jill’s drive. ‘We’ll have her panicking if we hang about any longer,’ he observed. ‘And I don’t want to do that yet. Would you,’ he continued, ‘recognise young Rob if we happened to see him walking home?’

  ‘Or hanging out with his mates… How about the skateboard park by the sports centre? That’d be a good place to start looking. But not, of course, a casual bumping into.’

  ‘Which I suspect might be the best way of approaching the problem. Especially as you know him. You might simply want to warn him about his mother’s accident. Gee him up a bit about supporting her about the house, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And, having got him nicely softened up, go for the jugular with questions about pot?’

  ‘Quite.’ He nosed the car gently through the estate. They might have been kids on their first panda patrol. Eventually, having explored every cul-de-sac, he turned to car down to the tiny cluster of shops at the foot of the hill. A number of kids of both sexes were messing round on skateboards, in direct contravention of a viciously defaced sign prohibiting practically everything. Most were simply scooting around. A couple more adventurous souls, no helmets, no protective gear at all, were trying to run the boards down handrails alongside shallow flights of steps. From time to time they’d pause to let a third lad leap from the top of the steps, attempting to land with the board still beneath his feet.