Cold Pursuit

by Judith Cutler

  Did he ignore the threat deliberately or did he genuinely miss the point? ‘Of course I won’t. I shall be taking a gap year. A friend of my parents has a laboratory in the USA; I shall do some work experience there, and then move south to work on a rain forest project.’

  ‘You’ll be sorely missed, then. You’ll be looking at a custodial sentence, you see,’ Harbijan said, shaking his head sadly.

  It was news to Fran, but she made no attempt to rein in the young men.

  Yes. At last he was shaken. ‘For God’s sake! It was only a bit of fun. No harm done.’

  ‘Breach of copyright law, of course. That would be a civil offence. But putting people’s faces on a website is an offence under stalking legislation. And the courts take that very seriously indeed.’ Harbijan looked to the solicitor for confirmation. He got it.

  Field would have got to his feet had not the solicitor restrained him. ‘For God’s sake, jail for a bit of blogging!’

  ‘There are one or two other things we wanted to talk about,’ Tom said, very mildly. ‘But maybe you and your lawyer would like to take a comfort break and a cup of tea. You may have things you want to talk to him about, after all.’

  ‘Your hospitality is exceeded only by your concern for the young man’s bladder,’ Fran commented, as the young detectives joined her in her observation room. ‘What might he need to talk to Mr Sandys about?’

  Tom took the initiative. ‘Drugs. Some very promising looking E’s under the bed. Almost industrial quantities. And a large amount, more than for personal use anyway, of very strong cannabis.’

  ‘The stuff they call skunk?’

  ‘Yep. And a lot of cash in smallish denominations. All immaculately kept in one of those purpose built offices, only his has a bedroom at one end and an en suite bathroom. Hi-fi, computer system to die for, plasma screen TV. His own little empire. I shouldn’t wonder if he has room service.’

  Harbijan shook his head sadly. ‘Poor little rich boy, eh?’

  Fran nodded. A bit of decent mucking in getting the tea had always seemed to her a good principle for keeping families together, though of course it was one she’d never had to put to the test. But she said nothing. How on earth did working mothers keep tabs on their kids? If Jill was working round the clock on a case, how did she check the contents of her son’s room? ‘We need to know his suppliers. He’s obviously not up to speed on the principles of sentencing, so pull him along with the idea of coming clean and getting a lighter tariff. I wouldn’t mind knowing his customers, too.’

  ‘Got one of your hunches coming on, like, guv?’

  ‘I may just have. I get these feelings, Harbijan, I always take note of,’ she explained as he stared at her. ‘They very rarely let me down.’

  ‘Intuition? Second sight?’ He was quite excited.

  ‘Probably just years of experience,’ she said, though she wasn’t entirely convinced and didn’t think he was either. She foresaw a long conversation with him when they weren’t busy. ‘OK, you’re doing very well. Now, it’s seven o’clock—’

  ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself!’ Tom agreed.

  ‘Go on as long as you want, so long as you’re not seen to be overly heavy. Or send him down to the cells. Or hand him over to his mother on the strictest understanding he’s not allowed into his own room in any circumstances.’

  Harbijan shook his head. ‘With due respect, ma’am, let him near any computer, any mobile, even, and he could bugger an awful lot of leads. Incommunicado, I’d say. A night in the cells might do him a world of good. He’s legally an adult, after all.’

  ‘By three days,’ Tom put in.

  ‘It might indeed clear his head. On the other hand, we don’t want to appear to be vindictive. Talk to his solicitor, as if asking his advice. Be terribly reasonable and soon it’ll be his idea. Rule number one in high-profile cases, watch your backs. So another hour maximum tonight. Mustn’t exhaust little diddums, must we?’ As they left the room, she added, ‘And maintain absolute and total discretion. For all our sakes.’

  Late as she was, Fran still had to wait for Mark, deep in some meeting from which he emerged looking strained and exhausted. She fought back a wave of nausea. What if all this pressure was doing his heart no good? Spending time with her meant he’d spent less in the gym, good old jokes about ten mile runs notwithstanding. It was her birthday soon; she could ask for a rowing machine or a multi-gym, ostensibly for her but really for him. She couldn’t risk him having a heart attack or a stroke. Quite literally, she couldn’t imagine living if anything happened to him.

  Yesterday’s panic returned, with a strength that quite terrified her. She’d heard widows of murder victims tell her they didn’t know what clothes they were wearing, whether their shoes were even a pair. She’d sympathised, deeply, but never before empathised. If Mark were to die, how would she prepare food, knowing she had to eat alone? How could she ever sleep in a bed he had left empty? How would she even breathe, if he were not there to breathe for?

  He was too tired to worry with even an inkling of her fears, so she smiled and held out her hand for the car keys. ‘My place tonight. I know just what’s in the freezer and I’ll reheat it while you have a bath.’ Forget about going round to Jill’s to show her the CD and talk about young Rob – her place was with Mark tonight.

  He surrendered the keys without a quibble. ‘What would I do without you?’ His voice changed. ‘My God, what would I do?’

  And in the middle of the car park they clung to each other like children afraid of the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jill froze the frame. Fran had brought the CD round before going into work, and they were watching it in what seemed to be a communal office, GCSE coursework jostling with reports on housing associations and Fran’s own memos. ‘Yes, that’s Rob.’ Jill’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see this. But I thought it might explain …something,’ Fran said. She added quickly, when she saw that Jill could no longer speak, ‘It’s one thing to watch things like this in Vice, isn’t it, when it’s part of the job. You know, it’s nine o’clock in the morning so it’s bestiality time. It’s quite another when it involves images of someone you know, even if they are electronic fakes.’ She put her arms round Jill, holding her tightly while she cried. ‘I suppose it’s a bit early in the day for a nip? No, you don’t anyway, do you?’

  ‘Not having seen my father go that way. A cup of coffee might go down well though.’

  Fran fished a packet of tissues from her bag. Leaving it within reach, she headed for the kitchen. All her good work had been undone, but as she stood arms akimbo regarding the chaos she realised it might just have been the results of one supper and one breakfast. At least someone could have loaded the dishwasher. Or they could have if anyone had bothered to run it after the last load.

  ‘Rob’s job,’ Jill observed, startling her. She was leaning heavily against the door-jamb. ‘I’ve an idea we’ve run out of dishwasher tablets, though.’

  ‘Maybe if we use the hottest wash without detergent it’ll be OK,’ Fran said. ‘And if you give me a shopping list I can collect some things on the way back here to talk to Rob after school.’

  Jill dropped her eyes as if ashamed. ‘You don’t have to come back. Not today. He’s with his grandmother. In Sheffield. He bunked off on Friday. We’ve been worried sick. He told her if she phoned us he’d run away somewhere else.’

  ‘Somewhere as warm and comfortable with home made food?’

  Jill managed a smile. ‘Well, when she called his bluff he stayed. I’m so worried about him. Some days he won’t go into school at all.’ All flat sentences, all heaving with emotion.

  ‘Would you, if your mates were doing that to you?’

  ‘Fran, what do I do?’ Her voice cracked with despair.

  Fran suppressed two tart remarks, one about answering her phone, the other more serious. How many days ago had Jill informed her that non-
mothers weren’t qualified to advise? And she was here as a friend, not as Nemesis. ‘Get back on your sofa for a start, while I wash up. I always find ten minutes with hot soapy water does wonders for my thought processes. And your sitting down while I do it might help yours, too, because I still think there’s stuff about Rob you haven’t trusted me with.’

  But even when the crockery and the kitchen sparkled again, Jill’s face was still set in stubborn lines, and Fran had to get back to Maidstone.

  Where there were still no more letters to Dilly. And no further reports of sexual assaults. Apparently Farmer was out at a meeting, so she still couldn’t scream at him over the absence of a profiler. But she wanted to be angry with someone, so she summoned Tom and Jon.

  ‘And how’s young Master Field this morning?’ she asked, hoping he’d insulted someone so she could have an excuse to go herself and put him in his place.

  ‘Chastened by the primitive conditions in Maidstone nick,’ Tom said. ‘And, I fancy, by a long conversation with his solicitor. And his mother.’

  ‘Poor woman.’ Her anger ebbed away. How would the poor woman cope?

  ‘Often happens, according to my mother,’ Jon observed. ‘Professional parents – you know, teachers, doctors, even police officers – seem to have a dreadful time parenting. High expectations, too strict or too liberal. Mum’s a college lecturer,’ he added.

  ‘But she brought you up OK.’

  He grinned engagingly. ‘Nope. I was supposed to be a merchant banker.’

  ‘Well, there you are. And Master Field? How will he end up?’

  ‘The CPS think he’ll get a custodial sentence. Not for the website, but for the drugs. They’ll certainly ask for one. A long one. Which will come as a bit of a shock to Master Field’s system.’

  ‘If he doesn’t end up running the whole prison,’ Tom suggested darkly.

  ‘Come on, it’s bad enough if you’re used to a comfortless home. Imagine swapping his suite for a cell.’

  ‘Maybe a hefty fine and a lot of community service?’ Fran said hopefully.

  ‘Guv, he had enough in his bank account to pay off the national debt of a medium African country. OK, a small one. He’s bloody loaded. And how does he get it?’

  ‘By making and selling drugs?’ Fran hazarded

  ‘Yes, guv. And by getting kids hooked by giving them freebies outside school. Just like a hardened old pro. If it were up to me, I’d fasten the bastard to the school gates, like, and get everyone to throw their rotten fruit at him. You know, the pillory. Worse than the stocks because you can’t put your hands up to cover your face.’

  ‘Has he identified all his victims? Both his customers and those on the film?’

  The young men looked at each other, embarrassed and reluctant to speak.

  ‘Let me confirm one. Rob Tanner. I’ve spoken to his mother so it’s OK to admit it.’

  Their sighs were audible. ‘Sorry, guv.’

  ‘It’s not my problem, though I’d rather it wasn’t common knowledge. It’s hers – poor Jill’s. And his.’

  ‘And ours,’ Jon corrected her. ‘Ashford CID phoned: they’ve found some of DCI Tanner’s silverware. We think young Rob nicked it to pay for his habit.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. We’ll talk to him as soon as he comes home. He’d scarpered. To Sheffield.’

  ‘Probably because he owed Field a couple of hundred quid and had no way of paying for it.’

  Fran whistled. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of drugs. Were they all for personal use or was he supposed to be selling them on? I take it Field wouldn’t have let him off with a kindly warning.’

  ‘A strong warning, like, and find three more customers,’ Tom said. ‘That was the deal. Oh, and come up with the dosh within a week. Or else. Or else never came into it, apparently. He’s a nasty piece of knitting, as my auntie says.’

  ‘Talking of your auntie, Tom – have you had another consignment of biscuits recently?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, she sent me the recipe to pass on to Dilly. Maybe Dilly’ll bake us some, as a thank you, like.’

  ‘That might be a bit premature. The stalker may be taking a break,’ Jon warned. ‘Or sick.’

  ‘Or is saving himself for the biggie,’ Tom agreed.

  Or is at the bottom of a Cornish cliff, Fran added silently.

  As the young men left her office she willed the phone to ring. When it failed to, needing a spot of human kindness, she called Janie Falkirk to thank her for her help.

  ‘Has young Dilly come up with any other hidden bits of her past?’ Janie enquired.

  ‘It’s like extracting hen’s teeth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Blame that young man of hers. The fiancé. He wants a respectable wife, not Someone with a Past.’

  ‘Surely anyone over the age of thirty’s got to have some past?’ Like her and Mark, for instance.

  ‘Och, aye. I dabbled with prostitution once, Fran, to pay for my booze.’ She might have been talking about taking a newspaper from W H Smith’s without forking out the right change. ‘But the Good Lord decided that wasn’t for me, or no doubt I’d have been laid out on some morgue slab with a nice dose of cirrhosis long before this. I’m sorry, that’s a bit of a conversation stopper, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why young Daniel McDine prefers another church.’

  Fran couldn’t deny the information had taken her aback. But she adopted their usual joking tone. ‘A sinner-free zone?’

  ‘He’d be hard put to find that, even at the heart of the Cathedral. Talk to the lass again, Fran. That’s my advice for what it’s worth.’

  ‘I shall take it.’

  As pleased with Janie as she hoped Janie was with her, she cut the connection. No, still no incoming call. So she would talk to Dilly again. She jabbed the numbers, and beat a tattoo as she waited. Now, should she be calm and controlled or as forceful as she wanted to be? At least she managed to be polite to the girl on the TVInvicta switchboard.

  ‘I— I thought it was a bit early,’ Dilly stuttered, ‘to phone Mary out of the blue.’

  ‘You could have phoned her last night!’ Forceful won the day.

  ‘But Daniel—’ Dilly bleated.

  ‘Come on, Dilly, it’s your life we’re trying to protect. It’s not making a fuss, it’s not making an exhibition of yourself – it’s taking sensible precautions. Hell’s bells, if we didn’t believe your life was at stake, do you think we’d be spending all this time and effort on you?’ She gave full rein to her exasperation with a few more choice sentences.

  When she finished, there was an inaudible murmur.

  ‘Well, then. Now, I shall be at my desk for the next half hour. I shall expect you to phone me back and report on your conversation with Mary Wolford. Do you need the number again?’ Perhaps she’d missed her calling; perhaps she should have been a headmistress.

  A tap on her door announced the arrival of one of Jill’s CID team she’d not actually spoken to, but who had asked intelligent questions at Farmer’s briefing. She was a young woman in her twenties, with red hair to rival Janie’s, except that hers looked freshly ironed.

  ‘Good morning.’ If only she had Joe Farmer’s facility with names. ‘What can I do for you? Come on in and sit down.’

  ‘DC Hall, ma’am,’ the young woman said, remaining on her feet.

  So they’d told her Fran’s problem. ‘Well done for reminding me. It’s Sarah?’

  It seemed the young woman’s initiative stopped there. But after a moment, she smiled. ‘Sue, actually.’

  ‘Sue, I’m so sorry. Do, please, sit down. What can I do for you? Or is it more what you can do for me?’ She raised a hopeful eyebrow.

  The young woman responded with a polite half-smile. ‘You remember the other day you asked about CCTV footage of shops in the area where people could buy those facemasks? Bush and Blair and so on? Well, I thought I’d check out as many as I could over the weekend. Maidstone, Folkestone, Canterbury and Tunbridge.’ She ticked them off on her fingers.
‘I’ve got a pile of videos on my desk. But I’ve only had time to skim through them, and all I can see is loads of innocent-looking people going in and out of lots of shops.’

  ‘No one with “SUSPECT” branded on his forehead? Drat! But that’s admirable work, Sue. Absolutely excellent. All that time – and mileage. Don’t forget to claim. I mean it.’

  ‘We’re no further forward, though.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself down. If we do get a suspect and we can link him to a fancy-dress supplier, we’re quids in. Well done. Oh, and claim for some TOIL or some overtime – I’ll authorise either.’

  ‘Thanks… Ma’am – do you think DCI Tanner would mind if a couple of us went round to see her this morning? That whip round brought in ever such a lot of cash, and I thought some flowers would make a nice start. But there’s a lot left over. Any ideas what I could get?’

  ‘For a start, dishwasher tablets,’ Fran said dryly. ‘Tell you what, she never, ever has any time to herself. Is there enough for a voucher for a day’s pampering at one of those posh spas?’

  Sue pondered. ‘If we got a smaller bunch of flowers. I could order one over the Internet.’

  ‘She’d need someone to ferry her wherever it is and back, so she’d have no excuse not to go.’

  ‘No problem there. Ma’am, that’s a brilliant idea.’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I always try to give presents I’d like myself.’ She fished in her purse. ‘Here. Now you won’t have to worry how many carnations you can afford.’

  She sat back with a silly grin of satisfaction delighted that there were still young men and women with initiative in the service. And sat up as the phone rang. It was the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. A gentle male voice told her they’d found Stephen Hardy’s car. Her heart stopped.

  ‘But no Stephen Hardy?’ Had the enquiries driven him to suicide? Or was his illicit love for Dilly responsible? The bile rose from her stomach; she had to swallow hard not to vomit.

  ‘Not yet. But the Moor’s a big place, ma’am. And it’s snowing up there at the moment.’