Still Waters

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Which would be a bit of a problem if he’s a policeman himself,’ Paula reflected. ‘Do you want me to talk to Caffy or would you rather do it?’

  This was blissfully easy. All the same, Fran wrinkled her nose, as if in doubt. ‘It might sound a bit official, a bit intimidating, if we did – at this stage.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything that would intimidate our Caffy,’ Paula declared. ‘Not after what she’s been through. Tell you what, to spare her the trouble of telling you all about it, you check up a guy called Clive Granville in your records. Caffy’s surname’s Tyler, in case she hasn’t told you. And if you read carefully you’ll work out why she always wears dungarees when she’s working. Meanwhile,’ she continued, overriding Fran’s obvious question, ‘I’ll ask her what she thinks about the visits from this here mate of yours.’

  ‘Colleague, not mate,’ Fran said with too much emphasis.

  Paula’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean he’s your boss? Well, I can quite see why you’d rather do nothing.’ Her voice oozed scorn.

  Mark stepped forward. ‘If the chief constable himself was breaking the law, the Home Secretary, even, I’d want him dealt with.’

  Paula looked him in the eye. ‘I believe you. But I’d guess,’ she added shrewdly, ‘that you’d rather it was the Home Secretary – someone nice and remote, not someone you know and presumably trust.’

  ‘If someone steals your lead, you’d rather it was someone nice and remote, not someone you know and trust.’

  ‘Touché! OK, I’ll trust you,’ she said, leaning lightly on the word, ‘to do the right thing, if doing anything is necessary, of course. Caffy might be quite touched. She might even want to go out to dinner with him occasionally. He was quite a nice-looking bloke, I thought. But I do recall her saying she didn’t like his eyes. Like granite or something.’

  Fran nodded. ‘I know what she means,’ she said softly. And wished she hadn’t.

  Paula quietly patted her on the arm, as if praising her for her honesty. ‘Bring those shoes next time,’ she said. ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t,’ she added, clearly dismissing them.

  Mark at the wheel, they were returning to work, Fran for the latest Lady in the Lake briefing and Mark to check out this Clive Granville’s connection with Caffy. Fran’s phone rang. She’d have been tempted to let the caller leave a message, but it was Maeve Burton, to whom she undoubtedly owed a favour.

  ‘Fran, I was wondering if Bill and I could come and see you both this evening,’ Maeve said, the preliminaries out of the way. ‘Unless you’re tied up in some high-profile case?’

  ‘I can untie myself,’ Fran said equably. ‘But if you’d like to join us for a meal, it’ll have to be a takeaway, I’m afraid. We won’t be back much before nine.’

  Mark groaned.

  ‘Nine and just a drink would be fine. See you then!’

  ‘Which scuppers our chance of a leisurely meal,’ Mark grumbled.

  ‘So it does. But who has leisurely meals in the middle of a murder case?’

  ‘Someone who isn’t running it? Sorry. Only joking. Why didn’t you put her off?’

  ‘Because of our history, Maeve and me. She wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. Anyway, I don’t expect the briefing to run for long – it’s just a matter of collating updates, after all – and it won’t take you five minutes to check on the guy who did whatever it is to Caffy.’ Bloody names.

  ‘Clive Granville. OK. See you at seven-thirty. Though that isn’t half tempting Providence. I bet your team have come up with vital evidence and you have to go out and make an arrest.’

  In the event, Mark got grabbed by the chief, who demanded to be talked through the document he had delegated to Mark to prepare. Fran’s meeting went on longer than she would have liked, but it wasn’t very productive, with only nil returns coming in from the team that had been working at the reservoir site itself, and she sent her colleagues off with the instruction to have an early night and come back with a few brain cells ready for action. ‘I might have some myself’, she added, ‘by then.’

  ‘Buy my cottage? Our cottage. You mean now? Just like that?’ Fran put down her glass very carefully. Now Bill’s thorough inspection of the place on his previous visit was making sense.

  ‘If everything works out, yes, just like that,’ Maeve said. ‘You know, have a couple of independent valuations for a start, and if we agree a price, subject to all the usual surveys and searches. And we’d be paying cash – did I mention that?’

  ‘The only thing is’, Bill said, ‘that we don’t want to hang around. We’d want to be in here by July.’

  Mark said, ‘You’ll excuse us if we don’t make a decision tonight? After all, it’s Fran’s home—’

  ‘But you’ve got the new place, haven’t you? And don’t tell me conservation and restoration don’t cost an arm and a leg,’ Maeve declared.

  ‘And take time,’ Fran said quietly. ‘The Rectory doesn’t have an operative bathroom or kitchen at the moment. Mark’s right, I’m afraid. We’d need to give it some thought.’

  Which included, when their guests had finally left, the possibility of moving to Mark’s house in Loose, whether on their own or with Sammie and her children still in situ.

  ‘Because that’s the obvious thing to do,’ Mark reflected, watching in the mirror as Fran took off her make-up. ‘Especially if Lloyd’s overtures the other night worked.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask her? When you saw the kids?’ Fran’s voice was sharp with a mixture of disbelief and accusation. She turned for a moment to face him, but then resumed her task.

  To his own ears he sounded defensive. ‘Of course I did. But I didn’t want to put her under pressure and start asking awkward questions. Not in front of the children, anyway. In any case, it’s not really our business, Fran. Or,’ he conceded, in the face of her continued silence, ‘it wasn’t until this offer came up. Do you really want to sell? The original idea was that we should rent it out to provide an income for our old age,’ he added, in a quavery voice.

  ‘Circumstances change.’ She got up and came to sit on the side of the bed. ‘The longer we’re here the more obvious it becomes that you’re not going to grow any shorter, so I foresee permanent scars on your forehead and on that bathroom beam you never see. Selling this to pay for Pact’s work and living in Loose would be the obvious solution. And Loose can pay for our old age.’

  ‘So we put everything in train? You’re sure you don’t want to sleep on it?’

  ‘Whoever said anything about sleep?’

  The photographic section had come up with what looked like cracking shots of an attractive young woman, dolled up for a night out. In some she was blonde, in others brunette and in yet more she was a stunning redhead. It wasn’t just her hair that had received attention; she might have been in the hands of a professional make-up artist, not someone with a digital touch-up programme. Someone had arranged the details like a halo round the original penny-plain photo.

  ‘Monday’s a dead quiet night in the clubs and pubs,’ Coveney complained on Tuesday morning, ‘so we got zero take-up. But we’ll push on with it.’

  ‘The trouble is, people who were the right age for clubs three years ago may have moved on – got babies and mortgages,’ Fran said.

  ‘Not some of the clubs I have in mind. If she was a pole dancer or stripper, or even a high-class call girl, she might have been operating in gentlemen’s clubs—’

  ‘What a misnomer!’ Sue snarled.

  ‘So we’ll be concentrating our efforts there until Friday. If that’s OK with you, guv?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Sue’s hand shot up. ‘Will there be men and women on this particular team?’

  Dan looked to Fran for help.

  ‘Volunteers, I’d have thought,’ she said crisply, though her heart sank. Of course, Sue was right – hadn’t Fran and her generation fought for just such opportunities? Except the older she got, the more Fran thought about comprom
ise. ‘So long as the team members bear in mind that they’re there to elicit information about what the men involved may think is of a delicate nature, not make political points themselves.’ Damn, that had been really heavy-handed. ‘But I can trust you all on that count, can’t I?’ Worse and worse. Time to rush on. ‘Any news of the reservoir key-holders? Not the gates, but the manhole cover thingies.’ At least people were laughing at her now.

  ‘There’s no record of any having gone missing in the last five years, guv,’ another young woman put in, only to earn a glare from Sue. ‘And we’ve interviewed all the blokes entitled to use them. Nothing suspicious in any of their statements at all, though of course we’ll double check. They’ve all got completely unblemished records to date, anyway.’ She threw the last sentence down as a challenge, rather foolishly, Fran thought.

  But no one took her up on it.

  ‘OK, the perimeter fence, with special reference to the side facing the allotments?’

  ‘We’re still checking that, ma’am. But it’s a bit of a no-hoper, I’d have thought. A lot of families go up every weekend, and you know what kids are like. The new one’s already sagging in places, and little tunnels run under it in others.’

  ‘OK. And what about the plot-holders themselves?’

  Coveney said, ‘We’re about halfway through the list, so far. As you say, they all seem to know each other by sight, even though they all insist they keep themselves to themselves. Trouble is, some of them are very elderly indeed, and it’s always possible several have died since the relevant date.’

  ‘Tell you what, Dan,’ Fran said, ‘why don’t you check on those who’ve given up their allotment but not pegged it? Just in case.’

  ‘What about the ones who have pegged it?’ some wag asked.

  ‘You could send someone to heaven to question them there.’

  ‘Or “seek him i’ the other place yourself,”’ another voice concluded.

  The chief!

  He nodded pleasantly to his surprised colleagues, and especially at Fran and Coveney. ‘I understand what you’re doing may expose the weaknesses in the performance of one of our former colleagues,’ he said. ‘This is unfortunate, but shouldn’t inhibit you in any way. The truth is sometimes inconvenient, I’m afraid.’

  Would he say the same if they ever had to talk to him about Gates and Caffy?

  Pat, whom the chief would probably describe as twice blessed, greeted her on her return to her office with the news that she could visit Maurice Barnes the following day, and that the internal post had arrived, bringing, amongst other mail, a packet from Folkestone. She handed it over with a smile.

  Fran opened it like a child expecting a Christmas present.

  Before her eyes was a selection of shots of the suicide victim, all with a ruler to show the measurements. Where on earth had she got the idea that Alec Minton was a poor, weak old pensioner? He was over six feet tall and strapping with it. He might have been a member of the bowls club, but she’d wager her pension that he weight-trained too, and probably went on regular runs. You certainly didn’t get a torso and a set of quads like that without a great deal of purposeful effort.

  ‘Not what you wanted, Fran?’

  ‘Not what I expected, certainly!’ She chose one showing the least obvious injuries, which in any case she covered over with her thumb. ‘What do you make of this guy?’

  ‘Quite a hunk. But a dead hunk, I’d guess?’

  ‘Like that parrot. And once it could talk, too. And I wish it had spoken before it topped itself.’

  She phoned Pete Webb immediately. ‘I thought Alec Minton was a little old pensioner given to playing bowls!’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘I should guess he played very well, then. On the days when he didn’t work out in the gym.’

  ‘The gym? You’re joking!’

  ‘You have another look at those photos, Pete, and tell me what you think. They may not be the pecs of a young man like you, but pecs they are. He’s got quads, too. I want to know about that gym, Pete, and anything else you can unearth. And – just as a sweetener – I’ll authorise you the funds to prioritise the investigation of his computer. Bring it off the back burner, please, and raise the heat a little.’

  ‘You sound like a woman who’s scented blood, guv.’

  ‘Do I? I don’t think I mean to. Or maybe I do. Tell you what, Pete, I know you’re up to your ears in things that won’t wait, but I want you to depute someone really reliable to check the contents of that parish magazine of his again. As a matter of urgency, right?’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  ‘Oh, and Pete – are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  She almost laughed at the misery and resignation in his voice. ‘I want a photo or an e-fit of how he may have looked in real life. Absolute priority.’

  ‘I had to leave a message,’ Mark confessed over lunch. ‘Do you know, Sammie’s actually re-recorded my answerphone greeting?’ That had really annoyed and hurt him more than he would admit, even to Fran. Not that he knew why. It made eminent sense in one way. But some part of him insisted that she should have asked him – even told him, knowing Sammie – that that was her intention.

  She said nothing, but reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘Did you say why you needed to speak to her?’

  ‘I thought it might come as a bit of a shock. So I just said it was important and would she get back to me immediately. Do you remember those communication exercises we had to do as rookies? How to you break the news of someone’s death? “Leave a message on the widow’s desk?”’

  ‘Or “all those with a husband stand up? No, not you, Mrs Briggs. In any case, you ought to sit down ’cos I’ve got bad news for you.”’

  Through their laughter, he confessed, ‘I rather thought mine might match those. “I thought you ought to know Fran and I are moving back this weekend. You can stay if you want.” No, it’ll have to be face to face, won’t it?’

  ‘Do you think it might be worth phoning Lloyd to find out how his overtures were received?’ she asked with that tentativeness she only used when she spoke of his family. ‘I know it wasn’t our business before but now it just might be.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll get on to it after this afternoon’s meeting. “How long do we want to detain terrorist suspects before they have to be charged?”’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling that whatever you say and for whatever reasons the politicians have their own agenda and will decide accordingly?’

  ‘I think you’re telling me I’m wasting my time.’

  ‘Who’s to say we all aren’t? But at least I’m going to be able to talk to Maurice Barnes tomorrow.’ She gave a complicitous smile. This was one thing she never asked about, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to divulge, even to Fran.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  If anything, Lewes was an even more depressing prison than Maidstone. Fran let Sue Hall drive this time, all too aware that the young woman still hadn’t forgiven her for her lapses in sisterhood. As if she and her contemporaries hadn’t invented the whole thing, investing time and effort and even marches to secure the opportunities women like Sue now enjoyed as of legal right. She wanted to tell Sue not to be years out of date, not to waste her energies over battles long since won. But she couldn’t, because Sue was right. There were all too many areas where the police was still a man’s world, and there were women – like Fran herself – who had to connive with the prevailing culture to get results.

  ‘Why don’t you take the lead on this one?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Because you don’t think it’s so important?’

  Stupid child. ‘Because you don’t think it’s so important, ma’am!’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Sorry, guv. OK, let’s forget it. But don’t go down that road with me again, Sue. I want you to lead on this interview because I’ve seen you in action and I know you’re shrewd and intelligent. I don’t think you’ll let me down.’ She added fra
nkly, ‘And you’ve got me there if you need rescuing.’

  Sue had the grace to blush. ‘Thanks, ma’am. Thanks, guv.’

  As Ken Roper had said, Maurice Barnes was an altogether bigger man, perhaps five inches taller and at least three stone heavier. While he had clearly benefited from time in the prison gym, however, he wasn’t as muscle-bound as Drury, nor did he have anything like the physical presence.

  ‘You’re a scientist by training, Mr Barnes,’ Sue began, startling certainly Fran and possibly Barnes.

  ‘That’s right. A biochemist. I got my degree at Sheffield.’

  ‘How do you keep your brain ticking over now?’

  He pulled a face. ‘I was trying to do an OU course. But every time I’m moved, things like my books and coursework disappear and no one notifies the OU tutors and so I doubt if I’ll ever finish it. Up in Durham, while I was waiting for my books to catch up with me, I was trying to fathom sudoku and to teach some of the inmates to read and write.’

  Sue nodded as if it were leading somewhere. ‘And the rest of the time?’

  ‘I read. I use the gym. I do press-ups.’

  ‘Not a very fulfilling life.’

  ‘No. Oh, and of course, I’m helping you with your inquiries. Into what, might I ask?’

  ‘Into the murder of a friend of yours. Janine Roper.’

  His face lit up. ‘You’ve realised poor Ken’s innocent! Excellent.’

  So why didn’t he include himself? But Sue didn’t pick up on the point.

  ‘I didn’t say that, Mr Barnes. But new evidence has emerged.’

  Secretly, ironically, Fran applauded the verb.

  ‘Now we want to discuss it with you,’ Sue continued.

  ‘And what might that evidence be?’

  ‘Janine’s body,’ was the brutal response.

  His hands flat on the table between them, he bowed his head in what could have been prayer or equally a desire not to show his face. Certainly it was carefully blank when he raised his head again. ‘Might one ask where?’