At last, however, the door opened, but only enough for her to see it was held on the chain.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ But it wasn’t Mark furiously asking the question. It was Sammie.
‘That’s exactly what I want to know!’ he thundered. She’d seen him perfectly calm in the face of armed sieges and other critical situations. Now he was almost incoherent with a potent mixture of anxiety and anger.
She stepped forward herself. ‘Your father’s been trying to reach you all day, Sammie—’
‘Who rattled your cage?’ Sammie asked.
She overrode the insolence. ‘—and has grown very concerned. Is Lloyd with you?’
Sammie pointed at her. ‘Tell her to fuck off.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to her like that!’
Fran laid a restraining hand on Mark’s sleeve. ‘All you need to know is that she’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘And that it’s OK for Lloyd to be here.’ Taking a step back, she put her hand in the small of his back and pressed him gently forward.
She didn’t know when she’d ever been so angry. But this wasn’t her show. As she’d said, they had one priority, the second, she supposed, being not to disturb the children. How they could have slept through Mark’s onslaught she had no idea. She made a great show of walking back to the car. A glance in the door mirror showed that the front door was now fully open, with Lloyd and Sammie side by side. Their arms were firmly folded. It was clear that Mark wasn’t going to be invited into his own home. Alarm bells rang very loudly in her head.
At last he stepped forward. Grudgingly, she guessed, they stepped aside. She got in the car and watched more overtly. The conversation continued in the hall for several minutes. Then Mark turned on his heel and returned to the car.
‘There’s something up,’ Mark said, ‘and I’ve no idea what it is.’
‘Do you want us to go back in together? Or would that simply make things worse?’
‘Let’s leave it for tonight. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow, when we’ve had a few hours to calm down.’
She didn’t argue, despite a profound and inexplicable unease that tomorrow would not bring the improvement he hoped for. Instead, she put the car into gear and took the long way home, hoping that the sight of the Rectory, now illuminated by a fitful moon, would help to bring him calm.
‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, letting Caffy talk to Gates?’ he demanded suddenly.
Perhaps it was better to let him worry about something other than his family. ‘We didn’t have much choice in the matter, did we? And I can’t see Paula allowing her to take any risks. It’s certainly preferable to us sailing in and demanding that he unhand our decorator.’
‘Do you think we should talk to the chief?’
‘Not unless Caffy asks us to.’
‘Yes, I suppose we must trust her judgement. After all, she’s no more a helpless under-educated victim than you’re a PC Plod.’
‘The fact that she’s intelligent and articulate is neither here nor there,’ she said, rather more firmly than she’d intended. ‘If she’s being stalked she’s a victim. Think of the high-profile men who’ve been stalked. They certainly weren’t helpless in the world’s terms, but they were certainly victims.’ She could have added that though he himself was scarcely helpless, she had a nasty feeling that he was going to find out what it was like to be a victim in his conflict with his daughter. Now she had seen Lloyd with the woman they had supposed he was separating from she was very alarmed.
‘But I wonder if we should have her wired before she talks to him. And certainly if she goes out for dinner or whatever with him.’
‘Wired! That’s a bit heavy!’
He sighed. ‘He’s beginning to get a reputation for losing that famous cool of his. Didn’t Pat tell you that he reduced his own secretary to tears the other day? She swears it was only because he couldn’t reach across her desk that he didn’t hit her.’
‘You’re joking! Why on earth hasn’t Pat—?’
‘Because the woman was sworn to secrecy, I suppose. I was. The chief said it was so confidential I wasn’t even to tell you. Sorry. And of course Gates’ version of events is somewhat different.’
She grimaced. ‘And we can’t mention this to Caffy, of course? Hell. OK, that wiring—’
‘I shall have to talk to the chief…’
‘It’d be protection. For her. And, you never know, maybe for him.’
He shook his head. ‘If it comes to that, I shall have to talk to the chief first. I have no option.’
The following morning, Fran was just about to settle down to collate some of the information she’d gathered on the needs of divisional CIDs when her phone rang. Of all the voices she might have expected to hear, Roo’s was probably the last. But Roo’s it was. And it was a good job she could place it, because he was too excited to give his name.
‘She’s had the baby, ma’am. We’ve got a little girl!’
‘That’s wonderful. How is she? And how’s Kanga?’
He told her all about the birth – which he assured her was natural, with him holding Kanga’s hand throughout – and assured her than the birth-weight was perfect and that Kanga was already breastfeeding her.
As much to interrupt the flow as anything, Fran asked, ‘And what are you going to call her?’
‘That’s why I’m phoning, guv. Because we were wondering if you’d mind if we named her after you.’
‘Fran’s not all that much of a name,’ she parried joyfully.
‘Francesca is, though. And actually we were wondering… well, if you’d be her godmother, too.’
‘Me? Roo, why on earth? I mean I’d be delighted, but—’
‘You were there when we needed you, guv. Both of us.’
‘But I was only… Yes, please, Roo. I’d be more than honoured. Just let me have the details as soon as you have them.’ Young Kanga would have the christening gift to end all christening gifts. ‘And how are you?’
‘Fine, guv.’
‘How fine?’ And bother the lawyers for making this a dangerous question.
‘Fine fine. The shrink seems pretty good. And to be honest, I’ve not had time to sit and worry, not with painting the nursery and that. And there’s little Fran, of course. I’m a bit gutted about the news, though.’
‘And what news would that be?’
‘Haven’t you heard, guv? Darren Mills was saying—’
‘He’s the guy running you Underwater Search and Recovery people, yes?’
‘That’s him. Anyway, he was saying that we’re likely to be axed. The budget, guv. He says someone’s doing the figures and it’ll be cheaper to buy in a team from another force whenever one’s needed.’
‘I hadn’t heard,’ she said, hoping to sound as if such a move were the remotest of possibilities, but knowing – with a jolt in her stomach – that it was all too likely.
‘It doesn’t mean we’ll be out of jobs altogether, does it, guv?’ he asked tentatively.
Over her dead body. ‘Of course it doesn’t! Hell, Roo, you’ve all got other jobs, haven’t you – “day jobs”? I can’t imagine the streets of Tonbridge without you.’
All that expertise being discarded! She was ready to scream.
‘You’re sure? Because they say it’ll be Sussex that takes over, and I don’t really want a transfer – I don’t want to move house, not with the baby and everything.’
‘You give little Fran a big kiss from me – and Kanga, mind! – and tell her not to worry her new woolly bootees about anything. You’ll all be sure of jobs as long as I’m here, Roo.’
Fran put her head on her desk and cried. She didn’t care to ask why or for whom.
At last footsteps outside brought her to her senses.
What if someone came in? She mustn’t be found like this. Especially as she wouldn’t know how to explain if anyone cared enough to ask. What she needed was a bit of action – preferably the sort that would upset someone
else. What she must do, however, was find out if the future of the Underwater team was indeed at risk, and, if it was, on whose authority.
Every one of her mental fingers pointed at Gates, of course. Him and his bloody committees.
Of which she was a member. Many of them, if not all.
Had some motion been passed when she’d been away with the fairies, sitting doodling and fizzing with resentment? What if she and her attitude had let down her young colleagues? She surged out of her office.
Pat handed over the sets of minutes for each committee without a word, but with a definitely raised eyebrow.
‘All our decisions have to be minuted, don’t they, Pat? Absolutely all?’ Fran asked as she leafed through them. No, nothing so far.
‘Of course.’ The other woman was shocked either at Fran’s ignorance or at the suggestion that they might not have been. ‘What are you looking for, Fran? It may be that I typed up the minutes, in which case I can scan through for the item you’re after. That’d save you hours. And a few points on your blood pressure scale.’
‘Can you search for Underwater Search and Recovery team?’
‘Shall I look while you nip off to the ladies? Your mascara’s run a bit,’ Pat added, as if it were perfectly normal.
‘That’s better. You don’t look like a panda now,’ Pat declared five minutes later. ‘No, there’s no mention of the Underwater team in any of the minutes that I typed up, or in any that have been put on the network. So I think it’s fair to say that it’s not been mentioned officially at any of them.’
‘But nothing could be implemented without an official record?’
‘In theory, no. But you know what these mothers’ meetings outside are like.’ She gestured with a curling thumb in the general direction of the erstwhile smokers’ corner. ‘They could decide to secede from Europe and not tell anyone till we were being towed across the Atlantic.’
‘So if I want to make sure no one gets rid of this team, I need to make it official that nothing can happen.’
‘It’s a high-risk strategy, because half the members will have forgotten it exists, and if they remember they might decide it’s something we can indeed do without. What you need, Fran,’ Pat whispered, hunching forward conspiratorially, ‘is a little preparation. Gather together your mates beforehand and explain why you want something to happen – or not – and agree that it should be an item on the appropriate agenda. Then you can vote it through. All these years in the police, Fran,’ she added, shaking her head, ‘and you’re still such an innocent.’
Was that praise? Was it accusation? Fran couldn’t work it out. But since she was eliciting sympathy for her ignorance, she would ask something else. Did Pat know anyone who might value her cottage?
‘As it happens, I do. Do you want me to phone him for you?’
‘Pat, you’re my secretary, not my serf. Just give me the number and I’ll sort it, bless you.’
As Pat wrote down a number, Fran’s phone rang. Grabbing the piece of paper with a smile of thanks, she took the call in her office; it was from Pete Webb, sounding remarkably perky.
‘We’ve found the gym where Alec Minton worked out. Seems he came regularly, guv. And he came the day of his death to empty his locker.’
‘Can you imagine, Pete, being so systematic about killing yourself? It makes you feel ill just to think about it, doesn’t it? Anyway,’ she continued, pulling herself together, ‘it’s a bit of a bugger for us, him leaving no trace.’
‘Ah, but he was seen, guv. One of the cleaners was in the locker room. And what she couldn’t understand was why this quiet, polite guy should be stowing ladies’ underwear into a black sack. Real snazzy stuff, to quote her. Most of it still in the original cellophane wrappers.’
‘So you’re hunting the sack and its contents?’
‘Hunting? We’ve found it, guv! In the cleaner’s house.’
‘I don’t believe it. Why on earth did she admit it?’ In her experience people were remarkably coy about liberating such goods, let alone confessing to having done so.
‘Because she didn’t take it for herself, and she figured if he didn’t want it anyway, her daughter and her friends might as well make use of it. We have lift-off, guv.’
‘Lift off as in DNA?’
‘The lab’s on to it now, even as we speak. Not to mention the prints on the wrappers.’
A surge of disappointment washed over her. She should have been in there at the kill, seeing what looked like evidence, assessing it. But she must ride it – it was no worse than all the other occasions when she’d been in charge of a case and one of her team had had the privilege if supplying a missing piece of the evidence jigsaw.
But Pete was saying something else. ‘Seems she’d seen in the local rag about Minton topping himself and she panicked and stowed it all in the back of her garage. And at long last her conscience gets into gear and she calls us. Nowt so queer as folk.’
‘Nowt indeed.’
‘So now my super – who thinks he’s just invented the whole theory of detection – is urging me to do everything I can to help you. You haven’t been on to him, have you, guv?’
Had a soft phone message turned away wrath? But she wasn’t about to confess to abject grovelling, so she said, innocently or even, she hoped, enigmatically, ‘Me? Have a word? So you’ve got someone checking the contents of that parish magazine?’
‘I have indeed. And I’ve been on to the forensic computer lab. They should have a report on the hard disk ready for tomorrow midday.’
‘Tell them today midday, with my compliments. Well done, Pete – you’re doing an excellent job.’
Mark was having less success. Once again Sammie was locked into answerphone mode. He tried a firm approach. ‘Sammie, love, I really need to talk to you, you know, about your future in the house. So I’ll come over at ten on Saturday morning.’ There. Was that firm enough?
On reflection, he wished he hadn’t explained why he wanted to see her, but he couldn’t unsay the words now.
It was a good job Fran had taken Pat’s advice about her mascara because there was a knock on the office door and Dan Coveney appeared. He was so full of something, however, that he might not even had noticed anything was wrong.
‘Sit before you fall and tell me everything,’ Fran said.
‘It’s Roper’s old neighbour,’ he began.
‘Old as in former or old as in aged?’
‘Both. I got the lads to visit them again, as you suggested, to ask whether anyone had seen Janine waving goodbye when the two men set out with their boat. Now, the prosecution case, as you recall, was that no one did. But we now have a witness, who turns out to have been in hospital when Moreton’s investigations were taking place. And he is prepared to swear that she was standing on the doorstep waving them goodbye. Wearing some sort of towelling housecoat, he said, and mules. And, guess what, they exactly match some of the clothes in the evidence store.’
‘And those poor buggers have endured God knows what because Moreton’s team couldn’t run him to earth. Please tell me he was flat on his back for six months and didn’t know what was going on.’ She pointed to a chair.
Laughing grimly, he sat down. ‘Pretty well. He had a spell of two weeks or more in hospital, then he went straight off to North Wales to stay with his sister while he convalesced. And then, would you believe, he went to stay with his other sister – this one lives in New Zealand! – for six months. So you can’t really fault old QED there.’
‘I would if I were defence counsel. Did he say if Janine ever wore unusual clothes? Glamorous ones? Or had very glamorous girlfriends visiting the house?’
He frowned. ‘And who might they be?’
She managed not to sigh in exasperation. ‘Janine in disguise maybe. Could you get someone to take those enhanced photos along and see if he recognises any of the make-overs?’
‘I’ll get right on to it.’
‘I suppose last night’s clubbing and pubbing di
dn’t have any results?’
‘The youngsters were on duty till three, guv. I thought I’d debrief them in about an hour, when they’ve had their beauty sleep.’
She bit back an observation that at their age she had worked round the clock without so much as a whinge. But things were better now that the police recognised that their officers were human beings with human needs.
‘When you’ve done that, Dan, how do you fancy a trip across to the prison? I took young Sue Hall with me last time, and the trouble is our friend Dale Drury fancies his chances with women. He might react differently to a man. He might not, but it’s worth a try. Take another bloke with you. Someone pretty unshockable – he’s a confessed serial killer, remember.’
‘Any particular line you’d like me to take?’
Since when had she had to spell such things out? ‘Just push him as hard as you can on those rehashed photos of Janine. And remember, even if the clubbing didn’t work last night, flood the clubs and hotel bars this weekend.’
As he left, it dawned on her there was someone else who should see the photos – the residents of Alec Minton’s block of flats. She was on her feet ready to nip out herself – surely she deserved that treat – when she realised what a fool she was being. Any decent young copper could doorstep, and deserved the boost of a successful inquiry. But he or she wouldn’t be able to do what Fran could do: save the Underwater team. She’d start lining up her cronies now. What was Pete Webb’s number?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘The trouble with this Underwater team is,’ Dave Henson said, still smelling pungently of herbal cough cures and looking as if another day or so under the duvet would do him no harm, ‘much as I’d like to poke Gates in the eye, and valuable as the team is on its day, the figures might not add up. You’ve got to balance the needs of the force against the costs of equipment, maintenance and regular training.’ Unasked, he removed a pile of paperwork from a chair so that she could sit down. He even made her a cup of instant coffee. ‘Here, take the weight off your feet.’
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