By now she was convulsed too. ‘Oh, my God, yes. Ken and Barbie.’ But she’d better keep laughing or she might end up in tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fran guessed that HQ would be a-buzz with rumour when she got back late that afternoon, and that it would be almost impossible not to get sucked into the gossip-mongering. Accordingly, she arranged to meet Mark in the car park.
‘I had a phone call from little Bill and Maeve,’ Mark announced. ‘Their valuer can be at your cottage—’
‘Our cottage.’
‘At nine tomorrow. What about our man?’
‘Do you know, I can’t even recall phoning him! I know Pat gave me the number of a mate of hers, but I’ve a nasty idea it got no further than my desk. Shit.’
‘No problem. Knowing what your desk looks like in a crisis,’ he explained, his eyes twinkling, ‘I got on to an estate agent myself, who will be there at ten. I’ve arranged with the chief to take some time off in lieu so I can be there.’
‘You mean I’ve got to go in and beard Gates on my own?’ She feigned a wail of horror.
‘I suspect Gates’ll be late in himself tomorrow,’ he said meaningfully. ‘If at all.’
‘I suppose you don’t know what the chief said to him?’
‘I really don’t. Whatever it was, it would be to the point. Which takes me on to young Caffy. I really don’t think she should be letting him chat her up, either at the Rectory gate – it does sound wonderfully rustic, doesn’t it? – or in a more formal situation. Do you mind going home via the Rectory? I know it’s late, but we may just catch them.’
‘By them you mean Paula? I should imagine she’d be the only one capable of stopping Caffy doing anything she’s decided to do.’
‘A breakdown? Already?’ Paula wasn’t a woman to squeak, but she came near.
‘We’re not sure that it is that. All we know is that Gates…isn’t…himself,’ Mark temporised.
‘Assuming it is, what’s driven him to it?’ Paula asked, passing round mugs of tea. Far from being standard builders’, it was a fine lapsong souchong. Mark knew better than to comment.
‘It must be very hard coming into a new job and trying to reorganise a whole group of people desperate to cling on to the status quo,’ Fran said, almost apologetically. ‘You don’t make a lot of allies, let alone friends.’
Caffy shook her head. ‘When I first came across Simon he already had a lot of anger seething round inside him. A lot. That was one of the reasons I wouldn’t go out with him the first time he suggested it. Years ago, I mean. That and the age difference, of course. He’s got to be forty-seven, forty-eight?’ Fran nodded. ‘And I was only twenty-five. Plus he’s very highly educated—’
‘Come on, Caffy! I’ve never known anyone as well read as you,’ Paula said.
‘But that wouldn’t count with Simon, would it? He’s a formal-qualifications man. Which would mean you could never have an equal relationship. Not like you two.’ Caffy grinned at Fran and then at Mark, who found himself grinning back.
‘No, I’m her boss,’ he declared, taking Fran’s hand. ‘She does as she’s told.’
‘See what I mean?’ Caffy said. ‘Now, I know you don’t weigh up every date as a potential partner for life, but you must hope you’ll want to see each other again, at least as a friend, or what’s the point? I don’t see one anyway. I’d rather spend my time trying to make sense of Chaucer – my God, he’s making my brains squeak.’
‘That’s because you insist on reading him in the original,’ Paula said.
‘So why did you tell us you were thinking of going out with Simon now?’ Mark asked, desperate to get back on track.
‘Because I’ve come on a bit since then. I’ve got some paper qualifications of my own, and Todd and Jan have taught me never to let anyone patronise me. And – I’m not very proud of this, mind – there’s something intriguing about having someone so smitten with you that ages after you turned him down he’s still carrying a torch for you.’
‘Hardy would approve,’ Paula mused. ‘Yes, Caffy’s got me on him now. None of the team dares read the red tops either. And I tell you ours are the most grammatical and best-spelt quotations and invoices you ever saw.’
‘They were before I came on the scene. And it was Meg who made us listen to Radio Four in our lunch breaks.’
‘But now you know Simon’s not himself—’
‘Or even more himself than usual,’ Paula interjected.
‘You’ll forget about this scheme of bearding him at the gate and agreeing to a date?’ Mark said.
‘Too late. He was round here at about five. I said I’d see him at the new Tunbridge Mondiale on Saturday – a gourmet meal in the most elegant surroundings.’
‘For God’s sake, Caffy!’ Even Paula sounded exasperated.
Caffy held up a hand with surprising authority. ‘What else could I have done? He was edgy, I suppose. Yes, very edgy, and very intense. But he didn’t pose any immediate threat so there was no point in letting off my screamer. I didn’t know what effect telling him to push off might have. You know, as in, “What a noble mind is here o’erthrown…” And here I am, consulting you people. All of you.’ She nodded at each in turn.
Paula wheeled away, staring over the scullery sink into the poor tattered garden at the empty skip that had replaced a full one. Fran did something that surprised Mark; she put her arms round Caffy and hugged her.
Mark once again tried to get a grip on the situation. ‘In other words, you’ve bought yourself time. Well done. Now, will you let us consult our colleagues? Simon’s our boss, after all – we can’t do anything…to protect you…without letting the chief constable know.’
‘Of course. And you can tell him I’ll cooperate in any way I can. But I won’t be party to entrapment, Mark. If – big if – Simon’s ill, he needs care, not a police bust.’
‘I’m not sure we do busts,’ he said, finding himself smiling. ‘And I’m equally sure that our duty of care extends as much to psychiatric illness as to injuries incurred in the course of duty.’
‘I blame myself,’ Fran said. ‘I should have realised that something was wrong. When I knew him first he was quiet, serious, even, but always ready to join in with his mates. And he seemed to take my advice in good part.’
‘Apart from that coldness, he was charm personified when I first met him,’ Caffy agreed. ‘A veritable pattern card.’
‘And at our welcome-to-the job dinner party. Well, mostly.’ Fran recalled his shocked, if silent, reaction to one of her comments. ‘But not since,’ she added with some emphasis.
‘Did you find his criticism got very personal?’ Caffy asked. ‘Just something he was saying this afternoon…And he was already telling me what I should and should not wear on Saturday. If I go. Over to you people.’ Her smile was both sad and gracious.
Fran seemed close to tears. ‘You know, he was like a son to me at one point. I thought he was, at least. But now he seems to resent all the help I tried to give. It seems he must have hated me even then.’
Why could she say that to those women, comparative strangers, and not to him?
Fran was still subdued the following morning, though she reported a minor success when Mark, who’d waited in for their valuers, popped into her office to tell her he’d arrived. ‘I’ve just had a call from Pete Webb. The Lenham magazine they found in Alec Minton’s flat was the one that first highlighted our water problems. The edition before the one I found. Why he should have a copy is still a mystery. I’ve told them I’m going to show Mr Patel the e-fit Pete Webb’s organised, just in case he recognises him. He may just have popped in en route from somewhere, spotted the stuff in the mag and drawn the obvious conclusion. And then started his preparations.’ She spread her hands sadly.
‘If anyone could recognise him it’d be Mr Patel,’ Mark said, with a reassuring grin.
But she didn’t even return his smile. ‘We’d better go and talk to the chief. He told me h
e’d expect us the moment you arrived.’
There would be other meetings, no doubt, involving Cosmo and medical advisers, but for the moment the three of them sat as something like friends and equals, worrying over the fate of another friend.
‘He’s not at home, and his mobile phone is switched off,’ the chief reported. ‘So even if she wanted to cancel the date this Caffy – what a name, what a name! – would be unable to do so.’
‘She was quoting Hamlet earlier, sir, to describe Simon’s illness.’
His face lit up. ‘Ophelia? “Woe is me/To have seen what I have seen, to see what I see”?’
‘Possibly, sir.’
‘A very unusual woman, then. I must make her acquaintance, despite her name. But to return to poor Simon: there have been no ATM transactions, no car movement to give away his whereabouts. I’m very worried about him. And I feel very guilty. I should have realised from some of his – let us say, vindictive – outbursts, that he was not a well man.’
‘Presumably he passed his medical with flying colours, so I don’t think you should blame yourself,’ Mark said briskly. ‘Caffy’s worried what effect it may have on him if she stands him up tomorrow. But she’ll accept whatever advice she’s given.’
‘Within reason,’ Fran muttered. Responding to the chief’s raised eyebrow, she said, ‘Caffy’s a very determined young woman, and also a very moral one.’
‘So all the records show. Yes, I know all about her past, Fran, and also about her part in cleansing our Augean stable. I’m inclined to say that the tryst, if so it may be described, should go ahead – with the proviso that the young lady be wired up, and that some of our colleagues are on hand.’
‘To do what, sir? They can’t arrest him for anything. Having a mental illness is not a disciplinary offence. Treating a colleague as he treated Henson yesterday might be, but even then we can scarcely apprehend him. I don’t even like the idea of suspending him. Without his colleagues he’ll be totally on his own. Isolated.’ Again Fran was near to tears.
‘My view is that both those lives are equally valuable,’ Mark said. ‘We can sacrifice neither for the other. Let’s leave it to the shrinks to make the decision.’
But his suggestion didn’t end the meeting. Fran coughed. ‘Before I go, may I present a problem I’ve got in the Roper and Barnes case? We’ve enough evidence to cast very real doubt on the original case. We believe that the real killer may in fact be a man who topped himself a few weeks back. We’ve not got conclusive evidence yet, and since he’s systematically destroyed all traces of his life, the chances are we won’t. How much further do you need me to dig, bearing in mind the budgetary constraints under which we all operate?’
The chief threw back his head and laughed. ‘Fran, I never thought I’d hear you acknowledge that proviso. Seriously, once it’s beyond all reasonable doubt that Roper and Barnes were wrongly convicted, tell the CPS your findings. They’ll take it from there. As for your suicide, tie that case up as best you can, then we can issue a statement saying that we believe we have found the individual responsible for the killing but that no further action can be taken since he is deceased. What evidence are you waiting for?’ he asked eagerly, switching off his managerial voice and suddenly reminding them that he, too, had once been a beat officer.
‘Some hint that Alec Minton might have been near the site – we’re showing a computer-generated facial reconstruction to all the allotment holders and to the guy on the reservoir gate.’
‘And Mr Patel, our village shopkeeper – don’t forget him,’ Mark said.
‘And DNA tests are already in train,’ Fran concluded.
The chief narrowed his eyes. ‘Fran, you don’t look your brightest and best, you know. You’re not still troubled by what I said yesterday about compulsory retirement, are you?’
She replied to his comment rather than his question. ‘To be honest, sir, I’m very tired. Balancing all the admin with running a couple of active investigations has taken it out of me rather.’
‘I know which you’d rather be doing. Look, may I offer a solution? Despite all our best efforts, our clear-up figures are very poor. Not compared with other forces’, of course: we’re right at the top of this blasted new government league table with space to spare. But we all know that there are still cases where it would be nice to get a result, years later.’
They both nodded. Where was this going?
He smiled as he continued, ‘What I would like to do is follow the example of a number of other forces and improve our clear-up rate by investigating “dead” crimes with our new technical advances. We’d need someone to head up a small team – very low budget, of course.’
She knew Mark was grinning broadly. Only then did it dawn on her what the chief was offering.
‘It’s a dead end, Fran. Not the sort of job any young Turk thrusting for promotion would want. But would you think about taking it on? No, it’s not even a firm offer. It was something I did intend to put to Simon. How soon he’ll be in a position to comment I don’t know.’
‘Or how impartial his comments,’ Mark said quietly.
‘However, I think it’s only fair to say that that would be my strong recommendation. Ah!’ The phone rang. ‘I told them not to put any calls through unless they are related to Simon. Excuse me.’
‘This calls for a celebratory cup of tea,’ Mark said, putting his arm round her shoulder as they left. ‘And at least a smile.’
‘So it does. I’m sorry.’ She produced a weak affair. ‘And I never asked how you got on with the valuers.’
‘They came, they saw, they jotted. All I have to do now is talk to Sammie about her moving out or at least our moving back in. Tomorrow morning,’ he said, hoping he sounded resolute rather than apprehensive.
Her response was interrupted by the sight of Sue Hall running down the corridor towards her, waving a piece of paper. Mark melted away.
‘Guv, guv – we’ve had a phone call you should know about!’
‘Yes?’
‘A woman who does some volunteer work for a charity shop. Not every day, you know how it is. Anyway, she’s seen our TV coverage and – I know, she’s not exactly leapt forward – she says she unpacked a black sack full of lovely women’s clothes. Some very sexy evening wear.’
‘And when was this?’
‘A few weeks back. She says she remembers because the sack itself was filthy, as if it had been in a shed or something, but the clothes were still immaculate. But they were the sort of thing she didn’t think that Hythe was ready for, you might say, or any other Help the Aged shops in the area. So she sent them off for pulping.’
‘Shit! You really had my hopes raised there. Never mind.’
‘Well, she did say one other thing. A man brought the sack in. A fine-looking man, she said. And he looked very sober.’
‘Sober?’
‘That was what she said. Pete Webb got someone to show her that photo-fit. And she’s prepared to ID him.’
To her amazement, Fran found herself throwing her arms round her colleague. ‘Yes!’ they chorused together.
A double triumph – both this case and, far more important in career terms, a job that might have been designed for her dropping into her lap without any effort on her part. So why was she feeling so empty? She should have been doing handsprings of delight. As it was, there was so little spring in her step she decided to treat herself not to the new outfit Cosmo would no doubt have recommended, but at least to some fresh air.
There was no doubt that she could, indeed possibly should, have delegated showing the e-fit of Minton to Mr Patel to the most junior of Pete Webb’s team, but she was going to do it herself. She parked in her own drive and walked down. Yes, this felt good. Villagers were working in their gardens, cleaning their windows, and even applying paint. Why not? The sun was warm, the breeze smelt clean and fresh and all around her was a sense of rebirth. The new job would give her time to enjoy all this at the Rectory and still bring in
the income they needed to pull the place into shape.
Mr Patel greeted her by a good approximation of her name, which given the irregularity of her custom she truly did not deserve, and looked with casual interest at the e-fit. He was about to shake his head, she thought, but suddenly his face changed and he called out to his wife. ‘Meena! Meena, come and look at the picture of this gentleman.’
Meena also greeted Fran by name, correctly, in her case, as she peered at the piece of paper her husband had laid on the counter. She murmured a name Fran didn’t catch. ‘His face is a little thinner, but it could be. Excuse me a moment.’ She turned to serve a customer.
‘We’ve not seen him recently, Mrs Harmer, that’s the trouble. Not for a month, six weeks.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t be seeing him again, Mr Patel. He’s passed away. It’s just a matter of identification,’ she fibbed.
‘Well, his name was Munton or Manton or something. My ears aren’t what they were, you know.’
Fran nodded sympathetically. The Patels might be a village fixture, knowing everything about everyone, but that didn’t stop them growing old. Stooped and white-haired, he must be pushing seventy-five, glasses on a cord round his neck and a hearing aid in each ear. ‘I’m sure they’re good enough. And how did you know him?’
‘He used to come into the shop quite often. He’d always buy something. Some fresh vegetables. Very keen on his health, he was.’
‘But why here?’ she pondered aloud.
‘Late-night opening,’ he said, with ill-concealed triumph. ‘And no need to go to a big supermarket.’
But didn’t Hythe have a perfectly good Waitrose open all hours? Not to mention a corner shop or two?
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she apologised. ‘I meant, why Lenham, when he had a flat in Hythe?’
He smiled graciously. ‘I might turn your question. Why have a flat in Hythe when you have a cottage here?’
Still Waters Page 24