Double Fault

by Judith Cutler

  Tom asked, ‘What community? It’s not like Yorkshire where we all know one another. There’s the natives, going back for centuries, resenting the rich commuters and their wives in posh cars who don’t belong anywhere and don’t know anyone. No cohesion, no pulling together, that’s the consequence.’ He sank the knife viciously into the cake.

  Ray took a thick slice. ‘When my mum cooks these, the fruit always sink to the bottom. Anyway, to be honest, trained or not, there’s none of the CEOP experts better than the old guv’nor for winkling out useful information. If only we could give the public just one more thing to go on. Oh, there is something you should know: there’s some right bastards out there on Twitter saying young Zac must have done it himself. Something to do with him making the appeal. They say the police always get people they suspect to go on press conferences so the press can ask the questions we can’t because we’re restricted by PACE. Bastards.’

  Poor old Police and Criminal Evidence Act: it got blamed for everything. But it was necessary, no doubt about that. Usually. ‘Bastards indeed. But since we sometimes do, it’s hard to argue. All the same, get our geeks on to the tweets. If anyone goes beyond the line, I’d like them nailed. Very painfully indeed. And I’ll refer to them in tonight’s media statement. Do you want to push off now or have another slice of cake?’ She pushed it over, taking a slice herself. She thought about Spanx but bit in regardless.

  Before he could reply, the phone rang. Since she’d explicitly asked not to be interrupted, she snatched it up crossly.

  ‘Reception, ma’am. There’s a Mr Turner asking to see you. I told him you were in a meeting, but he’s insisting it’s important. Shall I get a CEOP detective to deal with him?’

  Sic transit gloria mundi, as Caffy would probably have observed. She said quietly, ‘I think you might find that Mr Turner was our ACC till about six months ago. He’s also my fiancé. So I’ll come and get him.’

  Tom was on his feet, ready to spare her old bones. But she had an idea that Mark might feel more comfortable being met by her, not by someone he might just consider to be a minion, even though he knew and liked Tom. She even left her mobile and pager on the desk.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I smoked,’ she said as she kissed him, in full view of the reception team. ‘Then I’d have an excuse to come out into the fresh air on my own. As it is, do you fancy a romantic turn round the car park?’

  ‘I might. But you might not, when you hear what I have to tell you. I know, I know, I could have phoned, but you never know who might overhear.’

  ‘So let’s stroll by all means, and hope the CCTV cameras can’t lip-read.’ She slipped her hand into his and set them in motion. ‘Hmmm. Lovely fresh air! Well?’

  ‘It’s the elusive Sean Murray. He knew about the skeletons when he did his bunk. Don phoned him, expecting him to hightail it down to Ashford: when you arrived instead of, rather than as well as, Sean, he just thought you’d decided to sideline him.’

  ‘What? Ouch.’ Stopping so suddenly jarred her leg. ‘All that stuff about a wedding was a load of cock and bull?’

  ‘Who knows? But it seems that in the time it took for him to put down the phone on Don and speak to you, he’d made up his mind to flit.’

  ‘And he hasn’t responded to any of the texts or emails I’ve sent to him. Well, I thought, a wedding … My God, Mark, what does this mean?’

  ‘Maybe a phone call to his Met guv’nor might prove enlightening?’

  ‘It might, mightn’t it? Formal or informal, do you think?’

  ‘Depends whether you find him in his office or at a wedding.’

  She took his hand. ‘You were going to say something else, weren’t you? About phoning.’

  ‘You’re not his line manager. He’s Wren’s protégé. Do the maths.’

  ‘Even if that means dobbing him in to Wren?’

  ‘In his position, I’d want to know. And take action myself. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I prefer a few hills,’ Wren greeted her.

  She tried not to let him see how appalled she was by the cliché: while the lower echelons toil, the chief constable spends his afternoon on the golf course. It was the worst sort of PR for one thing, and punishingly bad for morale, especially as she’d had to commandeer a constable to drive her. Wren’s predecessor had always been where his colleagues could see him. True, he was sometimes a damned nuisance and at least one of his decisions had been catastrophic, but everyone knew he was involved, even to knowing lowly constables by name.

  But here was Wren, stowing his golf clubs in the rear of the sort of 4x4 she always deplored – even though her mother, safely stowed in Scotland, thank goodness, would have been thrilled to bits if she’d turned up in such a monster-mobile. Perhaps that was the very reason why she’d stuck to a conventional car, even though a Saab was hardly bog-standard.

  ‘Sorry to bring you out here, Fran,’ he said. ‘But you must admit the views are fantastic.’ He gestured.

  The Sene Valley course was one of the most picturesque in the country, with huge skies and views of the sea over steeply rolling hills and deep dipping valleys. Unbidden the words of a hymn came into her mind:

  Where every prospect pleases

  And only man is vile.

  Her nod was perfunctory, until she recalled how therapeutic she found the view from her rectory. She added a smile, but despite herself her words seemed to have a hollow ring. ‘A wonderful place to get away from it all,’ she said. ‘And in such wonderful weather, too. Mind you,’ she added, ‘it looks an exhausting course just to walk round, let alone playing and towing a buggie.’

  He nodded, and looked at her. ‘You play yourself? You and your husband might care to play as my guests one day.’

  She didn’t bother to mention her injured leg, since the invitation was so pallidly phrased as to be non-existent. ‘Thank you. Sir, as I said when I called you, we have a problem and I need your advice. DCI Murray, sir.’

  ‘At a Met colleague’s wedding, I believe you said.’ He was waiting for her gasp of admiration at the powers of his memory, so accordingly she smiled. ‘Has he responded to your suggestion that he might like a temporary upgrading here?’

  ‘He’s responded to none of my attempts to communicate with him, sir. However—’ Fran couldn’t stop herself lowering her voice to the confidential level Mark found so hard to hear. ‘However, he did receive one communication that appeared to elicit a response. Mark visited Don Simpson in hospital this morning—’

  ‘How long is Simpson likely to be off?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir. As far as I know it wasn’t discussed, though I understand he’ll be allowed home very soon, minus the offending appendix. Anyway, during the course of their conversation, Don revealed that Murray knew all about the Ashford skeletons.’ In response to a brief flicker of Wren’s eyebrow, she continued, ‘The afternoon they were found, Don couldn’t reach me on the phone, so he called Murray as my deputy. Don couldn’t reach me because I was walking to Murray’s office. When I got there Murray had already cleared his desk, making no reference to Don’s call and the goings-on in Ashford and assuring me that his Met line-manager had granted him time off in lieu. Since I didn’t know about the Ashford case, I had no reason to override the decision, though I did insist that Murray should be at his desk by seven on Monday morning.’

  ‘Which he may well be.’ Wren looked as if he’d rather be elsewhere. Much rather. Somewhere he could avoid making a decision.

  ‘Of course. And getting the dressing down of his young life. On the other hand, sir, the texts and emails and calls he should have received by now all came with good news. Not many people I know would ignore the chance of being an acting superintendent.’

  Turning from her, Wren slammed his tailgate shut. At last he faced her. ‘I take it you want me to contact the Met? Just because someone’s skiving off on a nice weekend?’

  ‘Just because someone’s skiving off on a nice weekend when he knows everyone else is working
their arses off in a major murder enquiry?’ Her phone rang.

  ‘Yes, take it.’ He sounded no more than irritated. But he added in a much more authoritative voice, ‘And I’ll make a call or two.’

  Hers wasn’t easy to deal with; the Livvie case press officer wanted someone to front another appeal. Did she have any suggestions? Should they risk asking Zac and his wife to appear again?

  ‘Are they up to it?’

  ‘I think they might be if you and Mark were there.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Don’t forget Zac coaches Mark: he likes him, admires the way he leapt into action as soon as he spotted something was wrong. But protocol …’

  ‘Bugger protocol. Bugger procedure. On the other hand, I’m not at all sure how Mark would feel about it. He’s retired, after all. Have you asked him?’

  ‘Can’t reach him, ma’am. I’ve texted and left messages, but had no reply at all. Could you ask him when you see him?’

  As if both of them would break off what they were doing and take afternoon tea together.

  ‘I’m unlikely to do that before midnight,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile, I’m in a meeting with the chief constable: talk to Ray about the idea, and maybe I can test the chief’s reaction.’ Or maybe not. Every instinct rebelled against the idea of involving a civilian other than the parents in the appeal. And slice it how she might, Mark was no longer a police officer. Furthermore, he was avoiding publicity like the plague. She wanted to respect that. Didn’t she? Or – deep, deep down – was she still stinging from his rebuke last night and this morning’s unpleasant quip about her not being an ACC yet? She hadn’t deserved either. Had she? Her eyes filled with unexpected and very unwelcome tears.

  ‘Harman? Harman? Are you all right?’

  She must have jumped visibly. And to her amazement Wren was peering at her face.

  ‘Sorry, sir. A touch of hay fever, I’d say.’

  ‘A bit early in the year, isn’t it?’

  ‘Gorse, sir. And you should see me near a hyacinth.’ She polished her nose as if she were a schoolgirl.

  ‘Very well. Sean Murray. You told me he said he had his line manager’s permission to go to his former boss’s wedding.’ Although he was clearly doing no more than reiterating the facts, it felt like a subtle accusation.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘According to Dan Philips, he made no such request. Nor, also according to Dan, is there any such wedding in the offing. I thought you would want to know so you can deal with the matter accordingly when he shows up on Monday.’

  ‘All my unanswered messages about the temporary upgrading?’

  ‘Which may now hang in the balance. Because Dan and his colleagues couldn’t contact him either. I’m disappointed, Fran. Very disappointed.’

  This sounded like a less than subtle criticism of her, although Murray and Wren had been like crossed fingers. No, she was being paranoid, surely. ‘Despite our lack of personal rapport, I thought him a very reliable officer, sir. This is quite out of character.’ That much was true. He’d have happily grassed a colleague up, but not stepped an inch out of line himself. ‘And I’m really very worried, in view of what Don said. If he bolted, as he seems to have done, it looks as if he did so in response to the news of the Ashford skeletons.’

  ‘We can hardly describe him as a missing person yet, can we?’ Wren mused. ‘All the same, I’d like you to check personally that he left the building with nothing of strategic or operational importance.’

  What about Murray as a human being? But she’d try to raise that later. Meanwhile she’d better respond to a justifiable management concern. ‘He’ll have his laptop, sir, I should imagine. But after that Met scare – you’ll recall that a huge amount of classified information went AWOL when some idiot of an officer left his laptop on a train – Mark required everyone in the Kent service to have everything of note encrypted.’ And she’d obeyed the instruction, a right royal pain as far as she herself was concerned, by requiring the geeks to institute spot checks on everyone. Which probably didn’t include Wren.

  He nodded coolly. ‘You’ll let me know of any problems by ten tonight. And that includes not locating him.’ He looked at his watch and seemed to consider the conversation closed.

  ‘Sir, there is another aspect of his disappearance you might feel it necessary to consider.’

  ‘The timing of it? Of course. You think he might be having some sort of breakdown, like your fiancé’s.’

  If ever a comment was below the belt, that one was. ‘It’s not impossible. There might be other reasons.’

  He peered at her closely. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying – that he might have been involved somehow? In the skeleton case?’ he added in a voice that suggested he’d mentally rephrased the question several times and wasn’t sure he’d got it quite right.

  She raised her hand as if to tell him to slow down. ‘That might be a conclusion too far, sir. But such … coincidences … are worrying.’

  ‘They are. Put some feelers out, Fran.’

  Fran? She nearly gaped at him.

  ‘Informal as yet. In fact, get someone to run the standard checks for a misper. Someone as discreet as they come, reporting direct to you. And keep me informed. Whatever time of night or day. Now, anything else? Yes, there is, isn’t there? I’m due in the bar in three minutes’ time.’

  ‘The Livvie case, sir. The parents are happy to make another appeal this evening. But they want Mark with them.’

  ‘Good God, why? And why have you countenanced it for a moment?’

  ‘I haven’t, sir. Since it’s a matter of policy, I’m asking you. Before you ask, I’ve not even mentioned it to Mark yet.’

  He shot her a surprisingly shrewd glance. ‘You’re no keener on this than I am, are you? So you won’t argue for once. You know what you have to do: knock it on the head. Now.’ Another glance at his watch and he was off.

  With an apologetic shrug at her driver, so was she.

  TWELVE

  His good deed – his expiation, more like – over, Mark was at a loss. He should have felt a huge relief that the CEOP team had virtually taken over the Livvie case, managing most aspects of the investigation – from organizing specialized search teams to advising on the media. Virtually everything. Fran and Ray were still officially the lead officers, which was good for Ray’s career, of course. As for Fran, he had a feeling she really would have liked to shrug her shoulders and let the thrusting keeny-beanies do all the boring bits – but the system didn’t permit cherry-picking, and he knew she’d rather eat coal than back out altogether, even if that had been an option.

  As for him, there really was no place for a retired amateur. Rather than hang round in a strop, he headed home to Great Hogben. Should he take advantage of the glorious weather and do some more in the garden? But he could almost, like a true countryman, smell frost in the clear air: planting out delicate young plants was not an option. So should he indulge the very strong desire he’d mentioned to Caffy – to go down to the tennis club? The club itself was no longer a crime scene. Some players might have been put off by the kidnapping, especially if they’d planned to bring their children to mess around while they played. Others might stay away out of a vague notion of ‘respect’. But there might be a crop of rubbernecks too – and would he be setting himself up as an object as interesting as the courts and clubhouse?

  On the other hand, and perhaps this ought to be the overriding argument, Ray was quite keen for him to pick up any gossip that might be going, and to talk to any Golden Oldies who might be around about their perceptions forty-eight hours on. He’d made it clear to Ray that many Golden Oldies were on a limited – and much cheaper – membership option which meant they weren’t eligible to play at peak times, including weekends, so there might not be too many about. It might also be that those who were would rather not speak to someone they might have felt was somehow playing under false colours, if not exactly false pretences.

  At this
point he almost gave up the idea. The club was now such an important part of his life that he didn’t want to be excluded. But then again, that might happen whenever he returned. All he could do was trust to the sense of fair play that made people call line decisions in their opponents’ favour or admit to double-bounces even on a crucial point.

  Six of the courts were occupied when he arrived, with no one sitting out waiting for a partner. Some youngsters were playing singles – two boys, two girls. The girls in particular were embarrassingly good: he couldn’t believe that one day soon they wouldn’t be playing at county level at least. One man was patiently basket-feeding another girl of about nine who already hit the balls harder than Mark could. The others were just Saturday regulars of varying degrees of ability. He didn’t know any of them except the two girls who, come to think of it, looked familiar.

  The tennis wall beckoned. He obeyed. It was so good to switch his mind off and simply respond to the demands of a ball.

  At last some shadows fell across the ground. The two girls whom he now recognized as two of Zac’s team of helpers were watching him, but not surely because they wanted tennis tips. He stopped at once, catching the returning ball left-handed, which made him feel marginally better.

  ‘Flora, isn’t it? And Emily? How are you both?’

  Both flushed deeply and probably painfully: they might look and play like goddesses, but they were after all no more than young teenagers with horrible hormones, plagued by shyness in the presence of even an old male like him. Still, he told himself, it was better to cause a blush than a pitying sneer.

  They looked at each other, tongue-tied.

  This was something he could deal with: all those years of eliciting a response from people who didn’t find it easy to speak about what was important. ‘You did very well with those little ’uns on Thursday,’ he said. ‘Kept them amused, interested – stopped any panic. Well done. Zac would have been proud of you if he’d had a second even to notice what you were doing.’