Double Fault

by Judith Cutler

  There was a very long pause. At last, Wren said slowly, as if he was still considering, ‘Leave it with me. Where did this Arkwright – oh, he’s your other temporary upgrading, isn’t he? – lose Murray?’

  ‘St Pancras. And there can’t be stations with more CCTV coverage than that one.’

  Another very long pause. This time she would swear she could hear the little wheels turning in his head. ‘Are you sure that this Arkwright’s checked everything?’

  ‘There’s no one I’d trust more,’ she declared. ‘Now, with respect, sir, Tom and I have both been working since six this morning. I’d like to send him home so he can come in fresh tomorrow – when the news of the skeletons might break.’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ he said with surprising speed. ‘I’ll get on to the media myself. Though it may be too late,’ he admitted, surprising her for a second time. Another pause. ‘Any response to the Livvie appeal? I thought you did well there,’ he added grudgingly.

  ‘I’m just about to check, sir. And then, provided the CEOP team have everything under control, I shall go home too.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘But,’ she added, hating herself for being so supine, ‘I shall leave my phone on.’

  ‘Very well. And report back to me any Livvie developments. I need something to offer the media instead of the damned skeletons.’

  ‘Leave it. Let it go to voicemail,’ Mark said, as he was being signed out of the building. ‘Oh, I knew you couldn’t,’ he added, as she reached for her phone. ‘Pavlov’s dogs, that’s what we all are.’

  ‘But this one’s from Caffy,’ she said, smiling, though she’d thought her face muscles would never work again.

  He stood with his arm round her shoulders, and she moved the phone so he could hear too. Neither of them had time to argue with what Caffy proposed before she cut the call.

  Each supporting the other, it seemed to her, they staggered to his car.

  ‘She says she’s bringing us food! I don’t know whether to scream or to be grateful,’ she managed, as she strapped herself in.

  ‘I know. But she does need to return my watch – you never even noticed I wasn’t wearing it, did you? Without her, we’d have had to get a takeaway. And the thought of Caffy delivering to our door what she calls iron rations – I’m salivating even to think of it.’

  ‘Now who’s a well-trained dog? Tell me about this watch of yours …’

  ‘Fran: go and lie down,’ Caffy greeted them as Mark opened their front door to her a mere minute after they’d arrived themselves. She carried two old-fashioned wicker baskets, their contents swathed in tea-towels. ‘Mark, you can lie down too, or sit if you insist. If anyone knows her way around your kitchen, it’s me – didn’t I help design and install it? I’d give you a drink only you both look as if you’d fall asleep on me before you could eat, and alcohol’s better with a bit of blotting paper. I’ll wake you when everything’s ready.’ Caffy bustled off.

  Neither argued. Neither slept either, for fear that a catnap would destroy their chances of dropping off later.

  Within minutes, pâté and toast had appeared on the kitchen table, with a glass of wine apiece. The table was laid for two, the kitchen light glare reduced to candles.

  ‘You’re not joining us?’ Fran expostulated.

  ‘You don’t want to talk to anyone, Fran, do you? Admit it. And in any case, I’ve got a date. Yes, the lunchtime guy, Mark. Would you mind if I kept your watch a bit longer?’

  He grinned. ‘Oh, this food was a bribe all along, was it?’

  She responded. ‘Or a thank you present, in advance. The pâté’s home-made, so no E. coli or anything else nasty. Bread’s some of Paula’s best – she sends her love, by the way. Now, the casserole’s in the oven with the potatoes alongside – I know they’re only microwaved, but I’m crisping their jackets so you think they’re the real thing. There’s salad in the fridge. Cheese and biscuits ditto.’ She whipped off an apron they’d not even registered. Dotting a kiss on first Mark’s and then Fran’s cheek, she was off. And back. ‘Switch your phones off, please. Until you’ve eaten, at least.’

  They heard the door close behind her. But even though she’d gone, they did as they were told. They didn’t talk much: it was a companionable silence, though, she hoped, not one that suggested that his earlier unkindness had caused a major rift. They’d agreed, in any case, to forswear rifts: life was too fragile, too dependent on so many factors, to risk wasting a minute with a row. When they did make the effort to converse, pushing back from the table after the casserole and silently eschewing the cheese, they speculated mildly – they didn’t have enough energy for wildly – about the new young man in Caffy’s life, important enough for her to shed the watch they’d never seen her without.

  ‘I’ve got it here,’ Mark said, fishing in a pocket and laying it on the table.

  ‘Pretty. But not exactly Caffy.’

  ‘Which more or less describes the young man who gave it her, as I recall. I’d better put it in the safe.’

  Was there a slight edge to his voice? There wasn’t all that much in there, bar what little – but good – jewellery that she’d acquired from time to time, mostly bought by herself for herself. There was also a very expensive watch, one his late wife had bought him not long before she’d died. Fran had only seen it a couple of times, and had never seen him wearing it. Assuming it had painful memories, when his old everyday one had abandoned any pretence at regular timekeeping, Fran herself had bought him the replacement Caffy was now wearing soon after they’d moved in together. She knew what he wanted – needed – to ask. But after their near-spat last night and again this morning, she knew he wouldn’t want to risk hurting her, any more than she’d want to upset him. So she’d better say something herself.

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m not going to be able to hurtle into Maidstone tomorrow, even less go to that nice shop in Canterbury. I know it might be a … a problem … that you might feel … but there is that other watch in the safe. The one Tina …’

  She couldn’t quite read his smile, though she did suspect there was a certain amount of relief mixed up with whatever else was there. ‘The one I never wear? It’s not … not actually a very good watch. I mean, she paid through the nose for it, and while she was alive I wore it. Of course I would. But it kept losing time. Or stopping. And when she died I went back to that old one, which you replaced. Do you remember afterwards? I thought you might! So I might have to wear Tina’s for a few days and keep my fingers crossed it won’t go wrong yet again. After that, I wondered about giving it to Dave, in trust for young Marco.’

  She smiled. ‘When you’ve had it repaired.’

  He pulled himself to his feet, and kissed her hair. ‘You finish your wine: I’ll go and stow one watch and bring the other out. Anything you want while I’m there?’

  ‘When all this is over, when I can think of putting on nice clothes and going out to the theatre and … doing things that merit a few diamonds … Leave everything where it is, will you?’ And then – was it too late? Had his face fallen? – she remembered something. ‘Except those lovely earrings you bought me in Paris. Just within the uniform code. I’d love to wear those again.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘There’s absolutely no need for you to get up too,’ Fran insisted, as Mark struggled to a sitting position. ‘One of the pleasures of a Sunday, remember – being able to lie in!’

  ‘Not if you’re offering the prayers of intercession at a nine-thirty service,’ Mark said. ‘Especially if you haven’t written the prayers in question. I’d completely forgotten. I’ve asked Zac and Bethany to come along to the service, and then we – Zac and I – are going to knock up for half an hour.’

  Despite herself Fran frowned. ‘What’ll the media make of that? Grieving father plays in sun?’

  ‘They’ve got to find out first. The poor lad’s stir-crazy – I think the FLO’s more intrusive than she should
be. And we thought that no one at the club would snitch if he got some air there. We can both change in the clubhouse.’

  She nodded as she headed for the en suite. ‘Actually that’s quite a good idea from your point of view, too. There may be all sorts of rumours flying round after your encounter with the hyperactive arm of the law yesterday, and it’d be good to scotch them.’

  He reached for the notepad that always lived beside the bedside phone and started to jot and cross out. In the old days, he’d been meticulous preparing official reports for his fellow senior police officers in ACPO; now he was addressing an even higher authority, he gave his words correspondingly more thought.

  ‘You’ll add one for Livvie, won’t you?’ Fran asked, emerging from the shower to find him still writing.

  ‘And one for all of the team searching for her,’ Mark affirmed, ‘but not for the families of your skeletons – right? Unless the news breaks between now and nine-thirty?’

  ‘Absolutely right. I just hope Wren’s got more clout with the media than I suspect he has. Though I suppose he’s done all right so far. Look, sweetheart – this tennis club business: are you sure about brazening things out?’

  ‘Zac’s idea, as it happens. He’s going to meet me there. Fixed it last night while you were organizing that pink teddy bear.’

  ‘Excellent. It’s not just him trusting you but him showing the world he trusts you …’

  ‘We’ve always got on well. And I think his going the extra mile might owe something to your getting that vile crap about him killing Livvie himself pulled off the internet. And after your bravura performance he’s not going to pull out, is he? Heavens, is that the time?’ He leapt out of bed and grabbed at clothes.

  ‘No need to get dressed. I’ve decided today’s the day I start driving again, and sod the medics.’

  He shook his head. ‘You can’t. I mean, medically you probably could. But you’ve got to maintain your crutches charade for the media, haven’t you? And before you go, you’re having something in the way of breakfast or you can’t take your painkillers. And I don’t see you managing without those, do you? What we’ll do is this: I’ll drive and dictate the prayers for you to write down …’

  To her amazement, since Wren wasn’t known as an early riser, Fran was greeted on her arrival at work with a summons to the chief constable’s office – the nest, as it was obviously going to be called.

  He eyed her. ‘I thought you were walking unaided, but now I notice that you still need elbow crutches some of the time,’ he said, by way of greeting. The cup of coffee on his desk smelt exquisite. ‘Have you cleared this with HR and the medics – insurance, of course?’

  ‘The crutches? Never use them.’

  ‘With due respect—’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Of course, you saw them on TV. It was just that someone thought they would play well with the media out at the crime scene on Friday night, and I could hardly have staged an overnight recovery to manage without them for the press conference last night. I shall phase them out for the media, just as I did in real life. And I shall be delighted to do so – the angle they make me walk has really hurt my lower back.’

  He surprised her again. ‘Are you better sitting or standing?’

  ‘Best lying flat on the floor, sir. But it’s hard to maintain discipline from that position, isn’t it?’

  Lips compressed, he gestured her to sit.

  ‘What sort of pressure did you put on Murray?’

  She allowed herself not so much as a blink at the swift change of subject. ‘The usual. No, actually it was slightly less than the usual. When I had to take time off after my accident, I got back to find that in my absence he had contrived to find an office some way away from mine.’ She paused, but he didn’t react. ‘This meant that rather than simply pass jobs over to him, I often did things myself I’d normally have decanted straight away. But he did have to take on tasks like writing reports and minuting meetings to which he’d gone in my stead.’ She patted her leg. ‘All good preparation for the upgrading you agreed we could offer him.’

  ‘Would you say he was bullied in any way? By his colleagues?’

  She didn’t think there was anything to gain from hinting that he wasn’t the most popular in the team – well, not a team player at all, of course. ‘To the best of my knowledge, no. He certainly said nothing to me. But, as I said, he actively chose an office as far from my base as he could – at least, that was how it appeared to me. I said nothing because to change what was by then a status quo would have made me appear more critical and carping than I actually am.’ He didn’t respond to her self-deprecating grimace. ‘And it would have meant a further upheaval for the members of the secretariat, who’ve already had their working practices turned upside down and inside out.’

  He leant forward almost confidentially. ‘OK, that was your official response. The sort I’d expect. Off the record, I know you’ve got your ear closer to the ground than most. What rumours have you picked up?’

  ‘Only those concerning the phone call that appeared to precipitate his departure. They involved anything from a demanding girlfriend upwards. But someone did note a call from a man, who was identified as Don Simpson.’ This time he did pull a face. ‘There will always be gossip that never reaches me because of what – rather than who, I hope – I am. My own feeling is that far from being cold and withdrawn, as some saw him, he was actually full of unexpressed anger. I was surprised he passed all the routine medical and psychological tests, to be honest.’

  He looked taken aback, then ready to be outraged. ‘But you said nothing?’

  She spread her hands. ‘He was your protégé, sir.’ His face was almost carefully blank. She continued, ‘I had – have! – no evidence of anything. I only intuited.’

  ‘They say detective work is ninety per cent intuition and ten per cent evidence.’

  ‘In the old days, maybe, sir,’ she countered, thinking in any case that he was confusing the quotation with something about perspiration and inspiration. ‘But with all today’s technology—’

  ‘Which still hasn’t succeeded in tracking him down, Fran.’ Wren did the most human thing she’d ever seen him do: put his head in his hands and tugged at his hair. Then he sat upright, and changed gear. ‘Very well, any news on either of our other major investigations?’

  ‘CEOP’s Missing, Abducted and Trafficked Children Unit, in conjunction with our own team, are working their socks off to establish the identity of a horse two new witnesses now believe might have been present at the crime scene. As a matter of fact, that confirms something Mark suggested.’ Wrong!

  ‘I want him kept well away from all this, remember.’

  She shook her head. ‘It was he whom the witnesses approached, sir. He immediately directed them to Ray Barlow, who came and met them and did the necessary – by the book, of course. Parents in attendance, everything.’

  ‘Why on earth did they approach Mark? And where, for God’s sake?’

  ‘At the tennis club, sir,’ she said, wide-eyed with innocence.

  ‘What the hell was he doing there?’

  ‘Playing tennis.’

  ‘That’s preposterous!’

  She almost choked: she would have expected the old chief constable to have used such a word, but not Mr Modernity here. ‘Why would you think that, sir? He’s not a police officer any more. Just Joe Public, who happens to have done us a favour by alerting us so early to Livvie’s disappearance. Zac’s been coaching him for months, as I’ve told you. They’re good friends.’ Perhaps now wasn’t the moment to tell him that within two hours Zac and he would be seen playing together. And she certainly hoped Ray would keep his mouth firmly zipped about yesterday’s paedophile moment. Ninety-nine per cent of her colleagues would laugh their socks off. Wren would see it as an incident with potential repercussions.

  ‘I thought you might have suggested some restraint was in order. I was clearly mistaken.’ He paused for a few moments, perhaps waiting for a
contrite apology, which he did not get. ‘Now, the youth centre skeletons. What progress can you report there?’

  ‘Very little. We’ve allocated some staffing to see if our prime suspect may have committed any other murders in towns where he also worked; he himself is dead.’ Something started to fizz in her brain. She raised a hand, either to stop him speaking or like a schoolchild asking permission to leave a classroom. ‘Sir, you spoke earlier about police intuition. Can you spare me – I’ll get back to you the moment I can.’ She didn’t wait to hear his permission or otherwise.

  She’d more or less instructed the team working on the Ashford skeletons to stand down over the weekend, but wasn’t surprised – or in any way displeased – to find several of them at their desks. Madge Stewart, halfway through a huge muffin, was so engrossed in what she was looking at on her computer that she didn’t clock Fran’s presence until Fran coughed gently.

  ‘No, don’t get up. You’re not officially here, are you, Madge, any more than I am. What I want is the pictures of all the kids who disappeared. One of them, at least. Christopher thingy.’

  ‘Christopher Manton, ma’am?’

  ‘That’s him. The scary one.’ She almost tore the photo out of the younger woman’s hand. ‘Thanks. Sign this out for me, would you? Thanks. Back as soon as poss …’

  ‘I want your permission to do something very sensitive, sir,’ Fran said, once more in Wren’s office. ‘You may not like it, but I think it’s necessary.’

  He nodded. She was to continue speaking.

  She laid the photo of Manton on his desk. ‘Do you recognize this young man, sir?’

  ‘No. Why should I? Wait a moment, he does look familiar. No, I’m imagining it.’ All the same, he lifted it and turned it one way and another again.

  ‘I’d like your permission to get the boffins to compare this with another photograph, sir.’

  Wren froze. ‘Why would you need my permission to do that?’

  ‘Because it would be one of Sean Murray. To see if they’re one and the same person.’ She touched the photo. ‘This boy was one of the kids involved in the Ashford youth club project. Christopher Manton. And it matters because if Malcolm Perkins doesn’t seem to have killed anyone else, our other suspect is Christopher Manton. The other kids, some of whom were reportedly scared of him, said he was idle, both on the football pitch and on the site before he disappeared – which is what a lot of other people did from there, of course, so I’m not jumping to any conclusions. If he’s Sean Murray, then he can’t have been a victim, can he? But it’s just – just – conceivable that he was the killer. Who somehow or other took on a new identity, got qualifications and joined the Met.’ She interrupted herself, speaking slowly: ‘It does seem a big leap, from a fully signed up dosser to someone with three A levels, a degree, a postgraduate qualification … What would change one’s motivation so much?’