And drive past Abbot’s Croft yet again? ‘You know exactly why. I’ll see you out if you need me to,’ he goaded her.
‘Over my dead body.’ And she turned the van in three precise manoeuvres.
He resisted the temptation to drive past Abbot’s Croft himself, and, yes, even to call Ray from where he was. He turned slowly and carefully – thank God this was such a quiet lane – and headed back towards the pub.
Murray was saying nothing yet. Then he looked coolly at his watch. ‘Chief Superintendent Harman, would it be possible to have a comfort break?’
‘Of course. But don’t think of leaving the building again, lest we take it as a sign of guilt. Would you like a cup of tea when you return?’
Fran sat back. Had she gone too far when she’d accused him of murdering the kids? He’d have been within his rights to ask for a formal interview at that point, and possibly legal representation. And what was the point? There was no indication he was ever anywhere near Taunton or Stoke or West Bromwich, was there? Not if his college records were accurate. He’d not reacted to her earlier reference to other killings. And Perkins certainly was in those locations, and doing just the same sort of work in the same sort of situation as he was in Ashford. Was she letting her dislike of the man get between her and best professional practice? Was wanting to shock something out of him justification enough? She didn’t think it was.
She stretched her leg and hip. She hadn’t eaten enough recently to risk taking another painkiller, and there was a griping throb in her right buttock almost severe enough to make her call it a day. But that would be to give in, something completely alien to her.
Returning quietly, Murray sat down, apparently more relaxed, but still looking disengaged. He was no fool: he must have known the weakness in her position. Which made her look all the more unprofessional.
His shrug – he had the shoulder vocabulary of a Frenchman – was dismissive rather than apologetic. ‘I would say I’ve committed what the Church would describe as a sin of omission, rather than a sin of commission. All the qualifications I’ve gained, from the Access course that got me into University, my degree, my Master’s – everything, in short, that enabled me to become a police officer, were gained by Sean Murray. All I failed to do was notify you that until the age of eighteen I was indeed, known as Christopher Manton. Needless to say, the Met saw and accepted the evidence of my change of name by deed poll. All legal and above board. But I admit I should have told you who I was as soon as the investigation got under way.’
She didn’t want to help him with a prompt, even an acknowledgement, but eventually decided to retreat in order to further advance. ‘Let us agree that as Christopher Manton, you spent some time working on a youth project in Ashford, from which then as now you skived, which has since thrown up a number of skeletons. What does the man formerly known as Christopher Manton have to say about that?’
‘That if there are the remains of my contemporaries on the site, they were put there after I left the project. Skived off. Or walked away. There must be any number of less pejorative synonyms. I began, as they say, a new life. Quite successfully, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?’ He produced his superior and irritating smile. ‘If you want corroboration about dates, I suggest you contact the person who rescued me from my old life – from my old self, you might say. Unfortunately he is far from well, and I should imagine the sudden arrival of a whole load of my colleagues would do him no good at all.’
A sick friend? That would fit all the things young Tom had seen him do in Maidstone – the rucksack in which to put food, the meals for two. Yes, it would fit. And as for bunking off to London on Friday, presumably that was where this man lived. For once Murray was doing what any normal young man would do. In a crisis, he was going home if not to mother, at least to a substitute dad.
‘And who is this man? We won’t send in the cavalry, I can promise you that. Anyone who can turn around the sort of dosser your Misper file depicts so that he ends up in your position must be someone extraordinary. The sort of person whose hand I’d want to shake,’ she added with a dry smile.
To her amazement, he responded with one of his own, the first that didn’t remind her forcibly of a crocodile. ‘Anyone would.’
But she wasn’t going to get a chance yet because a barrage of texts was tumbling in: Mark, to say that something interesting had come up; Ray, to say that something very interesting had come up; Ed Chatfield, to ask if she wanted to be involved in something very interesting.
Wouldn’t she just, if she wasn’t involved in something very interesting herself? But in truth she simply could not sit still any longer, and she didn’t want this cold man to see her wince with pain and hold her desk to support her.
‘Very well, Sean, what I suggest you do now is take yourself downstairs to the incident room and read through all the files there. I want your written opinions on the effect losing their child had on the families concerned. I want your written, reasoned opinion on who might have done these terrible killings. And then you can take yourself off home and ponder what your disappearance did to your parents. You may have wiped your feet of them very thoroughly, and good luck to you, but maybe, with the wisdom of hindsight, you might want to find some way of letting them know you’re not dead.’
Another smile. ‘That’s what my friend in London said. But I’ll say to you what I said to him: I’m not ready to, now or for the foreseeable future. As for all this written work – you make it sound as if you’re keeping me in detention like a naughty schoolboy.’
‘And you have a problem with that?’ She watched him leave. It was time to see what was – what was the word? – interesting. What would Caffy say about the three of them all choosing the same uninformative word?
TWENTY-THREE
When she reached the Incident Room she was greeted by an ironic cheer. She responded with a flap of the hand and an enigmatic smile – not for anyone was she going to report on the needs of her bladder, which had caused a three-minute delay in addition to the time spent wrapping up the conversation with Murray.
‘Well? What is it that’s so interesting?’ she demanded. Ed and Ray were looking cock-a-hoop, but there was no sign of Mark. Nor should there be, of course, but her heart bled for him, especially as Ed greeted her with the words, ‘Mark’s had what looks like a breakthrough. A remote farmhouse in the middle of nowhere – between Stone Street and the east coast.’
Obligingly the map reference appeared on the magic screen, immediately replaced by an OS map and then by Google Earth’s view.
‘Abbot’s Croft,’ Ed said, touching it.
A red circle appeared on the map, which had reappeared. No other cottages for miles. No other anything. A hamlet called Westry was the nearest to anything like civilization.
What the hell was Mark doing out there, when he’d promised himself an afternoon’s gardening to wind down after tennis?
‘So to get to it from Upper Hogben you can go cross country, meaning you can miss out all the nice CCTV and number recognition cameras on the M20,’ Fran observed, thinking it was time she said something useful. ‘You’d only be able to do it slowly, wouldn’t you? But it’s horsey country out there – no one would remark on a horsebox picking its way through the lanes. And no one would check if there was a child inside the horsebox …’
‘Quite. But we’ve taken no action yet,’ Ed Chatfield said. ‘Not until we could consult you. After all, we’ve absolutely no evidence of any wrongdoing connected to the farmhouse and the stable. It’s just a hunch.’
‘And not even our hunch,’ she added. ‘Just Mark’s hunch. Upstairs won’t like it at all if we call it wrong, will they? Trouble is, the place is so isolated that it isn’t as if we can knock on the neighbours’ doors and talk to them.’
‘Seems to me the horse is the answer,’ Ray said.
Someone jeered, ‘You’re going to have it in for questioning? Check its ID?’
Fran snapped, not least because she should
have come up with Ray’s idea herself, ‘We’ve got a good description. We know its shoe size; we’ve got casts of the prints it leaves. We start from there. So we’d need to access the farm and its buildings.’
‘And to catch and examine the horse,’ Ray observed quietly. ‘For which we need experts. After all, I don’t imagine it’ll just stand still and raise its legs for you.’
Fran nodded and spoke to the young man who’d mocked Ray. ‘Check out someone from Mounted – and the vet who Mounted use. Someone with experience and discretion. Now. OK?’
It was very clearly going to be OK from the minute she opened her mouth. ‘Ma’am.’ He sprang into action.
She continued, ‘All this is going to take time – time we may not have. I think we should take a big and expensive risk. Let’s assume Livvie’s at that farm. Hang the budget. I want her out alive. And just this once we’ll throw everything at it. Even a search dog – the sort they use in earthquakes. So long,’ she added in her most dulcet tone, ‘as we don’t frighten the horse.’
It was hard to do everything at the double when the lower half of her body protested at every move, but hard it would have to be. Grabbing her jacket, she rushed to the waiting car via a snack machine, texting Mark as she went: he needed to know she was backing his judgement. Even if he didn’t respond – and she had a multitude of other things to do as she was ferried to the site – she’d bet her pension that though he’d never for a moment interfere with the operation, he’d not be far away. He couldn’t bear to be, any more than she would in his situation.
It was another lovely clear evening, with bright stars but no moon, and was as bitterly cold as the previous ones had been. The uniform sergeant in charge of the site flagged them down some five hundred metres from their target, then gave an embarrassed and general salute. ‘Park over there, mate, with the others,’ he whispered to Fran’s driver – not Dizzy this time, but a constable from Ray’s team, a lad called Jay. ‘We’re keeping a clear run just in case we need an ambulance – right?’
‘Good work. Better have an ambulance on standby, actually, even though their budgets are as badly hit as ours,’ Fran said, forcing herself to get out of the car without assistance. At least now she didn’t have time to worry about the pain, which was as bad as it had been for weeks, or the consequences. She slipped on the regulation brightwear and accepted a hard hat.
‘It’s a bit of a step, ma’am,’ the sergeant warned her. ‘Would you want to wait till the DCI says it’s OK to bring in wheeled vehicles? He arrived five minutes ago, ma’am – scooted off as if the devil himself was nipping his heels. Or if you prefer, I could get someone to offer you their arm, as it were? I don’t see your crutches, ma’am,’ he added, half in, half out of the car, burrowing behind the front seats.
‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve given them up.’
‘Very glad to hear that, ma’am.’
He sounded so sincere she added a sop to his pride. ‘But I would be grateful for a torch – starlight’s all very lovely, but a few streetlights would have been more useful. Or a moon.’
‘No problem, ma’am.’ He proffered one. ‘But I could detail someone to accompany you anyway.’
For goodness’ sake, did he think she was the queen? But why kick such thoughtfulness in the teeth, especially as it was quite a good idea? ‘That would be more than kind. Thanks.’
Her escort turned out to be Ginny, a bright-eyed young woman, quiet until spoken to, and then happy to brief her.
‘So how many people have been deployed round here? There were enough cars back there for twenty-odd,’ Fran breathed.
‘That’s right, guv’nor.’ The response was equally quiet. ‘And a personnel carrier’s down the lane the far side of the farm – so another dozen, I suppose.’
‘They’ve done very well – even though I know they’re there I can’t see anyone – or hear anyone.’
‘Total blackout – though they’ve got night glasses and cameras. Oh, and radio silence, guv’nor. No talking rule, of course – until you give the word and things kick off.’
‘I’d better observe it too then, hadn’t I?’ And it was a good idea to concentrate on where she was putting her feet.
Perhaps the horse could sense her colleagues’ presence, however: even from fifty metres away it sounded as if it was moving around a lot, and it whinnied from time to time. She hadn’t a clue what that indicated. Hard hat in hand, Ray was lurking under a tree and flapped a hand to attract her attention, so she asked him quietly, ‘Any sign of the mounted officer yet?’
‘On her way – but now she’s caught in a six-mile tailback on the M20. Fatal RTA.’
‘Sod it.’ No time to feel sorry for the victim or those dealing with it. Not yet. ‘What about that tame vet?’
‘We’re on to it now, guv’nor,’ Ray whispered, pointing at another bright-jacketed figure, who was apparently doing a square dance until he settled for a far corner. ‘Poor mobile coverage.’
‘So I see. Search dog?’ she asked.
‘Also on its way – the Fire Service were very helpful,’ a woman’s voice responded, almost inaudibly. She wasn’t sure who it was, but thanked her anyway.
Ray continued, ‘We’re rigging up lights too. We won’t switch them on till you ask for them, but they’re focused on both the house and the stables.’
‘Excellent. This place is a bit of a dump, isn’t it?’
‘The farmhouse? Yes – it belonged to a Mrs Dyer, who became something of a recluse after she lost her husband. And now she’s so far gone with dementia they had to section her.’ He added grimly, ‘When she goes, I dare say her relatives will be down like vultures. The house’ll fetch a bomb when it’s been done up a bit. Don’t know about those ruins at the back, though.’ He pointed at the stable area. ‘They’ll probably accidentally on purpose run a JCB into them and bring the whole lot down. And worry about planning permission later.’
‘That’d be a shame. Mark assures me they’re Tudor. It’ll be easier to tell when we risk switching the lights on.’ What did Mark know about Tudor architecture, come to think about it?
Ray turned to speak into his radio. ‘Everyone’s in place. How much noise do you want when we go in?’
‘We’re not on some drugs raid in the back end of Canterbury filmed for TV. We know we’ve got a restless horse with sharp bits at the front and metal at each corner, and I very much hope we’ve got a terrified child. So very little noise, in other words. Check the house first: though it’s boarded up, there may be some unofficial way in. And then we approach the stable area. But, I repeat, I don’t want anyone getting in the way of those hooves.’
He spoke into his radio again, almost immediately turning back to her. ‘Shall I get them to take the bolt-cutters to the chain round the gate? Actually, the gates themselves are in remarkably good condition. You can see the oil on the hinges. See, open sweet as a nut, don’t they?’
‘Excellent. Now, where’s that young woman who played the Girl Guide and got me down here without falling over? She’s got a nice voice. I’d like her to call out to Livvie. Better than a man, I’d say. Ginny,’ she recalled at last. ‘And Ray: we all need to observe Elf and Safety regs, all the time.’ She patted his unworn hat.
‘Sorry.’ The hard hat went on. ‘I’ll get her over here and brief her.’
Meanwhile, a small van drove up, and two men emerged, freeing a bounding, bouncing spaniel from the rear. ‘You’re sure that that’s child-friendly?’
‘She’s not just any dog, remember,’ Ray said, as the new arrivals retrieved equipment from their van. ‘She’s the one on loan from the Fire Service – she sniffs out bodies in collapsed buildings. She’s done service in Japan and Italy.’
‘Live bodies or dead bodies?’ To her own ears her voice sounded hollow.
‘Live, as it happens.’
‘OK. House first!’
The moment Ray gave the signal, a detail of a dozen black-clad officers surrounded the house
, most tearing down the planks from a front window and piling in. The rest deployed themselves to the rear. She could hear voices calling from room to room. Soon they emerged from the same window, like giant chickens from an ugly egg.
‘Zilch,’ their leader reported. ‘The place has been stripped back to the floor boards – no furniture, no soft furnishings, nothing at all in the kitchen – not so much as an old milk bottle. At least the old woman’s executors will have an easy time.’
‘So nothing at all?’ Ray’s face fell comically. ‘Shit. And I wanted lots of items dripping with DNA. OK. Plan B, then guv’nor? We get Ginny to call the girl?’ He made a swift cutting gesture – and got absolute silence.
She was sure she wasn’t the only one holding her breath, willing her ears to pick up the slightest sound coming in response. Nothing, except more noisy activity from the damned horse.
If only there was something to raise the team’s spirits. Anything. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any news from Ed about picking up Thwaite?’
‘You’d be the first to know, guv’nor,’ he said reproachfully. ‘You want us to go back into quiet mode?’
She nodded. ‘Unless Thwaite turns up here and things kick off.’
‘But we’d still like him taken alive, eh, guv?’
Was he joking? Just at the moment she didn’t care. ‘Quite. Get that dog in there.’
The taller of the hard-hatted handlers, whom Ray identified as Gavin, Simon being the shorter, peeled off with the dog and headed briskly to the stable. Within what seemed like seconds came the sound of shrill barks. ‘What the hell? We warned you about the horse!’ Ray snarled at the remaining handler. ‘It’s not supposed to be some crazy canine that barks for the pleasure of it.’
Fran put a hand on his arm, trying hard to catch Simon’s eye apologetically. But no doubt he’d seen a lot of het-up would-be rescuers, so he nodded coolly and resumed his study of the night sky.
But Ray was still frantic. ‘Maybe it thinks the horse is human. Shit, I’d better take this,’ he groaned, fishing out his radio. But he turned back, beaming. ‘Guv – Thwaite’s left his house. Ed’s got a tail on him. And we, of course,’ he added grimly, ‘have a reception committee here.’
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