‘Over there, to the north, there’s a reservoir. Trimpley. And if we turned left here we’d find what looks like a giants’ play area but is in fact a pumping station … or something to do with water,’ Stu added less certainly. ‘But – if you’ve time – just look round now.’
No one would have argued with the love in his voice. He might have been introducing them to one of his children. ‘Over there is Cleobury Mortimer. And that, that’s Clee Hill. Follow your nose and you’re in Wales. There – that’s Wenlock Edge.’
‘The blue remembered hills … I suppose we can’t see the Wrekin? Further north?’ Mark asked. ‘His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves … No? What a shame,’ he murmured.
‘Not a bad line for a bloke from Bromsgrove,’ Stuart said tartly and unexpectedly. ‘Never knew Shropshire at all, they say. Just liked the place names.’ As if embarrassed by his unmanly knowledge of poetry he shrugged. ‘Now turn the other way and you’re thirty miles or less from Brum.’ He gestured up the hillside. ‘The thing is, though, that all these paths are really clear, aren’t they? – as good as roads nearly. So if you knew where you were going, you’d be OK.’
‘But in fog or driving rain, you might find a path but not know whether you’d been on it before,’ Robyn said, shoving her hands deep into her pockets and looking to the south-west.
There were clouds coming their way and they looked as if they meant business. It was time to end the idyll.
Fran straightened her shoulders. ‘A thorough police search. A popular area for walking: even today, a weekday, we’ve passed at least twenty, some with nosy-looking dogs. No remains ever found. What other possibilities did your team consider, Stu? After all, it’s a truism that many mispers don’t want to be found. Maybe Natalie and Hadrian left of their own accord and found a place of safety.’
‘It was never considered, not really, as I told you. And it wasn’t the favourite line in the canteen at lunchtime. They all said this reinvestigation was a total load of bollocks. Natalie and the kid had obviously been eaten by foxes – though there was the joker who said they’d been kidnapped and fed to the lions in the safari park over there.’ He pointed again.
‘Shades of Lord Lucan, eh?’ Mark put in. ‘Anything more positive? No? But Stu, you thought there might be a better explanation, didn’t you, or you wouldn’t have stayed yesterday when the other blokes walked out?’
‘I suppose I did. Like Fran says,’ he continued, surprising them again, ‘that at least half the folk who become mispers actually want to disappear and start up somewhere else. But seeing it all again, it’s just brought back the hopelessness we felt then. I tell you, gaffer, for two pins I’d pull out right now.’
Mark mustn’t let him. He prompted him urgently: ‘But?’
‘But I want … When I read my youngest his bedtime story he won’t go to sleep till he knows how it ends. And I suppose … if I can help find out what happened and why, I shall feel I’ve finished something I started twenty years back.’
Back at Hindlip Hall, they gathered in their incident room. Paula’s long hair was so wet from the latest squall she excused herself for a few minutes to go and dry it. The others huddled over coffee from Mark’s lunchtime acquisition. It might be a bottom of the range machine, but it still produced a brilliant brew. He’d acquired an assortment of pods, sugar, fresh milk and a dozen mugs, on the principle that no one in the middle of an urgent task ever remembered to wash up. A cake just past its sell-by date had completed his shop. It was only as he stowed everything in the boot that he remembered he’d need a knife. A tray to put the mugs on. Tea bags. And apples and bananas. Not very efficient for a man who’d run the house himself during Fran’s last few months at work and during her sick leave, of course. At least no one need know.
Fran was reluctant to break the air of camaraderie but she was desperate to build on the momentum their little trip had generated. She caught Mark’s eye; the others saw him as the gaffer after all. Nice term, gaffer: it implied for one thing that a grandfather had wisdom, and had earned his place at the head of a team. It also had a Hardy-esque ring, though the Wyre Forest was a long way north from Egdon Heath. In any case, she knew the term was also in use in the far from rural West Midlands Police.
He nodded: message understood. But he didn’t call the group to order immediately. The finger he raised almost imperceptibly was to tell Fran to listen. Stu and Robyn were deep in conversation, clearly as passionate about the case as if the life of a child still depended on their deliberations. What he wanted to do – or perhaps even wanted Fran to do, given his hearing – was to pick up one of the suggestions bouncing between them and run with it.
Hypnotism wasn’t necessarily the word he’d have expected to hear, but he noticed Fran seized on it too.
‘Do you think you’d actually need to hypnotize this woman?’ Fran asked. ‘Her witness statement suggests she was pretty compos mentis, doesn’t it?’ It appeared with admirable efficiency on their magic screen. Paula? She must have been scanning the vital documents every minute the team had been apart.
‘Well done, Paula,’ she said, pointing to the screen as the young woman rejoined them. ‘How long did this take you? I hope you had some lunch? No, of course you didn’t, did you? Look, I know we all rightly regard Elf and Safety as total bullshit when a living child’s gone missing, but people need breaks and they need to eat.’ She followed the direction of the young woman’s eyes and pushed the rest of the cake in her direction, and then the fruit.
‘Let’s look at this statement, then,’ Mark said. ‘Anything obvious?’
Robyn shrugged. ‘She’s changed things, gaffer – that’s all.’
‘And why?’
‘Because whoever was supposed to be taking it was writing down rubbish,’ Paula said through a mouthful of cake. ‘She must be like me, a bit of a pedant.’
Stu snorted. ‘A bit! That’ll be the day. This is the wench that complained to the chief constable himself when there was a little mistake in a sign.’
Wench? For Mark the term conjured slatternly Shakespearean servants, but neither of the women turned a hair.
Paula continued, ‘A lot of mistakes. Apostrophes. Little things matter, Stu. If you miss little things you miss big ones: that was what my mother always used to say. See – she’s changed one there.’ She selected a banana and pointed at the screen. ‘Look, she’s even replaced a dash with a semicolon. Good for her. I know I’m supposed to be the techie, but I’d love to meet Marion. Though she’d probably prefer to be called Mrs Roberts.’
‘I wouldn’t have a problem with you finding out, Paula. Why not take my place? Why not pair up with Robyn when she goes to interview her? If you don’t mind, Robyn? I’m sure Mrs Roberts would approve the notion of two sets of eyes being better than one. Pedant and people skills – a good combo.’ Fran felt decidedly noble. Mrs Roberts was one witness she’d have liked to talk to herself.
‘It’d be fine by me. But I’m really sorry – maybe I shouldn’t have volunteered, but I really wanted to get experience … and to work with you. Both of you,’ Robyn corrected herself swiftly, battling a painful blush. ‘The thing is, I’m due in court tomorrow. Just the one day, probably. Maybe Wednesday as well. I really am so sorry, letting you down, gaffer,’ she added, turning to Fran.
‘You’re doing your job; you don’t need to apologize,’ Fran replied, delighted to be promoted. All the same, it would be hard to cover so many eventualities with just four of them. ‘In any case, Mrs Roberts might not be free tomorrow,’
‘One way to find out! I know her phone number’s somewhere on the data I inputted earlier, gaffer.’
Mark scrolled down till he found it; grabbing her mobile, Paula left the room. ‘All these gaffers,’ he said with a grin. ‘I suppose we couldn’t just be Mark and Fran, could we? Because we don’t want to have more chiefs than Indians.’
Stu looked as disconcerted as Robyn. ‘But we always call bosses gaffer.’
‘And
you must be bosses if you’re jetted in specially,’ Robyn pointed out.
‘Or are we magicians pulling rabbits out of hats? Or dowsers looking for hidden springs?’
‘We might be made redundant, in that case,’ Fran observed, eyeing the rain.
Mark laughed with the others. ‘Actually, I’m sure we’re only here because of the reshuffles brought about by the merger. We see ourselves as team players. So long as you give Fran the captain’s armband,’ he said with an affectionate glance.
‘Thanks, gaffer,’ she responded promptly.
Paula blinked at the gust of laughter which seemed to be directed at her as she returned to the room.
‘Just Mark making mock of me,’ Fran said quickly. ‘And me of him, to be fair. Any joy with Mrs Roberts?’
‘Ten prompt tomorrow. You and me, gaffer.’ She turned aside as Robyn muttered in her ear, and then spread her hands apologetically. ‘It would feel odd to say “you and me, Fran”. And I reckon Mrs Roberts would expect me to call you something.’
‘Apart from referring to me as ex-detective chief superintendent all the time! OK. Gaffer in public. I’ve had quite enough of being ma’am, thank you very much; always makes me feel like the queen.’ She produced a parody of the royal wave. ‘Now, how long will it take us to get from here to – where does she live? – Cleobury Mortimer?’
‘Forty minutes.’
‘Let’s give ourselves time to plan the interview. Could you pick me up from here at nine? Excellent. Robyn, before you go off to prepare for tomorrow’s court appearance, just one thing: you told us about the Garbutts. Did you have time to get through to the hospital?’
‘Yes. There’s a direct line. Really efficient.’ She might have been making a point, mightn’t she? ‘Unfortunately for us they only keep records for eight years after a patient has died. Department of Health guidelines.’ She paused to let the others mutter.
Fran said gently, ‘It was a very long shot. It’s something we could ask her mother when we talk to her. But thanks for trying.’
‘That’s OK. Actually, if you don’t mind, Fran, preparing for tomorrow would be a good idea for me too. I don’t want to let the other team down. We need that result.’ She gathered her things and left.
As she shut the door, Mark’s phone rang. Raising an apologetic finger, he took the call, looking grimmer by the second. The other three fell silent.
‘Very well. If you insist.’ He turned to the team. ‘The ACC wants to review our progress already. Already! And while he talks to Fran and me he wants you two to return to your usual tasks.’
Stu looked at his watch. ‘I guess that means going home. But that doesn’t mean I for one won’t be here first thing tomorrow.’
SIX
Mark wanted to respond with Pavlovian urgency to the ACC’s summons, but Fran slowed down their walk to a manageable pace.
‘And what do you make of our team?’
‘That’s a bit of an optimistic term. Stu’s a weird mixture, isn’t he? That stuff about Housman. I could kill Paula for her addiction to her phone and her tablet. And I really don’t feel I’ve seen enough of Robyn to make a judgement – except to ask why the hell she’s there when she’s obviously deeply involved with another case. What about you?’
They were turning into the corridor leading to the ACC’s office, so she dropped her voice. ‘What worries me about Paula is that her being here was apparently her boss’s idea, not her own at all. As for Robyn, all I can say is that she really values her privacy. I didn’t think Stu was the sharpest knife in the drawer, but now I’m not so sure.’ Coming to a halt, she knocked firmly on the ACC’s door.
To their increasing fury, they were kept waiting in the corridor like naughty kids bracing themselves for a bollocking from the head teacher. They could hear raised voices, one of them female. She did not sound happy. Nor did she look it when she emerged to head down the corridor. Sandra Dundy, still elegantly dressed, still managing to stride despite absurd heels. She turned off into the ladies’ loo. Fran pressed Mark’s hand and set off too, and was soon peering into the mirror applying lipstick. Perhaps a little more mascara.
Dundy was taking her time in the cubicle, but eventually emerged, stowing her phone in her bag. Texting while using the loo? It didn’t seem quite decent. But she washed her hands thoroughly and peered for paper towels as Fran finished brushing her hair.
‘My poor hair!’ Fran groaned – and actually she should have had it cut before she left Kent. ‘The wind – not to mention this rain,’ she wailed.
‘I’ve never known it like this, all the time I’ve lived here,’ Dundy said. She abandoned the hunt for towels and applied her own lipstick.
‘You’re local, are you?’ Fran asked. ‘In that case – would it be an awful cheek to ask where you have yours done? That’s a most beautiful cut.’
It seemed it wasn’t. And Dundy even had a card somewhere in her bag. A Gucci bag, too. To go with the shoes. Which she’d got from a darling little shop … If she cast a disparaging look at her flatties, Fran ignored it. Until Dundy asked the question Fran had been braced for since she’d first opened her lipstick. ‘What brings you up here?’
‘I’m just doing a spell of freelance work. No idea how long. Hence the need for a hairdresser. And you? Didn’t I see you with the chief constable the other day?’
Dundy glanced at her watch and theatrically discovered she had to be elsewhere. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Ms …?’
But perhaps Fran didn’t hear the question. ‘And you!’ She gave a cheery wave to the rapidly closing door.
The chief constable, in normal uniform this time, left Webster’s office several minutes later. He ignored Mark and the newly brushed Fran, though of course he’d not acknowledged them before, either. Fran couldn’t imagine any of the chiefs she’d worked with recently not stopping to make the acquaintance of well turned-out strangers and to pass the time of day; most would have done so out of native courtesy, the most recent out of a sense of paranoia that something might be happening on his patch that he wasn’t in control of.
Mark counted to thirty and knocked. Fran would usually have knocked and walked straight in, but held back – no point in doing something that would certainly make Mark feel uncomfortable.
It was some minutes before Webster dragged the door open, closing it behind them with something very close to a slam. ‘In a nutshell, your instant response,’ Webster demanded, not even waiting for them to sit, though he flung himself into his executive chair.
Fran didn’t lie often, but she did this time. ‘We’ve found something very fishy. We’ll find Natalie, dead or alive.’ Against all her principles, she even added ‘sir’. She didn’t dare look at Mark. But she’d bet her pension he wouldn’t contradict her in public. She sat down, crossing her legs. For good measure she folded her arms across her chest – once she’d finished crossing her fingers behind her back.
Clearly taken aback, Webster almost flinched. Was the pressure he was under financial or something else?
‘We’ll be able to give you a clearer picture this time tomorrow,’ Mark said, positive and keen, but also taking a seat. ‘Unfortunately we’re hampered by several things. There is only paper- and computer-based evidence. We’ve seen nothing concrete at all. And after twenty years that could prove difficult.’ Seeing Webster about to interrupt, he continued, ‘Furthermore, two of our volunteers voted with their feet before we even sat down together. Another – and we appreciate there can be no argument about this – has been summoned to give evidence in court. You’ve returned the other two to normal duties. Five investigators can’t be expected to find in three hours what previously eluded a full search team with their follow-up enquiries for the best part of a year. Two even less, of course.’
‘Surely that’s what you’re here for. Meanwhile, we’re wasting a lot of resources.’
‘With due respect, minimal resources. If you want us to walk away now, we will. Though we would bill you for
the entire week and all the out-of-pocket expenses incurred so far.’
An administrator paying someone to do nothing? Webster almost shuddered. ‘I never suggested you should quit now. Absolutely not.’
‘Excellent. Because what I’d like permission to do is what is common practice in cases like this: in addition to the small paid team which we’d obviously need, to call in some retired officers to work on an expenses only basis.’
Fran nodded. ‘You’ll recall that you gave us contact details of all those who originally worked on the case; as you’ll have predicted, we would want to speak to them anyway, but some might like to join us.’
Webster looked unconvinced. ‘If they couldn’t sort it out then, how could they now?’ He looked at their implacably positive faces. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. Reasonable expenses only. Till Friday, shall we say?’
Mark’s smile would have sold toothpaste as he wilfully misunderstood. ‘For our next meeting? Excellent.’ He and Fran were out of the room like rabbits who’d seen a gun. If he’d answered a question that hadn’t been asked, that was tough.
They worked on till well after six phoning the retired officers on Webster’s list: Anderson, Mike, through to Thompson, Christine. The investigating days of many were all too clearly over; two or three showed even less interest than their lunchtime Jeremiahs, and several others had prior commitments. They were left with a possible four or five, only one of whom agreed to meet them that evening. Another pub, this time, to their great relief only a mile away in Ombersley, an easy walk. So they parked up at the cottage.
More in hope than expectation Mark checked the gas gauge. Still a big red zero. At least Ted’s mate had delivered some logs and even thrown a tarpaulin over them. Win some, lose some, obviously. But any moment now they were going to lose the logs, too. When they’d arrived, the yard had been no more than waterlogged. Now, in the space of four minutes, it had become a stream. Yelling to Fran, Mark reversed the car as close as he dared to the woodpile, hauling on his wellies and slinging Fran hers, and then filling the boot haphazardly. She dumped the remaining logs on the kitchen floor before returning the car to dry land.
Green and Pleasant Land Page 6