Green and Pleasant Land

by Judith Cutler

  They entered the incident room to find themselves on the receiving end of a round of applause, not even ironic. Their poor car’s TV appearance had obviously been watched by all three of the younger people.

  As if they’d ever doubted it, at this stage trusting their mini-team seemed the only option. Partly trusting them, at least. And not bollocking them for inadequacy in the matter of logging evidence – they needed an unresentful Stuart on side. As it happened, he was the first one to report anything – whether he’d been prompted by Paula they’d never know.

  ‘I’ve been checking Natalie’s licence, as you asked,’ he said, passing Fran a cup of coffee.

  She smiled her thanks. ‘And?’

  ‘She took several points, spaced out over the period of her marriage. She never argued, always pleaded guilty, never appeared in court. No other convictions. But there’s no indication either way whether they were hers or his. Sorry. Another dead end.’

  ‘Thanks for getting what you have, anyway,’ Fran said. ‘Could I ask you to check something I meant to look for last week – was Natalie a member of any sports clubs in Birmingham or nearby? Running clubs for preference.’

  ‘Right.’ He jotted. ‘Paula says one of the evidence bags went missing,’ he continued, voluble for once. ‘I can’t think how. I logged everything and put it all back in the box. Everything.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember exactly what was in the bag?’

  ‘Kids’ drawings; baby hand prints and footprints. A pile of cuttings from old newspapers.’

  ‘Cuttings?’

  ‘Yeah. Hang on, I’ll show you.’ He rifled through the touching pictures they’d looked at yesterday. Twice. He looked up. ‘Why should anyone want to nick a load of old press cuttings?’

  ‘Depends what they were about,’ Robyn said. ‘Or who. And how old.’ She was leaning forward, making encouraging gestures with both hands as if she were helping him reverse a small car out of a tight space.

  Fran suspected that Stu was enjoying their impatience, playing up to a village idiot image. ‘Now what might they have been? There was a pic of a man in a kayak. Then there was half a page of hatches, matches and despatches – but nothing to show which paper it was from. The names were just normal names, so not much to go on there.’

  ‘Any town names?’ Fran asked, urgent despite herself.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t take much notice. It was my first bag, and there was other stuff to get through and I wasn’t to know it would go missing, was I?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mark said briskly. ‘You’ve remembered some really useful stuff, actually. Did you get a chance to find out about the kayak man?’

  Stu’s blank expression told them he’d not even wondered if he should. But he added, ‘If there’s nothing else you need in a hurry, I’ll have a look now.’ He hunted and pecked his way around the keyboard.

  Fran pressed her fingers to her temples. Kayak man? Or did he mean canoe man? Of course he did. What was the man up to?

  But Paula was already speaking. ‘Hang on, gaffer. Things like that don’t just go missing because they want to. Someone wants them to go missing. And that someone must have come in here and known exactly what to get. My God,’ she added, looking from face to face. ‘One of us?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mark said, briskly, because he’d been thinking exactly the same thing himself. ‘We’re a team. We wouldn’t let each other down like that. But as you say, someone must have come in. So I’d like to ask one of you – you’re serving officers, and Fran and I have no authority, remember – to go and retrieve the footage for the relevant period CCTV. Could you do that, Paula?’

  She flushed. ‘I’m the only one of us who was in the building yesterday – you’re not thinking—’

  ‘Hey, I’m not thinking anything, I promise! Why should I? You only came yesterday out of the kindness of your heart to rescue us – and the only time you saw that evidence bag was when we were with you. You’re a goodie, in my book. And as I said, one of you three has to go and be nice to your colleagues; I don’t believe we’ve been vetted to go into the CCTV area, let alone ask for anything.’

  Paula flushed more deeply. ‘OK. Sorry.’ She headed out.

  Fran followed her. ‘Paula?’ she called softly. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked as the younger woman turned back. ‘Come on, if we’d got you down as prime suspect, would we have asked you to go? We’d have done everything in our power to keep you away from any evidence.’ She smiled, hoping to encourage a response. After a moment, she added, ‘Or is it something else? Anything I can help with?’ She set them in motion towards the office she and Mark shared, closing the door firmly. ‘Come on.’ She gestured to a chair.

  Paula stayed on her feet. ‘What have you been saying to my DCI, ma’am?’

  Fran let her jaw literally drop. ‘Eh? What should I have said, since I’ve never met him or her?’

  ‘Her, actually. Ann Sumner. You can guess what she’s called.’

  ‘I feel sorry for her already. Except that if she’s done or said something to upset one of my team, I can feel damned angry, too.’

  ‘You really haven’t spoken to her? Or phoned her?’

  ‘No. Nor texted her nor emailed her nor sent a carrier pigeon. But someone’s said something; could you give me the gist?’

  ‘Just that you told someone I was a waste of space and you’re looking to recruit someone else to the team. And how disappointed she was considering she recommended me in the first place.’

  Of course, Fran had got the impression that Paula had been volunteered rather than simply recommended. ‘We’ve completely ruled out adding to the team, that’s how much of a waste you three are. Heavens, after yesterday afternoon? Can you imagine my saying anything snide like that to a third party? You know me by now, Paula: if I thought you’d done anything wrong, I’d take you on one side and tell you to your face. And you’d not forget. My bollockings have been honed through many years of practice. However, you’d find I’d never refer to it again unless you made the same mistake, and I’d never bring it up in front of other people. Now, would you like me to go and speak to this woman with the unfortunate nickname about the perils of spreading rumours that have no basis in truth? I may have no rank to pull these days, but don’t think that’d stop me.’

  Paula smiled, then laughed. ‘I don’t think it would. Tell you what, do you want to come down and have a word with the security team yourself? I’ll chaperone you.’

  ‘I’ll keep my powder dry, if it’s all the same to you. There’s no point in trying to flout a rule book if you don’t need to. And if you can deal with two kids, you can wrap security round your finger.’

  Paula stopped by the door. ‘That’s the trouble, Fran – I can’t deal with them. I came this close to hitting them this morning. Their cheek and arguing and—’

  Fran enfolded her. ‘I’ve never been a mother. And I don’t know how women manage, either full-time stay-at-home mums or working mums. I’m never going to criticize anyone for losing their temper. But I do know that when you come to work, unless there’s an emergency or one’s ill, it’s best to leave the family pressures at the door. I just had parent pressures. They nearly brought me down.’ She eased her away. ‘You’re a kind woman and a bright cop, Paula. Go and sort out security and come back and have a cup of coffee while we all watch the footage.’

  At first no one took any notice as Fran strolled into the main CID office, once two or three smaller rooms, if the damaged ceiling plasterwork was anything to go by. After all, she had her visitor badge clearly visible, and, more to the point, she walked in as if she owned the place. And it might have been her old base in Kent: there was a familiar buzz of activity, with bright looking men and women obviously trying to make the world a better place. There was no goldfish bowl of a glassed-in office for the DCI or superintendent: no doubt they had solid-walled accommodation close by. So when someone looked up from her computer, she caught her eye. ‘Where can I find
DCI Sumner, please?’

  ‘Through that door. But she’s in a meeting. Not to be disturbed. Really, absolutely not,’ the woman added as Fran shrugged and drifted to the door she’d indicated. ‘I said she was not to be disturbed,’ she said more loudly.

  Holding up her hands in mock surrender, Fran stopped. Her presence had been noticed by a dozen or so other officers, many of whom got uneasily to their feet. Perhaps it was time to make a tactical withdrawal. Looking coolly at her watch, she declared, ‘In that case I’ll email her. Thanks for your help,’ she added with a smile as she left. A quick smile. One that left her face the moment she was in the corridor. What had she done to put all those people on red alert? Perhaps talking to the professional standards team, a branch of CID, of course, might not be the best option.

  She’d only got back to their incident room, and certainly hadn’t had time to open her mouth, when Paula shot into the room, pale and panting. As if in ironic greeting, the internal phone rang. Stu, who’d been punching the air in triumph, picked up; his eyes rounded. The call ended.

  ‘It was the ACC, gaffers. Wants you both in his room. Now. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry, Stu? Why sorry?’

  ‘His voice, Mark. Didn’t even get his secretary to call, did he? Sounds like shit’s coming your way.’

  It must be bad, Fran reflected, if someone who (poetry apart) might not be the brightest star in the sky picked it up. But then, Stu had been edgy all morning. Kayak man. Canoe man. Come on. Out loud she said, ‘It’s not your problem, any of you. So long as none of the shit flies your way, of course. Ah, perhaps I’ll make him wait.’ She reached for her mobile and took the call.

  ‘Fran? Hugh Evans here. We need to talk – quick lunch? Nowhere too close to Hindlip.’

  ‘King’s Arms, Ombersley – if we can all get to it.’

  ‘Make sure you can. One fifteen?’ End of call.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ mused Mark, holding the door for Fran. Then his phone chose to warble. ‘The ACC will just have to wait even longer, won’t he? I’ve got a text from Dean. He’s like us, thank goodness – doesn’t go in for indecipherable abbreviations. NF: injuries consistent with overtraining – running. No news of PI but working on it. Which rather ties in with those medals, don’t you think?’ He grinned cheerily. ‘See you all later.’

  Halfway down the corridor, Fran drew them to a halt. ‘What did Stu find about kayak or canoe man? It was that guy who faked his death, wasn’t it, and popped up in Panama? And that case was years after ours. So why on earth should the Garbutts put it in their box of precious things? If they put it there at all.’

  ‘He found exactly that case, of course. And none of us could come up with an explanation either. Do you know what? If Stu was a more subtle man, I’d have said he knew more about the case than he’s ever admitted and was trying to give us an anonymous clue.’

  ‘He likes poetry,’ Fran said, as if that might be conclusive. ‘We need to talk to him in private, don’t we?’

  ‘But maybe not yet. It seems we have an escort. An inspector, no less.’

  ‘Clear your desks and leave the premises,’ Webster greeted them.

  Mark smiled amiably; he was still, despite over a year’s happy absence from committees, meetings-man par excellence. ‘I thought you’d invited us down to hear that on the balance of the evidence—’

  ‘I repeat: clear your desks and leave the premises. Make no attempt to contact any of my officers. Any of them. Inspector Fielding here will accompany you at all times.’

  Had Webster even registered what he had been about to say? Probably not. So Mark smiled again. ‘I don’t think our contract is susceptible to that sort of treatment, sir. And at very least, as one senior officer to two former senior officers, you probably owe us the courtesy of some explanation. It may be,’ he added, equally smoothly, ‘that Inspector Fielding would be happier waiting outside. Or even that you’d prefer him to. We’re perfectly happy, on the other hand, for him to be present, though I’d have thought someone from your professional standards unit was more appropriate.’

  Fran nodded as if she’d known all along he was going to say this.

  ‘Maybe even someone from another force,’ Mark continued, warming to his theme, ‘since the SIO in charge of any case should be one grade higher than the officer being investigated. Things haven’t changed since my day, I presume? Excellent.’

  Before Webster could respond, Fran joined the polite attack. ‘While you decide what to do, perhaps you’d like to know that someone has stolen evidence and tried to hack into my iPad. On these premises. I’ve asked one of the serving officers on our minuscule team to obtain CCTV footage of the relevant passageway at the appropriate time.’ She smiled at Fielding. ‘That’d be more CID’s bag than uniform’s, wouldn’t it? So perhaps ex-ACC Turner’s idea that you might prefer not to be involved is a good one. Can you think of a superintendent or even chief superintendent who might take your place? Ideally another ACC, of course. But someone who would like to hear the rest of what Mr Turner was going to say about the original case.’

  Webster was still chewing an antacid, or no doubt he’d have reached for another.

  ‘I told you to leave the premises,’ he said, but with all confidence and authority drained from his voice.

  ‘And we’re happy to, once the terms of our contract have been met. They include, if I recall, a formal debriefing by the chief constable. Obviously we wouldn’t want to forgo what promises to be a most interesting and enlightening encounter.’ Mark epitomized reasonable cooperation. ‘We would have thought you’d prefer to mount an internal enquiry about the theft of evidence, but clearly you’d like us to contact the Independent Police Complaints Commission direct.’ He enjoyed rolling all the syllables round, although there was no doubt that Webster and Fielding would instantly have recognized the initials. ‘No doubt there’d be quite a lot of attendant publicity.’

  Webster goggled. After a palpable hesitation, he turned to Fielding and gave a minuscule jerk of the head – more of a twitch or tic, in fact. Fielding took the hint. Fran smiled over her shoulder at him as he inched out.

  ‘Missing evidence?’ Webster prompted, sitting down as if to assert his authority. In fact, having two tall people towering over him wasn’t a good move.

  Kindly they sat down, without waiting for him to suggest it. But Mark’s smile wasn’t kind. ‘We have witnesses willing to testify that important documents have been removed from the incident room you allocated to us. As far as we knew, we and the team were the only ones in possession of the key code, and, of course, the key code to the office you allocated to us. It seems we were mistaken. As Ms Harman has told you, one of our team, a police officer authorized to make the request, asked for CCTV footage of the corridor connecting the two rooms. And within minutes we were invited down here. It’s hard to believe the two were unconnected.’

  Fran enjoyed the word invited as a euphemism for a brusque demand.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Webster declared.

  Almost convinced, Fran continued, ‘In that case, you could always contact security and look at the images yourself. You’re more likely to recognize—’

  ‘Have you any idea how many people work in this building?’

  ‘About a thousand. Rather fewer yesterday. Look,’ Mark continued, reasonably, ‘we expected problems with this enquiry. What we didn’t expect was to find almost zero evidence had been retained, and to find what little we were given permission by the rightful owner to inspect – not keep, I stress – going missing. Someone has to explain that to the grieving family.’

  Webster dropped his eyes.

  ‘Neither did we expect criminal activity to cause a flood at the cottage we’d rented, or to flood the B and B we adjourned to, our belongings being deliberately put in harm’s way. I believe some of your colleagues will even now be looking at connections – provided they’ve not been ordered to close the cases. They shouldn’
t be: in the second an entirely innocent old lady was assaulted and left to drown or die of hypothermia. At the very least she deserves justice. A civilian, Webster. Right?’ Mark looked at his watch, as if it was he who was rationing precious minutes from his day to deal with a miscreant. ‘We’ll be back here at three this afternoon, Webster, and we’d like some explanations. Good day to you.’ As one, he and Fran rose to their feet.

  Fielding might have left the room, but as they left he fell into step behind them. There was no point in arguing with someone at his level, so in silence they strode to the room they’d used as their office. Two boxes of his and hers belongings sat patiently outside.

  ‘There are more of our things in the incident room,’ Fran said, ‘including our coffee machine.’

  In silence, Fielding turned in that direction. But someone had already changed the key code on the door; there was no sign of any of their team inside, nor, incidentally, of the coffee machine and mugs. A series of texts on their phones told them that all three had been ordered to return to normal duties. Despite Webster’s orders, three texts went back: Working on getting you back. Perhaps a smiley face apiece would be too informal? Fran added them anyway.

  Fielding coughed. ‘Your orders were not to communicate with anyone here.’

  ‘We may have been communicating with any of our acquaintances, inspector. As for Mr Webster’s orders, the trouble is that since we’re not officers we don’t have to accept orders. But we don’t want to get you into trouble.’ Fran pocketed her phone and accepted the younger man’s escort to the entrance hall.

  A tight knot of officers huddled round Iris. Taking one look, Mark and Fran made no attempt to compromise her position by trying to attract her attention.

  The replacement Audi had fewer refinements than theirs, but now sported one extra they hadn’t expected: wheel clamps. A legend in a plastic envelope told them the car was in a reserved parking area, and was subject to a ninety pound penalty to obtain release. In smaller letters they were told that an official permit was obtainable from Reception. So much for being on the system, so much for Fran’s getting soaking wet to attach the permit perfectly clearly to the screen; in fact it was only the plastic envelope that obscured it.