Green and Pleasant Land

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Taxi, then,’ Mark said, already applying himself to his mobile. ‘We’ll meet it outside the grounds. Out of range of the CCTV cameras, with luck. And we’ll sodding well put it and this – this stupid outrage – on expenses.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  At the King’s Arms, Hugh had grabbed a table next to the loos, not promising aesthetically but giving clear views of anyone who might be approaching. There were no other tables within earshot, a fact for which it was worth sacrificing a table nearer either of the welcoming fires.

  ‘This is all extremely cloak and dagger,’ Fran observed, kissing Hugh on the cheek and getting a rather warmer kiss in return. The two men shook hands with less enthusiasm, the old flame meeting the new husband.

  ‘It has to be,’ he said. ‘Because I’ve already been warned off you both. Indirectly. Which made me wonder what on earth you’ve been up to since our mini-reunion on the Severn Valley Railway. Sorry about having to cancel the other night, by the way; it was nothing to do with this warning, just that the council hadn’t thought to unblock some road drains since Noah sailed his boat up the cut. They didn’t get round to it till he built another ark. Have you seen that joke doing the rounds on the Internet about how Health and Safety issues would impede his attempts to build a new one? White wine, as I recall, Fran? Mark, what about you? Come on, this is the first time we’ve met since your wedding, so it should be fizz. Prosecco? Lower ABV, after all. Ready to order? I’ve got a cadaver to deal with at four. Meanwhile,’ he said as the waiter distributed menus, ‘I’ve got something for you, since felicitations are in order. A Georgian rectory, I think you said? These might be a decade out of period according to the hallmark but at least they belonged to a Regency rector.’ He passed them a small packet each, identically wrapped. A man of style, Hugh.

  With a sideways glance, they unwrapped them simultaneously, to find an unpretentious shagreen spectacle case in Mark’s, and a pair of silver spectacles in Fran’s. A label written in neat letters declared the case to belong to the Reverend Wm Devenish of Stelling Minnis, Kent.

  Their thanks were profuse and genuine. The spectacles went in the case, which Mark slipped into an inside jacket pocket. ‘Handbags can be snatched,’ he said flatly.

  ‘As bad as that, is it? Look, to cut a long story short, pressure was put on me to declare that I’d made a mistake, and to confirm the remains revealed by the landslip to be those of Natalie Garbutt – it was funny to call her by her maiden, not her married name – and her son. But I didn’t know of any modern women wearing Saxon jewellery when they’re buried, and told them so.’

  ‘Saxon jewellery?’ Fran’s eyes rounded.

  ‘It’s really nice stuff. About the same period as the Staffordshire Hoard. Birmingham Museum’s got its eye on it already.’

  ‘Sorry: I sidetracked you,’ Fran said.

  ‘You always did. The instruction came via a phone call. The speaker muffled their voice. I demurred. Anyway, this person insisted. I said tests would prove my theory; they said they’d prove theirs since they’d paid for the privilege. The tests rarely lie, but when they didn’t fit their theory they asked me to lie instead. I declined.’ He stopped short.

  A waiter appeared with the Prosecco and glasses, which he filled. They gave their orders. He left.

  Fran counted to ten. ‘And they would be?’

  ‘A woman. Don’t think,’ he added with a grin, ‘that I didn’t check the number she was calling from. Oh, yes, I can play the detective too. I did. It was withheld. On the other hand, she called my mobile, a number which isn’t common knowledge.

  ‘A woman? That only rules out seventy per cent of the force, unfortunately,’ Mark sighed.

  ‘Who says she’s in the force anyway?’ Fran asked slowly. ‘Just because she says so? Who knows how many women know Hugh’s number?’ she added with a grin. ‘Don’t answer that, Hugh. I’m sure you’re a man of discretion. Seriously, do you know any women who might conceivably want to influence this enquiry?’

  ‘Such as?’ Hugh spread his hands. ‘I can tell you which women officers have the number.’ He produced the phone and scrolled down. He reeled off half a dozen, none of whom either of them recognized.

  When he got to the name Sumner, however, Fran raised a finger. ‘She’s the DCI who reduced Paula Llewellyn to tears, alleging I’d bad-mouthed the poor girl. Paula’s a DC we borrowed for our team. I don’t suppose she’s on your phone?’

  ‘She is, actually – she’s made calls on Sumner’s behalf once or twice. But a DC? She wouldn’t be in a position to tell me what or what not to say.’

  ‘Neither would the chief constable himself. Or even,’ Mark said, drawing a bow at a venture, ‘the commissioner. Herself.’

  The waiter approached with their bundles of cutlery. All went very quiet. He left.

  ‘How would she know my mobile number?’ Hugh objected.

  ‘She could ask someone who did.’

  Mark took another sip of fizz. ‘We’ve had one or two problems ourselves.’ He recounted them baldly. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘would you be prepared to talk to the Independent Police Complaints Commission about this?’

  ‘I don’t suppose, now I’ve told you two, that I’ve any option, have I? It’d be like taking a bone from a pair of bulldogs.’

  For some reason Iris wasn’t on duty when they returned to Hindlip Hall in the hope, rather than the expectation, of seeing Webster; her place was taken by the young woman who’d greeted them on their first morning, whose name Fran had inevitably forgotten but whom Mark greeted immediately as Charlie. She responded with a very cautious nod, backing away as if he were suffering from smallpox. He decided it was better to let the photos on his phone tell the story. The clamps; the polythene envelope; the parking permit centimetres away from the envelope. Charlie deduced pretty sharply that ninety pounds was not about to change hands. In the most charming, affable way, Mark stood over her while she made a phone call to get the car liberated.

  But that was as far as they got. They were not to be admitted to the building. Full stop. Neither wanted the indignity of being escorted from the premises by security guards, even (or especially) by kids as tiny as Charlie, or – worse – by officers, people they still thought of as colleagues.

  Once back in the newly free car, they waited until they were out of camera range before they started talking – as if suspecting that some evil genius would be lip-reading their conversation from a hidden room. Then Fran asked, ‘Why are we going this way?’

  He touched his finger to his lips, briefly meeting her startled glance and raising an expressive eyebrow.

  So he suspected a bug, did he? And maybe a tracking device? And where better to get a new car checked over than the impartial provider of the vehicle, the Audi dealership? They explained to an immaculate receptionist what they wanted, were asked to sit in a comfortable waiting area and even given cups of excellent coffee. But Mark soon abandoned his drink, prowling amongst the impossibly sleek showroom cars as if already planning an upgrade when the insurance money came through. Fran, staring at a glass-fronted cabinet full of car goodies, for some reason including a teddy bear in racing strip, fretted when she couldn’t reach Edwina, cursing that she’d never bothered to ask for her mobile number.

  At last a sleek young man invited them over to a desk in the sales area, producing as they approached two polythene bags, which he laid on his blotter. As they pulled back chairs ready to sit, he waved them back to the far side of a gleaming Quattro. ‘Are those what we were looking for, sir? Because if they are, I should warn you that they’re both still working. On the other hand,’ he added with a grin, ‘you see that lorry there? It’s come to take away our waste …’

  ‘But it’s evidence,’ Mark said, nonplussed for the first time. Then he smiled. ‘You must have a safe? For all your car keys? So could you hold them until the police come?’

  ‘Uh, uh,’ Fran said. ‘Until some police come. Because others might want to get thei
r sticky paws on them too.’

  ‘Maybe you should bring the police you want to have them to collect them?’ suggested the young man. It was impossible to detect any sarcasm. He just seemed helpful, obliging, alert.

  ‘Maybe we should. If we knew who were the good cops and who were the bad. Can I make a call using your phone? Just in case.’

  The young man – Si – opened his eyes wide. ‘You think yours might be—?

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I think my boss’s office might be more private.’ He ushered them backstage, as it were, and closed the door, delicately as a butler making himself scarce.

  ‘Carry on as normal!’ Mark repeated the advice of the IPCC representative he’d spoken to in a voice so calm and controlled Fran knew he was trying not to explode. ‘OK, they said they’d organize someone to watch over us. But we’re to continue talking to the witnesses with whom we’ve made contact! Dear God, it’s not much of an ask, is it?’

  ‘It’s the advice we’d probably have given if we’d been in their position. After all, we’ve sent them everything on the iPad. Meanwhile, we can get new SIM cards and put their number on speed-dial. This isn’t some crazy Middle Eastern state. It’s the heart of England. Isn’t it?’

  At a discreet distance from the office door, Si was waiting for them as they emerged. ‘All well? Maybe you’d like another car? One’s just come in. We can change all the documentation for you? We’ll just say the original one had an irritating squeak …’

  ‘You’re more than kind. Actually, your suggestion about the lorry was an excellent one. Not for the devices: the IPCC will arrange for their collection, using a password they’ll email to us. We’ll phone you personally just so that you know it’s kosher. But meanwhile we’ve got our SIM cards to dispose of …’

  ‘So they can’t track you? All this is so amazing! It’s like TV.’

  ‘So it is. But it’s a programme we’d rather you didn’t discuss with anyone, not yet, at least. Not, in fact, till the good cops say you can.’ If he could wait that long; however mature and serious his face, his eyes were like those of an excited puppy. He bounced alongside them as he took them to their replacement car, apologizing that there hadn’t been time to valet it.

  ‘Si, you could have rolled it in mud: we’d still have been grateful.’ Mark shook his hand, man-to-sensible-man.

  Fran hugged him.

  Safely anonymous in a Kidderminster car park, armed with new SIM cards, they sat staring at the rain which was sheeting down again.

  Fran put her head in her hands.

  Mark put his arm round her. ‘Bother the IPCC – let’s get out of town. Fast. Birmingham’s a nice big anonymous city: we’ll lose ourselves there.’

  ‘Even turn ourselves in? West Midlands Police must have safe houses. We’re meeting Dean Redhead there tomorrow anyway.’ She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. ‘Edwina’s WI meeting? Can we really chicken out of that?’

  ‘Edwina’ll understand.’

  ‘She might. Her friends might not.’

  ‘OK.’ Mark couldn’t have sounded less enthusiastic. ‘For Birmingham read Ombersley, I suppose.’

  There weren’t many faces in the rows in front of them. Nor was there much enthusiasm on any of them, apart from when they all sang ‘Jerusalem’: And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains green? Was Fran alone in finding the lines they sang throat-closingly ironic in connection with Natalie’s disappearance? Had her feet indeed not just walked but walked away? As for England’s green and pleasant land, she always cried.

  Many of the women, mostly of Edwina’s generation, folded their arms implacably. They clearly regarded a talk on lives spent maintaining law and order as of considerably less interest than preserving the countryside. Or was there more to it than that? Fran was sure she saw active hostility in some of their eyes.

  They introduced themselves as the Fred and Ginger of crime fighting, including the joke about doing the job backwards in high heels. Cue for laughter? Not so much as a mild giggle? OK, press on. They’d knocked up a sort of organized conversation, and had primed Edwina to ask a light-hearted question at the end, just to get the others started, as they said.

  She obliged. But when the next hand went up – that of Madam Chairman, a woman so beautifully made-up and elegantly turned out she might have been heading for a night at a West End theatre – it wasn’t to ask about the problems of courtship under constant surveillance from your police colleagues.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ she asked, ‘what right you have to come to our village and poke your nose into things that don’t concern you? Things that are best left undisturbed anyway?’

  Fran turned to look her straight in the eye. ‘When someone deliberately ruins someone’s livelihood by flooding their cottage? Oh, yes, someone blocked a culvert and was well aware of the consequences to an entirely innocent woman. When someone lures another householder from her home – a friend of yours, sitting here – and beats her unconscious? When, just for good measure, whoever it is deliberately opens floodgates? Edwina could literally have drowned. Are those crimes best left uninvestigated?’ She shifted slightly so that she was addressing the audience. ‘Oh, I assume no one wanted Edwina to die. They just wanted to be rid of us. But, ladies and gentleman, whoever is making serious efforts to be rid of us is just attacking the messengers.’

  She thought she might have won over the majority of the group. But Madam Chairman smiled implacably. ‘In that case, the messengers should convey to their masters what I have just said.’

  ‘Which told us,’ Mark reflected, his hand wrapped around a glass of the finest single malt in Edwina’s extensive collection, ‘more than anything else we’ve learned in this investigation. Or at least,’ he conceded, ‘confirmed what we already suspected. That Natalie did not die in the snow, but escaped. How? Clearly some people know more than they’re letting on. And they absolutely do not want her found. Not just people round here, of course – that nanny skipping off to Italy as soon as she hears we want to talk to her …’ He leaned back in his chair. Somewhere upstairs a still embarrassed Edwina was retiring for bed, so furious with her fellow WI members that she said she’d sink a whole bottle if she touched so much as a drop of alcohol. She’d claimed that she found their continued presence reassuring; perhaps she might not if a lynch mob turned up on her doorstep the next morning – or perhaps they left hanging people out to dry to the local police round here.

  Fran nodded, swirling the contents of her own cut-glass tumbler. ‘Her parents’ lack of cooperation; the attempts to make us leave the area; the obvious corruption in the force, from the moment that they got rid of Gerry Barnes; sacking us and moreover tracking us – there’s only one conclusion: Natalie’s certainly alive and kicking somewhere, isn’t she? Why didn’t someone just say as much on our first morning? We’ve cocked this up. We’ve discovered her after all. Thank you and goodbye. Should we just put in a short report – half a page even – and walk away?’

  ‘We could do. On the other hand, it’d be nice to discover why—’

  ‘Easy-peasy. Her husband hit her; she robbed him; she’s in Panama or Ecuador, anywhere where they don’t have extradition, and she’s living on the proceeds.’ She helped herself to another thimbleful of whisky – it’d probably stop her sleeping, but rest seemed a distant prospect anyway.

  ‘We need a bit more on the record evidence. Dean Redhead might help. After all, he’s broken confidentiality once today – who knows what he’ll do over dinner tomorrow?’

  ‘Dean Redhead – it sounds as if he’s a Victorian divine known for his excellent sermons. I don’t want to waste another day hanging round to have dinner with him.’ Her anger terminated on a sob.

  He leaned across and took her hand. ‘Maybe we can see him earlier. Officially. Remember, the IPCC asked us to carry on as if nothing has happened. Let’s think about doing just that. Another talk with Mr and Mrs Garbutt, to explain that some evidence
has gone missing and ask what it was: that’d be useful. Redhead – even if we do have to wait for dinner. That excellent witness, Marion Roberts. Every damned person we’ve spoken to, if necessary. Find out who flooded two cottages and could have killed Edwina in the process. And we should pursue some of the police problems Gerry and his wife spoke about. There’s a lot to do before we draw a line under the enquiry. Come on, we’ll feel better in the morning – especially if we don’t have another top-up.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  The home of Sandra Mould was appropriate for someone who preferred to be known as Madam Chair: the handsome four-square Edwardian house, spoilt in purist terms (though not in terms of heating) by the Sixties porch, stood on a rise, a huge bay window overlooking flooded fields and drenched gardens. She did not seem pleased to see them on her doorstep the following morning, but neither did she seem surprised. ‘How did you find me? Oh, I might have known that Edwina Lally couldn’t keep her mouth shut,’ she said, stepping back and admitting them to her porch, at least. Not for their protection, probably, but so the driving rain wouldn’t spatter her tiles. She touched her immaculate hair; Fran registered the understated make-up. At ten in the morning? On your own in your own house? ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Very little now, in connection with Natalie Garbutt, at least,’ Fran said, continuing to drip despite the temptation to shake herself like a dog. ‘It’s clear that she’s alive and well somewhere or other – that when she went missing that day it was planned pretty well down to the last detail. Probably the only thing that went wrong was that poor Julius died when he did, forcing her into the dreadful decision to abandon him where he was and leave with Hadrian.’

  ‘You’d best leave your things here,’ Sandra said, pointing to the wrought iron coat and umbrella stand.