Burying the Past (14 page)

‘I think the rule about not talking shop at home applies in the Winnebago, doesn't it?'

‘So do you want to talk now? Something's really bothering you. Perhaps if you switched your lights on?' he prompted.

‘I don't know if my head's up to doing two things at once.'

‘It was up to going into theft-of-phone mode earlier. As it happens, I think you were right, both as a cop and as a stepmother elect. I called in the loss myself as soon as I realized I had the wrong one, and they said you'd already alerted them. Well done.'

‘I wasn't sure . . . If you've got dementia, I've got paranoia. I don't think he wanted the chief's home number or the car pool. I think he wanted my number, to talk to me without your being present. Just a feeling.'

He could tell she was lying; what had Dave said? ‘Talk about what?'

‘No idea. Truly, no idea. Maybe what you'd like for your next birthday.'

He pointed skywards. ‘Look, there's a pig up there doing loop the loops. Or not. Come on, Fran, we've always been honest with each other.'
Unless it's really suited us to lie
, he added silently, touching her hand and the ring he'd never meant to be an engagement token.

‘I've told you: I've not got a clue. And the birthday present idea's as good as any. No? Whoops – wasn't that our turning?'

He waited while she manoeuvred the car. ‘Why don't you call him and agree to meet?'

‘I've told him our weekends are sacrosanct. Oh, Mark, you haven't got to work tomorrow, not really?' Her question dwindled into something between a wail and a sob. Not Fran!

‘I can work in the caravan on my laptop. Only for an hour. And maybe another hour on Sunday. Tomorrow we'll nip into Maidstone to get me a new cheapo phone to tide me over till Dave returns the other one. Then we'll see if the village cricket club is playing at home, and we'll eat in the pub in the evening. And go to church on Sunday.'

‘St Jude's.' She explained about Janie. ‘And we'll leave our phones at the end of the Winnebago that doesn't get a signal?' She sounded like a little girl begging permission to hang up her stocking for Santa.

‘Indeed we will. And we'll only check for calls every six hours.'

‘Probably five, knowing us.'

‘Five then. Now tell me all about your day – because mine's covered by the Official Secrets Act . . .'

T
he cricket wasn't up to much, but sitting and, to their chagrin, sometimes dozing in the late summer sun was just what they both needed. If they needed to justify time out, then they could point to the ordered chaos of the house and the garden, neither of which they dared invade, and the still-pristine state of the Winnebago, though Fran had insisted on a flap of a tiny fluffy duster and a whizz round with a mini-vac. Housekeeping heaven.

They weren't surprised that their presence at the match didn't cause any comment, but both had expected a little conversation from the people in the Three Tuns, whether welcoming, which would have been nice, or expressing disbelief that anyone could have been crazy enough to take on the rectory. Amusement or resentment at the arrival of the Winnebago. Anything.

Eventually, Mark held up a finger. ‘Listen to the accents. Shit, everyone's a weekender. I doubt if there's a single local here.'

Fran pointed to the menu. ‘Even the lamb's from Wales.'

‘No matter, sweetheart – the idea was for us to get out and be coddled, not for you to ask questions about Marion Lovage.'

‘I never! Well, just a few. Do you think, as a treat, we're entitled to some steak – although the beef's Scottish?'

Before he collapsed into bed – would there ever be a time when he wasn't tired to his very marrow? – Mark conceded under protest that Fran and he should continue to try to build bridges across the gulf separating him from Dave. He trudged, as if through deep snow, to the end of the Winnebago where he could get coverage and left a message on Dave's original mobile suggesting Sunday lunch together. Only as he cut the call did he realize that what he'd said was ambiguous – he hadn't mentioned Fran's presence, which he took, of course, as a given. Also at Fran's behest, he'd named a pub well away from Great Hogben: he couldn't see a problem himself, but if she did, he would indulge her. She still had what he, now desk-bound, was rapidly losing – a cop's nose for trouble and, better still, for preventing it.

They'd both slept like the dead, awaking to bright sunshine and the realization, alarming to people who never slept in, that it was almost ten thirty, and that they simply could not reach St Jude's in time for Janie's service. Mark would have stayed in bed another hour – for ever, if possible, his eyes were so heavy. But duty called. So All Saints at Great Hogben it was, to find the smallish church, probably old but certainly messed about by the Victorians, about two-thirds full. Most of the congregation were older than him and Fran; the dress code seemed to be slightly less than smart casual, with cords and body-warmers in evidence on some of the men. Predictably, the women had made more sartorial effort. The hymns rang out heartily, the sermon was brief, Communion reverent and the prayers to the point. What more could a worshipper want?

Any worshipper but Fran. She'd want to pick the vicar's brains, wouldn't she? So he hung back with her, gathering stray hymn-books as an excuse, and joined her to shake the vicar's hand at the end. She might have been giving a masterclass in tactful approaches, talking briefly about the sermon to show she'd actually been listening. Then she introduced him as her fiancé, saying they'd just moved to the village. That was it. No rapid-fire interrogation. Over to you, vicar. Or was it rector, and were they usurping his house, long lost to the parish?

This time her warmth and charm weren't working their magic. The vicar, old enough to have retired in any other profession, fiddled with his ear and cocked his head towards her. ‘I'm terribly sorry – my hearing-aid battery's just died. Better now than during the service. But you're very welcome and I hope to see you again.'

A final handshake all round and that was it. And so – via the Winnebago, to change into genuinely casual gear – to lunch.

But not before Fran had a phone call. Since it was from Jill she took it.

‘I just thought you'd like to know we've got a body. Woods, to the south of Canterbury. Nearest village, Bridge. A young man with a single stab wound just where Cynd said it would be. It's really Don Simpson's case, but since he knew about my possibly imaginary corpse he thought I might like to know it's real. And we thought you might want to come out to the crime scene,' she added ironically, as if Fran had any choice in the matter.

‘Rather than sit and enjoy Sunday lunch? Yes, well . . . Tell me where.' She jotted the coordinates as Jill dictated them. ‘You've organized everything?' She knew she would have done, from white suits to the press officer.

‘Don did. You know, Fran, if you really are having Sunday lunch somewhere, I can always call you later – pretend this call never happened?'

‘It's tempting.' On the other hand it was even more tempting not to have to eat with and talk to Dave. But what about Mark? How would he feel about his son's unadulterated company? ‘I'll call you back in two minutes,' she promised. ‘How much of that did you hear?' she asked Mark.

‘Enough to make me know you ought to be somewhere near Bridge, not feeding your face near Sissinghurst. We'd best call Dave and tell him lunch is off.'

‘Are you sure that's the best plan? If you want to build bridges, that is? We still don't know how long he'll be over here for, do we? We don't want to give the impression he's not important to us.' For
us
read
you
, of course. ‘He might even have news of Sammie, of course.'

‘Don't sound so damned enthusiastic! Look, I'll call him and the pub to say we'll be late, and I'll drop you at the crime scene. And then you can have a whale of a time inspecting cadavers and I'll politely consume roast beef. And I really will try to get to the bottom of this phone business. Promise. Though I think it would have been easier with you there.' He looked at her sideways. ‘What are you not telling me? I can always tell, you know.'

‘You know he called the night . . . I just wondered if he wanted to get hold of me and bend my ear without you. I've no more idea than you what he's up to – but I don't feel that enjoying a pleasant
tête-à-tête
with his stepmother elect is truly one of them.' Had that been too honest?

‘I was a shockingly bad father, you know. Really, really bad. I left all the hard work to Tina – all the discipline, going to school functions, sitting with them when they were ill – everything.'

‘Show me a policeman who didn't. Oh, things are better now, but in those days that was the role you accepted when you were a copper's wife. And at least you two stuck together, not like other police couples. Why not tell him how guilty you feel? How you'd want to do things differently if you had the chance?'

He shot her an amused glance, winding her up. ‘Sounds a bit touchy-feely to me. You're right, of course. But Fran, tell me this: is my bad parenting wholly to blame for everything? Sammie? Dave? They both seem like creatures from another planet to me. However angry I was with my dad – and I had due cause, believe me, growing up watching his casual unkindness to Mum – I'd never have nicked his phone, or the equivalent. Thank God you had the presence of mind to get mine closed down – though he'd probably already had time to worry away at my password.'

‘On the principle of all those monkeys writing the works of Shakespeare? Come on, the security people said it was a grade-A password. Talk to them tomorrow, anyway – get them to check if there's been any untoward activity on lines he shouldn't even know about. But maybe you should ask Dave himself? Pull over here, sweetheart, and make your calls.'

Fran, the predictable white suit a little short in the leg for her, stood with Don Simpson, Jill and the forensic pathologist surveying the young man's body. It was already so decomposed that it was clear that unless there was anything in his pockets to help, ID would have to be by DNA – or by more searching questions, under caution, to Cynd than anyone had yet risked. Her early confession should do her a lot of favours if she ever came to trial.

‘All this grass—' Fran pointed. ‘Was it crushed by whoever found him? Or by us? Or was it already like this?'

‘The couple who found him said they'd not got in close because of the smell. They also say they're sure it was all flattened down when they and their dog arrived.' Don, a decent cop in his early forties, added, ‘I'd say he came along that path over there, wouldn't you?' It was already cordoned off. ‘The SOCO team'll check for blood and so on.'

‘Would the so on involve other people, carrying something heavy, like a young man? And then – dear God – laying him down there and abandoning him?'

‘Going for help would be a better scenario, guv.'

Jill said, ‘We've checked all emergency ambulance calls, remember – nothing at the right time on the right day. Assuming Cynd is telling the truth, of course. And assuming she may not have been, we checked a couple of days either way – nothing.'

‘Don, Jill – this is in good hands. Keep me informed – I'd like to be at your briefings. Let me know if your budget needs expanding.'

‘Expanding!' Don snorted. ‘We'll be lucky to have a budget if the rumours are to be believed.'

‘When was a rumour ever to be trusted?' Fran grinned. ‘Come on, we have a murder here, and a rape. You have a young woman confessing: could you bear to bring her in yourself, Jill? Since she's a victim too? It'll be a difficult time for her, without any support. Remember Janie's off into hospital first thing.'

‘Shit, so she is. I was hoping we could get Cynd bailed to her care.'

‘If Janie gets so much as a whiff of that she'll call off the op,' Fran declared. ‘And I'm not sure breast cancer will hang around for that. Shit and shit and shit.'

‘Do you suppose she's sorted out a good solicitor for Cynd?'

‘Only one way to find out. By the way, I'd rather Cynd didn't get landed with Whatsisname – that duty solicitor who might almost be batting for our side, not his client's.'

‘Quite.'

Don, who'd backed off during what he no doubt feared was Women's Talk, approached again.

Fran shot him a smile. ‘With luck, this should cost no more than a week's pocket money to tie up – but you never know, do you?'

The three old pros shook their heads and sucked their teeth in unison. One thing in policing was certain – you could never be certain.

Another thing was certain – Fran would have liked to spend the afternoon here, with her team. But in truth she'd be wasting her time – worse, theirs, since they all had roles that didn't require an old bat like her breathing down their necks. The forensic scientists didn't want extra people messing up their site. It was hot here and very smelly. Much as she'd have liked to go with Jill to arrest Cynd and reassure Janie, she didn't want to do anything that might damage Jill's confidence.

And Mark needed her. So she made her farewells, checked he was still over at Sissinghurst and bummed a lift from a disconcerted DC. ‘Meanwhile, we need the full procedure, and bugger the expense. OK?' she concluded, knowing there'd be no dissent.

Mark was pleased with one part of his time with Dave: he'd remembered that his son had always liked photography and had suggested he might like to take his camera – did he still always carry one? Oh, he had the iPhone that'd do everything, didn't he! – round the grounds of Sissinghurst Castle. So lunch, in the absence of Fran, was a short and businesslike affair, simply devoted to the consumption of some indifferent salmon steaks. At some time he'd have to grill Dave on the matter of the mobile phones, but while half of him preferred the idea of having people around to stop Dave creating a scene (he used to have a terrifying capacity for tantrums – had he grown out of them?) the other half wondered if it might be better to have a little privacy to raise almost certainly embarrassing questions.