Cold Pursuit (10 page)

‘No problem,’ she responded. ‘While we’re talking about concealing items, why don’t you both sling those clothes carriers in the boot? There’s no point in carting all those silver buttons around. And since we’re in the UK’s curry capital, perhaps we should go and try the local cuisine?’

If he’d hoped the Chief wouldn’t notice her overbright tone, he was disappointed. He wasn’t a man to miss much, was he?

But Fran was deep in conversation with a youthful passing constable. Was he one of her protégés? He couldn’t remember very many Asian officers passing through Kent. All the same, they were clearly getting on like a house on fire – he could hear the lad’s rather high-pitched giggle as he pointed into some vague distance. Soon, waving at each other in half-salutes, they parted company,
and Fran returned briskly to the two men. ‘According to Constable Nazir there, we can’t get any decent curry in the city centre. Ladypool Road, that’s where we need to go. But he says we need to kill at least an hour before we set out.’

‘In that case,’ the Chief said, looking at his watch, ‘I suggest a quiet drink for the three of us and a snack and a taxi for me. I hear there’s a talk this evening at the Barber Institute, out at the University, about the Florentine School and perspective. Unless you two would like to come too? The galleries themselves are worth a visit.’

Much as he’d have liked to get Fran to himself, polite acquiescence in an evening neither would have dreamed of undertaking for their own pleasure seemed called for.

The galleries were indeed wonderful, deserving far more than the sprint round that was all they had time for before the illustrated lecture, which lasted a couple of hours. The snack was now more than a distant memory, and Mark’s stomach had offered a tentative rumble, but the Chief was keen that they head straight for the motorway and home, rather than return to the Ladypool Road.

It was Fran who stood her ground. ‘I wouldn’t be able to look PC Nazir in the eye again if I had to confess we’d never tried his cousin’s restaurant, sir. He promised the biggest, fluffiest naans in town. And a doggie bag for everything we couldn’t eat.’

So it would be after two in the morning before
they could speak privately. During the meal, the Chief talked, more interestingly than the lecturer, about Renaissance art.

It wasn’t until they’d regained the car, still safe after a bit of
ad hoc
valet-parking by Nazir’s cousin’s son, that Fran could update them about Stephen Hardy. She took the wheel, maintaining, once they’d reached the M40, an absolutely legal and equally irritating seventy every inch of the stint she’d volunteered for. Mark felt honour-bound to take the next stretch, which he suspected would take them mysteriously to the Chief’s front door.

At the change-over, at Oxford services, the Chief asked, ‘Will you be checking this course of Hardy’s?’

‘Low key, not terribly high priority,’ she replied, retiring to the back seat. Mark hoped she’d manage to doze. Instead, she was going to have to lean forward to hear and reply to the Chief’s questions.

At last she reprised the case to everyone’s satisfaction. He hoped. As an act of conversational vandalism, he switched on the radio. Let Classic FM do its bit and soothe them.

‘So why no mounds of goodies from the Birmingham shops?’ he asked quietly, fishing out his garment carrier.

‘Didn’t buy anything.’ Fran’s voice was still brittle. Was it this case that was upsetting her so much? She seemed to have forgotten the first rule of crime-fighting, never to get personally involved.
Were Hardy – they’d all diligently refrained from making wisecracks about kissing – and Dilly really a pair of star-crossed lovers? Or was Fran allowing their own amazing relationship to colour her judgement?

He took her hand and set them gently in motion. ‘Why ever not?’

‘I was too old. Old, Mark. I’m old.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ When she said nothing, he asked, ‘Who says you’re old?’

‘No one. Not in as many words. But I was looking at all these things – shoes, undies, dresses – and I couldn’t find anything I wanted even to try on, just in case. Nothing. Nothing. And then this beautiful young man swanned over and asked if he could help, as if I were some sort of imbecile unable to navigate my way round the store. And like a fool I asked if there are any clothes for someone my age. And very, very seriously, he led me over to one rail – one rail! – of knitwear.’

Anger at the slight surged on her behalf. ‘And you let him get away with it?’

She shook her head, the security light peering pitilessly at her features. ‘It wasn’t his fault. The stuff he’d pointed out was good but I just couldn’t face it. So I hitched up my skirt and legged it. Metaphorically.’

‘And that’s all?’ He laughed with affectionate derision.

‘It’s quite a big all,’ she corrected him sharply. ‘It’s being middle-aged, at very least. It’s being a
step nearer my mother.’ This time there was a definite catch in her voice.

Even as he responded bracingly, he knew he was missing something, but he couldn’t for the life of him have said what. ‘You’ve got thirty years to go before you’ll get anything like your mother. Nor will you, if I have anything to do with it. Ever.’

Every night I watch for you, my beloved. I watch, but I don’t see you. Where are you? Where are you hiding yourself? Must I come and find you?

‘He’s got to make a mistake, soon,’ Jill declared, apparently ready to smash her open hand though the top of Fran’s embarrassingly tidy desk. ‘Got to. Hasn’t he?’

It took Fran a hard blink and conscious effort to wrench her still sleep-ridden thoughts from her middle-aged Eloise and Abelard back to the sex attacker who had in the last twenty-four hours pestered – this time not much more than that – no fewer than three young women, all in the Hythe area this time. All out of CCTV range.

‘Absolutely. If only he was concentrating on a particular area, we could put in a few WPC decoys,’ she added, hoping to show she was up to speed. ‘Or is he still obsessed with teenagers Natasha’s age?’

‘He went for a fifty-year-old the other day. So apparently not.’

Fran suppressed a shudder. In her bravado the other evening she might have put herself at risk. Had she? Mentally she squared her shoulders. If some runt of a flasher had come her way, she knew who’d have regretted it more. But she did not wish to allude to her little adventure. ‘Do you think it’s time for a profiler? If you want, I can bend the Chief’s ear.’

‘What about the temporary Chief Super? Oughtn’t the idea come from him?’

Fran tugged her hair. ‘Of course it ought. At very least I should put it to him first before I even breathed a word to you. Or you could put it to him without having consulted me? Which would give you Brownie points.’

‘The way he looks down his nose at me I could do with fully-fledged Girl Guide points!’

‘Which reminds me, how is Tash?’

‘She’s given up Guiding. All sorts of issues.’

‘But she’s still got her cricket?’

For some reason Jill didn’t sound enthusiastic. ‘And not much else. They want her to have special coaching at Lord’s. God knows how we’ll fit that in.’

‘But what an honour! She must be very good, very good indeed.’

Jill nodded, but the worry didn’t leave her face.

‘And how’s Rob these days? Still into the bass guitar?’

Jill opened her mouth, only to snap it shut again. After a moment she said, ‘Actually, he’s moved on to the drums. For some GCSE coursework.’

So what else was going on? When Rob was twelve and she’d let him beat her at badminton, he’d been a charming kid. Now he was presumably into mid-teens blues, more likely to yawn at her and adjust his headphones than to pick up a racquet.

‘You will tell me if there’s anything I can do? Take the kids out for the day?’ It sounded painfully inadequate even as she said it.

She was rewarded with a look of contemptuous disbelief. ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that, Fran.’ With that Jill got up quietly and let herself out.

And Chief Superintendent Joe Farmer let himself in, ducking his head shyly as she gestured him to the still warm chair.

‘Ms Harman,’ he said, clearing his throat and swallowing hard, as if they were teenagers at a long-ago hop and he was about to ask her to dance, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t undermine my efforts to build a team.’

It was a very good opening. For one thing, she’d been poised to offer maternal congratulations on doing such a good job; for another the attack was so unexpected she couldn’t think of a rebuttal. So she said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow to signify puzzlement and disdain and any other challenge he might wish to read into it.

‘DCI Tanner is forever running to you for advice. I’m her line manager: it should be me she talks to.’

‘Absolutely. I thought she did. No?’

‘All I get out of her is that things are progressing
or that she needs more resources. Not exactly consistent.’

She grunted in sympathy. ‘Take her out for a drink and tell her. Ask her what the problem is.’

‘I was hoping—’

‘That I would? But that would be to do exactly what you don’t want me to. So let’s forget that option.’ She rubbed her face, clamping down a yawn. ‘Sorry. We didn’t get back from Birmingham till three this morning.’

‘But you were at your desk before I was!’

‘My car might have been in the car park, but I was in the canteen having breakfast. I dare say you were slaving away before I’d had my second coffee.’ Had that built a little bridge? ‘Now, this Jill business. She’s a highly competent DCI, but for some reason she seems overawed by this case – which isn’t surprising, since Chummie’s leaping from location to location like a jumping bean. What’s your take on it? Were you thinking about a profiler? Fancy a cuppa while we talk about it?’ She gestured to her machine.

‘I…er…black coffee, please. Fran, how well do you know Tanner?’

This was one of those questions that required a far from straight answer. ‘I was her first sergeant. When we were both younger, we played badminton against each other. Her kids call me “auntie”. Used to. Probably refer to me as the Old Bat these days.’

‘So you’d know if anything was wrong?’

‘I’d want to know. That doesn’t mean she’d tell
me. There are times when even the best of mates are aware of the hierarchies. Certainly in this building. The rate you’ve progressed through the ranks you must have noticed.’

His turn to nod.

But he said nothing, so she asked, ‘What do you think she ought to tell me?’

‘What’s her husband like?’

She suppressed the temptation to goggle. ‘Brian? Why?’

‘I just wondered.’

An officer at that level never just wondered. Until she worked out what he was after, she would pretend the questions were just social. ‘He’s very quiet. Works in local government. Good with the kids – he’s had to be mother and father to them, of course, with Jill’s shifts. He’s a brilliant cook, as I recall – you want to get yourself invited.’

He ignored the quip. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Do? Me? Look, Joe, I thought we’d—’

‘She’s your friend!’

‘Us, then. Because as you said, much as I’m her buddy when we’re off duty, you’re her line manager. We’ll need to tackle any problems together. You see, I’m horribly out of touch even with my close friends: until my father died in the autumn I was commuting to Devon every weekend, a real downer socially. But as you’ve no doubt heard on the jungle drums, I’m now in a new relationship, which also means I neglect my friends.’

‘And when did any copper at our level have a proper social life anyway?’ he asked bitterly.

‘Or a family one?’ There was a clear waist on his wedding finger, as if a ring had recently been removed.

‘Don’t we have the highest divorce rates of all professional groups in the country?’ he countered.

Oh, dear. Did she know him well enough to pursue that? On the whole she thought not. She waited, hoping her very silence might be useful, tipping her head on one side in the way that always amused Mark. And reflecting that if his marriage was a mess, then that might be why he’d thought a marital breakdown the reason for Jill’s poor performance.

‘OK, if you can’t think of anything, I suppose we’d better bring in Human Resources,’ he said at last.

‘Are you sure?’ She was damned sure she wasn’t. ‘That makes it all a bit official. And it might make Jill feel you didn’t trust her with this case.’

‘I don’t.’ It was a very bald statement. ‘To be honest, I think you made a bad mistake appointing her. But we’ve clearly got to live with it.’

She’d had the same reservations herself, but wasn’t about to pass the blame on to Mark. ‘Which means supporting her through whatever her problems might be. Both professional and personal. Tell you what, Joe, why don’t we both keep our eyes and ears open for a couple of days? Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to her Ashford colleagues. And
I’ll certainly make a point of drifting into her office, if you’re sure it won’t undermine you further.’ She stood to end the meeting. ‘Thanks for telling me all this. And if you think a profiler’s called for, I’ll certainly back you.’

Farmer pursed his lips. ‘But…’

Her phone rang. Feeling they’d made as much progress as they could, she took the call. Dilly Pound was in Reception.

‘I couldn’t resist opening today’s note,’ Dilly said, spreading the by now familiar sheet of A4 paper with its few laser-printed lines between them on Fran’s desk. ‘Knowing that you’d seen…him.’ There was a catch in her voice, as if she’d wanted to say his name but had stopped herself in time. But even the little pronoun sounded breathlessly tender.

Ignoring the emotion as best she could, Fran checked the postmark. ‘Ashford!’ This was a change of gear. She hoped her voice didn’t betray how serious a change. ‘Look, you should never have received this: I’ve asked the Post Office to reroute all your TVInvicta mail to me.’ She made a note; she doubted they’d let anything further through.

‘I didn’t notice. I just wondered… But it sounds as if whoever it is is going to come and get me!’

So she’d hoped that it might have been Stephen who had sent an explicit message this time. And she’d had a nasty surprise.

Had Mr X literally come looking, or had he
simply stopped commuting to London? What if – she had a frisson of irritation – Stephen had got on a train and come down himself? It wasn’t impossible. And she’d blithely assured the Chief that checking his London alibi was low priority. But surely he’d have done more than post a letter. He’d have presented himself at TVInvicta’s premises. And they were in Canterbury, not Ashford.

If only she’d had a decent night’s sleep!

‘Excuse me just one minute, Dilly.’ She rerouted her phone calls, and set off in search of Tom. If he weren’t up to his ears, he could phone the conference centre for her. But she couldn’t just dive into the incident room and purloin him – not with Jill’s sensibilities being what they were. In any case she might just see or smell for herself the things that had so alarmed Joe Farmer. However good her intentions, however, Jill’s goldfish bowl was empty.

‘Happy to oblige, guv,’ Tom responded, as if she’d just offered him a fistful of fivers, not a battered brochure.

‘And come straight back to me, the moment you know something. Knock on the door but wait outside. I don’t want the person in my office to hear what you’re saying.’ Or Tom to see Dilly, of course. Though she’d swear on her father’s grave he’d be totally discreet.

Dilly was standing looking out of the window when she got back.

‘Is he still at Holy Trinity?’ she asked without turning round.

‘You don’t need me to answer that. You can simply look in Crockford’s,’ Fran countered.

‘How is he?’

She replied as kindly as she could. ‘Dilly, I can’t answer any questions about yesterday’s interview, can I? If I can break his confidences, I could do the same for yours. But I do want to pursue other lines of enquiry too.’

The woman’s face fell. ‘It wasn’t him. Who is it then, Fran?’ The question ended on a note of terror.

Fran countered it with mundane information delivered as prosaically as she could. ‘The trouble with your being in the public domain is that we need to sort out people who might genuinely have known you and now wish to renew a relationship and those who truly believe you know them but are deluding themselves.’

‘I don’t want to end up like Jill Dando, dead on my own doorstep!’ Dilly’s voice rose and cracked.

‘Of course you don’t. And we won’t let anything like that happen,’ Fran declared with a confidence she wasn’t sure she felt. ‘Now, is there any chance you could go and stay with a friend for a bit? Someone you really trust?’ She didn’t suggest Dilly’s fiancé. What would be interesting was if Dilly herself did. ‘No one from work?’ A series of headshakes. ‘OK, then – I’d like one of my crime prevention colleagues to check over your home, just to make sure it’s got maximum security.’

‘You mean he might try and break in? And rape me? Kill me?’ Her voice rose towards hysteria.

Fran might have been Dixon of Dock Green. ‘We haven’t got that far, Dilly, not by any means. None of his letters has contained anything like a threat, and this one merely hints at him making an effort to see you. But I’d rather we didn’t take any risks. Come on, there must be someone you could stay with?’ In desperation she continued, ‘Your fiancé? You have told him about all this?’

‘He’s at work all day.’

In other words, no. ‘So are you. Though it might be safer if you stayed in the TVInvicta offices and didn’t go out to cover stories. That way you’re always with colleagues, and security seems pretty tight. So long as someone always walks you to your car.’

Dilly opened her mouth to object, to point out her professional obligations, just as Fran herself would have done.

‘And if you do have to do an outside broadcast, at least you’ll have a cameraman with you.’ Fran took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to have to talk to Daniel about this, Dilly. He’s your fiancé: he’d want to know, and probably deserves to.’

‘No. I’d rather deal with this on my own. Without bothering him.’ Terror had given way to mulishness. What on earth drove this woman?

‘Love brings responsibilities as well as rights,
you know. Wouldn’t you want to know if anything was troubling him? Would it help if I were with you?’

‘I don’t want him involved. He’s a very busy man. Very pressured.’

‘How pressured?’

Dilly narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not suspecting him, now, are you?’ she demanded.

‘Whom would you prefer me to suspect? Have you forgotten to tell me about any short-term relationships that went sour? You need to trust me. You really do. I’ll be totally discreet.’

Pound shook her head.

‘Flirtations? I know we’ve been through this before, but what about young men at Kent University? Fellow students? Tutors? Any young man you might have lost touch with.’

Dilly got up with something approaching a flounce. ‘You’re trying to get me to do your work for you. I thought detectives were supposed to do the detecting!’

Fran spread her hands. ‘All I have is
computer-generated
letters printed by laser-printer, inserted into self-seal envelopes with lick-free stamps. London postmarks. One Ashford postmark. I don’t have an awful lot to start detecting with. Do I?’ She ended with a friendly, supportive smile that might just soften her exasperation.