Cold Pursuit (7 page)

‘These biscuits are very good,’ Jill said, with a distinct sigh. ‘God knows when I last did anything in the kitchen. It was all right when the kids were small – I could get them to help. Now all I get is
“whatever” and they’re not hungry. But they’re good kids really.’

Who was she telling, Fran or herself?

‘Brian OK with them?’

‘He’s got a shed.’ The sentence seemed to say far more than the four words justified.

Fran rested her bum on the desk. ‘And you’re trying to juggle everything.’

‘You did! You were always buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly. Ask any of the older ones.’

‘In that case I was a very bad boss.’ She shook her head at the recollection. ‘And I didn’t have a family.’

‘You had your parents.’

‘Who were safely down in Devon, manageable most of the time. Until they became very old,’ she conceded.

‘And all those responsibilities!’

‘At which point I nearly lost it. Everything. That’s what happens when you take on too much. Blokes like Henson have heart attacks. Women, I gather, tend to have breakdowns. Neither’s a good option. But while people know about heart attacks and treat them with some sort of macho respect—’

‘“There but for the grace of God”—’

‘Exactly! People don’t seem so sympathetic to nervous illness.’

‘Despite your efforts – all that debriefing, that business about avoiding post-traumatic stress.’

Fran wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s almost become macho, hasn’t it? But no one appreciates that
someone subject to sheer every day intolerable grind can be just as ill as the next bloke.’ She made a point of slipping off the desk. ‘There! I’m off my high horse. So that’s what you’ll do, then – pull all the stops out on the sex crimes case? Cases?’

‘If it’s OK by you.’

Fran spread her arms in exasperation. ‘Since when did you have to ask permission? You’re
in
charge.
All I’m in charge of is making sure you’ve got enough paperclips. You wouldn’t have asked Henson for his permission.’

‘Because he wouldn’t have put me in charge. He’d have had some young snappy-suited bloke, all degree and iPod.’

Fran choked on her biscuit. ‘So he would. But I put you in charge because you’ve got the brains and the experience. Go on, Jill – you can do it.’

The phone rang. It was the secretary Fran shared with other senior officers. An urgent outside call, she said.

‘I’m sorry, Jill – I’m going to have to take this.’ Nonetheless she switched to hold. ‘Remember what I said – and remember what you said. You can do it.’ Provided Fran could stop standing between her and the light.

Black lace, I think. A basque. And stockings. Definitely stockings, showing off your lovely thighs. Dilly, my beautiful Dilly. Your love is better than wine.

‘Ms Pound,’ Fran greeted her surprise visitor, wondering if the dirty mugs, both with lipstick round the rim, would improve her image or otherwise. At least they were tucked away by the coffee machine.

‘Chief Superintendent Harman.’

‘Such a mouthful! Call me Fran, please.’ They exchanged smiles as they shook hands. In daylight – it was with something of a shock that Fran realised she was once again spending so much of her time in artificial light – Pound looked slightly older and rather less poised than on television.

‘I really don’t think we’re ready to do a
follow-up
story on the sex cases,’ Fran began, gesturing the reporter to her better visitor’s chair. ‘It was very
good coverage on Friday and stirred up an excellent response. Thank you.’

Pound’s smile was perfunctory. But she said nothing. She looked around the office, and would surely have prowled, picking up personal items and examining them, if it had been that sort of room.

At last she said with a surprising rush: ‘I was wondering about a full-length feature on you yourself, Chief – Fran.’

Fran asked the obvious but not the most polite question. ‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re such a role model for our young women viewers.’

‘With my face looking like this?’ Fran demanded dryly.

‘Well, not in the immediate future,’ the younger woman conceded.

But Pound had known about her face all along. What else did she have on her agenda? ‘Quite.’

It took a moment for Pound to respond. ‘I understand you’re due to retire.’

Fran tried hard not to sound sarcastic. ‘A point you made yourself at the press conference when we talked about the assaults.’

‘Exactly.’ For the first time her face relaxed and Fran could see how attractive she was, even without TV make up. ‘And I still don’t see your Zimmer parked anywhere, Fran.’

‘Today’s one of my good days,’ Fran cackled, hunching like a cartoon crone.

‘The programme would make a good valediction for you.’

‘So long as it didn’t turn into an obituary! Come on, Dilly – I’m an administrator. I don’t leap around doing good deeds, not these days anyway.’

‘But you used to until very recently. You solved that child abduction case.’

‘I was involved. But it wasn’t “my” case and I didn’t solve it. I was part of a team. And I don’t think it would do anyone’s morale any good if you were to focus on one old bat.’

Dilly nodded at least temporary defeat. ‘After a life as busy as yours, what will you do when you retire?’ She sounded genuinely interested. ‘Will you be hanging up your handcuffs for good?’

‘I could take them home to use in the bedroom?’ Fran grinned.

But the joke fell terribly flat. Pound looked puzzled, shocked even, as the penny dropped. She rallied swiftly. ‘Have you had any job offers?’

‘One or two. Since I’m still pondering the implications I can’t tell you what.’ This must be the tail end of the conversation they’d started after her TV interview.

‘There are rumours that you’ve been approached by universities to lecture in criminology. Wouldn’t you find this a bit dull after a life pursuing criminals? Have you ever thought of becoming a private detective?’

It was best to put her out of her misery. ‘Come on, Dilly. You’ll have to tell me sooner or later.
You’re being stalked, aren’t you?’

Was she shocked at the direct question or relieved the problem was again being vented, this time without her boss’s interruption? ‘I don’t know. I really don’t!’

Fran got up and switched on the kettle. ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea.’ While she waited, she returned to her desk, diverted her calls and reached out her notepad, something Dilly had conspicuously lacked. ‘Now you can tell me all about it. When did it start?’

‘The day after that TVInvicta piece I did went national. A letter care of the office.’ Pound fished in her bag, producing a blank envelope crammed with A4 sheets, computer printed, of course.

Fran’s heart sank. No original envelopes. ‘I don’t suppose you remember the postmarks?’

A shake of the head. Funny, it was the first thing Fran always looked at when an unexpected letter arrived.

Taking the bundle still in its envelope she said firmly, ‘If you get what you suspect may be another communication, use rubber gloves when you open it and stow it straight into a freezer bag. Better still, resist the temptation to open it and put it straight into the bag.’

‘Evidence?’

‘Exactly. We may get some DNA from it. It’s a pain the Post Office use adhesive stamps these days – a single lick of a stamp used to provide a big enough sample to send down a criminal. That’s
what stalking is, Dilly. A crime. So you’re not being weak or foolish in showing me this. You’re stopping an offence. Now, tea or coffee? I’ve got green tea if you prefer.’

The domesticity over, Fran donned latex gloves and turned her attention to the letters. They were short, most of them no more than a couple of lines, and seemed tender rather than threatening – the sort Mark might have sent her during an enforced absence. She could see why Dilly had hesitated to admit they were a threat. ‘The first question, of course, is obvious: do you have any idea who might have sent these?’

The younger woman blushed deeply. ‘I did. I thought I did. But now – the latest one – I’m not so sure. In fact, I don’t think I do any more.’

‘So while they were just romantic, you thought you knew the sender and were happy to have them, in fact?’

Pound licked her lips. ‘Reasonably happy.’

‘But not entirely? Dilly, I can see there’s a
backstory
here. Nothing that isn’t strictly relevant will ever get beyond these four walls. It’s OK. Take your time.’

This interview might have been better in the comfortable surroundings of a rape suite, but she could hardly move her now. At least there was always a box of tissues in her top drawer. She fished it out and pushed it across. ‘Come on – you’ve been brave enough to get this far.’

Although she tried to appear neutral, impassive
even, Fran found Dilly’s story moving. She had been the librarian at a Birmingham college where people were trained for the priesthood – Church of England, Methodists, United Reform Church. For three years she’d been in love with one of the students, a mature man with a family. She referred to him only as Steve. Even speaking his name made her blush and brought a flash of tears to her eyes. An affair was out of the question, even though she suspected he returned her feelings. It was only when he came to say goodbye at the end of his course that they declared their love for each other.

‘No more than declared? It was no more than heightened emotion?’

‘Even looking at a woman with lust in your heart is as bad as adultery.’

Fran frowned. ‘Are you sure? So you didn’t think you might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb?’

Pound stared at her mug. ‘We had the briefest of physical relationships.’

‘I’m not judging you, Dilly. I’m just trying to work out if someone who was just a platonic friend might have written these notes.’

‘We only slept with each other three times!’ Dilly wailed. ‘But a man with a vocation doesn’t pick and choose bits of the church’s teaching. What he was doing was sinning. Committing adultery. Breaking the commandments. So he broke it off. But he promised, if he were ever free, he’d contact me, no matter how many years down the line.’

‘Free?’ Was he planning to bump off his wife?

‘If his wife – er – predeceased him.’

‘Was she likely to?’

‘She was a few years older than him.’

‘And he was – when you knew him?’

‘About forty.’

‘So he’d be nearly fifty now. And his wife?’

‘About fifty-six.’

Fran did a lot of sums in her head but none of them added up to anything sensible on Dilly’s part. At last, with some relief, she asked, ‘But you didn’t wait for him?’

‘What was the point? It was impossible to keep seeing each other when… You see, he still needed to use the college library – he became a curate in a parish in the Black Country.’

‘That’s that industrial area near Birmingham?’

‘At one time it was far more important than Birmingham – it was the cradle of the Industrial Revolution,’ she added, with a sudden surge of pride.

‘You’ve got rid of your accent,’ Fran observed.

‘One does if one wants to work in the media,’ was the dry response.

‘And you’ve moved on a long way from being a librarian.’

‘Why not? When I was a kid, I was too shy to become a journalist, but I asked God if he wanted me to remove temptation from Steve’s way to give me some courage. So I did a degree course at Kent University—’

‘Can you give me the details?’ She jotted them down. ‘Did you have a boyfriend there?’

‘I didn’t want one. And no one ever approached me. And they all know I’ve got a job with the TVInvicta News team; we have reunions every so often and share updates. So they wouldn’t have to
find
me.’

Fran’s eyes shot up. ‘Some people might be jealous of your landing such a good post?’

She shook her head. ‘I was a just backroom girl for a couple of years and then got a break reporting. Just low level stuff. Then this happy-slapping and the assault cases came up and I went national – first time ever! They’re promoting me – I’m going to be their crime correspondent.’ Her face glowed. But her mouth suddenly turned down, almost comically, but not quite.

‘Which was when you had the first letter?’

‘I thought it was from Steve. That his wife had died and he was free. And this was his way of contacting me.’

‘You didn’t wonder why he’d not given an address?’

‘I thought it was just a lovely – yes, titillating – joke.’ Pound made a visible effort. ‘But then all I got were more notes. Then the one about black lace. I knew that wouldn’t be from him.’

‘Because?’ Fran prompted.

Pound looked genuinely shocked. ‘Steve wouldn’t be into that sort of thing!’

Fran suppressed two thoughts: that sex with
Steve might not be as exciting as Dilly hoped, and that as a crime reporter Dilly would have to come across far more than black lace.

‘If it isn’t Steve, do you have any other ideas?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m just afraid that my fiancé will get to hear.’

Fiancé? What was she doing getting engaged when news from her erstwhile lover made her heart beat so much faster?

‘So you’re going to be married?’

‘Yes.’

‘And why don’t you want your fiancé to hear about the letters?’

‘Because he wouldn’t like them.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, people thinking those thoughts about his girlfriend.’

‘Even though his girlfriend had no idea who was thinking them?’

Dilly looked shocked. ‘But I must have done something – dressed some way—’

‘Nonsense!’ Fran used her most headmistressy voice. ‘You’ll be telling me next that it’s a rape victim’s fault if her vagina’s penetrated with a broken bottle and she’s left to bleed to death!’ she continued brutally.

Perhaps deep down that was exactly what Dilly wanted to tell her.

‘Let’s talk about your fiancé. What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a teacher. Well, a deputy headmaster. He’s
been sent in to save a failing school in Ramsgate,’ she added, with a touch of pride.

So where would that put him in the sense of humour stakes? Discipline, yes. But would that extend to his private life?

Fran smiled, as if set for a sisterly gossip. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Daniel.’

Daniel what, for God’s sake? But she didn’t want Dilly to think she might be ready to grill him. And the number of deputy head teachers in Ramsgate called Daniel was probably pretty low. ‘Where did you meet?’

‘At a church meeting – an Alpha course.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘Chartham.’

‘Then that’s quite a commute for him, isn’t it? From Chartham to Margate?’

Dilly looked shocked. ‘But we don’t live together. I told you – we’re engaged.’

Best make sure she said nothing of her own situation, then. ‘Do you see much of each other?’

‘At weekends, of course. Not much during the week – I work funny hours and his job demands he work incredibly hard.’

‘So he might have sent you these little notes just to remind you he was there?’

‘Heavens, no! He’s a good man, Chief Superintendent.’

‘But you thought your ex might have done, and you can’t get much more virtuous than a parish
priest.’ One who sleeps with a young woman with a crush on him and only then conveniently remembers the rules about adultery. She was beginning to think poor Dilly could do with some relationship therapy. Not getting a bite, she went on, ‘Is there anyone else you can think of – any other boyfriend from your Midlands days?’ The sooner she got hold of a franked envelope the better. In fact, getting the post office to intercept them and redirect them here might be the best idea.

‘I didn’t have many boyfriends. None that would send notes like that.’

‘But you’re sure the first didn’t arrive until the day after you went national?’

‘I’d have remembered something like that.’

‘Did your mates at work take you out for a drink to celebrate?’

‘Why should they?’

‘Quite a milestone, I should have thought.’

‘I suppose I’m not particularly close to any of them, not really.’

Why not? Lack of self-confidence on her part, or resentment on theirs that a newcomer should have had a good break? Enough resentment to build up a hoax involving letters like this?

‘Might one of them want to get close? Might he think it a good anonymous chat up line?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

‘Have you been followed?’

There was a distinct hesitation before Dilly said, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sometimes – but I’m sure it was only my imagination. No, I haven’t. Definitely.’

Fran didn’t think she was going to get any further with that line, not yet. ‘Have you had any anonymous phone calls?’