Double Fault (22 page)

He grinned. ‘You sound just like my auntie. Thing is, Fran, attitudes to settling down and such are different these days. People meet later, settle down later—'

‘And the women leave it so late to have babies they need IVF. I know, Tom, I know. But you could buck the trend. Think on it, as your auntie might say. Now, what time are your mates investigating Taunton and Stoke-on-Trent likely to come in?'

‘They both said eight at the latest.'

‘Excellent. The sooner we can pull all this in the better: we've got parents to face, not to mention the media.' And Sean Murray to let off the hook. Angry and insolent and dis-obedient he might be, but at least he didn't need to be questioned as a potential mass murderer. She hoped. It was time to get back to the office and talk to Wren. Fast.

Luckily his phone call was over when she tapped at his door. But Wren was adamant. Just because Malcolm Perkins was ruled in as the prime suspect, that didn't mean they could rule Murray out. Not yet.

‘Murray or his alter ego, Christopher Manton?'

‘Manton. I want this information to be ours and ours alone, Fran. And I want him investigated.'

Which was probably chief constable-speak for
I want you to investigate him.
‘But what if he's implicated in nothing more than a change of name?'

He seemed to be thinking about something else, however. At last he said, as if unaware he'd changed the subject, ‘Fran, it occurred to me a few minutes ago that you could honestly say he's not our problem. He still insists he's answerable to the Met, remember. And they pay his salary. It's their appointment procedures, not ours, that are the problem. They should have checked he is who he says he is. We just took him on as a fully-fledged DCI.' She'd never seen him smile so broadly. A mistake that couldn't be chalked up against him as his career path led onwards and upwards! But then he looked almost furtive, staring into his coffee cup as if to read the runes. Another change of direction. ‘So he might not figure in the Ashford investigation at all?'

She let her eyes drift to what looked like top-of-the-range biscuits next to his coffee machine. Just one wouldn't harm, not after the virtual starvation over the weekend. Would it? Well, it wouldn't hurt Wren to offer one. ‘I think he'd have to, sir, don't you? At the very least as a witness – once his ID is confirmed, and not before, of course. He might even have information that would confirm Perkins as the killer.'

Uninvited, she sat down, making a show of easing her leg. ‘Sir, a simple phone call to the Met would establish he's done everything by the book, wouldn't it? We don't want to overreact on this and have the Met laughing at us. And to be honest, though he's been a dratted nuisance and I shall have him doing the nastiest jobs for weeks to come, you've seen him in action. He's got so much potential we both wanted to promote him.'

With the barest of nods, he leant forward and pressed a button on his phone. ‘Get me John Fraser of the Met, will you?'

What had happened to common courtesy and addressing his secretary by name?

While they waited for the connection, she continued, ‘Just as important, sir, and we –
I
– keep losing sight of this, Murray might have information about other kids who disappeared from the same site. Kids whose parents have been waiting for years for news …'

‘Have you a team on hand to inform the families?'

‘There is one, of course. All trained. I need to brief them thoroughly before they deal with what's turned out to be a tricky situation. Some skeletons were ID'd almost immediately. We had to wait to process the others since we didn't have permission to fast-track the DNA tests. So while some families could be told today, others will have to wait in limbo. And I can't see that sort of difference being kept out of the media.'

He frowned. ‘That's unforgivable.' She knew he wasn't referring to his refusal to allow the budget to do it. ‘Everything should be properly synchronized. Even,' he added with less assurance, ‘if it means that those who could be notified may have to wait.' Even he seemed to recognize the problems that this might cause as he returned to bluster mode. ‘However did this arise?'

‘You'll recall that the SIO was rushed to hospital: Don Simpson?' He'd have flouted every budgetary constraint necessary, and blow the consequences, to get the remains of the other victims ID'd post haste, but she'd better not point that out. It would be wiser to give Wren the chance to have that idea himself. ‘He's on the mend, by the way – he was due to come out of hospital yesterday, but to tell the truth I forgot to phone to see how he was.'

‘A Human Resources job, that. Not yours.'

‘He's a colleague I've known for a long time, sir,' she corrected him more gently than she meant. So gently that unfortunately he didn't even realize it was a rebuke. ‘Don Simpson's the most efficient and hard-working of officers, absolutely on the ball. And don't forget that it was he who put us on to the fact that Murray – if that's his name – knew about the Ashford case before he did a runner.' She added, ‘When Mark visited him in hospital, he told him then.' She could have kicked herself. Why had she said that? Something to do with the fatigue she'd picked up on in Tom, no doubt. But stupid, stupid, stupid.

‘You and Turner – you're like bloody Velcro! What the hell was it like when he was ACC here?'

She must bounce back. ‘As strictly professional as you'd expect, sir. As it is now, when it comes to work. So before you ask, he knows nothing of my reservations about Murray. He's too busy,' she said limpidly, going on the pennies and pounds principle, ‘being copper's nark at the tennis club. But he is exemplary about drawing the line between what people tell him personally and how the professionals deal with it.'

Wren grabbed the phone as if it were a lifeline. He wafted a dismissive hand at Fran, mouthing, ‘Ten minutes.'

She nodded.

Ten minutes to be nasty to Sean Murray. But far from rubbing her hands in glee, she felt herself dropping. She needed the energy for more important things. To give herself breathing space, she headed for the loo.

She'd barely had time to check that he still had his head down working when Wren summoned her again. To her surprise he gestured her to a seat.

‘Curiouser and curiouser,' he said, betraying an unexpected depth of reading. ‘The Met tell us that Murray had already and quite legally changed his name from Manton by the time he joined them. In fact, he took all his qualifications in his new name. But he quite specifically asked for his family not to be questioned when the usual background checks were made.'

‘Did he give a reason?'

‘It wasn't recorded if he did. A good candidate with good college references and outstanding qualifications – why look a gift horse in the mouth, eh? I'm afraid the Met have had to tighten up their recruitment procedures, Fran – once or twice they've quite publicly been found lax.'

‘Would you be happy for me to talk to him about this family problem, sir? It must have been serious for him to change his name at that age.'

‘Talk all you like, Fran. But if I were you,' he added, with what seemed a genuine smile, ‘I'd make him sweat. Carry on as normal. Make him work doubly, trebly hard – after all, his colleagues have had to in his absence. Should he complain, you can assure him you have my total support and trust. And then, when you feel the time is right, question him as formally as you like. And report your findings to me, of course.'

Fran returned his smile. ‘Thank you, sir. I will. Meanwhile, if you'll excuse me, I ought to go and check with the officers investigating other aspects of Malcolm Perkins' activities. Taunton and Stoke-on-Trent, for the time being.' She could see him reviewing the geography of the UK: no, neither of those would impinge on his budget. ‘Would you like me to update you?'

He looked at his watch, an even more upmarket one than either of those Mark owned. ‘I'm involved with an ACPO venture for the rest of the day.' The sort of jolly Mark had always loathed. ‘But perhaps you could text me. Yes, I'd appreciate that.' He nodded as she rose to her feet.

M
onday morning was Golden Oldies time at the tennis club, of course. Mark was tempted to miss it, lest there was a repeat of the previous day's incident. But he gave himself a man or a mouse talk, and headed off, though he felt anxious about exposing Fran's car to possible hostility.

There was a sort of reception committee waiting for him when he arrived, but it was led by Dougie, who initiated a round of applause. Mark could feel a blush rising: even if he'd done something to deserve being greeted as a hero, it would be embarrassing enough.

‘Now, lad, what's the best way we can help sort out this bad business?' Dougie demanded, his arm casually but quite firmly around Mark's shoulders, to remind them all that he was a mate. ‘Just give us your orders.'

‘Heavens, I hardly gave orders when I was in the police,' he responded. ‘But I suppose if I had a
Crimewatch
hat on I'd say we should play in the same groups as last Thursday, and see if anything odd clicks in anyone's brain.'

‘Oh, a reconstruction!' Dougie rubbed his hands. ‘That sounds good. Are we all up to it? Those of us who can remember back as far as last Thursday, that is. And even if we don't recall a single thing, I don't suppose running around on this gorgeous sunny morning will harm us. Now, Mark, do you want us in the fours we started in or were in when you realized the poor little lass had gone astray?'

‘Let's start with the original ones, shall we? Now, I think Jayne wrote down for the police a record of who was partnering whom. Right, Jayne? Let's go.'

‘We're missing a couple,' she said, consulting her iPad. ‘So we leave gaps or get someone else to join in?' she looked around. ‘Silly me: I don't see any spares. OK, threesomes then. So long as we're just knocking up …'

‘There's no reason why we shouldn't play round games, two against one – those of us who like a bit of competition, that is,' Dougie added innocently. ‘Five games for those in a foursome, as many as you can manage for you trios.'

The whole thing was going to be a complete waste of everyone's time, wasn't it? He should never have suggested it. It would have been better for everyone to enjoy another magical spring day – the sun already warm, but with an easterly wind to keep it cool to the point of cold: one or two who'd stripped off their tracksuits were already putting them on again. A cow was mooing fit to burst in one of the nearby meadows. A couple of horses, sharing a field, tossed their heads across the electric fencing that separated them. The whole scene was as idyllic as it had been the previous Thursday.

Now there were no kids to drown them out, you could hear the usual shouts: people apologizing for a bad shot; a ball called out. A double fault. Timeless. Ought to be in a Noël Coward play. At least they were all getting fit while they wasted time.

They finished the first five games. Consulting Jayne, they took up their places for the next five. Jayne reminded him that they'd been playing together: she'd grumbled when he'd broken up the game when he realized there was no sign of Livvie. They really needed to make up the foursome with George and Dan, but there was no sign of them: they played a languid game of singles, until the welcome appearance of Dan, who took in the situation at a glance and joined in.

When each foursome had completed their five games, he was just about to apologize and ask Dougie to resume the usual card-taking method of selection when Alex, she of the erratic serve, spoke up.

‘I know this is probably a waste of everyone's time, but didn't someone use a phone round about this point, just as Dougie dropped all the cards?'

‘Did I? Don't remember that. But if you say I did, I must have done.'

‘That's right,' Dan said. ‘But you dropped them at the end of the first set. I remember the ace of clubs blew away. We found it up against someone's bag.'

‘Which wasn't away from the playing area, where it was supposed to be, but here by the net,' Alex said. ‘I was going to remind whoever it was that it wasn't how we did things, but I didn't want to say anything in front of everyone else.'

Mark felt himself stepping forward. ‘So whose bag was it? Just to clarify things? Could you just identify your bags now? Just to your neighbour – nothing official. And Alex, could you just see if any of the bags jogs your memory? And then perhaps we could come back here to Dougie.'

Off they trotted, like the obedient kids Zac had been coaching. He joined them, of course – he was one of them, not an officer. And back they all came, Alex shaking her head. ‘We go in for some battered old specimens, don't we?'

‘Quite appropriate, considering,' Dougie said. ‘So, just to make it clear, it wasn't anyone here who left their bag at the net, rather than round the periphery or on the clubhouse decking?'

‘So who was it?' Alex asked. ‘Mark, any ideas?' Then she flushed, vividly. ‘Actually, that phone call – it wasn't between sets even. It was as we changed ends. Really bad form. But I'd never seen the guy before so—' She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Does that mean it was the man with the red car? He said something about a dentist – perhaps he was just calling to say he'd be late or something. Or perhaps the dentist was calling to offer a cancellation. Had he lost a filling and needed emergency treatment?'

Mark had a very strong recollection that Stephen Harris was having routine treatment, all confirmed by the dentist involved. His pulses were racing, but he tried to sound calm, disinterested. ‘Does anyone else recollect this phone call?'

‘Must have been outgoing,' Dougie said, ‘or we'd have heard it ringing. Or whatever these posh new phones do. Wouldn't we?'