Authors: Judith Cutler
‘Seems she’s thought of that: she’s got those fixed.’
‘Who by? We don’t want some load of cowboys doing those, too.’
‘I’ll go and check, guv.’
She suppressed a laugh – any excuse to go and talk to her again and be the macho but caring cop. And Dilly, who had been so grey and negative with Daniel McDine, would blossom in the sunlight of his obvious admiration.
‘But some of those safe houses aren’t very nice, guv. I mean, protecting scrotes turning Queen’s Evidence is one thing, and they shouldn’t expect the Ritz, like. But she’s a lady.’
‘Tom, Tom, what happened to all that equal opportunities training? There are no such things as ladies any more! OK, I know what you mean. Tell the protection people you don’t want some
flea-ridden
council house.’
A venture into the Incident Room found everyone engaged in something apparently useful, except for DI Jon Binns, who was staring at a screen crammed with columns of figures. He blinked as she approached, then again, harder, as if his eyes hurt. ‘Budget balancing,’ he said, running his hands across a prematurely balding pate, to which, for some reason, he hadn’t taken the clippers.
‘Not someone your rank,’ she frowned.
‘The last Chief Super was taken ill before he could manage it.’ He sounded apologetic, as if it was his fault.
‘And DCS Farmer?’
‘Has problems with the software. And I can
quite see why. It’s very cumbersome.’ That was loyalty for you. But it deserved a better reward than it was likely to get.
‘If you know a better program, jot down the details and I’ll take it to whoever. Or Joe Farmer can. You’re supposed to be detecting, not number crunching.’
‘I was training to do both – to be a forensic accountant. With my background I thought I could be really useful.’
‘And then?’
‘I fancied something a bit more active. As soon as I got my inspector’s exams, I baled out. And here I am.’
She sat opposite him. ‘How do you fancy doing a bit of detecting for me? I thought I’d already asked one of the DCIs to look into the CCTV firms, but maybe I didn’t.’ She explained.
DI Binns looked totally blank, but agreed to liaise with Tom.
‘So I need a list of all their employees, from the people in charge of deciding the location of the cameras to the guys actually fitting them. It’s rather a lowly task, but could you get on to it? Or delegate, if you wish.’
‘I’ll get on to them the minute I’ve finished this lot of figures, shall I?’
‘You could do that,’ she said not unkindly. ‘Figures are important, Jon, but lives much more. Why not save that page and do as I asked? I’ll make it OK.’ He looked so young and vulnerable
she added, with a grin, ‘Promise.’
Shaking her head at her soft heartedness – Jon Binns was thirty-five if he was a day – she toddled off to leave Farmer a concise note.
Surely, surely she’d spoken to Jill about her suspicions! Maybe not. Anyway, things were at last in train on that front.
Perhaps it was because it was Friday that all the managerial issues were resolved extraordinarily quickly. Jill’s caseload, naturally falling into two sections, was put under the supervision of Farmer and Fran, but not under their day-to-day care, with two more DCIs to be brought in. Farmer seemed inclined to argue; Fran had to restrain herself from kicking him hard on the ankle. Let detectives detect, she wanted to say, we’ve got to administrate. But she said nothing, because her administrative load was almost zero these days, and she had an irresistible urge to detect. And eschew the rest. Especially meetings. Especially policy meetings.
‘And most especially of all Home office policy meetings,’ she concluded, as Mark put the car into gear.
‘When you know all your carefully worked out plans will be eliminated because of some Downing Street minion scribbling on a table napkin,’ he agreed. ‘Whatever happened to that idea of marching drunken louts to cash machines to pay instant fines?’
‘Someone discovered they couldn’t remember their names, let alone their PIN numbers?’
They shared a cynical laugh.
‘But how did you fix that Dilly protection business?’ he asked. ‘A bit
ad hoc
, surely?’
‘Entirely
ad hoc
! But clearly the poor woman can’t stay in that house on her own, not until someone’s fixed the CCTV stuff so a bit of wind won’t blow it haywire. And if young Tom Arkwright really does have a spare room in his house share and is happy to spend his weekend minding her when she isn’t with that fiancé of hers, that’s a damned sight easier than popping her in a safe house which is far below the quality that he seems to think is her due. The Chief, too. He’s really smitten, isn’t he?’
‘The Chief or Tom?’ he laughed.
‘Both! And I must say, the Chief’s wife apart, that is, either bloke would be better than her current options. Especially young Tom.’
‘But he’s years younger than she is!’
She said, as sharply as if they were in a meeting, ‘If the age difference were reversed, you wouldn’t raise even half an eyebrow.’
‘You’re right.’ But he didn’t seem to accept the rebuke. ‘I’d leave that to you. You do it so much better than I, especially now all those bruises have healed.’
‘I meant it, Mark. Why, I’m older than you—’
‘But only by a month, for goodness’ sake. OK, I was out of order. Sorry. Now, do you really insist on us both going to Jill’s house? You don’t think she might find the two of us a bit intimidating?’
‘Not if you hide behind a nice big bunch of flowers. And one of us washes up. Her kitchen was in a bit of a state.’
‘So you buy this “fell down a messy staircase excuse”?’
‘Let’s reserve judgement. So long as we go as Fran and Mark and leave all our braid and buttons behind.’
Jill let them in herself, hobbling back to her sofa as Fran announced she was about to make a cup of tea and disappeared into the kitchen. The very fact that she didn’t argue told Mark she must be in pain.
‘You’ll be getting an official visit from Pers – from
Human Resources
– to talk about your return to work. I’m more interested in how long it will be before you and Brian can thrash us at tennis again,’ he said conversationally.
Now why had Jill glanced at the silver trophies on the mantelpiece and on two shelves of what was designed as a bookcase? He’d seen that involuntary look before, when he was an active cop raiding premises, the sort of eye-movement that told the onlooker that Chummie was hiding something – and, more to the point, where he was hiding it. What was it that Jill didn’t want him to look at? After a few minutes’ conversation on this year’s Wimbledon prospects, Mark drifted over to look more closely at some of the cups. Everything was a little tarnished, but what worried him far more were a couple of clean circles in the dust that covered everything. Big circles meant big trophies.
To ask what had happened to them would, he suspected, elicit little more than a string of lies – if Fran were correct in her surmise that Rob was on drugs, it might well be that he’d nicked them to feed his habit. And when had Fran not been right?
‘I gather Natasha’s taken after you in being sporty? Cricket, if not tennis?’
Jill would clearly have preferred Wimbledon to Lord’s as a venue for her possible hour of triumph. ‘At least it’s not rugby. I couldn’t bear that. The risks… And it’s so unfeminine.’
‘I didn’t think they did frilly dresses in tennis any more. Or ordinary shorts, come to that,’ he added. ‘All that sculptured stuff – looks as if it’s been sprayed on!’
She nodded. ‘I tried to get a new tennis dress in the Outlet this summer. Bright orange. Imagine that at Wimbledon. Nowhere to stow your tennis balls, either. Quite impractical.’
‘Neater than the weird beach clothes the men seem to wear. Like cut off pyjamas.’ What on earth was keeping Fran? Small talk with junior officers had never been his forte, especially not at six on a Friday. ‘What time do they get in, your kids?’
‘When they feel hungry.’ Her smile was unconvincing, to put it mildly.
‘They’re a worry, aren’t they? My two – I still want to tell them to work harder, drive more slowly, drink less, give up smoking. But the more I tell them, the less they take any notice. Mind you, they are in their twenties.’
‘How do they get on with Fran?’
It was such a direct question he was taken aback, almost offended.
‘Well. Very well,’ he said with finality.
But she didn’t let go. ‘They don’t see her as a replacement for Tina?’
‘Why should they? She isn’t.’
‘I thought – I’m sorry, I thought – you know, the ring.’ Jill touched her left hand. ‘At least, it’s what everyone assumes. And there was a pile of estate agents’ particulars on Fran’s desk the other day.’
She was digging herself in deeper and deeper. He made a huge effort. ‘Fran and I – Fran isn’t looking to be a replacement mother. What woman of any sense would, with two adults? Our relationship – hers and mine – isn’t… In a sense, it’s none of their business.’ Nor of Jill’s, either. Where the hell were Fran and the bloody tea? Perhaps attack was the best means of defence. ‘You and Brian – how long have you been together, Jill?’
‘Twenty years, give or take.’
Twenty years sounded a bit too memorable to give and take. It was the sort of length people celebrated publicly. So what on earth did she mean?
At this point Fran came in, almost as if she’d been waiting for some sort of cue. ‘So when’s the party? Come on, most police marriages don’t last half that time. Balloons, a conjuror – you deserve the works!’
‘Let’s wait till it’s twenty-five years,’ Jill said. ‘Then you can do everything in silver.’
She spoke lightly but he was sure there was some under-current there. He looked to Fran for confirmation. A tiny lift of one eyebrow confirmed his suspicions. But she jumped straight in.
‘So how good are Natasha and Rob at cooking? Or is Brian bringing something in? Because if not, I’m no Delia, but I could knock up something for you all. From jars and packets,’ she added, her face comic in confession.
‘There are plenty of those. I’m sure I can manage…’
‘I’m sure you can: the question is, should you have to?’ Fran bit something back. ‘Now, by the looks of you, you ought to be in bed. Can I help you?’
Jill’s relief was palpable. But then her face fell. ‘That’s when it happened. When I fell. I’d just stripped the bed.’
The implication was that she missed her step because she had her arms full of bedlinen and couldn’t see where she was going. Was she telling the truth? Was there a monster pile of dirty linen lying somewhere, or had Fran loaded the machine when she’d brought her back from the hospital? A quick glance at Fran showed a studiously blank face.
Fran chipped in quickly. ‘No problem. Just tell me where I’ll find the clean sheets and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Airing cupboard. But—’
Fran did her greyhound act and vanished up the
stairs. Craven, he stood and said, ‘Always easier with two. Back in two minutes.’
Fran greeted him with a bundle of bed linen and a serious face. ‘Load the washing machine. I’ll be back down in a second. See if there’s anything else to make a full load while you’re at it,’ she added, at the top of her voice. In other words, go into the kids’ rooms too.
He didn’t like this one scrap. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘Socks, T-shirts…’
From downstairs came a wail. ‘Don’t bother. Honestly. Please.’
Quite. All the same, he popped his head round a couple of doors. Of the two rooms, Natasha’s was much the untidier – he could have culled a dozen
T-shirts
, but gathered four at random. But Rob’s smelt rank, like a rugby club changing room, full of sweaty garments and testosterone. And something else – not a sporting venue smell this at all! Pot. Strong, heavy pot. Skunk.
As Mark got downstairs, arms full, knowing he had to say something to Jill, the front door burst open, and a young woman hurtled into the hall.
‘Who are you? And what are you doing with my things? You fucking pervert!’ She flung herself at him, grabbing handfuls of fabric and pulling.
Young woman? No, just a young teenager to judge by her face. But she was tall and strong.
‘Hang on, Natasha!’ Fran shouted. ‘That’s Mark. He’s with me. Your mother’s had a fall and we’re just—’
‘Fran?’ Her face lightened, and after one more scathing glance she turned to the stairs. ‘Where is she?’ The T-shirts fell to the floor as she bounded away.
‘I’m fine! In here!’ That was Jill’s voice.
‘Mum? What’s up?’
He’d forgotten how noisy family life could be. Automatically he picked everything up and made for the quiet of the kitchen while he could. It was as immaculate as ten minutes of Fran’s energy could
make it. He loaded the machine, but could see no sign of detergent. It must be in one of the units, but, despite his years of official practice, searching still felt like trespass, so he gave up and dug deep for some control as he went back to the living room. What he ought to do was tell Natasha to stop her hissy-fit and make herself useful.
Instead he hung on as a spectator.
‘Rob? How should I know? We’re not joined at the hip!’
How old might she be? Fourteen at most.
‘I just hoped… So you’ve no idea where he is?’ Jill almost pleaded. What a good job her team couldn’t see her now. Had he been so spineless with his kids?
Natasha produced a shrug theatrical enough to turn a Frenchman green with envy. But perhaps there was too much guignol: did the girl protest too much?
He stepped in. ‘Natasha, would you be good enough to show me where the detergent is? And set the machine – it looks like a flight deck with all those controls.’ Always mix steely power with a touch of humour, that was his motto. A smaller shrug preceded her flounce into the kitchen.
‘Your mother’s had a bad fall,’ he said, as on her knees she burrowed under the sink. ‘Any idea how it happened?’
Another shrug as she surfaced with the Persil.
‘And she’s plainly worried about your brother – Rob, is that it? It wouldn’t be grassing him up if you told her where he is.’
She couldn’t have measured the detergent more carefully if she’d been about to transmute some base metal into gold.
‘I think you’re worried about him, too. And I think you’re worried because you really don’t know where he is.’
Her head dropped slightly. She might have been trying not to let him see her biting her lip. Still facing the machine, not him, she made a show of rearranging the laundry and fishing out a vivid pink top. ‘You put that in with them everything’ll come out pink,’ she explained.
He took this as a sign of a thaw.
‘That’s why I never wear fuchsia,’ he said. ‘Any help, Natasha. Anything at all.’ He placed his card on the surface in front of her, and added Fran’s for luck. ‘Just between ourselves. Your mum doesn’t need any more stress, does she?’ Neither did Natasha. So he drifted back into the living room, slowly enough for her to call out if she wanted to.
‘Your theory is that young Rob is into pot,’ he said to Fran, fastening his seat belt.
‘Not just a theory – not if your nose is accurate,’ Fran retorted, ‘which I’m sure it is.’
‘And it’s having a detrimental effect on his psychological state, to psychosis, even, leading to random violence towards his mother. It’s well enough documented.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘Of course, it could be simply being sixteen.’
She overrode him. ‘Or, if you were right about
the gaps in the silverware, maybe she challenged him about nicking her cups and he got violent then?’
He put the car into gear and backed out of Jill’s drive. ‘We’ll have her panicking if we hang about any longer,’ he observed. ‘And I don’t want to do that yet. Would you,’ he continued, ‘recognise young Rob if we happened to see him walking home?’
‘Or hanging out with his mates… How about the skateboard park by the sports centre? That’d be a good place to start looking. But not, of course, a casual bumping into.’
‘Which I suspect might be the best way of approaching the problem. Especially as you know him. You might simply want to warn him about his mother’s accident. Gee him up a bit about supporting her about the house, that sort of thing.’
‘And, having got him nicely softened up, go for the jugular with questions about pot?’
‘Quite.’ He nosed the car gently through the estate. They might have been kids on their first panda patrol. Eventually, having explored every cul-de-sac, he turned to car down to the tiny cluster of shops at the foot of the hill. A number of kids of both sexes were messing round on skateboards, in direct contravention of a viciously defaced sign prohibiting practically everything. Most were simply scooting around. A couple more adventurous souls, no helmets, no protective gear at all, were trying to run the boards down handrails
alongside shallow flights of steps. From time to time they’d pause to let a third lad leap from the top of the steps, attempting to land with the board still beneath his feet.
‘Supposed to be good for the cardio-vascular system,’ she remarked. ‘And certainly better than computer games.’
‘You don’t want to go and remonstrate with them for breaking the bye-laws?’
‘Emphatically not. Not unless you really, really, really think I ought to go and ask them if they’ve seen Rob?’
‘I think one of us ought. No, it’d better be me. You’ve had your share of teenage violence.’
He was out of the car before she could argue, affecting a casual slouch he’d never have permitted himself in everyday life. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against a chill wind the kids seemed oblivious to, he retrieved a board as it shot from under some hapless lad, offering a suddenly avuncular hand as he crumpled at his knees.
The others swarmed around the fallen hero. Fran herself was ready to call an ambulance. But soon he was on his feet, ostentatiously pulling his hoodie around his face, and apparently giving Mark lip. He responded by raising a placatory hand, and she could see his lips moving.
Suddenly she couldn’t move for terror. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. What if they knifed Mark? What if they aimed for that enticingly vulnerable area of shirt front? She was halfway out
of the car when he turned towards her. No dark patch of blood. No fingers clutching an entry wound. She gibbered with relief as he returned to his seat and fastened his seat belt.
‘They said they’d last seen him at school. Two hours or more ago. There was something else, though, a tiny look there, a nuance here… Get on the radio, would you, and ask for anyone in the area to have a look.’ He set off with a spurt of gravel that made the kids turn in apparent admiration.
‘All we’re after is a little sod who smokes pot and may have had a row with his mother,’ she pointed out.
‘I just have this feeling, sweetheart – indulge me. It’s a long time since I had feelings like this.’
‘Feel away,’ she said, ‘so long as you don’t have to indulge in heroics. Not part of your job description. You’re supposed to do boring things behind desks.’
In the event, they were called on to do nothing. There was no sign of anyone at the school, cleaning staff apart. They joined the uniformed constables rooting behind the bike shelters and bus stops. At last, cold and hungry, Mark gathered everyone together and called it a day.
‘Hang on,’ she said, suddenly catching his anxiety, as they returned to the car, ‘let’s get a call through to A and E at the William Harvey. Just in case.’
Nothing.
She rubbed her face. ‘So why are we so worried
about a rotten kid who’s probably doing the round of local fences to off-load his mother’s silverware?’
‘Of course he is! And do you know what? I don’t even know who the local fences are any more!’
‘Me neither. But I’ll bet I know a man who does.’
Knowing Tom would be otherwise engaged all weekend, for a while Fran toyed with going to Sunday morning service at St Jude’s to speak to the vicar about the Alpha Course members. But tact and discretion were called for, and charging up to the poor clergywoman in front of the whole congregation and possibly even the perpetrator himself was neither tactful nor discreet. She would just have to hope Tom remembered to phone the vicar between Saturday weddings.
So how could she fill a whole weekend without work? Even now, she felt she ought to be in transit to Devon, just as she’d spent practically every weekend for the past few years, cooking or gardening for her aged parents. Now Pa was dead, and Ma, under the beady eyes of her elder daughter, Hazel, had retired to a Scottish care home where she passed her days telling the staff what they were doing wrong, an activity so important she viewed Fran’s visits as an irritating interruption. So apart from occasional and irregular flights to see her, Fran’s time was pretty much her own.
Without Mark the void would have been terrifying. As it was, he had to put his foot down firmly as Fran embarked on frantic spring-cleaning
sessions, either at her own home or at his. These days he tended to plan outings, even to local Kent beauty spots neither had seen for years because of work or family commitments. And now, of course, there was the thrill of the chase, in house-hunting terms at least.
And today there was Jill to visit. To her shame, Fran felt the same stomach-clench of apprehension as she’d always felt on the drive to Devon. Mark chickened out, opting instead to be dropped off at Ashford nick to talk to the duty CID inspector about stolen silverware. In any case, it would have been hard to look informal and supportive with the two of them sitting in Jill’s living room.
When she arrived, Brian was running the vac round the rest of the house. Of the kids there was no sign. She’d have put money on Tash being already up and doing something sporty, and Rob still lying somnolent in bed.
Jill looked far worse than she had the previous day, with more bruises coming out and a sort of limp exhaustion that Fran had never seen before. Her smile was decidedly wan.
Fran hardened her heart. ‘If it were you visiting me and me lying there,’ she began awkwardly, ‘you’d be itching to ask me about the accident, wouldn’t you? Did she fall or was she pushed, that sort of question. And what answer would you expect?’
‘I fell down the stairs, Fran,’ Jill said with a challenging lift of her head.
‘Of course you did. And in what circumstances?’
‘We went through this yesterday. All the clever questioning in the world won’t get me to say anything different.’
Fran didn’t doubt her. Brian had dusted the trophy shelf, and there was no sign of the circular patches. She fancied he’d rearranged the silver too to fill the gaps.
‘Did Rob get home all right? I know Tash was worried about him.’
There was a minute pause. ‘He’s growing up. She doesn’t like the extra freedom he gets. I know you had the worry of your sick parents, Fran, but you’ve never had kids. You wouldn’t understand these things.’
Any other time or person, Fran would have gone into orbit with fury. Unfortunately, anger made her more tenacious. ‘I certainly wouldn’t understand letting someone get away with domestic violence. Or with nicking my tennis trophies to feed his drugs habit.’
Jill flushed. ‘Get out!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Fran said. ‘It’s either me or Joe Farmer you need to talk to. The troops have noticed the smell of pot on your clothes. There’s open gossip about it. I’d bet my pension it isn’t you who’s using. I don’t want to accuse anyone, just protect you!’
Now Jill paled. ‘People think I’ve got a habit?’
‘No. They say you’re not well and can smell pot on your clothes. They put two and two together
and made half a dozen. When I did it I came up with a different total. That it was Rob, about whom you were obviously concerned when we talked just the other day, who was smoking it. And it’s worry about him that’s making you take your eye off the ball at work. And no, before you say anything, this isn’t management harassment of a sick colleague. This is entirely off the record, just Fran talking to Jill. And I’m happy to talk equally off the record to Rob. You know, aged auntie sort of stuff. But I wouldn’t do more than pass the time of day with him without your permission, Jill. You know that.’ There was no response, so she persisted, ‘Is he happy at school, do you know?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘People often take drugs because they’re unhappy. Or, in the case of kids, because of peer group pressure. And that must make a lad from a decent home very anxious. What does a bully like more than an anxious schoolmate?’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll leave you now. Talk to Brian about what I’ve said. And to Rob, if you can. And if all else fails, call the fifth cavalry, and Auntie Fran’ll be here like a shot.’ She bent to kiss Jill’s cheek, but the younger woman pulled away.
‘Just get out.’
Brian came downstairs as she stepped into the hall. How much had he overheard?
Trying to keep her voice normal, Fran said, ‘She’s very shocked, still, isn’t she? Keep her away from work as long as you can, eh, Brian? Chain her
to the sofa if you have to. Now, the Occupational Health people will soon be descending on her – they have to, when anyone’s likely to be off work for some time. And they’ll make sure she’s on light duties until she’s one hundred per cent fit.’ She was being craven, wasn’t she? So she added, ‘And if you think there’s something wrong with Rob, or you suspect something’s bothering him, I’m here to help. Bullying, for instance. Or drugs.’
Before he could do more than lean forward confidentially and open his mouth, the living room door opened and Jill shuffled to join them, preferring the support of the wall to her crutches. ‘I told you, get out. Stop poking your nose in. Just go.’
Brian looked from one woman to the other, gaping. ‘We were only saying the other day—’
‘Shut up. How many times do I have to tell you to leave?’
Fran stood her ground. ‘For God’s sake, Jill, some senior officers would blame you for letting him smoke pot on your premises. It’s a criminal offence, after all. But I’m your mate. Can’t you trust me to do a damage limitation exercise?’