Double Fault (15 page)

‘The Livvie case, sir. The parents are happy to make another appeal this evening. But they want Mark with them.'

‘Good God, why? And why have you countenanced it for a moment?'

‘I haven't, sir. Since it's a matter of policy, I'm asking you. Before you ask, I've not even mentioned it to Mark yet.'

He shot her a surprisingly shrewd glance. ‘You're no keener on this than I am, are you? So you won't argue for once. You know what you have to do: knock it on the head. Now.' Another glance at his watch and he was off.

With an apologetic shrug at her driver, so was she.

H
is good deed – his expiation, more like – over, Mark was at a loss. He should have felt a huge relief that the CEOP team had virtually taken over the Livvie case, managing most aspects of the investigation – from organizing specialized search teams to advising on the media. Virtually everything. Fran and Ray were still officially the lead officers, which was good for Ray's career, of course. As for Fran, he had a feeling she really would have liked to shrug her shoulders and let the thrusting keeny-beanies do all the boring bits – but the system didn't permit cherry-picking, and he knew she'd rather eat coal than back out altogether, even if that had been an option.

As for him, there really was no place for a retired amateur. Rather than hang round in a strop, he headed home to Great Hogben. Should he take advantage of the glorious weather and do some more in the garden? But he could almost, like a true countryman, smell frost in the clear air: planting out delicate young plants was not an option. So should he indulge the very strong desire he'd mentioned to Caffy – to go down to the tennis club? The club itself was no longer a crime scene. Some players might have been put off by the kidnapping, especially if they'd planned to bring their children to mess around while they played. Others might stay away out of a vague notion of ‘respect'. But there might be a crop of rubbernecks too – and would he be setting himself up as an object as interesting as the courts and clubhouse?

On the other hand, and perhaps this ought to be the overriding argument, Ray was quite keen for him to pick up any gossip that might be going, and to talk to any Golden Oldies who might be around about their perceptions forty-eight hours on. He'd made it clear to Ray that many Golden Oldies were on a limited – and much cheaper – membership option which meant they weren't eligible to play at peak times, including weekends, so there might not be too many about. It might also be that those who were would rather not speak to someone they might have felt was somehow playing under false colours, if not exactly false pretences.

At this point he almost gave up the idea. The club was now such an important part of his life that he didn't want to be excluded. But then again, that might happen whenever he returned. All he could do was trust to the sense of fair play that made people call line decisions in their opponents' favour or admit to double-bounces even on a crucial point.

Six of the courts were occupied when he arrived, with no one sitting out waiting for a partner. Some youngsters were playing singles – two boys, two girls. The girls in particular were embarrassingly good: he couldn't believe that one day soon they wouldn't be playing at county level at least. One man was patiently basket-feeding another girl of about nine who already hit the balls harder than Mark could. The others were just Saturday regulars of varying degrees of ability. He didn't know any of them except the two girls who, come to think of it, looked familiar.

The tennis wall beckoned. He obeyed. It was so good to switch his mind off and simply respond to the demands of a ball.

At last some shadows fell across the ground. The two girls whom he now recognized as two of Zac's team of helpers were watching him, but not surely because they wanted tennis tips. He stopped at once, catching the returning ball left-handed, which made him feel marginally better.

‘Flora, isn't it? And Emily? How are you both?'

Both flushed deeply and probably painfully: they might look and play like goddesses, but they were after all no more than young teenagers with horrible hormones, plagued by shyness in the presence of even an old male like him. Still, he told himself, it was better to cause a blush than a pitying sneer.

They looked at each other, tongue-tied.

This was something he could deal with: all those years of eliciting a response from people who didn't find it easy to speak about what was important. ‘You did very well with those little 'uns on Thursday,' he said. ‘Kept them amused, interested – stopped any panic. Well done. Zac would have been proud of you if he'd had a second even to notice what you were doing.'

‘Is he – is he OK? I mean …' Flora managed.

‘I've not seen him. There's someone called a police liaison officer who will probably have moved in with him and his wife and son while we – while the police find Livvie.'

Flora might have noticed his slip, but she was too busy picking up on his last few words to say anything. ‘Are you sure they'll find her? Alive, that is.' Her voice nearly broke on
alive
. Brave lass to ask the unaskable, all the same.

‘I could do one of two things here, Flora,' he said gravely. ‘I could switch on a smiley face and say
of course
. That would be treating you as a child. Or I could treat you as an adult and tell you that honestly and truly I don't know. Any more than the police do.'

Emily, who'd been gnawing her lower lip during the whole exchange, widened her eyes. ‘But you
are
the police, aren't you?'

‘Not any more. I was, but then I was ill so I retired.'

‘But it was you who – you know, sort of bossed us all. I thought …' She blushed again.

‘You don't stop being bossy just because you've given up the job,' he said, almost blushing himself at the recollection of his treatment of Fran. ‘And I'm afraid police officers find it extra hard to switch off. We always want to ask questions –
what if … what next … what should I do
…' He smiled. ‘Just now I'm itching to ask you if you've remembered anything else that can help. I'm sure you told my former colleagues everything you remembered at the time, but you might have thought of things since. Things you might think are too trivial to report to anyone,' he prompted, ‘but might just be a missing piece. I mean, the other night I couldn't have told the man who was interviewing me what make of car a certain person drove, but then, when I was thinking about something quite different, up the information popped.' He was talking too much, wasn't he? He'd lose Flora, if not the younger Emily, if he kept rattling on like that.

‘Would something like a car be … sort of important?' Emily asked.

She wasn't talking about a car though, was she?

‘Anything could be important.'

‘Or not, of course,' Flora chimed in.

‘When I was a cop I'd rather have had a hundred pieces of information I couldn't use than miss one I needed.' Somehow he must stop himself asking point-blank what one of them had seen or heard in case they froze into denial.

They nodded, still doubtful. Emily looked wistfully at their bikes, clearly wishing they'd never started this and were heading home. Or was he jumping to conclusions? In any case, he had to admit that their parents were braver than he might have been in their situation, letting them swan round on their own in a place where a sexual predator must surely be on the loose. In fact, that was the next important thing to do: get them to call home and explain what was delaying them.

A car was bumping along the track. He permitted himself no more than a glance.

‘How would you know if you needed it?' Flora asked. Another blush.

‘When you were a kid you must have done jigsaws. Right? Well, imagine that a police investigation is a giant jigsaw, being put together by dozens of people. That's just the police officers involved. Add in things like CCTV – more pieces being put in by more people.'

‘Sounds like total chaos,' she said, as if refusing to admit she might be interested.

‘Oh, it is,' he admitted cheerfully. ‘Organized chaos, mostly. Now, imagine this case is the jigsaw. All these pieces coming in. More and more when people respond to TV appeals. By now the people in charge must have a huge picture spread out. But they don't have all the important pieces.'

‘You don't have one with the kidnapper's face on it,' Emily put in brightly. Ignoring Flora's scowl, she continued, ‘Everyone says she might still be alive, that's why she needs to be found now.'

‘She might. I hope she is. All the people at HQ hope she is. They can only work at their best if they believe they'll succeed. But they all know that the missing piece of the jigsaw, wherever it is, isn't in their possession.' That wasn't wholly true, but he had to do something to prompt them. The car had parked and only one person got out: any moment now the little bubble of concentration that held the three of them together would be burst.

‘So talking wouldn't be sneaking?' Emily confirmed, sliding her eyes towards him.

‘No.'

‘But what if we said the wrong thing? Got someone into trouble?'

‘If they had done something wrong, then – well, you might have grassed them up but you might have saved Livvie's life. And if they hadn't done anything wrong, the police would quickly establish that they weren't part of the jigsaw. And you absolutely wouldn't get into trouble for saying it.' He changed his voice from calm and reassuring to authoritative: ‘Now, first of all you must phone home. Or text. Must. No argument.' He raised the index finger that had silenced a thousand arguing junior officers, including, of course, Fran herself. ‘How do you think your parents would feel if you were a minute later than you promised to be? And what would they say if you talked to the police without them knowing? Now, both of you.'

He gathered up the balls he'd scattered while they texted.

‘Would you like to talk to a woman officer I know very well? It'd be like talking to your mum or your grandma,' he added, disloyally. Did Fran ever refer to him as a grandpa? ‘I could get her to come here or go to your home, so your parents would know exactly what was going on.'

‘We couldn't just tell you?'

‘Of course you could. But you'd have to talk to a real police office sooner or later.' He paused, wondering what on earth his ears were telling him.

‘Weird,' Flora said.' Sounds as if one's on his way now.'

All three turned. Blues and twos heralded a police car clearly not coping well with the track.

‘Let's go and introduce ourselves, shall we?' he suggested with what he hoped was a convincing smile. He picked up his bag. He and the girls were falling into step when he realized all was not well. The person who'd driven up was pointing in their direction, practically jumping up and down with what looked like fury.

‘Who's rattled his cage?' Flora demanded.

‘Go and collect your bikes and wait by the police car. I'll find out,' Mark said, trying not to sound as grim as he felt. ‘Promise me you'll stay by the police car. Get in if necessary. Go on: scoot.'

Because it was quite clear that he was about to be manhandled by the furious would-be player. Manhandled and subjected to a whole stream of abuse he didn't want the girls to hear. Though, come to think of it, he'd heard just as bad outside many a school playground.

‘I don't care,' his assailant was telling the community support officer, not the fully fledged constable Mark would have hoped for. He was lacing his comments with a lot of words Mark hadn't heard since he'd retired. ‘I don't care if he used to be a policeman. I don't care if he was prime minister or archbishop of Canterbury. The man's clearly a paedophile. Grooming young girls. He's got to be the one who did young Livvie in. Look at the smarmy bastard!'

The PCSO, who had in these days of radical economies come on his own, looked from one man to another, with an occasional glance at the girls, now huddled together and in tears – and hopefully out of range of the tirade of blasphemous invective. Clearly he hadn't a clue what to do. By now all the players had abandoned their games and had formed a loose circle round the protagonists.

Keeping his voice as mild as possible so the girls weren't treated to a scene, Mark said, ‘The man's got a point, officer. But your priority should be those kids. Why not lock me in your car – though I promise you I've no intention of trying to escape – and call for assistance? Ask for DCI Ray Barlow. Got that? DCI Barlow. That's really important. And make sure you also ask for a colleague trained in interviewing young people, because apart from this guy's accusation, which clearly needs investigating, the girls may have information about the Livvie case. Cuff me if you want,' he added, holding out his hands. One day he'd dine out on this, God willing.

‘What about Mr – er—?' the PCSO asked.

‘Perhaps he should wait in his car, too,' Mark said, suddenly desperate to laugh.

It was a long and hot nineteen minutes before Ray Barlow arrived, again on his own. With Mark still incommunicado in the response vehicle, Ray questioned his accuser, the PCSO and then the girls, whom he shepherded away from all the action. Mark couldn't have faulted him, except that it left him stranded even longer. At last he knew he must attract the PCSO's attention: ‘I'm sorry, officer,' he gasped as the door opened, ‘but it's so hot in here I'm afraid I might pass out.'

His assailant told his audience that frying in hell was too good for him, but the PCSO showed a smidgen of initiative, leaving the driver's door ajar and asking the two largest tennis players to make sure Mark didn't stir. He now appeared to be taking a statement from the assailant.

Now another police vehicle approached – Mark hoped bleakly that there wasn't a major incident about to go down, or his former colleagues would be woefully short of transport. This one was driven by a woman: at last, a real constable! However, Ray waved her back as she parked, got out of the vehicle and approached him. Ray was still listening to the girls, prompting them from time to time, just as he'd done. For everyone's sake, not least his own, Mark hoped Ray would be more efficient at eliciting information than he had been.