Double Fault (17 page)

Fran nodded. ‘Excellent. Aren't they all supposed to be as individual as human shoe prints? It'd be nice if they matched the estate manager's gee-gee – what's his name now?' She clicked her fingers in irritation. If Mark had problems with his ears, she had hers with names. Always had – and it was getting worse.

‘The horse's or the estate manager's?' some bright spark asked.

‘Oh, the horse answers to Snowdrop,' she said, one cell in her brain functioning at least. Everyone laughed, obligingly, as if she'd made a daft joke. ‘The estate manager's, of course.'

‘Thwaite, ma'am, Ross Thwaite,' someone more sycophantic than the others volunteered quietly.

Ray nodded. ‘Someone's on to it – and under Snowdrop – even as we speak.'

‘Let's hope that snow is all Snowdrop drops, then. Or not.'

They went through all the horse and pony riders contacted so far: it had obviously been a tedious afternoon for a lot of people, particularly as a lot of riders seemed to have missed the media requests for information and had, quite simply, gone off for a ride. Should they simply eliminate youngsters' ponies?

The CEOP superintendent, a man in his late thirties called Chatfield, shook his head. ‘Not if they're big enough for an adult to ride. Very small ones like Shetland ponies, yes. Shit, I'm a townie. Motorbikes, I'm your man. Quad bikes, at a push. But apart from Black Beauty and Warhorse, I know zilch about the things. Anyone here know enough to take charge of this aspect of the enquiry? Or do I have to bring in someone from Mounted Division?'

Enough already. Fran could leave the rest of the briefing in his and Ray's hands, apart from one point. The appeal from Livvie's parents was to be recorded in something under an hour.

With a quick apology she cut short his updates. ‘Everything is urgent, but this has the doubtful honour of being bloody urgent. In two minutes we need a decision on who fronts Zac and his wife's appeal. Ray's the obvious choice.' Taking a breath, she added, ‘Zac would like both him and Mark Turner involved, but the chief's vetoed Mark.'

Chatfield looked despairingly round the room and then straight at her. ‘I'd like you to do it, Fran. Provided you don't mind using those crutches again. Ray said you were due an Oscar.'

Ray nodded. ‘For being a cross between Tiny Tim and Long John Silver.'

Managing a grin, and actually pleased that Ray had summoned enough confidence to crack a joke, Fran suppressed a groan. Not pain. It wasn't so much back ache as brain ache. Her gran had always said it was better to wear away than rust away, but just at the moment she wasn't sure. ‘Would the family be happy with that? And the FLO?'

Ray turned away to make a call. He smiled, perhaps ironically, as he faced the room again. ‘Zac and Bethany –' he might just have lingered on the second name, as if willing her to register it – ‘know I can't be everywhere. They want me here with you CEOP guys. And Mark had already told them he wasn't allowed to do it.' He managed a cheeky grin. ‘They say that if they can't have Mark, Mark's fiancée will do.'

‘So they'll accept the organ grinder's monkey. Hell's bells, Ray, thanks for the vote of confidence.' She heaved herself to her feet. She had an idea someone muttered something about her being plucked from the subs' bench, but couldn't be sure. In any case she'd have been the first to laugh.

Mark was still with Zac and Bethany when Fran appeared. She made sure she and Mark kissed – not much more than a peck, but something for anyone who wished to report back to Wren. Then she shook hands more formally than she liked with the grieving couple. Yes, she was the professional officer: he was allowed to hug them both as he slipped out of Fran's immediate range.

Fran had only seen Zac from a distance, on the couple of occasions when, before her accident, she'd given Mark a lift to and from the club. As far as she knew, she'd never set eyes on Bethany before. Her recollection of Zac was of a six-foot sun-bronzed giant. Now he was pale, unshaven rather than sporting designer stubble. Bethany might have been made up by an Oscar-winning make-up artist for a role as a mourning wife, but Fran didn't think the pale cheeks and deep under-eye smudges owed anything to art. On the other hand, if she herself was doing some window-dressing by displaying her elbow-crutch there was no reason not to engage in a bit more.

‘I don't suppose,' she said with a thoughtful frown, aware she sounded more pensive than tender, ‘that you've got one of Livvie's teddies with you?'

Bethany shook her head. Eyes and nose dripped tears all over again. And why not?

‘What the hell—?' Zac asked, with disproportionate anger, if disproportion was possible in his circumstances.

Fran turned to face him. She did bracing better than soothing, so she asked briskly, ‘Do you remember when Madeline McCann went missing? Her mother carried Maddie's toy cat with her everywhere, and kept snuggling her face into its fur because it smelt of Maddie. I want Bethany to try the same trick. Just an extra little nudge at people's emotions.'

‘Wouldn't that be unfair?' he asked. ‘I mean, misleading people—'

‘On the scales of rightness and fairness, where would you put child abduction? Somewhere beyond a bad line call. OK?'

With a hint of defensive steeliness that told Fran she'd won her over, Bethany said, ‘There's not enough time to go home and get Paddy. Livvie's cat. She loves it to bits.'

Fran squeezed her hand. ‘Would you object to using something from our soft interview room? It won't be a total lie because when we find Livvie I shall buy her an identical one.'

Bethany wouldn't let go, as if she was clutching hope itself. ‘You still think … is there any hope at all?'

‘Bethany, if I have to walk barefoot from here to Great Hogben and back we shall find her. Alive.'

‘But what Ray called the Golden Hour—'

‘Is long over. I know. But we have so much technology to follow people – and a wonderful team of dear old-fashioned cops who all love kids. Part of their DNA, I often think. Now, how about that police-issue cat? White? Ah, Mark said Livvie liked pink; is that right? I'm sure there's a pink bear in there.' At last freeing herself gently from Bethany's grip, she caught the eye of the most strapping constable she could. He'd always been a bit of a thug: it'd do him good to carry a cuddly toy through the corridors. Especially a pink one.

‘H
ow long do you think you'll be able to keep this up?' Mark demanded.

He'd joined Fran as soon as the reporters had dispersed, embracing Zac and Bethany again as if he was their father. All four, plus their ever-present FLO, whose smile would have driven Fran to murder in an hour flat, walked to the waiting car. For half a minute Zac had played truant, taking Mark to one side while Fran thrust the pink bear into Bethany's arms as a furry talisman.

Now, hooking her arm into his, he escorted her back to her room.

‘D'you really want me to be honest? The answer is, not much longer. Oh, Mark, I don't know where I ache most. And there's another three or four hours to go before I can consider stopping. I've got to report to Wren at ten,' she added, as he opened his mouth to protest. ‘And tomorrow all hell is likely to be let loose – I don't think the press embargo on our skeletons will hold much longer. Monday's the last possible day, for sure. And all we want is for some venal soul to tell the red-top press we've lost Sean Murray and—' She spread her hands, lost for further words. Unlocking her office door, she said simply, ‘I need a hug, Mark. Oh, that's better,' she sighed, surrendering her weight as they stepped inside.

He held her until she managed to push herself vertical. ‘Five minutes on the floor for you, my girl; I'll make some tea.' As he busied himself with the kettle, he asked, ‘Any idea where you have to report to Wren? It's too dark for the golf course – how about the bar in the Hythe Imperial? Seriously, I know you have to check up with Tom, and I know Wren wants you at ten. But between times, do you have to be here physically? Can't you come and get a bite of proper food and then come back? I'll chauffeur you. And back. And back home after that.'

‘Get thee behind me!'

‘I don't see anything wrong about wanting a decent meal. You can't go on drinking green tea and refusing cake all day, can you? OK, talk to Tom first. See what he's come up with. And with luck you can brief Wren and simply come home. Go on, lie down: I'll get Tom to come down here. Floor or no floor. OK?'

Floor it was. ‘Give me five minutes here with a painkiller first.'

‘No can do. You have to have it with a meal, remember. I'm not sure that even cake as rich as Tom's auntie's constitutes a meal. A steak and salad might.'

‘Is there any cake left? I'll risk a painkiller with it, phone Tom and nip out to the nearest quiet pub.'

‘Maidstone? Saturday night? There's no such thing, sweetheart. Hell!' he responded to a scratch at the door. ‘I'll get it. Ah, Tom! You can come in so long as you don't fall over your guv'nor.'

Tom squatted beside her, as if checking an accident victim. ‘You all right, Fran?'

‘Like the rest of us, shattered. Only don't tell Wren. He'll have me at the knacker's yard. I might even see that bloody Snowdrop there.' She eased herself on to her elbow, thence, with a struggle he could see she did her best to disguise, to her feet.

‘I don't think he will. I think he'll tell you what a good detective you are,' Tom declared, picking the cherries out of the remaining cake crumbs. ‘This didn't last long, did it? Good job I've got another one back at the house. Under lock and key, that one.'

‘Or that I've got a team of good detectives. Take the weight off your pins and tell me what you've found. Apart from what would have been my supper,' she said with mock bitterness. She sat, clearly cautiously, and reached towards a pen and paper, which Tom passed her.

Mark tried not to sound reluctant. ‘I'll just shove off and see if I can buy some sarnies or something.'

‘I wouldn't bother, guv. OK, ex-guv. Not with the canteen the way it is. Truth is, Murray's disappeared into the same thin air as Livvie. He picked up his car, which he'd have known was under the gaze of the CCTV camera, and headed into the town. CCTV everywhere in Maidstone, of course. He parked in the Chequers Centre – made no attempt to conceal his face or anything – and spent half an hour milling round. At one point he bought a rucksack which he wore straightaway. More shops – Waterstones, Boots, average shopper stuff. The CCTV clocked him when he left the car park. Shopped at Sainsbury's – we've got all their footage and computerized till receipts. He bought a couple of ready-meals for two, not one. Best steak. Baking potatoes. Salad. Fruit. Three bottles of good Rioja. Fair Trade chocolate. All of this went into his rucksack. And he remembered to get his Nectar points.'

‘Which suggests at least that he intended to live long enough to cash them in,' Mark observed.

‘Then he drove to Maidstone East station, parked, and took a single ticket to London. St Pancras. And the single's the bit that worries me, guv.'

‘Quite,' Fran agreed. ‘And any CCTV sightings in London? Or at the Eurostar terminal?'

Tom grimaced. ‘The funny thing is, while he was quite open in his movements down here, in London he managed to lose himself once he'd got off the train. No sightings at the Eurostar terminal yet.'

Mark said, ‘But then, with all that food? And wine? If you're heading to France, why buy ready-made food?'

‘Quite,' Tom agreed. ‘Lastly, since he left Maidstone he's not used a cashpoint. Or his phone. Which I'd say is now probably in several pieces on the railway line.'

‘It was a top of the range one too,' Fran mused. ‘OK, I'll report on what you've done so far to the chief. I don't know how far he'll want this pursued: would he want the Met to know one of their own's become a loose cannon?'

‘That sarnie, Fran – shall I go and get a few packs after all?' Tom asked.

‘I'll come and help choose,' Mark agreed with alacrity.

She didn't argue. Wren absolutely wouldn't have wanted Mark to know anything about Tom's activities, and she – she preferred not to have conversations overheard and possibly misconstrued. At this level at least.

‘News on Sean Murray, sir,' she said as soon as Wren picked up.

‘I thought we agreed ten o'clock.' Perhaps the phone made him sound pettish.

‘We did. But Tom Arkwright's gone as far as he can without assistance from the Met, sir. And I wouldn't let him seek that without your express permission.'

There was a very long pause. At last, Wren said slowly, as if he was still considering, ‘Leave it with me. Where did this Arkwright – oh, he's your other temporary upgrading, isn't he? – lose Murray?'

‘St Pancras. And there can't be stations with more CCTV coverage than that one.'

Another very long pause. This time she would swear she could hear the little wheels turning in his head. ‘Are you sure that this Arkwright's checked everything?'

‘There's no one I'd trust more,' she declared. ‘Now, with respect, sir, Tom and I have both been working since six this morning. I'd like to send him home so he can come in fresh tomorrow – when the news of the skeletons might break.'

‘Not if I have anything to do with it,' he said with surprising speed. ‘I'll get on to the media myself. Though it may be too late,' he admitted, surprising her for a second time. Another pause. ‘Any response to the Livvie appeal? I thought you did well there,' he added grudgingly.

‘I'm just about to check, sir. And then, provided the CEOP team have everything under control, I shall go home too.'

‘Oh.' He sounded genuinely surprised.