Double Fault (20 page)

‘After yesterday, I don't want to be an intermediary,' he said.

‘Fair dos. Put me on to their leader.'

He handed his phone to Sadie.

Sitting at her desk biting a knuckle didn't seem very useful, so Fran lay down on the floor and bit the knuckle instead. She really did not want Sean Murray to be a killer, reformed, presumably, or otherwise. Ought she contact Tom to see if there was any trace of him yet? No, that was Met business, thanks to Wren. What about the locations where Malcolm Perkins had worked? Was it too early to chase the officers who were looking into possible incidents in West Bromwich, say, or Stoke or Taunton? Probably: after all, they were supposed to be working the minimum of overtime.

What she really, really wanted to do was check with the technical team. She wanted news of the photo. After lunch, the young woman had said. In other words, join the queue, which she'd explained was longer on Sundays because there was only, of course, a skeleton staff. Pause for ghoulish laughter.

Fran had a brief, nostalgic yearning for – could almost taste! – a good old-fashioned Sunday lunch. The sort her mother had cooked, with the meat roasted in too hot an oven, so it was always cremated outside and bloody inside.

One day, one summer's day, she ought to go up to Scotland to see her mother. Her sister said she was still her old self. Which meant that Fran was hardly overflowing with enthusiasm for making the journey.

The phone rang. It took painful moments to lever herself up, but she reached the phone before the line died.

‘Ray Barlow, Fran. Mark's visit to the tennis club.'

Her stomach clenched. ‘What went wrong?'

‘Oh, someone vandalized his car, but apparently the club are picking up the bill for that.' Ray sounded very offhand.

‘But Mark – is he all right?'

‘Why shouldn't he be? Anyway, the incident elicited a lot of support for Zac, which Mark naturally put to good use: he rounded up all the Sunday crowd, which is apparently quite different from the weekday players, and got them involved. You might want to come along to the next briefing and hear all about it.'

Might
indeed. If she wasn't very careful, she'd defuse her anxiety for Mark by losing her temper with the messenger. But she couldn't completely rein in her sarcasm. ‘Were you by any stretch of the imagination expecting me not to be at the briefing, Ray? Good. I might be doddery but I'm not senile yet, thank you very much.'

‘No, guv. Mark'll be there, by the way.'

‘And I rather think I ought to hear of any new developments before the briefing, don't you? The phone'll do. Sod it, there's someone knocking at my door.' Time to get off her high horse. ‘See you at the briefing, Ray. Come on in!'

The door inched open, to reveal the face of the young technical support officer to whom she'd entrusted the two photos. Perhaps she'd laid on the need for absolute discretion a bit too thick: the girl, who might have been twelve, no more than thirteen, looked terrified. But at least she was wearing her ID; Fran could greet her by name.

‘Micki! Come along in. I was just on my way to see you.'

‘Ma'am, I've done the work you asked. Only took a moment when I got to it.'

Fran opened her mouth to snarl. Hadn't she asked for it to be given absolute priority? But then, she probably wasn't the only officer with urgent demands, and after lunch was the time Micki had given. She transformed the snarl into a weary smile. ‘Thanks, Micki. Is that a written report? Excellent. But sum it up in a word for me: are the photos of the same person?'

There was no reply when she knocked on Wren's door. His phone was switched to voicemail, but she felt the most revealing message she could leave was one simply asking him to call her as soon as he could. She sent a similar text. And then she did the only thing she could: she staggered back to her office and lay down on the floor, carefully setting her phone to give her an alarm call. Not that there was any need to. There were some occasions when you couldn't switch off your brain and this was one of them.

A
lthough she was laughing as she came into the room for the six o'clock briefing, Mark had rarely seen Fran look so tired. Not so much tired as old: this was how she'd look in ten years' time. The strong sunlight angling across her face didn't help, of course: it was no wonder that celebs of her age were always lit full face, much kinder to wrinkles active or latent. Then she spotted him, lurking amongst Ray's team, and her smile blew him away all over again. It was all he could do not to go across and wrap her protectively in his arms. But, as she valiantly pulled herself upright and squared her shoulders, he knew she'd hate that. She was here to do a job and nothing would stop her, bar an earthquake or a lightning bolt.

There was a little courtesy tussle: who would lead? Ed Chatfield, the CEOP super, gestured to Ray, who looked under his brows at Fran. Nodding and smiling at Ray encouragingly, she leant back in her chair, folding her arms, like a casting director not expecting to be entertained but hoping nonetheless.

‘First of all, we have a development from the tennis club. A different group of players,' Ray explained. If only someone would take him on one side and teach him how to present information coherently to a large group. He was fine one-to-one, but this was all over the place. ‘Some of them confirmed actual sightings of a horse. And suspicions that the rider might have been stopping to perv at the players – at least, that's what one or two of the women allege. The men just thought they had an audience, and probably raised their game accordingly. The horse in question is confirmed as being large and black. All over. And no, we don't know what name it answers to,' he added, sliding his eyes in Fran's direction.

‘Not Snowflake?' she obliged, scratching her head like the class dunce. ‘Or was it Snowdrop?'

‘Not even Snowstorm. As to the rider, he was wearing a helmet, so any description is bound to be vague. But one of the men – Harry Mansfield, who's the A team captain – says he's sure he's come across him in the park and been reprimanded by him for not getting off his bike quickly enough. Which would suggest that it might be our friend Ross Thwaite.' He said the name with the flourish of someone who has laboured long and hard to tug a recalcitrant rabbit out of a particularly tight hat, and considers he has earned the ensuing gasp of admiring applause.

Probably most of the team were simply too tired to react with much more than relief.

With a final burst of bravado, Ray asked, ‘So when do we pick him up?'

The CEOP super put out a warning hand. ‘I don't know much about gee-gees, Ray, but I do know it's not a crime to own more than one.'

Ray stuck to his guns, probably unwisely. ‘On the other hand, it wasn't particularly helpful of Thwaite to let us assume he only had that dear little Snowdrop in his stable. He's got stuff to explain.'

Mark knew who his money was on in the debate; the only question was how Fran would handle the issue.

‘What do the rest of you think?' she mused slowly, as if they were all equals. ‘Is this the best moment? If he really has abducted Livvie, you know, I'd like to find her before we interfere with his movements in any way. There's no point in having him in for questioning if he's going to clam up and refuse to tell us her whereabouts. It has been known.'

There was a short silence: they could all think of cases where their colleagues had nailed an abductor, but not found the victim till too late.

Ray shook his head. ‘And risk losing him? No, let's get him.'

‘Put him under surveillance,' Chatfield overrode him. ‘Make sure we know to the inch where he is by night and day.'

Fran nodded. ‘But we do it with the maximum of discretion. And maybe even mislead him a little, though that might of course be against his human rights,' she added ironically. ‘How about the next media update suggests we're working with our colleagues in Europol? Which has the benefit of being true,' she added, with a limpid glance first at Mark then at Ray. ‘But, as Ed says, we want every sneeze, every scratch of his head recorded. If he sleepwalks, we want to know if he raids his fridge and what he takes out of it. Understood?' It was clear that everyone understood: people tended to when Fran spoke in that voice. Belatedly she turned to the CEOP super. ‘Sorry, Ed. Is that how you'd want it done? I keep forgetting this is supposed to be a shared enquiry. With your team doing the lion's share just now,' she added with a disarming grin.

‘No problem. We're in total agreement here, Fran.' Was there a slight emphasis on the pronoun that Ray would pick up as a rebuke or a slight? Perhaps. ‘In this case the victim's safety – assuming the poor child is still alive – must be paramount.'

Poor Ray: he took it as a public bollocking. But he was wrong, the others right, surely to goodness. Mark wished he could find some way to limit his loss of face. Perhaps he could. Even if it meant drawing attention to himself. ‘By the way,' he said, ‘some of the tennis players Ray was talking about have set up a collection for a reward for information received. They've already got quite a large sum pledged.' He tried desperately – and at last succeeded – in catching Ray's eye. He willed him to pick up the idea and run with it.

‘Thanks, Mark, for that and for all you did this morning.' He took a minute to brief the rest of the team, who clearly did not like one of their own – even an ex one of their own – being treated so badly. ‘Guv'nor, how would you feel about leading on that at the press conference? Especially as it was Mark who was instrumental in getting them on side.' He rightly looked at Chatfield, but was no doubt desperate for Fran's backing. And was going the wrong way about getting it.

Bother protocol. Mark spoke up again. ‘I'd rather you kept my name out of it, if you can. Internal politics, Chatfield, as I'm sure you've heard.' He caught Fran's eye. If Wren had vetoed Mark's appearance at a press conference once, as sure as hell he wouldn't like the idea a second time, even if it was just as a bit player, or a passing reference. Which it probably wouldn't be: he'd bet some reporter or other would want to ask searching questions about an ex-ACC's involvement. He would, in their position. ‘Personally,' he continued slowly, ‘I think it might have more resonance if the Sunday players were said to have responded directly to Zac's grief and distress when he turned up to work. They made the point that they wouldn't be much use in local searches, but did have other resources. And yes, Ray,' he added with a swift, comradely smile, ‘it was Sadie who suggested they raise a reward.'

‘The dinner lady,' Ray explained. ‘If you don't have much money I guess you're more likely to know its value than if you've got loads. Will you mention the other horse, guv'nor? At all?'

Chatfield and Fran exchanged a glance. ‘Let's just go with the French connection and the reward.'

‘Agreed,' she said. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it's over to you for this one. Unless I hear from you, I'll see you all bright and early in the morning.'

Even as she left the room she was checking her phone. That wasn't like her at all, any more than her abrupt exit was. Mark followed at a discreet distance, so there was no question of him listening in if she were on a confidential call. But she shoved it back in her pocket with obvious exasperation and turned to him, putting her hand on his. ‘Are you sure you're all right? All that stuff about your car? They didn't have a go at you as well, did they?'

‘For a moment it was touch and go – I think it could have gone either way. But in the end they did what Ray said they did: they came to my rescue and promised to deal with the damage. The car's tucked up in the garage at the moment: I didn't fancy everyone in Maidstone getting an eyeful of the graffiti. In any case, it was time yours had an outing. Are you ready to come home? There's plenty of Caffy's casserole left, remember. And I promise not to ask what's troubling you at the moment – which has nothing to do with the Livvie case, I gather.'

‘You gather right. And I truly can't say anything. Except yes to the lift and yes to the casserole. Hey, is it warm enough to have a drink on the terrace?'

He shook his head reluctantly. ‘The sun's been wonderful, as you probably didn't even have time to notice, but there's been a strong breeze all day, and now there's quite a nip in the air. I'd recommend a nice hot bath while I reheat the food. And a gin and tonic while you soak.'

‘Sounds like bliss,' she declared.

But it didn't sound as if her heart was in it.

Fran had still had no response from Wren by the time the alarm clock rang the next morning. Since Mark didn't so much as stir, she tiptoed around in the hope that he'd sleep on: it must be safe for her to drive after all this time. But as she munched her muesli, he appeared, fully dressed if fashionably unshaven. Then he insisted on driving her in.

‘I'm worried about that repair to your car,' she said, as he set off carefully through thick mist. ‘You only want one person in the body shop or whatever it's called to tell his mates and it'll be all over the press, willy-nilly. Mud sticks. So do scratches.'

‘Quite. I'd thought of that. So did Harry Mansfield. He texted last night to say he's going to make the damage far worse with some piece of farm machinery, so no one can read the letters. And the lad who did it is going to pay for the whole lot – him, or as seems more likely, his dad. Don't worry about it. It's a car. Full-stop. And you can't say you don't have other things to worry about.'

She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I'll tell you – all this stuff – as soon as I can. Thanks for not asking.'

As she let herself into the building, she checked the car park. No, no sign of Wren's car. Half of her wasn't surprised: it was unlike him to be in so early. On the other hand, most bosses, faced with at least two crises, and bombarded with the number of messages she had sent, would have been waiting on the threshold like a Victorian father, timepiece in hand, ready to confront a tardy son or daughter.