Double Fault (25 page)

Fran would swear he was completely nonplussed.

‘I don't know what you're talking about. Why should I know anything about them? The skeletons in Ashford—'

‘If you'd rather talk about them, fine. Let's do that.' People who had known Fran longer would have been worried at this sudden burst of affability. ‘The fact you changed your name at about the same time as those kids were being murdered and bricked up raises the odd eyebrow, you know. The files other people had to read while you were skiving reveal you weren't popular with your mates then. You had the reputation of an idle bully, as you could have seen if you'd spent the weekend working with your colleagues who had to come in and work instead.'

‘OK, you've made your point. I'm sorry. I should have asked you before I left.'

‘You're not getting this, Sean. Knowing that Don had found what he had you shouldn't even have asked for leave.'

‘After all the work I had to do in your stead I'm owed weeks rather than days.'

She stared at him and raised her right eyebrow. It never failed.

Dropping his eyes, he gave a grudging shrug. ‘Actually, I suppose it was quite useful.'

‘Yes, it was. For one thing you got access to the level of meetings a DCI wouldn't normally go to. And your reports, which were excellent as I said at the time, put your name in front of all sorts of influential officers. But this is nothing to do with what you are or are not owed. And as I said earlier, this is really very little to do with the fact that you bunked off. It's
why
you bunked off that interests me. Sean, was it because you knew some of the people who were now walled up there dead, and you couldn't bear to look at what was left of your old mates? Or, Sean, and I really want you to think carefully before you answer this – was it because you'd put them there?'

P
erhaps it was love that had addled Caffy's brain. To call her calm and efficient was usually a masterpiece of understatement. He'd never known her as panic-stricken and downright flaky as this. So he made a point of calling her every few minutes as he drove, firstly to reassure her that he was on his way, secondly – and possibly more importantly – to make sure she stayed put and didn't attempt any sort of heroics.

The location, in a tangle of lanes miles from an A road and with no major towns, or even villages apart from the hamlet that she'd mentioned, Westry, was considerably further south-east than the parts of Kent he knew like the back of his hand – better, since he didn't spend all that long staring at bits of his anatomy he simply relied on to do their job. Silly image altogether: how many people did? They looked at their palms, perhaps, if they were holding something.

On his fourth call he tried to displace some of her anxiety by eliciting her thoughts about the hand cliché. There were few things she enjoyed more than discussion about words.

‘It's a terribly narrow lane,' she responded. ‘I know I said it was urgent, but you won't take any risks, will you?' She gave a familiar gurgle of laughter. ‘I wouldn't want anything to prevent my being your best woman. Sorry. I'm being such a pain. I keep thinking how obvious I must be parked up here.'

‘Or not. White vans, even clean ones like PACT's, are not unknown. In fact, surveillance teams find them very useful. OK, I'm hitting traffic – need to concentrate since this is Fran's car – so I'll call you back.'

By the time he'd negotiated a couple of awkward staggered crossroads, he knew he was almost there. However, the deep, winding lane meant he really did have to drop speed – it wasn't just Caffy being nervous then – and he was almost on the PACT van before he had any warning. Caffy had parked amazingly well in a really tight space; he had to find a gateway sixty metres further on before he could park and walk back to her.

‘No blues and twos?' she asked quizzically as he let himself in.

‘What the hell brought you down here?' he demanded by way of greeting. ‘There's even grass growing down the middle, for heaven's sake.'

‘Large scale OS map. No, I'm not joking. It's a very good way of finding out all sorts of things you didn't know about a place you think you're familiar with. And a woman on that course said she'd located several disused places worth developing just by scanning a map. If she can, I can. I didn't bargain on this lane being quite so narrow, to be honest.'

‘So which way is it? This Croft?'

She pointed forwards.

‘So you've driven past, turned, come back here and turned again? On a lane this wide? Hell's bells, Caffy – what if someone had come hurtling along?'

‘They'd just have cursed me for being another White Van Man – or Woman, of course.'

He raised his hands in despair. But there wasn't any point in arguing with her when she was in a mood like this. In fact, to be honest, there was very rarely any point in arguing with Caffy. ‘I thought we'd do a nice quiet walk past first,' he said. ‘You've hidden this well, and mine's tucked out of harm's way. Any problems, anything dodgy, we simply turn and walk back here. Agreed? Or we forget it.'

She jutted her lower lip like a five-year-old. ‘And you'd come sneaking back on your own.'

‘Of course. Maybe me and some mates in a helicopter.' Except he didn't see Fran getting away with that a second time. ‘Are you coming or not?'

Anyone spotting them would have taken them for father and daughter taking an evening stroll, albeit in a slightly unlikely location. Had she been wearing dungarees at any point, she'd shed them and was now neat in jeans and fleece, as he was. They both wore serious trainers. She rapidly engaged with his thoughts about the backs of hands and other clichés, picking up and running with them as he'd hoped she would. What would this Alistair make of her mind? She must be Mensa level, not bad for a self-educated painter and decorator, who'd once been a drug-taking prostitute. He hoped he'd appreciate her, value her, as she deserved. And if he didn't, Mark would personally eviscerate him. Or maybe her adoptive parents would beat him to it.

‘Over there,' she said quietly.

‘It's just a Victorian farmhouse,' he objected. ‘Not the sort of place you'd want to rescue, surely. And though it's run down, I'd scarcely describe it as a ruin. However, that's not the point, is it? It's the deserted bit and the horse that matters. Look, we'd best keep walking, just in case anyone does see us, but we can sort of drift, the way folk do. Could you have a problem with your trainer – needs retying or something? So I can walk back to you?'

‘OK. It's when you turn back you'll see what excites me,' she murmured, adding more loudly, ‘Drat this thing!'

As if he hadn't heard – he only just had, to be honest – he walked on, and then feigned surprise mixed with irritation and walked back, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. Unlike Fran, of course, she didn't need assistance, but sprang up with enviable agility and resumed her stroll.

‘Well?'

‘Was that really a Tudor chimney at the back of the farmyard?' he asked.

‘Looks like it to me. It's as if someone simply gave up living in the original building, and built a more fashionable one. But waste not, want not – another of those damned proverbs – and they decided to use the old entrance hall as their stables. I'd say there's quite a lot of it we can't see from here – perhaps it was used as a store or a barn. Who knows?' They were now well clear of any eavesdropper. ‘Did you hear the horse?'

‘With
my
ears? I'm having them syringed next week, by the way.'

‘And how would you feel about hearing aids? You wouldn't see them as some stigma?'

Right question, of course, but definitely the wrong time. ‘Let's just focus on the house. And any moment, we'll have to turn round and walk past it again. No, I didn't hear the horse. But I did see the manure heap, which looked fresh, if you take my meaning. And I did see hoof prints – I don't know much about horses, but I presume they're like humans: the taller the animal, the bigger the feet. Right? And I saw the tracks of a fairly heavy-duty vehicle. On the other hand, I saw no evidence of any activity in the house itself. The curtains must have been the original ones, or near enough. The paint ditto. Real neglect. What would you do with it if you bought it so you could resuscitate the Tudor part? Pull it down?' He turned them round and set them in motion again.

‘Let's be quiet – see if you can hear the horse too.' She strolled on casually. ‘There? Did you hear it? Though the birds were trying to drown it out.' She stopped dead and looked him in the eye. ‘Mark, you can't even hear the birds, can you?'

He couldn't deal with the depth of pity. He smiled grimly. ‘No, but I can smell a rat. As soon as we get back to the car, I'm going to call it in. And just so that we're clear about this, Caffy, you are going home to Alistair—'

‘We're not – I mean, we're just seeing each other. Nothing more.'

And yet she was besotted enough to trawl round unknown parts of Kent searching for ruins they could turn into joint projects.

He touched her cheek. ‘Yet. At any rate, for now, go safely home to Andy and Paula – I shall phone to check, you know, so you better had.'

She pulled a little girl's face. ‘They're in Mustique.'

‘And Fran's in for a dead busy evening. Let's go and find a pub – didn't I see one on the last main road we crossed? – and I'll shout you some food. After all, when I've made a few calls from somewhere some way distant from here, I'd probably just have to make myself scarce as well. Not being a cop any more,' he added with a trace of pathos, some of which was genuine.

‘Bugger,' she said. ‘Poor you, too.'

‘I couldn't have put it better myself. Now, you drive off first. Have you got enough space for a U-turn?' he asked so seriously she missed the joke.

She pulled a face. ‘It'll take three goes. Why not just drive straight down the lane?'

And drive past Abbot's Croft yet again? ‘You know exactly why. I'll see you out if you need me to,' he goaded her.

‘Over my dead body.' And she turned the van in three precise manoeuvres.

He resisted the temptation to drive past Abbot's Croft himself, and, yes, even to call Ray from where he was. He turned slowly and carefully – thank God this was such a quiet lane – and headed back towards the pub.

Murray was saying nothing yet. Then he looked coolly at his watch. ‘Chief Superintendent Harman, would it be possible to have a comfort break?'

‘Of course. But don't think of leaving the building again, lest we take it as a sign of guilt. Would you like a cup of tea when you return?'

Fran sat back. Had she gone too far when she'd accused him of murdering the kids? He'd have been within his rights to ask for a formal interview at that point, and possibly legal representation. And what was the point? There was no indication he was ever anywhere near Taunton or Stoke or West Bromwich, was there? Not if his college records were accurate. He'd not reacted to her earlier reference to other killings. And Perkins certainly was in those locations, and doing just the same sort of work in the same sort of situation as he was in Ashford. Was she letting her dislike of the man get between her and best professional practice? Was wanting to shock something out of him justification enough? She didn't think it was.

She stretched her leg and hip. She hadn't eaten enough recently to risk taking another painkiller, and there was a griping throb in her right buttock almost severe enough to make her call it a day. But that would be to give in, something completely alien to her.

Returning quietly, Murray sat down, apparently more relaxed, but still looking disengaged. He was no fool: he must have known the weakness in her position. Which made her look all the more unprofessional.

His shrug – he had the shoulder vocabulary of a Frenchman – was dismissive rather than apologetic. ‘I would say I've committed what the Church would describe as a sin of omission, rather than a sin of commission. All the qualifications I've gained, from the Access course that got me into University, my degree, my Master's – everything, in short, that enabled me to become a police officer, were gained by Sean Murray. All I failed to do was notify you that until the age of eighteen I was indeed, known as Christopher Manton. Needless to say, the Met saw and accepted the evidence of my change of name by deed poll. All legal and above board. But I admit I should have told you who I was as soon as the investigation got under way.'

She didn't want to help him with a prompt, even an acknowledgement, but eventually decided to retreat in order to further advance. ‘Let us agree that as Christopher Manton, you spent some time working on a youth project in Ashford, from which then as now you skived, which has since thrown up a number of skeletons. What does the man formerly known as Christopher Manton have to say about that?'

‘That if there are the remains of my contemporaries on the site, they were put there after I left the project. Skived off. Or walked away. There must be any number of less pejorative synonyms. I began, as they say, a new life. Quite successfully, I'd say. Wouldn't you?' He produced his superior and irritating smile. ‘If you want corroboration about dates, I suggest you contact the person who rescued me from my old life – from my old self, you might say. Unfortunately he is far from well, and I should imagine the sudden arrival of a whole load of my colleagues would do him no good at all.'

A sick friend? That would fit all the things young Tom had seen him do in Maidstone – the rucksack in which to put food, the meals for two. Yes, it would fit. And as for bunking off to London on Friday, presumably that was where this man lived. For once Murray was doing what any normal young man would do. In a crisis, he was going home if not to mother, at least to a substitute dad.