Double Fault (27 page)

Fran put a hand on his arm, trying hard to catch Simon's eye apologetically. But no doubt he'd seen a lot of het-up would-be rescuers, so he nodded coolly and resumed his study of the night sky.

But Ray was still frantic. ‘Maybe it thinks the horse is human. Shit, I'd better take this,' he groaned, fishing out his radio. But he turned back, beaming. ‘Guv – Thwaite's left his house. Ed's got a tail on him. And we, of course,' he added grimly, ‘have a reception committee here.'

Probably no one heard his last words. The woman officer – Ginny – was calling. ‘I think I can hear crying. A child.'

‘A child? You're sure?'

‘Yes. And I'd say it's a girl. But I can't see where the noise is coming from.'

Fran was at the stable door before she knew it. ‘Let the dog show us.'

‘Sod it!' She fumbled her phone from her jacket pocket. ‘Bloody Wren.' She switched it to voicemail.

The spaniel was barking at a solid stone wall. Helpful or not. At least it was a solid stone wall some ten feet from the loosebox. The horse looked increasingly frantic – and they hadn't even brought in the sledgehammers yet. Where the hell was the vet?

She stepped inside, raising one finger, like an umpire giving a particularly firm verdict. Silence, that was what she wanted. ‘Everyone out,' she said. ‘It looks to me as if that horse is spooked. Let it calm down. Meanwhile, let's see if we can find an alternative way in. Time for all those lovely lights to be switched on, I'd say. And hard hat time for anyone venturing into the more dilapidated section – understand? And in the yard generally. For everyone's sake. And get that bloody vet here. Any bloody vet, if the regular one's done a disappearing act. And make sure there's an escort for him or her to speed things up.' She turned to Gavin, a disconcertingly elegant young man with beautiful almond-shaped eyes. ‘How would you feel about taking it—?'

‘Her. Flo. Short for Florence.'

‘Sorry. Flo. How would you feel about taking Flo into the rest of this – this ruin?'

He smiled serenely. ‘It's what we do, Chief Superintendent. That's why they're called rescue dogs. Not a lot of neatly standing buildings left after an earthquake. Just a nice lot of – ruins. We've got all we need in the van – lights, digging equipment, first aid, ladders. A few dog treats, too,' he added.

‘She looks as if she needs one,' Fran observed. The dog was desperate to get back into the stable, its feathery tail working harder than a wind turbine. ‘Hey, she really likes that bit of wall, doesn't she? Soon as we get rid of Dobbin here, she can tell the team where to wield their pickaxes.'

‘Uh, uh. Best leave that to me and Simon. Generally speaking it's best not to whack fragile structures. They don't take kindly to it. First we'll take Flo in through any other access points and see what she picks up. Come on: good girl.'

‘I take it you don't need company.'

‘We don't, if it's all the same to you. Concentration apart, the structure doesn't look too clever. It's our job to read the danger signs. We know when and where to scarper.'

The team waited, in varying states of impatience. But there were people with even more right to be impatient. ‘Ray, has anyone called young Zac yet? I know we can't be sure it's Livvie. But if it is, the one thing that'll keep her going while we demolish the place around her ears is the sound of her parents' voices. Oh, give me the phone. I can't bear doing nothing. Thanks.' Fran gave a thumbs up – Zac had picked up. But it wasn't Zac, of course – it was the family liaison officer. ‘Fran Harman here. Put Zac on please.' She rolled her eyes. ‘I know you can give him a message – I know that's your job. So first tell Zac we've found a child and I believe that it's Livvie. Alive. Right? And then tell him I need to talk to him now. For God's sake!' There was the sound of a phone being dropped. My God, at this point they drop the phone! ‘Zac?' But it was the FLO again. Fran had a special voice for underlings doing their job well but misguidedly. ‘I repeat, this is Detective Chief Superintendent Harman here, constable. Now, I just want you to forget your training and the rule book – especially the rule book – and get Zac to the phone this instant. Yes, Zac or Bethany.' She gave the news with as much caution as she could.

Zac's voice was disconcertingly pleading: it was as if the FLO had taken so much responsibility in recent days that he was almost institutionalized. ‘Can I come over?'

‘Yes. Absolutely. So long as you know that there is just an outside chance it may not be Livvie.'

‘But it may?'

‘It may. Now, you won't have to drive because I'll want to keep in touch with you. So your FLO will bring you over. With a blue light escort.'

‘What about Bethany? And Jack? Can they come too?' He still sounded plaintive, unsure – the strong and authoritative young man having to ask strangers for permission.

Fran snapped her fingers in irritation: what sort of woman was she not even to think about the rest of the family? ‘Of course. Wrap Jack warmly – the temperature's dropped very sharply. And warm clothes for both of you as well – it could be a long wait and there's no point in false heroics. Oh, and Livvie too – most important. They'll need what she's wearing for forensics. Her favourite cuddly toy. The one Bethany said she loved to bits.' She must make sure she got Livvie that pink teddy before the case was closed. ‘Now, keep your phone on. With luck you can help even while you're being driven along. OK? Oh, which of you is closer to her? You? Yes, it's you I need then. Give me that FLO again …'

That felt better. Now what? Would a KitKat and a packet of crisps crammed down during the car journey over here constitute a meal in the eyes of the painkillers? In her eyes they would. But the last time she'd risked popping a pill on a semi-empty stomach she'd thrown up. On one's hands and knees retching into a ditch wasn't a good look.

The dog handlers returned. ‘She's not so interested in that side of the wall,' Gavin said. ‘But in any case, neither of us can see any access points in there, either. Nor anything concealing one – we moved everything we could.' He turned to look over her shoulder. ‘Someone's in a bit of a hurry.'

Someone was. Blues but no twos. Her radio crackled.

‘Vet's on her way, ma'am. A Dr Webb. Expert in equine medicine, as it goes.'

Perhaps the dice were beginning to roll her way.

First up, Dr Webb, a disconcertingly petite woman in her thirties, wanted the yard completely cleared and the main lights off. She also wanted a horsebox. Red faces all round. Presumably no one had fully explained the situation to her.

‘A field?' asked Fran to break the silence. ‘We've got plenty of those.' She spread her hands. ‘OK, send for a horsebox. Any preference as to size?'

‘There's no need to take that tone with me, inspector,' Dr Webb objected.

Fran hadn't enough energy to argue. ‘What size, Dr Webb?' She summoned Ray. ‘See Dr Webb has all the equipment she needs, will you? Including safety gear. Pronto.' She turned back to the vet. ‘The animal's well and truly frightened. I can see that. But we really, really need to get at the child we believe is in there. Can you hear? She's crying again. And who can blame her? The thing is, with the horse in there needing quiet we can't get anyone in to reassure her, which currently means bellowing at the top of one's voice.'

‘Her? Is it that missing child? Livvie? My God, why didn't anyone tell me? OK, I'll go and talk to the horse. Do we know its name?'

Ray said, ‘My colleagues think it might be Thor.'

‘Nothing unpretentious there, then,' Webb declared briskly. ‘OK. No lights, no cameras, but maybe some action. And silence and a clear yard, remember. Oh, best make sure that field's horse-proof first.'

‘Over to you,' Fran said with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. As she limped with all the others out of the yard, she fell into step with Simon and Flo. ‘You really can see no way to get at the girl?'

Simon shook his head. ‘I've tried shinning up on to the next level – there's a rough set of steps, not original and hardly deserving of the name – but really it's the same picture. Blank walls.'

‘Not even a fireplace,' Gavin agreed.

Fran stopped so suddenly Simon nearly tripped. ‘What would you normally do in a situation like this?'

‘Find a builder? Or an architect?'

‘Or someone used to restoring old buildings?' she asked slowly.

‘Spot on, I'd say. But where would you get one of those at this time of night? And in this neck of the woods?'

‘Keep Flo in treats and leave it with me.'

M
ark's lack of enthusiasm for his Cajun chicken and chips was matched by Caffy's for her prawn salad. Neither would accuse the food of being below par, which it wasn't, not for a quiet Monday night with hardly enough people in the bar to justify being open, let alone serving food. But both spent more time putting down their cutlery and eyeing their phones as if they'd never heard of the watched kettle principle.

‘This is the part of being retired I hate most,' Mark said at last. ‘Knowing there's important stuff happening yet having no part. Knowing I actually need to keep out of Fran's hair.'

‘You're worried about her, aren't you?'

‘Wouldn't you be? She's got too much to do and the harder she pushes herself the more pain she gives herself. And because she's skipping meals and grazing on rubbish where she can find it, she daren't take her painkillers. And no, until she's found Livvie, I can't possibly ask her to slow down. Who could? But the minute she does, I shall whisk her off to the GP and get her signed off for a week or so. Let the other buggers do the paperwork and go to meetings.'

‘And will you really put your foot down so firmly, or would you just like to?'

‘You know, I think I might. And succeed. After all, if there's one thing she loathes, it's paperwork. Another apple juice?'

‘No thanks. But go ahead if – Mark, that's your phone. Yours, not mine.'

It was. Bloody, sodding ears. ‘Fran?'

‘The very same. Sweetheart, that sudden rush of architectural knowledge – where did it come from? You see, we've surrounded your Tudor ruin and can hear a child, we think—'

‘Livvie?' he squawked.

‘Please God, yes. But we can't be sure and we can't reach her. So this Tudor stuff: was it Caffy who told you? And if it was, have you any idea where she might be? We could really use her and that course of hers.'

‘You got it in one. She's here. Do you want to speak to her?'

‘Just bring her, love. And bring yourself. Sooner the better. I really need both of you.'

‘Just a sec. Caffy, we've got an invitation. Your van or my car?'

‘My van: all the safety gear's in there.' She was on her feet settling the bill at the bar.

‘We're on our way,' Mark said. There was inaudible muttering. ‘We'll be in Caffy's van. Can you make sure we get clearance?'

‘You bet.' She ended the call.

Thank goodness for the tennis. He might be twice Caffy's age, but they reached the van at the same moment, throwing themselves in and fastening their seat belts as one. There was no argument about who was going to drive. Caffy probably suspected his night vision might be as bad as his hearing. Of her own she clearly and terrifyingly had no doubts at all.

As they all huddled silently in the lane, feeling the cold far more now they weren't busily doing things, they heard a reassuring sound: the clatter of hooves on cobbles. The sound went away from them.

‘That woman's a heroine,' Ray observed, ‘calming that bloody great nag. Now what? No, no one's to move till she gives the OK.' He held out a warning arm, an umpire delaying a bowler at the end of his run-up.

‘What indeed? Watching and waiting aren't our strong suit, are they? Ah, she's waving now. Get Ginny back into the stable to see if she can establish any sort of contact with Livvie.' Fran made herself keep pace with Ray, as everyone returned to the yard.

‘Still assuming it is Livvie, and not some cat stuck up the chimney,' he growled, his voice gravelly with emotion.

She gripped his hands. ‘Ray, we've got this far – hold together a bit longer, lad.'

He nodded. ‘Just a minute, guv, that's my phone.' He pulled his mobile out, listened briefly then turned to her. ‘It's the chief constable – wants to know why your phone's switched to voicemail. And, more to the point, wants to speak to you right now.'

What the hell could he want at this time of night? He should have been roosting by now. ‘Tell him I'll call right back.'

‘He says now.'

She dug out her mobile. ‘Keep yours for urgent calls. Tell him I'm dialling even as we speak. Sir,' she added in her standing-to-attention voice. She moved away from the group in her search for a signal; it wouldn't be good for her team to hear her being bollocked for whatever she'd done to upset the boss.

‘HQ now, Harman.'

‘We're trying to rescue Livvie.'

‘I don't care if you're trying to arrange tea with the Queen. Delegate. My office. Now.'

‘Sir, with all due respect, I cannot leave this scene. Cannot. Can we not discus whatever is needful over the phone?' Why should she think
cannot
and its variants sounded more authoritative than the usual abbreviation? ‘Our suspect is on the loose, and Livvie trapped out of reach … In fact, sir—'

‘Are you refusing an order, Harman?'

Of course she bloody was. ‘In fact, sir,' she continued as if he hadn't spoken, ‘it would be a brilliant media opportunity if you came here. The moment the press and TV get hold of the story, and it's far more complicated than you've been told – the child's trapped in a dangerous building, and her father's on his way – they'll be here like wasps round a glass of beer.' OK, incoherent, but surely he'd get the gist. She took a breath. ‘If my place is here, yours is too,' she declared. That felt better. ‘Though of course, Acting DCI Barlow's doing brilliantly,' she continued, knowing the response, but choosing to sacrifice Ray this once.