Life Sentence (19 page)

‘They said to leave the information with them. They mentioned Interpol, too, come to think of it.’

‘Well, that saves you a job. Did you get anything about any Lotus dealership employees?’

‘Just the one. Everyone else went down-market, like. But there’s a bloke called Kevin Gregory who moved to a dealership near Canterbury. So when we did the test drive that’s where I went. Canterbury. Seems he arrived with references you’d have written for yourself, like, but after a couple of months they let him go. A waste of space, they said.’

‘Find him. Today. But you’ve done well, Tom. Especially the bit about horseboxes.’

‘Of course – the guy that found Elise saw a horsebox nearby. Parked without lights. Right?’

‘Right! So we may just be beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.’

‘Tell you what, guv – bet it’s a train’s headlights!’

Perhaps it was. But for the rest of the morning Fran chose to see it otherwise. Although the promised uniformed constable didn’t materialise, she had immediate success herself with her phone calls to estate agents. The chipper Draytons had been entirely correct in thinking that Burgoynes had been the estate agents responsible for selling Elise’s bungalow. In the all too predictable sing-song that estate agents’ receptionists favour, the young woman the other end confirmed that they had her solicitor’s details, and would be happy to fax them on receipt of a faxed request with an official heading. Not quite idly, Fran asked, ‘Is there anyone in the office who might remember Ms Gray?’

‘It was Miss Gray,’ the young woman’s voice corrected her. ‘And I remember her well. We used to call her the Invisible Woman, because she merged with the wallpaper. But – it was really strange. She could be so stubborn.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, we kept telling her it was easier to sell a property that looked like a home, if you know what I mean. Furniture and flowers. But she stripped it. All of it. I used to see her staggering along to Oxfam or whatever with these huge bags. Day after day, she’d pass my office. Books, pictures – you could see the patches on the walls where she’d taken them down – china, glass.’

‘It was her own idea? There was a rumour that the purchasers wanted the house stripped.’

‘Hers. She removed everything. One day I stopped her and said, “Don’t forget to leave enough mugs for the removal men,” and she looked at me ever so odd, and said, “There won’t be any removal men”.’

‘No removal men!’ Fran slipped her voice into gossip mode, but in truth she was intrigued. It was as if Elise was systematically getting rid of her old life in the most literal way. Not to mention starting another one: the hair, the make-up, the clothes so new the price tags had scratched her skin. Surely the change of identity couldn’t be to escape the consequences of criminal acts?

‘I know: it’s really weird, isn’t it? And she took a far lower offer than we’d hoped for because she said – yes, really! – she wanted to make a quick getaway.’

‘You’ve been more than helpful,’ Fran told her, promising a fax within the next few minutes and eliciting a promise of an immediate response.

Her next call was to the Draytons themselves. To her surprise they were in, though just about to dash off for their French class. She reminded them that they’d been prepared to help her.

‘We were wondering what could be worse than identifying a dead body!’ Mrs Drayton giggled nervously.

‘I think you might find identifying a live one even worse,’ Fran said quietly. ‘She’s not a pretty sight, Mrs Drayton.’ She explained.

‘You mean she’s not just like some grown up Sleeping Beauty!’

‘Alas, no. Now, would you like me to arrange for a car to collect you?’

‘And have every single curtain in the close twitched to within an inch of its life? No thanks, Superintendent – we’ll get there under our own steam. Some time this afternoon? Would three suit?’

Photocopies came through to the central CID office, not to individual desks. In the past, anything for her had always been brought to her hot from the printer, but now everyone was involved in the higher profile, and indeed, more urgent case. It was time to stretch her legs and get a drink; she’d collect her fax and empty her pigeonhole at the same time.

The fax was waiting for her: now she had the name of Elise’s solicitor and details of her bank account – a phone and Internet one. She also had an armful of what she hoped was largely redundant post, most of which she might as well deposit in the recycling box or put for shredding straight away. But there was a note that interested her. Computer-printed, it said, ‘Ask Sergeant Simpson about last evening’s phone call.’

Intrigued, she collected a tumbler of water and looked for Simpson. She wouldn’t be in for another three or four hours yet, not if she was on the evening shift. But she didn’t take her desk home with her, and Fran leafed through the scrawls that she supposed passed for notes in Simpson’s case. Almost at the top
of the pile was a name she recognised: Professor Wallace.

Seizing it, she marched into her office and dialled the Wallaces’ number. She wouldn’t drop Simpson in it, not with a member of the public, but this afternoon she would suffer.

Apologising profusely, she explained that she had been completely tied up.

‘All I can say is that I hope you enjoyed yourself!’ Mrs Wallace cackled. Her voice soon serious, she continued, ‘And it wasn’t necessarily you we needed to speak to, since it – well, perhaps I’m overreacting, Superintendent. All we wanted to say was that a couple of weeks back young Dr Pitt had a long over-
the-garden
-wall talk with Jeremy about drugs, Rohypnol for one. Which we found curious for a bachelor without need for it. He told some long cock-and-bull story about one of his students believing she’d been a
date-rape
victim.’

‘Your husband doesn’t believe the tale?’ It shouldn’t be impossible for her to check, of course, assuming the girl had ever reported it.

‘Let us say that what interests him in retrospect is that Alan returned several times to the question of whether it was worth this mythical girl reporting it to the police, given the absence of traces in her blood stream.’

‘Mrs Wallace – exactly why does this conversation worry you and your husband?’

‘Let us just say that the intensity of his enquiries unnerved my husband.’

‘I’m very grateful indeed for the information. You’ve no idea how helpful it may prove.’

Rohypnol. Why should Pitt want to know about Rohypnol? The obvious way to find out was to ask him. Which got her back to square one.

‘We’re off to the Outlet afterwards,’ Mrs Drayton announced, with a little girl swing of the hips, as Fran met her and her husband in the William Harvey Hospital foyer. ‘Shop till we drop time. Not proper day clothes – though Neil here gets some real bargains in shirts. And if he ever wore a suit, I’m sure he’d get it there. But you need to be a size eight teeny-bopper to get the best out of the Outlet formal clothes-wise. Sports goods, though, even specialist stuff: you can get real bargains. The trouble is, like I say, there’s not a lot of everyday clothes for women our age, I’m afraid, Chief Superintendent.’

Fran nodded as if interested, declining to engage with the idea that she and Julie Drayton were in anything like the same age range. What she did register, with some alarm, was the woman’s nervous anxiety, which grew in loquacity as they made their way to Elise’s ward. Fran had left a phone message for Michael Penn, warning him, and requesting a short conversation with him afterwards. He flapped what appeared to be an idle hand as she approached, but fell quietly into step behind the
little procession as she led the Draytons to Elise’s bed.

Halfway, however, she stopped and addressed the Draytons firmly, Penn nodding agreement behind their backs. ‘You do realise this is not going to be very pleasant? If you have any doubts, any doubts at all, please tell me and we won’t go ahead.’ She exerted, however, every ounce of willpower at her disposal to make them agree.

Jabbering about civic duty, a point she couldn’t dispute, they insisted. So they continued, Penn still hovering in the rear. Then, as if a conjuror, he stepped forward to pull the curtains back from round Elise’s bed. Fran couldn’t understand why they’d been closed in the first place, since their normal state was open, but she allowed him his moment of drama. As the Draytons peered at the figure before them, Penn’s moment became protracted as Julie lost control and scream after scream echoed round the ward. Before Fran knew it, he had grabbed Julie and whisked her away, leaving an ashen Neil to whisper, ‘Yes, that’s Marjorie. Oh, God.’

There was a paper kidney bowl on the bedside locker. Well done Michael, Fran observed, as Neil made use of it. She sat him down, turning the chair so he could no longer see the cause of his distress. As if from nowhere, Penn was back again, ushering them both out and waving to a nurse who looked about ten to get rid of the evidence.

Fran found herself in a room so blandly decorated and furnished it must be the place where doctors gave
relatives bad news. A homely-looking young woman was already sitting with an arm round Julie, pressing tissues and tea on her.

Penn was hovering outside the door.

Fran smiled and joined him. ‘Thank you: all this is brilliant. Even the sick-bowl.’

‘I pride myself on my stage-management,’ he said.

‘Rightly. Well done. Now, I need to consult you about something – do you have a minute to spare?’

‘The only problem as I see it,’ Penn said, leaning back from his desk, ‘is the one you anticipate: security. So I wouldn’t truly be happy to invite her murderer in without one of your people here undercover. But Alan Pitt – he’s been here often enough, hasn’t he? He did slap her about a bit once, in an effort to bring her round, silly man. He didn’t think I’d noticed, but there’s not much I miss, believe me, Chief – Fran!’

‘I believe you, Michael, don’t worry. Which is why I asked
you
about publicity, not some leather-seated chief exec – though I suppose I ought to have a word with him too.’

‘If you can find him, Fran, you’re a better man than I, Gungadin, as my old dad would have said. Mind you, if you flashed your rank at him, and bullied a bit, he’d almost certainly play ball. Or get your secretary to talk to his: that sort of ploy often works. Jim Taverner, the consultant, will be doing rounds in a couple of hours’ time – I’ll deal with him, if you like.’

‘You’re being more than kind,’ she said, smiling and getting to her feet.

He looked her quizzically up and down. ‘That hair’s very chic: you’ve got the bones to wear it too. No wonder our Dr Pitt’s got the hots for you.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ She didn’t know whether to laugh or be outraged. Chatting her up in Sainsbury’s was one thing, telling third parties quite another.

‘He still talks to Elise all the time as if she could hear and understand. Admirable but suggests something a bit wonky up here if you ask me. Anyway, I happened to be passing when he came – what? end of last week it’d be – when he was telling her he might be asking you out. How about that?’

‘How about that indeed!’ she repeated grimly, adding, as if it were truly news to her, ‘Thanks for the info, Michael. It could be very useful. Meanwhile, I’d best check on the Draytons and be on my way. We still have to run Elise’s murderer to ground – sorry?’

‘Elise. You called her Elise. But really she’s Marjorie—’

‘Gray. Marjorie Gray.’

‘I’d better get her notes changed. But Elise is so much more romantic, isn’t it? As if she had a life – oh, I don’t know… Gunrunning between East and West Germany, before the Wall came down. Or the mistress of a spy – provided you could find a straight one!’

‘Whereas Marjorie…?’ she prompted, amused but touched.

‘Too John Betjeman for words! Hollyhocks, dear. And blowsy roses. And flat shoes with elastic sides. Not to mention her poor surname. Oh, Fran – promise me you’ll find something about her that wasn’t grey.’

‘Sergeant Simpson: my office, please.’ Fran was shaken enough by the Draytons’ reactions to Elise to be even sharper than she intended. After all, everyone was under extreme pressure and it was easy enough to forget to pass on a message. Easy, and forgivable. Except, of course, when you were supposed to be following every lead possible in tracking Rebecca’s abductor, and this news about Rohypnol might just have a bearing. As yet, she couldn’t think how and why, but none of her day’s activities had quite convinced her that there was nothing in it. She’d phoned Mark and asked if he could call a small case conference involving the main CID people, Carl Henson included, and herself. He’d agreed readily enough, despite an air of surprise, whispered a couple of entirely private suggestions and confirmed they’d enjoy each other’s company that evening. Since the meeting would take place in five minutes, there was a time limit on the bollocking she intended to give to the hapless Simpson, a woman in her later twenties who reminded her vaguely of herself at that age. As penance, she got her to check on possible date rapes on university students.

Which reminded her, where the hell was the uniformed constable supposedly at her disposal?

It was a question she put personally – there was no justification for this apart from the delight of seeing the expression on his face as she popped her head round his door – to Mark. He got on the phone almost immediately, eliciting the information, which he condemned fluently, that the officer allocated to the case had had to go home sick and there was no one else, every free officer having been commandeered for the Rebecca case.

Mark tore his hair, and spoke so quietly that Fran would, in his interlocutor’s position, have been as afraid as the irritating Simpson.

Fran expected them to enter the conference room separately, but to her surprise and delight Mark gestured her in before him in an almost possessive gesture.

Henson wasn’t as sensitive to the nuances of
body-language
as some of his colleagues. ‘Search Pitt’s house? Why the fuck would you want to do that?’

‘Copper’s nose,’ Fran replied as if self-deprecating, but gratified by the murmurs of agreement from some of the older officers. ‘There’s something about the man I don’t trust. I find his remorse over Elise unnatural. I don’t like his sudden interest in Rohypnol or, presumably, its derivatives. I don’t like the fact his disappearance coincides with Rebecca’s. He doesn’t return my calls – he’s not used his mobile at all, in fact, or his bank account. Although there’s a stop and search request out to all forces, there’s been not a single sighting of him or his car.’

‘Just some weird academic, Dr Harman.’

She ignored the not very subtle insult. ‘Weird enough possibly to invent a conference on something in the generic north: I’ve not been able to check the existence of one yet, but it’s unlikely at this point in the academic year, I’d have thought. There’s only one way to flush him out, I think – to tell him that Elise is showing signs of returning to consciousness.’

‘And the hospital—?’ Mark prompted.

‘No problem, so long as we contact him specifically, not the press. But of course, we may have to do just that if my message to his mobile doesn’t work. In that case, we’d have to provide a presence, which would be hard enough in the current circumstances. Now, I’d like to see if Pitt’s DNA matches that on the McDonald’s beaker. It’ll be on record because at one time he was a possible suspect in the Elise assault.’

‘No one else’s does, so it’s worth a try,’ someone chipped in.

Mark nodded his go-ahead.

‘Meanwhile, I really would like to search his house. The next-door neighbour holds the key. We can do it with or without a search warrant,’ she added dryly. ‘So long as I can think of some excuse. Yes, I do believe I left my gloves behind when I interviewed him there.’

‘Get a warrant, for Christ’s sake,’ Mark groaned, making show of tearing his hair. ‘You’re not some maverick newcomer, Fran!’

The mood lightened. If the ACC could tell off his bird, it was all right to chip in too.

‘What exactly would you hope to get out of this Pitt’s place?’ Henson demanded, just as if, in fact, she were some maverick newcomer.

‘His computer, for a start. It’s possible to buy Rohypnol over the Net, and since he’s an academic, not a medical doctor that should raise questions in itself. And I’d like to see what else he’s been up to.’

‘Well, he can’t have been communicating with young Rebecca, that’s for sure. Her family PC is as clean as the proverbial. And her friends’.’

‘All of them? Internet cafés?’ she asked.

‘Not at her age, surely.’

‘Worth double-checking,’ Mark said, pre-empting any argument. ‘Now,’ he continued, looking at his watch, ‘remembering what I’ve said all about overlong hours, I’d suggest one last trawl of incoming information before you head for home. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

‘Except,’ said Fran wistfully, falling into step with him as they left, ‘I wouldn’t mind sorting out the warrant and checking Alan Pitt’s house this evening.’

‘Arrange for a warrant by all means. And fix a small team to come with you tomorrow. But as for this evening, Detective Chief Superintendent Harman, we have our own private meeting securely booked. I’ll see you in half an hour.’

Simpson had done better than check police records: she’d also contacted the university medical centre and counselling service to see if any date rape allegations had been made in the last month. None had been recorded.

‘So it looks as if you’re on to something,’ she said, leaning comfortably against Fran’s door-jamb. ‘I really am sorry, guv – about earlier.’

‘Was it policy?’ Fran asked directly. ‘A request from above to put anything to do with me at the bottom of your in-tray.’

‘Not a direct order,’ Simpson said carefully. ‘But I was wrong, guv, and there it is. I suppose I couldn’t volunteer to help search Pitt’s house tomorrow, could I? We all need role-models,’ she added awkwardly.

And mentors, Fran thought. It would be good to promote yet another young woman’s career, nudging her into this team, recommending a move to that. She’d done it so many times, watching with delight as her protégés and protégées had climbed steadily up the promotional ladder, sometimes, as in the case of a deputy chief constable in one force and a commissioner in the Met, outstripping her.

But she wouldn’t be here to see Anna Simpson move up. She’d be down in Devon worrying about Zimmers and incontinence pads.

After a stop off at Mark’s house for him to check his post and repack his overnight bag, they fetched up at Fran’s. The plan was that they should have an
intimate, romantic dinner with whatever she had in her fridge and freezer and then relax in the most appropriate way. In actuality, a trail of clothing indicated the haste with which they changed their minds.

‘There was a film once called
Woman in a
Dressing-Gown
,’ Mark observed, setting the kitchen table somewhat later. ‘As if wearing a dressing-gown were the height of decadence.’

‘Or should it be the depth? Yes, starring Laurence Harvey, as I recall. Terribly risqué.’ She passed him plates. ‘And you know, there is something wonderfully sensual, the two of us swanning round wearing nothing but a layer of silky fabric.’ She ran her hand down his chest suggestively.

Hazel’s email brought her down to earth with something of a bang. She’d considered Bel’s offer and she and Grant would fly down this weekend, a pastor from another kirk being willing to take over Grant’s Sabbath duties. She would be obliged if Fran would meet her at Exeter airport.

Take a weekend out? Fran didn’t even know what day of the week it was, let alone feel capable of planning ahead. All she knew was that Friday was reconstruction day, and she expected – indeed, prayed – that the switchboard, staffed with every officer with eyes and ears, including herself and Mark and possibly the Chief Constable, for all she knew, would be jammed with
helpful calls. So suddenly there was another imperative: Rebecca must be found one way or another before Friday evening.

She made a swift call to her bank to send extra funds through to Hazel’s account before going in search of Mark.

He was evidently very pleased to see her.