Still Waters (16 page)

There was a murmur of agreement, perhaps from Moreton’s former colleagues, resenting that they were about to undo all the good he had done.

‘The cases of both men are up for appeal. My feeling is that a good defence lawyer could run a coach and horses through the case now that the new evidence in the form of Janine’s body and her clothing has turned up. And let’s not forget’, she added, ‘that every time we imprison someone wrongly – in this case possibly two men – the real killer is roaming around free, possibly ready to strike again.’

Which thought took her round to DCI Pearce’s office. She was about to bound in, cheerfully demanding the latest news on what could turn out to be a serial killer, when she realised Joanne was face down on her desk, her arms supporting her head. No, she wasn’t crying, as at first Fran feared. She was deeply asleep. Fran stole away, found a piece of card on which to write, and returned as quietly as she knew how. At least when the younger woman awoke she’d find a written order staring her in the face. Signed with every detail of Fran’s rank it said, ‘G
O
H
OME
N
OW
!’

Her own cottage was beginning to call loudly, but she ought to make one more check of her desk before she phoned Mark to see if he had finished his self-appointed tasks. She was aware he was keeping an eye on her; half of her was mildly irritated, the other rather more grateful than she cared to admit.

She found what she least wanted to see – a reminder she’d written herself that she had a working party on Monday morning which she must not miss and for which she really
ought to prepare. She would need to spend three hours in front of a computer screen running to earth more statistics than she could shake an asp at. The trouble was that statistics could prove anything Gates – and ultimately the Home Secretary – wanted. And no doubt would.

Hell, her brain wouldn’t get round figures now, not the ones dancing in neat columns. Only on waterlogged ones in morgues. She took what she ironically described to herself as an executive decision. She would have to leave it till tomorrow, when Mark would in any case no doubt be visiting his grandchildren.

She was just about to pick up her phone when it rang. Or rather, her direct outside line phone rang. So it wasn’t Mark, whoever it was.

It was Pete Webb, who now seemed to regard her as part of a conspiracy. She had a sense of him hunched over the phone, looking over his shoulder to check that he was unobserved. ‘We’ve found the kid who walked off with the computer in the Hythe skip,’ he said. ‘We could press charges of course. Officially. Anyway, he says the hard disk had been wiped before the machine was dumped. We’ve borrowed it so that our forensic computer scientists can have a look.’

‘“Borrowed”? Does that mean you’ll let him have it back afterwards?’

‘Why not? Come on, guv, it’s a perfectly serviceable model, and should get him through university.’

‘You’re a man after my own heart, Pete. By the way, I never had a look at Alec Minton’s body, did I?’

‘Nope. Want me to fix it?’

Fran was quite capable of doing her own fixing, but didn’t point this out. Instead she said, ‘I’m up to my ears over here.
Why don’t you email the photos? I can manage without the morgue smell, can’t I?’

‘You must have got used to it after all your years in the service.’

‘I never have, you know. I’d never let on to the macho youngsters, and certainly not to a pathologist, but I have to steel myself each time. And I haven’t even got a very good sense of smell! How these forensic archaeologist folk go round digging up and identifying rotting corpses defeats me. So the photos will do, thanks very much. How’s things, by the way, Pete?’ She waited for a wail of righteous anger.

‘I took your advice,’ he said, his voice perceptibly tight, even over the phone. ‘Which is why I’m toiling away here on a Saturday afternoon. My wife’s taken the kids to her sister’s for the weekend – there’s some hideous children’s birthday party but my sister-in-law can rise to not one but two au pairs. So they’re in Esher and I thought I’d keep myself busy.’

Why all that information? But it was certain he wanted some sort of approval.

‘I hope it works out for you,’ she said. That was too cold. She said with a laugh, ‘Of course, a truly heroic man would have gone to that party dressed as a clown,’ adding seriously, ‘but I really think you’re doing the right thing, Pete. Well done.’

After that it was a session emailing her recalcitrant colleagues in divisional CIDs to remind them that she really did need their information post haste. Then, at long last, she popped into Mark’s office to admit that she was ready to go home.

As if he’d been expecting her he had the video zapper in his hand. ‘Sit yourself down and have a look at this,’ he said,
patting the arm of a chair he’d placed next to his. ‘Tea or coffee?’

He busied himself with the kettle as she ran the video. Amongst a veritable convoy of delivery vehicles and workmen’s vans – Paula must have put the fear of God into her suppliers and subcontractors – the black BMW Mark had already identified as Gates’ appeared with some regularity. Once Gates had actually got out of the car; the camera caught his back as he apparently leant on the gate and looked over it. Sometimes – from the clock in the corner of each frame – he arrived during the working day; sometimes he arrived in the evening or even in the very early morning. Fran rewound the cassette. Yes, he’d even managed to get there several times when he’d claimed to be sick.

‘Well, well, well,’ she said, wishing her brain would come up with something more apposite and original.

‘Precisely.’ Mark put a mug of green tea in front of her. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

‘Your brain’s atrophying too, is it?’

‘Withered almost to nothing. I’ll put some of this lot away while you drink up, then we sign off for the day. OK?’

It was very OK.

When Fran had slung Mark the keys, she’d expected him to point the car straight for home. Instead, to her amazement, he pulled into a garden centre. Fran following in his wake, he pushed an enormous trolley through the alleyways heaving with whole families, the kids less rather than more under control. Eventually he stopped before a display of
ready-planted
tubs. He loaded three, then a fourth, in his trolley.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because sometime today spring seems to have sprung, and I thought we could do with some colour in our garden.’

‘There’s plenty of colour. At least when I last looked at it.’ Which had probably been a week ago, now she came to think of it.

‘No. Not that garden. The Rectory garden. Next time we go past I want to drop them off as a little present. An offering to the household gods, if you like.’

‘I don’t think you’d have those in a rectory. Just God,’ she added as he looked blank.

‘Of course. Well, I think He’ll like them, don’t you?’

She was too tired to argue. In any case, perhaps he was right.

‘I tell you, I find cooking therapeutic,’ Mark insisted. ‘And you must admit it’s nice to be able to sit down knowing there’ll be a bottle of fine wine on the table and that we don’t have to drive home.’

She smiled and raised a pre-dinner glass to him. Even to her defective nostrils the chicken smelt wonderful, and she wouldn’t spoil the moment by reminding him that although he cooked a mean roast, he’d never learnt how to clean an oven. ‘And that we can have water from out of our own taps,’ she agreed. ‘Supposedly. We can believe those flyers saying it’s OK, now?’

He pulled a face. ‘Maybe if we boil it… And I’d rather shower at work, just for another couple of days. Now, Fran, I know this is almost shop, and we shouldn’t be talking about it now we’re home. But it is important. What are we going to do about Gates? Now we’ve seen for ourselves. They certainly installed some state-of-the-art stuff on our behalf,’ he added, as if to give her thinking time.

‘Which may prove to be worth every penny.’ She was
learning that it was better to anticipate his worries about money. ‘My only worry is whether everything should be more obvious, to act as a deterrent.’

‘You didn’t raise that with Paula, I notice,’ he said dryly.

‘Nor you, neither! And neither of us tried to stop her nipping off. But I still think that Paula’s the one to talk to. After all, it was Gates who recommended her – perhaps there’s something going on between them we’ve no need at all to know about. And fearsome though Paula is, I’d rather beard her than Gates about it. Imagine saying, “Stop nagging about your next meeting and tell me why you keep peering at my new home”.’

‘I’m not sure… OK, you couldn’t, I agree. There’s too much going on between you, and I wouldn’t put it past the bugger to insinuate you were trying to blackmail him in some way.’

‘He’s not an ogre! Just Meetings Man!’

‘He goes behind both our backs to the chief about moving you. He reduces two of the secretaries to tears – oh, yes, I’m surprised the jungle drums didn’t get that gem to you. God knows how many noses he’s shoved out of joint. Yes, I’m quite sure he’s a man of delightful, albeit well-hidden, charm. Actually, until that’s sorted out, I think you’re right after all. It is best to deal with Paula in the first instance.’

‘And we take our cue from her?’

‘Exactly. OK. Decision made. Can I top up your glass? I’ll just check that the butternut squash is cooked…’

‘Hang on. There’s one other thing to decide. Who speaks to Paula and when?’

He looked shifty in the extreme.

‘I knew it! You’re too scared of her! So when do
we
do it, Mark? It can’t be Monday morning because I shall have to be
in at the crack of dawn to finish a report in time for a nine o’clock meeting. And I’m afraid you won’t see much of me tomorrow for the same reason – though you’ll be off to Loose to catch up with the kids, won’t you?’ She hoped she did not sound bitter. If she did, he didn’t remark on it, but applied himself to basting the chicken.

As she’d promised, Sunday’s briefing was short and to the point. All the points she’d raised the previous day were being dealt with. She added one more. She wanted the Ropers’ neighbours to be questioned again. Were they sure that when Roper and Barnes waved goodbye, there was no answering wave from the house? Absolutely sure? Sue Hall said she’d get on to it, since it was on her route home.

Fran dismissed everyone briskly, though with a warning that she expected a great deal more of them all by noon the next day. Again she popped down to DCI Pearce’s office, this time to find her very much awake and looking pleased with herself. Since Pearce had her hand on the phone as if about to dial, Fran was able to believe her claim that she was just about to contact her with the latest development in the Dale Drury case.

‘His DNA ties him in with two other cases, guv. One in Manchester, the other in Burton on Trent. We’ve still got to talk to him about these, as it happens, but I’m saving them up till West Midlands have called back. Wolverhampton and Oldbury, wherever that might be.’

‘They call it the Black Country, on account of the smoke the factories generated during the nineteenth century. Did you know Queen Victoria thought the place was so awful she had the blinds of her railway carriage pulled down so she didn’t
have to soil her eyes with the sight?’ Fran asked, slightly alarmed that her mind, which should have been preoccupied with far more momentous thoughts, should have produced such trivia.

If she was alarmed, Joanne Pearce was clearly puzzled but joined in what she perhaps thought was Fran’s game. ‘Queen Victoria wouldn’t have wanted to soil her eyes with what he did to the toms there,’ she replied. ‘In fact, she would not have been amused. Here you are.’ She laid a set of particularly graphic photos for Fran’s inspection. ‘Alas, though I understand the Midlands have more canals than Venice, guv, the murderer’s MO doesn’t seem to include water in any form. Nor good old-fashioned throttling, either, more’s the pity.’

‘Even so, if he doesn’t have an alibi for the weekend in question, it’d be worth pressing him. Is he still singing?’

‘Not any more. His solicitor’s obviously warned him.’

‘Bugger. I may still want to have a word with him, though, Joanne, if I can lay my hands on a few more bits of evidence.’

‘He’s yours whenever you want him. He’ll be charged tomorrow with the offences he’s admitted to and I can’t see even the most passionate brief getting him bail.’

‘Don’t you bet on it.’

‘I won’t.’

As Fran turned for the door, Joanne added, ‘By the way, guv, thanks for – for yesterday.’

‘Ah, you got my orders, then. I trust you acted on them?’

Joanne sprang to satirical attention. ‘To the letter, guv. I feel much better today,’ she added in her usual tone.

‘Good. Make sure the rest of your team has breaks, too –
OK?’ Fran left with a smile. But she popped her head back round the door immediately. ‘I suppose you haven’t heard when Dave Henson’s likely to be back?’

Joanne pulled a face. ‘Tomorrow, I’m afraid, guv.’

Despite all Sunday’s efforts to pull together the material she needed, she was in by seven on Monday to finish her report. When the door opened without a knock, she assumed it was Mark, raising an admonitory finger lest he interrupt her in mid-sentence.

‘You’re in early, Fran,’ the chief declared.

Bugger and blast him. She managed a polite but not very warm smile as she got to her feet. ‘Sorry, sir. I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Always a lot to catch up on when you’ve been on these conferences. Everything going well?’

She thought she knew him well enough to give the hint of an ironic smile as she gestured at the printer, busily delivering her report.

Wrong.

‘It’s not like you to make such a fuss about obeying orders, Fran.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘You heard me. If you’re given an important job to do, I expect you to do it, without question. Understand?’

‘Sir,’ she said, wilfully misunderstanding him, ‘I’ve been doing this job to the utmost of my ability ever since you appointed me to it. You’ve had no reason to complain, I trust? We’ve had good results in all the cases you’ve allocated to me.’

‘You know what I mean, Fran. You’re supposed to be showing young Gates the ropes—’

‘Sir, I am as unaware of that as I’m sure he is. I’ve continued with every aspect of my CID work, and have joined his committees and working parties as appropriate. Heavens, you can see, sir,’ by now the printer had run out of space for the pages it had produced and was spewing material willy-nilly onto the floor, ‘I’ve been burning the midnight oil for this one.’ She stooped to pick everything up. Her knee cracked audibly, but she would not reach for the desk to lever herself upright. She willed herself vertical.

‘It’s always hard when someone one knew as a rookie officer overtakes one,’ he said, in tones presumably meant to soothe. ‘But I did assume you might be generous spirited enough not to resent Gates’ promotion.’

What an extraordinary thing to say! Was he accusing her of jealousy? Was he pleading for forgiveness and understanding for their colleague? Both? Fran seethed. She’d pushed off the careers of many fine young men and woman, watching them float off into the promotional sunset as she stood and waved, metaphorically singing ‘Aloha’ as they went. Surely he couldn’t think she was resentful that Gates’ career had outstripped hers. He might as well accuse her of resenting Mark’s superior rank.

She said nothing. How could one tell a man whose life was bound up in paperwork and decision-making that they were simply not for her? For more years than she cared to remember, they’d been an adjunct of her career, but never been its entirety.

The chief wasn’t used to the silent treatment. Was some synapse of his mind, one that should years ago have been interrupted by equal opportunities training, trying to insist that Fran was simply suffering women’s troubles? Or was he
genuinely concerned that this hitherto loyal officer, whose life had been devoted to the force, should be in obvious, if tacit, mutiny?

At last she said, ‘Sir, in recent years I’ve tried to be both an administrator – and, I liked to think, a reasonably efficient one, one whose work had reached forces nationwide – and a practising CID officer. Actually, I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry even as we speak – that’s why I’m in now, so that as soon as this morning’s meeting is over I can return to it.’

‘I believe DCS Henson is back today.’

‘Sir, you can’t order me to hand everything over to him at this stage! Damn it, the man’s not well. Remember he’s only on seventy-five per cent of his programme at the moment anyway.’ Did she detect a softening of his expression? ‘It was Dave himself who asked me to take this on, sir, since it’s been getting huge – and quite spurious – media coverage.’

‘“Dave”, Fran? You and Henson on what we’re no longer supposed to call Christian name terms? I don’t believe it.’

‘We’ve been getting on better recently, sir. Acting more professionally, you might say.’

He did not respond to her wry smile. ‘I might, if I hadn’t heard that you two were responsible for some sort of palace revolution.’

‘The Peasants’ Revolt, more like. It’s absolute rubbish, sir, if I might say so. I won’t deny that there is unhappiness in some quarters over the number of meetings that senior officers are summoned to these days, but I absolutely and flatly deny that I was involved in any rebellion. Come on, sir, you’ve known me long enough to know that I would tackle anyone I disagreed with face to face.’

He gave a crack of laughter. ‘I see you’ve got your coffee machine on already.’

‘Would you like a cup, sir? No biscuits, I’m afraid. I’ve been a bit busy on this Roper and Barnes case.’

‘You’ve let it keep you out of the kitchen! Shame on you, Fran. Thanks.’ He sipped and sat down, motioning her at last to do the same. ‘You think there’s a real problem with the previous inquiry?’

How fortunate she was used to his sudden changes of tack. ‘Yes,’ she said flatly. ‘The trouble now is that the media have got their claws into what they will insist on calling the Lady in the Lake case.’

‘I suppose that nice girl Dilly Pound’s reporting it, is she?’

The chief had taken a huge shine to the local TV crime reporter, a victim of a stalker. Fran had run the investigation into her case. As a result, Pound was more cooperative than most reporters in conveying the information the police thought the public ought to know, and sitting on anything that would positively hinder an investigation.

‘She is. We’ll be having for a dinner with her and her fiancé Daniel as soon as we’ve sorted out the current investigation, sir,’ Fran said, upgrading a tentative drink arrangement to a positive commitment. ‘Maybe you and your wife would care to join us.’

He was far too bright not to see that he was being manipulated. ‘I’m sure we would. But you still have to work with other people, Fran. And it’s not always possible for the status quo to be maintained indefinitely: you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’

‘Oh, come on, sir – lives are not eggs! A cliché like that and you an Orwell scholar, too!’ She shook her head, more in
apparent sorrow than anger, but realised with a jolt that she’d gone too far. ‘Seriously, sir,’ she continued, trying to retrieve her mistake, ‘the middle of a sensitive case is surely not the moment to pull me off it. I seem to have a rapport with Roper, the man currently doing time for the murder of his wife. Only the more evidence we acquire, the more convinced I am that he’s innocent. As soon as Pat Harper’s in, I shall get her on to her mate in the Home Office to authorise a prison visit to Barnes, the other man sent down for it. There may also be a tie in with a case Dave Henson’s got in hand.’ She preferred that expression to ‘supervising’ – it implied, she thought that Henson had everything totally under control and that they were truly collaborating, admittedly for the first time in their acquaintance.

‘What case might that be?’

‘Dale Drury, sir. Henson got him when a domestic went wrong, and then managed to tie him up with the death of at least one and possibly several prostitutes here and abroad. He’s involved Interpol and I gather the Sûreté are coming over this week.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back.

‘So it would be a shame to interrupt his investigations. Especially while you’re making progress on yours.’ He set his cup down on the only four square inches of desk visible under her paperwork. ‘Shame about the biscuits, Fran.’

‘I’ll get Mark on to them. He’s a wonderful cook – as you’ll find out, sir.’

‘As indeed I will.’ He made it sound more like a threat than a promise. ‘So long as you don’t neglect other things, Fran.’

‘Sir.’

She listened carefully as he walked along the corridor. Did
she hear the subtle sound of Gates’ note being screwed up and slung into a bin? On reflection, the chief was more likely to shred it, wasn’t he? Or consign it to some secret file for future reference.

There was never any need to supervise anything that Pat might be doing, so all Fran needed to do was ask her to fix the appointment with Barnes and scoot off to Gates’ meeting. What she wanted to do was stand arms akimbo and publicly challenge Gates’ visits to the Rectory. What she had to do was become a model committee member, eager to share her information and absorb others’. She and the chief might have a tacit understanding but underlying it was a bargain, equally unspoken. If she failed to deliver on committees part-time she would sure as hell lose her CID brief and learn to administrate full-time.