Burying the Past Page 2

  The chief always indulged in verbose preliminaries, and today was no exception – he touched on the beauty of the location, the elegance of the house, the potential of the garden. But then, abandoning the verbal bonbons as if he was sated, he said, ‘I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone except me, Fran. I’m retiring. My resignation’s operative from today.’

  ‘But—’ Fran stopped short. The chief was an institution. He was Kent Police. On the other hand, she’d imagine that that was one reason why he’d chosen to go now.

  ‘I can’t have a senior officer topping himself on my watch, Fran, and that’s the truth. Whatever the outcome of the enquiry. The hotel room he jumped from is being treated as a crime scene, of course, and we’re not supposed to go anywhere near it till Devon and Cornwall Police have given it the going over of its life. But even if they find me lily-white pure, I’m not happy with what happened and my part in it. How’s the poor young lady, by the way?’ He dropped his voice as if a Victorian maiden had been sullied. ‘The one with the unlikely name? Caffy? What sort of name is that?’ he added with sudden tetchiness, as if embarrassed that he’d been unable to refer to Simon by name.

  ‘It suits her,’ Fran said mildly. ‘Anyway, she’s at work today. There she is.’ She pointed to the overall-clad figure at the top of a ladder. ‘We expected her to take a few days off, but Paula – she’s the woman in charge of the team – says she’s better where she is.’

  ‘Up there? Dear God. She can’t . . . Not when a man killed himself for love of her less than forty-eight hours ago.’

  ‘Caffy doesn’t do hand-wringing. And why should she? Her take is that Simon was clearly unbalanced. She compared him to Hamlet – brilliant but unhinged. What if she’d continued the relationship – which she says never was a relationship except in his eyes – and he’d decided to take her life instead, or even as well? But I must admit, her calmness disconcerts me,’ Fran added.

  ‘It probably disconcerts even Paula,’ Mark said, ‘but if anyone could deal with Caffy should she suddenly have some sort of crisis, it’d be Paula. Do you want a word with her?’

  The chief shook his head emphatically. ‘I mustn’t be seen to do anything that could be construed as interfering with a witness. I’d best be off to clear my desk.’

  Mark and Fran exchanged a glance; no, neither was going to try to argue him out of his decision. They turned with him, one either side, to walk him back to the car.

  He held his hand out for the keys. ‘I’m sure you can rely on Fran here for a lift back to the office, Mark. You might want to discuss what we were talking about earlier,’ he added with a discreet cough.

  Mark shook his head. ‘With respect, Adam, I shall stick to what I said then. It’s one thing if they insist on my acting as a stopgap until they find a proper replacement for you, but as for applying for your job at my age, forget it. No, they want some young thrusting alpha male – or, pace Paula over there! – alpha woman, of course. And I wouldn’t want to take on anything extra at the moment anyway.’ He turned slightly to mouth at Fran, ‘I told him.’

  Her face froze, more rictus than smile. She knew what was coming – could feel it in her water. This precious tiny wedding was going to grow of its own accord, wasn’t it? Though how Mark could tell Caffy she’d been dropped as best woman she didn’t know.

  The chief produced his kindest, most avuncular smile, odd in a man not more than eight years her senior. ‘My dear, I am so glad that you are about to enter the married state. And nothing, believe me, would give me more pleasure than to give you away, since I understand your father is no longer with us. On the other hand,’ he added quickly, ‘I can’t imagine that you need to be in any sense “given”. So would you do me the honour of letting me accompany you down the aisle? I understand that Mark is already equipped with a best man.’

  ‘A best woman,’ Mark corrected him. ‘Look: she goes up and down those damned ladders like an old-fashioned monkey-on-a-stick toy.’ He looked away quickly. Clearly, his trip to the roof hadn’t cured his vertigo, which even seemed to afflict him second-hand, when someone else was scaling heights – or, in this case, descending from them briskly.

  ‘Will you be having a big wedding? A police guard of honour is always a fine sight. It would look well in the Cathedral Close. Imagine that.’

  He must mean Canterbury Cathedral! ‘I think we might rattle round a bit in a building as grand as that,’ she said, trying to sound diplomatic. Infinitely better than poor ugly St Jude’s, of course. On the other hand, a pretty country church . . . ‘But I would like to be escorted, wherever we end up. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then,’ he said, suddenly gruff. He swallowed, and continued: ‘Do you have any other family, Fran? I know Mark’s having trouble with his daughter . . .’

  That certainly wasn’t an issue Mark would want aired just now, so she gabbled, ‘I’ve a married sister in Scotland. She keeps an eye on my mother, whose ambition is to take over and run the care home she’s in. But I should imagine she’ll be physically too frail to come down, and I don’t know that my sister would want to leave her in case she causes an insurrection.’ Not that she’d want her sister anywhere near her, for all she was fond of her clergyman brother-in-law.

  The chief laughed.

  ‘I’ll say this again, Adam,’ she said, keen to change the subject, ‘I really shouldn’t be involved with this investigation. I’ve told you: there may be real clashes between me as an investigator and me as the householder. And Mark’s not exactly disinterested, either.’

  He looked at her under his eyebrows. ‘I’d trust you with my life, my dear – and if you imagine my eventual replacement will have time to concern himself with anything involved with day-to-day crime fighting you must be living not here but in cloud cuckoo land. You’ve got some good DCIs – trust them if you’re in any doubt, though they must be up to their ears carrying Harry’s caseload as well as their own. And didn’t I hear that one of them is on maternity leave? Otherwise, do what you do best, with the rider that you must save money while you’re doing it. Think cuts, Fran, think cuts.’ He might have said more, but, looking anxiously at Caffy, who was fast approaching, he let himself into the car and, with a general wave, set off more quickly than was wise given the state of the track.

  Caffy, arms akimbo, stared. ‘Was it something I said?’

  Mark shook his head repressively. ‘Police business.’ But his face softened. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to meet the person who’d got the job he really wanted. Best whatever.’

  ‘He’s going to give me away instead,’ Fran said quickly. ‘Which will suit him much better than organizing Mark’s stag do.’

  Caffy looked enigmatic, something she did remarkably well. ‘It’s all in hand – what a good thing you didn’t let him usurp me, Mark.’ Her eyes followed the retreating car. ‘He didn’t want to meet me because of Simon’s suicide – something to do with protocol, right?’ Clearly, she wasn’t going to give them a chance to offer more condolences. ‘No problem. Oh, there is, isn’t there? Don’t tell me he’s decided it’s all his fault and he’s got to pretend he’s an ancient Roman and fall on his sword. Simon was mad, that’s all there is to it. If you want to make it sound romantic, mad with love. OK, a weird, possessive and entirely unrequited love. So it’s not the old guy’s fault, any more than it was yours. Hey, don’t you two go resigning! Not till you’ve paid us!’

  ‘Quite,’ Mark said. ‘We can’t have Pact going bankrupt.’

  ‘You mean you couldn’t face Paula doorstepping you till you coughed up. Who could? She’s a real pussy-cat, but crossing her is not something I’d recommend. Not that you would. Not that anyone does more than once.’ She added, ‘I only came down for a wee, anyway.’

  Fran laughed. ‘You came down because it looks as if the recovery team is about to start work and you wanted to see what they were up to.’

  ‘I came down to say you can see much more from my ladder. But I don’t suppos
e you want to come up, do you, Mark? No? Now what’s going on?’

  All three watched. There seemed to be a lot of gesticulation towards the rectory.

  ‘My God, they can’t want to make that part of the crime scene,’ Mark gasped.

  ‘They won’t find much worth looking at,’ Caffy said flatly. ‘Not after all the work we’ve done. And had done by subcontractors who believed in brute force and ignorance. You want to tell them that every single floorboard has been replaced, downstairs at least, and joists too, so there’s nothing hidden down there. And we’ve had a very good look under those in the upper floors, remember.’

  ‘And found not so much as a bent penny,’ Mark agreed. ‘Unless there’s something you haven’t told us?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ chirped Caffy, ‘like the bag of gold sovereigns we’ve flogged to pay for a joint holiday in the Bahamas. It’s funny – you’d have expected more, really. It’s almost, as Paula says, as if someone gave the place the spring-cleaning of its life before they moved out. Ironic, isn’t it, given the total chaos it fell into and which we, to be fair, have exacerbated.’ She pointed to the approaching car. ‘More of you lot?’

  Fran drifted the three of them towards the marked police car, wearing her least intimidating expression. After all, it was bad enough to be late on your first day in action; to find your DCS chatting to the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) must be pretty terrifying. DI Kim Thomas, wearing a ridiculously elegant suit given the nature of the case, unfolded herself from the car, pulling down the pencil skirt with embarrassment. She looked straight out of school and was certainly no more than thirty-five. Her stance, all six foot of it, was as rigid as her poor mouth. ‘Sir. Ma’am.’ She saluted them both, as smartly as if she was in uniform. Fran supposed that Mark’s fancy dress, if not her muddied trousers, merited it.

  He responded with what Fran always called his friendly salute.

  ‘Good morning, Kim. How’s the poor tooth?’ Fran asked, with a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Temporary crown, ma’am.’ Or the nearest approximation to the words the frozen lips could form.

  ‘We’re still at the forensic archaeology stage, as you can see,’ said Mark affably, ‘so the whole investigation’s a bit hypothetical. Fran and I are here only because we want to see what’s going on in our garden, and Caffy Tyler is one of the team working on the house restoration. Caffy, this is DI Kim Thomas, who’ll be in charge of the investigation—’

  ‘Assuming it actually becomes one, of course,’ Caffy said, cocking a bright eye at him.

  ‘Quite. Fran and I ought to head back to HQ, Kim, but I’d have thought Caffy could find you a cuppa to defrost that poor mouth of yours and fill you in on how we’ve had the rest of the crime scene destroyed before we even guessed there might be a problem.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Caffy, ultra-casual, nodded. ‘I’ll find you some more sensible footwear too,’ she said with a sudden stern glance down. ‘We might mess up crime scenes, but we absolutely don’t allow stilettos on site.’ She raised a hand. ‘Before you two go, I should warn you that Paula’s just had some more thoughts about your move.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Mark asked. ‘Rhetorical question, Caffy.’

  As always, her grin lit up her face, making it almost beautiful. ‘I thought it might be. Now, Kim, what size shoes do you take . . .?’

  TWO

  ‘A word, please.’ Paula appeared again, brandishing her mobile. As they paused, hands on the car doors, she continued: ‘It’s not good news.’ She nodded back at the rectory. ‘There’s one van missing, as I expect you’ve noticed. No?’

  Like recalcitrant children, they shook their heads. Paula would have made an excellent prime minister, Mark always thought. Or Secretary General of the United Nations. Aged – possibly – in her forties, she exuded both calm and purpose. Today her eyes, her best feature in an otherwise unremarkable face, flashed with anger, though she kept her voice low and controlled.

  ‘The electrical contractor’s van is missing,’ Paula continued. ‘And it’s not his fault. His yard was robbed last night – he’s lost every last centimetre of cable. When I suggested he should let you people and his insurance company worry about that, and go to his supplier – any supplier – and get some more, he told me what I expect you know already. No? I’d have thought CID, Fran, might have been interested to know that every electrical wholesaler we’ve contacted had the same visitors last night. Quite a heist.’

  ‘More copper?’ Fran groaned.

  She had the excuse that all metal theft nationwide was now being dealt with by the Serious Organised Crime Agency, who didn’t always communicate with their local colleagues as swiftly as they might have done. His excuse – well, the chaos the chief had spoken of. All the same, he felt, and Fran looked, foolish.

  ‘As you know, he was going to pull out every stop to finish the work here by Thursday. As it is . . .’ Paula shrugged. ‘No can do. The place won’t be habitable. Sorry. Can you delay your sale?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘It’d mean letting down the friends we’re selling to. And everyone else in the chain. Everything, absolutely everything, is in place. So we have to move in here.’

  Paula shook her head. ‘I really do not recommend it. Health and Safety would have a fit.’ She looked ironically at Fran. ‘And for once I couldn’t blame them. It’s not on. Even if I tell Sparky to go to suppliers further afield, he’ll lose a day’s work. You can move in this time next week. With luck.’

  ‘But—’

  Paula had already turned on her heel and was stalking towards a knot of men who might not have been working as hard as she expected her subcontractors to work. Even her approach galvanized them into action.

  ‘Shit and double shit,’ Fran said. ‘How come I didn’t know? You might as well have my notice as well as the chief’s.’

  Mark’s face was serious. ‘If you’ve ignored a call from SOCA, I might ask for it. But I can’t imagine your phone’s switched off?’

  She waved it in front of his face. ‘But the coverage is poor round here. OK, let’s head back and get things moving.’

  He picked his way through the ruts while she made a series of staccato calls. If she was displeased with herself, she was even more displeased with the colleagues who’d left her in ignorance.

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ he asked as he negotiated the crumbling pillars that once supported wrought iron gates and pulled in to the lane hardly wide enough to merit the name. ‘You’re right – we can’t afford not to move out now.’ He shot her a sideways look. ‘Do I imagine it, or is there a great fat elephant lolling on the back seat?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Two large elephants, in fact. My house, and Sammie.’ Suddenly, his face looked unutterably weary.

  She braced herself. ‘I know she’s your daughter, not mine, and I know I’m about to be your traditional wicked stepmother, but we may have to act on what that Rottweiler of a solicitor suggested and require her to leave your house. She’s squatting. She’s changed your locks. You can’t get into your own home. You can’t get at your clothes, your books . . .’

  Mark murmured something inaudible.

  ‘You paid enough for Ms Rottweiler’s advice, after all,’ Fran reminded him, but wished she hadn’t. Mention of money in a family context made her feel petty.

  ‘I still think it’ll look bad in the press, a senior police officer – possibly acting chief constable by the end of the day – throwing his daughter on to the street. Literally.’

  ‘It’s fortunate Caffy didn’t hear you say that. Not literally, Mark. You’ve told Ms Rottweiler that you can provide her with an allowance, cash if she wants, for which she signs a receipt, enough to rent a suitable place – heavens, I’ve never seen so many “To Let” signs. Then you simply go back and live under your own roof.’

  ‘I suppose we could move to a hotel.’

  Fran winced. How could a man she’d seen risk his neck to
save strangers’ lives be so supine? It wasn’t just Mark’s possessions locked behind Mark’s front door; there was stuff of hers she couldn’t get at. She said nothing – didn’t want to whine. But buying the rectory for cash – at their age no one would give them a mortgage on such a doubtful property – and paying for all the repairs meant that two well-paid, comfortably-off people had a serious if temporary cash-flow problem and as from Thursday nowhere to call home. And moreover they were dealing with a matter of principle: how could a man let a daughter throw him out of his own house?

  It hadn’t been quite like that at the start. Sammie had originally taken refuge with her father claiming she’d been battered. To give her and her two children privacy, Mark had moved into Fran’s tiny cottage. One day he’d gone back to find Sammie had changed every last lock.

  Mark negotiated the turn on to the main road. ‘I suppose, with the chief going, this could be a good day to bury bad news . . .’

  She sucked her teeth. ‘It won’t be entirely buried whatever the day. Not with Facebook and Twitter.’

  He groaned.

  ‘At least you’ve got that press statement that Ms Rottweiler prepared for you. She was right: Sammie’s not your responsibility. After all, she’s still married to a man who’s the proud possessor of a well-paid job. Whatever Sammie’s relationship to Lloyd, he’s legally, not to mention morally, responsible for maintaining his offspring.’

  ‘What about paying for her to stay in a hotel?’

  She suppressed a sigh. ‘Do you think she’d really stay just the one night? She’d squat there too and refuse to shift. She’d milk you dry. No, like Ms Rottweiler said, she must go back to her own place in Tunbridge Wells if it’s not yet sold. Or she can always live with you, as your daughter.’

  ‘Live with me? Not us?’

  ‘You need to build bridges if she stays, and my presence would preclude that.’ There was no need to remind Mark of all the hysterical abuse Sammie had thrown at her: she was used to tolerating foul language and venom when she was working – usually, but not always, from lawbreakers – but not when she was at home. ‘I can find a hotel.’