Double Fault Read online

  ‘So how does Ray Barlow – it is him who’s in charge, isn’t it? – feel about things?’

  ‘Desperate, I’d say. Not secure in his role, since he’s only acting DCI. Your chopper was a master stroke, by the way – it made him think someone thought the situation was as serious as he did. He’s done everything by the textbook – we all have – but she’s …’ He swallowed a mouthful of food with obvious difficulty. ‘She’s probably dead by now, isn’t she? And we’ll find her body in a ditch.’

  She poured him more wine. If she filled her own glass again, she’d never be up at five, would she? But she ought to say something, something positive, with luck.

  ‘Unless she becomes another Madeleine McCann,’ he added before she could think of anything.

  ‘But this is UK policing, not Portuguese. And we’ve all learned a lot from that case,’ she said, finding a few words at last. ‘Damn it, you were one of the ACPO team who drew up the code of practice. An immediate response; a dedicated team; designated and trained peripheral staff. If things get tough we can always call in the national team. What’s happening now?’

  ‘People are scanning every single CCTV image from the surrounding area – it would have to happen where there’s virtually no coverage, of course. Some are rechecking those shot earlier; others are on the current ones – in case someone concealed her but thinks it’s OK to do something about her at night.’

  Sean Murray’s words popped up unbidden. ‘Kent’s an easy place for people to get out of,’ she half-echoed them, soberly. ‘Europol notified yet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He grimaced. ‘Not my job any more, is it?’

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes – I’ll get on to Jean-Paul. Privately – so no one thinks I’m checking up on Ray.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  Jean-Paul le Tissier was an old contact, but also an old flame. No need to rub Mark’s nose in her past, which was occasionally more brightly coloured than his.

  ‘I could text him?’ Which told him she still had his private number. But then, they were both senior officers, who occasionally needed to be able to make contact out of hours.

  The message sent, she turned to the table, which Mark had already cleared, to lay it for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  ‘I’ve got an early start, I’m afraid,’ she said, unnecessarily. She almost added, What about you?

  But he replied to the unasked question. ‘I should be out there, looking. But I promised I’d look after Mark junior, remember. Working parents, Easter holidays,’ he added, not quite managing to grumble. In fact, his son’s return into his life, complete with two kids that they both adored and a wife they’d soon come to love, had made what could have been a stressful retirement a delightful one.

  ‘Are you planning to work on the model railway layout?’

  ‘Something much grander. We’re off to Swindon, to Steam. The big railway museum. Fran, how can I go? In the middle of all this?’

  ‘How can you not? Unless Ray Barlow specifically asks for you – and then, who looks after young Marco? And Phoebe?’

  ‘In any case, what could I do for Ray? Be on the end of a phone, maybe …’

  Fran’s phone rang. It seemed Jean-Paul kept late nights. For a few minutes he and Fran were all charming formality. And no, no one had requested help, but now they had it. In Gallic spades.

  Mark had headed upstairs while she took the call, his back suddenly bent, as if under a physical burden. She watched, heart in mouth. One thing they hadn’t talked about was how he felt taking orders from a comparatively junior officer. True, he’d been in charge of policy rather than hands-on daily investigations, but it must be strange to be sucked back into a world he’d left so abruptly. She couldn’t have done it.

  As he slipped into bed beside her, his body no longer young, but lean and muscled after all his work in the garden, not to mention, of course, on the tennis courts, he answered the question she didn’t dare put.

  ‘I thought I’d hate it. All the time I was with people I’d seen come up through the ranks, I kept thinking, I should resent this. But I didn’t. I just felt – I don’t know, call it pride, that they were doing the job so well. Putting into action the guidelines I’d helped set down. Satisfaction. Like when young Marco gets the hang of wiring points.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I cocked up big time at one point, though.’ He told her about his meeting with Livingstone. ‘Talk about rubbing Joe Public up the wrong way.’

  ‘He must have heard the quip a million times.’

  ‘And does that make it any better the millionth and first? I scooted, I tell you – left it to young Kennaway to get permission to search the outbuildings.’

  ‘Which I’m sure he got. Well, if that’s the worst thing you’ve ever done …’

  But he was already falling asleep, and loving tenderness was replaced by an urgent need to roll him over to stop his snoring.

  FIVE

  ‘Ray! Sorry, I was miles away! Years, anyway.’ Fran returned with a bump from the nineteen-nineties, as represented in her pile of files. Automatically she checked her watch. Six a.m. She didn’t remark that Barlow was in early – she’d be surprised if he’d been home at all.

  ‘Can I pick your brains, Fran?’

  ‘If you can find anything there at this hour, pick away and welcome.’ But she had to be careful. The poor man had already found an ex-ACC on his team. He might not want too much input from the man’s fiancée, for all he’d worked for her for ever. ‘Move that box of files and sit – first time in eighteen hours, I’d guess?’

  He sank into the chair, smothering a yawn. ‘Can I be absolutely straight with you?’ He waited for her nod, which she hoped didn’t show the apprehension she always felt when asked that question. But when it came, it wasn’t so bad. ‘Have I done something to offend the old guv’nor? He was brilliant yesterday, but he said he couldn’t come in today.’

  ‘Ray, he’d have given his teeth to. But he promised ages ago to look after his grandchildren – two who didn’t go to the tennis camp yesterday. Probably the only children in Kent who didn’t, from what Mark said.’

  ‘You’re sure? Must have been weird for him being a civvie, having to take orders.’

  ‘I never knew a senior officer with less side than Mark. Even when he sported lots of braid, and saluting and deference were in order. He’s just like us, Ray – a pro. I’m sure you’re right about it being strange for him, but he’s one of those people put on this earth to make life better for others, you know. He’d do whatever was needful. And he was full of praise for you and your team.’ Ray needed to know that – waiting to be confirmed in your post was no pleasure. It was as if you were somehow on approval and could be parcelled up and sent back.

  Ray smothered another yawn. ‘So he wasn’t offended?’

  ‘Just frustrated he couldn’t do more. Or do anything today. He’d have been good on one of the public response phone lines, wouldn’t he? As for tomorrow, I’m not sure if he’s been booked to look after Marco and Phoebe or if he’s free.’ Saturday – one of their parents should be on duty, surely. But despite what he’d said a few hours ago, she didn’t feel she had the right to commit him to anything. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’ll be available for grandmothering duties, do you?’

  ‘Not with those skeletons in Ashford.’ He laughed grimly. ‘But you wouldn’t mind if I asked him?’

  ‘Ray, it’s between the two of you. Not forgetting how you feel about having an old hand on your team. Which is?’

  ‘Embarrassed, at least to begin with, I suppose. But then he was worth his weight in gold.’

  ‘Good. But there’s something else, isn’t there? Some problem?’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘I just wondered how Europol got involved. I just never thought … and yet I’ve got some French guy offering us CCTV footage of French ports and stations.’

  ‘If I wasn’t too old to blush, I’d be blushin
g now. It was nothing to do with Mark. It was me. I just called in a favour from an old mate. You know how the French like to do things their way: well, I cut through the paperwork. I should have asked you first, but it was almost midnight and I was hoping you might be getting a few minutes’ kip – which, by the look of you, you weren’t. So don’t begin to think that Mark or I went behind your back because we didn’t trust the way you were handling the investigation.’

  ‘Thanks, guv.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome. And if there’s anything else I can do, just ask. But I ought to be over in Ashford to see if we’ve got any more skeletons. I know Don Simpson’s in charge but the Review Unit has some input,’ she said, getting up and reaching for her jacket. The forecast might be for even warmer weather later in the day but Mark had been right about the overnight frost – and there was no sign of it thawing yet. ‘Have you had any sleep at all?’ she shot at him. ‘I know I’m not your line manager but I can tell you that you look like death warmed up. I know we all want to work on a case like this till we drop – heavens, I used to do it myself – but often the best breakthroughs come after even a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  As if tacitly accepting her advice, he fell into step with her as she walked to the car park. It wasn’t Hilary Baird driving her this morning, but a constable so slight and bony you’d never have him down as opening bowler for the county police cricket team. Abdul Aziz, known to his mates as Dizzy. He’d driven her in from the rectory as if he was driving a hearse, not like a lad desperate to join the elite team of drivers whizzing VIPs round the country and making sure they were kept out of harm’s way. This morning she’d been glad of his silence, working her way through texts and emails as he drove. She had to admit that having a driver gave her another hour of working time each day, but she hated the lack of independence, not to mention the appearance of elitism. In such desperate financial times, too. Mark usually did the honours, but after all his exertions yesterday and with his day with the kids coming up, she’d decided to accept what she was entitled to, just as she’d had to yesterday. But the sooner she could get behind the wheel the better. Another couple of weeks at most now, even if that felt like years.

  Ray was about to say something when his mobile rang.

  You didn’t stand on ceremony when you were on a case like this. ‘Go on, take it,’ she said, huddling into her jacket.

  He’d turned away but now, with a grin, he faced her, tilting the phone so she could hear the voice at the other end. Mark’s! So much for his having a lie-in.

  ‘Ray, I don’t want to teach my grandmother how to suck eggs, but a thought’s just struck me,’ Mark was saying. ‘Livvie was very proud of her appearance. Very. I know it’s a long shot, but what if she was so disgusted by the oil on her dress that she took it off? Or covered it up? I heard some mother yelling at her child yesterday that she was sure she’d taken a waterproof to the court and the child insisting she’d left it at home. What if the mother was right? What if the child had taken it and Livvie had borrowed it, as it were? Everyone’s been alerted to look for a child wearing petunia. What if she wasn’t?’

  ‘Thanks, guv’nor. Mark. There’ll be a note somewhere of the mother’s complaint: I’ll get someone to check with her now and get a description of the coat – assuming it isn’t actually at home, like her daughter said. I’ll get back to you.’ He cut the call immediately.

  Fran sighed. So much for Ray’s two hours’ sleep. But given this new lead, she wouldn’t protest. But he turned to her with a huge grin. ‘Looks as if having a kip gave Mark a good idea. I’ll get the team up to speed with this and get my head down. Promise,’ he added, as if she was his mum.

  ‘Thought you’d still be tucked up in your nice warm bed, Fran,’ Don greeted her, with an obvious effort. A sheen of sweat made his face paler, greyer. Worse than yesterday. But Fran knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t welcome a direct enquiry. It must be business as usual until it obviously couldn’t be any longer.

  She patted a folder by way of reply, adding, as he raised his eyebrows interrogatively, ‘I knew you’d want to be here when the archaeologists started again, and I thought you ought to see some of this.’

  ‘This is the twenty-first century, Fran. Texts and emails and – oh, yes, even a little thing called a phone.’ He fished an indigestion tablet from his pocket and chomped.

  ‘I know, I know … I know you can even send me live footage as it happens … But they can’t replace my eyes and ears and – I don’t know – my copper’s nose, can they? Anyway, since I am here, these are more details of kids who went missing in the early Nineties. And several photos of each that aren’t on the computerized files. The facial reconstruction people might find them useful confirmation – and vice versa, I suppose. They were all investigated as mispers – but to my mind the investigations were desultory at best, especially compared with today’s procedures.’

  ‘I gather there’s no news of that missing kid. Jesus – it makes you feel sick to think of it,’ he added as she shook her head. Was that sufficient explanation for the tablet? She caught him in a wince. But he straightened quickly.

  Just as she did when another back spasm bit – which it did now.

  ‘Quite. Our work here’s important but Ray Barlow’s is beyond urgent, isn’t it?’ There was a short silence. She didn’t think he’d been offering a prayer as she had, but was sure he was wishing at least as hard. She coughed, and pointed to the half-demolished wall. ‘There seems to have been a general assumption that because most of these kids were either school drop-outs or unemployed kids not in college—’

  ‘NEETs,’ Don supplied. ‘Except they’re always bloody scruffy.’ His attempt at a belly laugh made him wince again. And she thought he rocked slightly.

  She pretended she hadn’t seen anything, and continued her sentence: ‘… they probably mooched off to London without bothering to give anyone precise details of where they were heading. They all had one thing in common, however – they were supposed to be part of the group turning these premises into the youth club it became. No-hopers, was how the youth leader described all of them – or variants of the term. Other kids confirmed that their missing colleagues didn’t like the hard physical work or the fact they had to be there nine till five, and had likely done a runner.’

  Don, ever hard to impress, looked interested. And then swayed. Visibly. But he took a deep breath and dared her to comment.

  ‘The person who’s the common factor is the youth leader, of course – a guy called Malcolm Perkins. Known to his friends and the kids as Mal, sometimes Big Mal.’

  ‘Any criminal record?’ he managed.

  How long could they continue this charade? Would she have to order him off the site? ‘Nope. Generally considered a good bloke by the kids and indeed by their parents. Tough but fair. Services background. Left with an exemplary reference.’

  ‘Left!’ Don raised an eyebrow. ‘Was this Perkins ever questioned as a possible – let’s put it bluntly – mass murderer?’

  ‘Nope. But it’d be nice to talk to him now, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You’re telling me. I suppose you and your magic papers don’t know what happened to him?’

  Fran grinned. ‘I did try Googling him, actually. But Malcolm Perkins isn’t such an unusual name, and I didn’t have time to chase them all down.’

  ‘More of a job for a junior officer – young Sean, for instance.’

  ‘Come on, a DCI is hardly a junior officer! I’ve got someone good on to it, Don. As to the question you’ve been too polite to ask straight out – why are you here? – I lived through these investigations when I was a youngster. I know the shortcuts some of the SIOs took. I didn’t like them at the time and I like them less now. I’ll delegate when I want to delegate, Don. As in the case of chasing Malcolm Perkins.’

  Raising a hand to acknowledge her point, if not apologize, Don asked, ‘Anyone else on your radar?’

  ‘One name came up – one o
f the lads supposedly working on the project. He was supposed to have a temper and a half. Strong, too – had once played football for his school before he found training too much of a fag. A couple of the lads and several of the girls questioned said they were afraid of him.’

  ‘Was he a bully or something?’

  ‘Not as such: they said something was always simmering under the surface. But – no, take it.’

  Don turned aside to speak into his phone. As he did so, the wind caught some of the pages Fran had given to him, fanning the faces of what they both clearly now thought might be victims.

  She put out a finger to stop them moving further.

  He ended the call. ‘What’s up?’ Pocketing the phone, he shifted the file so they could both look at the face. His frown matched hers. ‘Looks familiar, somehow. Just for a moment. All that hair, though—’ He covered the flowing locks with a big, square hand. ‘No. No one I can place. Can you?’

  ‘No. With or without hair. Just something about the eyes. Christopher Manton. The angry one. But then he disappeared too. So perhaps his strength was no use to him in the end. Maybe he’s over there, poor kid.’ She nodded at the remaining section of wall, now covered with scaffolding. The first archaeologists were swarming round.

  ‘Or maybe he did it and scarpered,’ Don said, clutching his gut but gritting his teeth as he continued. ‘Thank God for DNA: at least we should be able to identify them all fully and comprehensively. I’ll get someone to run to earth the latest addresses of the parents. Are you hanging around, Fran, for a bit?’

  ‘If you’ve got something pressing, yes, I am.’