Still Waters Page 8

  Turning away, she found herself falling into step with a snuffle-nosed and coughing DCS Henson, a man with whom she had shared a mutual loathing ever since his first day with the Kent Constabulary. Presumably he still thought her a superannuated old whore, but today he flickered a faint smile in her direction. Hers to him mirrored her concern; if anyone looked as though he ought to be tucked up in bed with a couple of aspirins it was Henson.

  ‘I never got round to thanking you for helping out so much when I was in hospital,’ he said, startling her. ‘And since.’ Perhaps during his near-death experience he’d seen a vision warning him to change the error of his ways. He must have shed three stone at least; sloughing off the fat had left his newly pale skin curiously loose, and his once brisk pace was now an amble. It came as no surprise that he was still unable to work full hours – there was a frailty about him she associated shockingly with her late father.

  In an effort not to give way to a sudden pang of emotion, she said curtly, ‘No problem.’ That was too brusque, so she added more conciliatingly, with a hint of a grin, ‘We’re both old pros, aren’t we, Dave – we get on and do the job.’

  His cough sounded painful. ‘Instead of calling meetings and—’

  ‘I’m no fan of Gates, but that’s what he’s paid to do, call meetings – not as many as he calls, I grant you, and not such bloody long ones.’ Again she softened. ‘How on earth do you manage to fit them all in with your workload on your reduced hours?’

  ‘More delegation than I like. Thing is, these drugs I’m on sap your energy.’ He certainly sounded weary. ‘And you do your bit, I suppose.’ Gee, thanks. ‘In fact, if it was up to me, I’d put you on extra cases and have you go to less meetings.’

  She was so flabbergasted that she forgot to be enraged by his use of less, not fewer. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’ For a moment she nearly told him what she feared Gates had had in mind for her, but thought better of it. She and Henson might be speaking, but that didn’t mean anything more than an armed truce. She certainly wouldn’t trust him not to rat behind her back. She changed the subject. ‘Actually, I’ve got quite involved reviewing a murder case that’s coming up to appeal. One of old QED Moreton’s – I think he was before your time.’

  ‘But he was legendary for taking short cuts – even I’ve heard that.’

  ‘There’s no clear evidence of that so far. But I want to have a look at all the case material myself. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I bloody would. And I’d rather do it than go to another of his lordship’s fucking meetings. Didn’t you know? There’s one at four o’clock – three line whip.’

  ‘And exactly what were you discussing at that mothers’ meeting of yours?’ Gates demanded.

  True to her promise to herself, Fran had been a model committee woman, alert and indulging in not a single doodle. She’d not put forward any new ideas, but since the topic wasn’t one of which she’d had any particular experience that was excusable. She had however supported some colleagues if their ideas seemed good, and had pointed out flaws in others’ arguments. It had been practically gold star material. So Gates’ question, shot at her as she left the room with the others, had come as a shock.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I asked what you were talking about with that smokers’ group. Not that you smoke, as I recall.’

  Smoke? She positively flamed with anger, especially as out of the corner of her eye she could see those she suspected of having been ring-leaders scuttling away to the safety of their offices. ‘Do you want me to talk to you here or in private?’

  ‘I want you to tell me in the presence of the chief. Now. This instant. I won’t have you plot behind my back, you old bitch.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said with feigned cheeriness, refusing to wince at the venom in his voice, ‘you can’t use “old” as a term of abuse. Not even to me. Oh, for God’s sake, Simon, take a look at yourself. We’ve hardly had Henson back five minutes after his heart attack and now you’re planning one for yourself. Get a grip.’

  He pointed. His arm was quivering with fury. ‘In the chief’s office! Now!’

  Stopping legs apart, arms akimbo, Fran shook her head. ‘No way. Stop making a fool of yourself, Simon, lad. Your office or mine, if you insist, but never wash dirty linen in front of the chief and put him on the spot.’ She turned on her heel and led the way back to his office, less subject to underlings’ scrutiny than her own. She was acutely aware of all the ears listening intently to their progress.

  Without being asked, she sat down. He might take the opportunity to tower over her and bully her, or he might react by sensibly sitting himself.

  He chose to tower. She folded her arms across her chest, but realised how combative she must look so released them to clasp her hands meekly on her lap.

  ‘You were asking me about the gathering outside,’ she prompted.

  ‘Well? What were you up to?’

  ‘As it happens I was urging caution to a lot of hotheads. But since it wasn’t my meeting I can’t tell you how it started or, indeed, who convened it. Nor would I if I knew,’ she added under her breath. ‘Look, Simon—’

  ‘I believe you’re supposed to address a senior officer as “sir”. And I don’t believe I gave you permission to sit.’

  ‘So you didn’t. Do you mind if I do, sir? It’s easier to have a pleasant conversation sitting down.’ She could feel things slipping beyond her grip. She didn’t mean to wind him up, but knew she was perilously close to doing so anyway.

  As for him, he was getting angrier by the moment, and had she not trusted all his years of police training, she would have been afraid that he would strike her.

  ‘Simon. Sir. This is getting out of hand. You saw me in conversation with a load of other old lags like me and now you think I’m organising – what?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know. Now. What?’

  ‘I’m organising nothing. Full stop. As for our colleagues, I simply can’t tell you. I came in at the tail end of a private conversation. Then I walked away with DCS Henson asking him how he felt and how he was coping with his return to work.’

  ‘Everyone knows you hate each others’ guts.’

  Now who had told him that? ‘You can’t run into a colleague who’s had an illness as serious as that and not ask about his health,’ she said reasonably.

  ‘Very plausible.’

  ‘And very true. He’s still far from well, as it happens. I admit that a year ago I’d have wished all his toenails to grow in, but now the poor bugger’s a shell of what he was.’

  ‘I’m not interested in Henson’s health.’

  ‘But you should be.’ How much easier it was when she was sure of her ground. ‘In human terms, we don’t want him to have another – possibly fatal – heart attack. In corporate terms,’ those words should appeal to him, ‘it would be a disaster if we forgot our duty of care and drove him to an early grave.’

  ‘Your meaning?’

  Did he really need anyone to spell that out? ‘I shouldn’t think it’s really your bag, more Cosmo Dix’s, but I’d have thought the occupational health people should be reviewing his workload.’

  ‘You’re very good at sticking your nose into things that aren’t your brief, aren’t you? So it comes as a constant source of amazement to me that you won’t do those things that you ought to do.’

  For a moment she was back on her knees at confirmation class. Shutting the door on the memory she said, ‘Henson’s far too macho to volunteer without being prompted the information that he’s struggling. All I’m doing is watching out for the colleague whose role I took over when he was ill, on the grounds I’d done it for years enough in the past.’

  ‘Things have changed, Harman.’

  She shook her head. ‘Officially my job description hasn’t been changed yet. At my level, any radical alterations have to be agreed with all parties. All. Changing my role either overtly or by stealth is not in your gift, Simon.’

 
‘I think you’ll find it is.’ He tapped a file on his desk. ‘My job description, if you want to read it.’

  ‘Let’s get Cosmo to talk to the Superintendents’ Association rep, shall we? I didn’t want to make trouble—’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s rich coming from you! Trouble’s always been your middle name! We used to call you the Mouth. Speak first, engage brain second.’

  What had turned him from a model trainee to an embittered boss? As for the accusations, they hurt, no doubt about that. She’d always seen herself as assertive, standing up for the underdog. He was casting her as an abrasive menace.

  ‘Simon,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘this is clearly getting neither of us anywhere. I don’t need to listen to things that on reflection you might have preferred not to say. So I suggest we both do what we’re paid to do – a spot of police work. Good afternoon.’

  And with what she hoped was dignity, she walked out of the room.

  And what next, eh? Should she stomp off to Cosmo, to query whether her job description could be changed at Simon’s whim? That would mean a third party knew that she and Simon were now actually at war. Or wait for Mark’s return, when he would lovingly coax her out of her fury? That could compromise him, something she’d tried to avoid the moment they’d become an item.

  She sat at her desk, head in her hands.

  She’d no idea how long she’d been like that when Mark phoned, apparently breathless.

  ‘I’ve managed to get hold of tickets for The Producers,’ he announced. ‘And you have to catch the next London train.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday morning saw Fran return to court, to be recalled to the witness box by a stupid and bumptious defence counsel, whose fatuous questions she was able to parry with what the judge described as wit and grace. She hung about for a while, just to be sure in her own mind that she and her team had done everything possible to make a watertight case, before returning to Maidstone too late to lunch with Mark.

  She checked her desk, post and emails to ensure that no gremlins had conjured yet another meeting from thin air. No, not one! But before she could celebrate Pat Harper came in bearing a pile of paperwork requiring her instant attention and the news that Henson was off sick.

  ‘He looked pretty bad on Friday,’ Fran said, noncommittally. ‘Has any arrangement been made to allocate his workload?’

  ‘Come on, you know they’ll land you with anything they can’t manage. Now, could I have this lot checked and signed by four…?’

  Halfway through the afternoon, she’d cleared all the paperwork Pat had inflicted on her. What next? Gates’ report? Not likely. She picked up the case file Mark had asked her to look at. Should anyone query her activities, she minuted that it was a matter of priorities. She did think of suggesting that every extra day innocent men spent behind bars was sinful; instead, she referred to recent judicial criticism of the police and CPS for deferring appeal cases ad nauseam.

  In response to Fran’s phone call, Sue Hall met her at the evidence store. Fran recalled her as having a hairstyle so disciplined she might almost have been in denial about its auburn beauty. Today it was slightly looser – Tom’s influence, perhaps? – but her suit as severe as Fran’s own, her only ornament a small gold crucifix on a fine chain. It was clear she was apprehensive. She’d never worked solo with Fran before, but surely that couldn’t be worrying her? Surely she was made of sterner stuff? All the same, Fran resolved not to bark or snarl – certainly not at her and possibly not about other people. The obvious way to make her relax was to talk about Tom, but Fran wanted her to feel valued for her own sake.

  So she plunged straight into the case; as she spoke, she found her vague fears solidifying into doubts. ‘But don’t get me wrong. I’m sure everyone did his or her best. But we’ve taken some criticism in the media recently and I’d rather find any holes in the case and plug them before anyone else spots them.’

  Almost visibly brave, Sue said, ‘There’s a distinct lack of other suspects, isn’t there, guv?’

  ‘Exactly. Just as having no body is a real problem. Now, I don’t want to waste your time, but if later on you could check every database you can for other possible perpetrators it would be enormously helpful. Just so we can eliminate them. Right, let’s see what the dead woman’s clothes tell us about her.’

  The answer was: not a lot.

  ‘Is this all they have of hers?’ Sue demanded, tossing the few sealed bags on top of each other as if rooting through a sales bin.

  ‘’Fraid so. What would your next move be?’ she asked with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

  ‘To gain access to their house and check her wardrobes and so on. Find out if she used make-up. What her hobbies were. Do we have time?’

  ‘Technically, yes. But another question looms.’

  ‘“Does the budget run to it?”’ Sue asked in a pseudo-official voice.

  ‘Got it in one. There’s a fine line between checking that all that’s necessary has been done and starting an inquiry from scratch.’

  ‘But you’re starting from the premise that all has not been done, aren’t you, ma’am? Guv?’

  Fran nodded, a rueful grin matching her protégée’s. ‘And that’s going to come expensive.’

  Sue’s face fell. ‘Does that mean you just rubber-stamp everything and give up?’

  ‘I shall have to take it back to the ACC. But I shall tell him we both feel there are areas that may warrant – less complacency, shall we say? Trouble is, Sue, just because Mark and I are together, that doesn’t mean I can influence him when his head and his budgets say no.’

  ‘But surely his budget would stretch to talking to Barnes and Roper again.’

  ‘It better had. Or he’ll be cooking the supper for a week.’

  They turned together and signed out.

  Fran pointed to Sue’s gold cross. ‘Do you believe in all that?’

  ‘I got talked to by a vicar, guv, during an Alpha Course. A nice woman.’

  ‘Not Janie Falkirk, by any chance? The priest in charge of St Jude’s, that run-down church in Canterbury?’ And instrumental in solving the tricky case she and Sue had worked on. Or perhaps it had been the doing of St Jude himself, the patron saint of lost causes. ‘Don’t look so embarrassed, Sue. She’s a good woman. But if you did happen to believe in saints and things, it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with St Anthony, would it?’

  ‘Janie’s a bit low-church for saints. Why St Anthony, anyway?’

  ‘I’ve an idea he’s the guy you pray to when you want to find something. In this case, poor Janine Roper’s body.’

  ‘You know I trust your instincts absolutely, Fran. If you think there’s something dodgy, there is. But in the current climate we need something pretty concrete to justify reopening a case for which, after all, we got a conviction.’ Mark looked across his desk. It was a matter of principle with them both that any discussion of this sort should be as official as possible, with discussions and, more important, decisions, properly recorded.

  ‘I realise that. But I do feel that, at the very least, we should reinterview Roper and Barnes. Roper is here in Maidstone nick for goodness’ sake – it wouldn’t take much longer than popping to the dentist.’ She spoke so innocently there had to be a catch.

  ‘And Barnes? Don’t tell me – Dartmoor or somewhere equally inaccessible. Oh, Fran—’

  ‘It’s not my fault they move the prison population round like so many pawns on a chessboard, with far less reason and rationale. Durham,’ she confessed at last.

  ‘Jesus Christ! How do his family manage to visit him?’ He slammed his hands on his desk in exasperation. ‘Rehabilitation, returning to the community? All we do is lock the buggers up and shuffle them round and then we’re surprised prison doesn’t work. Go to Durham if you must, Fran. But why not try Maidstone first?’

  ‘I intended to – he’s the husband, after all.’

  He expected her to end the official conversation
with a quick private one. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t move.

  And her face was so blank that he knew she was up to something. Worse, that she wanted him to do something. From the quality of her silence he knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to get on to his friend in the Prison Service and whisper that Barnes should be moved again – yet again? – and this time somewhere nearer home. Still neither spoke. At last he simply flapped his hands, and she left without so much as a wink.

  He’d better get on the phone, hadn’t he, and have a conversation he must absolutely never have had.

  Fran was just shrugging on her jacket when someone knocked on her door. But it wasn’t Mark she beamed at. It was DCI Joanne Pearce, a woman Fran always felt she could do business with, though she always wanted to tell her to dress less for a night clubbing and more for a serious job, especially when the clinging and revealing clothes she favoured clung too tight and revealed rather too much forty-year-old flesh.

  ‘It’s just courtesy, really, ma’am,’ the younger woman said. ‘But with DCS Henson off sick and likely to be for some time, we thought you ought to know what we’re up to.’

  Fran nodded her thanks. ‘Which is?’

  ‘We’ve picked up a guy with a long history of domestic violence. And other things.’

  There was clearly a story here. ‘Sit down and tell me all about it. Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. Not a lot to tell, guv. We’ve had our eye on him for some time in connection with the death of a prostitute in Ashford. We knew we’d get him eventually. There was some CCTV footage of a hooded man and plenty of DNA at the scene.’

  ‘But it’s one thing to have DNA, another to find out who it belongs to,’ Fran nodded.

  ‘Quite. Anyway, uniform got called to a domestic – quite a serious one, in fact – and as a result of the gob-swab they did on him then we’ve got him for the murder of the tom.’