Double Fault (11 page)

From the corner of her eye, Fran saw Ray turn away from the press melee, taking a call. When he jammed a finger in his spare ear, she looked harder. Yes, something was up. She was too far away to work out what was going on. Afraid that if she lost concentration she might say the wrong thing, she raised her spurious crutch like a conductor's baton. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we need to get on with our search. Time is of the essence, remember. But I'll brief you again as soon as I can. You know that. Do your best to elicit your readers' and viewers' help, please: it could be vital.'

Though questions were still crackling through the air as if part of a dying fireworks display, she turned away, remembering to put the crutch to the use for which it was intended. She managed what she hoped was a convincing hobble, praying she wouldn't pay for it later with more back pain.

Taking Ray's arm, poor old lady that she was, she propelled him fiercely out of earshot of the reporters.

‘I saw your face. What is it?'

‘Mark's had an idea. I'm not sure. But it's worth a shot, I suppose.'

‘He is an ex-cop. And cops are renowned for their hunches,' she said dryly. ‘And the idea is?'

‘A horseman. He says the estate manager patrols the grounds riding a horse to spot miscreants on wheels. Before you ask, there was no sign of any horses in the stables at Hogben House. I've just checked with the people who did the search there. But I'd like to check all stables within riding distance of the clubhouse. Assuming we can locate them.'

Fran pulled a face. ‘Around here I'd bet there are more fields devoted to feeding horses than to feeding people. So, lots of stables. What's your feeling about using those guys to put out an appeal?' She jerked her thumb in the direction of the lingering reporters.

‘What's yours?'

‘Let's talk to Mark. If the estate manager's the only guy he's seen riding in this area, an unexpected visit to his house and his stable might be my preference. And if that fails, and he's clearly as white as the driven snow, we go very public indeed and get each and every stable checked. Do we have the estate manager's address? Not to mention a name?'

‘Ross Thwaite.'

‘Doesn't sound local.'

‘Does he have to be? These days you're college-trained, aren't you, not stepping into your father's hobnailed boots.'

She nodded. ‘Of course. Well, let's go visiting. Actually, let's pick up Mark – he deserves a bit of glory, assuming there's any on offer. If not, he can get egg on his face with the rest of us.'

Ray gave a clipped order – the personnel carrier would bring back Mark, solo and no longer clad in white. ‘But we can't have him take part in any raid, Fran, can we?' His voice had a pleading undertone – after all, he was only temporarily promoted, and naturally didn't want the slight inconvenience of being caught in control of an unauthorized civilian to mar his chances of having a permanent upgrade.

Mark too would have been horrified at the prospect of her cavalier and uninsured breach of regulations. ‘Absolutely not. Don't worry, Ray – we'll play this by the book. How many do you want in your posse?'

‘I thought enough to surround the property. A real tight ring. Enough to cut off any escape should one be attempted. But I'd like it to be a silent presence. Fran, I keep thinking of cellars and false walls like your youth centre. I keep hoping. Though by now the poor kid's more likely to be in the bottom of a well. Or a mine shaft. The Kentish coalfields … I don't know.'

‘We're a bit far west and south for the mine shaft option, thank God. As to wells, I simply don't know how many there are round here. They must be marked on large scale maps … No. We'll keep hoping she's alive. We've not got enough officers to search for both a living child and a body, so let's focus completely on the former. Ah, is that Mark's transport of delight? Good.' They exchanged a wave. He headed towards them but hung back, as if afraid they didn't want him as party to their discussion. ‘Can we just double-check we've got the right address, Ray? We don't want to get it wrong and give the game away.'

‘Double-checked, guv.'

‘Thought it would be.' She shot him a swift, apologetic grin. ‘And remember, it's just an enquiry, for the moment at least. And a very polite enquiry, too. No searching for anything except a child. Don't lay a finger on his computer or anything. Not yet. A treat in store, maybe. So you and Jules in the front, Mark and me tagging along in the back. And no blues and twos, just as fast as you can safely go.'

‘Don't want to lose any more top brass, do you?' Mark added grimly.

Ten minutes later, the team deployed itself in total silence around a rather smaller Kentish cottage than she thought a man with the title
estate manager
deserved. There was a lean-to that might have been doubling as a stable.

Jules pulled up about ten yards down the lane. Had Thwaite looked, he'd presumably have thought one patrol car innocuous enough. People carriers might have alarmed him, so the two that had rendezvoused with the fast response car lurked hidden round a convenient bend further down the lane. Although at first they'd agreed that Fran would speak to Ross Thwaite, and Ray would take an immediate lead if things got remotely physical, Mark now chipped in with a suggestion. ‘Fran, you're supposed to be lame, remember. He might even have seen you on TV with your crutch. In any case, anything above sergeant grade might arouse suspicion. Jules led the search of Hogben House itself – he's the PolSA, after all. Instead of leaping round like Superwoman, let him do his job. Him and Ray, maybe?'

Fran gave him a mock salute, turning to Warden. ‘OK, Sergeant Warden – hell, no wonder you prefer to be called just Jules – do your stuff. Loft to cellar. Even the old outside privy, if there is one. The well. The water butt. The bloody bird feeder …'

‘I'll go and brief the rest of the team,' Ray said. ‘And join in the fun, if there is any.'

‘I don't want fun, Ray: I want a result.'

Saluting, Ray trotted off briskly. A couple of minutes later, he joined Jules as he walked up the cottage path. He closed the gate firmly behind them.

‘You were right, Mark. It would have been completely OTT for me to pop up on his doorstep – given altogether the wrong impression. Ah, here they go.'

A man in T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms stood framed in the doorway, backlit, so they couldn't see more than his silhouette, which was neat enough to suggest he used the gym or the rural equivalent of long walks and chopping wood. He shrugged and gestured – they could go in. Jules soon emerged, and waved a casual arm: he was quickly joined by what must have looked to Thwaite like a couple of bored cops anxious for their Friday night down-time, Ray mucking in to the rear.

‘It's no good, is it?' Mark groaned. ‘Livvie's not in that cottage or Thwaite wouldn't be so insouciant. I've wasted everyone's time.'

‘Let them check the stable first,' she murmured, tempted though she might have been to agree with him.

It only took a few minutes for Ray and Jules to emerge, accompanied by Thwaite, shrugging on a body-warmer. He led the way to the stables; all three went inside.

All three emerged. Thwaite shook hands with the officers, who headed for the gate, again closing it conscientiously.

‘We checked everything bar the horse's hooves,' Jules sighed. ‘Sorry, guv,' he added, to both of them equally. ‘Horse called Snowdrop, by the way, on account of a white blaze here.' He touched his forehead. ‘Rather sweet, for a grown man's mount.'

‘Lots of other horses, lots of other stables,' Fran said briskly. ‘Rather you than me getting up close and personal to the gee-gee,' she added. ‘Nasty big things, with metal corners and sharp teeth.'

‘That one was OK,' Jules said mildly. ‘My kid sister could ride it and no worries.'

Fran said, aware she sounded tetchy, ‘So do you want to go public about searching stables, Ray, or get folk to grass up their neighbours? Shit. Sorry about that. Horses … grass,' she added, noting the complete absence of so much as a groan.

‘Both. I'll draft something and let you see it, shall I?'

‘Just draft it and put it out. I'm going to take some of my own advice and go and put my head down. And since we're only a couple of miles from it, it might just as well be on my own pillow.'

F
ran groaned as Mark, too weary to do more than swathe her in a towel, heaved her out of the hot bath he'd insisted on running for her. Before the water could fully drain, however, he put the plug in again. ‘Save water, save time.' He stripped off and got in after her, wincing from the heat but refusing to add cold water. ‘I just hope the smell of lavender will have faded by tomorrow.'

‘You'll smell truly glamorous. It's not just lavender but sandalwood and rose,' she added, with a pale grin. The towel was big enough to double as a bathrobe, so she huddled into it and pulled the elegant little Victorian chair towards him. Then she changed her mind. Hanging up the towel, she grabbed her robe and slipped out of the room. He might have been drifting into sleep when she returned with two tots of his favourite malt, though he wasn't sure if he could even have spelt its name at the moment.

She handed him his glass then settled on the Victorian chair. ‘I've got to implement the Child Rescue Alert system, haven't I?' she said quietly.

‘What? You haven't done that already? Why on earth not? You're short of officers, and yet you – good God! You've got a national network at your disposal!' Before she could reply, he said, ‘You've been sparing me, haven't you? You saw how much I enjoyed playing cops and robbers again and didn't want to spoil my fun. Bloody hell, Fran, I was one of the people who helped establish the system, helped staff it! For just such an occasion as this!'

She blinked. ‘I thought it was doable in-house.'

So he was right. She had been trying not to hurt his feelings. But she looked so weary and – yes – in so much pain that he bit back his fury and let her carry on, which she did with more confidence. ‘More importantly, Wren's brought morale down to such a low level, a bit of in-house success would have done us all good – might have saved a few jobs, too. More cuts, that's all he ever says. More like a parrot than a wren. But the thought of round-the-clock coverage from forty-odd trained call handlers on duty nationwide, not just volunteers like you who could do a daily double shift at most – it sounds like heaven. And all those extra resources from CEOP's Missing, Abducted and Trafficked Children Unit dropping like manna from heaven. I'll go and text Ray to tell him what I'm doing and then call the night team.' She put her glass down on the windowsill and was limping out when he remembered another issue.

‘How are you going to break it to Wren? He's not the sort of guy to like a fait accompli.'

‘You're right. If only I had enough time to sell it to him as his own brilliant idea.' Her smile was malicious. ‘I could phone him now. No? OK, a text to him too.' Off she went.

Whoever had called the organization the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre might have thought of something that made a better acronym. But it was a brilliant agency, with every officer hand-picked and totally dedicated to preventing children falling victim to everyone from real-life rapists to anonymous muck grooming kids online. Pity he couldn't be part of the investigation any more, though. A great pity.

‘Done,' she said, waking him up again. She sat down, but didn't pick up her glass again.

‘Did you see Zac's appeal on the news?' he made himself ask. ‘Zac and his poor wife?'

‘Nope. It'll have been recorded for me – you'll be able to see it tomorrow too. You could save Dizzy Aziz a job and run me into work – hell, where's your car?'

‘In your spot in the car park. It parks itself there automatically.'

‘As it should – all that training. Dizzy it must be. Hey, did I tell you about his heroics with Don …'

He didn't care a toss about Don or anyone else, for that matter. But they needed to plaster over what could have been an awkward moment. More than awkward. How dare she put an enquiry at risk because she was worried about hurting his feelings? And then he remembered that it hadn't even been her enquiry till less than eight hours ago. He looked at her face, drawn and grey above the rosiness of her bath-warmed body. How was she going to survive at this pace? Last time she'd been so overworked, she lost the plot a couple of times and he'd come close to having to discipline her.

And not like that either. Of its own accord, a small smile twitched the corner of his mouth, though he suspected there'd be no bedtime games tonight: it would be all either of them could do to stay awake long enough to get into bed. But he ought to make some response to her little anecdote: ‘A hundred? Bloody hell! That probably means nearer a hundred and twenty – maybe even a hundred and forty – if I know him.'

She put her fingers in her ears, managing a comical grimace. ‘He admitted to a hundred. At least they got there in one piece. But I've not even phoned the hospital. Hell, Mark, what this job does to us …'

‘Put it on the list for tomorrow. You might even snatch a few minutes to visit him. If you need to justify taking time off to Wren, Don was running the case you had to take over, and you need to pick his brain.'

It was her turn to heave him out of the bath, and to produce another of the huge, fluffy towels that had been one of her real extravagances: heaven knew how much energy washing and drying them consumed. At least, since he'd been house-husband, they'd rarely used the tumble dryer. He'd sited their whirligig washing line to catch every last gust of wind, and was more assiduous than he cared to admit in checking the online weather forecast for the area. Not just to see if he'd be able to play tennis, either.