Still Waters (21 page)

‘In theory, no. But you know what these mothers’ meetings outside are like.’ She gestured with a curling thumb in the general direction of the erstwhile smokers’ corner. ‘They could decide to secede from Europe and not tell anyone till we were being towed across the Atlantic.’

‘So if I want to make sure no one gets rid of this team, I need to make it official that nothing can happen.’

‘It’s a high-risk strategy, because half the members will have forgotten it exists, and if they remember they might decide it’s something we can indeed do without. What you need, Fran,’ Pat whispered, hunching forward conspiratorially, ‘is a little preparation. Gather together your mates beforehand and explain why you want something to happen – or not – and agree that it should be an item on the appropriate agenda. Then you can vote it through. All these years in the police, Fran,’ she added, shaking her head, ‘and you’re still such an innocent.’

Was that praise? Was it accusation? Fran couldn’t work it out. But since she was eliciting sympathy for her ignorance,
she would ask something else. Did Pat know anyone who might value her cottage?

‘As it happens, I do. Do you want me to phone him for you?’

‘Pat, you’re my secretary, not my serf. Just give me the number and I’ll sort it, bless you.’

As Pat wrote down a number, Fran’s phone rang. Grabbing the piece of paper with a smile of thanks, she took the call in her office; it was from Pete Webb, sounding remarkably perky.

‘We’ve found the gym where Alec Minton worked out. Seems he came regularly, guv. And he came the day of his death to empty his locker.’

‘Can you imagine, Pete, being so systematic about killing yourself? It makes you feel ill just to think about it, doesn’t it? Anyway,’ she continued, pulling herself together, ‘it’s a bit of a bugger for us, him leaving no trace.’

‘Ah, but he was seen, guv. One of the cleaners was in the locker room. And what she couldn’t understand was why this quiet, polite guy should be stowing ladies’ underwear into a black sack. Real snazzy stuff, to quote her. Most of it still in the original cellophane wrappers.’

‘So you’re hunting the sack and its contents?’

‘Hunting? We’ve found it, guv! In the cleaner’s house.’

‘I don’t believe it. Why on earth did she admit it?’ In her experience people were remarkably coy about liberating such goods, let alone confessing to having done so.

‘Because she didn’t take it for herself, and she figured if he didn’t want it anyway, her daughter and her friends might as well make use of it. We have lift-off, guv.’

‘Lift off as in DNA?’

‘The lab’s on to it now, even as we speak. Not to mention the prints on the wrappers.’

A surge of disappointment washed over her. She should have been in there at the kill, seeing what looked like evidence, assessing it. But she must ride it – it was no worse than all the other occasions when she’d been in charge of a case and one of her team had had the privilege if supplying a missing piece of the evidence jigsaw.

But Pete was saying something else. ‘Seems she’d seen in the local rag about Minton topping himself and she panicked and stowed it all in the back of her garage. And at long last her conscience gets into gear and she calls us. Nowt so queer as folk.’

‘Nowt indeed.’

‘So now my super – who thinks he’s just invented the whole theory of detection – is urging me to do everything I can to help you. You haven’t been on to him, have you, guv?’

Had a soft phone message turned away wrath? But she wasn’t about to confess to abject grovelling, so she said, innocently or even, she hoped, enigmatically, ‘Me? Have a word? So you’ve got someone checking the contents of that parish magazine?’

‘I have indeed. And I’ve been on to the forensic computer lab. They should have a report on the hard disk ready for tomorrow midday.’

‘Tell them today midday, with my compliments. Well done, Pete – you’re doing an excellent job.’

Mark was having less success. Once again Sammie was locked into answerphone mode. He tried a firm approach. ‘Sammie, love, I really need to talk to you, you know, about your future
in the house. So I’ll come over at ten on Saturday morning.’ There. Was that firm enough?

On reflection, he wished he hadn’t explained why he wanted to see her, but he couldn’t unsay the words now.

It was a good job Fran had taken Pat’s advice about her mascara because there was a knock on the office door and Dan Coveney appeared. He was so full of something, however, that he might not even had noticed anything was wrong.

‘Sit before you fall and tell me everything,’ Fran said.

‘It’s Roper’s old neighbour,’ he began.

‘Old as in former or old as in aged?’

‘Both. I got the lads to visit them again, as you suggested, to ask whether anyone had seen Janine waving goodbye when the two men set out with their boat. Now, the prosecution case, as you recall, was that no one did. But we now have a witness, who turns out to have been in hospital when Moreton’s investigations were taking place. And he is prepared to swear that she was standing on the doorstep waving them goodbye. Wearing some sort of towelling housecoat, he said, and mules. And, guess what, they exactly match some of the clothes in the evidence store.’

‘And those poor buggers have endured God knows what because Moreton’s team couldn’t run him to earth. Please tell me he was flat on his back for six months and didn’t know what was going on.’ She pointed to a chair.

Laughing grimly, he sat down. ‘Pretty well. He had a spell of two weeks or more in hospital, then he went straight off to North Wales to stay with his sister while he convalesced. And then, would you believe, he went to stay with his other sister
– this one lives in New Zealand! – for six months. So you can’t really fault old QED there.’

‘I would if I were defence counsel. Did he say if Janine ever wore unusual clothes? Glamorous ones? Or had very glamorous girlfriends visiting the house?’

He frowned. ‘And who might they be?’

She managed not to sigh in exasperation. ‘Janine in disguise maybe. Could you get someone to take those enhanced photos along and see if he recognises any of the make-overs?’

‘I’ll get right on to it.’

‘I suppose last night’s clubbing and pubbing didn’t have any results?’

‘The youngsters were on duty till three, guv. I thought I’d debrief them in about an hour, when they’ve had their beauty sleep.’

She bit back an observation that at their age she had worked round the clock without so much as a whinge. But things were better now that the police recognised that their officers were human beings with human needs.

‘When you’ve done that, Dan, how do you fancy a trip across to the prison? I took young Sue Hall with me last time, and the trouble is our friend Dale Drury fancies his chances with women. He might react differently to a man. He might not, but it’s worth a try. Take another bloke with you. Someone pretty unshockable – he’s a confessed serial killer, remember.’

‘Any particular line you’d like me to take?’

Since when had she had to spell such things out? ‘Just push him as hard as you can on those rehashed photos of Janine. And remember, even if the clubbing didn’t work last night, flood the clubs and hotel bars this weekend.’

As he left, it dawned on her there was someone else who should see the photos – the residents of Alec Minton’s block of flats. She was on her feet ready to nip out herself – surely she deserved that treat – when she realised what a fool she was being. Any decent young copper could doorstep, and deserved the boost of a successful inquiry. But he or she wouldn’t be able to do what Fran could do: save the Underwater team. She’d start lining up her cronies now. What was Pete Webb’s number?

‘The trouble with this Underwater team is,’ Dave Henson said, still smelling pungently of herbal cough cures and looking as if another day or so under the duvet would do him no harm, ‘much as I’d like to poke Gates in the eye, and valuable as the team is on its day, the figures might not add up. You’ve got to balance the needs of the force against the costs of equipment, maintenance and regular training.’ Unasked, he removed a pile of paperwork from a chair so that she could sit down. He even made her a cup of instant coffee. ‘Here, take the weight off your feet.’

She smiled her thanks. ‘You can’t just send lads underwater into potentially dangerous situations without regular training updates, I suppose. And those take them away from their everyday duties. But they’re all so keen – and it seems a wicked waste not to use the expertise they’ve built up over the years.’

‘What does your old man say?’ He put his feet on the desk, but the effort made him cough painfully, and he took them down again.

‘I haven’t discussed it with him yet,’ she admitted. ‘I wanted to see that the consensus at our level might be.’

‘And what do the others feel?’

‘Some of the old-stagers like me don’t like change at any price, do they? Do you know, there are still some who won’t read their emails? Or if they do, they don’t respond to them.’ And she wouldn’t want to rank alongside them. ‘And there are things we desperately need – mobile labs, for instance, and those natty little instant fingerprint machines. Oh, and I thought of equipping community officers with those miniature cameras you can attach to their helmets, so they can photograph antisocial behaviour as it happens. Plus we really ought to do something for the rural parts of our patch. There’s no getting away from the fact that our response times are decidedly poor once you get out of built-up areas.’

‘Sounds to me as if you’re talking the Underwater lads way down your budget,’ Henson said, coughing till tears ran down his face. ‘Hell, Fran, I’ve never been like this in my life,’ he gasped at last. ‘I had myself down as fit and healthy. Now I’m hacking and hawking like some old geezer in a spit-
and-sawdust
pub.’

She frowned sympathetically. ‘What’s your GP say?’

‘You know doctors – says I need another week off, maybe more. But I told him, we’ve got criminals to catch.’

‘Quite right. But the thing is, Dave, if you don’t take a little time off now, how much are you going to need when you have to admit he’s right?’

‘Six months ago I’d have said you just wanted to get me out of the building.’ Even now he sounded suspicious that she still might.

‘Six months ago you might have been right, Dave. Water
under the bridge, eh?’ They exchanged a wary grin. She stood. ‘Anyway, thanks for letting me bend your ear. I don’t know that it’s sorted everything out for me, but it’s saved me making a fool of myself in front of Gates.’

‘Rule number one: never make a fool of yourself in front of management. Even if you’re married to the ACC (Crime).’

‘I shall remember that.’ When they were married, that is. If they ever were. Her phone beeped. A text message from Pete Webb about Minton’s computer, ending ‘CU here, 2ish?’ Yes! ‘I’ve got to go, Dave. But remember what I said. And remember there aren’t too many headstones saying, “I wish I’d spent more time at work”.’

They exchanged an ironic smile, and she left.

‘Ah, the unholy alliance,’ Gates observed, as she closed the door behind her.

Drat him for making her jump. ‘Morning, sir.’ She had nearly called him Simon.

He flicked a glance at an expensive watch. ‘I think you’ll find it’s afternoon.’

‘But before lunch,’ she countered, as if indulging in light chat, not scrabbling for a conversational foothold. The only thing she really wanted to ask him was about his intentions towards and feelings for Caffy, but even in her most blunderbuss moments she would have dismissed that as inappropriate.

‘Still in cahoots with Henson, I see?’

She pulled herself to attention – or the nearest she got to it for anyone except the chief. ‘Still consulting a colleague about a matter of mutual importance, sir.’

‘Which might be?’

She balled her fists and took a deep breath. She said evenly,
‘It might be about all sorts of things, but included, in fact, emergency response times in rural areas.’

‘Of course it did.’ Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

‘Of course it did. Didn’t you hear DCS Harman tell you it fucking did?’ Henson erupted from his office, veins bulging.

‘How dare you!’ Gates exploded.

‘I’m not standing by when a colleague’s honesty is being fucking called into question.’

She put a firm hand on his arm. ‘Leave it, Dave, for God’s sake.’

‘No, the bastard’s got it coming—’ Was he really going to hit Gates?

‘Dave!’ She pulled him away. He was gasping alarmingly, clawing the air for breath. ‘Dave! Here, lean on me.’

Henson’s knees buckled. He clutched his chest.

Fran turned to Gates. ‘Call a bloody ambulance, for God’s sake.’

Henson made a huge effort. ‘I’m all right.’

‘Oh, fuck off and have another heart attack,’ Gates hissed.

‘Pneumonia, sir. Not his heart this time, they say,’ Fran, very much to attention as she stood before his desk, told the chief.

‘Brawling like children, Fran! Whatever were you thinking of?’ His voice was icy.

‘I believe that you may have been misinformed, sir. No brawling took place. I believe that Mr Henson may have taken exception to something Mr Gates was saying. He came out of his office too quickly and started to choke. While we waited for an ambulance, the first-aiders took over. He had some oxygen, and was fully conscious when he was taken to hospital.’

‘And why should Henson have taken exception to anything? How would he have heard?’

‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him when he’s well enough to return, sir.’

‘Stop messing me around, Harman. Had you and Henson had another of your rows? Is that it?’

‘Dave and I have more or less apologised to each other for the ill-will that originally arose between us, sir. We were quite literally talking about budgets. As a matter of fact he talked me out of adopting a quixotic stance about an item likely to be cut.’

‘So how did the deputy chief constable get involved?’

‘As I told you, he and I ran into each other just outside DCS Henson’s office.’

The chief waved her to a chair. ‘Fran, Fran, what’s going on? And don’t for a moment imagine that you’re grassing anyone up.’

‘Exactly what I just said, sir. I’d finished picking Henson’s brains, took a text from Folkestone CID – I think there’s been a significant development in the Roper and Barnes case, by the way – and left his office. I bumped into DCC Gates, who demanded to know what we’d been talking about. When he seemed to…disbelieve…me, before I knew it, Dave Henson erupted from his office – perhaps he’d been coming out anyway; I don’t know – and started yelling.’

‘At Simon?’

‘And Simon responded.’

‘Actual words?’

‘I’m sure he’ll tell you himself, sir. Then Dave collapsed, and Simon called an ambulance.’ Bemused, she held up her
still-shaking
hands. ‘It was all a bit stressful, come to think of it.’

‘Intimations of mortality, eh? Come on, Fran, what were you two old reprobates really talking about?’

Since he poured her a glass of whisky, she could scarcely refuse to answer. But she left the tumbler on his desk, untouched. ‘Budgets, sir. Truthfully. How they wouldn’t run to everything. How a pet project of mine looks likely for the chop.’

‘Which would be—?’

‘The Underwater Search and Recovery team, sir.’

‘And why would you be trying to defend them?’

‘Because the members are afraid of losing their jobs altogether. And they’re a really excellent team.’

‘I know. But they’ll all be excellent in their usual roles if the unit has to be disbanded – which I emphatically don’t want.’

‘Could you make sure their leader knows? A Sergeant Mills, I think.’

‘I’ll make sure the information filters down. And I’ll break the news myself it if turns out to be bad. OK?’ His smile was very dry. How many chief constables would tolerate such badgering, it asked. ‘Come on, Fran. Drink up.’

‘Sorry, sir. I can’t. I’ve got to be on the road in ten minutes, with your permission, that is. Folkestone.’

‘Of course.’ He removed the glass. ‘Carry on from where I interrupted.’

She nodded. ‘At some point while I was talking to Dave, I realised there are things we need even more than the USRT. And much as I want to keep them operational, I can see reasons why they may have to be disbanded.’

‘Are you quite sure you don’t want that whisky? Because I have to tell you, Fran, you don’t sound at all yourself. Now, you’ve been very loyal, and I appreciate that, but what I can’t
get my head round, as the young will insist on saying these days, is why Simon should want to cross-question you about a private conversation.’

‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him, sir. In fact—’ Cursing herself, she bit back what she was going to say. Now was emphatically not the time to introduce the subject of Caffy and the possible stalking.

‘Go on.’

She got to her feet, shaking her head. ‘The mutual…
ill-feeling
… has put me in what may be a very awkward position, sir. With your permission, though, I’d rather say nothing until the situation actually presents itself. With luck, it may not.’

She was aware of his scrutiny. She let neither her eyes nor her head drop.

‘I know that look of yours, Fran. Mulish doesn’t begin to describe it, does it? Very well, I’ll let you go now. But nothing – not misplaced loyalty, nor resentment, nothing – will stop you doing your job properly. Do you understand?’

‘Sir.’

‘Because if it does, I shall have to recommend that one of you is transferred – or retired. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Eminently, sir.’

Since having a full-scale tantrum about the unfairness of life was off the menu, she made what she hoped was a dignified exit – though it might have appeared to him as merely
stiff-necked
. She’d better tell Pat where she was going, and phone Mark to let him know, in the most general terms, of the latest developments.

Pat made a sideways gesture with her head. Someone was waiting in her office.

Mark.

She couldn’t read his expression. But he held open his arms and she stepped straight into them. ‘I promise you it wasn’t my fault. Henson heard Gates ripping into me and rode to the rescue. He wasn’t well – in fact, I’d told him only five minutes before he should take himself off home,’ she added.

He snorted.

‘Come on, Mark – six months ago I’d have told him to take himself off and stay there. What I said this time was that if he didn’t look after himself he’d have to take even more sick leave. The quarrel was between him and Gates. Do they have history too?’

‘I believe words have been exchanged, involving the reduced hours Henson’s working, and his recent sick leave. But I don’t think anything would justify Gates’ telling a man who’s just had a triple bypass to go and have another heart attack.’

‘I never told the chief that.’

‘I know. But walls have a great many ears in a place like this.’

‘Simon’s wheels are coming off, Mark. What are we going to do?’

‘You, absolutely nothing. Me, very little. Cosmo and the chief, a lot, I hope. You looked as if you were in mid-flight – do you have time for a bite?’

She looked at her watch. ‘Barely. And I’d better phone Pete Webb to tell him I shall be late. He might be relieved – it’ll give him time for a break himself.’

‘True. And the public lunch is policy, Fran. I don’t want any gossip about people being made to retire.’ As she called Pete on her mobile, he ushered her out, patting her bottom as they went.

Fran was halfway down the M20 when a call came through for her. Even though she had a hands-free set-up, she usually preferred not to use her mobile when driving. But when she saw the caller was Coveney, she broke her rule.

‘Nil returns on Dale Drury, I’m afraid, guv. The French police are talking to him today, and the news on the street is that he’s now clammed up, big time.’

Why did he never use plain English? ‘Thanks for letting me know, Dan.’

‘And just for your information the Froggies seem to think he was busy killing a couple of their toms when you hoped he’d been killing Janine.’

‘It was more whether he recognised Janine as a prostitute than actually killing her,’ she pointed out. ‘But what about your debriefing, Dan? Did the pub and club crawl throw up anything useful?’

‘Nil returns there, too, guv. But I told them we’d do the same tonight, tomorrow and Saturday – OK?’

‘Please. And talk to lobby staff in hotels used by businessmen.’

‘It’s a very long shot, guv, given how long ago it was.’

‘Just to humour me, Dan. And now I’ve got another call waiting. Sorry!’ she lied.

No wonder young Iona Harris didn’t have time for him. And what results had Harris come up with? No. Absolutely not. She would not make a call while driving at seventy in the outside lane.

Pete Webb greeted her as if she were a guest at a party, hurrying her upstairs to the CID corridor.

At last, as he took her jacket and hung it up for her, he said
with a huge grin, ‘I know I could have emailed everything, guv, but knowing you I thought you’d like to see it for yourself.’

And being in Folkestone had the merit of making her unavailable in Maidstone, should the chief want to question her further.

‘I would indeed. Thanks, Pete. I take it that Minton had deleted everything but not actually wiped the hard disk.’

‘You do indeed. But you did need a password to get onto the system, and the lad who found it didn’t have the skills to hack in. It didn’t pose too many problems to our people, though.’

‘Good. Now, what have we got? Pornography? “Adult” chat rooms?’

‘Plenty of both. And some photos, guv. Cup of tea before you look?’