Double Fault (13 page)

‘What did she say?'

‘I think she was too tired to notice.'

‘You know Fran better than I do but I'd be very surprised,' Caffy said dryly. ‘So, apart from bollocking people from the sidelines, how are you involved?'

He felt on safer ground here. ‘I was the one who called the child in missing,' he said, picking at some cake. He explained, at last concluding with a sigh that hurt: ‘Poor Livvie: if only I'd kept a better eye on her—'

‘And was she yours to keep an eye on? Any more than she was any other player's? Not to mention her father's. What do the other players say, by the way?'

‘Apart from the first afternoon and evening when we searched for her, I've seen none of them. I was thinking about going along to the club – but I'm not sure …'

‘Why not? Are you afraid one of them will suspect you? Or worse still, will one of them whom you like betray him or herself as the abductor?'

Would anyone except Caffy insist on the grammatically correct
him or herself
, instead of the easy option of
themselves
? But would anyone except Caffy have a copy of
Sir Charles Grandison
sticking out of her bag?

‘I suppose – I did think one of them might speak more freely to me than to my col – to the police. So I did wonder about popping down for a game. I could knock up on the tennis wall if there was no one else around.'

‘But you don't like the thought of enjoying yourself when everyone else is either working till they drop or sick with worry. Makes sense. But so does a bit of exercise and a bit of conversation that might prove useful. No?'

‘I'll think about it.'

‘Which means you won't. So you could think about doing something that Fran would really appreciate, as a sign of contrition.'

He grimaced. ‘I've already done the shopping. But that was more an act of revenge, somehow.'

‘Trolleys at dawn!'

He managed a pale smile. ‘Funnily enough, I gave one guy a mouthful because he'd parked in a disabled space – yes, he was in running gear – and then I had a real go at a woman on her own in a Chelsea tractor who thought the size of her vehicle entitled her to park in a parent and child slot. Badly.'

‘So you feel better now?'

‘Caffy, I feel like a total shit. And the worst of it is, I've probably made Fran feel like a total shit too. Which she isn't. She's working so hard she'll end up like me if she's not careful. Or as ACC,' he added, horrifying himself with his honesty.

‘One of which you could deal with, and one of which you couldn't. Well, what if she did end up taking your old job? Come on, would the world end?'

‘She'd probably have more to do and less to spend. Oh, and more silver braid.' He managed a shamefaced grin. ‘She'd probably be given a new office, a new desk and a new, but unbelievably uncomfortable, chair. And she'd hate the job. She's a doer, my Fran. She doesn't like sitting back and giving people orders. Though she does that well,' he conceded. ‘The giving orders, not the sitting back, of course.'

‘So you're afraid that she'll take a job that will make her unhappy? Or is it that seeing her in your job will make
you
unhappy?'

‘It'll be a different job, I should imagine. Far more responsibilities than I ever had. Sacking people, for a start, to balance the budget. She'll hate that.' But they were both aware he hadn't answered her question.

Caffy nodded. ‘I guess she'll work that out for herself. And I guess she's already worked out that you'd hate her to replace you. She's no fool, you know.' She looked at her watch, a surprisingly delicate one given her job.

Surprising himself, he leant over and touched it. ‘I've always wondered about that.'

‘A bloke who thought he loved me gave it to me. And I thought I loved him. But it didn't work out.'

‘That guy from the Met? The one who couldn't deal with your past?'

‘Yep. The guy who couldn't face sex with an exprostitute.'

Seeing the watch suddenly as a manacle, he said, ‘But you still wear his watch?'

‘It's just a timepiece. Anyway, I was looking at it, Mark, not because I was bored with your company, which I never am, I promise, but because I ought to be on my way. I've—' He'd never seen her blush, but she was blushing now. ‘I've got a date. A bloke I met on that course. Alistair.' The blush deepened as she allowed herself the pleasure of speaking his name aloud.

‘Something my therapist said once:
never let the past you can't control get in the way of the future you can.
'

She nodded, clearly puzzled.

‘You should take off that watch,' he said. ‘Use mine instead.' As he spoke he unfastened it and handed it to her.

Passing him her watch in exchange, she leant over and kissed his cheek. ‘Like some other therapist said, and this guy probably comes with a capital T,
Go and do thou likewise.
'

Although he hugged her and waved her on her way with as much love and hope in his smile as he could muster, his heart constricted. What if this new bloke also wooed her and won her and then let her down?

And then another clause arrived unbidden in his head, ‘Just as you're letting Fran down.'

Sitting staring at the nursery car park wasn't going to help with anything. There were some things that Fran positively loathed – putting out the kitchen waste for compost, for instance, though for some reason she was much better at emptying the wormery than he was. Hospital visiting was another, and Don Simpson a third. He'd bet good money though that, despite all the other pressures, she'd carve enough time to go and see how he was. He didn't like hospitals any more than she did, and Don wasn't his favourite cop either. All the same, after a domesticated detour back home to stow the groceries, he'd go, and a text from him telling Fran what he was up to would give two messages, the obvious one and the covert one that he was sorry for his tantrum and was doing penance. His reward was a text with no more than a smiley face.

Looking like a policeman – yes, his mirror told him daily that he might have shed the life but not the skin – he marched into the hospital as if he owned it. None demanded his non-existent ID. No one even hinted that visiting didn't start for another couple of hours yet.

‘Hello, guv'nor! Didn't expect to see you here!' Don Simpson, overflowing from a regulation vinyl-covered armchair, put aside his
Daily Mail
and gestured at the stacking-chair at the end of his bed. Although he was still wearing a hospital gown, he was also sporting an unexpectedly handsome dressing gown, black embroidered with birds. Chinese, perhaps.

‘Well, the queen couldn't come, so you got the Duke of Edinburgh instead,' Mark said, realizing his would-be joke didn't sound so funny when spoken aloud. He dropped a pile of puzzle books on the bed-table: Don was renowned for his Sudoku and codeword skills.

But Don took it in the spirit in which it was intended. ‘Ah, Fran won't have time to scratch her arse at the moment, will she? Those skeletons of ours, and now the missing kid – yes, I saw her on the news this morning. And in the papers, of course: good coverage, as you'd expect. She seems to be running the whole shebang. Sodding manpower cuts.' He shifted uncomfortably.

‘In a lot of pain?' Mark asked.

‘Not too bad. Just these chairs are meant for someone half my size. They say I'll probably be going home tomorrow. Oh, no, guv, they don't keep you in a minute longer than they can help: the longer you hang around, the greater your chances of MRSA or whatever. I've waved goodbye to the appendix, and the antibiotics are working nicely. Tell you what, I owe that lad Dizzy. Drove like the bloody clappers. I didn't manage to look at the speedo, though.'

Mark opened his mouth to regale him with the conversation he and Dizzy had had earlier, but Don was speaking again. ‘The tiniest wound you ever saw. Hardly any pain. And my temperature's down.' In hospital mode already.

‘I'm glad to hear it. Fran will be too.'

‘How's she coping with all the pressure?'

Did he look as surprised as he felt? Don wasn't known for his tender-hearted perceptiveness. ‘You know Fran,' he replied. ‘She's trying to keep your case under wraps as long as she can – she doesn't want the media to stop focusing on Livvie. We need to find her fast.'

‘Find her body, you mean, poor little mite. But Fran's right about those kids – a few hours' delay won't do them any harm. At least she's got good blokes in Ray and – though it grieves me to say it – young Murray.'

Mark frowned. ‘I don't think he's involved.'

‘Why the fuck not? He's a right royal pain, but he's bright enough. Not like Fran to keep him away from this sort of action.'

‘I've an idea he's on leave this weekend,' Mark said. Or had he heard wrong yet again? He added, ‘I didn't take much notice of staffing in your case, being so involved with the other. So I may be wrong.'

‘Leave! When I'd already phoned him and told him to get his arse down to Ashford double quick? You're joking. When Fran came down, he wasn't with her, but I assumed she'd got him to do something else nice and boring while she came herself. She likes to be at the pointed end, doesn't she?' He shifted in the chair again. ‘Won't like being ACC, will she?'

Thank goodness for his conversation with Caffy earlier. ‘Do you think Wren would back her?'

‘Ah, but they say Wren's going. He was only a stand-in, after all, and not a very good one, if you ask me. A manager.' He made the occupation seem a cross between a mass murderer and a predatory paedophile. Then he realized who he was talking to, and added hurriedly, ‘Not like you, guv: we could see from your face what you felt about meetings. Him, now, he loves them. Never happier. Unless he's buying himself new kit for his office. Has Fran told you about the space age coffee maker?'

Suddenly Mark found the visitor's chair as uncomfortable as Don found his. ‘Of course, there's no saying Fran would take the job even if Wren wanted her in it,' he said. ‘What would people like you say?'

‘What we said when you got promoted: a good cop wasted.' He grinned. ‘OK, in the middle of all your management crap, you found time to do some real things. We could see you were still a cop at heart. All the changes you made were for the better. Even when you lost focus with that business of your daughter, you were still three times the cop Wren's ever been, or ever will be. Like I say, he's just a manager, and not a good one, either. At least if we had Fran up there, we know she'd fight to make a difference like you did. Mind you, we wouldn't give her more than – what? – three months before she threw in the towel. Or killed Wren.'

‘But if he's going anyway—'

‘Even if the chief was the Archangel Gabriel himself … Anyway, who's to say the new commissioner, when we get him, will choose anyone better? And what a waste of money that business is,' Don declared, getting thoroughly into his stride. ‘They say the whole process will cost a hundred million pounds – and then we have to pay the commissioners a hundred K on top of that. Per annum. And their so-called advisers, too, whatever they might be when they're at home. How many constables would we get for that? You tell me!'

‘Four a year, I reckon,' Mark said. ‘Don't think I didn't raise my voice against the proposals at every single meeting I had. The last thing we wanted I said, was politics getting involved with policing …'

‘A
t least we've got a voluntary embargo on the skeletons story, though it's taken me forever to persuade Wren to back us – and almost as long to persuade the various editors,' Fran said, sinking into her chair and waving Ray into the better visitor's chair. Tom Arkwright was young and fit enough to perch: besides which, he'd not been working half the night, had he? And he had the benefit of that auntie who sent him cakes as if she meant single-handedly to keep Royal Mail financially viable. Or was it Parcel Force? It depended on the weight, didn't it? Today's, which Tom was just about to cut, might just merit the latter: it bulged with cherries.

Ray, looking peaky, stirred extra sugar into his double espresso. ‘But we can't hold them off forever.'

‘Another twenty-four hours, that's all. By which time young Madge may have come up with some useful information, so we give them a story, as well as bald facts. OK, give me some good news. Either of you. Both of you for preference.' She nodded at Ray to start.

‘First up, we're still checking every single stable in Kent, livery or private. Could take weeks. Nil returns so far.'

‘I'll talk to the chief about choppers with heat-seeking equipment if we have nothing by tonight.'

‘I can just see his reaction to that!' Ray said.

‘He can react all he likes so long as we get one.'

‘Are you going to do your usual thing, guv,' Tom put in, ‘and get permission after you've done the necessary?'

Ray pursed his lips at the lese-majesty, and jumped in quickly. ‘Thanks to Mark remembering the make of car, we've traced that guy Stephen. Stephen Harris, as it happens. Not that it's done us much good yet: he was at the dentist's exactly when he said he was. Which was a good hour. He had a scale and polish from a hygienist, and then the dentist himself gave him a check-up. CCTV cameras on the car park confirm his arrival and departure. And he's lucky. He lives in a flat with CCTV back and front, and there he is, letting himself in and not emerging again for about three hours. Then he left for what was presumably a celebratory curry, and again the restaurant confirms he was there.'

‘And he doesn't ride, I suppose?'

‘Claims he's only ever been on a fairground horse, and that was when he was six.'