Cold Pursuit (4 page)

‘William Harvey, as in the hospital in Ashford?’

‘Nearest A and E, of course.’

Some fourteen miles from Canterbury. What if she’d been severely injured? Sod the meeting; his secretary could explain. ‘I’m on my way myself,’ he snapped so fiercely he found himself phoning back to apologise.

‘So there you are,’ he greeted her, trying to sound mild and amused. It was all he could do not to scoop her into his arms, but a self-conscious WPC in her twenties looked all too interested in the proceedings.

Fran’s squiffy smile suggested she might not have objected to the passionate treatment. ‘Look, Constable Daws, I’m in good hands now. Thanks for giving me a lift,’ she smiled.

‘Couldn’t have let you share an ambulance with that animal, ma’am,’ the constable said, still hovering. ‘Imagine that, sir, that’s what the paramedics wanted! About a witness statement, ma’am—’

‘I’ll get Mr Turner to run me back to Canterbury to pick up my car – I could drop by then. OK?’ And Fran smiled so sweetly that the woman probably didn’t realise she was being shoved out.

‘You’re going to have a lovely pair of black eyes,’ he began, half-sitting on the bed beside her. A light blanket covered her legs.

‘I could have had a lot worse,’ she admitted. ‘One of the girls had a Stanley knife. If I’d been your average middle-aged woman, she might well have got me. Just a slash on the face – enough to scar the victim for life, of course – so you can show it to all your mates. Happy-slapping?
Happy-slashing
! As it is, I got her first – she’ll probably be suing me for assault. I fell right on top of her. I think I dislocated her shoulder. She was certainly in a great deal of pain, poor kid.’

‘Poor kid my arse! For God’s sake, Fran!’

She shrugged. ‘I’m no lightweight. A good ten inches taller than her. And I didn’t release my grip as I went down.’ She pulled a face. ‘I know I ought to have done, but that shove in the back caught me
completely unawares. I didn’t even relax. That’s why I’ve got ruined trousers and playground knees. I’m getting too old for this job, Mark. At least for confronting little savages,’ she added, as if prompting him.

For answer, he bundled up her discarded torn trousers and put them in an evidence bag. ‘You’d better let me have your jacket too. And you needn’t pull that face: you know we always look after our own. And if that pack of hyenas have been after other folk, they have to be stopped.’

Behind her panda eyes, she looked quite shocked at his abruptness, but she didn’t argue.

‘You will press charges?’ he insisted. ‘Fran?’

‘I don’t think I have a choice,’ she continued, swinging her legs off the bed and opening the bag of clothes he’d brought.

‘You haven’t,’ he said. Why did he sound so grim, when what he ought to be doing was holding her tightly and whispering comforting words? Because he was angry, that was why. Angry with the kids, but angry with Fran for being there, and angry because she was hurt and she could have been killed and he could not, simply could not, have lost her.

In turn, she avoided his eye as she zipped the trousers and eased a jumper over her head, wincing as it brushed her face.

Damn it, did she have to look so martyred?

Why not, with him so firmly in the wrong?

He took her in his arms. ‘Fran, Fran – I was so worried. You know what? I pulled rank and got a
driver. A hundred and ten we did, down the M20. And I had to bite my lip to stop myself telling him to go faster. And all the time I was thinking you could be safe on some university campus, strolling round the groves of Academe with a host of adoring students drinking in your every word.’

‘A nice safe civilian. Just what I thought I was this morning. A lady capable of lunching, a pair of posh shoes in my bag, going for a stroll in the park.’

‘Come on. I can’t promise we’ll do a hundred and ten, though.’

‘I think we ought to make it a hundred and twenty: I left the car in the short stay car park. We shall need a bank loan to retrieve it.’

Delay upon delay! How can I bear to wait any longer, knowing where you are? Does your heart beat faster too? It must!

In Fran’s more comfortable visitor’s chair, Jill Tanner regarded her boss over the rim of the coffee mug, her eyes clearly appraising the damage. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be at work this morning, Fran? I mean, it was only yesterday. You’re entitled to be…’ But she broke off, rubbing her chin as if in speculation.

‘Well?’ Fran prompted, mixing amusement and irritation in almost equal measures. She was only at her desk because she’d promised Mark she would do no more than sort out the papers for a committee Henson sat on, but seemed to have paid scant attention to. If she was going to delegate, as she most certainly was, at least the legatee would now have some idea what the whole operation was about. It was only when she found that her reading glasses sat on the exact centre of her bruise that she
realised she wasn’t being totally sensible. But she was too much of an old soldier to give up now and have to submit to even the most kindly of
told-
you-sos
.
Especially the most kindly. Mark had been through too much with Tina’s suffering to have anyone else’s inflicted on him. She would be brave to the point of heroic if necessary. With him, but not necessarily with her colleagues, especially when they were pussy-footing around as Jill was now. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

‘It’s just a thought… You know how we never show a victim’s face in a TV appeal…because of their privacy. I was wondering – but maybe it’s not such a good idea…’

Fran found that rubbing the heels of her hands over her eyes, a habit she’d never been aware of until now, was too painful. Raising an eyebrow in interrogation wasn’t very sensible, either. ‘Spit it out. You want me to go on TV as a victim and show what happens when gangs of kids indulge in
so-called
Happy-slapping. The trouble is, this isn’t a result of the slapping. It’s a result of my falling over – OK, being pushed – and landing on my lovely new shoes.’

‘How are they?’ Jill sounded as concerned for their safety as she was for Fran’s.

‘Tougher than me, thank goodness. And they were beautifully wrapped; you know how they do it there.’ A glance at Jill’s face suggested that expensive shoes were not a weakness she comprehended. ‘I just caught the heel.’

‘But you wouldn’t have fallen over if you hadn’t been assaulted – isn’t that the correct term for being surrounded and jostled, not to mention being attacked with a knife, guv?’

‘And if I had let the child go, I wouldn’t have dislocated her shoulder so badly it might need surgery.’

‘But you wouldn’t have had her in an armlock if she hadn’t tried to slash your face. You may not know that there was blood on the Stanley knife: the gang have already used it on someone else. We’re checking hospital records right now.’

‘You’ve located their schools?’

‘Yesterday, guv. Thanks to your photos and the CCTV we’ve located every last one of the little runts. Good schools, too, and they all seem to have decent middle-class parents.’ She put her mug down. ‘So I’m afraid the whole thing’ll probably be your fault by the time the expensive lawyers have chewed it over and spat it out.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Thank God for evidence in her favour. ‘The rats! The kids, I mean. Compensation lawyers are far nastier than rats. OK, Jill. I’ll think about it. And quickly – I know you’ll want the full panoply of bruises still at their best. But I think you should run it past the Chief first. You, not me. Your case. I’m just the victim, remember.’ Had she heard herself saying that? That she was a victim?

‘You couldn’t just talk to Mark about it?’ Jill didn’t often wheedle, but there was a distinct plea in her voice now.

‘Absolutely not. You can, if you want. He’s more approachable than the boss. Normally. But he’ll respect you far more for doing it yourself than for relying on me, especially if you point out that TVInvicta would probably give it real sob-story coverage.’ Jill still didn’t move. Fran patted the bulging file. ‘Sorry, Jill. “Light duties,” indeed!’

How many women in Fran’s situation would expose themselves to that sort of publicity, with the mixture of pity and derision it might incur? Mark shook his head slowly in admiration.

Jill Tanner clearly took it as a negative – hardly surprising, since it almost was one. ‘I mean – I can quite see… I don’t know why I ever thought of it.’ She blushed, the rush of blood making her look angry, however, not embarrassed. Although she was probably ten years younger than his Fran, she looked more middle-aged. Perhaps it was the weathered skin and the deep wrinkles – an outdoors face. And the vicious TV interview had done no more than exaggerate hair that had been confined in, but not controlled by, a collection of combs.

‘I do.’ He let himself smile. ‘Because it’s a good idea. It may get TVInvicta on our side rather than baying for our collective blood, and it may get some parents checking up on what their kids are really up to. After all, that craft knife must have come out of someone’s toolkit.’

‘We’re on to DIY stores just in case a child managed to buy it, despite the legislation.’

‘Good. I’d like to think seeing the results of violence might spark contrition in some pubescent consciences. Or perhaps that’s being overly optimistic.’ He straightened. ‘OK, Jill, I’ll take this to the Chief. If he doesn’t actually squash the idea flat, we’ll run with it. But I think we’d have to stipulate that the interview was recorded, not live, and that we’d have power of veto.’

‘I should think for an exclusive they’d agree to anything.’ Her colour had subsided now. She produced an engaging, complicitous grin.

‘Possibly.’ He stroked his chin. ‘And if they didn’t – how would you run with it then?’

‘A standard press conference, with Fran – with Chief Superintendent Harman – chairing it as usual. A really nice shock tactic, we thought.’

‘Shock indeed. What effect do you think it’ll have on our morale?’ He leaned back in his chair, and was amused that she mirrored his movement.

‘Good, I should think. It lets everyone know that it’s not just front line officers who are suffering.’

Or would it carry the opposite message, that top brass were weak and effete? ‘You know, I might just run it by Personnel, too. Well done, Jill. We’ll get back to you and the team as soon as we can. Before the bruises have a chance to fade, definitely.’

Jill stood but made no attempt to leave his office. ‘I know you’ll want to talk to Fran first. But take my word for it, sir – she’s keen.’

‘She always is.’ So what was she waiting for? He raised an eyebrow.

She flushed, but only retreated when the phone rang. He’d better ask Fran if she knew what was wrong.

Fran was just considering the matter of another painkiller, to benefit not just her face but also every single joint in her body. But she was glad the tablets were still in her bag, not lying temptingly on the table, because Tom Arkwright tapped on her door, putting his head round it with his usual favourite nephew to indulgent aunt grin, and she didn’t want to worry him.

‘I’ve just heard from my mum. Dad’s had another cancer check-up and another all clear.’

She clapped her hands, but wished she hadn’t and hoped the sudden cessation wouldn’t alarm him. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased. So how are you all going to celebrate?’

‘I’ve got them tickets for the Old Trafford Test this summer. Honestly! Yes, Mum likes cricket as much as Dad. Anyway, thought I’d just let you know.’

And, knowing Tom, to let her know something else, something just dropped out in the course of a natter.

‘Are you going up this weekend with a bottle of bubbly? Go on, take a seat. And lean forward earnestly, as if we’re discussing some major policy decision.’

‘Oh, she’s not bad, that DCI Tanner. She won’t miss me for two minutes.’

She rounded her eyes in mock-amazement. At least opened them as wide as was comfortable. ‘She isn’t working your socks off, then?’

‘She is and she isn’t. She’s just decided we should separate out the two lines of inquiry, one into happy-slapping and the other into groping and what have you.’

‘The “what have you” involving Masturbation Man.’ So why hadn’t Jill told her this? Not that it wasn’t what she’d have done from the start. Perhaps she’d allowed Tom to come in knowing he’d deliver the message.

‘Quite. I’m on that team.’

‘Happy with that?’

Tom wriggled. ‘It’s not for me to be happy or unhappy, is it, like? She’s the boss. It’s the job.’

‘You’re not grassing her up, Tom, if you tell me your feelings. I shall almost certainly send you away with a flea in your ear, and tell you not to be a wuss, if that’s the current term. But I should like to know why you’d rather be involved with happy-slapping, which seems to me to be insoluble. You know, like that many-headed monster.’

‘Hydra?’

‘That’s the chap. You cut off one head, and another appears.’

He nodded. ‘Websites. That’s why. Ever since you got me on that forensic IT course I’ve been looking for an opportunity to use my skills. And I reckon I could get into most of the little scrotes’ websites. Half an hour. That’s all. Well, maybe longer.’

‘Why not do it anyway? Just out of interest. An hour’s neither here nor there, is it? Unless you are going up North for the weekend?’

‘Well, a bit of a family party, like… Did you want me to do anything?’

She might have done. But he was young, his father was in remission, and what the hell.

‘If TVInvicta won’t play, and the Chief isn’t happy with thrusting Fran into the limelight of the regular press conference, we’ve still got another card up our sleeves,’ Cosmo reminded them.

Four forty-five on Friday wasn’t the most popular time for meetings, so by common – if professionally tacit – consent they would try to keep it short. They’d gathered in Cosmo’s office, a humdrum room Fran would have eyed up for instant refurbishment. Cosmo’s immaculate shirt and suit made it look even shabbier, even though he certainly wasn’t trying to peacock.

He leaned forward over the coffee table around which they were seated. ‘You remember I told you
Crimewatch
were after you, Fran? They go out this coming Monday and would be as deferential as you like.’

Mark looked at her enquiringly. But he spoke to Cosmo. ‘Are TVInvicta adamant about having complete control?’

‘I don’t think they would be if we floated the BBC as an alternative.’

Fran nodded. Much as she hated the renaming
of dear old unpretentious Personnel as Human Resources, with a manager not an officer at its head, she was finding her respect for Cosmo was less grudging by the day.

‘The trouble, as I told him, is, of course, that if Fran does either programme, and doesn’t appear at the press conference, there’ll be just as many questions about her,’ Mark said.

‘And I’m inclined to think speed is of the essence,’ Fran said. ‘If we’re trying to shock people into grassing up their neighbours’ kids, then the more spectacular my bruises the better.’

‘Darling, d’you think they won’t be able to fix that in make-up?’ Cosmo tutted.

Fran avoided Mark’s eye. Modern and reconstructed man he was, he tended to regard the celebration of things gay or merely camp without particular favour. Perhaps he’d long ago been on the receiving end of a bravura embrace when policing a Gay Pride march. She’d ask him on the way home.

The phone rang. Cosmo was clearly tempted to ignore it, but eventually stood up and reached across. ‘TVInvicta!’ he mouthed, and held up his index finger warningly. It was beautifully manicured.

Fran and Mark exchanged glances. Cosmo’s share of the conversation was mostly confined to affirmative little grunts, but at last he said, ‘To sum up, we’ll be shown the script before the programme, and the reporter will guarantee not to
ask unscripted questions? Live. And not exclusive. OK.’ He winked hugely while the person at the other end spoke. ‘Six-thirty at the studio. One moment. I shall put you on hold.’ He pressed a button on his console. ‘There, endless loops of soothing Chopin, poor bugger. OK, Fran – you heard enough of that? You’re on tonight, girl. The only problem is getting you to Canterbury in time. On the other hand, we’ve got an awful lot of highly qualified drivers in the building. Shall I tell her yes, if only to spare the poor dear any more of
Les
Sylphides
?’

‘In conclusion, Chief Superintendent Harman, what advice would you give to young people tempted to happy-slap?’ Dilly Pound asked, leaning forward deferentially, as she had throughout the interview. Either she was a very good interviewer or she really wanted to hear everything Fran had to say.

Fran smiled. ‘Don’t. Even touching someone without permission is an offence. So-called happy-slapping is a criminal assault, and my officers will treat it as such. An attack with a weapon is a much more serious affair, and incurs a heavier penalty. I’m sure your viewers know that. But what they may not know is that to publish photos of the victims on websites or anywhere else may well constitute harassment, another crime that Kent Constabulary views very seriously.’

‘Thank you, Detective Chief Superintendent Frances Harman. And we hope you soon recover completely from your injuries. And now for those numbers we promised you. Crimestoppers is…’

‘Do you have time to join us for a quick drink?’ Dilly enquired, as they unhitched their microphones. ‘You’re not on duty, are you?’ She flashed a smile.

‘Indeed not. And my partner’s driving me home.’ She had never hated the term more than now. But – as her eyes dropped to her ring – at her age fiancé sounded precious and possessive. ‘I’m sure he’d like a bitter lemon, however.’ She certainly didn’t want to leave Mark cooling his heels in the rather comfortless waiting area. It was packed with photos of past TVInvicta personalities, and images of current ones, as the next programme appeared silently on a huge monitor dominating the whole space. If you turned in the opposite direction, there was another, smaller screen, the colours subtly different. If you tried to ignore both, and picked up one of the complimentary newspapers, the tail of both eyes picked up irritating flickering images. How did the security guard and receptionist stay sane?