Burying the Past by Judith Cutler

remember. Not very user-friendly . . .’
    â€˜Grafty Green. Where the Greensand Way heads south. One o’clock.’
    â€˜No problem – hang on, why don’t I treat you to a pub lunch?’ But she spoke to a dead line.
    There was no time to get sentimental over leaving her cottage, although she had loved living there, mostly alone and latterly with Mark. Good times, by and large. She gave one final sweep of the kitchen floor, chasing a couple of spiders that had taken up residence behind the fridge freezer, probably on the day it had been installed, and, which, from their size, had never deemed it necessary to find a new territory. Only when, still clutching the broom, she locked the door did she find a sob rising, very painfully. But she put her shoulders back and reminded herself that the money popping into her bank account within a very few minutes would enable them to pay Paula for the huge amount of work that Pact had already completed.
    Even as the Pargetter team drove away, the new owners’ van drove up. It was time to scoot. She scooted.

NINE
    T here were a dozen places Fran should be, none of them here, on her own, wasting time.
    Just as she was about to give up and fume off, however, Janie’s surprisingly chic Ka appeared – a gift from an occasional member of the congregation who had decided to emigrate. It was only when Fran saw the second figure in Janie’s car that it dawned on her that the reason for a picnic was Janie preferred not to have their meal recorded on any sort of CCTV, though of course their journeys would be. Smile for the camera! Half of her was angry that Janie had gone against her wishes and brought Cynd to see her, undermining Jill’s authority. The other half was interested to hear what Janie or Cynd had to say.
    Janie and Cynd emerged with a couple of carrier bags, Cynd looking around her as if a green space was an entirely alien concept, even though if ever a city nestled in countryside, Canterbury did.
    Fran fell into step with them, saying nothing till she felt she was cued in. By this time poor Cynd, carrying the most enormous bag on one crooked arm, as if she was some Hollywood celeb, had trodden on endless prickly plants that had somehow eluded the older women’s more thickly shod feet. At last, fishing three empty carrier bags from her pocket, Janie announced that this was a perfect picnic site and they were to sit on the grass and eat. The sandwiches – cheese and pickle – were home-made, but that was about all that could be said for them. Perhaps if you were a
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-seller you could feed them to your poor dog. The water might have come in bottles, but it was from a tap – about which Fran had no complaints at all, though she did wonder whose lips had drunk from the bottle Janie passed her before hers did.
    â€˜Cynd’s had all her tests, and we’re awaiting the results,’ Janie announced, as if she too had pressures on her time. ‘We know she’s not pregnant. But she has had some problems with her memory, Fran – shock, probably, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?’ she prompted.
    â€˜Like Hillary Clinton, she misremembered something?’
    Cynd blinked, as if the word and the name were equally strange. ‘He wasn’t quite like I said, miss,’ she told Fran, as if she resembled a half-forgotten teacher.
    Probably, she did. But she tried to wipe every shred of threatening authority from her voice as she replied: ‘It’s hard to be clear in such awful circumstances, isn’t it? But I’m glad your memory’s coming back, because the CCTV didn’t show anyone like you described near your flat. So why don’t you just tell me quietly what you remember now. Take your time.’ Should she mention the knifing? Or the DNA tests? On the whole she thought not. Not yet.
    There was a light scratch on the door, and Sally put her head round. Mark suppressed a grin –