Burying the Past by Judith Cutler Page B

has to be grateful she’s got a job – all this anti-age discrimination’s a lot of theoretical tosh, if you ask me. I’ll just have to get Mr Wren trained, assuming he’s appointed long-term.’ She nodded home her point, before adding, ‘Are you feeling better now?’
    â€˜Much, thanks. Maybe I’d better try Fran again before I go and beard this stranger, though.’ Stranger. How about that for a Freudian slip? Caffy would love it.
    But stranger he was, his lovely firstborn, the kid he’d never quite had enough time for – the kid whose birthday parties he’d turned up late for or had to leave early. The kid he’d left to Tina to discipline and cuddle better: she might have been a single parent. Perhaps that was why Sammie had turned out as she had; he didn’t even know how Dave had turned out, did he?
    Observing him via the CCTV screen, Mark was shocked. He’d have passed him in the street, with that American business suit and aggressive hair cut. He was tapping away at the latest phone, occasionally flicking a fierce glance at his wristwatch, though surely the phone would have told him the time in every continent, every time zone, even.
    Mark found himself checking for biscuit crumbs, squaring his tie, pulling in his stomach, though thanks to Fran and her insistence on exercise for them both, he was trimmer than most men his age. And at the thought of Fran, he was suffused by a simple but profound desire – to have her beside him literally holding his hand when he confronted Dave. Turning from the reception area, he dialled her, just in case.
    Although she’d have said the place Janie had chosen was quiet to the point of peaceful, Fran had to bend her head close to Cynd’s to catch the words.
    â€˜It was a punter, miss. That I knifed. I do it for me fix, see.’
    Fran could almost feel Janie willing her not to mention at this juncture the possibility of coming off drugs. But she didn’t think she would have done anyway.
    â€˜Did you know the punter? I mean, was it the first time he’d been a client?’ Hell, this was all too heavy. These days interviews like this – any interviews, for God’s sake – were conducted by officers with special and regularly updated training. In something as delicate as this there should have been a team watching, waiting to advise – interrupting if necessary. Meanwhile, Cynd’s trust was ebbing away quite visibly.
    â€˜Sorry, Cynd. I just can’t stop myself interrupting. Why not just tell me what happened and I’ll try to keep my mouth buttoned.’ With her left thumb and forefinger, she literally pinched her lips together, hoping the bit of silliness would undo some of the harm her earlier tone had done. Meanwhile, time was ticking on, and she was supposed to be at the rectory.
    Cynd stared at Janie, as if asking what the hell she’d done to agree to talk to the daft old bat again.
    â€˜That’s fine. Just tell her what happened,’ Janie said.
    Fran’s phone rang. Her instinct was to kill it – but she checked. Fatal to her interview – her
talk
– with Cynd. Possibly. Possibly not? It was just what Cynd would have done herself.
    It was Mr Pargetter. ‘Don’t like the thought of taking the van down that lane of yours,’ he declared.
    But he’d never been meant to! ‘Go straight to the self-store,’ she said. ‘I’ll phone ahead to tell them to let you in.’
    â€˜Doesn’t work like that, Mrs Harman, does it? You have to be there to unlock your units. You’ve got the keys to the padlocks.’
    â€˜So I have.’ She’d put them on a chain round her neck so she wouldn’t put them down somewhere and lose them in the chaos. ‘Have you and your lads had lunch yet?’
    â€˜We don’t do lunch, Mrs Harman. We work straight through. And we finish when we’ve done the