to it?”’ Sue asked in a pseudo-official voice.
‘Got it in one. There’s a fine line between checking that all that’s necessary has been done and starting an inquiry from scratch.’
‘But you’re starting from the premise that all has not been done, aren’t you, ma’am? Guv?’
Fran nodded, a rueful grin matching her protégée’s. ‘And that’s going to come expensive.’
Sue’s face fell. ‘Does that mean you just rubber-stamp everything and give up?’
‘I shall have to take it back to the ACC. But I shall tell him we both feel there are areas that may warrant – less complacency, shall we say? Trouble is, Sue, just because Mark and I are together, that doesn’t mean I can influence him when his head and his budgets say no.’
‘But surely his budget would stretch to talking to Barnes and Roper again.’
‘It better had. Or he’ll be cooking the supper for a week.’
They turned together and signed out.
Fran pointed to Sue’s gold cross. ‘Do you believe in all that?’
‘I got talked to by a vicar, guv, during an Alpha Course. A nice woman.’
‘Not Janie Falkirk, by any chance? The priest in charge of St Jude’s, that run-down church in Canterbury?’ And instrumental in solving the tricky case she and Sue had worked on. Or perhaps it had been the doing of St Jude himself, the patron saint of lost causes. ‘Don’t look so embarrassed, Sue. She’s a good woman. But if you did happen to believe in saints and things, it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with St Anthony, would it?’
‘Janie’s a bit low-church for saints. Why St Anthony, anyway?’
‘I’ve an idea he’s the guy you pray to when you want to find something. In this case, poor Janine Roper’s body.’
‘You know I trust your instincts absolutely, Fran. If you think there’s something dodgy, there is. But in the current climate we need something pretty concrete to justify reopening a case for which, after all, we got a conviction.’ Mark looked across his desk. It was a matter of principle with them both that any discussion of this sort should be as official as possible, with discussions and, more important, decisions, properly recorded.
‘I realise that. But I do feel that, at the very least, we should reinterview Roper and Barnes. Roper is here in Maidstone nick for goodness’ sake – it wouldn’t take much longer than popping to the dentist.’ She spoke so innocently there had to be a catch.
‘And Barnes? Don’t tell me – Dartmoor or somewhere equally inaccessible. Oh, Fran—’
‘It’s not my fault they move the prison population round like so many pawns on a chessboard, with far less reason and rationale. Durham,’ she confessed at last.
‘Jesus Christ! How do his family manage to visit him?’ He slammed his hands on his desk in exasperation. ‘Rehabilitation, returning to the community? All we do is lock the buggers up and shuffle them round and then we’re surprised prison doesn’t work. Go to Durham if you must, Fran. But why not try Maidstone first?’
‘I intended to – he’s the husband, after all.’
He expected her to end the official conversation with a quick private one. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
And her face was so blank that he knew she was up to something. Worse, that she wanted him to do something. From the quality of her silence he knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to get on to his friend in the Prison Service and whisper that Barnes should be moved again – yet again? – and this time somewhere nearer home. Still neither spoke. At last he simply flapped his hands, and she left without so much as a wink.
He’d better get on the phone, hadn’t he, and have a conversation he must absolutely never have had.
Fran was just shrugging on her jacket when someone knocked on her door. But it wasn’t Mark she beamed at. It was DCI Joanne Pearce, a woman Fran always felt she could do business with, though she always wanted to tell
‘Got it in one. There’s a fine line between checking that all that’s necessary has been done and starting an inquiry from scratch.’
‘But you’re starting from the premise that all has not been done, aren’t you, ma’am? Guv?’
Fran nodded, a rueful grin matching her protégée’s. ‘And that’s going to come expensive.’
Sue’s face fell. ‘Does that mean you just rubber-stamp everything and give up?’
‘I shall have to take it back to the ACC. But I shall tell him we both feel there are areas that may warrant – less complacency, shall we say? Trouble is, Sue, just because Mark and I are together, that doesn’t mean I can influence him when his head and his budgets say no.’
‘But surely his budget would stretch to talking to Barnes and Roper again.’
‘It better had. Or he’ll be cooking the supper for a week.’
They turned together and signed out.
Fran pointed to Sue’s gold cross. ‘Do you believe in all that?’
‘I got talked to by a vicar, guv, during an Alpha Course. A nice woman.’
‘Not Janie Falkirk, by any chance? The priest in charge of St Jude’s, that run-down church in Canterbury?’ And instrumental in solving the tricky case she and Sue had worked on. Or perhaps it had been the doing of St Jude himself, the patron saint of lost causes. ‘Don’t look so embarrassed, Sue. She’s a good woman. But if you did happen to believe in saints and things, it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with St Anthony, would it?’
‘Janie’s a bit low-church for saints. Why St Anthony, anyway?’
‘I’ve an idea he’s the guy you pray to when you want to find something. In this case, poor Janine Roper’s body.’
‘You know I trust your instincts absolutely, Fran. If you think there’s something dodgy, there is. But in the current climate we need something pretty concrete to justify reopening a case for which, after all, we got a conviction.’ Mark looked across his desk. It was a matter of principle with them both that any discussion of this sort should be as official as possible, with discussions and, more important, decisions, properly recorded.
‘I realise that. But I do feel that, at the very least, we should reinterview Roper and Barnes. Roper is here in Maidstone nick for goodness’ sake – it wouldn’t take much longer than popping to the dentist.’ She spoke so innocently there had to be a catch.
‘And Barnes? Don’t tell me – Dartmoor or somewhere equally inaccessible. Oh, Fran—’
‘It’s not my fault they move the prison population round like so many pawns on a chessboard, with far less reason and rationale. Durham,’ she confessed at last.
‘Jesus Christ! How do his family manage to visit him?’ He slammed his hands on his desk in exasperation. ‘Rehabilitation, returning to the community? All we do is lock the buggers up and shuffle them round and then we’re surprised prison doesn’t work. Go to Durham if you must, Fran. But why not try Maidstone first?’
‘I intended to – he’s the husband, after all.’
He expected her to end the official conversation with a quick private one. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
And her face was so blank that he knew she was up to something. Worse, that she wanted him to do something. From the quality of her silence he knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to get on to his friend in the Prison Service and whisper that Barnes should be moved again – yet again? – and this time somewhere nearer home. Still neither spoke. At last he simply flapped his hands, and she left without so much as a wink.
He’d better get on the phone, hadn’t he, and have a conversation he must absolutely never have had.
Fran was just shrugging on her jacket when someone knocked on her door. But it wasn’t Mark she beamed at. It was DCI Joanne Pearce, a woman Fran always felt she could do business with, though she always wanted to tell
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