Burying the Past Read Online Free PDF Page B

highly profitable site should the church ever be declared redundant. Fran could imagine some rapacious developer sidling up to the Church Commissioners and rubbing his hands in glee as he saw the tiny congregation dwindle further. As for Mark, a fervent admirer of the Reverend Janie Falkirk’s sermons, he always thought she was wasted where she was and nursed the hope of hearing her in a grand cathedral pulpit.
    Janie, on the other hand, greeting Fran with a smile that couldn’t disguise the fact that her face was lined with anxiety, always said she was where God had planted her, and no doubt He’d transplant her when He was ready. ‘My study,’ was all she said, heading Fran off from the kitchen, where she was usually entertained.
    She didn’t respond to Fran’s raised eyebrows till the study door was firmly closed. Fran didn’t need to be told to sit; she moved a heap of papers from a chair the room might have been built round and prepared to make herself uncomfortable.
    â€˜There’s a lass in the kitchen thinks she’s killed someone.’
    Janie could still surprise her. ‘Thinks?’
    â€˜Man broke in to her flat and raped her in her bed. She had a knife to hand – this is the bit I don’t like, Fran – and stuck him between the ribs. He left, with the knife in place. She came here.’
    â€˜Because?’
    â€˜Trust issues with you people, of course.’
    â€˜So she’s not been medically examined? Of course not. But she must be – you must make her see that. If she has knifed someone, there’s got to be a damned good excuse. If she’s killed someone, a watertight reason would be better.’
    â€˜Hand herself in?’
    â€˜No! Report the rape! She’s the victim, assuming she’s telling the truth. The Sexual Crimes Unit people are the ones who should be dealing with this.’
    â€˜I don’t know them. I know you. If I tell her I’d trust you with my life, maybe she’ll do as you say. Maybe.’
    â€˜You want to talk to her alone first?’
    â€˜You can edit my sermon while I’m away.’ She patted an elderly computer.
    But it was Fran’s mobile that took all her attention. After twenty long minutes spent handling a torrent of calls and texts, dealing equally with the chief’s departure, the Chinese murder and the cable thefts, Fran was finally summoned to the kitchen. This was Janie’s sanctuary, the beating heart of the vicarage – it was, as Janie always said dourly and almost certainly truthfully, the only room in the house she could afford to heat, which was why her sermons were getting shorter. At one end of a much-scrubbed table hunched a young woman the height and build of Caffy; the main difference was that this girl had
victim
written all over her, with
drug-user
as part of the palimpsest.
    â€˜Just tell me what happened,’ Fran said, accepting a mug of tea, which both she and Janie knew she’d never drink because it was so strong and stewed.
    â€˜He came in and raped me. I was asleep, miss, and he raped me. No condom, nothing. Does that mean I’ll get pregnant?’
    Janie said, ‘We’ll make damned sure you don’t, lass.’
    â€˜Aids! I could get Aids!’
    â€˜If he’s carrying it, it’s always a possibility – so we need to address that quickly too,’ Janie said. ‘As I was telling you a wee while back, Fran here’s not just a policewoman, she’s a top policewoman, the sort that makes things happen. Now, one of the things she’s done – this is right, isn’t it, Fran? – is set up a team of women, police officers and medics, who specialize in sexual assault. They’ll take your clothes and bedclothes and make sure they get any evidence.’
    The girl said, with a mixture of worldliness and terror, ‘They’ll want more than that, won’t they?’
    â€˜They’ll