Hidden Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘I’ll have to check date availability,’ Gregorie told them. ‘Bear with me one second.’

  He relinquished his file, and flipped open a mobile phone, turning a shoulder discreetly and managing to drift away so that they couldn’t overhear his conversation. But he soon returned, with a beatific smile. He might have arranged the treat especially for Kate.

  ‘As it happens we do have site availability next weekend. But there is one problem. I’m afraid that that village is also in the process of upgrading. The apartment you’re allocated may not be up to the standards you see here.’

  ‘No problem,’ Colin said ‘I assume the facilities’

  Back to the file. ‘Golf tennis; sea bathing. You might even want to dash across to France—Eurostar stops at Ashford, or you can—go through the Channel Tunnel… Get some real champagne,’ he added, as if the Buck’s Fizz were cause for personal shame.

  ‘Kent! You’re going to bloody Kent!’

  Monday morning found Kate and Colin closeted once more with Sue, whose hair looked as if she’d spent the weekend tearing it: history homework, perhaps, for which she always found more enthusiasm than her children.

  ‘The problem is, Gaffer,’ Kate said, ‘that they’re currently refurbishing the Devon village. No vacancies.’

  ‘What a surprise.’ Sue leaned back in her chair, one arm across her chest, the other pulling her cheeks towards her chin, exaggerating the worry lines. ‘So how do we get you to Devon, eh?’

  ‘What’s so special about Devon, Gaffer? My Gran apart,’ Colin asked.

  ‘I wish I could tell you Whatever it is is causing interest at the highest level Meanwhile, do you intend to nip down to the sunny south this weekend’

  ‘Why not Might as well watch the rain there as anywhere’

  ‘It’s a long way down for thirty-six hours of weather watching If you’re not going to Devon, I’m afraid you’ll have to be back at your desks at the usual time on Monday. Sorry’

  ‘Hang on, Gaffer,’ Kate said ‘This is part of some sort of enquiry—that’s obvious So doesn’t sniffing round Kent constitute part of that enquiry?’

  Sue produced an impish smile ‘When I was a teenager, I used to go to chapel—regular as clockwork, because that was what people did in my part of Wales’

  You don’t have any accent,’ Colin observe.

  ‘I know you like flaunting yours, but some of us prefer to be discreet about our origins. Anyway, back in the valley there was a joke going round that this really devout young couple, saving themselves till their wedding night, found they wouldn’t arrive at their honeymoon hotel till the Sabbath So they asked their minister if they were allowed to consummate their marriage on a Sunday. He and the Elders watched and prayed ‘ Sue’s accent emerged from hiding and exposed its full glory ‘and at last were vouchsafed an answer. “It’s all right to have sex,” the minister told the couple, “so long as you don’t enjoy it.”’

  Tickled by a side of Sue quite new to her as much as by the joke, Kate grinned broadly. ‘So we can come back on the Monday morning provided we have a really miserable time. Which precludes trips to France?’.

  ‘I rather think it does Unless you pay your own way’

  ‘Not that it would have been easy to fit it in,’ Colin put in ‘They want us to go to another presentation as part of the deal Sunday morning Starting, God help us, at ten’

  Sue nodded. ‘OK. Spend as much of the weekend as you canon site Talk to the other guests Go to that presentation and pick up as much as you can without actually signing anything Just a word of warning.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘The M25,’ she said. ‘Don’t try to get on it before seven in the evening, or, coming back, before ten in the morning My bloke’s on the road a lot, remember.’ She touched the side of her nose.

  ‘Which means we should work late here on Friday to compensate for not getting back till lunchtime on Monday,’ Colin said sourly, looking down the corridor to check that no one could overhear. ‘And no bloody France.’

  ‘And a weekend for you with no bloody Bruno,’ Kate observed. ‘And a weekend for you with no bloody Rod. About whom you’ve kept distinctly quiet.’

  ‘I told you, he’s been on a course.’

  ‘Which ends?’

  ‘This Friday, as it happens.’

  ‘But you haven’t said anything! Why did you agree to go to bloody Kent? Or even bloody Devon?’

  ‘We agreed: work must always come first.’ Hell, she sounded so pompous! ‘After all, we’re not even properly together…’ Fatima emerged from the ladies’ loo, shaking her hands dry. ‘Let’s talk about this over lunch,’ Colin said. ‘I’ve got the glimmer of an idea.’

  ‘So,’ agreed Kate, ‘have I. A bit more than a glimmer.’

  ‘Phone. Kate! Phone!’ Fatima was calling, trying to suppress a snigger.

  Blushing, Kate reached for the handset. It had been like that all morning. Her head was low down over the files, maybe, but her brain was engaged with the much more urgent problem of Rod, who, for all their fine words about professionalism, would be as disappointed as she was that they couldn’t have some sort of reunion—even just as friends, which they still were. Just friends. Just about. There was no doubt he wanted to return to a sexual relationship, and her body insisted that there was nothing wrong at all with bonking a handsome man with a gorgeous body. But her head still had doubts, and her heart still felt as if a cold fist clutched it every time she thought of Graham. Forget Graham. Think Rod.

  Sue slapped her thighs with amusement. ‘I wondered how soon you’d be back with that idea. Poor Colin, a lowly DC, rejected for a Det. Supt. Well, a detective superintendent must be a good detective. In theory. But my caveats about your working hours still apply. And when you tell him about the assignment, remind him it’s all top secret.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Kate opened the door.

  ‘And I shall want a written report. Very soon.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ She closed the door again. ‘This is serious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very. Now, remember what I said about enjoying it!’

  Chapter 3

  ‘I thought,’ said Rod Neville, retrieving their cases—predictably he’d insisted on carrying both—from the path in front of the door marked Reception, ‘that you’d told me this firm ran a tight ship.’

  Kate nodded gloomily. ‘But it looks as if this particular vessel’s leaky.’ She rapped the door again with the edge of a coin, but to no avail. ‘OK. We drive the best part of five hours in vile conditions and now there’s no one to let us in. What next?’

  ‘Shall we go and find an hotel and bill the organisation? Or even West Midlands Police?’

  ‘Yes! If you dare,’ she added with a grin.

  It was obvious he didn’t—quite. So she had to say something to save his face. ‘Shame, isn’t it—I’m supposed to be working, aren’t I? And you’re supposed to be a substitute for DC Colin Roper, aka Mr Power. And I’m sure he wouldn’t suggest bunking off duty.’ She stuck her tongue out. ‘Hell, there must be a way of getting in.’

  ‘If you’re truly determined—and if you’re sure Mr Power would have been equally determined—then I suggest we try the bar over there. It smells as if they offer food, too. Even if I would hardly anticipate it being a centre of gastronomic excellence.’

  He picked up the cases and let Kate lead the way to what modestly—but perhaps accurately—described itself as a social club. Anything further from the sophistication of the Oxford set-up would have been hard to imagine. The decor, the menu, the games machine: nothing seemed to have happened since the seventies. But the equally tired-looking woman behind the bar managed a smile in response to Rod’s and as soon as she’d heard his problem fished under her counter for their key, pointing vaguely over her shoulder when asked for directions to their unit. She also looked pointedly at her watch.

  ‘What time do you finish serving food?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Five minutes. So if you want anything…’ Bu
t it was Rod she was smiling at, the half ogle, half fuck-me eye flutter that Kate was used to seeing him evoke in older women. His height, his build, well-cut casual clothes: he was decidedly easy on the eye, especially when he removed his mandatory work-place frown, replacing it with a charming boyish grin that took ten years off him. Bother Sue and her worries.

  The rain, recently a heavy drizzle, suddenly swirled against the window. Whatever the nearby towns offered, this place was warm and dry, and, come to look at it, fairly clean. Fish and chips and bitter for two seemed as good as anything. And certainly better than plunging back onto unknown roads in the hope of anything else.

  Their fellow diners—no, in fact everyone else was simply drinking—were equally far from the Oxford set. The women seemed to favour the sort of stretch slacks with elasticated waists that Aunt Cassie used to wear before she became, as she put it, properly old. She’d usually gone for a smart navy; most of these-ladies sported a sad dun; matching their menfolk’s polyester cavalry twill. Shoes were dully sensible. There were even one or two transparent folding plastic rain hoods drying on the tables. Rainmates, that’s what Cassie called them.

  Rod seated her as if they were at the Ritz, retrieved packets of sauce and other condiments, and, at last sitting opposite her, raised his glass.

  Kate toasted him in return. She could trace the thought circling round his head: he’d better not be so transparent when dealing with criminals. But perhaps she could only see the wheels turning because the same thought was making her, temples chug. How would they deal with the sex part of the:weekend? He’d wanted to know what the apartment offered by way of bedrooms as soon as she’d suggested the weekend: deadpan, she’d reported that there were two. In the car journey—and the M25 section seemed interminable—they’d talked about everything and anything, from the course he’d been on to her garden. Everything except sex. Interestingly, he really did seem to know nothing about what she’d taken to calling their assignment, and demanded a detailed update.

  ‘This’ll take all of fifty seconds! Sue’s terribly gnomic about the whole thing. I even have to swear you to secrecy.’

  ‘I swear. I wonder if…?’

  ‘You do know something!’

  ‘There’s a lot of rumours about drugs factories on the Moor. But nothing to connect them as far as I know with holiday camps. Well, we’ll just have to do as we’re told and keep our eyes and ears open. I’ll take my cue from you,’ he’d added.

  No doubt he’d take his cue from her about sex, too. Well, was their relationship back on or not? Her body firmly switched her head off.

  It was evident that, new licensing laws notwithstanding, this bar closed at ten thirty. Draining their glasses, they complimented the barmaid on the food, and set off for their apartment, trailing along walkways that seemed to go everywhere except where they were wanted. At last, shoes awash and hair streaming, they found it—in the only corner with no security lights.

  Eventually they stopped laughing. Rod had sprinted back to the bar for change for the meter, returning wetter than ever to find Kate sitting in total darkness swathed in the sheet she’d used as a towel.

  ‘No light, no heat, no towels, nothing in the fridge: this isn’t the sort of weekend break I’d had in mind,’ she admitted, passing him another sheet, which he applied to his hair.

  No longer dripping, at least, he fed the meter. The place looked slightly worse in the rosy glow cast by a forty-watt bulb inexplicably shrouded in a crimson shade, but at least they could conjure warmth from a space heater. He towelled his hair again, but stripped off only his jacket before disappearing into the kitchen. Returning clutching two mugs, he said, ‘What a good job I brought the sort of bottle that doesn’t require an opener… Where did you put my case, by the way?’ he added, not quite meeting her eye.

  She responded with another paroxysm. ‘In the master bedroom!’ she managed at last, pointing. She gave him thirty seconds before following.

  ‘God Almighty,’ he exploded, taking in the chaste single beds with sheets drawn as tightly as in a hospital ‘And what’s the other one like?’

  ‘That’s where I got these sheets. Bunk beds!’ she howled. ‘And Toy Story curtains.’ She collapsed on the nearest bed, only to watch him fish a champagne bottle from his bag and head purposefully back to the living room. Drawn by a series of soft grunts, she followed. He was unfolding the sofa to discover a bed.

  At last they were driven by the vicious sofa bed mattress to seek what Rod had started to call the nuns’ dormitory. Perhaps it was better that way. To have wonderful sex with someone didn’t imply the same sort of commitment as going to sleep in his, arms she told herself. In any case, after a vicious journey on top of a heavy week at work, sleep was undoubtedly called for. So why couldn’t she settle?

  She lay on her back, eyes wide open, getting used to the sounds of the place It might not be the city, but it wasn’t quiet out here There was a dull roar it took her a few moments to work out that it was the sea. And nearer to the complex there was the tear and groan of trees. Rod had already fallen asleep, not snoring, but making gentle popping noises as his lips relaxed in the outward breath. She turned, enjoying the sight of his profile outlined against the thin curtains even if their security light was out of action, the complex was still well lit So why couldn’t she sleep? She felt watched, that was why.

  Uneasy enough to swathe herself in the sheet she’d worn before, she slipped silently out of bed and padded to the window, ready to yell at a Peeping Tom. No one. Gathering up her toga, she decided to use the bathroom—there was all that champagne to get rid of, after all. But she didn’t switch on any lights, relying on memory and touch when the ambient light let her down. Back in the bedroom, she was in bed and about to snuggle under the blankets when something caught her eye. A tiny, tiny pinprick gleamed in the angle between the wall and the ceiling, up in the far corner. All hope of sleep fled. It couldn’t be—Christ, it might be a surveillance camera! It might just be. What if they’d made love in here? Thank God for the convent beds! Until she’d worked out what was going on, she’d better pretend she’d noticed nothing—fall asleep, dream, move round in her sleep. No one watching must suspect she was anything other than a relaxed holiday-maker.

  Well, she told herself, feign sleep. And feign it well. For she’d better be awake in the morning before Rod, hadn’t she? Because she knew exactly how Rod liked celebrating a new day.

  A root around the kitchen produced half a dozen catering tea-bags and some plastic pots of coffee whitener. While the kettle boiled, she retired to the bathroom to get dressed, not because she was embarrassed to be naked in front of Rod, but because she was still mortally suspicious of the dark little hole in the corner of the bedroom.

  As she carried his mug through, she stood looking at him, tidy in the little bed as if entombed. She took in the errant hair that gave his left eyebrow a quizzical tilt, and a stray lash cast adrift on his cheek. She wanted to kiss it away. The mug clattered slightly as she put it down, but not enough to wake him. So she flung back the curtains. By daylight, despite what looked like sea mist hovering over it, the complex looked as potentially attractive as the Oxford one—terraced apartments built round a central quadrangle.

  The light woke Rod, who emerged from his cocoon stretching and registering her fully clothed state compared to his naked one. Her back to the camera—if that was what it was—she touched a finger to her lips.

  He stared.

  Pointing to the living room, she mouthed, ‘In there.’

  But he dressed before he emerged, puzzled, hurt looking, even a mite angry. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the tea. She slipped back to get it. She also retrieved his jacket, patting the pocket to check his keys were there.

  ‘Breakfast out, this morning,’ she said brightly. After all, there might be listening devices. ‘In the absence of any supplies. There must be a decent café in Hythe. Soon as you’ve shaved.’

  ‘Kate—’

  ‘Tel
l you what, while you do that I’ll go and see if I can buy a paper.’

  At last he seemed to be twigging that she was trying to tell him something. ‘Maybe I’ll skip the shave. Until we’ve eaten.’ As he let her into his car, he asked, ‘Can you tell me what’s going on? Have I upset or offended you in some way?’

  Before fastening her seat belt she leaned across to kiss him, very chastely, on the cheek. ‘Not at all. The reverse, I’d say.’

  ‘So why all this frost?’

  ‘I’ll tell you once we’re off the complex. Just smile in a cousinly way and drive.’

  ‘Cousinly!’ He started the car and set off gently down the speed-ramped drive. ‘Don’t see any tennis courts, Kate.’

  ‘And I don’t see me doing any sea bathing. This bears remarkably little resemblance to the Oxford complex Colin and I lusted after.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll explain why at the presentation tomorrow,’ Rod observed, turning the car on to the Hythe Road. ‘And perhaps you’ll explain the cloak and dagger stuff.’

  ‘Now we’re away from the thought police, of course I can. There’s a lay-by over there—do you want to pull in?’

  He managed to infuse irony even into his parking.

  ‘How does the idea of surveillance cameras grab you?’ she asked, without preamble.

  ‘Surveillance cameras? Where, for God’s sake?’

  ‘In the main bedroom. I think. There’s a tiny black dot in the corner, over by the window. In the angle between the wall and the ceiling. I wasn’t sure what it might be, and I’m afraid I may have over-reacted. But I could scarcely stand on the dressing table to investigate.’

  ‘A fish-eye version of your face in close-up would certainly disconcert. I whoever has to check the film. If it is a camera, of course. Tell me, why on earth should they put surveillance cameras in a place like that?’

  She turned more fully to him, raising an amused eyebrow. ‘Let’s hope they don’t have one in the sitting room. It wasn’t very cousinly behaviour, was it?’