Power on Her Own

by Judith Cutler

  Colin had bolted from the room. There were unmistakable sounds to suggest why. Kate was ready to follow.

  ‘No, none of your ministering angel stuff.’ Cope thrust a phone at her. ‘Just get on to the caretakers, will you? Tell them one of our tried and trusted men has just spewed his guts up in the corridor and someone’s going to have to shift it before I for one stir from here. I always come out in sympathy,’ he added ruefully as she dialled.

  Eventually Reg was allowed to go after him. ‘No, he won’t be going anywhere for a bit, Gaffer,’ he said. ‘Something in last night’s balti, I should think.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Reg laughed. ‘Not the best word, in the circumstances, Gaffer!’

  ‘OK. Power. You’re the nearest thing he’s got to a partner. If he needs to get home, you’d better take him. Then have a go at ID-ing that young bloke. The rest of us – well, we all know what we’ve got to do.’

  By the end of the morning, half the squad were ill, and there was a strong rumour about the canteen.

  She knew what response she’d have given if she’d asked Cope for a team of colleagues to check out the cul-de-sac, so she didn’t even bother asking. That was something she’d do tonight. She got stuck into the job he’d given her. She came up with a couple of men who looked not unlike the handsome footballer the kid claimed had followed him, but one was in Long Lartin and the other up in Durham, both for the duration. A cynical part of her brain wanted to believe that the boy had rather wished a footballing hero were following him, but she couldn’t entirely accept that. It was too convenient for one thing. It made more sense to step up the surveillance on his school, and to follow him discreetly on his paper round. Not involved in either of those, she had a chance to turn to some of Colin’s paperwork, and had the satisfaction – if the irritation – of picking up the very bit of information she needed for her car-theft file. She wrapped the whole thing up and took it to Cope.

  ‘I think this is ready when you are, Sir.’

  He stuck out a fist for it. ‘Anything immediate?’

  ‘I reckon we’re ready to pick him up when you give the say-so.’

  He nodded. ‘That’ll be my tonight’s homework, then. Planning it. Jesus, Kate, how can I run this lot when I’ve got two-thirds of the men off?’

  ‘Let’s just say, “don’t eat in the canteen”, Sir! Seriously, any news of DCI Harvey, Sir? I was a bit surprised he wasn’t in, since he managed to get to the match.’ She’d practised this, outloud in the loo. Professional interest only – that was the message of both voice and posture.

  ‘Could do with him, couldn’t we? Hang on – what are you doing here? Thought you were supposed to be off sick?’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with the shrink coming through, Sir. It’s all to do with my partner’s death.’ She examined her voice: no, no quavers. ‘Anyway, I’d rather work through it. There seems to be quite a lot to do.’

  ‘Hmph. Well, we could use you, provided you don’t get the screaming hab-dabs again. Christ, woman, what with your maggots and the canteen, we shall need danger money to work here.’

  Still no news about Graham. She was just about to make her escape when Reg called her.

  ‘Fancy a medicinal half? You look a bit washed out, you know. Maybe you’re not over that maggot business.’

  Hell! Not that she didn’t owe him a half – several pints, in fact. But she wanted to get moving.

  ‘Love one. But we’ll have to put it on the back burner,’ she said, remembering saying the same thing to Graham. ‘I’m checking out something – for Graham Harvey,’ she added, unconvincing even to her own ears. ‘Tell you what – I’ll stand you a sarnie tomorrow. OK?’

  ‘Must be important if it makes you miss a beer,’ Reg said.

  She couldn’t work out whether he was joking or not.

  ‘Just a long shot.’ She shrugged. ‘And these days, if the Gaffer says jump, you just ask, how high?’

  ‘Or if he wants a Fosbury flop! OK, my wench, we’ll have that sarnie tomorrow. See you!’

  Feeling vaguely guilty, she set off. The traffic was so bad, however, she might just as well have had that drink. Half an hour in a pub beat half an hour in a traffic jam any day. But she’d had this feeling before, when she thought she was on to something – she wanted to be alone. She laughed: Me and Greta Garbo both.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Equipped with a clipboard and a bright smile, Kate would have passed muster as a market researcher. The only problem would be if anyone wanted to see her ID. From her Met days she’d kept a quite spurious card guaranteeing her to be something or other official in the market research field. The bottom line was, of course, her police ID.

  She asked a few friendly questions – about dustbin collection, as it happened – at several houses. She always managed to bring the conversation round to the neighbours – she’d gesture convincingly with her Biro. But there were no useful anecdotes, no whispered half-accusations. Despite the drawn curtains at their windows, two houses remained firmly incommunicado. Only one – number six – had a furry draught-excluder covering the letterbox flap; the other – number twenty two – both a draught excluder and a piece of heavy felt. Imagine being a poor postie, trying to get your fingers through that lot.

  She’d done that before, too – pretended even to herself she was thinking about something else when all she wanted to do was leap up and down in triumph. She checked. Yes, the drive was used – there were a couple of oil spots. There was also a double garage, at right angles to the rest of the house but with a connecting passage – what looked like a utility room – to the house itself. The garage was angled so comings and goings would be private. And a Leylandii hedge was doing its bit, too. The windows were so heavily curtained that it was impossible to tell whether anyone was inside or not – not so much as a crack of light escaped.

  Number twenty-two. She wrote it down, just in case. In case of what? A sudden and complete attack of amnesia?

  Head and heart dancing, she made herself walk slowly down the drive.

  She’d give herself another half hour. She’d sit in the car and listen to the radio and pray that someone would come. It was beyond hoping for that anyone would go to twenty-two. It was just possible that someone might go to the last house. The woman on the bus. Please! Anyone, but let it be the woman on the bus.

  She waited an hour. OK, so there was a good programme about diet in the Third World and another about a woman who’d discovered she was a lesbian after twenty years of marriage and two children. She offered it up briefly as an explanation of Mrs Harvey’s behaviour but wasn’t convinced. Odd that she didn’t even know the woman’s Christian name: ‘my wife’ or ‘Mrs Harvey’ were the norm. Weird.

  She was getting very cold, and was in desperate need of a loo. Right. Give up. That’d be the logical thing.

  Five more minutes. She’d give it five more minutes. Well, ten. An arts programme, now, with people being pretentious about a violent film. Funny how people could be so casual about what actually hurt a good deal. Catharsis be blowed: bet that critic’d be in casualty if he so much as shut his finger in the door.

  A car. There’d been plenty of car movement – none to do with number twenty-two, of course – but this was the car she wanted. Yes, she’d be a Golf GTI woman, that expensive woman on the bus. And yes, she’d park at number six, and fish out the sort of bag that she’d take to aerobics. Yes!

  She gave her a couple of minutes to go in. She could trace her movements through the house. Switch off the burglar alarm. A light in what must be the downstairs cloakroom. Hurry up – I need a pee, too! And at last that light went off and the living-room lights brightened.

  Kate recognised her as soon as she opened her front door and couldn’t stop herself smiling as broadly as if they’d been friends for years. The woman was taken aback, but smiled too.

  Kate had decided that she wouldn’t lie to her. She seemed the sort of person who would like to do her
public duty.

  ‘Good evening,’ she began – she nearly called her Pam. ‘I’m a police officer and I believe you may be able to help me.’ She allowed the dimples to show on her smile – no, this wasn’t going to be a threatening talk.

  It was a very pleasant one, complete with first-class coffee and expensive biscuits, after a visit to a well-appointed loo. The living room was a bit heavily fringed and floral for Kate’s taste, but it was beautifully lit by some very elegant floor-level lamps: another idea Kate would have liked to borrow but for the smallness of her house.

  Pam Corby was emphatic. She still harboured suspicions of the house. ‘Fancy your overhearing me! I must be more careful what I say in future! I suppose I mustn’t ask what case you’re investigating?’

  ‘’Fraid not. In any case, it isn’t a proper case as such. Not yet. Just my nosiness. You made it so intriguing the way you described it to your friend.’

  ‘Hazel. Yes, well, if you never see anyone and know someone’s there … I reckon they’ve got a new trick now. They drive this van straight into the garage. Goodness knows what they’re unloading. Oh, d’you think it’s drugs, Ms Power? Or one of those immigration rackets?’

  ‘Immigration racket?’

  ‘Bringing these coloureds in.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any Black or Asian people around?’

  ‘No. But then, I’ve never seen anyone around. Now, my friend Joyce from Colesbrook Road – it backs on to here, Ms Power. Some of the houses are a bit too close for my liking. I like my privacy. The last house we had, the gardens were fifty yards long, so there was no need for net curtains. Like being in the country, almost. Do you know Harborne at all?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve only just moved to Birmingham. It’s nicer here than where I’m living. But you’re overlooked by these Colesbrook Road houses, are you?’

  ‘Some of us. Not at this end. But the house we’re talking about is. A bit. And Joyce swears she’s seen – Look, why don’t I take you round to Joyce’s? Then you can see through her windows. Make up your own mind.’

  Yes! ‘D’you suppose we should phone first? Make sure it’s convenient?’

  Pam slapped her head. ‘Tuesday’s her class too. She goes to creative writing, I do keep fit. She’ll be in any moment. I’ll leave a message on her machine – ask her to phone me back the second she gets here. Now, will you have another coffee while you wait? No? Would you mind if I put News at Ten on? I like to keep up to date. Can’t read on the bus, you see – makes me ill.’

  ‘Please – go ahead.’

  They pretended to watch in silence. But Kate at least was listening for the phone.

  ‘There’s not much to see at this time of night,’ Joyce explained, peering round her thickly lined curtains. ‘As you can see.’

  Kate peered. Nothing. Suspiciously nothing. Not a glimmer from a light.

  ‘I do wish you could tell us what’s going on,’ Joyce said, as she led the way downstairs. Her house was much smaller than Pam’s: probably the floor area was less than Kate’s, although the available space was much more compact. The kitchen was much smaller, Kate noted with a hint of self-congratulation, as if she’d chosen the house rather than had it thrust upon her. But it was the sort of units she’d chosen, and the women settled down with a glass of white wine for a conversation about kitchens. Pam was a widow: her husband had bought an extremely profitable insurance policy before he died in a hit-and-run accident. At least she had no difficulties maintaining her house, though she said she rattled round it. Joyce was bitter after a divorce, having come down in the property world. The wine went round again. This time Kate covered her glass.

  ‘Driving,’ she said.

  ‘You look quite tired,’ Pam said. ‘Have you been on duty all day?’

  Kate nodded. ‘To be fair, this is something I want to do for myself. Following a hunch. But if anything comes of my hunch, your bus conversation could be crucial to our investigations. And I’ll tell you what they’re into the moment I can.’ She drained her glass and set it regretfully on the new working surface.

  Although she’d helped herself to some of the Manse cocoa, she was too busy fizzing with success to sleep. If she were honest, however, she had to admit that all she’d done was locate a house that was causing suspicion. Honest detective work, she told herself But what good would it do? There was a matter of tying it in with a crime. Any crime, not necessarily the paedophile business.

  The women had been nice. They’d talked of her going out to a show with them, or sharing a meal. And though they were so much older than she, she’d take them up on the offer as soon as this business was over.

  Cope rapped his knuckles against her forehead. ‘Is there anyone at home? Half the path. labs in Brum swamped with E.coli specimens from the squad and you want me to set up surveillance for a house that a set of nosy women thinks is being used for some unspecified crime? Are you off your head? God, some of them maggots must have got your brain. Piss off, now. I’ve got work to do.’

  What else had she expected? She left his office, closing the door with meticulous precision. The office seemed empty, however, and she slammed her hands on the desk. ‘Fuck it!’

  ‘Hang on, my wench, that’s not the sort of language I expect from you. What’s up?’

  ‘Sorry, Reg. Didn’t realise you were there. Just –’

  But Cope was in the doorway. ‘God knows how we’re going to allocate work loads today. Selby’s in: he’s in the Incident Room working away. Seems he’s not very happy with something you said, Power. You need to be a bit more tactful the way you talk to people, you know. Can’t go putting people’s backs up all the time. Colin reckons he’ll be in tomorrow. Sally’s in hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Hospital’s what I said. Now, Reg, what I’d like you to do is this …’

  Lunch-time. Kate would have been happy to work through, but Reg appeared at the office door. ‘Come on, my wench: they’ll have run out of booze. No, we’re going to a little bar a bit out of the way. It’s one thing working with policemen all day, it’s another sharing you beer with a load of flat-feet pretending to be something else.’

  They found a small bar full of lawyers instead. The champagne seemed to be flowing. ‘Hey up, there’s a table over there. Shove your way through, Kate. I’ll get – what d’you want?’

  ‘Half of bitter, please!’ she called as she pushed through some very expensive suits.

  ‘Chose the wrong job, didn’t we, my wench?’ Reg dropped a packet of crisps on the table. ‘I ordered a couple of ploughman’s platters – OK?’

  ‘Great.’ She pushed a tenner across. ‘My shout. Only fair.’

  ‘Fair enough. Hey, I got my son’s wedding photos here. Last set arrived today. Fancy a shufti?’

  ‘Try and stop me. I’m a sucker for weddings.’ Not that she was. But Reg didn’t want to hear that.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? That’s the plane we went out in.’

  It was to be a frame by careful frame examination – none of your quick shuffles through for Reg. He’d got a new camera, he said. Did everything bar playing ‘God Save the Queen’. Kate took each one and looked at it carefully, trying to find some perceptive comment to make about each. At last, her powers of invention failing her, she pointed to the figures in the bottom of each print.

  ‘Oh yes, the time and date of each one. Saves no end of time when you put them in the album,’ he said.

  The procession continued.

  The ploughman’s platters arrived. The photographs continued unabated. The last photos were dated early September, two days before she’d come to Birmingham. Kate was just about to ask why he’d taken none for the last three weeks of his visit when a loud lawyer stepped backwards, knocking their table. Kate swooped, lifting the prints before they were engulfed in a tide of beer.

  By the time apologies had been made and accepted – rather grudgingly on Reg’s side – it was time to go.

&n
bsp; ‘Hey, you were going to tell me all about this row you had with Cope,’ Reg said as they shrugged into their jackets.

  ‘Not worth the breath it would take,’ Kate temporised. ‘You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Ah. But you mustn’t let it get to you, see.’

  They set off, Kate setting a brisk pace.

  ‘Hang on, love. Your legs must be longer than mine. Younger, any road.’

  As they climbed the stairs, Reg’s breathing notably heavier than Kate’s, he turned to her. ‘You never told me about this job for young Graham. Anything special?’

  ‘Just a long shot. To do with this –’

  ‘That you, Power?’ It was Cope, yelling from the office door. ‘Get a move on, woman, there’s someone hanging on the phone for you.’

  Kate sped.

  But it was only Maureen, from Kings Heath police station. ‘We may have made a bit of progress on your rape case,’ she said. ‘Since you lot in the city centre never do a stroke, why don’t you drop round here for a balti and a bit of a natter? You could meet my new fiancé,’ she said.

  Fiancé. It was almost a term from another era. People moved in, didn’t they? Got married if kids came along. But there was something touching about Maureen’s tone, as if meeting the man concerned was an honour.

  Kate smiled. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘What time? Only I’ve got my football training till about eight-thirty.’

  More small boys seemed to have appeared from the woodwork: news of comparative success had travelled fast. Alec and Derek were there, stretching and bending with the best of them. They backed out when it came to shooting practice, on the grounds that it was the boys who really needed to polish that particular set of skills. But they stayed with Kate.

  ‘Not that our presence is necessary any more. Your references shone from the page, Kate.’