She was so engrossed by her attempts to select facts which seemed salient and present them in some sort of coherent order she hardly registered the phone. At last she picked it up, with the most perfunctory greeting.
‘Kate. Are you all right?’
‘Graham!’ Her voice expressed in almost equal measure delight and disbelief that he would risk calling her at work.
‘The Simmons case, Kate. I’ve been trying to get you all day. We really do have to talk. I’ve OK’d it with Lizzie. She says first thing tomorrow’s fine.’
Bloody Lizzie! ‘I’m supposed to be talking to— No problem, I’ll put it off. What time and where?’
‘I suppose – I suppose you couldn’t give me a lift in? Only my car’s—’
‘Of course I’ll give you a lift.’ Oh, Graham, I’d love to. ‘Where shall I pick you up?’
‘End of my road? Say, ten past eight?’
So how long would it take her to get from Kings Heath across to his leafier suburb? If she had to set out at six, she’d be there.
‘Ten past eight it is.’
‘Thanks.’ He cut the connection.
On impulse, looking round guiltily, she reached for her organiser and fished out from the back flap a note Graham had once sent her. Nothing personal, heavens no, and nothing remotely romantic. But she’d kept it because he’d written it himself, not on his computer, but in his own handwriting. She peered at the t’s, at the o’s: she hoped to God Dr Walcott was right. If he wasn’t, she was having a love affair with a secretive, vicious-tongued man.
Chapter Six
‘Shorts? Coming visiting in shorts?’ Aunt Cassie demanded. ‘Goodness me! When I played tennis we used to go to the club properly dressed and change there. We wouldn’t have gone through the public streets wearing shorts. And what do you call that vest thing?’
Time to sidestep. Kate was wearing an admittedly skimpy top and shorts because it was a hot evening, that was all. It was a shame the self-tanning lotion had gone streaky in places, but her legs still looked good. ‘Come on, Aunt Cassie, you told me you used to wear daring dresses for tennis. You were going to look out your photos.’
‘Well, I haven’t had time. You’ve no idea what it’s like at this place. Come here, go there. Oh, you’ll tell me it’s all for my own good, but they’ve got this idea we should be out in the garden in this weather. And they gave us a barbecue last night.’
Kate laughed. ‘That’s wonderful, Aunt Cassie.’
‘It may be if you like meat that’s black on the outside and bloody in the middle. Actually, the sausages weren’t bad. Or the salmon.’
Salmon! Some barbecue. But Aunt Cassie was paying enough for this residential home: she was entitled to salmon, yes, and caviar too.
‘I should think this hot, dry weather’s good for your arthritis,’ Kate suggested.
‘I’ve known it worse,’ Cassie conceded. ‘So when are you going to show me this new garden of yours, then? You promised, but I expect you’ve forgotten all about it.’
Forgotten! Fat chance of forgetting. Cassie raised it each time she came.
‘I’ve got the car outside waiting for you,’ Kate said.
‘But it’s time for Coronation Street. You wouldn’t want me to miss that.’
Kate shook her head. ‘I’d forgotten about that. What about tomorrow night?’
‘They say they’ll have something special for us. Some kids from the Conservatoire are going to play in the grounds for us. A little concert. I can’t let them down, now, can I?’
‘We’ll try and make it this weekend, then.’ Kate smiled. ‘Now, shall I fix you a gin?’
‘If you like. Then you might as well push off. But you can see me down to the TV room before you go. It’s nice to have a bit of company while you’re watching,’ she added plaintively.
‘I’m sure it is. Now, shall I carry the drink for you?’
Cassie shook her head vehemently. ‘I’ll have that now. Or they’ll all want a glass, won’t they?’
Kate wasn’t sure which part of her anatomy Graham Harvey’s wife noticed first, as they came upon each other at the door leading to the car park. Flavia Harvey was rather more modestly dressed, in long skirt and loose blouse. Both women wore sunglasses and sun-hats, Kate’s a stylish Greek straw to the other’s cotton floppy, so there might conceivably have been a reason for Mrs Harvey’s apparent failure to recognise Kate. But Kate – there must be some of Aunt Cassie’s cussed DNA in her genes – decided to both recognise and greet the other woman. No. Kate was the other woman. Mrs Harvey was Graham’s lawful wedded wife.
Kate whisked off the dark glasses. ‘Hello!’ She smiled. ‘How are you? And how’s Mrs Nelmes?’
It was easier to ask after Mrs Harvey’s mother: at least Kate knew what to call her. She was loath to address anyone she knew by their title plus surname, but she was fairly sure that ‘Flavia’ would be objectionably intimate.
‘She finds the heat distressing.’ There was a hesitation. ‘And your great-aunt?’
‘Pretty crotchety.’
‘It’s a sad thing, growing old.’
Kate risked a caustic grin. ‘But it sure as hell beats dying young.’ Like Robin. And to her horror, tears came to her eyes. Damn! After all this time! She turned quickly away.
To her amazement, Mrs Harvey put out a hand, not quite touching her arm. ‘I heard. I’m sorry.’ She went quickly inside, leaving Kate no time to say anything.
Who was it told people to go and dig in their garden? Some French philosopher. Rousseau or Voltaire. Just at the moment, it didn’t matter which. The d-i-y store Kate passed on the way home still had pots of herbs, and, grabbing a selection and what she was sure was really a strawberry grower and some potting compost, she breezed up to the checkout as if the operator hadn’t been drumming her fingers and sighing ostentatiously for the last five minutes. That was what she’d do for the rest of the evening. Dig in her garden.
Something might grow. She dug and raked till she had a fine tilth: lettuce seeds here, radish – why not – here. Rocket? Well, it cost enough in sophisticated salad packs, so why not grow her own? Mindful that the local cats had queued on the fence, with, she would swear, feline lavatory rolls under their arms, while the garden was being planted, she watered the little plot and criss-crossed canes over it. As for the pot, at least the little tufts of basil, thyme, marjoram and coriander would bring some instant green and might cultivate – she winced at her own pun – her still elementary cooking skills.
‘Are you all right?’ Graham asked as soon as he’d fastened his seat-belt. ‘My wife said you looked upset last night.’
She nodded: if she concentrated long enough on finding a gap in the traffic steaming past, eventually she would find some acceptable explanation. Mentioning Robin’s name might not be the most tactful thing. But then, Mrs Harvey might have put her upset in context.
‘Cassie seems to be going downhill,’ she said at last, pulling in between a bus and a people carrier. ‘She’d have been better off in her own home, I’m sure.’
‘It was her choice. And – with due respect – your house wouldn’t be ideal for someone with mobility problems. You both know you couldn’t have looked after her, not with your job. She didn’t like having that nice black family next door, so how she’d have coped with those new Asians the other side I don’t know.’
‘No, not one for cosmopolitanism, Cassie.’
‘And she always looks remarkably well to me,’ he concluded positively. Graham made a point of visiting not just his mother-in-law but Cassie as well. Usually at a time when he knew Kate wouldn’t be there.
‘Even so …’
‘Mrs Nelmes plays up something shocking,’ he added. ‘To hear her carry on, she’s at death’s door, and totally neglected. And every time we raise our concerns, the staff laugh at us. They took her and some more old biddies out for a run in the country the other day. They even had a drink at a pub! Mother-in-law, a life-long tee-totalle
r, nipping sherry! But my wife and I have never heard about it, not from her. You ask Cassie what she’s been up to.’
‘She did moan about having to go to a barbecue. And she’s compelled to listen to an alfresco concert. Kate grinned.
‘There you are,’ Graham said. ‘If I were you, I’d take a left here. It’s a longer way round but the traffic jam at the far end is usually marginally shorter.’
Would anyone have judged from their conversation that they were lovers? What if instead of turning left, she turned right, back to Kings Heath and her bedroom? The way he was sitting, her hand brushed his knee every time she changed gear. What if the brush became a stroke?
The answer was easy enough. He wouldn’t cope with either. Not in broad daylight, not at eight-fifteen in the morning. The relationship had to be on his terms. Maybe she could encourage him to change those terms, but it would all have to be done terribly slowly. And in the full knowledge that however hard she tried, they might never change at all.
One kiss. That was all they had. And she’d had to contrive that, leaving her notebook under a file on his desk and, after dutifully leaving his room with the others, having to dash back for it. She’d been careful to sit where they couldn’t have eye contact without meaning to, had made a point of arguing her corner when it was clear he disagreed. And had drifted out talking about tennis to DI Sue Rowley, the best boss she’d ever had, with no exception. She’d even popped into the squad office to pick up any stray post and pass the time of day with the folk in there. It was then, only then, that she dared smack a hand to her forehead and ‘remember’ the notebook.
At least now she knew he’d wanted her as much as she’d wanted him. Even if that knowledge would have to keep her going all weekend.
Derek smiled as he picked up his raincoat. ‘You’ve been a real mate, Kate. Shifting that lot. I never thought you’d do it, not without help.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t take my word for it. I mean, whole cases could stand or fall and—’
‘OK. I’ll run an eye over everything before I discuss it with the gaffer.’
‘Discuss what with the gaffer?’ Lizzie demanded, materialising apparently at will, like a smile-free Cheshire cat.
‘These cases,’ Derek said, putting down his raincoat.
Lizzie sniffed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be talking to that Cornfield scrote, Power.’
As if she herself hadn’t double-booked Kate.
‘I tried phoning first, this time. Or I would have done, if I could have found a number for him. The dead woman’s phone is still live. But there was no reply—’
‘So you just gave up.’
Kate flared. ‘Rather than waste any more time, I thought I’d work on this backlog. I suspect the DPP won’t be impressed by those but might buy these.’ She patted the files. ‘Ma’am,’ she added. Christ, on a gorgeous afternoon like this, wouldn’t she rather have had a gentle stroll out to Edgbaston and a gentle stroll back, with nothing achieved between the two? She’d spent five solid hours in an overheated office picking up the threads of other people’s work, and this was what she got.
Lizzie looked at her coldly, but said nothing. ‘So when are you proposing to see him?’
‘Monday morning, if that’s acceptable to you.’ She tried to keep her voice pleasant and low.
‘Graham Harvey can dispense with your services, can he?’
‘This morning’s meeting with him, Inspector Rowley and DC Roper tied up everything before the case goes to the County Court. I was involved in other cases which may necessitate further such meetings, ma’am. Subject to your permission.’ She bit back another ‘ma’am’; it would sound insolent. Which is what she would have liked to be. Flaming, blazing insolent.
‘I take it he’ll approach me in the usual way.’
‘I’m sure he will, ma’am.’
Lizzie nodded and left. Derek caught Kate’s eye, touching his lips. Kate nodded. She couldn’t have said anything anyway. She turned back to her desk, giving one more superfluous adjustment to the tidy piles. Derek gathered his case and raincoat and walked noisily to the door. Nodding, he stepped back.
‘She’s gone. Come on, you need a drink.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You might be. Lizzie’s not. And that is what we’re going to talk about. What we’re going to do about Lizzie.’
Chapter Seven
Kate and Derek were walking past Lizzie’s half-open door, Kate trying not to tiptoe like a particularly guilty Pink Panther.
‘Is that you, Kate?’
They exchanged a look.
‘Gaffer?’
Lizzie pulled open the door. ‘Look – Kate. I’m … I was out of order there; well out. D’you fancy a jar? Oh, and you, Ben,’ she added, managing a grin in his direction.
‘Good idea,’ they said together.
‘Have you got an umbrella?’ Kate added. ‘Derek’s got this idea that it’ll rain any moment.’
That was the first laugh: embarrassed, stilted, but still a laugh. While Lizzie locked up, Derek risked a thumbs-up. Kate winked back. They both heaved silent sighs, however: fun evening this was not going to be.
The city centre bars and the pavements outside them were heaving.
‘Maybe somewhere further out?’ Derek suggested.
‘Forget Brindley Place: that’ll be solid,’ Lizzie said. ‘Let’s head towards that place in St Paul’s Square, and if we find anything with so much as a window-sill to park our glasses on, we stop there.’
‘Sounds good,’ agreed Kate, loathing the whole thing. Loud, laddish laughter seemed somehow even more unlovely in the street than in a bar. It was is if the hilarity had to be inflicted on the world, not just fellow drinkers, and if you were simply making your quiet way home, your very sobriety made you less of a person.
In the event, they found a pub in the business area where they could not only drink, but drink inside.
‘My shout,’ Lizzie announced, heading for the bar before either could argue or, indeed, say what they wanted. She turned, drawing a question mark in the air, and seemed unimpressed by the thought of two orange and lemonades.
But she bought one for herself, and crisps for them all. This was not going to be a one-drink evening, was it? And of course, as far as Kate was concerned, there was no reason why it should have been. There was nothing else on the agenda, after all. No need to visit Aunt Cassie, no point waiting in for a call from Graham. She could make a night of it, do a club: except that clubbing seemed so much more the province of the young, not the coming-up-to-thirties. And it was best done in gangs, and not as a loner. God, she’d better sort her social life soon, hadn’t she?
Derek’s was obviously more organised. He was already glancing at his watch. What if he sneaked off and left her tête-à-tête with Lizzie? Forgiving and forgetting this afternoon were not the same at all as enjoying a quiet drink with a friend.
The talk circled round the weather. It was agreed that Derek – still Ben, as far as Lizzie was concerned – was likely to need his rainwear this weekend, on the principle that it always rained at weekends. The gardens needed a drop, anyway.
‘Mine certainly does,’ Kate said. ‘All those poor little things struggling to put out roots, and what does the weather do? It starves them. I’m watering them every night.’
‘Haven’t you got a water-butt?’ Lizzie asked, almost accusingly, as if water would somehow transfer itself by osmosis from the butt to the earth.
‘Emptied that. And I’ve had the first crop from my worms.’
‘Worms! Did you say worms?’ Lizzie demanded.
‘Absolutely. I’ve got a little wormery. I thought it was time I had a pet, if only to get my revenge on my neighbours, for all their cats. So I bought my worms. They’re conversationally challenged, but at least what they do for the garden is useful, unlike the several tons of cat-crap I’ve been shovelling recently.’
‘You don’t like cats, then,’ Lizzie said.
/> Oh, God! She was probably a patron of the Cats’ Protection League!
‘Don’t get me wrong. I like cats. I love cats. In their homes and in their gardens. We always had a cat at home. There was one that never went outside, and another that insisted on using potted plants as litter-trays. And I loved each and every one. We had a little cats’ cemetery at the far end of the garden.’ If only she could stop talking.
‘I’m a dog man myself,’ Derek said. ‘Basset hounds.’
Of course! That explained the deep frown lines! He’d come to look like his pets!
‘Do you have animals, Lizzie?’
She drained her glass and leant forward. ‘Do you know,’ she began, ‘I’ve always had a yen for a pot-bellied pig …’
So it wasn’t so bad. They’d had only one more drink each, and simply gone their separate ways. Kate toyed with the idea of a barbecue, and was just setting off to get some meat when Zenia, her next-door neighbour, rang the doorbell. Joseph was just lighting theirs, and since Kate would get the smells, it was only fair she got the food too.
It turned out to be a party, organised just like that. And well organised: to get to the garden guests had to go through the kitchen, where they acquired a glass of Joseph’s special punch and a plate and fork. Once in the garden Kate found bowls of salad and rice and peas to accompany wonderful things from the barbecue. This was better than a Friday evening mope. As it got darker, the place was lit by fairy lights and anti-bug candles. There was even dancing indoors.
‘You men – you go and move the furniture,’ Zenia had said.
‘Why not out here?’ someone asked.
‘Because I have to live with my neighbours,’ she said. ‘OK?’
‘Oh, come on—’
‘Look at these houses, cheek by jowl: one person parties today, the rest party tomorrow or the next day. Think of the noise, sweetheart. No, indoors with you all.’
Expecting – well, perhaps the kids’ CDs – Kate got the Cole Porter songbook. And Zenia’s tall, handsome cousin Rafe to dance with, singing along with Ella Fitzgerald.
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