Will Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘That’s very generous,’ Kate said.

  ‘Well, have you seen the place? I’ve not been back for years, but it was a tip when I saw it. Absolute tip. Max did his best, but it would have taken a proper complement of staff to run the place properly – indoor and outdoor.’

  ‘Why didn’t you visit her recently?’

  ‘I didn’t visit at all. Full stop. We had a row. Mother never offered an opinion; she stated facts. And once she had stated one, it was set in tablets of stone. To be honest, if I had turned up it could have been fatal: she could have had a heart attack or a stroke at any minute, or if she hadn’t I might have strangled her.’

  Kate nodded: that tied in with what both Mrs Hamilton and Cornfield himself had said.

  ‘So there you are, Sergeant. Let’s not waste police time and public money chasing after something neither of us needs.’

  She smiled. ‘Have you discussed this with your sister?’

  Did the charm slip?

  ‘She knows my views. She’s entitled to hers. But believe me, the whole thing’s a chimera.’

  ‘I take it you two don’t exactly see eye to eye,’ she said mildly.

  ‘Siblings don’t always,’ he said.

  ‘Quite. But it’s a bit unusual to fall out with your mother and your sibling – and isn’t there another sister somewhere?’

  ‘None of this is pertinent to the case,’ he said sharply. Then he managed an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. Look, Sergeant, let’s just agree that if you want to play Happy Families then you should go for Mr Bun the Baker, not the Barr family.’ Looking at his watch, he got to his feet. ‘Now, since the case is closed, may I make a suggestion I wouldn’t have dreamed of making under any other circumstances? May I invite you to make an old man’s day happier by joining him for lunch, Sergeant?’

  Heavens, that was quick! ‘If I could see an old man,’ she laughed, standing up too, ‘I might. As it is, I’ve got to report to my inspector.’

  He seemed quite unabashed. In the lift he produced a card from his wallet. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me,’ he said, handing it and his temporary ID over in the same elegant movement.

  ‘Curioser and curioser, as Alice said,’ Lizzie observed. ‘So are you going to talk to the sister and see if you can persuade her to drop the accusation? After all, you’ve got plenty to suggest the old dear wanted Cornfield to have her loot.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Kate admitted. ‘But for one thing. Derek’s just fielded a phone call from our expert at the university—’

  ‘I do wish you’d be more precise. Birmingham has three universities. I take it you mean Birmingham University?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jesus, did the woman have to be so bloody awkward even when she was being given hard news? ‘Our Birmingham University expert, Gaffer, wants me to go round at two this afternoon. And I don’t somehow think it’s to discuss interpretations of Hamlet.’

  Chapter Ten

  Dr Kennedy was deep into red-penning an essay when kate knocked and popped her head round the door.

  ‘You would not believe,’ she said, ‘that a second-year student at a major university could manage to write the following sentence: “Neither Lear or Hamlet see any point in the prolongisation of their struggles. If he was to keep going, things would only get worse.”’

  ‘Depends whether it was under exam conditions, I suppose.’

  ‘Hmm. But even exam conditions shouldn’t excuse two apostrophe mistakes in the rest of the paragraph. A Level English, they’re supposed to have. An A or B grade pass. What do they teach them at school these days? Still, you’re not here to listen to me griping.’ She got up stretching. Her neck emitted a couple of ominous cracks. ‘You don’t know a decent osteopath, do you? Now, I can’t walk without a mug of coffee in my hand. Care to join me?’ It was clear she wasn’t about to divulge anything quickly.

  Kate nodded. But she couldn’t resist an urgent, ‘Dr Kennedy—’

  ‘Oh, come on. If you’re Kate, I’m Sam. And I know I’m keeping you on tenterhooks, but that’s where you should be. And will be until this bloody kettle boils. Ah! Now, if you come with me, all will be revealed.’

  Locking her door behind her, she led the way to an identical room fitted up not with bookshelves and desk but as a small lab.

  ‘Have a peer down those eye-pieces,’ she said. ‘And tell me what you see.’

  Kate obeyed. But came up, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry – I’m just a cop. I do need to be told what to look for.’

  Sam laughed. ‘I thought you would. But take another look. What you’ve got in front of you is a piece of paper on which someone has written in ballpoint. Now, to the naked eye, when you write in ballpoint you see a fairly uniform line.’

  ‘But this is striated.’

  ‘Quite. Those little white lines are caused by defects on the housing of the ball from which the ballpoint gets its name. The ball has to be spherical or it won’t rotate. But the socket or housing into which it’s fitted often has little irregularities, little protrusions, which interrupt the free flow of ink.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Now, can you tell me anything else about the striations?’

  Kate blinked and focused again. ‘They go in the same direction. Or rather, they go in the direction’ – she mimed writing – ‘the ballpoint would go in when you were writing.’

  ‘Well done. Now, I gather that you’re right-handed. So most of your striations would go from left to right, because that’s the way right-handers write.’

  Kate straightened. ‘But so do left-handers! Unless they’re writing Hebrew or something.’

  ‘Not quite. There’s evidence that when we write we prefer, if we can, to pull the pen, not push it. So if you write an “o” I’d expect you to start at the top, come back in an anti-clockwise direction and join up at the top. OK? Try it.’

  Kate obliged.

  ‘Now, some left-handers don’t do it that way. They start at the top – yes – but then continue in the same direction, so their circle is clockwise, not anti-clockwise.’

  ‘You know,’ Kate said slowly, rubbing her chin, ‘I’ve never noticed that.’ She wrinkled her nose in silent disbelief.

  ‘OK, when did you last watch someone closely when they were writing? When they were writing you a cheque? You’re more interested in what they write than in how.’

  ‘OK. So where does this get us?’

  ‘Whoever wrote the will was left-handed, in my opinion. Look at this “o” – and this. Check them all out if you wish.’ Sam waited. ‘OK? Now, there are other characteristics of this handwriting which suggest to me that whoever produced it had his education somewhere other than in the UK.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Come on, Kate, you must have had pen-friends when you were at school. Or been served meals by foreign waiters. You’ll have noticed that for various reasons different regions produce different shapes—’

  ‘OK. Like all those American loops—’

  ‘Right. So I’d say whoever wrote the will was an Eastern European male. I don’t know if that’s what you wanted me to tell you?’

  If Kate was disappointed she’d better not show it. ‘One of the things,’ she said.

  ‘How about another one? That in my professional opinion’ – she not only fell into the language of the courts, she reduced her pace – ‘whoever wrote the letter also made one of the signatures. There – Leon Horowitz. Compare the “o’s”.’

  My God! My God! Kate forced herself to ask, ‘But what if this Leon Horowitz were also educated in Eastern Europe and were also left-handed?’

  ‘Nice use of the subjunctive, Kate. I wish you could teach my students. Well, if he were, it would be more difficult to say. But I have a hunch … there’s something about the quality of the line that interests me … No, you tell me if he is or not, and show me his normal signature, and I’ll be able to offer a considered opinion.’

  They were walking back along
the corridor, Sam having locked the will into a safe and then punctiliously double locked the lab door, when Kate said, ‘I would never have asked you to look for that, you know. Never in a million years.’

  Sam slowed to a halt. ‘You look what my students would call gobsmacked. Are you all right? No, you’re not, are you? Come and have another coffee?’

  ‘I ought … And you’ve got those essays to mark … But, hell, yes, I really could do with one. Yes, please.’

  From the top drawer of her desk, Sam produced a packet of German biscuits, rich with ginger and cinnamon. ‘My bloke lives in Berlin,’ she said.

  ‘Berlin! That’s hardly down the road. How do you manage to keep going?’

  ‘The phone, e-mail and monthly commuting. We manage. But I wish he were nearer. Or, I suppose, that I were nearer to him.’ She sighed.

  Kate nodded sympathetically. A partner that far away must be almost as bad as having a married lover. Worse, maybe. ‘How do you manage for all the things people are supposed to do in couples?’

  Sam grimaced. ‘Oh, I should do them on my own, shouldn’t I? I’m a grown-up woman. But – well, what I do is work most of the time. Concerts, plays – they’re more fun, aren’t they, with someone to chew them over with in the interval? Sometimes friends invite me, and I’ve got a gay friend I go with. But that’s not good for his street cred.’

  ‘Unless he needs a beard. My best mate’s gay,’ Kate added.

  Sam passed her her coffee. ‘Tell you what, we should get together next time there’s something either of us wants to see. Let me see – yes, here we are.’ She burrowed in her in-tray and flipped across two brochures, one for the RSC, another for Birmingham Rep. ‘You do like the theatre?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘My partner was a bit of a philistine,’ Kate said. That must be about the first time she’d ever criticised Robin, mustn’t it? ‘Preferred his football and his beer. So I’m out of touch.’

  ‘Past tense?’ Sam asked gently.

  ‘Past tense. He was killed in an accident. That’s why I came to Birmingham – to get away from everything.’

  ‘Was that a good idea?’

  ‘It seemed so at the time! Actually, yes, I think it was. I’ve made some good friends up here – even if none of them is inclined to go to the theatre. Or music.’

  ‘Hang on, what have I here?’ Sam burrowed again, this time coming up with a Symphony Hall leaflet.

  All of which seemed very positive, Kate thought, as she went back to her car. Even if there were nothing that particularly grabbed her, she’d make a point of contacting Sam again – maybe even for a balti. There was that nice place in York Road, the place where Rod had taken her. Why not?

  Meanwhile, back to her immediate problem. Max Cornfield and the will.

  There was a theory that letting someone talk enough would encourage whoever it was to betray him or herself. Since Mrs Barr’s house lay not far off her route back into the city, what about another conversation with Mr Cornfield? Despite this afternoon’s evidence, in her bones she was sure he was a decent man. Perhaps the knowledge that something was nagging the police would drive him to confess, simply to clear his conscience – always assuming, of course, that he had anything to confess.

  Parking the car on the road this time, she hesitated. What if talking to him simply put him on his guard? This was the sort of situation where a partner was invaluable for chewing over pros and cons. The one person who would require her to talk through events was, of course, Lizzie, who would, of course, almost certainly blow up big time, if Kate presented Sam’s evidence unvarnished, ordering Cornfield’s immediate evisceration. If Kate made a wrong decision – or, in this case, indecision – Kate could be eviscerated too.

  She put the car into gear, signalled and pulled away.

  Since Rod Neville was parking and locking his car at the same time as she was parking and locking hers, he could hardly avoid speaking to her. But he never did so without embarrassment these days. Silly man. Love affairs ended, didn’t they? Except there’d been more lust than love in their short encounter. Perhaps he felt he’d taken advantage of his rank; more likely, a stickler for convention – and what detective superintendent wouldn’t be? – he’d been shocked, possibly even offended, by Kate’s occasional forays into maverickdom.

  Anyway, he was now not just speaking, but smiling at her in very much the old way. In fact, though she was prepared to fall into step with him as they went into the building, there was something about his smile that detained her alongside his car.

  ‘How are things?’ he asked.

  Not a particularly impressive or original line, but he put his briefcase down and looked ready to listen to more than the conventional ‘OK’.

  But she wasn’t prepared to say more than that, not yet.

  ‘I mean, really. Are you over … all that … trauma?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. House and garden doing well. No more buried hoards, no more fires. And a new tennis coach.’

  ‘And a new posting here. With Fraud.’

  ‘Typical of Personnel, isn’t it? Pull out all the experienced guys and shove in a rookie.’

  ‘You’re hardly that. You’re an experienced officer. Come on, didn’t I hear you’ve finished your inspector’s exams? In fact, I’d say that calls for a drink.’

  She’d had a good night on the booze with all her mates. Yes, even Graham had looked in for half an hour.

  He must have understood her silence. He lowered his eyes.

  ‘I’d better get along,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to report something to Lizzie King.’

  He picked up his briefcase, and started towards the entrance. But then he stopped. ‘It was about her I wanted to talk to you,’ he said.

  Really?

  Despite herself, as if she really believed him, she looked around to check no one was within earshot.

  ‘I thought so. There is something wrong, isn’t there? Why don’t you come along to my office and we’ll talk about it?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Do you want an honest reply? I don’t think that would be a good idea. If Lizzie gets wind of the tiniest rumour I’ve been alone in your company, she’ll …’

  A couple of very senior officers strolled by. They all exchanged salutes.

  ‘She’ll what? Come on, Kate!’

  ‘It’s no good, Rod. I can’t. I shouldn’t have said that.’ It was one thing gossiping to a fellow victim like Derek, quite another talking to someone who could have an effect on someone’s career. Sure, she might have said something last week, when Lizzie seemed to be spinning out of control, but, though still tetchy, she seemed much better this week.

  He dropped his voice, lowered his eyes, ‘Kate, you’ve every reason to believe you can’t trust me as a lover. God knows … I – I’d really like to talk about that. Hell … But surely you know you can trust me as a colleague?’

  ‘You’re not just a colleague. You’re a senior CID colleague. And anything I say to you about a colleague will almost certainly be seen as grassing.’

  ‘You didn’t volunteer, I asked you. Damn it, Kate, if the woman’s ill—’

  Ill? Well, if that was the rumour, OK. ‘So long as it’s in absolute confidence.’

  ‘Thanks. The only question, then, is where and when. And I’d like to suggest a quiet meal somewhere. It’ll save us both cooking,’ he added, with a mocking sideways glance.

  ‘Let me think about that,’ she said. It was unlikely that Graham would come tonight but not impossible. ‘Could you phone me – eightish?’

  ‘Eightish.’ His smile was worryingly intimate.

  Mistake, Kate, big mistake.

  But not as bad as having been seen talking to him by, inevitably, Lizzie.

  ‘Still got the hots for Rod Neville, then?’ Lizzie yelled, as Kate walked past her half-open office door.

  Did the woman control the security cameras, for God’s sake?

  ‘He wanted to know how my house was, after the fire. Now, Gaffer, I
could do with advice and a cup of tea, but not necessarily in that order.’

  Lizzie raised her eyebrows coldly. ‘What’s the verdict on the will?’

  ‘What I simply can’t understand,’ Lizzie exploded before Kate had drawn breath on her final sentence, ‘is that you didn’t hightail over to his place and pick him up and grill him. For God’s sake, Power, you’re supposed to be the crème de la crème. Act like it for once.’ She picked up a folder, pretending to leaf through it. Then – feigning surprise – she looked up again. What are you hanging round here for? I thought I told you to go and bring him in.’

  ‘With respect, I’m not sure—’

  ‘You don’t have to be sure, Power. You have to do as you’re told for once.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  So it was back to the big house in Edgbaston. Obediently she applied an unwilling thumb to the bell marked ‘Press’. There was no reply. Tomorrow, then.

  It was only as she pulled away that she remembered: Thursday was Cornfield’s day for travelling.

  Chapter Eleven

  The phone rang promptly at eight. Not even daring to hope it might be Graham, Kate wasn’t surprised to hear Rod’s voice.

  ‘OK, it’s eight o’clock, and you said I might phone you then. So may I take you out for a meal?’ He sounded absurdly boyish.

  She couldn’t resist laughing. ‘OK. Why not?’ Except there were a hundred reasons why not.

  ‘I’ll be with you in two minutes, then.’

  ‘Two minutes?’

  ‘OK. One minute. I’m parked right opposite your house.’

  The bastard. And double bastard to flourish a bunch of flowers in her face as she opened the front door.

  Her vestibule and hall were both too narrow for her to do anything other than stand back and let him through into the living room. But as soon as she could, she said, ‘Rod, you shouldn’t have bought me flowers. We’re – we’re not in a relationship any more.’

  His face fell. But not for long. ‘Accept them for when I should have given them to you. Kate, shove them in water, for goodness’ sake. It’d be a shame for them to die. Come on, wouldn’t it?’