Staying Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Allow me to be the judge of what’s urgent. OK, if you can’t get evidence, bollock him again – you’re well within your rights, Kate – and warn him it’s three strikes and he’s outside my door.’

  ‘Fair enough. Now: the urgent stuff. I’ve been invited to drinkies at Howard Sanderson’s tonight. I’m supplying the cheese straws,’ she added, enjoying the expression the irrelevance brought to his face.

  ‘You’re not going and you’re not supplying anything.’

  ‘I’ve been invited to go with Patrick Duncan,’ she said, carefully.

  ‘Duncan! Oh, yes. I could see he was after you. And I suppose you like his flashy car and executive house.’

  ‘I’ve seen neither yet. I’ve heard all about his motorbikes,’ she said. She tried for a mocking smile. ‘All about them.’

  ‘So if you don’t like him why are you going out with him?’

  Turning back to the window she took a deep breath. It had been all too easy to be frank with her DVU colleagues. Opening up to Graham wouldn’t be. Not the way he was these days, bouncing from one emotion to another, like a badly balanced ball. She put her hands on to the sill to steady them.

  Graham didn’t prompt her, but she could feel him willing her on.

  If she turned back her face would be in shadow: her distress wouldn’t be quite as humiliatingly obvious. ‘If I don’t go out with Patrick who do I go out with?’

  He flung up his hands. ‘That chapel you go to. There must be a social life there. And that nice neighbour of yours. Zenia. Colin.’

  ‘I’m not specially persona grata at the chapel. And, given some of the congregation, I’m not so sure I’d want to be,’ she added, chin in the air. ‘Zenia’s just getting over flu. Colin’s a dear but we tend not to clutter each other’s lives.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get very far with him anyway.’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘OK, it’s not the sort of remark I’d make in general. And never in front of Selby.’

  ‘Nor,’ she added, before she could stop herself, ‘in front of Cope. Or anyone in the squad. I’m reasonably sure that homosexuality isn’t the flavour of the month round here. Even in these enlightened days of Equal Opportunities courses.’ She looked him straight in the eye.

  For once he accepted the implied criticism. ‘So you’re saying you’re a bit lonely?’

  ‘A lot lonely. I mean, circumstances haven’t helped – the bad knee, going on leave and so on. And I probably haven’t helped. I’ve probably been pretty prickly.’ She smiled, as if in apology.

  He didn’t contradict her.

  As if she hadn’t paused to let him, she continued, ‘So you can see why, even if a man bores me silly with his gearboxes, I’m not going to turn down invitations for parties and so on. I need to build up a network of contacts. Midge from the DVU’s going to teach me how to—’

  ‘DVU: why have you been down there?’ He jumped in very quickly.

  ‘One of Cassie’s nurses is getting beaten up. I got one of those help cards to give her. And besides,’ she added more slowly, ‘it occurs to me that it’s odd for a woman who phones in to try and report a crime to cut her complaint off in mid-breath. Not once, but several times. She may be phoning illicitly from work, of course, and have the boss come in unexpectedly. Or she may be phoning from somewhere else and have someone else come in unexpectedly.’

  ‘You mean her husband?’ If his voice was harsh it might be because he recognised the secrecy to which he was driven if he phoned Kate. And that one-four-one business if she phoned him from her home. The fact she mustn’t pick up the phone immediately he’d made a call to her, lest his wife press the redial button to check up on him.

  Poor bastard. And don’t tell him he should use the term ‘partner’, either.

  ‘Spot on,’ she said lightly. ‘So I wanted to talk to Lorraine and Midge to find out what a woman could do to get out from such a situation. What I’d like to do is have another talk with them about the sort of man that bullies his wife. You see, I saw a really cowed woman the other night – no, not a bruise in sight – and I wondered how affluent, respectable men might torment their wives.’

  She’d tried to keep her voice neutral, but he picked up on it. ‘Are you talking Isobel Sanderson here?’

  ‘Would it worry you if I were?’

  ‘You don’t mean you think she made that call! For God’s sake, Kate!’ He turned on his heel, and strode back to his desk. He flung himself into his chair.

  What was with this man? She followed, taking a chair opposite. Just in case, the hard one.

  For a long time he said nothing, staring at the files on his desk as if they would open up to provide him with a solution. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure what the problem was. At last, still at a loss, she took the initiative.

  ‘How well do you know this guy?’

  ‘Well enough. I may even be at the party tonight.’

  She produced a huge sarcastic beam. ‘Well, won’t that be cosy? I’ll hear you talking shop in the intervals of Patrick talking motorbikes.’

  He pushed away from the desk, prowling back to the window. ‘Do they have any inkling of your job?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Patrick and I made a pact not to broadcast our respective occupations to those not already in the know. All they know about me for definite is that I can mend double-0 locomotives. But that may connect me back to the Baptists via Tim.’

  ‘Tim? Oh, the parson’s son. And they certainly know what you do.’

  ‘I doubt if anyone’s interested enough to find out. They may ask me directly, in which case I shall have to give a direct answer. But no one seemed overly interested. Apart from John, our host last night, people tended to regard me as just someone Patrick had brought with him.’

  ‘Apart from John?’

  ‘He wanted a gentle flirt. Actually, there was a bit of trouble – I have to say I thought Sanderson handled it very well.’ She explained. ‘It all goes to show you can solve any problem provided you’ve got enough money.’ When he didn’t react, she added, ‘And there was an awful lot of money around at that house last night. Well, look at the house itself. You could have got the whole of my place in their ground floor – with room to spare!’ How did he fit in if he was one of their circle? She had a pretty good idea of how much he earned. If his wife wasn’t working and he had a big mortgage to pay on that nice house of his, he couldn’t be anywhere near their league.

  ‘OK. Go to the party tonight. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. If they should invite my wife and me I’ll find an excuse not to go. She rarely goes anywhere anyway, with those migraines of hers.’

  ‘What,’ she risked, ‘if she wants to go to this particular party?’

  ‘In that case I shall have to claim pressure of work – maybe even come in here.’

  ‘She could go by herself – recognise me?’

  ‘She never goes anywhere like that by herself,’ he said, with absolute finality.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eight-thirty in the morning, and this was the third time Graham was picking over Kate’s account of her evening at the Sandersons. They were on their second mug of tea, him ensconced behind his desk, her on the comfortable chair opposite him.

  ‘So we have no bruises and no verbal violence to support your theory of domestic bullying.’

  She shook her head. Even Howard’s tone had been right: affectionate, proud, even, of a wife who could conjure a feast from nowhere.

  ‘And nothing to show that Isobel could be responsible for the phone-calls,’ he concluded.

  ‘But we have her cowed demeanour,’ she insisted. ‘And, incidentally, that of their son. Most teenage kids I know run a mile if their parents have a party. But Nigel passed drinks and nuts like a waiter. A pretty obsequious waiter.’ Horribly well-scrubbed and neatly dressed for a kid of his age. But she had a feeling that Graham might prefer sanitised teenagers to the usual sort.

  ‘They had some t
rouble with him, I gather. The wrong crowd. His father had to come the heavy.’

  ‘That figures. Oh, I know the place is very nice.’ She’d better not favour him with her views on the Sandersons’ taste in interior decor: all that designer furniture and carpets you need a machete to slice a way through – more of a conference centre than a home. It was perilously close to that of his own home. ‘But there’s something funny there, Guv, honest. Know wot I mean, sniff, Squire?’

  He cocked a quizzical eyebrow, grinning as if in spite of himself. ‘I love it when you talk London. You bleedin’ Savvernas.’ His cockney accent was atrocious. ‘Funny thing, my wife was saying she didn’t think Isobel was a very happy woman. But you should see their garden. It’s magnificent.’

  It was. ‘I saw some of it: it’s even floodlit.’ Where did these people get their money? ‘Does Isobel really do it all herself? But then,’ she added sourly, ‘I suppose she’s got nothing else to do. Except for housework – such a big house for three people …’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Committee woman, that’s Isobel.’

  ‘Committees! But the woman never opens her mouth! Or just not with Howard there?’

  He shrugged. ‘The word is she’s remarkably effective, in an apologetic sort of way.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m going to have to declare an interest in this, Kate. Which means either you’ll report direct to Rodney Neville or that he’ll take the case off us altogether. Don’t look like that: the wind may change and you wouldn’t want your face stuck like that forever.’

  In response she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

  When they’d stopped laughing, she asked, ‘Have you had any more thoughts about that memo you’re alleged to have sent?’

  He shook his head, his face sad-lined again. ‘Have a word with Fatima if you can. Try and persuade her to come to me. Or to go, if she must, to an FCA.’

  She stared. Yet another new acronym!

  ‘First Contact Adviser. The latest initiative to stamp out harassment. If you have a problem you phone one for support and advice. These are their cards.’ He produced a sheaf. The cards were bigger than the credit-type DVU contact cards, the size of an A4 sheet folded into quarters. ‘Drop one on to each desk, will you? Perhaps the knowledge that such people exist will be enough to curb Selby.’

  ‘You’d rather stop him than stamp on him?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘He’s not a bad officer. Overall. And if neither you nor Fatima will make a complaint I don’t see any other way. Oh, Kate.’ Hands covering his face, he sounded exhausted already. No, he sounded as if he was crying for help.

  Anyone else and she’d have been round the desk to put her arms round him. Already on her feet, she stopped herself. In the eyes of that photo on the desk, a hug might have been a hanging offence. And no doubt Graham had put the photo there to remind him of exactly that.

  Perhaps they’d both been praying for it: the phone started to ring. He clicked it on to hold.

  ‘I’ll see you at lunchtime for a quick half,’ she said. ‘You need a break.’

  He bent to burrow in his briefcase, coming up with a neat sandwich box full of neat sandwiches. ‘I’ve got lunch.’

  She bent to pick up and shake his waste-bin. ‘I’ve got just the place for it.’

  It was while she was distributing the First Contact Advisers cards that it occurred to her that she’d forgotten to mention to Graham that she’d left at the Sandersons’ the box in which she’d taken the cheese straws. She’d told Isobel she’d come and collect it at some unspecified ‘sometime’. Isobel had simply told her her phone number: ‘If I’m in the garden I don’t always hear the front door bell.’

  ‘Yes, she’s always out there – all weathers,’ Howard had said. ‘The evening’s the best time to catch us.’

  All very affable. Except that he’d said ‘us’.

  So it would have been good to have Graham’s advice.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Cope exploded, charging into the office with a note. ‘The wretched woman’s only been in the squad five minutes and now she’s gone home sick. You women – you’ve got no stamina, have you?’

  ‘I’d like to see any of us fasting all day and still managing to shift the work she does,’ Colin said.

  ‘Ah! That’ll be it, I suppose. No food. Never did anyone any good trying to work on an empty stomach. Can’t she have a few nibbles and not tell the priest?’

  Colin laughed: ‘I think you’ve missed the point, Gaffer.’

  ‘Is there any indication that it’s the fasting that’s the problem?’ Kate asked. ‘I must say, if it is, we probably haven’t made it any easier for her, feeding our faces in here at all hours.’ She picked up the styrofoam cup from Fatima’s desk. ‘And leaving this sort of “present” – my God, it’s more like a specimen for the Path. Lab. than coffee.’ She shuddered and – OK, it would destroy whatever point Fatima had been trying to make – put it down on Selby’s desk.

  ‘Are you saying we ought to manage without a cup of coffee all day? You got to be joking.’

  ‘Did I say that, Selby? No, I said there were ways of making it easier – if, indeed, that’s what the problem is.’

  ‘It could be,’ Colin said, seriously. ‘After all, she came in here right as rain twenty minutes ago, sat down at her desk and seemed to be working. And then you come in with your bacon buttie, Merv, and off she goes.’

  It took Kate a moment to register that Merv was Selby: she’d never heard anyone use his first name before.

  ‘Did she say anything to you before she went off? After all, you were on your own with her when she actually went,’ Colin asked.

  ‘If you’re saying I had anything to do with it—’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just asking. She’s a nice kid. We’re just trying to see if we can do anything that’ll make it easier for her to come back to work. Anyone know when Ramadan ends?’ Colin looked round.

  ‘Round about Christmas, I think,’ Kate said. ‘But all this is speculation. I’ll get her address from Personnel and pop round and see her tonight. We might as well know where we stand before we start agonising about coffee. But maybe we ought to have a self-denying ordinance where food’s concerned. The place smelt worse than a chippie the other day. Eating sarnies at our desk’s one thing: but the canteen’s the place if we want a full fry-up.’

  ‘Better to eat away from our desks, anyway,’ Colin added.

  Cope looked round the room. No one seemed to have anything to say against that. He nodded. ‘OK. Seems reasonable. Now, it’s time we did a bit of work. Kate—’

  Selby pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘Are you saying that’s an order, Gaffer?’

  Cope shifted. Wriggled, more like. ‘It can’t be an order, like, can it? Because it’s just between ourselves.’

  ‘So there’s no one can say it’s wrong if anyone does eat up here?’

  ‘Well – not really.’

  ‘What about a bit of democracy, Sir?’ Kate chipped in. Clearly the man had the backbone of the average louse. ‘If it’s what everyone else in the office wants, it doesn’t seem right for one person to go against them.’

  ‘Show of hands?’ Colin prompted. ‘Right. A clear majority, I’d say. And – before you ask – not just when Fatima’s fasting.’

  ‘Hmph, I don’t know. Next you’ll be wanting a non-smoking office,’ Cope muttered. ‘Hey, how long are you going to let that phone ring? We’re supposed to be working, not chafing the fat.’

  Kate fielded it, but covered the mouthpiece. ‘One more thing. I don’t think it’s on, calling Fatima “Fatty”. It’s personal and hurtful even if it patently isn’t true. OK, everyone?’

  Most people looked plain puzzled, but there was general muttered agreement. And she returned to the call.

  It was Rodney Neville’s secretary. Kate was to present herself at ten-thirty prompt.

  ‘She didn’t quite tell me to clean my teeth and brush my hair,’ Kate grumbl
ed to Colin as she redistributed the work she’d hoped Fatima would do that day. ‘But she might as well have done.’

  ‘Don’t forget to polish your shoes, either. What’s this abrupt little note about precise lists of the items stolen from this chemist’s? You don’t want to embarrass me by making me list Tampax and suppositories, do you?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes, you can mention Dutch caps and incontience knickers.’ She turned to Selby. ‘Thanks for your work on the carpet fitters: it looks as if you’re on to something interesting. Now, can you follow up what you’ve done so far? Names of the firms, employees at the time? You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ve got this lot to work through!’ He gestured. It was a large pile of files.

  ‘What are your priorities?’

  ‘All of them. Cope’s dumped a load of them Grass up your Neighbours messages on me.’ He patted the files almost affectionately and tipped back his chair. ‘And I’d say a DI ranked above a DS, wouldn’t you? Ma’am?’ He stuck his hands in his pockets, ostentatiously moving his fingers. His eyes drifted to the top button of her shirt and stayed there.

  Her fingers itched to slap him. On impulse she tapped the mouse he’d been using. The screen-saver evaporated to show a game of patience, half way through. As coolly as she could, she caught his eyes and held them, before raising a slow, ironic eyebrow.

  ‘Well, I’d say a sergeant ranked above a constable. And you won’t have forgotten I warned you about this weeks ago. OK, Selby. One more strike and you’re out.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ He sat up.

  ‘I know a man who can. Understand? Selby?’

  ‘Ma’am.’ This time the syllable was barely audible. The resentment in it wasn’t, though.

  ‘And if you have too much to do, now Fatima’s off, then we’ll talk it over with Cope. Together. Right?’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Much support she’d get from Cope, of course, she reflected, as she tidied herself in the loo. The squad in general had been great – very quick on the uptake and apparently well-disposed to Fatima. Decent, caring men. On the surface, of course. What they’d be like over a few pints in a male bar was another matter. And if Selby went running to Cope, as he’d done in the past, complaining that she was a bad manager, she knew who Cope would back. And he’d probably trot off to Graham and Neville. Hell, how she hated fighting for dominance. Look at her: she was still trembling after even the short encounter with Selby, although she’d won every round so far. Well, she’d better win the next, too.