Staying Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘I will for just five minutes. I forgot to leave out any milk, didn’t I? And I’m not a woman for dry cornflakes.’ Nor was she a woman to hand over her keys, not even to this smiling lad. Not after what Cope had said. And come to think of it, some cons might think it really macho to rob a copper.

  Teeth clean, make-up on, she flapped a hand at the floorer.

  ‘You’re not leaving the keys, then?’

  ‘Can’t. One of the locks is a Yale. I wouldn’t get back in again. No spare key.’

  ‘Oh, you want to start leaving one with a neighbour, then. In case you ever lock yourself out or want things delivered.’

  She nodded. She was paranoid enough not to like leaving the place unnecessarily exposed, but had to admit that statistically she’d be unlikely – and unlucky! – to be broken into the one day neither the Chubb nor the burglar alarm was in use.

  Kate checked herself over as she presented herself at a big semi in Shirley. She looked every inch a committee woman with her skirt at a respectable, not a fashionable length, a fussier blouse than usual, and make-up abstemious to the point of invisible. The other women might be older than her – by some twenty to thirty years – but didn’t know that they should observe any special dress code. She felt downright frumpy.

  None of the women made any special effort to introduce themselves either, and Kate sat through a quarter of an hour of other people’s gossip before the chair called the meeting to anything like order. But the minutes were actually very clear, and matters arising were concise. Then there was a lot of stuff about fund-raising which lost her.

  At last a coffee break was declared. Daring to catch Kate’s eye, Isobel offered to make it, and Kate quickly joined her in the kitchen. Although the women’s voices rang out from the living room, Isobel still spoke in almost a whisper.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were from the police. You misled me.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I was genuinely a guest: I came with Patrick, remember. It was just that no one asked what I did. But I am in the police. I work in that office you called.’

  Isobel looked ready to be sick.

  ‘I knew Alan Grafton, you see, Isobel – and when I heard his name I knew I needed to talk to you. And you to me. Now, when’s a good time?’

  Isobel’s eyes flew open. ‘You don’t understand, do you? There’s no good time.’

  ‘After this meeting?’

  ‘You know I have to be back.’

  ‘We could meet one morning—’

  ‘I don’t have one morning.’

  ‘But you do have information you’re desperate to give someone. That’s why you phoned. What we have to do is find a way for you to give it. Safely.’

  Isobel had turned from her and was gripping the edge of the sink. ‘I tell you there is no hour of the day when he doesn’t know what I’m doing. The cameras—’

  ‘But he can’t be filming you now.’

  ‘He’ll want to see the minutes. That’s why I do them. There’s no point asking someone else to take them if I have to produce them anyway. And he wants accounts of every other meeting. They have to tally with the official ones. Don’t you see?’

  ‘A morning’s shopping?’

  ‘If only you knew!’

  Kate laid a hand on her arm. ‘Isobel, if it means my coming to every single meeting you attend, and snatching ten minutes with you to make the coffee, I promise I’ll do it. Please trust me.’

  Isobel shook her head violently. And then, as Kate put her arm round her, slumped. ‘I’ll try. I promise I’ll try. There’s a meeting on Monday. Green Fingers. We work with people with learning difficulties. You could come to that.’ With the first proper smile Kate had seen, she added, ‘Bring your gardening gloves.’

  Kate managed to snatch another two minutes with her when the meeting finished.

  ‘I will try and tell you. There’s evidence. Howard and poor Nigel. I’ll try.’

  Kate hugged her. ‘I know you will.’ For a moment she toyed with a delicate threat to balance whatever Howard had threatened, to tell Isobel that it was an offence to withhold information about a crime, but she couldn’t steel herself to it. ‘Remember, any time you have the chance to use a phone – two minutes from a call box, perhaps—’

  ‘I don’t have money for phone calls.’

  Kate stared. And then smiled, as gently as she could. ‘Here’s my phone card. There’ll be another on Monday.’

  She was in the pub with Midge and Lorraine from the Domestic Violence Unit.

  ‘Go on, your not eating won’t make life any better for her,’ Lorraine said.

  Kate took a sandwich from a communal plate and nodded. ‘It’s just I can’t imagine – I can’t begin to imagine – that sort of control.’

  ‘Let’s just go through what you’re saying. There are cameras in all the rooms, and, of course, outside, to watch her comings and goings. I bet they’re those clever jobs that have the time and date in the corner of each frame. She has to account for every minute of mornings she spends at meetings. She doesn’t have money to make phone calls. Some control freak we’ve got there!’

  ‘But why does she let him do it?’

  Lorraine spread her hands.

  Midge got up. ‘Come on, Kate – you need something stronger than water. Even if we have to carry you back to work.’

  ‘White wine, please. But why—’ she turned to Lorraine – ‘should she choose this moment to try to break out?’

  ‘If you ask me, it’ll be something that her conscience really can’t stomach any longer. Something to do with that son of hers, perhaps. Or that Grafton topping himself. It won’t be anything Sanderson’s done to her.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve seen women with major injuries refusing to split until the old man’s threatened the cat. It’s a funny old world, isn’t it, Kate?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Long time no see,’ Lizzie said, pausing in the dialling of a phone number.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment to see Isobel on Monday morning,’ Kate said. What did they say? Don’t apologise, don’t explain. ‘Some charity gardening thing. Any news of the car reg?’

  ‘That? No. Not Sanderson’s.’ Lizzie grinned at last. ‘His wife’s.’

  ‘Not that she ever gets her hands on it. What next?’

  Lizzie shrugged, amused. ‘Your case. What do you suggest?’ She put down the handset without beginning her call.

  ‘She doesn’t even have the money to phone me. How about we get permission to rake her in as a paid informant? That way we’d get what we need and she’d have enough independent money to be able to escape.’

  ‘Dyson was keen on the idea, wasn’t he? It won’t be his say-so, of course. Them upstairs.’

  ‘He seems to be the sort of man to carry clout.’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Lots of clout. The question is, will she take up the offer, if we make it?’

  Kate’s turn to shrug. ‘It depends how we sell it her, I suppose. The trouble is, if she’s got to the stage where she accepts this total control, she probably doesn’t think she deserves any better. She was provoked into calling us by Alan Grafton’s death. It’s got to be something external that makes her act.’

  ‘Stupid cow.’

  ‘She’s actually very bright, Lizzie. She held her own at that meeting this morning. They’re raising funds to put together accommodation and work schemes for street kids. Like young Simon,’ she added. ‘Now, the word is her son’s equally under Sanderson’s thumb. I wonder how he got there … Look, if you’ve nothing else you want me to do this afternoon, how about I find out a bit more about him?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Nigel Sanderson was not attending a state school, that was quickly established. No doubt his father had tucked money into a trust fund which couldn’t be touched when his firm went under. So Kate got on to the voluntary-aided schools, which turned out to be old-fashioned boys’ grammar schools. She dimly remembered hearing someone sounding off about the system before she wen
t on holiday: yes, the Baptist minister’s brother-in-law, that was it. But Nigel wasn’t at one of them, either.

  She moved on up the financial league, into the independent sector. Most administrators – not simple school secretaries – were even cagier than the state school secretaries had been. She couldn’t blame any of them, either, much as she’d have liked to in her increasingly grumpy mood. They were, after all, dealing in young people’s lives.

  At last though, she pinned one down. And yes, Nigel Sanderson was on their roll.

  ‘Good. Now I need to speak to someone authorised to give me confidential information.’

  ‘The Chief Master won’t give any information over the telephone. He will respond to written enquiries only.’

  ‘I think he may have to respond to a face-to-face enquiry. And this afternoon, too.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Would you be good enough to tell him I’m on my way. I should reach Sutton in – say – thirty minutes. I’d appreciate it if he had Nigel’s file ready for me.’

  Lizzie nodded without enthusiasm. ‘Take Bill or Ben – whichever—’

  ‘The word meticulous was invented for Dyson,’ Bill Parsons said, pulling out of a tight parking space. He was the older half of the pair Lizzie had christened, balding and thickening and sporting, in the office, reading glasses. ‘And the words good cop for Lizzie. It’s a pity you two don’t hit it off: I’d trust her with my life.’

  ‘We don’t not hit it off.’

  ‘You’re never going to be bosom pals, though, are you? She’s had a couple of bad experiences, grooming a young man or woman – OK, usually a young man – only to find him whizzing off up the promotion ladder. Got degrees, see. Like you. And I know for a fact she’d have been DCI in another squad if this woman hadn’t been shagging the ACC at the time.’

  ‘We all have histories,’ Kate agreed. ‘Trouble is, when you’re on this accelerated promotion scheme, that’s what happens. You get stuck in and then you’re pulled out. At the time I thought that was what I wanted. But the more I see of the force, the more I want to be part of a team – operational as well as administrative.’

  ‘Fraud, then: that’d be a good place for you. Dyson has a big desk, but he’s got feet too. And brains. And uses them. Or Drugs – again, the DCI would be hands-on as well as management.’

  ‘Let me get to Inspector, first, before I start planning a career path. And let’s sort out this business before I think of even that. Hey, is the traffic always this bad?’

  ‘Friday,’ he said tersely. ‘I hope that bugger waits for us.’

  ‘He better bloody had. Queen Matilda’s College. Sounds posh.’

  They were both laughing by the time Bill had driven into the school grounds and parked.

  ‘I bet they chose the name to make you think of King Edward’s – that’s the top-of-the-league boys’ school in Brum,’ Bill said. ‘But public school this isn’t. Surely!’

  The school occupied the sort of rambling three-storey house she’d become familiar with in Moseley: a large family home, even if this came equipped with some fine baronial touches, including a couple of turrets.

  ‘My wife’s a teacher,’ Bill said. ‘She’s just had a week’s Ofsted inspection. I taught myself for a couple of years.’ His tone suggested he was asking something.

  ‘Over to you, then.’

  They were kept waiting in a square hall, heavy with stained oak and stained glass. In what had once been a huge corner fireplace, stood a glass display cabinet with a couple of trophies and a lot of brochures. Kate took one, flicking through it round-eyed. ‘Hey – look at this. French: hundred per cent grade A pass-rate at A level – that’s pretty good, isn’t it? And History.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Power?’ A man in his mid-thirties, sleek as a stoat, beamed at Bill.

  Bill beamed back. ‘Detective Constable Parsons. And you, sir, must be Mr Muirhead?’

  ‘That’s right. The Chief Master. Come through into my study.’

  So who had designed this room, Ikea-bold and cheerful? It almost worked, too, until you remembered that this was the hub of this august establishment.

  An electric clock announced it was four-ten.

  ‘This is a private school, is it, Sir? Parents have to pay fees?’

  ‘That’s right. They pay for our excellent service.’

  ‘And the fees would be?’

  ‘They do reflect the excellence of our service.’

  ‘And they are?’

  Kate said nothing. She could see that Bill was grinding a private axe but had no problems with that.

  Muirhead said nothing.

  ‘And the teachers? Or do you call them lecturers? Are they employed on a permanent, full-time basis?’

  ‘We have to be flexible in our response to consumer demand: we obtain staff of the highest calibre through an agency.’

  Kate couldn’t see where Bill was heading, so she asked, ‘And the fees would be, Mr Muirhead? I don’t think you answered my colleague’s question.’

  ‘Just over two thousand pounds per year per subject. Plus examination and administration fees.’

  ‘And Nigel’s taking – two? three? – A levels?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘I take it Nigel hasn’t been at this school—’

  ‘College.’

  ‘—college long, Sir?’

  ‘It’s not a college where students do stay for long periods. Essentially we take students who have as yet failed to realise their true potential and assist them in their development. If you take your examinations here, officer, you are almost guaranteed a place at university.’ The words might have come well from a be-gowned middle-aged pedagogue. From this young man, who might have been selling cars – top-of-the-range cars, but nonetheless cars – they sounded pretentious.

  ‘So you get kids who’ve failed their A levels and give them a little polish?’ Bill said, joining in again. Kate let him take over.

  Muirhead nodded. And looked wary.

  ‘Nigel, now, what A levels grades did he come with? He had taken his A levels, had he?’

  ‘No. Not quite.’

  ‘Not quite? Surely he had or he hadn’t.’

  ‘He’d finished his course at his previous school. But he did not – I understand – take the examinations there.’

  ‘So you took him on when he was sacked.’ Bill wrote without waiting for a reply. ‘Why was he sacked?’

  ‘You’d have to ask his previous school that.’

  ‘Come now, you must have asked. If everyone else has A levels and he hasn’t—’

  ‘He had exceptionally good GCSEs, of course. Exceptionally good.’

  ‘Which were?’ Kate asked.

  Muirhead jumped. He flipped a thin brown file. ‘According to our records, he had As in Drama, Art, Technology. Bs in English and French. Oh, Art was a starred A. C in Maths.’

  ‘Which school did he come from?’ Bill shot in swiftly. ‘A local comp or one of the Headmasters’ Conference ones?’

  Kate nodded his question home, trying not to show she had no idea what a Headmasters’ Conference school might be.

  After a moment, Muirhead mentioned a name even Kate had heard of. ‘Not terribly good results, then,’ she said. ‘OK from an inner-city comp, but not at a place like that.’ It fitted in, didn’t it, with what Graham had said: they had some trouble with him, I gather. The wrong crowd. Father had to come the heavy.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll benefit from our supportive pastoral system and small classes.’

  ‘How many students in each class?’ she asked.

  ‘We have very small groups,’ he said.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Five or six.’

  Bill leaned across, his finger pointing to the statistics page of the prospectus. ‘But you only had two or three students at most sitting any of these exams.’ Suddenly Bill looked mean. ‘Are you telling me, Sir, that you don’t let all your students take the exam? You tak
e seven thousand pounds a year fees off their parents and don’t let them take the exam!’

  ‘You will see in our regulations we do not permit students with inadequate attendance or inadequate application to enter for the examinations.’

  ‘So you tweak the statistics and rake in the money. Nice one, Mr Muirhead. Nice little earner. Now, you’re the head – the Chief Master – of Queen Matilda’s. Who owns the college?’

  Muirhead looked blank

  ‘Someone must own the place, Sir. Some person or trust?’

  ‘I don’t see the relevance of that.’

  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Muirhead,’ Kate said, who did. ‘If you’re a charity, like a lot of schools, Eton, for instance, then your headed notepaper will say so. And shouldn’t it also tell us – if you’re a limited company – the number your company’s registered under?’

  The sheet of headed notepaper he pushed across to her was, apart from a florid coat-of-arms, pretty reticent.

  ‘OK, Mr Muirhead. You’ve made your point. Let me put this a different way: I assume your monthly money doesn’t come in a small brown envelope stuffed with greasy fivers? Who pays your salary?’

  ‘Thank God for computers,’ Kate said, clipping her seat-belt. ‘Or we’d spend all our time checking these companies. Not that I’d be taking any bets on this, would you?’

  ‘You think our friend Sanderson père has his fingers in educational pies, too? It’s certainly odd that a school should break its own admission rules to pick up someone who doesn’t look a very good bet.’

  ‘He might have made it worth their while. Or he may have a more powerful lever. We’ll find out Monday, anyway.’

  ‘Do you want me to go back in and check now?’ Bill’s tone was so neutral she almost laughed.

  ‘Didn’t you say your wife was a teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just had an Ofsted? Then I tell you what, Bill. You stop off on the way home and get her a bunch of flowers and something for tea. She’ll be dead on her feet. And, come to think of it, I’ve got a home to go to, as well.’

  It was late enough by the time she left the city centre for the traffic jams to be dissolving. But there were still red lights and clogged islands, and all she wanted to do was get to her house. At last, Kings Heath! But the traffic was solid along the High Street. OK. She’d use the middle-class back route, protected by speed-bumps. And if one took out her sump, she’d bloody sue.