‘Except you know even that’s against the law, don’t you?’
The smile was replaced by a horrified stare.
‘OK, son. Off you go. And remember, this conversation’s just between the three of us. For now.’
‘Do you think there’s any hope for him?’ Bill asked as they drove home, having dropped Nigel at his bus stop.
Kate thought of Simon. ‘Others have had bad parents and come through as decent adults. But he’s got it so damned cushy, hasn’t he? And a role model who says it’s OK to treat women badly and con school-kids out of their pocket-money.’
‘But he loves his mum!’
‘Even so, they say patterns of violence get replicated from father to son. Tell you what, Bill, the sooner that paper-work tells us we can pick up Sanderson, the happier I shall be.’
‘It’s not just the paper-work, Kate, is it? It’s Them Upstairs. Not to mention the DPP. Can you imagine a worse scenario than shaking him up nicely and then sending him home to inflict more of the same on his wife. The only thing is, what is it that he inflicts?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘I thought you’d died or something, it’s so long since you came,’ Cassie said. ‘You call this stuff gin and tonic? More like weasel’s pee.’
If Kate had sunk it, she’d have been reeling; but she stiffened it a good deal more and placed it in Cassie’s outstretched hands. Both hands. So Cassie was losing ground. Kate bit her lip. Yes, Cassie might well think she was being neglected, even if it was only a matter of a few days since she’d made time to come. But one of the reasons for Cassie’s withdrawal to this home was supposed to be readily available company. She always said she didn’t expect Kate to be able to dance attendance on her. That was theory, of course. Kate couldn’t blame her if it was different in practice. The old woman couldn’t possibly understand Kate’s work schedule, which would all too soon include those inspector’s exams.
Perhaps she should risk a gin herself. Not in this heat, though. She’d already dumped her coat. Now she stripped off her jacket. What did they want to do to all these old people, bake them alive?
‘This weekend,’ she said, pouring a great deal of tonic on to a minute amount of gin and sitting down, ‘I promise I’ll take the camera all round the house so you can see how it looks. The kitchen’s magic. Absolutely magic. I’ve got these lovely wooden cupboards, and the green of the working surface picks up the green in the flooring.’
‘And aren’t your walls green? It must be like living in an aquarium.’
Could you shove a gin glass down the throat of someone who needed two hands to hold it safely? Kate took a deep breath.
‘And the carpets are down in the living rooms, too. One of these days I’ll give that table of yours a really good polish.’ Not tactful. Try harder. ‘It suffered a bit with all the plaster dust.’
‘Hmph. What about the garden? Did you get up all the leaves? You’ll have very acid soil if you don’t – no good for anything. I used to enjoy scraping them all up – and those from the front garden, too – and having a bit of a bonfire.’
‘Not yet. I’ve been a bit busy.’ There was no point in reminding her that there was nothing she could call a garden, yet. And that local authorities were no longer keen on people having therapeutic bonfires.
‘So one of your young men said.’
Young men? Kate slopped her drink. Colin would have told her, surely, if he’d been.
‘That Graham. You know his mother-in-law’s moved in here. He comes to see her. When he has to. And he leaves his wife with her and sneaks in here. Can’t say I blame him.’ She leaned closer. ‘Have you met the woman? Mrs Nelmes?’
Kate shook her head. ‘I met her daughter once.’
‘Once would be enough if she’s like her mother. My goodness me, she’s a rum one. Moan? Nothing’s good enough for Lady Muck. It’s fetch this, do that, every time she sees a what’ sit – care assistant, whatever they’re called. You’d think she was the only one with aches and pains.’
‘What do you make of her daughter? Graham’s wife?’
‘She doesn’t come to see me! Oh, no. Graham reckons the old woman would blow a gasket if she thought her daughter was wasting precious time seeing anyone else.’
Kate took a breath. ‘Do you know what her name is?’
‘Mrs Nelmes? May, I think.’
‘No. Her daughter. Graham’s wife’s name?’
Cassie opened her mouth but shut it. At last she said slowly, ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use it. He always calls her “my wife”. Always.’ She took another swig, and giggled. ‘Do you suppose it’s like in the old books, like Mrs Bennet always calls him Mr Bennet? Do you suppose they call each other Mr and Mrs? “Come here, Mrs—” What’s their name? Ah, Harvey, that’s it! – “Come here, Mrs Harvey, I fancy a bit of how’s your father”!’
Kate laughed. Had to. Apart from the fact that Cassie’s giggles were infectious, she couldn’t let the old lady get a hint of her shock. What a fool – she’d always thought of him as some poor, sex-starved man with a frigid wife. She’d never imagined them in bed with the sort of joy and gusto she and Robin had shared, the woman in the twinset and Graham with his well-cut suit.
The man who’d let her down today. Twice.
‘Tell you what,’ she said at last, ‘you could always do a bit of detective work yourself. So long as you keep me completely out of it, mind. Next time you find your zimmers clashing, you could find out what her daughter’s called. Mrs Harvey. Just as a matter of interest.’
Cassie’s laugh was positively joyous. ‘Oh, I shall enjoy that. Not a hint that you’re interested, of course not. And I shall find out all about her for you. And him, with a bit of luck. Mind you, she’ll be biased. Tell you what,’ she added, holding out her glass for a top-up, gin, not tonic, ‘I know he’s a friend of yours – and he always speaks well of you, mind! – but he’s a bit of a grumpy-boots, isn’t he? Doesn’t crack his face very often. Mind you, with a mother-in-law like that … Or perhaps he isn’t persuading Mrs H to have a spot of how’s your father often enough. Nice-looking man, if you like them doleful: you could always try and cheer him up.’
‘Only one problem,’ said Kate, economising with the truth, ‘I don’t think Mrs Nelmes would approve. Or Mrs Harvey. Tell me, how’s Rosie these days?’
‘How would you be with a split lip and a broken tooth? I’ve tried to talk to her myself, don’t think I haven’t. She said you gave her something but she lost it.’
Kate fished in her bag. Could anyone really lose a lifeline like that? A psychologist would no doubt make hay.
‘Here. Give her this. And tell her to act now: see a solicitor, Citizens’ Advice, even her friendly neighbourhood police. And tell her – tell her in a relationship like that, things can only get worse.’
The evening air smashed across her face as she left the cosy fug of the home. Thank goodness for an efficient car heater and the promise of central heating. She left the engine running while she scraped ice from the windscreen. That was better. The rear screen was thawing nicely, but she gave it a helping hand. There. So long as it didn’t freeze while she was driving. It was cold enough: she’d lost the feeling in her hands already.
Simon! On a night like this!
Surely on a night like this Simon would have headed for a hostel. No, she couldn’t risk it. No point in just turning up. She’d have to take him something practical. She zapped off home.
Cassie had left behind in her shed a little greenhouse heater. There was the arctic weight sleeping bag Robin had once used, and his silk long johns. Bundling the lot in the car, she set off for Selly Oak. At least the main road was both gritted and fairly clear of traffic. Now for his unmade road. Main beam on, she urged her car down it, dodging the worst of the hardening ruts. Leaving the engine running and the lights on, and ignoring the electronic warning whine this caused, she scuttled to Simon’s squat. No padlock.
She banged
on the door. There was no response but she went in anyway, opening the door with care. No light, of course, except that from her headlights. But she could sense the place wasn’t deserted – the smell of underwashed young man, perhaps. And another smell. Blood. She zipped back to the car for her torch, slipping as she went. And then returned. Blood, yes. Fresh. And urine. Also fresh.
And – huddled in the far corner – Simon.
The paramedics were there before she could have believed it, and her local colleagues. And the heater and sleeping bag, not to mention her first aid training, had been useful, the woman paramedic said. ‘Thing is, he’s not all that badly hurt. But what with him being malnourished and tonight’s big chill, well, I doubt if he’d have seen the night out. What made you come down here?’
Kate gestured at her token effort. ‘I didn’t realise how cold it was. And then I thought of him. Come on, let’s get him moving. I’ll follow you.’ Leaving her name and number with the local officers, with the strongest instructions to preserve what little was left of the scene, she turned the car and prepared for a long wait in A & E.
It was only when she’d got a coffee and a couple of biscuits inside her that she thought of protocol, and how Graham regarded it. As a major issue. Well, she had Lizzie’s number and Graham’s, too. Bugger Cope. Standing in the bitter wind outside, she tried Lizzie first, and got a chirpy message saying there was no one at home in the Rossetti household. She left a more sober one. Then, taking a deep breath, she punched Graham’s number.
The anonymous wife replied.
Formal to the point of punctilious, Kate asked for DCI Harvey, explaining they had an attempted murder on their hands. Mrs Harvey was too well bred to sniff, but Kate was left in no doubt about her feelings. It would have been nice to know what her own were. ‘My husband is not in, Sergeant. I’ll pass on the message when he returns.’
Was she telling the truth? Kate had to believe her. She could always phone into work and get him bleeped. Which she did.
Returning to the fug of the waiting area – five hours to see a doctor, the electronic display said – she settled down for a long wait. She wouldn’t be going anywhere until she knew how Simon was. And it would be interesting to see how soon Graham responded to his bleeper.
Could she go and look in on Simon? She’d left that to the Bournville Lane nick constable who’d responded to her initial summons. Better not – they didn’t need extra people milling round. But she couldn’t stop herself.
The constable gave a grim smile. ‘He’s conscious. They’ve got various drains in – looks dreadful – and he’ll be in theatre as soon as maybe. But he knows you’re here and wants to talk to you.’
Most of all though the kid wanted his hand held. Literally.
‘They say I’m bleeding inside, Kate. Does it mean I’m going to die?’
The nurse across the bed shook her head, but doubtfully.
Kate gave no sign that she’d seen her. Her smile mingled kindness and anger. ‘Don’t you bloody dare, young Simon. Not until your evidence at county court has had whoever did this sent down. Then you can do what you bloody well like, of course.’
He managed a smile, and his fingers tightened on hers for a moment.
‘The other thing is I’m trying to get you a place to live. They’re setting up this work scheme, with accommodation. I thought of you as soon as I heard.’
‘Did you really?’ Somewhere amidst the bruises and abrasions, he summoned up a smile.
She squeezed his hand.
‘Is it right you came to look for me tonight?’
‘I’d brought you a sleeping bag and some other things.’
The nurse officiously adjusted his drip.
A couple of porters erupted between the curtains. ‘Coming to take you to theatre, young man. Simon, is it?’
His eyes closed as they moved him, but his grip on her fingers didn’t loosen. Kate made no attempt to shift them. She caught the older porter’s eye, and walked in procession with them until they reached the sterile area. She leaned down to kiss his cheek. ‘See you in the morning, love,’ she whispered.
‘Why on earth did you have me bleeped? Why couldn’t you phone me?’ Graham demanded, getting to his feet as she came back into the waiting area.
‘I left a message,’ she said, her voice dull even to her own ears. She shoved her hands into her pockets and sat down, next but one to the seat he’d vacated.
‘Got an ID on him yet?’
Kate explained. Graham didn’t ask why she’d gone out there.
‘Is he well enough to make a statement? Maybe tomorrow?’
‘There’s no guarantee he’ll see tomorrow. He’s a nice kid.’ Her voice broke.
‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded it. He looked at her under his eyebrows. ‘Any idea who—?’
‘The scene’s a mess, of course. But I’d say we might find marks of the tyres belonging to a big Merc. if we try hard enough.’ She scrubbed her eyes with a tissue, and then gave up.
Graham dug in his pocket and came up with more tissues. She wouldn’t be contaminating one of the white linen handkerchiefs his wife ironed so beautifully.
‘He’s not – important – to you, is he?’
She took the tissues, but let the tears drip off her nose. ‘Of course not. But I’m important to him.’ She rubbed her face. ‘Bloody hell, Graham, I want to get those bastards. The poor kid’s got nothing, absolutely nothing, only his life. And then someone tries to take that away from him too.’
The wait was interminable. She could tell Graham was impatient, but not for the same reason as her. Someone was waiting for him to go home, wasn’t she? Not that Mrs Harvey was a cartoon character with rollers and a rolling pin, waiting on her front step with her sleeves round her elbows. Perhaps he even wanted to go back. For a bit of how’s your father.
‘I’m going to talk to the people at the scene,’ he said abruptly, getting to his feet.
‘You don’t suppose there’s any chance of a news blackout for a bit, do you?’
‘Why?’
‘With his well-known tact and kindliness, I’m sure Mr Sanderson would rather think Simon had simply expired, unnoticed. It’d be lovely to break it to him that we’ve a live witness. If we have, of course.’ She tried for grim upbeat and found it. ‘The thing is, Mr Sanderson may be so delighted that Simon’s alive he may want to beat up his wife. Or whatever he does to her.’
Graham sat down. ‘I know the man, Kate. My wife knows his wife. I really can’t believe …’
‘When you hear all the other stuff we’ve been busily ferreting out, you’ll believe it, Graham. In fact, wouldn’t it be a good idea to have a conference tomorrow: all of us who are working on the case? So we can put everything on the table. Including, please God, Simon’s recovery.’
‘He wouldn’t beat anyone up himself, Kate. He’d hire people.’
Kate nodded. Yet another thread to ravel back to its source. Then she shook her head: ‘Are you sure? Perhaps he’s the sort of man who’d really enjoy that sort of control over other people? He’s certainly got that son of his under his thumb.’
‘I told you, Nigel needs some discipline. To stay in in the evenings.’
‘Does Nigel need to stay in in the evening to forge Ecstasy tablets?’
Graham turned towards her, mouth agape.
‘At least that’s what I strongly suspect. We’re hoping to talk to him tomorrow. Well, today, more like.’
He got to his feet again. ‘I’ll go and talk to the Bournville Lane people about that news blackout.’ His assurance deserted him. ‘Are you quite sure you’ll be all right? Shouldn’t you leave all this to Uniform?’
She shook her head.
‘You’d be better catching some sleep, so we can nail whoever did this.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. But he depends on my being here, Graham. If I can be. I’m the nearest he’s got to family, see?’
He bent to look at her with more tenderness and compassion
than she could deal with. ‘Are you sure, Kate, that he’s not the nearest you’ve got to family?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lizzie looked ostentatiously at her watch as Kate arrived. ‘I thought you and Bill were supposed to be doing something this morning.’
Kate nodded. Better to ride the criticism than whinge about not getting back till four, sleeping through the alarm and getting enmeshed in the rush hour. She dumped her bag on the desk. ‘Has Graham been in touch with you yet?’ she asked, hanging up her coat.
‘Any special reason he should be?’
‘To arrange a conference this afternoon. To pull everything together. Including the assault on young Simon.’ She boiled the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
Lizzie nodded and thrust her mug forward. ‘The dosser? Tell me.’
‘Some bastard beat him up and left him to die. Well, he’s in a high dependency unit, so he’s not out of the woods yet. But they say we can talk to him briefly late this morning. Meanwhile, Graham’s asked for a news blackout.’ She made coffee, passing Lizzie’s mug back.
Lizzie smiled. ‘Bright guy, Graham.’ She wrapped her hands round the mug, and stood up to peer at the iron-grey sky. ‘Very bright. University, like you. He got a very good degree. Is there such a thing as a starred first? Because if there is, he got one. Then he joined the Force. Only he came up the hard way.’
‘He’s never spoken to me about his degree.’ Kate hoped she kept the hurt out of her voice. And the anger: all Lizzie’s banging on about the accelerated promotion scheme wouldn’t help either of them.
Lizzie gave an exaggerated shiver and turned back to the room. ‘Past history, I suppose. The word is his prof. wanted him to stay on and do some research or something.’
The chance of a lifetime! ‘Why didn’t he?’
‘Well, he’d got responsibilities, hadn’t he? A wife. So he needed the security of a job.’
Kate shook her head. ‘Aren’t we talking about the seventies? Weren’t women rather keen on equality in those days?’
‘She was keen enough to support him through college. Come on, we’re not all professional women striding around being career-orientated. And he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s got a good job, after all.’
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