Power Shift

by Judith Cutler

  ‘He’s been nobbled, Neil. That’s what I think. Either that or he’s an old soak well over his limit.’

  Neil had continued with his normal patrol route, but had pointed out that since it was usually covered by a single officer, there wasn’t a lot of point in Kate getting chilled to the bone when she’d probably got a lot on her plate anyway. After a token argument, Kate had agreed, heading with great relief and a full bladder—was that tea of Mick’s pure diuretic?—back to Scala House She was greeted by a commotion just outside Mrs Speed’s office Ronnie Hale was huddled on a chair, with Mrs Speed, Steve Timms and a PC Kate didn’t recognise kneeling beside her.

  Timms noticed Kate first. ‘She had a bad turn in the loo, ma’am. We think it’s that stomach bug. She said she’d been bad in the night, but she insisted she was all right. Then, well, you can see—’

  ‘Ambulance?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought—’ he began.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a second,’ Kate said, bolting to the loo. She wasn’t going to pee herself in public, but everyone would assume she’d got the bug too. Let them..

  By the time she was back, Ronnie was conscious, and refusing absolutely to have anything to do with an ambulance or hospital.

  ‘Fine,’ said Kate, ‘but we’ve got to get you home.’

  She struggled to her feet, swaying as she tried to straighten. ‘But, gaffer…’

  ‘But nothing.’ She pressed her gently back on to the chair. ‘I’m not having my officers at work when they’re ill. If you’ve got this bug, you go to bed. Simple as that. OK?’

  It patently wasn’t, but Steve Timms, with a stroke of something like genius, chimed in, ‘We don’t want Helen getting this. Not in her condition. I’ll run her home, ma’am.’

  ‘It ought to be a woman,’ Mrs Speed observed. ‘In case she’s unwell.’

  A euphemism for sicking up her guts, no doubt. ‘Remind me, who’s her usual partner?’

  ‘I am. Phil Bates, ma’am. But with my stomach I wouldn’t—I daren’t—’

  Kate didn’t know whether to wring his neck for cowardice or applaud his common sense. ‘I’ll take you, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Where are your keys?’

  So that was half the morning gone, and since Ronnie had—obviously felt too ill to talk Kate had achieved nothing except exposing herself to a bug she’d certainly rather not have. Phil Bates picked her up in the courtesy car and brought her back from the neat, detached house in Handsworth Wood that Ronnie shared with her teacher husband. Perhaps this was the moment to talk to him, especially as he was chomping on something that smelt remarkably like the stomach tablets Aunt Cassie relied on if she’d had too much wine—oh, yes, the retirement home was remarkably liberal about such things.

  ‘This isn’t the tummy bug, but your usual indigestion, is it?’

  ‘Indigestion? It’s a gastric ulcer. And these,’ he fished a sheet of bubble-packed capsules from his pocket, ‘are for my IBS.’ She might as well lead with her chin. ‘What do the doctors think caused them?’

  ‘Doctors? I don’t need them to tell me. Stress, of course.’

  ‘What is it that’s causing you stress?’ Even to her ears it sounded a stupid question.

  ‘How about colleagues who don’t bother showing up for their shift, consequent excessive overtime, mostly unpaid, missed meals, no canteen, inadequate transport, too much work for too few officers?’

  ‘And that’s just for starters. So, how could things be improved?’

  ‘Sack half the relief for a start. Or put a rocket under their arses to get them pulling their weight.’

  ‘That’s them. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, “no man is an island”, ma’am. Get them sorted and you’ll find I’m a new man.’

  And you’ll find I’m the Queen of Sheba! ‘Point taken. But what’d improve your life? Regular meals? So we’d have to get you off shift work, for the time being at least.’

  He pointed vigorously skyward. She craned to see. ‘Flying pigs, ma’am. I should believe a nine-till-five when I got it. And, if I may make a humble observation, pigs aren’t very likely birds.’ Wincing, he reached for another bubble-pack—yes, Aunt Cassie’s favourite brand. ‘Probably a good job when you consider their droppings.’

  She didn’t join in his laughter. ‘You might choose to specialise in a particular area—get sent on a training course then put in a post enabling you to use your new expertise. Computing?’

  ‘Oh, ah, and end up like young Tim? He’s supposed to be our nick’s resident geek, but I haven’t noticed them taking him off shifts.’

  That was something worth checking out. She’d no idea how expert Tim was, and if he had any specialist ambitions. Maybe he was as miserable and depressed as Phil.

  She tried again. ‘That’s Tim’s problem—if he sees it as a problem. But I’m concerned that you’re in constant pain.’

  ‘It isn’t just that. I never know when I’m going to have to have a shit.’

  ‘What does your gastroenterologist say?’ She preened herself—that was the right term, wasn’t it?

  ‘My how much? My own doctor’s not interested. Just tells me to eat regular little meals and take my medicine.’

  ‘I’d have thought it was worth going back to him and making a fuss. The NHS can do very clever things.’

  ‘Once you get on the waiting list. You know there’s a waiting list to get on the waiting list, these days? And how do I get to see a doctor? When do I get time to do that?’

  ‘You’ve had a couple of days off this week. Couldn’t you have—’

  ‘Couldn’t stir from the bathroom. Agony, I was in. And the GP only sees emergencies the day you phone—otherwise you have to wait a couple of weeks and you’re better by then.’

  ‘If you were that bad, I’d have thought that constituted an emergency.’

  ‘I told you, I couldn’t stir from the bog.’

  The way he was making her feel, soon he wouldn’t be able to stir far from A and E. She spoke very quietly and clearly: ‘Listen, Phil. You are ill. You are entitled to take time off for a GP’s appointment, whichever week you get it. You say you’ve worked overtime so you can take time off in lieu. When we get back, the first thing I want you to do is get a doctor’s appointment—this week, next week, whenever. Understood? Now, I’d mind that cyclist, if I were you. I think the car people would prefer this back the way they lent it us.’

  It was only when she’d got back, gasping for a cup of Mr Choi’s excellent tea, that she found she was going to be late for a meeting to which she was unexpectedly bidden at Lloyd House, back in the city centre. It wasn’t a meeting Rod would be at either, though he was based there, since he headed the murder-investigation teams throughout the region and this was about public satisfaction with grassroots policing. Laugh-a-minute time. And Rod had a meeting of his own to worry about when she phoned to suggest a. late lunch.

  So that was her afternoon wrapped up too—finding on computer the action plan Twiss had begun and left for her to finish. And finishing it. Which she did by seven thirty.

  Phoning Rod to say she was on her way and that she’d pick up a takeaway, she started to stow her things in her bag: Her things. Including the post she’d left there last night. So where was it? Not on the desk, or anywhere in it. Not in the waste-bin. And certainly not in her bag. So what the hell had happened to it?

  And what had happened to her memory? She’d still got no key to lock up behind her. Muttering things about stable doors, she scrawled a note to remind her to talk to Mrs Speed the following morning. And then, in somewhat neater writing, she wrote a note to Mrs Speed, which she dropped on that lady’s desk, anchoring it with a pen in each corner. There. That was better.

  But it didn’t help find the missing letters.

  Chapter 7

  Friday was a court day for Rod, so he was looking even more spruce than usual as he picked up his briefcase. ‘Now, you’re not to worry about contacting Graham Harvey—not on my a
ccount, anyway,’ Rod said, continuing the previous night’s conversation. ‘But—’

  ‘He’s entitled to know that someone’s stolen mail he almost certainly regarded as private.’

  ‘I’d still rather not—’

  ‘If you’re protecting my sensibilities, please don’t. If it’s your own, that’s a different matter.’ Despite his efforts, she detected anxiety in his voice.

  ‘I’ll phone him this morning,’ she said, picking up her car keys.

  ‘To be honest, Phil Bates is a total pain in the arse,’ Neil agreed, steadying a pile of files on the corner of his desk. ‘And what really gets me is this business of blaming other people.’

  ‘That’s between ourselves, mind,’ Kate reminded him sharply. ‘But you’d have no objections to my referring him to Occupational Health?’

  ‘You can refer him to Dudley Zoo and welcome ‘Specially if they keep him there. He’ll be starting nights come Sunday, and I leave it to you to guess how many shifts he’ll actually work Big round zero Maybe one, if he thinks you’re trying to make things better for him.’

  ‘How good a cop is he?’

  ‘Barely up to speed. He’s one of these late-entry people—can’t make a go of any other job so he thinks he’ll be brilliant in the police.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘He’ll complain the stress is so bad he deserves massive compensation and swan off and enjoy himself. A lot of folk do.’

  Kate nodded but wouldn’t commit herself. ‘Family?’

  ‘I’ll try to find out. Tell you what, Kate, half the time we’re bleeding social workers for young offenders, the other half we’re nannying our colleagues.’

  Kate. Well, something had upped her in his estimation. So it was with a lighter heart than she expected that she dialled DCI Graham Harvey’s number. But, none the less, with an irritatingly shaking hand. And when she got his answerphone—she was enraged to find that her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again.

  ‘Graham, I had some mail stolen the other day, and I think one item may have come from you.’ Or did she mean might? Rod would know. ‘Could you call me, please?’

  There was a time when she’d have spent the rest of the day staring at the phone, willing it to ring, but even if she’d wanted to, she didn’t have that luxury today. There was no Ronnie Hale, still no Tony Parker, and Helen Kerr looked as if she might as well not be in at all. Perhaps Mrs Speed hadn’t liked the tone of the memo that had greeted her on her arrival: she always found something vital to bury herself in whenever Kate hove into view. Thwarted, Kate passed five invigorating minutes in a forthright conversation with the cleaner about the lavatories.

  She had just finished her action plan in response to the meeting about public satisfaction with grassroots policing when Neil appeared. ‘Thought you’d like to know we’ve got Helen Kerr locked in a lavatory.’ He grinned. ‘But at least it’ll be a clean lavatory, won’t it, gaffer?’

  She looked at him sideways.

  ‘No, I’m not taking the piss, honest. You’re right—there is something about grotty bogs that makes you feel all no-how.

  I don’t know how you did it but you made that dippy Irish cow—’

  ‘In the interests of equal opportunities and non-racist language let’s just call her Thelma.’ But Kate grinned to take the sting out of the rebuke.

  ‘Thelma, then. Never knew that. She’s broken the habit of a lifetime and put in her full hours and you could eat your dinner in the gents’.’

  ‘Hope you won’t have to. I noticed you didn’t touch Mick’s tea—you’re sure your turn’s behaving itself?’

  ‘No point in taking risks. You’re up for the Police Medal, sinking the lot. Anyway, what shall I do about Helen?’

  ‘What you mean is, what am I going to do about Helen? OK, I’m on my way.’.

  ‘You phone a vulnerable woman at home and tell her she should have a termination! How dare you?’ This was the first time, Kate had ever withdrawn to the far side of her desk so that she could lean forward and plant her fists on it. ‘The last thing I said to you was that she was a colleague who needed support, not a junior officer who needed kicking into a decision to suit us.’

  Jill Todd stood her ground. ‘I gave her the best advice as I saw it. Great lump—how could she manage a baby on her own?’

  ‘We don’t know she is on her own and I know a lot of great lumps who make better mothers than honours graduates. But it isn’t our business to judge. It was great that you persuaded her to go for counselling—though I’d have preferred you to be more subtle in your approach. But counselling, is where you’re enabled to make up your own mind.’ Having extracted a promise from Helen that she’d at least talk to her partner about it—the young woman’s bovine eyes lit up when she mentioned her Vince—Kate felt she’d done all she could to right the balance.

  ‘Oh, of course, Inspector Power.’ Jill crossed her arms and leaned back, shifting her weight on to one leg. ‘Power: Irish background. Roman Catholic, of course. I might have known you’d be a pro-lifer.’

  It was like being back in the playground. ‘I’m an English Baptist, and I’m pro-choice. Her choice. Not your choice or my choice. And it’s my belief she wants that baby more than she’ll admit. Now, sergeant, if I hear that you’ve spoken to WPC. Kerr on this or any other personal matter I shall have you up for a disciplinary before you can blink. Do I make myself clear?’

  The phone rang. She let it. Mrs Speed could intercept.

  ‘Well? Do I make myself clear?

  Jill stood to something like attention. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ At least something had penetrated her arrogant skull.

  ‘OK. Now, we’re supposed to be fighting crime, not each other, so’ I suggest—Damn!’

  The phone rang again. This time it didn’t stop. Kate offered a chilly nod of dismissal, and picked up the handset.

  Jill didn’t move, except to heft her weight to the other hip. Kate covered the mouthpiece and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear what I’ve picked up about the market?’

  Much as she’d have loved to box the woman’s ears, Kate spoke briskly into the mouthpiece: ‘Kate Power here. I’m in the middle of a meeting. Could you give me your number and I’ll phone you back? Thanks.’

  At least Graham had taken the hint. Just as if he were a stranger he dictated his number. Kate, who knew it better than her own, decided—not quite on impulse, in view of the missing letter—to write it down religiously. But she transposed digits as she went. Anyone trying to dial the number would reach goodness knew whom. And she trusted Graham to have enough sense to have blocked the automatic return call facility before he dialled.—‘Thanks. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  She sat down, indicating that Jill might too. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a security guard there called Mick. Very reliable source of information. He says he thinks something’s going on. He’d like to see a big operation some time soon.’

  ‘Preferably at a time he isn’t there, no doubt.’ Kate grinned sardonically, standing to show the meeting was well and truly over. ‘Nice one, Jill.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I spoke to him this morning, he didn’t say anything except that the car-boot sale would involve dodgy stuff. How clever of you to have wormed this out of him where Sergeant Drew and I failed.’

  The phone again. This time she didn’t recognise the voice, but she did recognise the rank You’d didn’t put assistant chief constables (crime) on hold. Not even when they’d lent you to their Devon colleagues at a time when you’d much rather have been with your lover in Birmingham. She nodded Jill from the room.

  ‘Got a job for you, Power. Urgent.’

  She might have thought that the admin priority was public satisfaction with grassroots policing: indeed, from what he said, the ACC thought so too. ‘Thing is, Power, the PM himself is now laser-beam focused on street crime. So we now h
ave to prioritise. And, God bless us, the chief needs figures now. Especially if they show that we’re winning. Bloody hell, who’d be a police officer these days?’

  Kate laughed, but decided to take a risk. ‘Tell me, sir, how keen are the government to sort Out illegal immigration Because I’ve had a tip-off from one of the Chinese community about things going on in the wholesale food market.’

  ‘How seriously do you take it?’

  Kate explained its provenance. Then the opinions of two of her sergeants.

  ‘Hmm. Anything else?’ Was it resources or experience that made him sound reluctant?

  ‘Only that Sergeant Drew suspected one of the security men knew something was up but was saying nothing.’

  ‘Your nose telling you anything?’

  ‘It is, actually. It’s saying, “Watch and wait.” But call up extra resources as and when.’

  ‘How long have you been in post, Kate?’

  ‘Feels like for ever. But—what day is it today? Thursday?’

  ‘Friday!’

  ‘In that case, about four and a half days, sir.’

  ‘Good for you, Kate.’

  Why? What was good about that?

  His laugh indulged her, like a doting uncle’s. ‘Got over that Devon business yet?’

  ‘I didn’t like losing my colleague, sir.’

  ‘And, of course, the jungle drums have told everyone that it was your fault. Buggers, aren’t they? But you’re over it?’

  ‘Getting back to normal, sir. Except for one thing…’ She hoped her pause was dramatic enough.

  ‘Well?’ He sounded genuinely, concerned.

  ‘I seem to be obsessed with clean lavatories.’

  He roared with laughter. ‘Good girl. Now, you’ll let me have those statistics by—what—three this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  So that was her lunchtime gone. Sometimes people reported crimes but wanted to have no action taken. They might be talked out of action by an officer who could see that successful apprehension and prosecution were extremely doubtful—or, of course, by an officer who simply didn’t want to take any action. Other victims resisted such a line, demanding that action be taken, whatever the odds of success. Still others who claimed to be victims were simply lying, usually so they could make inflated insurance claims. If you made sure you used the recorded crime figures only, massaging out the crimes simply reported, with no action to be taken, they looked marginally better than the previous quarter’s. It’d be nice to be able to eradicate the spurious crimes, but these couldn’t be expunged even if the alleged victim was actually charged with wasting police time. Sighing, she tapped away on her calculator.