Power Shift

by Judith Cutler

  It was three before she realised she had neither eaten nor phoned Graham. On the grounds that all dodgy jobs were better done on a full stomach she slipped on her jacket and headed out into drizzly rain for a baguette. And realised, just as she was going back into Scala House, that she didn’t want to eat and might never want to eat again. She did what many of her colleagues had done that week: bolted for the loo. There was, as Neil Drew had agreed, much to be said for a clean loo when you were clearly going to be intimately acquainted with it.

  Staggering back to her desk, she remembered she had to get the figures and the rest of her report through to the ACC. Thank goodness for e-mail. Then she bolted again.

  There was no alternative. She must go home. As soon as she could, scattering messages for her teams like so much cyber-confetti, she set out. She knew she had to be extra careful with her driving: her attention was very much elsewhere. So while she was shuffling out of her parking space—it was tight enough to make her bless her manoeuvrable Fiesta—she double and triple-checked each corner. She knew exactly where her rear and front bumpers were.

  So how did this woman come to be sprawled across her bonnet?

  Even at two miles an hour, she braked hard enough to shake most things off. The woman didn’t fall off. But now Kate couldn’t get out of the driver’s door—not at this angle. Passenger side—yes. An awkward scramble, but there she was.

  The woman clung on. Woman? She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, if that. Thin, pale, and wearing nothing—in the most literal sense—but a cropped T-shirt, exposing a midriff covered in nothing but goose pimples, tiny skirt and high boots. At last she peeled herself from her resting-place and threw herself at Kate, falling on the ground and clasping her knees with icy hands and arms.

  ‘Police. Lady, police. Asylum. Lady, asylum. Slave. Sex slave.’

  Tearing off her jacket—it couldn’t be much above freezing and goodness knew what the wind chill-factor must be—and reaching for her radio, Kate wondered if hers was the sort of bug you could work through. It better had be.

  OK, prostitutes were supposed to be dealt with by local stations. But this wasn’t your average tom, was it? So the first call was to the paedophilia and pornography unit, conveniently based just down the road at Digbeth nick. But what about Immigration Control at the airport? The child plainly wasn’t British and, stomach bug notwithstanding, Kate would have eaten her uniform hat if she had a legitimate passport and visa. She huddled the poor kid into her car. But she was retching again already—just made it to the gutter. Hell. She’d better head straight for Digbeth. Let them deal.

  Let them, indeed. As Kate introduced her new acquaintance—she’d managed to extract the name Natasha—you could almost see the word ‘paperwork’ appearing in her colleagues’ eyes. They were inclined to think that, since it was Kate’s collar, she should take responsibility. No point in pleading your stomach in these circumstances, clearly. But she could at least do what she’d never done before: she pulled rank. She ticked off on her fingers: interpreter; social worker; rape suite; police surgeon. And then, to her embarrassment and probably theirs, she fainted slowly but inexorably at their feet.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Not bloody, likely! I don’t need a damned ambulance!’ Kate protested. But she couldn’t claim to be well. So in the end she had to consent to be shipped to the first-aid room, to sip water, to lie down, even, swathed in a red blanket comfortingly Eke those that had covered period-pain sufferers at school. She might even have closed her eyes. But she left the clearest instructions that she was to be roused after ten minutes, no matter how deeply asleep she might appear to be.

  She didn’t sleep at all, of course. She was on her mobile phone briefing her Scala House colleagues, and insisting on their prioritising the wholesale market on their patrols. She also phoned Rod to say she might be late.

  ‘Late? How late?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  My guts might have been an honest answer, but it wasn’t one she chose to give Rod. She gave a very brief explanation involving the girl. But the lavatory became the most urgent priority, and she cut him off.

  Who the hell was she trying to kid? She ought to be at home in bed, with Rod producing water with replacement salts for her to sip: he’d do it with as much panache as if he were serving champagne.

  But there had to be one of her Scala House team ready to join in the interviews. Who would it be now? Jill Todd. There was no doubt about it—this was definitely the sort of bug you could work through.

  * * *

  ‘Romanian! Well, I could see the poor kid wasn’t Chinese,’ Kate added, stupidly. ‘How did she get here?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to find out,’ the paedophilia and pornography unit inspector, Ray Baird, said grimly. He came from the far side of his desk to look at her more closely. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Fairly sure I’m not, actually,’ she said. ‘There’s a bug going round Scala House and it’s chosen me as its latest host.’

  He backed away visibly. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home?’ He retreated behind his desk again. Perhaps he thought his heaps of files would act as a barricade.

  ‘There’s a job to do here. I found the kid in the middle of my patch and I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Just as well we can’t get hold of an interpreter till tomorrow, then,’ he said, smiling thinly. ‘He’ll be here at ten.’

  ‘So will I.’

  And she was. Largely thanks to Rod’s ministrations and entirely against his advice, Kate forced herself into her uniform—it seemed to have been that that had inspired the kid yesterday.

  ‘Just remember that this is officially your free time,’ he said.

  ‘Since when did that stop you working at weekends?’ she only half joked.

  ‘When murders have the decency to occur during the week, it does.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she jeered affectionately.

  As she drove carefully round to Digbeth, the city centre already packed with Christmas shoppers, she knew he’d been right. She was so wobbly that if she’d had any sense she’d have turned round and gone home to bed. Home. She’d meant to Rod’s. There. She’d done it again. Meanwhile, since she was nearly at work, she might as well stay.

  But not in the room she’d been allocated. Every old nick like Digbeth was constantly in a state of refurbishment to bring its interior up to modern standards. Interview rooms were part of this process; while some, if not the height of luxury, were inoffensive, others were so tally you expected to see Bill Sykes’s or Magwitch’s name on the board outside. So why had they put Natasha in one of these? She. surely didn’t need to be intimidated any more than she was at the moment, her eyes so wide you could see the whites. She was chaperoned by a woman of about forty, wearing the most nondescript clothes imaginable, and schooling her basically gentle features into an extremely stem expression.

  ‘Kate Power. I’m the inspector from Scala House, on whose patch this young lady was found. Or, rather, found us.’ Kate smiled encouragingly at the child; now clothed in a jogging suit and trainers and pulling bits of pink varnish off badly manicured nails. She was dropping the detritus on to the floor.

  ‘DS Meg Walker,’ the chaperon said. ‘One of Ray Baird’s team.’

  Kate flapped a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Look, this room’s dreadful. All these brown tiles and heavy furniture are going to scare Natasha to death. I’ll go and find somewhere more user-friendly.’

  It didn’t take long. During the small hours,. the station would be seething with minor criminals whom it was her colleagues’ job to adjudge mentally ill or simply pissed out of their minds, and deal with accordingly. There were also the victims of their crimes to talk to. Now the processes of law would be dealing with all three groups, and Kate—more or less had her choice of room.

  ‘But why ever did you put her there in the first place?’ she—asked the hapless duty sergeant.
>
  ‘She’s an illegal, isn’t she?’

  ‘She may be an illegal immigrant, she may be an asylum seeker, not even bogus. I’d say she was some sort of victim—she called herself a sex slave, and that sounds like a victim to me. So next time use your loaf, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Ma’am’

  Kate hadn’t the energy to sustain her anger. ‘OK. See if you can run to earth something hot to drink. And eat. Poor kid looks half-starved.’

  She opened the door, saying gaily, ‘We’re on the move! Come!’

  Natasha flung herself across the room. Meg Walker made a grab. She missed. Kate braced herself for an assault. But, as before, Natasha simply fell at Kate’s feet, embracing her knees. ‘Lady, lady. Please.’ She pointed at the corner out of Kate’s range.

  ‘Come on. Up you get. No one’s going to hurt you.’ Kate tried to ease her to her feet. She looked at Meg. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s just—’

  Kate tried to take a step forward, but the weight of the child prevented her. Damn this stupid weakness. Any moment her knees would buckle. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a bloody spider.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, ma’am,’ a young man said, stepping forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Mihail Antonescu. I’m the accredited interpreter.’ He had more teeth than any human being was entitled to, arranged with such precision Kate was sure he must have paid fistfuls to an American orthodontist. Come to think of it, his accent was vaguely American. He would have been handsome but for his pockmarked skin: his cheekbones were film-star quality, his eyes a lovely limpid blue.

  Since the child was now clutching at her hands, Kate had to ignore his gesture. She smiled coolly. ‘I see we have a problem here. Would you be kind enough to wait a few moments? And would you come with me?’ she asked Meg. She took the child’s hands and pulled her to her feet, not quite dragging her out of the interview room with her. In any case, once she got the idea, the girl came willingly, cowering against Kate’s shoulder as soon as Kate came to a standstill.

  ‘What the hell’s all this about?’

  ‘She was fine till the interpreter turned up.’

  ‘So why doesn’t she like him?’

  Meg looked at her sideways. ‘It’d take another interpreter to discover that.’

  ‘So what happens to her now? Until we find one.’

  ‘Back to the detention centre.’

  ‘No. To a safe-house. Innocent till proved guilty.’ Kate turned to Natasha. ‘Have you eaten?’ She spoke slowly and mimed.

  Negative. That was clear. By now the duty sergeant was hovering. ‘I’ve found another room for you, ma’am’—:this way. And I’ve organised a bit of breakfast. I found some croissants and got them to heat them up for you.’

  ‘You’re my hero,’ Kate declared. She smiled warmly. He was certainly using his head now.

  Meg Walker was busy with a pencil and paper. Natasha fell on the croissants as if she hadn’t seen food for three weeks. As she ate, the sleeve of the tracksuit was pulled back. Bruises.,-in so many colours that the damage must have been done over a period of days, if not weeks. Kate touched one, very, gently.

  The girl nodded vigorously, pulled back the other cuff, then unzipped her top.

  ‘Jesus,’ Kate gasped:

  Meg looked up. She’d drawn the outline of a woman, and now shaded the wrists and neck. She passed paper and ballpoint to Natasha, who twigged rapidly, shading in other areas. She then drew a powder compact and mimed patting powder over her face and neck. Kate clapped and smiled. They’d eventually need an interpreter, if not the exquisite Mihail, to get fine detail, but in the meantime, they could make a lot of progress, the three of them.

  A map of Europe: at least eight out of ten for accuracy—how many English GCSE students could have done as well? Then Natasha mimed, pointing at her pencil then at her lips: both women stared first at her, then at each other.

  ‘Lipstick?’ Meg dug in her bag.

  Natasha shook her head vigorously. And mimed writing again.

  ‘A red pen? Is that what she wants?’ Meg wondered.

  ‘See what the duty sarge can produce. Be nice to him. I was ratty earlier and he didn’t altogether deserve it.’

  Meg returned in two minutes, clutching a cornucopia of coloured pens. ‘Seems he’s used to having to find something to entertain kids,’ she said. ‘And he’s got more paper if we need it’ She laid some scrap in front of Natasha The girl picked up pen after pen. Kate was suddenly back in Aunt Cassie’s kitchen, with the crayon set she’d always craved, thirty-six, maybe forty-eight, pristine paint, pristine points. Her mother would have said, ‘But you can only have them if you promise not to chew them.’ That had been her besetting sin at the time. Aunt Cassie simply offered them as they were. And Kate’s promise to herself was far stronger than any her mother could have coerced from her. Not a toothmark would sully the paint. Ever. Nor did it. When Kate had transferred her attention to her nails, biting them down to the quick, Aunt Cassie had produced a dream kit, a palette, of eye, lip and nail colours.

  How could she possibly sell Aunt Cassie’s house?

  What would Natasha make of such a kit? Yesterday, so far as she could remember anything, the girl had been masked with makeup. Today she wore absolutely none, her skin sallow and muddy, as if she hadn’t slept enough or eaten decent food. Well, not enough food. Ever.

  At last Natasha selected a pen to her taste, the one Kate wouldn’t have expected her to touch. Brown. She traced a line from what Kate thought was Romania down to the Balkans and then across to the coast facing Italy.

  ‘Where’s that?’ Meg asked.

  Kate shook her head. doubtfully: had this bloody bug rendered her completely useless? ‘Hang on—it’s where an especially nasty sort of Communism hung on longer than anywhere else. Orphanages.’ She clicked her fingers in irritation.

  ‘Albania,’ Meg supplied. ‘Doesn’t say much for our knowledge of geography, does it?’

  ‘Don’t tell Miss Firth.’ Kate giggled. ‘She’d come back from teacher heaven to haunt me.’

  ‘A martinet?’

  ‘Absolutely. All the same, she taught me how to read maps like words. But you forget other important things like place names, don’t you?’

  ‘We did, anyhow. But I know that’s Italy. Naples? And that’s Rome. Good girl. Well done.’

  Natasha nodded, helped herself to another croissant and changed pens. This one was black. She drew a line up to what was clearly Belgium. Then she hesitated. Another colour? At last, she decided to continue with black, but with little lines crossing the main one.

  Meg made a ch-ch-ch sound. ‘Train?’

  Yes, Brussels to London.

  Then she changed colour, with a big. smile at Kate. A nice cheerful pink brought her to Birmingham.

  ‘So you reckon she’s telling the truth?’ Rod asked, presenting her with a glass of water. ‘To your complete recovery, sweetheart.’

  ‘Thank you. And to your escaping the nasty little bug.’ She toasted him.

  He sat at the other end of the sofa and gathered her feet on to his lap. Bliss.

  ‘I don’t know what she’s got to gain by lying,’ she said. ‘We have certain facts. One, she’s between thirteen and fifteen: she says fourteen. Two, she’s had various sexually transmitted diseases, she says, and the police surgeon thinks she’s currently got chlamydia. She’s prescribed her two sorts of antibiotics, just in case.’

  ‘Which corroborates the sex-slave theory.’

  ‘Indeed. And maybe her dislike of Mihail the interpreter does, too.’ She explained.

  ‘A rather extreme reaction.’

  ‘Very. But perhaps she’s just off young men in a big way after her experiences.’

  ‘I take it she illustrated those too?’

  ‘With modest little pin men and women. She’s better on geography than on portraiture. But she did a very good container lorry. We’re still not sure how the driver was involved. Meg thinks
he’s a goodie who gave a terrified girl a lift. I’m less sure. But until we get a female interpreter, who can tell? Meanwhile, I’ve asked everyone to step up their patrols of the wholesale market tomorrow night and to call in the instant they see anything suspicious. Not that they won’t tonight, but it’ll be all those car-booters unloading their ill-gotten gains. I’m going to have to do something about that, you know,’ she added, struggling to sit up.

  ‘Not tonight, you’re not. Tonight, Kate, is your first proper night off since you started the job, and you’re going to stay here and have your feet stroked.’

  Maybe she should have argued. She didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  Kate replaced the bedside phone. She’d been about to slam it down, but Rod had caught her eye with an ironic gleam in his own. ‘Surely you should draw the line at violence on the Sabbath.’

  She stuck out her tongue. ‘No Romanian interpreter available till Monday, damn it.’

  ‘In that case you can do the sensible thing and come back to bed and enjoy the Sundays.’ He rustled the Observer invitingly and patted the space beside him.

  ‘But, Rod—’

  ‘But nothing, sweetheart.’ He ran a hand down her back, fingering her ribs. ‘You’re fading before my eyes—when was the last solid meal you had? It’s your legitimate day off. By some miracle no one’s contrived to get him or herself murdered so I’m off duty too. Three good reasons for us to have some quality time together. Agreed?’