Power Shift

by Judith Cutler

Clearly, one of them had to go for ice. Since Aunt Cassie was—currently holding Rod’s hand, it had better be Kate. She took the ice bucket—one of Rod’s innovations while she’d been away—and headed for the kitchen.

  She’d almost reached the service stairs when she heard an urgent whisper: ‘Kate!’

  She couldn’t have said she’d been dreading the moment but she’d certainly hoped that this wouldn’t be, a night on which Graham Harvey chose to visit his mother-in-law, the Mrs Nelmes whose toilet habits had so offended Kate.

  Where on earth had he been lurking, anyway

  ‘Graham’ She turned with a social smile in place At least by calling her he’d given her enough time to prepare it.

  As if he were her boss, catching her sneaking off early, he charged towards her, head thrust forward. ‘Why the hell didn’t you phone me back’

  ‘Why the hell did you write to me’ she countered No, she wouldn’t play any of his guilt games, not now she was with Rod.

  ‘To lose a letter like that!’ He jabbed towards her chest with a rigid index finger.

  ‘To have it stolen.’

  ‘But what possessed you take it into work’

  ‘Because I didn’t have time to read it or any of my other mail at home It’s my first week at Scala House, remember.’ Now was not the time to tell him about her domestic arrangements

  ‘So you didn’t even have time to phone me back,’ he sneered How could she ever have loved this man?

  ‘I’d have thought everyone in the West Midlands Police would know by now that I passed out cold at Digbeth nick. The gastric bug that’s doing the rounds.’ She gave him half a second to ask how she was now. He didn’t. ‘I suppose I could have phoned you at home this weekend. From my sick bed.’ She allowed a little sarcasm into her voice.

  ‘Today’

  No, she wouldn’t tell him about her missing constable Hierarchies were all-important in the police, and if she told him before she told Personnel and the chief superintendent at Steelhouse Lane, the commander of her operational control unit, she could be in the shit good and proper.

  ‘How many spare hours did you have to spend on the phone in private conversations? Well, then.’

  He seemed to crumple. ‘Meet me for lunch one day this week.’ There was no missing the yearning in his voice.

  She said as gently as she could: ‘You know I’m with Rod now.’

  ‘Rumour had reached me,’ he said bitterly. She’d never realised how easily his face fell into bitter lines. She’d always thought of him as a rather tired schoolmaster in posture as well as expression. Then hope transformed his face. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Maybe. If I don’t phone you, no.’

  ‘But…’ He put a detaining hand on her arm. He more than held her back: he gripped, tightly.

  In the past, she’d been happy to carry his bruises on her arms: a sign of his passion for her. In the past.

  ‘For God’s sake, Graham, when you had a panic on, did, you ever put me first?’

  She was probably still flushed when she returned with the ice. Rod certainly registered something, but confined himself to laughing when Aunt Cassie observed, the first swig safely down, ‘We thought you’d gone to the Arctic to get it, didn’t we?’

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ Rod insisted. ‘It’s one thing a woman officer striding round here. But at the moment you’re simply a woman, my woman, to be more precise, and I hate the thought of you being vulnerable to attack.’

  ‘I could tell you all sorts of statistics about street crime in the area—and the age, social and sexual profiles of victims,’ she said, smiling across the car roof as he locked up.

  ‘You’re asking for a quotation about lies and damned lies,’ he said, taking her hand and tucking it into his pocket, wrapped in his own.

  If one of the Scala House teams saw them like this it would be round the West Midlands Police even faster than the stomach virus. Which was presumably what he intended: he’d rather be blatant than risk rumours. She wasn’t sure. She still wanted to prove herself on her own merits, not as the boss’s woman.

  He had nothing to prove except that he could pull a younger woman.

  Once in her office, however, he sat quietly on one of the visitors’ chairs while she went off to speak to Neil Drew.

  ‘If Phil Bates doesn’t turn up tonight, Neil—and maybe we should allow him ten minutes’ grace—I want to start pulling out the official stops.’

  ‘Go round to his place, like?’

  ‘I’ve already done that. The house was locked. No sightings by neighbours, no key-holders.’

  His face said she was mad.

  ‘I have a feeling, Neil. A copper’s feeling.’ She knew he Wouldn’t argue with that.

  ‘So we’d better find out who his relatives are.’

  ‘I’ll sign the authorisation to get hold of the next-of-kin form before I go.’

  ‘And you want me to start the formal questioning of other officers, gaffer?’

  ‘Absolutely. We know he’s a whinger, Neil, but that could be stress. I want self-harm ruled out. I want every fact on my desk tomorrow when I have to tell Chief Superintendent Oxnard. Is dotted, ts crossed.’

  ‘This isn’t how you wanted to start your first command, is it?’ He gave a rueful smile.

  ‘Quite.. And I’ve already got a reputation for losing colleagues,’ she reflected, more to herself than as criticism of his gossiping: she’d almost forgotten how hostile he was only a week ago.

  ‘You haven’t lost this one. He’s done a runner. And from what I’ve heard, that mate of yours was less of a mate than a liability.’ He pulled himself upright. ‘So I’d like to offer a formal—’

  She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Forget it, Neil. Let’s just get on with our jobs. I’ll be in as early as I can tomorrow. Unless you need me now?’

  ‘Look, Kate, anyone can see you’re not a hundred per cent yet. When Oxnard accepts he’s a missing person—’

  ‘Which he won’t surely, not for a couple of days.’

  ‘We’ll see. But when he does, it’ll be all hands to the plough time. And you’ll need to be fit then.’

  She nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. You’re properly over it? And the family—did they escape?’

  ‘Both had a spot of tummy-ache—but you know what. kids are. They bounce back.’

  She crossed her fingers. ‘I’ll be here before the end of the night shift. But tell you what, Neil, I’d appreciate a call if Phil does turn up.’

  When she undressed, Rod couldn’t possibly miss the marks on her arm. Any conversation about them would be better before bedtime. So she said, as they locked up for the night, ‘Graham was at the home tonight.’

  ‘I thought you looked rattled. Problems?’

  ‘Only these.’ She pulled back her jumper and touched the bruises. ‘He seems a very troubled man, Rod. He’s not happy that I lost his letter.’

  ‘It still hasn’t shown up?’

  ‘No. Nor the other one that went at the same time.’ She’d kept quiet about her suspicions of Jill Todd’s involvement. Probably she hadn’t needed to say anything. ‘He wants to meet me this week. Lunch.’

  It was impossible to read his expression.

  ‘I’m very busy, Rod. And I don’t know that a conversation between us would be helpful at this stage.’

  To her surprise he started to laugh. ‘You’re beginning to sound like me—or were you taking the piss?’ He added, more seriously, ‘Unless you feel that talking with you would enable him to gain closure.’

  ‘And you’re beginning to sound like a cod-psychology self-help book.’—,-

  1. They agreed, at last, that should Kate want to see him—assuming, and it was a big assumption, that she had time—then she would go with Rod’s blessing.

  She really would have to have another word with Thelma about standards of hygiene in the loos. This time it was the sanitary-disposal receptacle that wasn’t closed properly. Hell. Someone had jam
med something in it, that was why. She might be pernickety, but Kate found she didn’t want to investigate without the benefit of gloves. At least there were always some latex ones around in a nick: they were used for handling evidence. But it was, as she found when, suitably protected, she went foraging, only a balled-up piece of paper. Well, a bit more. Paper in an envelope.

  Laying it on the surface beside the washbasin, she flattened it out. Guess what: one of her letters. But not the one from Graham. Should she get an evidence bag, so it could be tested for fingerprints, or would that be making too much of a fuss? Absolutely. She wanted her teams’ respect, not their mockery.

  The letter—the envelope had been opened but the flap was pushed back against the adhesive strip—was on familiar headed paper: from Aunt Cassie’s solicitor, the one who’d made over the house to Kate and who’d overseen an interest-free loan from her aunt so that necessary repairs could be undertaken. As soon as she’d sold her Croydon house, Kate had repaid the loan, of course, but there was no doubt that she couldn’t be living as well as she was without the gift of the house.

  The letter was marked STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL, and the opening sentence begged her not to tell Aunt Cassie of its existence. Kate could see why. It seemed that Cassie’s reserves, largely in shares, had suffered so badly in the recent stock-market fall that it was extremely doubtful if they’d support her at the home as long as she’d hoped. So it might be wise for Kate to seek other—cheaper—accommodation for her aunt now.

  Like hell!

  Cassie was, Mrs Nelmes apart, extremely happy where she was. Come to think of it, Mrs Nelmes added a piquancy that Cassie enjoyed enormously. She hated it when one of them wasn’t well enough to spar with the other. The answer was obvious: Kate would have to sell the house—or officially buy it—to support her. Goodness knows, it had shot up in value since the repairs and since the general surge in property values. She’d fax the solicitor a note to that effect, with a note of apology for the delay: that would be quicker than a letter, and safer than relying on an opportunity to use the phone.

  What if Graham’s letter was also in the bin? She’d no idea what happened to the soiled items within, but rather thought that she didn’t want to contact the company concerned to see if a letter could be retrieved. Perhaps it was an appropriate destination—if only she could be sure that that was where it had gone.

  Meanwhile there were other, more urgent matters: it was time to hear from Neil Drew what he’d discovered about Phil Bates.

  ‘His nearest and dearest are in Manchester and Telford,’ Neil said, ‘so we’ve got the local police to go round.’ His smile was ironic.

  ‘Just so that I don’t go buzzing off myself,’ she said, not quite suppressing a yawn. All this early rising didn’t suit her, did it?

  ‘Quite. Like I said, gaffer, you’ve got to keep a bit in hand. I didn’t know you’d spent your weekend working—how you managed when you’d got the bug, goodness knows.’

  ‘Natasha—’

  ‘That’s the foreign torn?’

  ‘She’s fourteen, Neil. Just a kid. More a victim than a torn. Which is why I stuck with her as long as I could. Some time today I’ll have to make time to pop down to Digbeth and see how she’s getting on. Now, did you get anything out of anyone at the market?’

  ‘Zilch. Like so many wise monkeys. But we’re working on it. There’s one bloke down there I’ve been tempted to get on our books as Sarbut—that’s an official informer, gaffer.’

  ‘Quite.’ Kate nodded curtly—no need to point out that she was quite familiar with the lingo. ‘If you think he’ll be any use, sort out the paperwork and move. Tonight, I mean. Not now. That security man—Mick?’

  ‘About as useful as a chocolate lavatory. I reckon he’s doubled the amount of whisky he puts in his tea.’

  ‘Scared or just cold?’

  ‘Who can tell?’

  ‘Might be worth a conversation. I’ll pop in on my way to Digbeth.’

  He started to say something but stopped.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was just going to say, don’t go on your own. I made sure there were two of us last night.’

  She looked him full in the eye. ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘If he isn’t anywhere else, where can he be?’

  She felt the blood draining from her face. ‘The crusher—’

  ‘Or with his feet up in Telford. Mustn’t go jumping to conclusions.’ He stifled a yawn.

  ‘Come on, Neil, what’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Off you go, now. Have a good zizz.’

  ‘Some zizz. Got to take the kids to school first. But I will push off, if it’s all the same to you. Nice quiet night otherwise, by the way. Nothing like a good hard frost to make people law-abiding.’

  Chief Superintendent Robert Oxnard looked down at her report, tapping it with an index finger stained with nicotine. He was one of the old school, military in bearing with salt-and-pepper hair, and moustache He must be due for retirement—the sooner the better, if this morning’s performance was anything to go by. He

  sat, keeping her standing—rather as Graham used to do, come to think of it. At last he put down her report, opening instead a card folder—Phil Bates’s personnel record, from what she could see. ‘Look at this This man Bates has missed a couple of courses he was down for, sloped off a day early at another. A list of excuses and reasons as long as your. arm The bugger’s a known skiver and you’ve got everyone at action stations already!’

  ‘Hardly that, sir.’

  ‘He’s not even officially missing yet.’

  ‘No. But the report details the action I’ve taken so far and that I would propose should be taken if our investigations prove fruitless.’ She was careful about the phrasing: she knew they’d almost certainly lose the investigation if and when Bates became a missing person.

  Oxnard tapped the report again. ‘New broom, aren’t you, Power?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Doing this to suck up, are you Or just to impress the troops, eh?’

  ‘Most of them are of your opinion, sir. Except the sergeant in charge of his team.’

  ‘Who’s anxious to please his new gaffer.’

  ‘Who disagreed violently at first. But there are some interesting coincidences, which I’ve outlined here, sir.’ Her turn to touch her report.

  In an ideal world, he’d have invited her to sit and talk him through them. As it was, he picked up the papers as if they were so much cold ash and tipped them into his in-tray.

  So much for that hour’s work, then.

  It was nice to be greeted by Natasha as a long-lost cousin. In Meg Walker’s daughters’ cast-offs she looked much less like a waif. She hadn’t yet cajoled anyone into letting her have her hair done, but had at least clipped it up in fashionable tufts. As for the makeup, she’d applied it with gusto rather than finesse,

  but presumably that was what her former, boss had wanted. For that was the latest development. She’d had a boss. A pimp, more like.. As first he’d seemed a saviour, rescuing her from the strip joint. Vladi.

  Madame Constantinou was by now so involved with the tale that she wrung her hands just as Natasha. was wringing hers. Vladi had been a client at the club. Oh, so tall and handsome and with such lovely eyes. He’d been generous, too: he hadn’t tried to hurt her when he’d—Madame Constantinou flailed in vain for a polite synonym. The word ‘fuck’ was clearly beneath her, though Kate thought it was the nearest to the brutal words she was sure Natasha was using.

  ‘He didn’t hurt her when they—made love,’ Madame Constantinou concluded lamely.

  As if making love involved hurting your partner.

  ‘And he gave her presents. Not enough to annoy the club owner but enough to make Natasha feel special. So when one night he announced she didn’t have to strip at the club ever again, nor have sex with the fatbellies again …’ Madame Constantinou paused to check the term:
Natasha nodded she was happy.’

  Fatbellies. Gross men humping their flab up and down on and in Natasha’s slender body. Kate fought to suppress a shudder. She must. She was supposed to be a professional.

  ‘Vladi is boyfriend!’ Natasha declared, triumphantly.

  All the women nodded approvingly at the change in her fortunes.

  ‘He took her home in his big car, and gave her good food and wine. At last she could be happy!’ Madame Constantinou was really getting into the spirit of things. ‘But the following day, Vladi left her alone in his flat. Suddenly some men burst in, who tied her up and put her in a boat—not a proper boat, you understand, but one you blow up?’ Madame Constantinou looked puzzled.

  ‘An inflatable. Go on.’

  ‘There were terrible storms, and Natasha was very…unwell.’

  It was clear from Natasha’s graphic mime that she had been very sick. What would she have made of her interpreter’s euphemisms?

  They’d taken her to Italy, and she was driven in a car boot to Naples. This time there was no stripping. Just sex, with many, many fatbellies. One evening, just as she was going out for the hundredth time that day—Madame Constantinou seemed embarrassed by something: the precision? The imprecision?—a big car had pulled up and out stepped Vladi. Her hero. She embraced his knees: he would rescue her again.

  So why was Natasha here now?

  Chapter 11

  A constable Kate didn’t recognise was stooping over the—photocopier, anxiously comparing what it ejected with the textbook pages he was copying. Although his hair was cut as brutally short as many of his colleagues’, his trendy wire-framed spectacles made him look curiously innocent, in a studious sort of way. Going for the cliché, she thought he might be the missing Chinese scholar.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said cheerily.

  ‘Ma’am.’ He studied his feet, blushing, hands a-flap. ‘You wouldn’t be Sergeant Dave Bush?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He gave another awkward shuffle. Yet he wasn’t as young as she’d thought—he’d be older than she was, perhaps in his late thirties.