Power Shift

by Judith Cutler

  Helen managed a smile in return ‘This bab of mine, gaffer. Would you mind if I keep it? Really.’

  ‘Helen, what have I got to do with it? It’s your decision absolutely.’ She got up and squatted beside her. ‘You’re entitled to maternity leave! By law. And by European law,’ she added, as if that were somehow conclusive.

  ‘Oh, ah.’

  Kate had never heard those two syllables used so meaningfully or so flexibly as by Black Country speakers. According to their inflexion and their context, they could mean total agreement or complete opposition—and many other things besides. Helen’s clearly signified extreme scepticism.

  ‘The law may say one thing,’ Helen expounded more fully, ‘but it’s them as you work with as really matters, ay it?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Gammy knee protesting, she struggled upright. ‘As I said, you’re legally entitled to paid leave before and after the birth, and you get support afterwards, I think, if the baby’s ill and you need time off. I’d have to check on that. And, of course, you can save up your time off in lieu.’

  ‘But it ay just that. It’s—well, how they treat you. This mate of mine caught for one and her station sergeant put her on nice indoor work.’

  Kate wasn’t quick enough to pick up on the sarcasm. ‘So he should.’

  ‘Oh, ah. Putting on computer details of all the child-abuse cases on file from the year dot.’

  ‘I won’t ask you to do that, Helen, I promise. And if anyone else tries something similar, you come straight over their head to me. It won’t be grassing them up. It’ll be obeying a direct order. OK?’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure…’ She buried herself in the mug of tea.

  Kate stood. ‘The only people who have to be sure are you and the baby’s father.’

  She was rewarded with a beam, doubtful at first but then expansive. ‘Oh, ah! The dad’s over the fucking moon. Same as I shall be when I stop throwing up, I dare say.’ She was halfway through the door when she turned back. ‘And you’ll make it all right with the others, gaffer?’

  ‘Of course I will. Now, you phone Personnel and sort out the leave entitlement you can expect.’

  And leave me one officer short on a long-term basis—and probably with higgledy-piggledy attendance after her maternity leave expires. Great! Still, maybe Personnel will come up with a temporary replacement.

  But there was an immediate knock on the door, and Helen, grinning like a gorilla, came in again, waving a couple of flimsy pieces of paper. ‘Good news, bad news.’

  ‘Good first.’

  ‘Well, I done me first bit of shorthand and I can read it back.’

  ‘Great! And the bad?’

  ‘Message about Phil Bates, like. You asked some folk to see if he was with his family. Out in the wilds, Wales or summat.

  Well, he’s not. And the worst news is they want to know what’s being done to find him. His family, that is. And they reckon as how they’ll get their chief on to our chief. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry—I don’t shoot messengers.’ But she tugged her own hair before recalling she was supposed to be radiating managerial calm and efficiency. ‘Shit, shit, shit! Look, phone through to the Operational Commander’s secretary bang on nine, will you, and tell her?’

  ‘Let her break it to the old bugger, eh?’

  ‘Quite. And hope he doesn’t shoot her.’

  ‘Nah. Her’s a civilian—her’d cost too much.’

  Today’s talks with Natasha were being held, as Kate had directed, at a different police station, Ladywood. This wasn’t far from a huge traffic intersection always referred to, mysteriously, as Five Ways Island, though it was the confluence of six, not five, main roads. For some reason, although ten thirty was well past the rush-hour, traffic was solid from Smallbrook Ringway. It would have been far quicker to walk the couple of miles involved. And there was no prospect of it getting better: Hagley Road was solid, too, and whatever was causing the problem had inevitably involved Ladywood Middleway. A tersely phrased enquiry into her radio elicited the news that a lorry had jack-knifed across three lanes of the A38(M) approaching Spaghetti Junction, and all traffic leaving the city that way was caught in the snarl-up. Since the lorry had caught fire, the southbound carriageway had been partially blocked by emergency vehicles. Well, at least she wasn’t in Traffic. She wasn’t one for minced and sliced bodies, especially those burnt to a frazzle.

  By the time Kate had finally got to Ladywood, cursing the total waste of time—why on earth hadn’t she had the nous to check on road conditions before she’d set out?—Natasha’s narrative had taken her from Naples to Rome, Meg Walker reported, over a restorative coffee in the canteen. Natasha and the interpreter were still in the room they’d been allocated, gossiping nostalgically, according to Meg, about the old country.

  ‘Lots of fatbellies in Rome,’ Kate ruminated gloomily, thinking of the mounds of male tourist flab, not to mention the homegrown pasta-induced variety.

  ‘On the contrary, who should turn up but Vladi. So no fatbellies, just a wonderful Roman holiday with Vladi, who wined and dined her and bought her lovely clothes.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Kate prompted. ‘Why do I think everything’s too rosy?’

  ‘Because you’re a cynic. He bought her something else, too. False papers. She became an Italian overnight.’

  ‘Did she mind? God, this coffee’s vile!’

  ‘You should have had the drinking chocolate. No, not if it meant staying with Vladi.’

  Kate pushed the disposable cup aside. ‘So she’s now officially an EU citizen, entitled to work and to have health care and the rest of it. If the papers were legitimate, of course.’

  ‘Quite. He assured her that they were the very best forgeries. And the poor little kid’s over the moon, because—still in Rome, remember—Vladi says he wants her to meet his family. That’s why she needs the papers To travel.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s going to be a but.’

  Meg laughed ‘We’re just approaching the but stage now, I fancy.’

  Kate’s face stayed dead serious. ‘I wish she could be more concise. I need hard facts about how she got here. And I need them now. Preferably yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t tried to urge her on. But she simply slows down again and returns to this no-details-spared account.’

  As the women headed back downstairs Meg said, ‘Tell me, gaffer, why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? Different venues, different routes? A bit OTT, isn’t it?’

  Kate stopped, shaking her head slowly, as if unable to believe her precautions herself. ‘I’ve just got this feeling,’ she said at last.

  Meg nodded, as if she’d had a full and logical explanation. ‘Copper’s instinct? That’s a good enough reason for me.’

  ‘Where are the loos round here?’

  Kate was washing her hands when her mobile rang. A knifing in Hurst Street.

  ‘The big question is, was the incident racially motivated?’ she said, back at Scala House, three hours and no lunch later. She’d have murdered for a coffee, but could hardly ask Helen to make her one, not when she was off caffeine at the moment—not to mention on the phone. She rested her bum on her desk, running her fingers through her hair.

  ‘One Chinese waiter stabs one Bangladeshi waiter. It’d be—hard to prove racial motivation, not in the accepted sense,’ Dave Bush said.

  ‘But it might be. Oh, it’s OK for one waiter to stab another, so long as it’s decent, honest, personal needle, but if one of

  = them said anything nasty about the other one’s ethnic origin, then books have to be thrown’ Kate sighed

  ‘Actually, what I don’t like is their doing it in broad daylight,’ Dave said.

  She looked up, startled. ‘Is stabbing an after-dark crime, then?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. It’s just that if it had been at night, Jill Todd would have had to deal with all the paperwork, not me.’

  ‘Such commitment to the process of law and order
amazes me. OK, Dave, it’s more than time you tasted freedom-. Just one thing—before you go—have you had a chance to talk to Mr Choi?’

  ‘He’s in Manchester till tomorrow afternoon. Won’t be free till four-ish. I’ll hang about here or pop into town and do some Christmas shopping, then go and see him I’ve made an—appointment so-he’ll know it’s serious.’

  ‘So long as you remember to book it in for TOIL No, I insist. You never know when you’ll need to take it. Hell, make it paid overtime, if you prefer—Christmas is always a good time for a little extra cash, isn’t it? Now, if I don’t see you tomorrow, remember to press as hard as you can without landing yourself in the shit. I want to know what’s happened to Phil Bates, and I’m sure one of Choi’s contacts will know something.’

  ‘With respect, gaffer, that’s a huge assumption to make. Just because he’s Mr Big in one of the triads doesn’t mean he knows everything that’s going on.’

  ‘Did you ever know a Mr Big who didn’t know far more than he needed to know to maintain power? If there’s anything going on in his bailiwick, he’ll know. Or know someone who knows.’

  ‘Or know someone who can put pressure we can’t on someone who knows.’

  ‘My God, Dave, I hope I didn’t hear you say that. And I don’t mean simply because I got lost before the end of your sentence.’

  ‘No more you did.’

  ‘Go on. I’m going to have to get back to the OC and rattle his cage some more. And if I succeed it won’t simply be a field intelligence officer on Choi’s case, it’ll be a whole pack of CID.’

  ‘So long as it doesn’t come to the know-all MIT mob—oh, sorry, gaffer. No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken. I’m perfectly happy for Rod to come down here to my office as my bloke, but I don’t want him sniffing round our patch professionally.’

  It was only because the problem of Aunt Cassie’s finances was urgent that Kate felt able to heed her own advice and take some time off in lieu. Or, more accurately, work only three hours’ overtime, unpaid because that was what happened when you were an inspector. She’d been so tied up with paperwork that she was setting out for Kings Heath late, with no time even to change out of her uniform. The solicitor himself must operate on the principle of helping Cassie as a person, not just a client: how many lawyers accepted their last client appointment at five fifteen?

  Both kept the preliminaries to a minimum, though, Mr Robson retiring prim and dapper to the far side of his document-laden desk where he opened a file placed ready on his blotter.

  ‘I don’t want to move Cassie, Mr Robson. She’s happy where she is—the home seems very well run.’

  ‘It certainly passes the urine test.’

  Kate had heard the expression before, long ago, from Graham, but Robson wasn’t to know and was embarking on an explanation. ‘Anyone who spends as much time as I do visiting old people in residential homes learns to apply one swift and infallible test. If the lobby smells of stale urine, you remove the person to a better place at once. If you penetrate to the hinterland before the odour assails you, you can usually improve things by a firm word with management. And in the case of this particular home, there’s rarely any smell, even in the rooms of the oldest inhabitants.’

  ‘So you rate the place as highly as I do?’

  ‘And agree that your great aunt wouldn’t wish to move. But she’ll have no option unless the market recovers. Which it assuredly will eventually.’

  ‘But it isn’t “eventually” we have to think about. It’s soon.’

  ‘She still has jewellery to dispose of, but I know she’d rather leave that to you. No, I’m sure you don’t need it, but it is her wish that you have it—eventually.’ He managed another neat smile. Perhaps he kept his lips closed because his teeth were bad.

  ‘So can I buy the house properly? That should free up—’

  ‘Since you own it, I fail to see how you can buy it again. She transferred the property legally to you, Inspector.’

  ‘Sell it? That would free up some cash, and I could buy a much smaller place.’

  ‘I hardly think you’d like that. And the house is going up in value all the time. That would be foolish.’

  ‘Couldn’t I simply put funds into her bank account every—month—the equivalent of rent?’

  ‘Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that. But she still insists on checking her accounts every month, and I can’t see that she would miss that.’

  Kate flung up her hands ‘Pay the home directly?’

  ‘The same objection would obtain. I must admit, Ms Power, my own mind is going round in circles at the moment, but now I’ve put you in the picture and raised some possibilities—’

  And shot them all down in flames!

  ‘—I think we should avail ourselves of a period of quiet reflection and reconvene for further discussion next week.’

  And you’ll charge me for another half-hour of your time! ‘Very well I’ll talk the problem over with one or two of my. friends How long do we have?’

  ‘A few months, I’d have thought. Unless the market becomes even more bearish.’

  ‘So there’s no panic.’

  ‘If you plan to sell the house, Ms Power, you must allow at least six months’ He shut his folder and stood up The appointment was over.

  So what was he doing, advising against selling and then implicitly recommending it? In a way, it made brilliant sense: she was hardly ever at the house, and was coming to call Rod’s ‘home’. Rod had frequently suggested it, and she’d been on the verge of agreeing But he would want her there because she wanted to be there, not because he’d discovered that a financial mat was being pulled from under her feet.

  There was a piercing whistle. A hand slammed her windscreen. A cyclist held her wing mirror long enough to yell, face up against the side window, ‘Look where you’re going, you stupid cunt!’ before setting off again.

  Surely this was a one-way street. Surely she couldn’t have been so preoccupied she hadn’t noticed a change of use Gazing into her rear-view mirror she noticed him meting out the same treatment to the car behind.

  She was out of the car before she even knew she’d released the seat-belt.

  Grabbing him by the seat of his Lycras, she yelled, with more glee than she liked, ‘You’re nicked.’

  ‘Get your fucking hands off me. This is assault.’

  Her fellow motorist staggered out to assist her by propping up the racing bike ‘I thought I was seeing things No lights And it’s a one-way street Jesus I thought I’d hit him.’

  ‘Well, something else has,’ she declared, dragging a reluctant arm up his back. ‘The law. What’s your name? You—I asked your name.’

  ‘What fucking business is it of yours?’

  Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the uniform? ‘None at all…I’d just like to use it when I arrest you and caution you. OK, if you’d give me your name, please…’

  ‘So you won’t be a great fan of this new Euro-legislation they’re talking about that decrees that any-accident involving a bike is the fault of the car driver?’

  Guljar Singh grinned, lounging against the custody sergeant’s desk in Kings Heath police station, watching the departing back of the errant and abusive cyclist one of his colleagues had just processed.

  ‘Oh, I see congratulations are in order.’ He gave a mock salute, nudging the spotty constable alongside him to do the same. The custody sergeant muttered long and loud about paperwork, and retired to address himself to the computer.

  ‘I’ve only been in post a week or so,’ she parried.

  ‘Enjoying it?’ he asked with a hint of doubt—derision, even—in his voice.

  ‘It’s a funny thing, but all the training in the world doesn’t prepare you for actually doing the job.’ In other circumstances she might have enjoyed a confidential natter with Guljar, a supportive colleague when she’d been based in Kings Heath, but she wasn’t about to confess any reservations in the presence of an acned kid of e
ighteen. Surely modern medicine could do something for spots like those.

  ‘Budgets? People?’ Now Guljar sounded genuinely interested. Perhaps he was due for promotion himself.

  ‘Lack of both,’ she said firmly. ‘Plus endless government initiatives.’

  ‘Which change as often as I change my socks.’

  Not very often, then, Sarge,’ offered the constable, no doubt expecting the cuff he promptly received. He retired to lick his wounds.

  ‘Time for a cuppa?’ Guljar asked.

  Kate thought of Rod and the supper she’d promised to cook., ‘Sure.’ What else could she say? But she was surprised he led the way unspeaking not to the canteen but to the empty sergeants’ office, stopping en route to help them both to water from the chiller.

  He shut the door carefully. ‘Tell me if I’m out of order, Kate, but how are you getting on with Phil Bates?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  He looked taken aback.

  ‘Sorry to snap. It’s just that—and this is between the two of us, Guljar, until it becomes horribly public, as I’m afraid it will any day now—he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Done a runner?’

  ‘Flit the coop. Whatever. No trace of him at his home, or with any of his relatives. So that’s why I jumped down your throat—sorry.’

  He pushed a chair towards her, which she sank into—God, she was tired, wasn’t she?

  ‘No contact with anyone?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve told the OC, but he says Phil’s a skiver and not to worry.’

  ‘He’s a skiver, all right. Which is why I asked. But I’ve never known him do anything like that. He usually has an excuse for his skiving Would it—Kate, I know you said all this was between us—but would it help if I asked about a bit?’

  ‘I can’t see it doing any harm. Trouble is, Guljar, I can’t see it doing any good either. Not to help us find him alive.’

  Chapter 13

  As soon as she’d left Guljar, Kate phoned Rod, to reach only the answering-machine So he was working late too. Since she was in King’s Heath, should she double back to Worksop Road to check her house? Or go straight into Moseley to see Aunt Cassie? She checked her watch. Nearly eight. Hell, what had happened to her energy? She ought to be able to tackle both… But she didn’t want to do either. Not until she’d come to a few decisions. Mr Robson had disturbed her more than she’d realised. No time to repine now, however. What she must do was stop off at Tesco or Safeway for something for supper. Unless that was what Rod was doing at the moment—his mother had done a good job of domesticating him. She tried his mobile number.