Power Games (2 page)

‘Budgies don't like noise. It can give them strokes and kill them. That guy Ted – he left us on our own deliberately.'

‘Come on, Kate – think about it. Putting your life at risk for a bird.'

‘Trouble is, Guljar, if I think about it I won't be able to do it.'

Kate sidled in, praying she didn't have to push on any internal doors. If she did, she'd turn back, she promised herself. The door from the kitchen to the hall was open. She slid through, ending up a foot from the truck's front bumper, which was blocking the stairs. As she paused, plaster fell on her hair.

To her left, another door. The lintel looked sound. She risked a gentle push. And waited. No, no movement. She darted in. The cage was on a stand next to a Victorian upright piano, over by the back window. The piano was a forest of photos in frames. She grabbed a cushion, shook the cover off, and stowed as many photos inside as she could carry. In an ashtray on the grate glittered an engagement ring with a trio of pitifully small diamonds. She slipped it into a jacket pocket.

Plaster pattered in the hall. The patter turned into a rush.

She stood stock still.

‘Give us a kiss! Come on, give us a kiss!'

She grabbed the cage, slung a crocheted shawl over it. Better keep the little thing warm. Back the way she'd come, then. No, not with the lintel creaking like that. The back window, then. That frame was creaking, too, but it still held. She shouldered it open – someone should have a word with the old couple about window locks – and passed Guljar the cage. There was a dreadful judder. The doorway to the hall was a giant rhombus.

She pulled herself through the frame. Guljar jumped her down and settled her on her feet. The plaster was falling quite briskly now. Time for her other booty? Just. If only her arm were longer!

Guljar flung her aside and grabbed the cushion cover. As he straightened, the glass in the adjoining window cracked and broke.

The frame still held – just.

He peered into the cushion cover. ‘Fucking hell, Kate! All that for a few photos!'

‘Mad, aren't I? Except that those few photos and that bloody bird are all they'll have to show for a whole lifetime. Come on, you'd better distract the firecrew and I'll sprint across the road. Come on, Joey.'

‘Give us a kiss,' Joey suggested.

 

Mrs Hurst greeted Kate with a mouthed warning that Mr and Mrs Sargent were being difficult. She gestured her into the living room, hung with framed tapestries. It was immaculate apart from a ring of fur on the hearth rug. Mr and Mrs Sargent sat rigidly side by side on a sofa, their bare legs mottled with blue as they disappeared into slippers. A paramedic was literally on his knees, presumably trying to make them go for a check-up. A clutter of empty tea cups on a tray suggested that Mrs Hurst had at least persuaded them to have a drink. Tea was just what Kate needed at the moment, and she said so, loudly and brightly.

The Sargents looked up as one. And got to their feet as one.

Joey, unwrapped, bobbed at a mirror. ‘Give us a kiss. What about a nice fly around?'

‘You stay where you are, young Joey,' Kate said. ‘I fancy Mrs Hurst has a cat.'

‘I'll lock him in the conservatory,' she promised. ‘And bring a clean cup.'

The bird still in its cage on Mrs Sargent's lap, the old people sat down again. ‘He's Billy, dear,' she said. ‘Billy, not Joey.'

‘Sorry, Billy. Well, there's no kind way to say this, I'm afraid: the house is in a pretty bad way,' Kate said, sitting down. ‘One of my colleagues will be round in a few minutes – they'll tell you more then. But when I was collecting Joey –
Billy
– I got these, too.' She opened the cushion cover. In their haste, either she or Guljar had cracked some of the glass.

Mrs Sargent looked at her husband. ‘There used to be this radio programme. After the war. Wilfred Pickles. You remember, dear.'

‘
Have a Go
, that's what it was called. He used to ask people what they'd save if their house was burning down. I always said if they ever asked me I'd say the family photos.'

Taking her hand from the cage, Mrs Sargent laid it on his. ‘He was making me a cup of tea, dear, and starting the porridge. And I said he was taking all day and I came downstairs— And then, and then …' She couldn't go on.

Kate drew Mrs Hurst quietly out. The paramedic followed. ‘Best leave them on their own a few moments,' he said unnecessarily.

Mrs Hurst led the way into the kitchen. ‘Poor things. Now, I've managed to get in touch with the daughter. She's got to come all the way up from Truro. So I'll keep them here, overnight if needs be.'

‘Surely Social Services—'

‘No. I'm not having them shoved into some sort of emergency accommodation. I don't know what it would be like and I don't want to find out. Old folk like that, who've always kept themselves to themselves. The very idea. And my Andrew – he's in insurance, so he'll be able to help sort out their claim.'

‘Thanks: you're being more than kind. Look, I have to go off to work, now. Here's my card – if anything crops up during the day, give me a buzz. Otherwise I'll pop back this evening, if that's convenient, just to see they're still OK.'

Kate was trying to persuade her legs, now embarrassingly stiff, to take her up the stairs two at a time when she heard someone running lightly down. Thank God – an excuse to wait a moment. Time to catch her breath after the sprint from the car park.

And to snap to something like attention. Not that Rod Neville ever demanded such behaviour in his office, but – in public at least – detective superintendents should be treated with visible respect.

‘Goodness, Kate,' he said, coming to a swift halt, ‘what on earth have you been doing? Rehearsing for the lead role in
The Snowman
?'

She rubbed her hand over her head. Plaster flakes. ‘An RTA out my way, sir.'

He shook his head, as well he might. ‘CID involved in an RTA?'

He leaned forward to pick another flake from her hair.

‘Only till Uniform arrived, Gaffer.' She grinned. ‘So long as not a word of this reaches our friends in the Fire Service – a lorry smashed into a house and I needed to effect a rescue.'

He frowned. ‘I'd have thought a fire-fighter better equipped—'

‘But their chief had forbidden entry – and there was this lone budgie …'

He shook his head and threw up his hands to silence her. ‘No more, thanks. Or I shall have to bollock you for risking your life – for a budgie? Oh, Kate!' So it was more in sorrow than in anger.

She grinned, allowing, on this occasion, her dimples to show. ‘All's well that ends well, Gaffer. But seriously I don't think the house will survive the removal of the lorry – this old couple, losing everything except each other—' She saw those mottled blue legs, those reddened hands.

‘And their budgie. Well done. Now—' He flicked a glance at his watch.

She grinned again, sketched a salute, and set off up the stairs.

 

Hair still damp from the shower, and now in her usual self-imposed uniform of dark trouser suit, Kate gestured with the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee, Colin? How did Rowley take my being late?'

‘Tea. No problems: you had a pretty good excuse. Everyone safe?'

‘Fine. But the local people will go over that lorry with the proverbial fine-toothed comb. How no one was hurt … Both the old folk were in the kitchen. If they'd been in the hall—' She stopped, shuddering. ‘And the truck driver was pretty lucky. He says he lost his steering and his brakes. But he ended up completely unscathed.'

‘Lucky bugger. And lucky everyone else in his path!'

‘Quite. Guljar Singh Grewal—'

‘That handsome sergeant from Kings Heath?'

‘The same. He'd love to do them for unsafe loads and overloading, because there's been a stream of complaints from the residents. There's a big building development – very posh houses – at the top of the hill that the lorry came down. Next to the cottages, now there's quite a big piece of ground. Lovely site for houses.'

‘Do I sense a disenchantment with your own place? Oh, Kate, not after all the work you've put into it!'

‘You should see their garden, the old folks', that is. And you should see mine. When it rains, it's beginning to remind me of the pictures you see of the Somme.'

‘The
Somme
?'

‘Big pits where they've dug out the sycamore roots, the odd strand of barbed wire from an old fence, all that mud—'

‘Why on earth didn't your aunt do something about the trees? She's no fool. She must have known where the roots would get.'

Kate shrugged. ‘Goodness knows. And why did she let the house itself go so badly? She must have been so intent on stashing everything away for her old age she lost sight of the present.'

Colin shook his head. ‘
Carpe diem
, that's my motto. Enjoy today and let the pension look after tomorrow.'

‘But if you didn't have much of a pension and your chief source of income was your married lover? Anyway, there she is, sitting on piles of money in that retirement oasis, and here I am, living in a house so changed she'd hardly recognise it, poor old dear.'

‘And a garden that's a tip.'

‘Well, if I survived the house being a tip, I can cope with the garden for a bit. Or so I tell myself.' She straightened. ‘And the design your friend's suggested looks lovely.'

‘I'm sure it will be. As will my coffee if you ever stop staring at that kettle.'

She flicked the switch to bring it to the boil again. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I'd better let Rowley know I'm in.'

‘She said to take your time.'

‘Can you imagine the late but unlamented Detective Inspector Cope saying anything like that? You know, it's a real insult to people who've spent all their careers in uniform to have him punished by being put back into uniform.'

‘Hmm. Must make them feel second rate. Trouble is, what could they have done with him? Apart from reducing his rank – which they've done anyway. He was a good cop in many ways.'

‘And a nasty human being in many others.'

There was no doubt that life was better without Cope. For her, for Colin, and for Fatima, the young Asian DC. She herself would have survived. But Colin had always lived on eggshells: being a gay policeman was no one's idea of an easy life and Cope would almost certainly have made his life hell if the rumour had ever got that far. And his treatment of Fatima had been brutal. Almost as brutal as Selby's had been.

Cope had taken his punishment, but Selby had so far escaped. His sick leave had been extended twice already. Sick! The man might be sick in the head, but he was a vicious, idle bastard, for whom the words sexist and racist might have been invented. The thought of him sitting around unpunished, leaving the squad short-handed while drawing a detective constable's pay made her grind her teeth in rage.

‘Thanks.' Colin took the mug but pulled a face. ‘Is that all the milk there is?'

‘Whose turn is it to bring it in?' She ran a finger down the rota. ‘Oh dear: Roper, C. Shall I cadge a cup from the canteen? I've got to grab a bite before I start.'

‘Bananas, that's what you need. I've seen those blokes at Wimbledon stuffing the things.'

‘And not amiss in a place like this monkey-house anyway,' came a voice from the door. ‘Morning, Sergeant. It was cold, first thing.' Sue Rowley, the new DI, was a kindly-looking woman in her forties. Her sarcasm was far too mild to be threatening

‘Morning, Gaffer. My tennis lesson. And then this RTA.'

‘Sure. Everyone all right? Good.' DI Rowley nodded amiably enough. ‘How's that dodgy knee coping with the tennis?'

‘It likes it better than jogging, ma'am.'

‘The medics said it would.' Rowley pulled her reading glasses further down her nose and peered at Kate's feet. ‘You've got the right sports shoes?'

Kate nodded. Her stomach rumbled.

Rowley laughed. ‘Go and get those bananas, then, Kate. And an apple for me, if you wouldn't mind. Oh, and while you're about it, better bring up some milk – seems the cow's on strike. Either that or young Roper here didn't notice he was rostered for this week.'

Colin flushed. ‘Sorry, ma'am.'

‘When you're fed and watered, I'd like to talk to you both. Ten-thirty?'

‘Ten-thirty it is, Gaffer,' Kate said, grabbing her purse and heading downstairs.

Fatima was deep in conversation with Colin when she returned. She turned to Kate. ‘Heard the news?'

‘What's up?' Kate put the cup of milk with the rest of the tea things. ‘Hang on: I'd better deliver this first.'

‘Apple for teacher time.' Colin explained. ‘The gaffer.'

Fatima stared at the apple. ‘Ah! Currying favour!'

‘God, that's awful!' Kate groaned.

Fatima stuck out her tongue.

Kate dodged out to Rowley's office. Seeing that Rowley was busy on the phone, she popped the apple on her desk, and withdrew.

‘So have you heard this?' Colin resumed, as soon as she returned.

‘The rumour is, changes,' Fatima said. ‘In the squad.'

‘More changes? I mean, we needed those we've had. But more?'

‘At the top. Not us,' Fatima said.

‘The top? You mean—'

‘Graham Harvey. That's what the rumour is,' Fatima said.

‘Not the sort of DCI that grows on trees,' Colin said.

‘Absolutely,' Kate agreed tamely. She wasn't about to tell them that her stomach clenched tight at the thought of Graham's removal. He and Colin had made life bearable for her when she'd arrived in the autumn. Like Colin, Graham had become a friend. But not the sort of friend that Colin was. No. ‘So where's he off to?' Yes, her voice was perfectly level.