Power on Her Own (13 page)

‘Would you like one?' Lesley was on her feet.

‘Oh, I never drink tea at night. Stops me sleeping.' And then she realised she might have a much greater reason for not sleeping, and at last she burst into tears.

Alan stared at her helplessly.

‘I think we should call your GP – your family doctor,' Lesley said. ‘Get something to help her sleep. Help both of you sleep. Why don't you give me the number?'

Kate held Janice's shaking shoulders. Damn Cope for dropping this on her: all she wanted to do was sit and cry with her. Cry for Danny, cry for Darren and cry most of all for Robin. And then, as if a voice called her from a distant planet, she remembered that something had worried Alan.

‘Alan: this ball. You seemed surprised he was playing with a ball.'

‘His ball's there.' He pointed to a stack of plastic boxes – Lego in one, books in another, videos in a third. Top but one basket held cuddly toys, the topmost a ball. ‘Don't tell me he's been thieving again!' He half-rose, as if to yell the question at his son. He subsided. ‘Only there was some trouble, see. They thought it was clever to nick things. These kids of eight and nine, shoplifting. Little cars, sweets. I made him take me with him to each shop and give them the cars back. Took his birthday money to pay for the sweets. Don't tell me he's been and nicked a bloody football.'

The front door bell. Kate responded to the chimes: a sari-wearing Indian woman in her late fifties with the kindest eyes Kate had seen for years. She carried an old-fashioned doctor's bag.

In the end, Colin ran her home.

‘But it must be miles out of your way. Where is it you live? Blackheath?'

‘What's a couple of miles at two in the morning when it's pissing down and a kid's been killed?'

‘I wonder what the post mortem'll show up.'

‘Being squashed by very big tyres, I'd have thought.'

‘Too convenient. Why should a kid from the same school as young Darren Goss go missing? Same age, same appearance? You know what I'm expecting?'

‘No.'

‘Same anal damage. That's what I'm expecting.'

‘Why?' He slowed for the lights by the county cricket ground.

‘Because – just, because. But I could be wrong. Pray God I'm wrong.'

‘Amen. Jesus, what do the bastards get out of it? Shoving their ugly great pricks into innocent kids?'

‘And unidentified metal objects? They haven't found what went up young Darren, have they? Right at the island.'

‘No. But whoever put it there was sick, I tell you, Kate, bloody sick.'

‘Right. Now, what I want to do tomorrow is check out that football story. Talk to his friends, the school, local shops. See if he really did nick it. Or …'

‘Or?' Colin prompted.

‘Or if it came into his possession some other way. I don't know.'

‘I think you do. But I'll tell you something for free, our Kate. Cope'll try and block whatever you want to do. A fiver on it.'

‘No takers. Tell you what, maybe I could do it without him knowing. Lunch-time or something. Or even do the sensible thing for a change and wait for the PM results.'

By nine the following morning, Kate's common sense seemed to be making a weary come-back. There was no way she could sneak out in her odd spare moments to go and play the great detective. She had work to do here, for a start: someone new to the patch seemed to be making a determined effort to break into all the doctors' surgeries, pharmacies and even vets' they could find. What that called for was another morning tapping into databases and liaison with her colleagues in Drugs. But since she was clearly going to spend a good deal of time on the phone, she might as well call Danny's local nick: find out who'd dealt with the case when the Butlers reported him missing and, more important, who'd attended the fatal accident. The ball business still worried her.

The constable who'd dealt with the accident itself wouldn't come back on duty for hours yet, but at least she'd left meticulous notes. Dark; wet road; heavy traffic. A couple of well spoken pedestrians who'd done what little they could but had melted away into the scenery as soon as the paramedics had arrived. No names or addresses. And no ball. She left a message for PC Kaur to phone her. No harm in double checking.

And then back to the databases, and a couple of promising leads from Leicester and Bradford to report to a silent and unappreciative Cope.

Lunch-time. She looked in Colin's direction. He was looking as depressed as Cope, not at all as if he'd want to eat out, but certainly as if he ought to. She strolled across.

‘A quick half somewhere?' In spite of herself she grinned.

‘What's up?'

She threw him his raincoat. ‘Tell you outside.'

‘Now. No one's about.'

‘It's just that I offered you a drink. When I came I hardly dared. I was into whisky in a very big way. And somehow I've forgotten I needed it.'

He looked at her very hard. ‘You're sure?'

‘I know. Once an alcoholic always an alcoholic. But last night I found myself drinking socially. When you phoned me, I just put down the glass and walked away. All right. One swallow doesn't make a summer.'

‘Depends on the sort of swallow.'

‘How about a coffee and baguette?'

‘Fine by me. And I'll show you a suit you should try on in Rackhams.'

‘Fine by me. Provided that –'

‘Provided what?'

‘That you tell me why you looked so miserable back there.'

‘Tell you over that baguette.'

The underpass which had once housed the back entrance to a big department store and now accommodated the Citizens' Advice Bureau was foul with pigeon droppings: they'd evidently moved there from the Cathedral Close, which was where she remembered them.

‘Depressing sort of place,' she said, forgetting her earlier glee. ‘There are times I wonder why I came back.'

‘Oh, but there are the new developments! Come on, pedestrianisation and all that stuff out by the ICC: Birmingham's really becoming a city!'

‘You could have fooled me.'

‘You haven't been to Waterside yet?'

‘Not even Symphony Hall.'

‘We'll have to fix that. And you can wear that new suit.'

‘I haven't even seen it yet! Neither, of course, have you explained your glum face.'

He sighed. She'd pitched it wrong.

They walked on in silence.

‘Tell you what,' he said at last, ‘there's a really nice cookery shop you ought to see. Be lovely for stocking your new kitchen. Tomorrow lunch-time, maybe.'

‘You're on. Just to look at this stage, mind. Nowhere to put so much as a teaspoon at the moment.'

Silence again. They were in Corporation Street, and he'd speeded up, only to come to a halt in front of a window display. The suit, presumably. There were several.

‘Selby. It has to be Selby,' he said. ‘Every bloody time it's Selby that gets the course. Computers, this time. I mean, he's a Neanderthal, doesn't know his Apple Mac from his arse, and now he's off at Tally-Ho! being taught all sorts of clever gizmos.'

There was a sensible observation to make: that Selby was clearly in need of a course. But that would have been the wrong one. She groped feebly for something else. ‘At least with Selby we'll get living proof of the old computer adage: GIGO.'

‘He only puts garbage in so he'll only get garbage out?' He managed a pale grin; but she hadn't expected much more. ‘That turquoise one over there: it'd set off your hair something lovely.'

‘Hmm. Trouble is, that skirt'd set Selby off something shocking!'

She called into what she ought to call home before going on to the Manse. She'd asked Maz if she could put a load through their washing machine while she baby-sat, she was so short of clothes. The workmen were just locking up.

‘Glad I caught you,' said the foreman. ‘Only I'd like to talk to you about that back door.'

Nodding, she gestured him ahead of her.

‘Rotten, you see.' He jabbed with a horny nail. ‘And if the rest of the place has been double-glazed it'd be a sin just to lick paint on this and forget it. I'd organise it myself but you'd probably get a better deal from the firm that did your windows.'

He was middle aged and could probably have done with the money.

‘You're right,' she said. ‘Tell you what, I know it's the wrong time of the year, but how are you on fences? Look at that!'

‘Flapping like a line of washing, isn't it? Now, are you asking me as part of Buildsure or you asking me?'

‘Alf, I'm asking you.'

He smiled. ‘Thanks. Now, tell me one thing. Why don't you ever open your mail? Me and the lads are putting it safe, but –'

‘Where?'

‘In the front room. On the fireplace. There you are.'

She pounced with more glee than manners.

‘And I'll let you have a quote, like, for that fence?' he prompted her.

‘I'm so sorry. Yes please!'

She shoved the whole bundle into a carrier ready to take to the Manse. She couldn't spoil their evening by keeping them waiting. And there was the washing to sort and bag, too. Five minutes of frantic activity, three carriers of laundry, one of post and one of clean clothes for the following day – she'd promised to sleep over so Maz and Giles could make a night of it if they wanted – she was ready. OK, so it was Saturday – a whole weekend – ahead, but that didn't mean she wouldn't be at work by eight: she'd give Cope not the slightest excuse to rebuke her. And if that meant putting in a twelve-hour stint so that she could legitimately take time off on Sunday, so be it.

‘There's a list –' Maz flapped her hands frantically

‘Kate, there are dozens of lists,' said Giles. ‘How to operate the washing machine. Medication for Lynn. Prayers. TV programmes they may and may not watch. It's my fault. We don't get out often enough together and Maz has got to the stage where she's convinced the world will end if one of us isn't there to tuck them up.'

‘A palpable hit,' Maz conceded. ‘OK, there's the remains of a casserole: all you have to do to work out the microwave –'

‘One of the kids'll show me, won't they?'

‘Look – we'll never be able to park if we don't go now.'

‘So go! I can cope, honestly. Tim'll help me with the washing first, because he and I are going to operate his trains – that's right, isn't it, Tim?' She remembered in her Latin lessons at school – were there any schools left in the country that still routinely offered Latin? – that there were some questions that were open, and others that, by the speaker's choice of words, suggested an answer. Her question clearly demanded the answer ‘yes', though by his face Tim was not specially keen to give it. She'd always pretended to Robin's children that she needed help with technology, though she always showed she was quick to learn: stereotyping herself as the useless blonde had never been part of her remit. She adopted the same technique for Tim.

‘So I've got some white things that want a hot wash, and some coloured ones that might run. So what do we do?' Maybe she'd qualify for parenthood one day. Not something to undertake lightly in this job, though. And certainly not singly, not as far as she was concerned.

The washing machine was programmed and a ball of liquid solemnly placed on top of the shirts; Tim switched it on. No problems. Nor with the microwave: he even showed her how to microwave a couple of potatoes to go with the casserole.

Lynn floated in at this point: ‘Mum said to help you cook your tea. And show you how to use the washer.'

‘
I
did it.'

‘You don't know how.'

‘I do!'

Et cetera.

‘OK, kids. Your dad said something about TV. Is it worth watching or shall I eat my tea in peace in here?'

‘But what about my train set? There's only half an hour before bed-time.'

She'd come to play trains: play trains was what she had to do. She followed Tim to his bedroom leaving her supper on its plate on the table.

‘What we'll do,' Tim said, ‘is this. You see all those carriages: we'll shunt those into that siding. And then we'll couple the British Rail livery ones to Flying Scotsman. And we could have a goods train, too. We could shunt some wagons together. You see that little diesel shunter: you could use that.'

Kate had seen that coming. ‘I couldn't use this one instead?' She pointed to a maroon steam loco.

‘Duchess of Hamilton! No! She's a passenger locomotive. Tell you what, you could have my new loco if you like.' Tim switched some points and turned on the power. A pannier tank bowled out of the engine shed. Great Western livery. Very smart.

‘You haven't got a Thomas the Tank Engine?' Kate asked.

Tim looked shocked. ‘You mean with a face? That's kids' stuff! Mind you,' he conceded, ‘I call this one Duck, although it's in the books, because –'