Power on Her Own (20 page)

‘I don't know – I've never met her.'

‘Come, now – there must be office gossip. They say bread's the staff of life, but believe me, at my age, it's other people. I like a little foible or two.' She closed her eyes again, and fidgeted with the bedcover. ‘But men like that never leave their wives. Yes, I know about your Robin. But this Graham's been with her too long – he'll stay for comfort and convenience. A young woman like you wants a husband and children. You stick to young Paul. Good-looking, fit, healthy. You can convert that – what did you call it,
boy-scoutishness
to being good at do-it-yourself. Save you a fortune on decorating bills. And shoulders like those would be useful about the garden. Nice little bottom, too. We weren't supposed to say such things when I was a girl, but I've been reading all those magazines in the library downstairs. A real education, some of them. Not the things they tell you to do – there's nothing new under the sun – but
writing
about them. In books that aren't literature with a capital L. Some of these Mills and Boon novels. I'd never read one until last week. But they're light in your hands compared with some of these heavy tomes. Now, get me a gin, Kate, and tell me how things are going.'

‘Gin!'

‘In that bureau. The only problem is keeping the ice, but little Zeena fills up that Thermos after tea every night. And she's bought me tonic that's supposed to taste of lemon. Go on, a stiff one. And one for yourself.'

And why not? Cassie was paying well for her accommodation, and with it the facilities. And if there wasn't a bar – now, that was an idea for someone building sheltered accommodation! – why shouldn't she have her own supply? Her own TV was accepted, and the music centre, not to mention the filing cabinet with all her life neatly docketed.

Kate poured one stiff, one very weak gin. ‘I keep forgetting,' she said, helping Cassie into a more upright position, ‘about your diamonds. They're still in the Manse safe. But they're not earning you interest or adding to your capital there. What would you like me to do about them?'

‘They haven't gone rusty, have they? Well, leave them there. Or if the minister – what's his name, Giles? – finds the responsibility too much, pop them into a bank. No, they'll charge you for looking after them. Ridiculous. You could always pop them back under the floorboards.'

‘Could, but won't. I prefer proper safety. I was hoping you might tell me where I could sell them.' Kate looked at her sideways. ‘You must have some contacts?'

Cassie returned the look. ‘I might be able to make some telephone calls. Twenty, we'll sell twenty. The rest you'll have for an engagement ring. And a pair of ear studs. Time you had your ears pierced. What have I said?'

Kate shook her head. ‘Don't fancy that. I'm happy with clip-ons.'

‘You couldn't trust diamonds on clip-ons! One yank and –'

‘Better that than torn ears. When I was on the beat, the yobs had this great game – tear the earrings from Asian women. And it spread – to African-Caribbean and then to white women. That's when I decided. OK, I've lost one or two I treasured. But no blood. And believe me, you can lose a lot from a torn lobe.'

‘Humph. You wouldn't have to wear them on duty. Just sleepers. No one would want those. There's a hairdresser just off the High Street who'll do them very cheap. Let me see – what are they called?'

Kate sipped her gin. All she had to do was change the subject.

‘I'm hoping to move in properly in the next couple of days.'

‘In? Properly? Where are you now, then?' Cassie fixed her coldly.

‘I thought I'd told you. At the Manse. The work on the double-glazing made such a mess. And the kitchen's not quite ready. But Graham's promised me an hour off to get some curtains –'

‘Is he going to help choose them?' The eyes were several degrees warmer again.

‘That'd be nice,' she said unthinking. ‘But I dare say I shall ask Colin – he's a detective constable – to help. He's got brilliant taste.'

Cassie's grin was predatory. But then her mouth turned down. ‘Only a constable?'

Kate nodded. ‘Only a constable. And very, very gay.'

Idly, not too keen on getting up, Kate flicked on the radio. The headline she caught on the
Today
programme was like a blow to her stomach. Another missing boy! This one lived in Liverpool, but her alarm bells started ringing. At least the media hadn't yet put two and two together to make half a dozen, but they would, soon enough, Kate thought grimly. And perhaps they'd be right to. All she could think about during the long bus journey was the innocent heads of the Newtown school kids.

When she reached the Incident Room, Selby was already on the computer, shifting the mouse and clicking with some determination, and definitely increased speed. She was impressed, and would have told him so, had not Cope hove into view, followed by the rest of the team. Brainstorming time. If there were any brains amongst them. Graham and Colin would be out – they were giving evidence in a court case – and for a moment she felt isolated. But she'd not crossed swords with anyone for a while, and it would be good to have to make an effort to get along with the others. She sat next to one of the older men, just back from his annual leave.

‘You must be Kate,' he said affably. ‘Reg Tanner. I've been down in Oz for a couple of months, seeing my son get married.'

They shook hands.

‘How are you settling in? Everything all right?'

‘Fine, thanks. I've been made very welcome.'
By most, if not all
.

‘I bet you have, nice-looking wench like you. Ah, better hush-up.' He turned towards Cope, leading in Graham's absence.

He didn't do a bad job, really. He reviewed all the evidence so far and the on-going activities. The main problems were a total lack of witnesses to Danny's RTA and Darren's continued silence. He spoke with anger of the injuries and the possible cause of the damage – a Hornby 00 gauge railway engine.

‘Has anyone shown one to Darren – to get his reaction?' Reg asked.

‘Not as far as I know,' Cope replied. ‘That's up to the medics, isn't it? We can't go interfering.'

‘Has anyone asked the medics?' Reg pursued.

‘They have been contacted, with what result I'm unable to say.'

‘There's your answer,' Reg muttered to Kate. ‘Bet that would open the floodgates. Bloody hell, there's some nasty pieces of knitting around.'

She nodded. ‘Have house-to-house inquiries brought up anything, Sir?' she asked aloud.

‘Only a lot of mish-mashed notes. Maybe you'd care to help decipher them and make a report, Power. At your convenience, of course.'

Which would teach her to keep her mouth shut. While the others tossed ideas back and forth – none of them greeted with much enthusiasm by Cope, but none received with such hostility – Kate tried to close her mind to the noise of the room. There was something, wasn't there? Something she ought to remember. And as it came to her, she knew it was nothing she wanted to share with Cope. Except she was part of a team. She'd float it gently, and if Cope shot it down, she'd take the rest to Graham. Or start herself. ‘I suppose,' she said hesitantly, ‘they must take the poor little devils somewhere. Their safe house. There's no reports at local nicks by neighbours of odd behaviour, I suppose?'

Cope didn't even bother to sneer. ‘Safe house? Of course. But you don't suppose they'd be so daft as to behave strangely. We're working with cunning buggers here.'

No one laughed at the grotesque pun.

The next question was from Reg: had they warned boys' clubs and other organisations.

‘I think you can rest assured that that's underway, Reg. Just because you've been away the world hasn't stopped turning.'

And Reg took it. Not a murmur. And yet he was probably even older than Cope, still a DC so not one of the ambitious ones. But a solid, reliable-looking man. Solid in both senses, come to think of it – the sort of man who might have boxed, played rugby, in his younger days.

No, she wasn't going to push the idea of the safe house. She wasn't going to mention that conversation she'd heard on the bus that wet morning about a mysteriously under-occupied suburban house. She was going to find the house.

‘Is anyone going up to talk to the scousers?' Sally asked.

‘Fancy a trip up the M6, do you? Well, sorry to spoil your plans, but you'll be staying down here. DCI Harvey'll be going up soon as he's finished in court. Provided you have no objection, Power?'

Pretend not to have heard? Certainly she couldn't ask why she should object – that'd be asking for trouble.

‘Eh, Power?'

Bastard! ‘Can't think of anyone better, Sir,' she said sunnily.

As soon as they'd been dismissed, she and Reg drifted over to the water dispenser to join Sally: a mutual licking of wounds was due, perhaps.

‘Jesus, Sally, me love, he hasn't got any better, has he?' Reg took a plastic cup and filled it, passing it to Sally. ‘And what's this about you leaving?'

‘I won't say it's all down to His Nibs,' Sally said. ‘But it was a factor, Reg. These bloody moods of his – he's worse than my mam, and she's going through the Change. Must be a Male Menopause, like they say.'

‘If he goes on like this much longer,' said Kate, ‘I'll ask for a transfer to Traffic.'

Someone yelled for Sally to come to the phone.

‘You'd better get stuck in too, my wench. And I'll get me a date with my computer. Got to get this bleeder. Hey – what was that you were saying about safe houses and that?'

‘Just a hunch. They must take the poor kids somewhere. And it'd have to be detached. Plenty of parking,' she added, thinking about her own house. ‘Somewhere where people are out at work all day, and prefer to keep themselves to themselves.'

‘You're describing loads of places, aren't you?'

‘But if someone had got nosy –
had
contacted their local nick …' She tailed off. Cope was back in the room. Back to a morning tapping keys.

Today, despite all the pressures to get on, she scheduled herself a lunch break. Not to buy curtains: she wanted a plan of Birmingham's bus routes and a large scale street map. OK, it meant another night at the Manse, but at least there she'd have a floor large enough to spread out her new maps.

The first problem of course was remembering which bus she'd got on. Any number ran along the High Street into town, but they joined it – and therefore left it – at different points. So unless she knew her number, she couldn't trace the route backwards, couldn't hope to find that rather nice cul-de-sac the women had spoken about. The one with the house where all sounds were suppressed and a flap of felt kept prying eyes from the letter box.

The traffic was so bad, she decided on impulse to stop off at the Kings Heath nick to find out the latest on the rape she'd interrupted. She found Maureen, the WPC she'd dealt with before, slumped over a coffee in the canteen. The only sign of life was from her left hand, stirring in sugar. Kate collected a cup of tea and joined her.

‘How are you settling in?' Maureen demanded, straightening up. ‘There's a rumour you're going out with a vicar.'

Kate grinned, but shook her head. ‘I'm not going out with anyone, Maureen, much as everyone would love to pair me up with someone or other. My bloke was killed this summer, remember. I don't want a relationship. Sorry,' she added.

‘Don't worry. Everyone treats me like an agony aunt. Last time I was at a conference I got this Chief Superintendent telling me he was afraid he was a transsexual. He thought a bonk with me might help him decide.'

‘I won't ask if it did! Any news, by the way, of the lads who didn't have that sort of excuse for bonking? Those young rapists I disturbed?'

‘The girl's being tested for STDs, poor kid. Nearly hysterical. But she's not pregnant. And she thinks she might prefer to go and live in Leicester permanently, auntie permitting. And her family over here seem glad to be shot of her. But as to her assailants, no, we've got nothing yet. They would have to be sodding Afro-Caribbean – can't interrogate anyone without being accused of racial harassment and damaging community relations. As if raping a sixteen-year-old isn't pretty harmful to community relations.'

The women sat in silence for a bit. Then Kate asked, ‘What time do you finish today? Fancy a pizza or something?'

‘You mean you haven't got to dash off to your vicar?'

‘Avoid his brother-in-law, more like. Which is not always easy when you're staying at the Manse.'

‘I shan't be off shift till ten. By which time all my tum wants is an omelette. So we'd better take a rain-check. Unless you fancy eating here? Oh, it's not that bad!'