Power on Her Own (21 page)

‘OK: what do you recommend?' Kate pushed up from the table with what she hoped looked like enthusiasm. She cannoned into a tall, bespectacled man.

‘OK, Sarge,' Maureen said. You haven't come all up here just to ask me what time it is. Problem?'

‘Hole in one, Mo. We've got a girl in tears at the desk. No idea what's the matter – she won't talk to a man.'

‘Sounds like they're playing my tune,' Maureen said, getting up. ‘We'll have that pizza another time, Kate. Specially if you make it a balti – there's a good place in York Road.'

So that was that. The traffic was still solid, so she left her car where it was and walked down the High Street towards her home. What she had to do was find out that bus number. And by far the easiest way was on foot. She could pick up supplies at one of the supermarkets, too. And window shop. Yes, those curtains looked good. It'd be nice to shop locally, rather than using the big city centre shops. Provided she could get out here while the local shops were still open.

She'd caught that bus at a stop by the parish church. That's it. Two shelters, one nearer the lights than the other. Had she got on at the first or the second? For the life of her she couldn't remember. And clearly it mattered. She'd got on a double-decker, surely. And as she watched, a double-decker came up the main road. And a single pulled in from Vicarage Road, the 35. Were all 35s single-decker? Were any 50s single-decker? And now, since both buses had filled up and pulled out, there was no one to ask.

Suddenly homesick, she crossed at the lights and headed for her house. Just to see the progress, just to see when she could call it hers. That was all.

And she nearly walked past it. She'd forgotten there'd be no hedge and Alf's team had moved to the front of the house: Aunt Cassie's dispiriting black was under an even more dispiriting dark grey undercoat. And light grey round the window, which would soon be white.

She let herself in. They'd started on the skeleton of the kitchen now, though nothing could be finished till that working surface came. Not even a slot for her microwave. Upstairs to reassure herself that there was progress somewhere. Her bedroom. Not Aunt Cassie's now, hers. This weekend she'd put some pictures on the wall, that'd be better. And those curtains in the High Street shop would be just the ticket. If not just the size. She slipped back downstairs to find a tape measure. Working quickly, but, she hoped, accurately, she jotted down the dimensions of each room, including the windows, in her organiser. Right! Ready to build a home.

And ready for some supper. Too late to cook, especially in someone else's kitchen. She'd get one of those magnificent chicken tikka naans from the chip shop she'd tried before.

The assistant greeted her like an old friend. ‘How many d'you want, chick?'

‘Just the one, thanks.'

‘Only one! But it was three last time!'

She couldn't explain, could she? ‘I've already eaten,' she lied cheerfully. ‘This is just a snack!'

Paul was washing up when she arrived. He dried his hands, and made much of finding her a clean plate and pressing salt, pepper and any other condiment on her. At last she convinced him there was spice enough in the chicken, and that she needed no more than a plate and a knife and fork.

‘Thanks for all your efforts in my front garden,' she said, belatedly. ‘You've really opened things up. D'you think the wall's all right? It doesn't seem to have much in the way of foundations.'

‘Last as long as you, that wall. I thought some cotoneaster would look nice against it – I'll look out for some. But nothing by the window or you'll get damp in your foundations.'

She nodded. ‘Maybe a clematis up the side of the bay window. And a hanging basket: I've always liked hanging baskets.' Though for this she'd have to consult her neighbours – they shared the wall, after all. Another chance to talk to Mrs Mackenzie, and possibly the charming Royston.

Although he sat and watched her eat, he got up as soon as she'd finished. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I've got these piles of marking. Have to love you and leave you.'

‘No problem,' she said, realising too late she had not made the most tactful response. ‘I've got a load of work to get through myself.'

She was running George V round the track when she asked Tim if he ever travelled by bus.

‘Everyone does,' he said, watching it round a couple of circuits. ‘Dad says it's better to use buses for going to town and that, because of the parking.'

‘So which do you catch?'

‘Any of those on the High Street,' he said. ‘They all stop by the hot dog stall. The West Midlands Transport ones and the Your Bus ones. Though Dad says West Midlands took over Your Bus.'

‘Which are best?'

‘I like the double-deckers best. Except they do sway about a bit.'

She reversed George V into a siding. ‘Which one now? So are the double-deckers on all the routes?'

‘Let's get an HST running. No. Only the West Midlands ones. The big blue-and-silver ones. Except some are blue and cream – that's their old livery. They're on the fifty route.'

‘Nothing else?'

‘No. The rest are all single. Why?'

‘Just that I got on one when I first arrived and I couldn't remember which it was.'

He nodded, as if that was explanation enough. ‘Let's do some shunting,' he said. ‘Come on: it's time Duck earned his keep.' He picked it up: ‘Nice little engine,' he said, as if it were a pet hamster.

She looked at his blue eyes and blond curls and prayed that he'd never have cause to think it otherwise.

Kneeling on the floor of her room at the Manse, Kate spread the street plan and bus route maps in front of her. Her Kings Heath bus-stop had been roughly halfway along a very long route, with lots of culs-de-sac that might be possibilities. If she extended her search to allow for women prepared to tackle a stiff walk, there were even more. How many hours' work to find the right one – more to the point, how on earth would she know it was the right one? One long shot would be to phone all the local nicks just to check whether the well-dressed woman had been public spirited – or plain nosy – enough to report her suspicions. An even longer one would be to start travelling by bus. And to do that efficiently she would have to cover each bus-stop along the route, for the salient time each morning, hoping to see the women she'd overheard.

If she approached Cope she'd get a flat denial and public ridicule. Graham was the only one she could ask. And he was in Liverpool. He'd have his mobile phone with him. Why not phone him – it was only half past ten? But he might be back the following morning: she could ask him then. Except that would postpone action for another day.

Inaction, rather. This could be a long, slow and ultimately unrewarding slog.

Go on: phone him.

What she could do was go in by bus next morning – the traffic was so bad she wouldn't lose much time. And she would phone all the police stations within the area, just on the off-chance.

She was late, of course, and as she ran from the bus-stop in town kicked herself doubly: the morning she'd overheard those women she'd been even later than this. It must have been after eight when she'd reached the High Street, and here she was, trying in vain to make that seven-thirty start everyone honoured.

At least she was on the phone, obviously talking to a police colleague, when Cope peered round the door; he'd have to postpone his bollocking, though she couldn't imagine him cancelling it altogether. She asked, waited, had nil returns. So much for that idea. So when she spoke to Graham she'd try not to overplay the significance of the rest of the plan.

Colin breezed in just as she was brewing some coffee. He put his hand up to give a friendly five: ‘We got him! Sent down for four years.'

‘Is that long enough?'

‘I'd have said seven; Graham said we were lucky to get more than two. So that's fine.'

‘I thought Graham was off to Merseyside?'

He wagged a finger: ‘Nosy! Yes, he set off last night, must have been about six. All that lovely traffic on the M6. I told him to hang on an hour – wouldn't make all that much difference to the time he arrived there, after all – but that would have meant going back to Mrs H, and Graham doesn't like going back to Mrs H if he can avoid it.'

‘Why does he? There's such a thing as divorce – God knows enough of us end up with broken marriages.'

‘Don't ask me, ducky – not my scene at all.' He returned his voice to normal: ‘Thing is, he's got religion, see? Serious stuff. Not just your C of E on your next-of-kin form. Something unlikely. Seventh Day Adventist or Mormon or something. And divorce is Frowned Upon. Poor bastard. Get him to talk to you. He needs all the shoulders he can find to cry on.'

‘He doesn't strike me as the sort of bloke who'd cry publicly.'

‘You know what I mean. I only know because – well, there was a WPC he fancied. Almost as much as she fancied him. He'd just made it to Inspector. Oh, out in West Bromwich or somewhere. I knew her – even went out with her before I realised honesty was the best policy. Anyway, she and I keep in touch. I heard all about it from her.'

‘She might have been biased,' Kate said mildly. ‘Like me and Robin's wife,' she managed to add. ‘Even if she'd walked on water I couldn't have thought any good of her.'

He smiled, as if acknowledging the effort she'd made. ‘Oh – but you piece things together.'

‘Does he still see your friend?'

‘Clean break. She's got another bloke, now. University lecturer she met when she was on a course. Right: back to the grindstone. Did I miss much yesterday?'

The team that had been watching the school had seen no one suspicious. None of the families contacted by Family Protection and social workers reported any of their children being approached. It was a gloomy and dispirited team that sat in the Incident Room.

‘We've drawn blanks everywhere,' Cope concluded. ‘But there's news that a kid somewhere in Devon, Dawley or some such –'

‘Dawlish, Sir?' Sally put in.

‘Dawlish, is it? I didn't realise you were one of our intellectual high-flyers, Sally. DS Power, now, we all know she's got letters after her name – didn't know you had, too. So now we know it's Dawlish. Little one-horse seaside town. Anyway, this lad's been approached by a man and a woman. I thought we should go and take a gander. Power, how soon can you be there?'

‘By tea-time, gaffer. But I'll need to go and pick up my car – it's back in Kings Heath.'

‘No. I won't ask why. I'm sure there's some explanation you're dying to favour us with, but frankly, I haven't time. Take one from the pound, for Christ's sake. Stay as long as you need. You're not much use here.'

Swallow it. She had to swallow it. ‘I shall be back by tea tomorrow, Sir. I coach a football team on Thursdays. Can't miss that.'

There was a guffaw. ‘Oh, neither can we, Power, neither can we. All these women running round.' He joggled imaginary breasts. ‘Tell me when your next game is.'

‘Saturday, Sir. Boys' Brigade Junior League. I coach little boys.'

As an exit line it wasn't bad. It covered the seething frustration she felt. No curtains – well, she'd survive. No chance to start searching for that crucial cul-de-sac. No chance of checking her theory with Graham.

She collected the file Cope had put together, reached for the overnight bag she kept as a matter of habit in her locker, and remembered in time to phone the Manse. She didn't like leaving her message on their answerphone – they deserved a more personal explanation – but neither Maz nor Giles was at home. And then she was on her way.

She picked up the M6, and then peeled off on to the M5. Spectacular views of the once industrial, still tatty West Midlands. Someone somewhere ought to be pouring money into the area. It was the heart of the industrial revolution, if not the birthplace – that honour belonged to Ironbridge, didn't it? Mecca for school trips. She still remembered Blist's Hill in the pouring rain, then, only an hour later, Blist's Hill in quite savage sun. Weird, the British weather. Like now: even though you'd have thought the bright Indian summer weather general over the country, she was running into skeins of mist. And that could mean fog.

Near the M4 turn off, she ran into it. Thick, mucky stuff. She switched on every sensible light, and dropped speed dramatically. At last, she decided she might be safe at thirty. And people were hurtling past her at eighty, ninety.

Just as she was bracing herself to remember all her first-aid skills, the fog lifted. Brilliant sunshine, as if she'd been imagining everything.

Time to take a break in any case. She pulled off at Gordano, wondering how on earth it acquired such a name: wasn't it originally Peter-in-Gordano, or something equally obscure? Easton! That was it. Easton-in-Gordano. No need to speculate why they'd changed it.