Staying Power (17 page)

‘Howard Sanderson, Sir.'

‘He tells me I can rely on your discretion. I hope I can.'

‘Sir.'

‘I've arranged for you to meet your new colleagues at twelve-thirty. No problems with that, I take it?'

‘I'm afraid I'm committed at that time, Sir. Could it be at two?'

His fine eyebrows convulsed, but he smiled almost immediately. ‘A full diary! Now, I have a window at two-thirty: we'll make it then. My opposite number and the DI you'll be responsible to.'

Kate stood. ‘Two-thirty, Sir.'

‘So apparently I'm an art aficionado. All I did was look at those prints on his wall while he finished playing silly-buggers on his computer and now I'm an expert!' Kate drained her cup and set it down with a slight tap.

Graham laughed, as she hoped he would.

She'd taken him not to any of the pubs used by the police, but for a sandwich at a place Colin had recommended. Not a sandwich bar – by no means! – but a cross between a cosy Thirties' living room and an up-market café, with the daily papers and laminated copies of the
Beano
for reading matter. Hudson's was in one of Birmingham's more up-market shopping malls, the Plaza, where, she was delighted to inform Graham, they had the best public loos she'd ever come across. His embarrassment added significantly to her pleasure, particularly when she sent him off to test the men's for himself.

‘And he talks to me about this picture as if I know who the artist is. Apparently Neville went to the exhibition in Germany this summer.'

Graham was still smiling. ‘And did you enlighten him?'

‘Would I? Actually,' she became serious, ‘I know nothing about art. Furniture like Alan Grafton's, pictures: I'm a total ignoramus. But I've got this terrible feeling I ought to know more. No, not ought – want. You know, when I think of a lovely bit of enamel at Grafton's—'

‘Enamel? Like in baths and things?'

‘Enamel as in purely decorative. This bit was a beautiful turquoise and in the middle of a hideous hall-stand. Except I don't know whether it really is hideous or if it's just my bad taste. But I covet that bit of enamel.'

‘What do you think of Neville's pictures?'

‘Gorgeous. Especially the one with reddy-orange sailing boats.'

‘In that case I think your taste's impeccable.' His voice was warm as his smile.

Think about the Gorgon's eyes, Kate. He's got to go home to them. And live with them.

‘Meanwhile,' she said, brisk, with the teapot poised above his cup, ‘have you heard about Neville's plans for me?'

‘He's not back to that media rubbish again, is he?'

‘Not yet. But he's moving me out of the squad.'

‘What?' He sounded thunderously angry. Almost. ‘I thought he was supposed to be an expert on human resource management,' he said at last.

‘Only for a bit. He's got this idea I may be trying to fit Selby up by firing off memos that bear his stamp.'

‘Mem
os
?' There was no doubt about his embarrassment.

‘Well, one – hang on. That's it! He nearly let something slip. And now you – come on, you're not a good actor. There's been another one, hasn't there?'

‘Kate, you do not know about this. In any circumstances.' He touched a fold in the tablecloth with his index finger. ‘See that line? There's my job.' Then he put the next finger beside the first. ‘And there's yours.'

She put her finger to her lips. ‘You know me, silent as the grave.' So why was he telling her? To get it off his chest, to share it with someone?

‘There's been a reply to that one I didn't send. Word-processed, of course, so we can always get it off the hard disk. Even if it's not been saved, they say. Well, the experts can.' He smiled, as if to acknowledge her superior knowledge. ‘The contents are appalling. About wanting experience with nice big—'

‘—big dicks,' she prompted.

‘—and going into all sorts of detail. Vile. The sort of thing you'd get in a porn mag. The trouble is, it arrived immediately after you'd left my office. So
in theory
Fatima just had time to write it and bugger off.'

‘Is “yours” still in her in-tray?'

‘I take it your handwriting would be on the envelope? In that case, no. It's gone. And, for your ears only, Selby's gone to Cope alleging that you've got it in for him and are making his life a misery. Thank God you told me about it, Kate. You've got to watch your back in something like this.'

She nodded. ‘And you yours, Graham. Maybe Neville is actually doing me a favour getting me out for a bit.'

He nodded. ‘I think he's OK. After all, you don't get to be as high as he is in such a short time without being good at your job. All this business about painting and so on: I think it's genuine. And he's come out
maxima cum laude
—' he grinned in response to Kate's flying eyebrows ‘—from all the courses he's been on – which, of course, is a lot. Plus he's got a reputation for putting in a lot of hours, coming up with plenty of good ideas. Maybe this was one of them. Though I—' He looked away, pretended to check the hot water jug.

Though he'll miss me. As much as I'll miss him. In this mood, at least.

‘Tell you what,' she jumped in. ‘If I'm going to be off with Fraud long, couldn't we do this again? Well, quite often. I don't want to lose touch. With everybody,' she added.

‘Good idea.'

But even as he smiled she saw the fear creep over his face. It was those eyes on his desk, wasn't it?

The Fraud Squad was based at Lloyd House, West Midlands Police's administrative hub. They had to wait to be collected from the foyer. Kate was aware of a preponderance of tall middle-aged men in anonymous grey suits passing through. Somehow they seemed as menacing as anything she'd read about in the fastnesses of the Kremlin or the White House. Yes, there was something reassuring about navy serge.

The rooms were modern and anonymous, apart from some highly complex computer screen-savers, displaying a story Kate feared she wouldn't ever have time to watch to the end. The main thing that distinguished them from her squad's territory was, however, the tidiness. Extreme tidiness. Graham Harvey's meticulous wife would be at home here. Kate, however, had a terrible fear that she wouldn't.

There was quite a little party in Detective Chief Inspector Dyson's office: the DCI himself, looking, with his greyish, cadaverous face more like her former philosophy professor than a cop, Rodney Neville, Graham, and a woman DI in her early forties with the most unruly mane of auburn hair Kate had ever seen, Lizzie King. She was introduced as the Officer in Charge of the Corporate Fraud Section.

‘Not that your name ought to be King,' Neville had said, lingering over her hand as he shook it. ‘It ought to be Siddal.'

‘That's how I got to be called Lizzie,' the woman grinned. ‘I'm really Lydia, but I suppose I do look like a perambulating pre-Raphaelite model – though without the goitre, I hope.'

The allusions were lost on Kate. Something else to look up – and she'd not made it this morning to Companies House to check on Sanderson's connections, had she?

Once Neville had abandoned King's hand and everyone was seated, coffee was produced by a woman who wasn't introduced. Or thanked. Secretary or colleague? Kate's stomach sank. But this was not the time to get on what Cope would no doubt have dismissed as her equal opportunities high horse.

Nor to wonder why there were so many people involved. Left to herself, she'd have settled for a quiet chat with Lizzie over – with luck – better coffee than this. It must be one of the games management played. And yet she could understand that Neville, new in post, would need to make contacts, and she could see that Graham, his eye, no doubt, on promotion, wouldn't want to be left out. Maybe he even wanted to see her settled here.

Soon enough, anyway, they had an action plan and her brief was drawn up. She was to be responsible – and she tried not to beam when she heard the word – for pursuing the investigations into Alan Grafton's death, and the financial debacle that surrounded, if not prompted it. Because Fraud knew of other cases – ‘a positive rash' – of similar ends to small firms, she would work closely with Lizzie, and she'd be allocated a couple of experienced constables. Although two departments were at work, neither woman was to regard the collar, if any, as hers. Co-operation was to be the name of the game. But the Fraud Squad would have discretion in day-to-day decision making.

Kate didn't have a problem with that. Lizzie's expertise, her footslog – that seemed a good combination. She said so.

‘What about my contacts with this guy Sanderson and his wife?' she asked.

Graham explained briefly: yes, there was a spot of back-watching there. Her transfer might almost have been his idea.

‘Maintain them. Develop them,' Dyson said, before Neville could speak. ‘Especially with the wife.'

‘As a matter of fact, I may have a good way in there,' Kate said. She explained about the freezer box.

‘Good! What I'd really like is an informer. Maybe we could even sign her up. Find out what committees she's on. Join one if necessary. I'd like to see the two of you like this.' He linked his index fingers and tugged: neither yielded. ‘OK, Neville?'

‘Fine by me. Harvey? King?'

And, by default, fine by Kate.

Kate and Graham walked together the short distance back to base. Neville had dawdled behind with his opposite number. Lizzie had given her a flap of the hand and a promise to find her a desk by eight-thirty the following morning.

‘This means my spying on a friend of yours,' Kate said. ‘And trying to persuade his wife to sing.'

‘Not a friend. An acquaintance. And as far as Isobel's concerned – if it was she who made those calls, well, she's too intelligent not to see the end of the process she's started.'

‘You never said whether you thought it was she.'

‘How grammatical! I'm not good on voices. I wouldn't be able to swear on oath.'

‘What do you
think?
If I'm on a wild-goose chase I'd like to know.'

They'd been walking slowly. Now he stopped altogether.

Head on one side, he said, ‘If I thought you were, I'd tell you. What I'm very much afraid is that you'll end up chasing something infinitely more lethal. Sanderson's a powerful man, with endless resources. He's got friends in very high places too. Believe me.'

‘Funny handshake brigade?' Was Graham one, too?

‘I wouldn't know,' he said stiffly.

Well, it was a silly thing to ask, wasn't it, of a policeman? She'd better think of a way out of the little silence that was accumulating around them.

‘There's something else I need to know,' she said.

His face softened again, but not much.

‘Who's this Lizzie Siddal woman?'

He stared but then burst out laughing. ‘Kate! Surely you know that! I mean, it's more general knowledge than art'.

She shook her head. ‘Something about pre-Raphaelite? And a goitre?'

‘Well done. You've heard of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood? Victorian artists? Come on, you must have done. Heavens, what do they teach young people these days? She was the model and then the wife of one of them. Rossetti, I think.' He stopped, and frowned. ‘Tell me: you really don't know what I'm on about, do you?'

She shook her head. ‘You know how it is: you've heard the name but it doesn't really register.'

‘And you did your degree in Manchester! They've got an art gallery there with lots of pre-Raph. stuff. Didn't you ever go in? Even to get out of the rain?'

‘I don't ever remember it raining all the time I was up there,' she said, straight-faced.

He laughed. ‘OK. It's not raining now, but I do think ten minutes' education is called for. We can work late tonight to make up for it.'

Can we indeed?
She nodded noncommittally.

‘Just along Colmore Row, here. The Museum and Art Gallery. And if we don't find Lizzie Siddal there I'll – I'll buy you a cup of tea.'

‘And if we do?'

‘You buy me one.'

Most people had left by now, but Kate was still staring at the lists of itesm stolen from pharmacies. This was a case she didn't want to let go of. She knew there was something staring her in the face that she couldn't see. She put a note on Colin's desk: would he get one of the inputters to put the material through a computer check to see which items figured in every single theft. If he had time, could he also phone a sample of chemists' shops to see if they'd had minor thefts they'd not bothered to report.

She reached for the phone: one of her Met Drugs Squad contacts might still be working.

It rang so long she was just about to give up.

‘DI Thomas.'

‘Dai? Kate Power.'

‘Kate my old love! Corn in Egypt! The first daffodil of spring. How are you?' The Welsh voice rose and fell like the sea.

‘All the better for hearing your voice!'

‘You'd have heard it before this, only I've been in the States, see. And then there was that big trial. No, truth is, love, I should have phoned. You know how it is. Never know what to say. And are you getting over – everything?'

‘It's a slow business, Dai. But I'll get there one day. Now, I want to pick your brains. Such as they are.' She gave him a resume of the pharmacy thefts.

‘Well, your Crime Prevention people should be getting busy. They've been so active down here, what with CCTV and metal grilles, the rate's been cut down a great deal. Maybe they're knocking stuff off up there and bringing it down to us. But I can't see why. They make the stuff they want, these days, on their home chemistry sets or whatever. Or bring it in from abroad. However we try to stop it, they seem to keep bringing it in. Big people. What you've got sounds dead amateurish, girl. What d'you expect, out in the sticks, there?'