Staying Power (19 page)

‘So what happens to all the stuff you've acquired?'

‘Lots of outlets within motorway distance of here. Worcester, Lichfield, Warwick – they'll all have tatty premises you can rent on a short lease. Just right for the Christmas rush.'

‘Tatty premises? Alan Grafton was talking about high-class leather wear. You'd want to flog that somewhere quite nice, wouldn't you? Nice big mark-up?'

Lizzie sighed and cut the engine. ‘Why bother about nice big mark-ups when you're getting the stuff for free? Come on, even you Londoners must have the places. Everything under a fiver. You'd shift even high-class leather wear there.'

Kate hadn't been sure whether the sigh was directed at her. But she knew the sarcasm was. Before she could take her up on it, Lizzie fished out her phone, asking the voice at the other end about traffic.

‘Solid into the city.' Lizzie repeated, drumming on the steering wheel and looking at her watch.

Kate looked at hers. Then she pointed. ‘There's a pub over there. Why don't we stop off for a sarnie? Maybe it'll clear.'

‘If you want.' Lizzie started the engine, signalled, and nudged towards a gap in the inside lane. ‘And if you try to close on me, you fucking bastard, I'll do you for bleeding careless driving.'

The driver gave two fingers and closed the difficult gap. Kate got out, flashed her ID and pointed. He reversed. Smartly.

She got back in. ‘Seems a bit of an anticlimax to park quietly in a pub after all that,' she said.

‘I can always try and pick my way along the rat runs,' Lizzie said, ‘if you're in a hurry to get back.'

‘Why should I be? We can always have a working lunch.'

‘I thought you might be meeting someone.' Lizzie parked, not very well.

Kate shook her head. ‘Who should I be meeting?'

‘How about Graham Harvey?'

‘Why should I be meeting Graham, for goodness' sake?' Kate felt her anger rising.

‘Well, Kate, the word on the street is that you and he—'

‘I don't give a fuck about the word on the street.'

‘You bloody should, then. He's a good, decent man, and mud sticks in this job.'

It didn't make her feel any better that she'd said exactly the same thing to him already. ‘It seems to be sticking to me already,' she said, keeping her voice level with an effort. ‘Without reason.'

‘Why have you come swanning over here to us, then, unless it's to get you out of his hair?'

‘Didn't you hear what we said yesterday? He knows Sanderson – and you people wanted to follow up Alan Grafton's bankruptcy. Full-stop.' She let her voice rise to match Lizzie's.

‘Rodney Neville told Ted Dyson there was another reason he wanted you out of the office. A man-woman thing. And I'm telling you, Graham Harvey's as decent a cop as you'd wish to find and the last thing he needs is some silly bitch sleeping with him to get herself speedy promotion. Except – pardon me – I'd forgotten you were a Butterfly.'

‘I may be on the accelerated promotion scheme but that doesn't mean I've ever been a PC CV. Neither does it mean I'm sleeping with Graham. I'm going out with another bloke, as it happens. And, though I don't know why I'm telling you this, the man-woman thing is a major case of sexual harassment. And the guy that's doing the harassing has complained, I gather, that I'm framing him.' She reached for the door-handle and got out of the car.

‘Where the fuck are you going?' Lizzie ran after her, and pulled her arm. ‘For Christ's sake, woman, if you want to go by bus, fine – but just wait until I've apologised and done a decent grovel.'

Kate stared, swallowing her anger, and at last softened. ‘OK. So long as you can grovel inside over half a pint.'

Two messages awaited Kate: one from Harry, asking her to call, and one from Graham, telling her to call. Lizzie, on whose desk they'd been put, since Kate was still homeless, passed them to her with an ironic smile.

She responded with an equally ironic bow. Well, even if she was still angry, at least she understood a bit more about Lizzie's attitude now. If you'd joined the force as a career cop without the cachet of being seen as a high-flyer, you could be forgiven, perhaps, for disliking people like Kate apparently flitting in and out. It didn't help knowing that they were guaranteed to go upwards and onwards while you had to slog every inch of the way. And as a woman, who'd no doubt endured years of stuff every bit as bad as Selby could dish out, and maybe worse, you had twice the reason. Furthermore – and she couldn't bring herself to ask Lizzie point blank why – Lizzie was clearly a fully-paid up member of the Graham Harvey Fan Club: he was a man who could do no wrong and still be handsome and heroic. Kate supposed that if you worked alongside Ted Dyson, a bit of male pulchritude wouldn't come amiss. And Lizzie must be quite close in age to Graham: she might not see him, as Kate saw him, as middle-aged, however attractive and kind he might be. When he was kind, that is. When she picked up the phone to dial, she was all too aware that she could be on the receiving end of a bollocking just as well as a bouquet. And it never helped if you didn't know in advance what the bollocking was for.

‘Kate!' He sounded pleased to the point of delighted. ‘Tell me, have you had lunch yet?'

Keeping her voice rock steady, she explained she'd already eaten with Lizzie. At the sound of her name Lizzie looked up. She might have looked down again but Kate was damned sure she was still listening.

‘Pity. Well, do you have time for a quick half after work? Very quick. I want to up-date you on developments here. Have you arranged to collect that freezer box yet?'

‘Not yet. I didn't want to look too obvious. I mean, people with their money might think I'm a bit odd wanting it back at all.'

‘Don't you believe it: most wealthy people I know watch every penny. Anyway – the place you and Colin usually drink? Six?'

‘Fine.' She cut the call. With Lizzie's ears flapping, there was no way she could tell him she was looking forward to seeing him. Nor would she ask if Colin would be there too.

Harry's news was so exciting she told him to phone Graham straightaway – might even have sounded irritated that he hadn't told him already. Or – more appropriately – that the woman logging the calls hadn't told him already. The woman who'd fingered Sanderson had made another accusation. That Sanderson knew about those tablets, those—. That was all. The call had started and terminated at twelve noon. Which tablets might they be?

She made another call. ‘Colin: any news on those pharmacy break-ins?'

‘Hello, and it's lovely to speak to you, too. I'm very well, thanks. How are you?'

‘Sorry, Colin. My brain's ahead of my manners, I gather. I'm fine and missing you and all the others, though not as much as you, of course. And how
are
you? Seriously.' She'd never even asked him about his home life, had she!

‘Back together, as it happens. Ish, I'd say, if pressed. But there you go. And no, the civilian in-putter – I've asked Rona to do them, by the way, since she's the most efficient – hasn't done them yet. Late this afternoon, early tomorrow, I'd say. Anyone else, Friday.'

‘Remind me I owe you. You're an angel.'

‘I know. Isn't it lucky you know me. Bye, sweetie! Sorry: Ma'am.'

‘Oh, Sweetie will do. So long as you stand to attention while you're saying it.' She replaced the phone.

Lizzie coughed. ‘Nice to see standards of discipline being maintained at all times. Is that that gorgeous Colin Roper? No wonder you're not interested in Graham! Colin's got the nicest bum in the West Midlands Police. Hmm,' she growled, predatory.

Kate hesitated. Was it OK for women to refer to men in the terms they'd have found offensive had the roles been reversed? Not that Lizzie would have made the remark had she known Colin was gay. But as long as Kate was Colin's beard, she'd stay that way. ‘He's my closest friend,' she said firmly.

From the flicker of her eyebrows, Lizzie must have registered the rebuff, but she said nothing. She interrupted the desert-island screen-saver in the middle of the protagonist's swim, and brought up the Dunn and Bradstreet programme. ‘Hey, aren't you supposed to be the bee's knees where computers are concerned? Your actual geek?'

Kate wrinkled her nose. ‘A couple of courses. But I've yet to make the acquaintance of Messrs Dunn and Bradstreet. If you'd care to introduce me?'

Lizzie said, ‘When a firm is registered at Companies House, it has to list all its directors. And they have to list all their other directorates and interests. So all we have to do is start our trail and you can trace a man through all his legitimate business connections. Provided he declares them. What I'd like to see is a bit of serious cross-referencing where you can type in someone's name and watch all their activities appear before your eyes. It'll be the next development, I hope, but it ain't here yet. So we know of Symphony Leather. So let's just hope he appears there. What a strange thing: we have a Mrs Isobel Sanderson here. But no Howard Sanderson. I wonder why not.'

‘I believe he had a manufacturing company in the Black Country that went down the tubes.'

‘So he may have gone bankrupt and be ineligible to hold any more directorates till he's been discharged. Hmm. No idea of the name of the firm? No? Well, that's a little job for Bill and Ben.' She waved an airy hand in the direction of two thirty-something men, who responded with equally off-hand nods. They looked decent enough – Kate would have been glad of the chance to make a friendlier overture.

‘So what about Minim and Breve?' Kate tapped Minim into the computer. And came up with names, but not Sanderson's. The same applied to Breve. She flung up her hands in despair: everything she needed must be in there somewhere, but she didn't know how to dig it out. Yet. And from their expressions, neither Bill nor Ben wanted to come over and help.

‘The trouble with accountants,' Lizzie said, an hour later, ‘is that they go all round the Wrekin and still—'

‘“Wrekin”?'

‘Bloody big hill in Shropshire. Brum's version of “round the houses” – more graphic, I always think.'

Kate nodded. ‘And still—' she prompted.

‘—still don't give you the answers you want. OK, all we're after now, right, is to know whether, all things being equal, Alan Grafton was a decent business man, who, had he not have been diddled, would still have his bank behind him and would therefore be solvent.'

‘And alive,' Kate added. ‘If, that is – and you know I want him to have been murdered, Lizzie – he was driven to suicide.'

‘There you go then. That's what we tell them to find out. Anything else? Right. Now here's a list of other firms that have gone under recently.' She laid a print-out on her desk. ‘Any common factors: could you check through and see if our friends Breve and Minim feature amongst the credit referees?'

She'd just settled to the task, working on a spare table brought in from the DCI's room, when she was summoned to the phone on Lizzie's desk. Lizzie passed her the handset with a sigh, which might have been humorous.

‘Kate? I had to tell you. It's me: Patrick. I'm calling from Paris. I've just got hold of the most marvellous machine and simply had to tell someone. Kate: I've got my hands on – wait for it! – an MV Augusta. The most beautiful, fire engine red MV Augusta!'

She had to say something. She hoped she expressed more enthusiasm than she felt. ‘That's great. Wonderful! Well done!'

‘I knew you'd be pleased. Look, as soon as I've arranged for shipment, I'll get back to you. This calls for the most super celebration!'

‘Count me in.'

‘I'll be in touch!'

Kate replaced the handset.

‘I have to say,' Lizzie observed, ‘that while your voice gushed with enthusiasm, your eyes did not.'

‘I challenge anyone to get truly passionate about an MV Augusta,' Kate retorted. ‘It's a red motorcycle.'

‘Didn't Mike Hailwood ride one? Oh, before your time. Before mine, really. But I had a big brother.'

‘Well, now I really regret not having one.' And Kate headed back to the table.

‘Who have you got, then? This man who lusts for big red bikes?'

No reason why she should temporise. ‘Patrick Duncan.'

‘Pat the Path? My word! Well, Kate, I'd say you were in for some interesting times.' And Lizzie got up and swept from the room.

What about phoning Isobel, on the off-chance that she might be at home? Kate paused, hand above the figures: what if all she got was an answerphone? What message should she leave? Simply that she'd pop round that evening? That she'd phone back that evening? Or should she risk leaving her own home number? There was no way she could leave the CID or the Fraud Squad numbers, lest anyone happily – and correctly – announce themselves as West Midlands Police. She replaced the phone. How did she feel about giving anyone her home number? Isobel, yes – it was an excellent idea. But not Howard.

What about another phone line? She'd better set one up. For that she'd need authority. Lizzie shook her head: it was beyond hers.

‘But a DCI could do it,' she added helpfully. ‘Why not ask Graham if you're seeing him tonight.'

‘I might just do that. Unless Ted Dyson would oblige?'

‘Depends whether he's on speaking terms with his stomach ulcer. Happy hunting – I'm off to the dentist.'

Professionally speaking, she'd rather have asked Dyson. It would have meant she could get on with the job more quickly. But if he'd decided against it, she wouldn't have wanted to go on to ask Graham. Graham it would be, then. Meanwhile, on the merest off-chance, she dialled Isobel's number. And got the answersphone. She left a message saying she'd phone back: it was good to know that her number was denied anyone dialling 1471.