Staying Power (21 page)

He smiled. ‘It takes time and effort, doesn't it? And still the work piles up on your desk.'

‘And yet you make time to go to Bradford.' She was rather shocked she had said it out loud.

‘It's what I joined the police for: helping people. What about you?' The directness of his gaze startled her. No, he wasn't just a promotion chaser.

She nodded. ‘Funny thing. I did too.'

‘God, you can tell you're a bleeding high-flyer – breakfast meetings with top brass while the rest of us poor mortals are still trying to park.' Cope was by the coat hooks in his office, struggling out of his raincoat. ‘And now you've sorted out our problems, I suppose you'll be dashing back off to Fraud to sort out theirs. Drugs, tomorrow, I wouldn't be surprised. Next thing is you'll be an inspector running a nick of your own.'

It was best to ignore Cope's charm. ‘I've got a problem of my own to sort out first, Gaffer. I'm afraid I may be giving my house keys to Burglar Bill.' She explained briefly.

‘You want to watch that,' he agreed. ‘Who's working on the case?'

‘Merv Selby.' She braced herself for a torrent of criticism. Selby and Cope got on too well for her liking.

‘Well, that should be all right. Mind you, he's been busy doing things for me. That bloody telly programme. Have a word before you go.' He sat down at his desk, opened a drawer which he rooted through.

Was she being cowardly or pragmatic? ‘Look, Gaffer,' she said, ‘you know what's important and what isn't. I wouldn't want to take him off some of your stuff if you don't think this break-in business isn't important.'

‘In my book having your mate's house broken into rates quite high. Is Selby in yet? We'll have him in here and have a word if you like. Here, sit yourself down.'

Cowardice. Yes. But it had worked.

‘You hadn't thought of just taking a couple of hours off so you could be there with them?' Cope asked.

‘What would you have said if I'd asked, Gaffer?' She looked at him through narrowed eyes.

He roared with laughter. ‘Get on with you, wench! OK. But I wouldn't like you to have that new house of yours done over. It's not a nice experience, having someone in your place without you asking them in. What's he like, this carpet-layer?'

‘A really nice young man. But I have to leave the keys with his boss, you see.'

‘You know what I'd say, Kate, me love? I'd say, take the time off. Even really nice young men can be crooks and swindlers. But we'll see how – Ah! young Merv. Just the lad we wanted. …'

Selby lounged in, and leaned one arm against the nearest filing cabinet. He towered over Kate. She knew without looking that his eyes would be foucused on her breasts. He jiggled change in his trousers pocket, his finger movements ostentatious.

He clearly hadn't made much progress on any of the files Cope had left him, and Kate sensed that without her in the room he'd have been on the receiving end of one of Cope's bollockings. But then, without her, Cope wouldn't have known he needed a bollocking – and he could always save it up for later. With a bit of interest, all being well.

‘So you'll get on to that now, OK? All that piddling stuff the telly viewers have told us – that'll have to wait. I'm not having one of my squad put herself at risk.'

‘OK, Gaffer. I'll get on to that for you.' There was a slight but inescapable emphasis on the last word. ‘Good result the Blues got last night. Did you see it on the box? That last goal – fancy calling that off-side!' Now he was leaning his back against the cabinet, arms folded. Man to man conversation.

‘I'd have called it off-side, myself,' Cope said. ‘Commentator seemed to think it was.'

‘Biased and blind. They always are. Bloody southerners.'

Including Kate, no doubt. Who was waiting her moment.

‘No – he comes up here; passes over there – OK? – so then he comes up here. How can he be off-side?'

‘Why don't you come along to my Boys' Brigade practice on Thursday?' Kate asked. ‘I'm explaining the off-side rule then.'

Cope was so busy cackling, he didn't notice Selby leaving the room.

‘You bitch: dropping me in it like that.'

She'd been expecting this: even his silent emergence from the doorway of another office just down the corridor from Cope's didn't faze her.

‘I haven't dropped you in anything. Put your hands down and address me by my name or my rank. I will not tolerate bullying. You are answerable to me; I am answerable to Cope. That's the way it is. Like it or lump it.'

‘You—'

‘Shut up or you'll be in real trouble. Even Cope realised you've not been pulling your weight. I've said nothing except I need that list of carpet-layers checked for my own peace of mind. Now, go back and get on with your work. I'm going to get on with mine.'

He was ready to strike her but she stared him down. At last his arms sank to his sides again, but he dropped his face to hers. ‘Sergeant,' he spat.

She watched him go back to the office. And then she let go her breath.

Time to go to Lloyd House. She turned. And practically walked into Graham Harvey, who was standing arms folded behind her. How long had he been there? And who, then, had Selby obeyed?

‘I thought this place was off-limits,' he said.

‘I was here to see Neville. And then I had to see Cope.' Was he angry because she was there at all or simply because he didn't know?

His nod was noncommittal. What he might have said was interrupted by Neville, striding past and beaming. ‘Tomorrow morning: it's fixed!' he said, without stopping.

‘He's going to go and talk to Fatima,' Kate said. ‘She's gone back home and he's concerned.'

‘I'm surprised he didn't send you.'

‘He thought it was too important, perhaps.' She spoke without irony, but he frowned. ‘I'd better be off, Gaffer. I don't want Lizzie on my back.' Did she hope for a cup of tea with him? On the whole, probably not, not with his face set like that.

To her surprise, he started to walk with her but at the top of the stairs seemed to think better of it. At last he asked, ‘Did you have any luck with Isobel?'

‘Her life seems one long social whirl. But all the calls to the switchboard were made about midday. Perhaps it might be worth trying then.'

‘Could be. Kate – don't get her into any sort of trouble, will you?'

Lizzie despatched Bill and Ben to check whether the other firms with musical names had similar premises to those she and Kate had been to yesterday. Kate could spend a happy morning on the computer, chasing up connections between directors of Symphony Leather and other companies. Her main aim, however, was to be outside Isobel's house just before twelve.

‘Each of the calls we've had has been made at that time. As if she comes in from one of her committees, perhaps, and tried to sneak an opportunity just before someone else arrives.' Kate rested her bum on her desk, facing Lizzie across the room.

‘Like Howard?' Lizzie sat back in her chair, arms behind her head.

‘Like Howard.'

But there was no sign of anyone when Kate turned up outside the Sandersons' house in Moseley. Unaccompanied by Patrick Duncan, she could spend more time looking round. Yes, it was an affluent area, but the houses were all turn of the century or earlier. Modern equivalents would be much more expensive. But they wouldn't have the heating bills associated with three storeys of high-ceilinged rooms.

The Sandersons' front garden was less impressive than the back, newly blocked to allow maximum parking, no doubt. Tubs with pansies and evergreens broke the monotony. No lit-up Christmas tree, though.

But the dancing red light of a burglar alarm. And, now she came to look more closely, well-positioned surveillance cameras, a make she knew was expensive and reliable. Howard had managed to keep something back from his failed company, then.

What was odd was someone working in the Black Country choosing to live in this area, with an awkward rush-hour drive across the city. Why choose an area the dominant population of which seemed to be health and other professionals, not entrepreneurs?

Shrugging, she pressed the bell. And glanced up to find a security camera, small and discreet, inspecting her make-up, which never had been flawless.

No curtains fluttered. No footsteps sounded within. But she had the strongest sense that someone was in that house. She rang again. And then, suspecting that whatever she did was being recorded, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Lizzie, sipping take-away tomato soup, greeted her with a flap of the hand and the news that Bill and Ben had found the same sort of uninspired and abandoned premises as she and Kate had found yesterday.

‘So I think we'll talk to the landlord of some of them: a cross-section should do. And the lads can get on the phone this afternoon to our colleagues in any local town where there may be one of these cheap-jack stores. Especially new ones. With a bit of luck they'll run a couple to earth and you and I can have a nice girlie day out in Warwick, or Worcester, or wherever, seeing if the merchandise happens to tally with the stuff you reckon this Alan was dealing in.'

‘I'll be a bit of a bummer if I find my pricey new bag up for a fiver somewhere, won't it?'

It was better to respond to Lizzie in the off-hand tone she used herself. She couldn't imagine herself ever positively liking the woman, but she knew her stuff and Kate was there both to sort out this Grafton business and to learn. She wished Lizzie had a little of the warmth of the DVU women, though. If she hadn't been so rough with Simon, the lad squatting in the abandoned office in Selly Oak, they might have got a lot more information. In fact, she might just look him up again – see if another meal might help him find more information to divulge. She could always take in a mega-shop at the Sainsbury's he bought his loo rolls from: maybe she might even find him flogging
Big Issues
there. Something for this evening on the way home: new route, new traffic jam. She could look at it that way.

Thanks to the Meedja Contax receptionist, they didn't have far to hunt for one landlord at least. His address was a city centre street near Summer Row. They walked the long way round. Someone had laid a bunch of flowers on the bridge where Grafton had hanged. Kate shivered, not just because there was a chill wind. What if she'd dismissed Colin's suggestion of Cosa Nostra involvement too glibly? They should be exploring every avenue, not just the obvious ones.

‘Come off it! With our budgets, and with the likelihood that it was suicide, there'd be no justification whatsoever,' Lizzie said. ‘Come on, we're talking nasty small-time crooks, not the big ones like the Mafia! I hope,' she added, with a rare smile. ‘Over there. One of those buildings that have been tarted up. Not that they'll stay clean long, not in all this pollution.'

The buildings were attractive inside, too, full of curlicues and twirls in the wood and the plasterwork.

‘He likes a bit of home comfort himself, even if the stuff he lets out warrants a demolition order,' Lizzie said. ‘Come on, dear,' she said, rapping the counter with her car keys, ‘you know you should always put seeing live clients before answering the phone.'

The receptionist tossed her hair and agreed that they had an appointment with Mr Carr. But he was running late. She gestured vaguely at some low chairs.

‘Just how late?' Lizzie might have been an irate headmistress.

‘Oh, half an hour or so.' Insouciance or bravado?

‘I don't think he'll be that late, do you? You buzz through and tell him we're here, there's a good girl. Plump lump,' Lizzie added, turning away.

As terms of abuse – and Lizzie's in particular – went, it was innocuous enough, but the woman flushed crimson.

They were admitted to Mr Carr's office within three minutes, not, incidentally, having seen anyone come out. He was neat, middle-aged, nondescript. Co-operative, even in the face of Lizzie's abruptness.

‘This is the file you requested, ladies.' He tapped a file on his desk. ‘Our client paid in advance in cash. We did ask for references to establish that he could be trusted to move himself out when he said he would. But – well, this is quite unusual and not what I would recommend – my colleague Mr Bevan accepted an extra two months' rent instead. And they did vacate the premises on the agreed date.'

‘So you don't have anything in writing about them?'

He shook his head.

Lizzie produced the list of other premises. ‘Are any of these on your books?'

‘Allow me.' He tapped into the computer on his desk. His eyebrows rose. ‘Mr Bevan seems to have come to a similar arrangement with these four lettings.'

‘I don't have to tell you how unwise that was,' Kate said. ‘Even though there's a cease-fire in Northern Ireland, you still want to know who's doing what in places you own. What if this had turned out to be a chemicals factory – turning out drugs or arms?'

Carr tightened his lips. ‘I've already told you this is most irregular. I'll have a word with Bevan.'

‘Don't worry, Mr Carr. We'll do that. Where is he?' Lizzie was on her feet, ready.

He shook his head. ‘In the Algarve. Playing golf. Inspector, he's done nothing wrong. Just not met our usual high standards.'

‘And just deprived us of a possible source of information. Sod 'em and begorrah.' Lizzie was setting a cracking pace back along Colmore Row. ‘Hey, that tomato soup's really lying heavy on my stomach. And I didn't notice your eating anything at lunchtime, which is foolish. First it lowers your blood-sugar so you can't think. And then it leads to indigestion and ulcers and things. So I prefer my team to have lunch-breaks and to eat properly.'

‘Do as I say, not as I do?' Kate grinned.