Staying Power (22 page)

‘Touché. Anyway, I'm for a coffee and a cake. Druckers.'

Despite the answerphone, there were some written messages for Kate, both left, irritatingly, on Lizzie's desk. One from Cary Grant, the PC who'd mopped her mascara the morning of Alan's death and got them both plastered over all the papers. He was suggesting a drink sometime. The other was from Patrick Duncan, suggesting the same. Yes to both: why not? But there was a light flashing on her answerphone and she was across the room dabbing her hand on the play button before she could respond to Lizzie's jeers. It had to be Isobel!

And was. So faint she was almost drowned by traffic noises, she said, ‘I'd much rather you didn't phone me again at home. I can't …' Her voice faded. ‘I have a committee meeting tomorrow in Bournville. It should finish at eleven-thirty. I could spare you two minutes then. Meet me – oh, dear. I've no change. The car park. The Quaker—'

‘Yes!' Kate was punching and jumping in the air.

As traffic jams went, the Selly Oak one was probably worse than Kings Heath's, especially when you had to turn right to park behind Sainsbury's. Not a
Big Issue
seller in sight. Rather than battle with the traffic again, Kate left the car where it was, walking down towards the canal and Simon's room. The damp had become a steady drizzle: she was glad he had protection, no matter how rudimentary.

But he wasn't at home in the squat. The door was secured by a cheap padlock which wouldn't have deterred anyone serious. She turned to make the slippery journey back up the unmetalled road, regretting the lack of street lighting. But the figure approaching her was friendly enough.

‘You've come without your mate, this time, have you?'

‘Hi, Simon. Yes, I had to do a bit of shopping at Sainsbury's and thought I'd look you up. Fancy a coffee?'

He turned to walk back up the road. ‘What, in their little shop? It's not cheap, like – er—'

‘I'm Kate Power. I'm actually a detective sergeant, but off-duty I'm happy with Kate. Thanks!' He'd grasped her arm as she slid sideways on dead leaves.

‘How off-duty are you?'

‘Fairly. Just wait till you see me pushing that trolley – then you'll know that in real life I'm actually a grand prix driver.'

‘So you really want to do a bit more snooping. Without that cow being there to push me around. Hey, what's a nice girl like you doing in a set-up like the – the police,' he corrected himself.

‘Earning a crust. Picking people's brains. Like, why aren't there any shops in Selly Oak?'

‘Big business killed them all off. Down there, see, there's a Comet and Homebase and all that – people can nip into their car park, do everything they need, and never hit the main road. Or walk. I suppose you'll want to wait till it's nice and legal to cross.'

‘Do you really fancy playing hedgehogs? I wouldn't rate my chances getting through this lot in one piece.'

Some of the women in Sainsbury's coffee area greeted Simon by name.

‘Usually sell here,' he said, selecting a couple of packets of sandwiches then putting one back.

Kate retrieved it, and another, and pulled out bottles of fresh orange jucie before ordering the coffee.

‘Hollow legs?'

‘How old are you? Twenty, twenty-one?' He nodded. ‘Then I reckon you're at least a stone under your ideal weight. And the boss can pay for this lot.'

He grinned and dodged back for a bowl of soup and a couple of cakes. ‘Reckon she can pay for these, too. My mum used to say there was nothing better with coffee than a nice cream cake.'

Kate paid and they found a table. He toasted her with his cup. ‘She used to say, “Enjoy!” And smile. Lovely smile.'

‘I bet her cakes were nicer than these will turn out to be. Go on – dig in.'

He started on the soup before he looked at her. ‘You said “were”.'

‘Was I wrong?'

He shook his head. ‘The big C. I'd be about fifteen. My dad was already dead, so I had to go to foster parents, see. No one Mum's side would touch me. She'd married out, you see. Trouble is, when you're sixteen, you're on your own. No mum and dad to keep an eye out for you.'

‘Or fund you.'

He mimed a spit. ‘Don't talk to me about the Social. Tory bastards.'

‘So you got hooked on heroin, but now you're off it. And trying to get off the streets. You've got guts, Simon.'

‘What I want is a job, like. Can't get a job until I've got an address, can't get me dole without an address, can't get an address till I get a job or some dole.'

Kate nodded, thinking of her empty bedroom. But no. Nice kid Simon might be, you couldn't just go inviting people to share. Could you? ‘I'll keep my ears open,' she said.

‘Thanks. Now,' he said, with the air of a chair gathering his committee's attention, ‘I don't reckon your boss will pay for this lot without something in return. What are you after, Kate?'

‘A proper description of the man using that little office. And his car number. And details of anyone else you saw using the place.'

To his dictation, she wrote down the exact model of the Mercedes, almost the entire number, a description of a nice middle-aged woman who always smiled as if she didn't like to show her teeth, but was really nicely dressed, better than Simon's mum could ever have afforded, and this good-looking bloke with a suntan. If only she had photos of the Sandersons.

‘You could identify them in a parade if necessary?'

‘I get it: no form so no photo. Yeah, I could ID them. Or I could do a photofit, if they give me decent coffee. Want a refill? Go on, my shout. I got a few donations today. Not supposed to accept them, but you know how it is.'

‘Keep your donations for the phone. For when you remember anything else. Or see anything else. Anything. OK?' She gave him her card, and then added in her home number and her new answerphone number.

‘You do want this help bad, don't you?'

‘Enough to buy you another coffee. And something for breakfast, too.'

And home, bags less full of goodies than if she hadn't just been with Simon, for a domestic evening with the microwave, the freezer, the washing machine, the phone and the ironing board for company. As she hung the stuff in her front bedroom to air, she pondered on the justice of having or not having. She might not have a Sanderson-sized mansion. But she had a newly-solid roof over her head. Even if it would be more sensible to share it with Colin than with Simon.

Isobel was sitting in the driving seat of her own car, a new, mid-price Rover, her eyes flicking from mirror to mirror to her watch and back again.

‘Three minutes. I have to start back in three minutes. I have to.'

‘Or?' Kate twisted in the passenger seat so she could see something of Isobel's face.

‘Or his lunch isn't on the table in time.'

‘And he'll be angry?'

‘He may not even come back for it. But it has to be there or he knows.'

‘Surely—'

‘The cameras.'

Kate nodded. ‘Start driving then. I can always get the bus back. And you can drop me off some road he won't drive up. Even if he comes.'

‘But – the rain.'

‘It's OK. A drop of rain won't harm me. None of the women here will say anything, will they?'

‘Oh, they could – just drop it out. Oh, dear—'

Kate slipped the domestic violence card into Isobel's hand. ‘Put this in with your credit cards. When's your next committee meeting? And where?'

‘Tomorrow. Eleven. I know the chairwoman. You could come to her house.' She gave an address in Shirley.

‘What's it about?'

‘A work project for homeless youngsters.' She had the keys in the ignition, and was looking round with increasing anguish.

‘In that case, Isobel, I shall be round quite legitimately. I know someone in desperate need. See you then.'

‘Why don't we simply have her in? Talk to her up-front, like?'

Bill – or was it Ben? – earned a sigh from Lizzie.

‘Don't you lads ever listen? Pity we can't hurry it on a bit, though. I'd love to find why her name's on the board of directors of half a dozen of these dodgy firms, and her husband's not at all. OK, hear it from her own lips. This pair established that Sanderson's last firm did go bankrupt, poor sod,' she explained. ‘But he doesn't seem overly poor, so we can guess he'd protected his house and various other assets.'

‘Including, we reckon, a warehouse,' put in Ben. ‘Industrial estate, not far from Dudley. We tried sniffing around, but it was locked.'

‘That's never stopped you before,' Lizzie grinned.

‘Very locked. No accessible windows. But with a bit of equipment—' He grinned, gesturing a key turning.

‘OK. Any signs that it's in use?'

‘Tyre marks, quite recent.'

‘Hmm. So they've got themselves this warehouse conveniently close to a motorway junction,' said Kate, happy to show off her local knowledge. ‘Any news of out-of-town cheapo shops?'

‘Funny you should ask that, Kate', Bill said. ‘There's a number in county towns – Warwick, Worcester, Stafford. And then throw in Lichfield, Tamworth and Redditch for good measure. All recent, all selling good stuff at discount, according to the locals.'

‘Good. Kate and I can go shopping for handbags one day. So now we've got from that scumbag Kate's befriended a full description of a man who sounds, according to Kate, very like Sanderson, another sounding like his wife, and a car reg. Kate hasn't got round to putting it through the computer yet.'

Ben held out his hand. Kate transcribed the figures on to a scrap of paper, and passed it to him with a smile. She was rewarded with a wink. ‘Five pence it's this bloke Sanderson's?'

‘It's a nice motor for a bankrupt,' she said. ‘Any news from the forensic accountants, by the way?'

‘They want a meeting,' Lizzie said. ‘Five-thirty.'

‘Not this evening. I've got an appointment I can't break. In fact, I shall have to push off at about four.'

‘Will you indeed?' Lizzie bristled.

‘I'm having something done at my house and I don't want to entrust my keys to the men doing it. Oh, and I shall be in late tomorrow, too. I don't mind leaving them to it, but I don't want them to be able to copy the key or to know my burglar alarm code.'

‘Haven't you ever heard of putting the job first?'

Kate flushed. OK, she should have mentioned it to Lizzie first, but she had Cope's positive encouragement and didn't relish the public criticism. On the basis of soft answers turning away wrath, she said, ‘I'm sorry – I booked the time off on DI Cope's insistence. I forgot I wasn't really in his squad at the moment.'

Lizzie sniffed, but let it go. ‘Colin Roper phoned, by the way. About some drugs stuff you're looking at. You don't want to overstretch yourself, Power.'

‘No, Ma'am.'

‘They're just playing power games, that's all. Whoops. Sorry, Kate. You must get that all the time.' Cary Grant smiled as he passed her a bag of crisps.

‘Tell me about it. It's an Irish name, I gather. Originally. I guess I must have descended further than most.'

‘And telling this Lizzie woman a bloke's OK'd your time off is just a red rag to a bull. You should have known better.' His smile intensified.

Kate popped the bag, and started in. She reviewed her evening so far. The floorer had arrived to the moment, giving an amiable thumbs up at the sight of her tomorrow's breakfast things sitting on a tray at the foot of the stairs.

‘Only one thing – you've forgotten this.' He waved the kettle at her.

He'd finished in time for her to coach the BB football team – the first time she'd seen them for a while, and they'd been so pleased to see her back they couldn't recognise an open goal mouth even if it got up and yelled at them. And then, after the most perfunctory of showers, she'd come to this pub in deepest suburbia to meet Cary. And she was starving. Crisps weren't her favourite food, but they'd do. Perhaps they'd eat together later, perhaps they wouldn't.

It was always nice to be with the best-looking man in a place, and he seemed to be bubbling with something.

‘Did you see all those photos in the papers?' she asked him.

‘Every last one. I tell you, Kate, it hasn't half done me some good. They only want me to front this bloody
Grass on your Neighbour
programme when the woman doing it at the moment goes on maternity leave.'

‘Hey! That's brilliant.' They exchanged a friendly five. ‘Good for you.'

‘Oh, don't get me wrong: I don't reckon it's my charm and good looks they want.'

‘Come off it – you've got more than your fair share of both!'

He raised a cynical eyebrow and touched his cheek. ‘This is what they want. My skin, Kate. Good PR, see?'

‘You're sure you're not selling yourself – and the service – short?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know. It's not going to stop me, anyway. If it comes to you on a plate, your fifteen minutes of fame, grab it with both hands, that's my motto. So tomorrow night, it's big booze-up time – come along if you want.'

‘So your mates will be getting pissed rather than taking the piss?'

He narrowed his eyes. ‘How did yours react?'

‘The odd quip about my boobs not being page-three material.'

‘Bastards. Is it true, this rumour about one of your DCs? On sick leave because some stupid bastard's been touching her up, twanging her bra and that?'

‘Is that what he's been doing?'

Cary leant closer. ‘The rumour is that he said it was because he didn't know whether Muslim women wore bras and he wanted to find out. That's what he told her, anyway.'