Staying Power (31 page)

‘Should it, Sir?' Hers matched his.

There might have been a sharp intake of breath from Graham.

‘I can see why you weren't called upon to take up a career in the Diplomatic Corps!' Neville's laugh sounded genuine enough. ‘How can I possibly answer that? I see no reason, do you, Harvey, why we shouldn't tell you that all being well Fatima will be back with us tomorrow.'

‘She's got over her flu at last,' Graham added helpfully.

Dared she ask about the health of Selby and Cope? Perhaps Selby did have genuine problems. Could he have some form of that gambling addiction that kept kids hooked to games in amusement arcades? Should she have referred him to Welfare, not reported him to Graham? On the whole she thought it wiser not to push her luck by asking.

The driver, who'd been seeing how much rubber he could leave on the road, braked to a dramatic halt. ‘Here we are, Sir.'

As if they couldn't tell. This was one they hadn't been able to exclude the media from. Not that they could get close: the whole street was cordoned off. The negotiators were already on their way.

‘Factory? Round here? This looks like any other street,' Graham said.

It did: a street of terraced houses crammed as close as those in Kate's street, with comparable parked cars. Currently, they were being used as cover by colleagues from the Rapid Response Unit.

‘Family business. Just the house. All sorts of health and safety issues, of course. But it seems that's not the most pressing concern at the moment,' Neville said. ‘Not that we can do much, anyway. Just be on hand to advise about Sanderson, should we be called on.'

A small Asian man was leaning from the upstairs sash window of one of the houses. From time to time he shouted something.

‘I suppose you don't number Gujerati amongst your language skills, Sergeant?' Neville asked.

Was it a genuine inquiry or did she detect irony in his tone? ‘A little Italian and less Spanish,' she replied. ‘What about the negotiator? How will he manage?'

Neville shrugged. ‘That's not my area of responsibility. In any case, perhaps the guy has enough English to cope.'

‘Maybe a translator, Sir? Pity Fatima's still on sick leave, isn't it?'

Neville's smile was definitely ironic. ‘Isn't it?'

Kate had never attended a siege before, and she was expecting frantic, dramatic activity. But it was all low-key and controlled. Since she wasn't going to be involved – was she? – in making immediate decisions all she could do was mill round trying to look official and useful. Why, now she came to think of it, had Neville taken her? He must have had something more in mind than a social ride. It would be nice simply to take advantage of being in Selly Oak to go off to the hospital to find out more about Simon. She stamped and blew on her hands, cold as everyone else hanging round the now brilliantly lit street, but with the strong suspicion she'd left her gloves on Graham's desk.

Graham was standing alongside her, but was so far silent. From time to time he'd flick a glance at his watch: it seemed to be with increasing irritation. Or anxiety. Lizzie was on his other side, having drifted across from Dyson's car. It occurred to Kate that this was not the best place to be: she didn't know if Lizzie was still close to Mrs Harvey, and the last thing she wanted reported back was the news that Kate and Graham had been glued together.

The best thing was to find someone else to talk to. But everyone had their appointed task. This wasn't a social gathering, was it? Gossip might appear to be the order of the day, with loud laughter billowing up from time to time, but everyone was in a predetermined spot. Except her, Graham and Lizzie. So she'd better make her own conversation. Turning her back on Graham, she dialled the hospital.

Simon was in theatre.

People didn't die, these days, not with all the expertise of the health service trying to save them! It was different for Robin: he'd been dead on arrival in A&E. But Simon: he was having transfusions and life-support and—

‘Kate? Kate?'

There was a hand on her arm. Neville's.

She snapped the phone shut. ‘Simon's worse, Sir.'

‘I gathered.' His grip tightened sympathetically. Then he released her. ‘Now, we're going to bring Sanderson in. It seems to be the only thing to defuse the situation. The bastard seems to have played the same trick on this poor bugger as he did on Grafton. Who says fraud's a victimless crime?' He pointed. ‘He's got a wife and five children and he's about to go bankrupt and the eldest girl's fiancé is breaking off the relationship because of the disgrace. All because of Sanderson. Now, I want you to go and pick up his wife. I've arranged for women from the Domestic Violence Unit to meet you there. They'll arrange medical and social services backup. I'll get someone to take you. Don't attempt to go in until Midge or Lorraine is there. Look, the negotiator's just arrived.'

So the excitement might be about to start, and she was going to miss it. On reflection, so far the proceedings had been about as exciting as watching fog thicken. And she was going to be involved in some action herself.

‘What if she won't let us in, Sir? I've been before when I've been convinced that the house was occupied but no one opened the door.'

‘A couple of lads with hammers and crow bars?' he asked ironically. ‘What about back access? A set of ladders will be provided, Kate. I'm sure you'll enjoy scaling them.' He shed his quizzical smile for a moment. ‘Your injured knee's up to it, is it?'

Her nod should have left him in no doubt. ‘At least I'll get a chance to see that garden all her friends rave about,' she said. ‘I'll tell Lizzie where I am and be off then, Sir.'

‘Good idea.' His smile was kind, approving, and, she was afraid, amused.

Kate had never seen a garden like this. Not an ordinary suburban garden. OK, stately homes might have close-cropped lawns, raked paths, manicured hedges and not a stray leaf to remind the onlooker of the indiscipline of nature. But they no doubt had teams of gardeners to maintain them. This had only Isobel. Unless Nigel was encouraged – or allowed or even constrained – to help her. Various aspects were spotlit: ferns and trees heavy with hoarfrost, bowers, a pond filled by a half-frozen waterfall. A wonderland. But a winter wonderland. Bitterly cold despite Lorraine's weatherproof jacket, Kate turned to Midge: ‘Ready?'

They left the security of the ladder and prepared for action.

None of the back doors was unlocked: the garage, what looked like a utility room and the patio were all secure.

‘I'm still convinced she's in there,' Kate said.

‘OK.' Midge sounded less convinced.

‘We could look at these outhouses, I suppose.' At least that kept them on the move.

There was a greenhouse at the far end of the garden, lit by two gentle glows – heaters, no doubt. To one side of the house was a spur of outhouses, stables, at one time, perhaps. Now what were they used for? The first she tried was padlocked. Just like Simon's squat. The next too. The third had no padlock, but there was a key-hole. Almost idly, she tried it.

It swung open.

Sickened by a sense of déjà vu, Kate pushed. The door opened, absolutely silently. There, lit by one candle, in an old-fashioned deck chair, huddled Isobel. Waterproof trousers, waterproof jacket, wellies, gloves. A felt hat covered her ears and most of her face.

She was on her feet in a flash. ‘You shouldn't be here. What are you doing here?'

‘More to the point, Isobel,' asked Kate, ‘what are you doing here? It's dark, it's freezing cold, and you've got a perfectly good house just there. Tell me, what are you doing here?'

‘Let's go into the house first, though,' said Midge. ‘Come on.'

‘You can't – we mustn't.'

‘Isobel, we can and we must. We'll all catch our deaths,' Kate said.

‘No! No, please!'

‘Isobel, love,' said Midge, trying not to let her teeth chatter, ‘you'll have to tell us. Or show us. …'

It seemed that Isobel had fifteen seconds to sprint in stockinged feet – the wellies kicked off on the back step – from the kitchen door through the house into the hall to silence the burglar alarm.

She made it, Kate guessed, with a second to spare. Before Kate and Midge, who weren't wasting any time, even got into the hall.

‘Why doesn't he simply have it on a longer setting?' Midge asked. ‘These things can be fixed, you know.' She paused, looking at the decor which had so underwhelmed Kate when she'd come here with Patrick. ‘You've got it very nice,' she said. ‘Hey, what are you doing?'

Isobel was scrabbling in a cupboard under the stairs, and was on her knees before either of them could register it. Footprints, that was what she was after, with a dustpan and brush.

‘Forget it, Isobel. It doesn't matter.' The poor woman continued to brush. Kate tried again. ‘It's better to leave them till they're dry, surely. Now, why don't we go back into the kitchen and we'll have a cup of tea and then we'll explain what's happening.'

‘The first thing to be explained,' said Midge, opening the fridge and holding up a milk bottle, ‘is this.' She pointed to a blue felt-pen mark three inches down the bottle. ‘And these—' figures on the biscuit packet tucked inside an old-fashioned barrel.

‘I was putting on weight,' Isobel said. To cover the lie, she fussed for plates.

Kate couldn't bear to watch the frantic, anguished hands. She looked around the kitchen. Though she could see no hidden camera, she would bet her Christmas dinner there was one. With a sound-recorder, too.

‘How do you switch off the system, Isobel?' she asked. ‘Well, I can't believe Howard records all your dinner parties. Or all the things he says to you. This is just to check up on you, isn't it? To check on your comings and goings? And I bet it's got one of those clever features that records time as well as date. Come on, where do I switch it off?'

‘In the hall. But I don't know the combination. He changes it.'

‘So our little exploration of the house will be recorded for posterity? My God!' Midge, from whom Kate would have expected calm, looked appalled.

‘Don't worry, Isobel. Some of our colleagues will make sure Howard never gets to see it. In fact, it may be some time before Howard comes home. Some other colleagues are currently talking to him, and they've got a lot of questions to ask. They should certainly be able to hold him long enough to get you and Nigel into a safe house and find you a solicitor able to advise you on the next course.'

‘Hold Howard—'

‘Here. Sit down. Head between your knees. That's it. Why don't you tell us where your things are, so we can go and pack for you? I've an idea you'd rather do all your talking somewhere other than this.'

‘I have to be here when Nigel comes home. He doesn't have a key.'

She didn't mean he'd had one and lost it, did she?

‘Some of my colleagues will wait for him—'

‘No! I mean—'

‘You said when you phoned you wanted to protect Nigel. He won't say anything till he knows you're safe.'

‘He's locked in. It isn't his fault. He's locked in.'

‘Locked in where, Isobel?' Surely not an icy shed? He'd need warm, steady hands to engrave such fine detail on such tiny objects.

Isobel said nothing. She drank her tea, eventually setting the cup down in its saucer with a tiny rap. And she reached, quite deliberately, for another biscuit. She stood up, suddenly, despite the layers of clothing that wouldn't disgrace a street-woman, despite even the thick army-surplus socks, a woman of character, the committee member Kate had seen and respected. ‘I think it's time you saw everything.'

Her voice at first so flat she might have been a bored estate agent, she showed them all the downstairs rooms, the over-stuffed suite, the too-deep carpet. The cloakroom. Then upstairs to the bathroom, the guest bedrooms, Nigel's room. Kate hadn't had much experience of teenage boys' rooms, but she suspected this must be abnormal in its neatness, its cleanliness, its total absence of personality. Then the master bedroom, complete with en suite bathroom, and, though no one commented, a mirror on the ceiling.

Apart from Nigel's bedroom, then, the home of any affluent suburban family. Midge caught Kate's eye. This was all so normal. Kate shook her head. There was something about the internal geography that was worrying her. Spacious though it was, this room didn't seem quite big enough.

As if she'd forgotten what she was supposed to be doing, Isobel started to reach cases from a wardrobe.

Midge heaved a couple on to the bed. ‘Where are your things, love?'

‘Later. Later.' Two more cases. And then Isobel stepped into the wardrobe and pushed the back panel.

Inside was a steep ladder, up which Isoble led them, into the loft. Could this be why Sanderson had picked an older house? One which would accommodate his requirements? Here was a passage, off which opened two doors.

Bluebeard's castle?

Midge was still on the steps: there was only room for Kate and Isobel. Isobel stopped short, as if making a decision. Then, again with her committee decisiveness, she stepped to the further door, opening with something of a flourish. When she flicked a switch, the room was flooded with a light so brilliant that the light in the corridor seemed dim. Midge, now behind Kate, gasped.

A cupboard, a table, a chair, an angled spot-light, and a set of tiny tools. Not quite an ordinary table: a semi-circle had been scooped from the front, the space occupied by an insert of leather.

‘That's like a jeweller's bench,' Midge said. ‘The idea is the leather catches all the tiny bits of gold – only in this case I'd guess it wasn't gold.'

‘Not gold,' Isobel said. She reached into the cupboard. Vitamin tablets. Rank upon rank of tubs of vitamin pills.