Staying Power (7 page)

Kate nodded. ‘Thanks, Gaffer.'

‘What if it turns out to be suicide, after all?' Colin asked.

Cope shrugged. ‘We have to dig up all the background anyway. And if young Power's nose is twitching, I'd say we go along with it. So long, of course, as it doesn't take much time and it doesn't cost much. Now, about this new Super, Rodney Neville. Have you heard. …'

An hour and many scurrilous tales about their new overlord later, they split up. Colin was his usual discreet self: no one would ever find out about his movements unless they asked very direct questions. Kate had to get back to the nick to collect her car, and Cope fell into step with her. She sensed he had something to say, but the conversation – if it could be called that – skipped from observations about the weather (it was still raining steadily) to squad gossip and back again. At last they were by her car. Perhaps she should take a risk.

‘Well, we'll see if my brain can switch off tonight. I'm expecting the odd nightmare, I must say. It's those long cuts down the torso, isn't it?'

‘And in your stiff's case, they bring a whole new meaning to hanging, drawing and quartering.' His laughter rang out brutally.

She joined in. Laughter was the best medicine, they said. Maybe they even meant this sort of laughter.

‘Tell you what, Power, I've seen more post mortems on more stiffs than kids like Fatima's had hot dinners. You get used to them, right? And yet—'

‘Do they ever stop getting to you?' She sensed he needed prompting.

‘Well, there was one. Really turned me over. Not so long ago, as it happens. There I thought I could cope with most things and I go to this p.m. on this kid. Baby, really. And there's the pathologist, young lad he'd be, same age as you. And he's got this radio on, blaring out pop music. And this tiny baby on the slab. And he's laughing to his mate about what he's going to do to his bird, and he's got this baby there. And in he goes. I tell you, Kate, I couldn't take it. I wanted to smash that bastard's head. Poor little bugger, doesn't make its first birthday, and this bastard can't even give it a bit of tenderness, a bit of pity. I tell you what, I—'

But footsteps were approaching them, and he broke off. ‘Mind how you go, then, young Kate. And remember what I said: a good hunch is worth a hell of a lot of science.'

Well, she'd got through the night all right. But she'd woken up sharply, at about six, and had been afraid to drop off again. No point in tempting fate. What about a run? No: in this rain, with this cough, it would be crazy, wouldn't it? As would her football training session tonight. She'd have to phone one of the Boys' Brigade officers and make her excuses. It was a shame: she enjoyed working with the boys, and hoped they got something out of it, apart, that is, from seeing their team creep up from the bottom of the league.

One thing she could do was deal with the rest of her holiday washing. After all the months she'd had of no mod cons whatsoever, it was a pleasure to be able to load her new machine – even if to set it she had to stand on the bare concrete floor and to read incomprehensible instructions in a wide variety of languages. And she still had enough time to check on Zenia, who was now progressing visibly, and to beat the rush hour.

If she could choose a parking spot, she must be one of the first of the squad to get in, so she stopped off to pick up the post.

‘After a few worms, are you?' the receptionist greeted her, looking at his watch.

She hesitated – was this a snide reference to her loathing for maggots? No, not from Harry – he'd be thinking about early birds. She hoped he hadn't noticed the missed half second. ‘With a bit of luck. Hey, you look very smart, Harry – what's with this uniform then?' She scanned the crisp shirt, the shoulder tabs.

‘Oh, it's all a con. It seems Joe Public doesn't feel secure if us receptionists are civilians, same as them. They prefer something a bit more official, like. So here we are.' He preened.

‘Looks very good to me. Anything you want me to take up?'

He reached for a folder over-balancing a stalk of filing trays. ‘This is the latest batch of reports from that
Grass on your Mates
programme.'

‘Anything interesting?'

Harry pulled himself up as if on parade. ‘DS Power, you know I'm only a civilian receptionist.'

She responded in kind. ‘Indeed, Mr Carter. But I also know you were a highly-respected beat cop for years.' She leaned her elbows on the high counter, grinning. ‘Come on, Harry – you'd nose anything out.'

‘Well, funny you should ask, as it happens. I was talking to one of the lasses who works on the dedicated line. Bright kid. Seems there's a woman phones in. With a posh voice. And she stops in mid-sentence, drops the phone, like. And she's dialled one-four-one.'

Kate cocked her head. ‘Did she have time to say anything?'

‘Only, “Good morning – I want—”. And stops. According to Mandy. But there's a bit of a whisper. Inaudible, though. Funny. Then it happens again, same time next day. And again a third day. Same time, same sort of thing. And out of all the calls Mandy's taken, all these different voices, that's the calls that stick in her mind.'

‘And yours! OK. I'm hooked. You'll get Mandy to let me know if she phones back, won't you?'

‘With that lot to work your way through, you won't have time for anything extra.'

‘Try me. Come on, Harry, you set this one up for me to get interested in. Admit it,' she said, grinning again.

‘Maybe she won't try again.'

‘And maybe whoever takes the call won't be Mandy and won't be alert enough to pick it up. We'll have to wait and see. Anyway, I can hear my coffee calling me. See you, Harry! And thanks for giving me extra work.'

‘Ah, you youngsters don't know you're born … OK, Kate: our ears and eyes are pinned open!'

The reports on the pharmacy break-ins were all neatly clipped together on her desk, together with a note in Colin's writing that they should check on another couple – they'd been dealt with by uniform while she'd been watching Alan Grafton being cut up. He'd asked for complete lists of missing items.

Head down, she was in the middle of the rest of her in-tray when first Selby, then Fatima, arrived. Selby headed straight to the kettle, which no one had got round to filling. He shook it ostentatiously. Empty. And no one had had the decency to fill it! So he headed for the machine, which produced a stream of liquid. Stirring it vigorously – it smelt something like coffee, though she knew from experience that that was the nearest it got – he went and stood beside Fatima. Then he left it, on her desk, while he went and made a phone call. Fatima eyed it and him, and moved the cup.

So what was he up to? The woman was fasting, they all knew that. So he wasn't being kind, that much was certain. She looked anxiously at Fatima, but she was apparently engrossed in what she was reading.

‘Bloody Nora!'

Cope.

He erupted into the room soon after his voice, waving the tabloid papers he always took. ‘Bloody Nora, Power – you and that ugly bugger Grant all over the bleeding papers.' He plonked them on his desk, conveniently open at the right pages.

Everyone in the room surged round.

‘Made it to Page Three, has she? No, not with them tits,' Selby yelled. ‘'Ere, Colin, your bleeding girlfriend's all over the papers!'

Colin grinned and produced another newspaper. ‘Syndicated to the
Independent
, too. I fancy this one's composition's better. And the definition certainly is.'

All the papers had much the same headline – variations on
the caring face of our boys and girls in blue
.

‘All very touching,' Kate said, irritated that she should be blushing. ‘They might have let me comb my hair first!'

‘I wonder if Cartier-Bresson let his subjects comb their hair.' Graham Harvey's voice was quiet but nonetheless cut across everyone else's.

There was a general shuffling to something like order, if not attention.

‘Well done, Kate,' he continued, smiling. ‘Nice to have a star of TV and radio right here in our midst. But not for very long, I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen. The Super wants to see you in his office, Kate. About five minutes ago.'

‘Not till she's touched up her lipstick!' Cope objected.

Kate stuck out a hand towards him. ‘Lend us yours, Gaffer, will you?'

If Kate was surprised by a large TV and state-of-the-art video in Detective Superintendent Neville's office, she wouldn't show it. Nor would she allow her eyes to widen at the thousands of pounds' worth of computer technology making itself at home on his desk, or, indeed, at the general ambience, which owed little to the scuffed Victorian accommodation they all shared. Clever disposition of lighting and plasterboard had entirely changed the appearance of the room, which was newly-carpeted. The furniture was new, too. Stylish. To match his suit and haircut, no doubt.

She told herself it was natural that a new man would want to establish himself so totally. He would no doubt wish to eradicate all evidence of his predecessor, currently occupying some other type of Her Majesty's accommodation, though no doubt considerably less gracious and shared with company even less genteel than the squad. But it was unusual that he'd eradicated all the usual macho traces: not a sporting trophy, not a photo of a police or other worthy in sight. In fact to her mind, the walls were rather bare – they could have done with some jolly prints, the sort she and Colin had put up until they'd spawned girlie posters over Selby's desk and everything had had to be removed, including little patches of paint where the Blu-Tack
^TM
had been.

‘DS Power!' He emerged from behind his desk and clasped her hand, covering with both his. Unlike hers, they were newly manicured. His aftershave was subtle enough to be expensive. ‘Rodney Neville. I'm sorry we didn't have an opportunity to speak yesterday. I gather you were doing an excellent job of dealing with our media friends.'

‘Some of them were dealing with me, Sir.' She allowed herself an ironic smile. ‘I expect you've seen today's press.'

‘And intend to capitalise on it,' he said.

Her heart sank at his enthusiasm. It was better to say nothing. She stayed at as near attention as she could with his hands still enfolding hers. When she was finally released, she allowed herself to stand at ease, chin up, posture a model for any rookie who happened to be watching.

‘Oh, do sit down, Sergeant.' If it was a command, it came from a relaxed and smiling face, the skin in the sort of condition that came, she suspected, from meticulous skin-care. He himself turned to a bookshelf supporting a coffee machine. Kate had met the machine's bigger and pricier brothers in Florence. If he offered her coffee it should be excellent.

He did. She accepted, placed the cup and saucer on his desk, and continued to wait.

‘Now, Kate – I may call you Kate?'

‘Sir,' she nodded.

‘This meeting today is only one of many I intend to set up with members of my Command Unit. I believe absolutely in efficient communication – in fact, I want you to regard my office door as permanently open. True, the police service is necessarily hierarchical but that shouldn't deter you in any way.'

Hierarchical and patriarchal, she thought. But did not say. Instead she smiled and nodded.

‘Now, it's quite clear that your communication skills are excellent,' he beamed.

If standing still, sitting upright and nodding were communication skills, no doubt it would be difficult to fault them. On the other hand, she had no idea on what other, more searching criteria, he'd made his judgement. She risked a cool, ‘Sir?'

‘You handled the Press very well yesterday, I understand. And you're clearly photogenic.' He tapped the
Guardian
and
The Times
. Some hack had made a great deal of profit out of Alan Grafton's death. ‘The service is always on the look-out for people with original talent. Your future could lie in that direction. Think the media, Kate. Think televisual. Think
Crimewatch
, Kate. Think fronting that.'

‘With respect, Sir, I'm a detective, not an actress.'

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Have you never watched the programme?'

‘Not recently.'

‘Come, Sergeant, all work and no play!'

‘My recent personal circumstances have not been conducive to watching television, Sir.'

He raised elegant but disbelieving eyebrows. ‘Well, serving officers are involved at all levels, including in front of the cameras. Should a vacancy arise, I am minded to nominate you as a likely presenter.
The new face of the West Midlands Police
.' His fingers drew quotation marks round the sentence. ‘You're personable, well-turned out and clearly intelligent.'

So the attribute she valued most was bottom of his list. She smiled politely.

He was waiting for her to say something, wasn't he?

‘Thank you, Sir. I have to point out, though, Sir, that the same can be said for many of my colleagues. I'm new to the squad, to the area. I—'

‘It would look well in your CV, Sergeant. Think career.' He smiled. ‘And it doesn't hurt to let those dimples show.'

The interview was clearly over. Thank God.

‘So much against my will, it'll be you and Colin who will start going through Grafton's effects.' Graham had called her into his office almost as soon as she'd returned from Neville's.

She nodded. ‘It'll be better than the job the Super has in mind for me,' she said. ‘Has he told you?'

‘The Boy Wonder?' He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me – unless it's confidential.'

‘It is between you and me. I'd hate the others to get hold of it. He only wants me to go on the bloody telly, doesn't he? Fronting some crime programme. Bastard!'