Power Games

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This title first published in Great Britain in 2000 by
Hodder & Stoughton
A division of Hodder Headline
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0144-7 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

To a man with
hwyl

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This novel could not have been written without the assistance of Andrew Howell, Graham Townshend, Nick Keane, Peter Leather, Ursula Pearce, Ann Levitt, Anna Meredith and David Symons who kindly shared with me their various areas of expertise.

I'd like to give especial thanks to Stephen Hayward, a wonderful coach who has been endlessly patient and encouraging on the courts of Billesley Indoor Tennis Centre, Birmingham. Apart from his hard work and commitment, he bears no resemblance to his fictional opposite number at Brayfield. Neither do any of the Billesley Centre staff.

Thank you all for your contributions, great or small.

Chapter One

âBackhand: start low, end high. Backhand: start low, end high.' Kate's new mantra â if she were ever to get that ball over that net. More often than at present, at least. She continued to mutter it as she unlocked the car, slinging her kit on to the back seat. âBackhand: start low, end high.' The tennis centre's car park was virtually empty. Well, it would be at eight in the morning.

Kate had started to play tennis again with two new police friends from her nick. Play again? Where were the skills she'd had at school? So here she was, just finishing her weekly seven o'clock session with a coach. And then straight to work.

If her car resented a sweaty driver, that was its problem, she told it as she tried to pull into the main road. Shower in a horribly communal area? With water as cold as it often was this early? No, she'd wait till she got to work, where serious trainers and a tracksuit that meant business wouldn't exactly lose brownie points.

By now her usual route into the centre of Birmingham would already be clogged up. So she took to the side roads â sorry, she didn't approve of rat-runs but there you are â tacking from one to another like a small boat against the wind. If it was slow going, at least she was moving. Next left up that steep hill. Then she came to a dead stop. A traffic jam
here
? And what were those people doing in the road? Abandoning the Fiesta with two wheels on the pavement, she hauled herself out. Hell, the joints were stiffening already! Grabbing her waterproof and bag from the back of the car, she ran to the source of the problem.

Not the predictable car-to-car clip. No, this was a big bang. A very big one. A lorry stuck cab-deep in a small cottage. No sign of fire service or ambulance yet. Kate radioed. And for good measure phoned to tell the boss she'd be late. Just in case.

A couple of men were already trying to reach the driver. An old couple in night clothes wrung their hands as they looked at the remains of their home. Not hurt by the look of it, but certainly shocked. And hanging round on a cold March morning would do them no good at all.

Kate grabbed a gawping neighbour, flashed her ID. âGet them indoors if you can. Blankets, hot sweet tea.'

âTheir budgie's still in there. They won't come in till it's all right.'

Jesus! âTell them it'll be the first thing I get, soon as I know the building's safe.'

The neighbour nodded. âI'm at number fifty-three. We always knew something like this would happen. Letting big lorries loose on quiet residential roads like these â¦'

âQuiteâ'

âThey're from that big development up the road â they come tearing down the hill. We've always said there'd be an accident like this.'

âWe'll talk about it in a minute. Meanwhile, please â just get them inside, Mrsâ?'

âHurst. Linda Hurst. Number fifty-three.'

âThanks. See you later.'

Meanwhile back to the driver. Out of the tail of her eye, Kate saw the old couple being steered gently across the road. Good. And the familiar sirens were getting nearer.

The lorry driver was now on terra firma. âIt was the other side took it,' he was saying. âThe on-side, see. Or I'd be cold meat. Cold meat.'

He might have jumped down himself, but he couldn't shift from the spot. He stood pointing. âCold meat. Just cold meat.'

âCome on, sir,' Kate said. âLet's get you away from here. The brickwork's a bit dodgy. Come on. Over here.' She took his elbow, and drew him towards the ambulance now slewing to a halt. Right. All she had to worry about now was the budgie. First she'd better talk to Uniform. Who were here, two car-loads of them, hot on the tail of a fire appliance.

The first man out of the car was Guljar, a sergeant she'd met and liked her first week in the city.

âWhat are you stirring up this time, Kate?' he shouted. Then, as he took in the extent of the damage, he whistled. âBloody hell, what if there'd been a car in the way? Anyone in there?'

âJust a budgie. Which,' she added dryly, âI've promised to get out.'

âNot yet you won't,' said a fire officer. âNo one goes in there till we know it's safe. You know: structure. Gas. Whatever.'

âI'll get someone to talk to the driver â soon as the paramedics say we can,' Guljar said.

âHe doesn't seem badly hurt â he got himself out, at least,' Kate said. âAs did the old couple who live here â they're at number fifty-three. With a Mrs Linda Hurst. And no budgie.'

âWe'll go take a look round the back,' Guljar said. âI take it some of your lads are round there already?'

The fireman nodded. But then looked up sharply. âNo one goes into the building. Right?'

âRight,' Guljar agreed, taking Kate by the arm and leading her down the side path. âWow, how about this for a garden! How long d'you reckon it is?'

âFifty yards at least,' Kate said. âIt's perfect, isn't it?' That little greenhouse, all those fruit trees â they'd even got some espaliered on the end wall. âGod, what I'd give for something like this.'

âThat lot there must drive them wild,' Guljar said, pointing at a patch of waste land next to their fence, big enough for three or four cottages. âAll those weeds coming through. I wonder why no one's ever built on it?'

One of the fire fighters overheard. âBomb damage, according to my dad. Took out two or three houses this size. And no one's ever done anything about it all these years.' He wandered over and pressed a boot into the earth. âThe ground's very wet, of course â maybe there are springs or something that would make it expensive to build on. Ted Roberts,' he added, addressing himself to Guljar and the stripes on Guljar's sleeve.

âGuljar Singh Grewal. And this is Kate Power â a DS, for all she looks like a refugee from a health farm.'

Roberts looked her up and down without obvious enthusiasm.

âBeen playing tennis,' she said by way of an explanation. âWhat do you reckon about this lot?'

They made their way to the back door. It was still ajar. On the gas stove, a kettle steamed beside a jet still going at full blast; on another jet porridge was burning. Kate could hear the budgie chuntering to itself, though there was no sign of it in the kitchen. No chance of a quick dash, then.

âSeems as if the gas main's OK,' she said.

âPity we can't say the same for the structure,' Ted said, pointing.

The rectangle of the door-frame was now a parallelogram.

âWhen that lorry comes out â rumble, rumble, splat,' he added.

âWhat about hydraulic lifts? Come on, it's someone's home,' Kate said.

âRebuilding would cost an absolute bomb. And is it insured? You know what old people are like, thinking they can't afford insurance.'

âThe lorry driver must be insured. His firm, at least,' Guljar said. âAnd I shall want to have a word about the amount of rubble in the truck. A little trip to a weighbridge, I should think. And I'd like a look at his brakes. He must have come down the hill like an aries.' He gave it three syllables.

âEh?' Kate and Ted gaped.

âSorry. My A level Latin will keep rearing its ugly head. It means sheep.'

âAh!' said Kate, clutching her forehead. âAs in Aries, the birth sign?'

âRight. An aries was a Roman battering ram. Ram, ram â geddit?'

They groaned.

âHe's lucky to be alive,' Ted agreed. âLike you, come to think of it, if you make jokes like that very often.'

The budgie embarked on âFre`re Jacques'.

Ted looked hard at Kate. âI'll just go and tell the gaffer about the gas stove.'

The moment he was out of sight, Kate stripped off her jacket.

Guljar looked hard at Kate. âYou can't: not for one sodding cage-bird. Wait till they've got the hydraulics in.'