Power Games (7 page)

‘Protesting a bit. But it might as well shut up because – yes!' She was getting more and more accurate.

Now all that could be heard, above the constant hum of the extractor fans chilling the place unbearably, was the plop of the balls that Jason fed to her, the clip as she struck them, and then a more distant thud as they bounced off the far end of the court.

So when a woman screamed there was no doubt about what it was. A serious, terrified scream.

Kate hurtled through the door. The cleaner – a redhead in her forties whose skin was so white she might disappear if she got any paler – was yelling at the receptionist, and sobbing. She was pointing, it seemed, at the women's changing room. Kate pushed her way in. No, nothing in the lavatory area. She checked the individual cubicles. Nothing. So into the changing room itself. No. Nothing. Until, that is, when she ducked round to the shower area.

On the tiled floor, just by one of the drains, lay a woman's body. Naked.

 

‘We'll have to stop meeting like this,' Guljar said, pushing through the centre's front doors. ‘What's up, eh, Kate? Has that budgie of yours started playing tennis?'

The thin constable behind him grinned nervously.

‘I wish. No, a body in the women's showers. A middle-aged woman, fifty, fifty-five, possibly. Judging by her face, that is. No immediate sign of foul play.' A woman she wouldn't mind looking like in twenty-five years' time. Oh, the flesh wasn't as firm as hers, but there were no varicose veins, no pads of fat. The hair had been high-lighted – where it had fallen forward Kate had seen more grey than the woman would have wanted made public. Whoever it was had cared for herself.

‘Natural causes? Too much running about – a woman her age, you know.'

‘No, I don't. I know lots of women aged fifty-five who could run me off the court without raising a sweat. But let's wait to see what the police surgeon has to say. I've just preserved the scene, that's all. On a temporary basis, of course. I wouldn't want to offend you Uniform types.'

‘I should hope not.' There was a flicker of irritation, all the same. Then he grinned, sardonically. ‘I mean, it's bloody typical, isn't it, CID muscling in on the only two interesting incidents in this patch this month. Come on, just to show there's no ill-feeling, show us this corpse, then.'

‘You're sure? I could just finish my lesson and pop into work?'

‘Another pair of eyes never hurts. Come on, I'll get young Des here to log us in – just in case we do have a crime on our hands.'

The thin constable swallowed hard and produced his notebook.

 

The police surgeon, Nesta Holt, was a spruce young woman a couple of years older than Kate. She straightened and shook her head, addressing herself to Guljar. ‘Well, she's dead, all right. Classic heart failure, I'd have said. But—'

‘“But”?' Kate put in, looking down at the dead woman, resisting the urge to wipe a trace of saliva from the corner of the slack mouth.

‘Well, it must have had a very sudden onset. I mean, physically she looks fine. Look at the muscles in her arms and legs. I wish a lot of the kids I see exercised as well as this. And no, none of the warning signs of long-term heart failure. No sign of high colour in her cheeks which might have suggested blood-pressure problems. Nothing unnatural here. As for time of death – how long have those heaters been on?'

‘Heaters?' Kate looked round. The low roar she hadn't originally registered came from the hair-dryers, both of which had been kept on with, now she looked more closely, Blu-tack between the dab-button and the body of the machine. She pointed. Guljar whistled and made a note. ‘The place was like an ice-box when I was in here last,' she said.

‘Well, it isn't cold now! So I'd say – and remember, time of death's notoriously hard to pinpoint – between twelve and eight hours ago.'

‘Between eight and midnight, then,' Guljar said.

‘Something like that.'

‘Would they still be playing at that time?'

Kate nodded. ‘Until ten, at least. Then there's time to shower and have a drink and so on.'

Guljar looked at her under his eyebrows and made another note.

‘Right, that's that, then,' Nesta said. ‘I've got a surgery to go to. And I bet it'll be full – all these people with their tennis elbows and their swollen knees. It only takes a couple of hours of tennis on TV to bring them out of the woodwork.' She turned to Guljar. ‘You'll do the necessary with Coroner's Officers and so on?'

‘Sure. See you around, Nesta. And thanks for coming out so fast.'

‘It's just I'm dying to see all those knees.' Nesta looked at Kate's shirt and shorts. ‘If you've been playing, you ought to get changed – you don't want to chill too quickly – not that there's much danger of that in here, I suppose. But that foyer's pretty cold.'

Kate nodded. She held the door for her, then ducked back to the changing area. She pointed to the sports bag, in splendid isolation on a bench. ‘Any sign of any ID?'

Guljar looked once again as if he might bridle. Then he shook his head. ‘No ID at all. And it's expensive gear.'

‘What about house keys, car keys?'

He shook his head. ‘You know, Kate, I have to admit it's weird. How did she get here? And how was she going to let herself in when she got home?'

Kate leant against a wall, hands in the pockets of her top. ‘It can't be unknown for a kind hubby to bring the little wife and collect her. But – and it's a big but—'

‘Why didn't he kick up a fuss when she didn't come out? Come charging in here, or something?'

‘Quite. And why did none of the players notice she hadn't left the building with them – you don't play tennis on your own, do you? There must have been someone the other side of the net for at least an hour.'

‘Maybe whoever it was was in a rush,' he suggested, sitting down on the bench.

‘Or they'd had a disagreement about a line call or something?' she said, straight-faced, sitting beside him.

‘Quite. You obviously play here. What's the system for recording players?'

‘Everything's on computer. Whether it's a private game or a coaching session. You can phone in and book by credit card. Or you can do it in person. As far as I know, you only need give
your
name if you're booking in advance.'

‘So even if four people were playing you'd only get one name. Well, player number one would presumably be able to identify the other three. Will you hang on here while I talk to the woman on Reception?'

OK. It was his patch, not hers. But she wished he'd said,
Let's go and talk to the woman on Reception
. Guljar was a smashing bloke, and a bright one too, to make it to sergeant so quickly. No assistance from the accelerated promotion scheme, either. But – no, he wasn't her, and she liked doing that sort of thing herself.

He was soon back. ‘The funny thing is, the computer went down last night.'

‘So there's no record of any of the players?'

‘Funny little coincidence, isn't it?'

She nodded. ‘Like those hair-dryers being jammed on. It's usually like a bloody morgue in here. Looks as if someone might have wanted to muddy the time-of-death business.'

‘Which brings us to the question of a p.m. Costs more to have a full forensic p.m., doesn't it? A lot more. He's always on about his budget, our DI Crowther,' Guljar said.

She looked up sharply. Some needle there between the two men? But she simply asked, ‘Isn't everyone budget-crazy these days? It wouldn't hurt to preserve the scene, would it, while he thought about it? I mean, a place like this – you can see how immaculate it is – must be cleaned every day. All the litter disposed of. All the evidence – if evidence there is – would be completely lost. We can't afford that.'

She was rewarded by a grin. ‘All the bloody paperwork – if it proves a false alarm, you can bloody come and do it, your next day off.'

‘What's one of those? OK, you're on. If we're wrong, I'll type up the whole caboodle for you.'

‘What are we waiting for, then? I'll call our CID and their SOCO friends, and make sure nothing is disturbed, nothing thrown away. That'll really make the tennis-playing public happy, I don't think.'

‘To say nothing of the coaches like Jason, who don't earn if they don't work,' she added.

‘Tell you what, Kate,' he said, pulling himself to his feet, ‘I could wish it had been Josephine Public, not you, who'd found her. The next few days would have been a lot easier.'

‘But – if we're right – the ensuing ones would be a hell of a lot worse.'

 

At last, leaving him to radio back to his colleagues in Kings Heath, she went out into the foyer, where Jason was still waiting. He'd brought out her tennis bag, the tracksuit tucked into the handles. Kate dug in her bag for her purse and the lesson fee. When he demurred, she said flatly, ‘You managed to get here at seven. Don't tell me you don't deserve the lesson fee for that alone!'

‘Well …' He took the money, obviously embarrassed. ‘What if you just booked another lesson for later this week …'

‘No: I'd better stick to the usual Tuesday date. I've got a nasty suspicion this is going to be a heavy week,' she said. ‘For me; for you; and for everyone at the Centre. Once the Press get hold of the fact that a corpse lay undiscovered at Brayfield Centre overnight, they're going to want to talk to a lot of people. And my colleagues over there just might, too.' She nodded at the influx of police personnel. ‘Just to kick off, though, Jason. Were you here last night?'

He shook his head. ‘I was coaching over in Handsworth.'

‘So you've got a nice lot of witnesses?'

‘About twenty – it was a very busy night. Everyone thinking they should be playing Davis Cup tennis! You should see the courts in Wimbledon fortnight!' He smiled shyly: ‘Look, I've organised a cup of hot chocolate for you.'

Not from the machine, either.

‘I got them to put in extra sugar. Shock,' he explained, as she raised startled eyes. ‘You know, the body.'

She swallowed her remarks about seeing worse sights every day with the first mouthful of chocolate. It was good, and there was no point in offending the person who'd procured it. In fact, it made a nice change to be treated as a human, who could feel frail in the face of such events.

 

Time to go into work. The full back-up team was now on the scene. There was nothing to do except drink her chocolate and go. It was all in other people's hands. Nonetheless, as she left the building she spoke to the woman on Reception: Sylvie, her badge said. ‘Was it busy here last night?'

Sylvie shook her head. ‘I wouldn't know.'

‘Don't you get to know the regulars?'

‘Yes, but it was the relief manager on last night. The regular manager's off sick.'

‘So when will the relief manager be back in?'

‘In about three weeks! He's going to fly straight off to see his mum in Jamaica. His flight left – what, half an hour ago.'

 

Kate leaned her head against the car roof. She didn't want to go, didn't want to leave a case like this. But she had no option. She let herself in slowly. She'd not been to see Simon for a bit. What about a nice quiet chat with him while the traffic eased?

He was just opening his
Big Issue
bag when Kate reached Sainsbury's. She grinned at him, but didn't stop to talk. She'd whiz round while it was relatively quiet. He knew, of course, that whatever she shoved in her basket would include stuff for him, but he always seemed pleased to see her for her own sake. At least, that was what she told herself, as she picked up high-protein snacks and the milk chocolate he loved.

As she bought her
Big Issue
, she handed him a couple of folded notes. ‘I'm after a favour. And it may involve you lubricating a few throats,' she explained as he stared at them. ‘Not necessarily the cleanest or the youngest throats.'

‘Go on.'

‘These warehouse fires – you know we found a body last week.'

‘Poor bastard.'

‘Quite. Except it was a woman. And we can't get a handle on her. Any chance you could ask the odd question at the hostel?'

He nodded. ‘I hate it, Kate. I'd rather be back in my little squat. The coughing. Other folks' nightmares. I like a bit of privacy.' He smiled, his face suddenly transfigured. ‘But I'm still alive. Thanks to you. And you never know – things might look up.'

If only she could make him a firm offer, hard news for hard cash. ‘I'm sure they will. Just hang on in there, Simon. Just hang on in there.'

Rowley pushed her sandwiches aside and looked quizzically at Kate: ‘No, don't apologise. At least, not to me. It seems you've ruffled the odd feather down at Kings Heath nick. Or at least, one Guljar Singh Grewal has. Acting, I'd say, with a bit of a push from you.' She gestured Kate to a seat.

‘Me, Gaffer?' Kate personified wide-eyed innocence. ‘No, all I did was find this woman's body in the showers. And notice that someone – possibly, just possibly with the intention of making it hard to pinpoint the time of death – had Blu-tack'd the hair-dryers on. So it was nice and cosy in a room Scott of the Antarctic might normally have shivered in. It was actually Guljar who noticed that the centre's computers were down. And he who checked that no one had got round to reporting the woman missing. It just seemed a bit funny to us, that's all.'

‘Funny enough to warrant a top-price autopsy instead of a bog-standard one? It's upset my opposite number, Kate, that's the problem. And he wants me to give you a flea in your ear.' She leant forward, arms on desk, more like a headmistress about to give careers advice than a DI about to give a bollocking.