Power on Her Own (7 page)

‘How did you complain if there's no one living there?'

Two middle-aged women, both smartly dressed. Gloves and handbags were leather.

‘Put a note through the door, of course. Saying cut your grass or we'll report you to the council. That soon worked. There's this couple – oh, quite old – come along every week and mow the lawn. They've planted a little hedge, and made a flowerbed. They seem to be doing something at the back, only the angle of the garden means I can't see.'

‘So what's the problem?'

‘It's just – well, you do hear cars at night. Late at night. And sometimes there's a car drives away just as I'm coming home.'

‘What do the other residents think? I mean, it's a cul-de-sac.' This woman sounded as intrigued as Kate herself.

‘Well, no one else knows anything, do they? We've all got jobs. And the houses don't overlook each other. The front doors are at the side, if you see what I mean. And they've all got trellises. I mean, you expect your privacy if you pay that sort of price.'

‘Quite. But it's lovely being just a little bit nosy. Have you ever been to the door or anything? Just for a little look?'

Say yes! Please say yes!

‘Well, I did do the Christian Aid envelopes. You know, it's a funny thing, but people don't give much, do they? All those nice big cars and most people only gave a pound coin.'

You're telling me! You try tin-rattling outside Sainsbury's on a wet Saturday.

‘Perhaps they give with standing orders or something. You know if you promise to pay for a certain number of years, they get some sort of tax benefit? That's what we did for Oxfam. Covenant, that's what it's called.'

Come on! Get on with it! I want to hear what happened when you went to the door. Please!

The bus was now moving quite briskly. Any moment now, of course, they might get off. She'd get off with them, if necessary.

‘And there's this advert on Classic FM about a charity card. That man with the nice voice – you know.'

Don't let her drift from the point. Please!

‘I know. Got such a worried face. Though maybe that's the parts he plays. Fox, is it? Edward Fox?'

‘That's right. Now what was he in?'

‘Wasn't it something historical? Goodness me, it's nearly my stop! Pam: you've still not told me – what happened when you went to that house? Did an ogre open the door?'

‘No one opened the door. No one. I was sure someone was in. I could hear this funny whirring noise. Only very faint. But when I pressed the bell again, it stopped. And there was a tiny noise as if someone was going to speak and changed his mind. Do you know, I nearly – well, to be honest, I did. I leaned down to the letter box. If anyone had seen me they'd have thought I was calling in. But I was trying to have a look.'

‘Really? Quickly!' The woman was gathering herself up to move. ‘What did you see?'

The first woman waited a dramatic moment. ‘Nothing! Nothing at all. Someone had pinned heavy felt across. There!'

‘Here I am. See you tomorrow, Pam. Go and ring that bell again!' The woman edged down the bus, pressing the Stop button as she went.

Pam. Right, Kate would have to press Pam for further details. She shifted her grip to slide into the vacant seat. And was hurled forwards, staggering to a halt right by the driver.

‘What the hell –?' And then she saw. The car in front had hit a pedestrian. ‘Better let me off,' she said. ‘I'm a police officer.'

It hadn't taken long for a Panda to turn up, in response to the call from her mobile phone. The ambulance was somewhat slower. Eight-thirty! The bus passengers had poured off. Kate should have intercepted that woman Pam. She knew she should. But she was too busy giving the injured pedestrian first aid. He'd been hit by one of those wretched bull-bars – were there really wild cattle in the Bull Ring to confront innocent motorists? – so there might well be internal damage. Bloody things. Why didn't someone have the guts to ban them?

At last, leaving everything to the experts, she looked for another bus herself. She was going to be late. Very late. She phoned in. She didn't recognise the voice at the other end but he promised to explain to Cope. There was no way she would risk irritating – what was it they called the Governor up here? – that was it, the Gaffer.

She'd been busy on the computer for fifteen minutes when the room went quiet around her. She looked up: no, it wasn't Selby creeping up behind her. He was safe behind a pile of files, fingering an angry blackhead on his forehead.

‘Good heavens, if it isn't little Miss Power, deigning to make an appearance.' It was Cope, his voice awash with sarcasm. ‘Well, I'm blessed. And to what do we owe the honour? The Smoke getting too boring for you, is it? Thought you might pop in on your little provincial friends for half an hour before you go and powder your nose in time for luncheon?'

‘Sir –'

‘Stand up when you're talking to me, Power. That's better.'

She stood fiercely to attention.

He walked behind her. ‘What do you call that?'

Something scraped the back of her neck.

‘Sir?'

‘No, you wouldn't know, would you. It's a neck, Power. A neck. And in my day women police officers wore their hair in some approximation of neatness. I suppose you la-di-da folk from the Met think you're above such considerations. But we don't here, Power. Oh, I know we're CID, and posh with it, but a neck is still a neck, Power. And it isn't supposed to be covered with hair. Understand?'

‘Sir.'

Cope stalked round to face her. She focused two inches above his head.

‘And what has her ladyship been doing since she graced us with her presence?'

‘Collecting data from STATUS, Sir. And preparing a report.'

‘Goodness me. On this pretty little computer? Lap-top, d'you call it? Is it your own, Power?'

‘Sir.' It was quicker to type straight on to computer than prepare a hand-written document no one else could read. And all the main frame ones were occupied.

‘Dearie me, how very generous of you to bring your own equipment in. And what happens if I pull this plug out, DS Power? What's the word when one of these things packs up?'

‘Crashes, Sir?'

‘The computer crashes, does it. Dearie me. And crashing would wipe the morning's work, Power?'

‘Sir.'

He yanked. Turning to his audience, he concluded, ‘Dearie me, how very careless of me. Well, I'm sure you'll be able to do it all again. Well, what the hell are you lot gawping at? Haven't you all got work to do? Or has crime suddenly disappeared from the streets of our city?'

So what bastard hadn't passed on her message? She looked round at her colleagues, thawing after their rigid silence. She'd spoken to a man, which, come to think of it, didn't rule out too many people. A man with a Brummie accent. Half the squad were Brummies.

There was no reading anyone's mind, however, and she plugged in the computer again and carried on with her work.

‘You must wish me in hell.'

She jumped. ‘Colin?'

‘You asked me to tell Cope you'd be late.'

‘I didn't realise it was you: I'd have been friendlier.'

He shrugged. ‘Well, it was. And I wrote it down to give it to Cope. Left the note on his desk as a matter of fact.'

‘You're saying all that song and dance was a put-up job?'

‘Maybe. Or maybe he didn't get the message.'

‘Come on, Colin.' It was Selby, yelling across the room. ‘We've got work to do, mate. When you've finished peering down Power's tits, that is.'

Colin grinned briefly and was off.

Kate typed hard for another fifteen minutes. Darren still wasn't speaking. When the team questioning him had shown him pictures of ducks they'd met blank amazement. The toy duck they'd bought with the collection money – just the right size for a sad child's arms – had been so inappropriate they'd brought it away and given it to the Children in Need appeal. Kate scribbled a note to herself:
Look up ducks and synonyms for ducks.
She sat and stared at it: it must mean something if the child still shouted it in his sleep. At last she shook her head. It must be safe to get some coffee by now. It must be safe to go a circuitous route to the machine, via Selby's end of the room. Specifically, via his waste bin. She dropped her handkerchief. Yes, there it was, nestling between an empty condom packet and a final demand, a screwed up note with her name just visible. She scooped it up, crumpling it in the tissue. Might as well wait until she'd got safely to the ladies', but she'd take bets on what it was. Colin's note to Cope.

This time when Harvey met her in the corridor, he did not look inquiringly at her, but gestured her with a curt jerk of his head into his office. This time there was no question of an armchair and tea. She stood in front of his desk.

He withdrew to the other side. ‘One way to lose the approval of your colleagues is to grass them up. Another is to slack. That loses the sympathy of management. Today you were well over an hour late, and since your colleagues are working many hours of unpaid overtime, for you to come swanning in without a word of apology to DI Cope or myself is going to endear you to no one. Well?'

‘Do you want an explanation or an excuse, Sir?'

‘I certainly don't want excuses.'

‘I won't tell you my car wouldn't start, then, and the traffic was solid from Sainsbury's to the traffic lights in Moseley.'

He grimaced. ‘You'd have been stuck in that in your car.'

‘Rat run, Sir.'

‘And your explanation?' He sat down and motioned her to a chair. She chose the hard upright one.

‘An RTA. The vehicle in front of the bus hit a young male pedestrian. I called for assistance and gave first aid until a mobile arrived. I phoned in, Sir, as soon as I realised how late I was going to be – obviously the accident caused even more of a hold-up and there weren't any buses. And taxis don't seem to cruise round the suburbs – they wait for you to find them.'

‘You phoned in? DI Cope had no note, neither did I.'

‘I think the note may have got mislaid, Sir. Or mistaken for rubbish.' She dug in her pocket for the note. She smoothed it out but didn't pass it him until he held out his hand.

‘Thanks. That's Colin's writing. He's usually reliable.'

‘Sir.'

‘Shit!' Harvey balled it, hurled it hard at his litter bin. ‘Another merry jape from someone. Well?'

She smiled her official smile. ‘No comment, Sir.'

‘OK. So what's this about your slacking over the computer work? I hear you took half an hour to do what one of the pros. would have done in ten minutes.' He wanted to believe her: she could tell by the softening of his voice.

She took a risk. ‘Well, I'm not a pro. If I were, I'd be making a fuss about the height of the desk, the height of the chair, the glare from the screen and the fact you haven't offered to pay for an annual eye test, which it is your legal obligation to do under European law. I'm not sure I'm having adequate breaks, either.' She allowed herself to relax against the hard back of the chair.

There was no doubt, he was suppressing a smile. Then his mouth hardened again. ‘Just because a senior officer rebukes you there's no excuse for going slow.'

‘Sir –' She bit her lip and stopped.

‘Yes?'

‘Where did you get the idea that I hadn't done much this morning?'

‘You can't expect me to tell you that.'

‘There could have been a little glitch, Sir, around the time DI Cope was speaking to me. Someone accidentally pulled the cable on the computer.'

‘Ah. So you had to retype stuff you'd had wiped. That's interesting.'

‘As a matter of fact, Sir, I didn't touch the stuff I'd done earlier. I just carried on.'

By now his eyes were twinkling in response to what she knew was a gleam in her own. She wasn't about to admit to sulking, to refusing to re-do something some idiot had wiped.

Harvey leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. ‘You're going to make this all clear, aren't you, Kate?' But his smile broke out.

She smiled back, and couldn't prevent her dimples joining in. ‘Sir, it works on rechargeable batteries, so nothing happens when you pull out the mains. In any case, there's an element in the program to cater for exactly the sort of circumstance we might have had this morning. It saves every thirty seconds automatically, and prepares automatic back-up files. I keep a back-up disk, too, as it happens, safe in my desk.'

‘I'm not sure that the word “safe” is appropriate with all these little accidents happening. I'd like to suggest you keep back-up disks here. In my room. In fact, here in my desk drawer.'

‘Thank you, Sir. Shall I continue to keep copies in my drawer?'

He looked at her very hard. ‘Are we talking bait, here?'

Kate took a deep breath. ‘There's a very fine line, isn't there, between horseplay and bullying. As you said yourself, Sir, one day there may be other people involved.' She realised how angry she was: ‘Do you know what really makes me mad, Sir? That something
could
have been wiped, this morning, something really valuable. When there's a bastard out there doing that to innocent kids, and some pillock's too interested in playing Hitler to worry about holding up our work!'

He nodded. ‘Exactly. I wondered how long it'd take you to work that out. OK. Keep a record. Not in your desk.' For a moment, as if he, too, were contemplating the possible consequences of what they were doing, he sat silent, grim. At last he stood up, smiling: ‘Tea or coffee, Kate?'

‘Tea would be lovely, Graham, so long as it isn't that liquid compost heap.'