Power Games (12 page)

‘Come on: there was no sign of a forced entry. And we wouldn't be here if SOCO hadn't OK'd it. Except – hang on – she had no keys in her bag, did she? You wouldn't need to force an entry if you had someone's keys. And, if you do someone in in the evening, knowing she won't be found till the following day, you can spend a happy night working quietly and systematically through a whole house.'

‘Wouldn't the neighbours notice?'

‘Big detached house, nice thick privet hedge in front, no house within a hundred yards at the back.'

‘And, of course, no alarm.'

‘Quite. I bet this is the sort of neighbourhood where you get brownie points for keeping yourself to yourself. We'd better get the boffins on to the computer in case someone's wiped that. And the fax, come to think of it.'

‘That's it, then. Back to base.'

‘Let's just have a shuftie at the bathroom. I know SOCO will have taken away any pills and potions – I'd just like to see it.'

And it was worth seeing. While the rest of the house had been left firmly in period, this had had the full up-dating treatment.

‘Wow!' Wright whistled. ‘Looks like something in a posh hotel, doesn't it? No nasty pipes visible anywhere, all this nice wood and concealed lighting – my wife'd kill for something like this.'

‘So would I. I wonder how much it cost to match the tiles to the carpet? And fancy having a separate shower from that bath—'

‘That ain't no bath, lady – that's a Jacuzzi. Or at least one of those massage baths.' Another of those laughs. ‘Kate, we're in the wrong line of business. All the overtime in the world wouldn't buy a set-up like this!' His gesture encompassed the whole house.

They looked at the garage before they left. It housed with comfort an M-registered Saab, a collection of tools, a bicycle rack to fasten to the back of the Saab, and a man's mountain bike.

Kate looked around. ‘I wonder what she used?'

‘Car or bike?'

‘Either, I suppose. There was no car left in the car park, remember, and no car keys. That rack would carry two bikes. I wonder if there was a bike lying round anywhere at the Tennis Centre? A woman as fit as her wouldn't balk at bowling down there.'

‘A couple of hours on court and she might balk at struggling back up the hill,' Wright said. ‘Come on. Time we were heading back. Neville's called that meeting for five, remember.'

Kate nodded. ‘Yes, it wouldn't do to be spectacularly late twice in one day, would it?'

Wright looked at her sideways. ‘I'd have thought if anyone could get away with it, you could.'

She turned, arms akimbo. ‘Oh dear, Rumour's raising its ugly head again, is it? Look, Mark, if we're going to be partners, let's get this straight: I am not fucking my way to the top. I am not fucking Graham Harvey, I am not fucking Rod Neville, I am not fucking Patrick Duncan, I am not fucking Nigel Crowther. I'm not fucking anyone, actually. More's the pity,' she added ruefully.

‘Point taken, Kate. Points, in fact. And – because the rumour's bound to reach my wife before you can say partner that I'm at it hammer and tongs with you – I don't fuck my colleagues either. But I tell you what, you want to watch that blonde in-putter – she'd get her hands in anyone's knickers.'

 

After several false starts – Kings Heath Police Station was a real rabbit warren, despite its imposing modernised exterior – Kate and Wright found the rooms set aside for the MIT's use. One was a splendidly equipped office, with the computers already humming and plenty of phones. The other was a meeting room, with OHP, whiteboard and plenty of display boards. Rod Neville didn't have a separate room, just a glass cubicle off the common space. Poor man, no room for his expensive coffee-making equipment.

He was actually drinking chilled water from a dispenser – now that was a nice idea – when Kate and Mark arrived, both slightly breathless.

‘Sorry, Gaffer!'

‘OK: you've got three or four minutes, so get yourselves a drink. I take it you've got a lot to report?'

They looked at each other, shrugging. ‘Got issues to raise, more like,' Mark said.

‘Haven't we all?' Rod smiled.

 

‘Now,' Rod began, ‘before we start, just a word about our accommodation. We're here on other people's territory – we must observe the niceties of civilisation, like not purloining other people's parking spaces or hogging the gym.'

‘There's a gym? Bloody hell! Where?' This was from a heavily muscled blonde woman.

Mark nudged Kate. Kate was too busy noticing a late addition to the team to react. What was Nigel Crowther doing here?

‘And one word of warning: I know there are hot drinks machines everywhere, but on no account touch the tea. I'm warned it's so vile it could have been the stuff that poisoned Rosemary Parsons. They don't even give it to people in the cells.'

There was the statutory appreciative snigger. But, Kate thought, as she looked at the others, his little jokes were going down well. His speech patterns were often headmasterly, or, at the opposite extreme, lifted straight from a spin-doctor. Perhaps one of the many courses he'd been on recently had been responsible for the change. Or perhaps it hadn't.

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, since our theoretical bonding was so appositely interrupted this morning, we're going to have to work on getting to know each other and our little quirks. I, alas, will be less concerned with work on the ground than with managing the infernal budget situation, but I can assure you it is not my desire to limit your overtime that is at the heart of my next dictum. It's the Service's policy and it's for the good of us all: I want you to work reasonable hours, not excessive ones. We shall meet regularly, not to satisfy an insatiable management desire for meetings, but to brief each other. The officer in charge of day-to-day operations was unable to be present this morning but is now with us – Detective Inspector Crowther.'

Now how had that happened? He was supposed to be running CID on a day-to-day basis here, wasn't he? Hadn't he got enough to do, making Kings Heath a better place to live? Or was someone else doing that now? What was called for was clearly a word with Guljar: he'd know the gossip.

‘Now, DI Crowther knows the area like the back of his hand – he was born and bred down the road in Moseley, I gather.'

Pause for a curt nod and not particularly gracious smile from Crowther. Oh, dear. Some men were born to management; others had management thrust upon them. Kate could have wished for Rowley's homely tangle and rather baggy skirts, instead of that uncompromising wing of black hair and the razor-sharp suit.

Neville stepped to one side, sat down, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, and assumed his intelligent listening face.

‘Thank you, sir,' Crowther began, picking up a board marker and turning to the pristine white surface behind him. ‘Now, I'd like to hear from everyone in the team with something relevant to report.'

 

Mark Wright fell into step with Kate as they left the room. ‘Well?'

‘Well what?'

‘What d'you think of the new gaffer?'

‘I thought he handled the meeting like a pro. Pulled everything together well, shut everyone up at the right time. Very good.'

He looked at her sideways. ‘There's a well-substantiated rumour that if it hadn't been for you the scene wouldn't have been preserved and that we wouldn't have ID'd Parsons. Right?'

‘I backed up Guljar – he smelt a rat and so did I. And it was only by coincidence I worked out who she must be: the TV appeal must have brought in a flood of responses, so I probably only saved them half an hour.'

‘It would have been nice to have been acknowledged for your part so far.'

‘Senior SOCO thanked me.'

‘And was summarily shut up for his pains. Poor bugger, having to check through all that litter you insisted was preserved. Still, if that's what turns you on. Anyway, what have you done to offend young Nigel?'

‘Nothing at all. I'm sure he's just trying to make us into a team. I wouldn't want prima donnas in his situation, would you?'

‘No, but in your situation I'd like a bit of what my gran always used to call fairation.'

She nodded doubtfully. ‘Mine used to say, “Life's not what you want, but what you get – so stick a geranium in your hat and get on with it.”'

‘Only one thing,' Mark said. ‘Wrong time of year for geraniums – isn't it?'

And she thought of the exhausted cuttings on Graham's windowsill.

On an evening like this, it would be lovely to have a garden to work in. There was still a stiff breeze, but any rain had cleared and the sun was warm. Kate might almost regret that she'd handed over the coaching of the Boys' Brigade football team – it'd be fun chasing a football around. On impulse, she changed into her running gear. She wasn't going to pound round the streets of Kings Heath. She wasn't pounding anywhere, not if she wanted her knee to stay friendly. She might, however, manage a gentle jog, and where better than the reservoir? OK, she'd have to drive out to Edgbaston, but she'd be able to look at the Lodge.

Parking the car, she looked round. The whole place, although it was close to the city centre, was attractive enough to be enjoyed by whole families out for an evening stroll. She wouldn't be the only jogger out there, but there were far more sailors, hurtling round in small boats, or, quite often, bobbing round waiting to be collected after having been tipped out of small boats.

Yes, there was the Ballroom – dance hall? – that Colin had told her about. And there – that must be the Lodge. Yes, it did look like a toll-house, except most toll-houses she'd ever seen – and she had to admit she didn't exactly have a degree in transport architecture – had been either compact two storied affairs or single-storied with a couple of wings. This was a hybrid, not unattractive, but a bit odd. Someone had tacked on the back what looked like a later extension, which might well reduce its historical value, she supposed. It was in a commanding position, controlling the road to the reservoir and lovely views of a surprisingly rural landscape, dominated by the water. So why had no one got round to knocking it down back in the sixties and seventies, when Birmingham was mad for more concrete? It didn't look to be in bad condition now: so why had Stephen talked about preserving it? Perhaps it wasn't because it was falling down – perhaps someone wanted to help it on its way.

Cursing herself – when would she learn not to make assumptions? – she looked around again. Yes, money, that must be the obvious answer. Big money, to take over either the whole site to turn it into ‘leisure facilities' or simply to develop a small and exclusive part of it – a very good hotel, for instance. She'd better talk to Stephen first thing.

She looked more closely – the funny shaped front, the funny chimney matching it. Oh, there'd be technical terms that Stephen would know and use, but she didn't have them. She didn't need words to appreciate the place. And that was what it needed – appreciation and use. Someone to restore it properly, and a job to do. For such an unpretentious place, it generated a lot of protectiveness. In her, for a start, and in Stephen, and in the late Rosemary Parsons. And she had a gut feeling, now she'd seen the site, that it was intimately connected with Rosemary's death. Surely no building was worth killing – or dying – for. And in simple justice no one should profit by both a death and the destruction of something certainly old and possibly precious.

Simple justice. And the Law.

 

Kate was in sombre mood when she went to see Cassie, and would have liked to join her in a stiff gin. But on an empty stomach it would have been folly. She could always have a beer with her supper. Whatever that turned out to be. Whenever that turned out to be.

‘Mrs Nelmes did her best not to be speaking to me today, but she had to come round in the end, didn't she?' Cassie said, gloating. ‘She wanted to carry on about young Graham, of course, and who else could she do that to except me? Of course, she still doesn't know he pops in to see me, bless him.'

‘Has he been in recently?'

‘I was rather hoping he might tonight. What do you think? Does he know you're here?'

Kate said, unblinking, ‘I shouldn't think so. I'm not working under him any more. I was transferred temporarily, as from today.'

‘Oh, he won't like that, not a scrap. He tells me you shift the work of two. He likes that. And if you ask me, he might have his eye on you – no, not promotion. Not that at all. A different sort of working under him, if you get my meaning.' Cassie cackled and choked, so Kate had to slap her back. The old bones were frighteningly close to the surface.

Eyes watering, Cassie held out her glass. ‘Seems I could do with a spot more medicine. That's better. So what's this about a transfer? You been a naughty girl?'

‘On the contrary. I spotted something that someone hoped I wouldn't spot, and – well, called the police. And they've pulled together a special squad to investigate what turns out to be a murder.'

‘Ooh, does that mean you'll be seeing young whatshisname? The pathologist?'

‘Yes. I told you, we do see each other from time to time. But only as friends.'

‘Time you had a proper young man. And some children. That's what a woman needs.'

Kate risked it: ‘You never had any.'

‘That doesn't mean I wouldn't have liked to. If my Arthur hadn't been married to Elsie Myers, I would have. You see, she had money in her own right. And Arthur was very fond of the old spondulics. Oh, he was generous with me, but only because he could afford to be, see. He had that nice little business, but it was set up with her money, and she never let him forget it. Not that he would have, knowing Arthur. He was an honourable man. In his own way, that is …'