Power Games (13 page)

‘Do you still miss him?'

‘Not as much as I miss Edward Read.'

Kate nodded gently. She'd seen photos of a palely handsome young man when she'd been sorting out Cassie's possessions.

‘He was the love of my life, you know. And the funny thing is, I've started to dream about him again …'

 

Kate had let Cassie reminisce as long as she could. But she could see the old woman was getting very tired, and she herself was beginning to feel woozy with hunger. So at last she excused herself, stopping on the way out to tell Rosie, Cassie's care assistant, she thought the old lady wouldn't refuse a hand to get into bed. Rosie nodded, absently fingering a bruise on her cheek. Another encounter with a ‘door', no doubt – when would the woman do something about her violent partner? But in the past Kate had tried without success to get her to seek help, and now didn't have the right to do any more.

She was turning away to head for the stairs when she saw a familiar figure outlined against the dim corridor lights. Graham. So what would he do? Pretend not to have seen her and go straight into Aunt Cassie's room? Or avail himself of the opportunity to do a little extra-mural bollocking? She certainly didn't expect an apology, even an explanation, for his tantrum yesterday evening.

She gave a neutral, dimple-free smile, and waited.

Graham gave a great show of jumping with surprise, which he probably didn't expect to convince her. It didn't.

‘How's the new job?' he asked.

‘Fine. Things are coming together. Oh, and we're under Nigel Crowther.'

‘Are you indeed? I'd have thought he'd have enough on his plate.'

‘What was on his plate is now on someone else's. Don't ask me how. Or you might be able to tell me how,' she added hopefully.

His eyes narrowed. Then his face softened with a smile that started comradely but ended up as tender.

‘I'll fill you in if I hear anything. I was just going to see your great aunt. How is she?'

‘A bit low. She's been telling me all about the love of her life – he died of TB.'

‘Poor bastard. And poor Aunt Cassie. Still, she seems to have found a substitute in that Arthur,' he observed.

The bitterness in his voice told her he was aware that other women found substitutes fast enough too. But it had never been like that between them, not quite, despite all the hole-in-corner measures he'd insisted on to prevent his wife knowing about even the most innocent phone calls, which somehow deprived them of their innocence. And she'd respected his ruling that they could only ever be friends. If anyone had residual problems it was he. Surely.

‘But only a substitute,' she heard herself saying. Yes, she was tired, she was hungry. And if she wasn't careful she'd burst into tears.

He looked straight into her eyes. ‘Quite.' He flicked a glance at his watch. ‘Kate, I … Maybe if Cassie's upset I'd better give it a miss tonight. Goodnight, then.' And he was gone, dodging swiftly into a men's lavatory.

No, she mustn't even think about that, about any of it, till she was safely away from the place. The last thing she wanted to do was to have to confront him or his wife, worse still the two of them together, in the car park.

 

So why was someone phoning her in the middle of the night? She grabbed the handset, Robin's dying eyes still in front of her. She was shaking so much she could hardly speak.

‘Kate? Kate? It's Zenia here. Zenia from next door.'

She must have managed some sort of reply.

‘Are you all right, girl? Only we heard this screaming – wondered if you needed any help?'

‘Oh. Oh, Zenia. I'm so sorry. I must have yelled in my sleep. I was having this dreadful dream … Did I wake everyone? Oh, I'm so sorry.'

‘Well, I'll tell my Joseph he doesn't have to break in and rescue you. You're sure you don't want me to come round, now, love?'

‘Sure. Yes, quite sure. I'll go and get some hot milk or something. Then I shall be all right.'

She would. But Robin was gone, dead and gone as poor Edward Read.

‘All these courses they keep sending us on, you'd think at least one would be on rapid reading,' Mark Wright said, pushing away one of Rosemary Parsons' files. He put his fingertips on the back of his neck, and, as if his arms were incipient wings, pushed his elbows back as far as they'd go.

‘Not to mention deciphering bad hand-writing. Though to do her justice, Rosemary's wasn't too bad. If a bit – well, sort of childish.' Kate stretched too. ‘And no use at all, of course. Just course notes from that local studies course she was on.' Somewhere along the line she'd changed her mind about Mark. They seemed to have become mates. She hadn't even flinched at today's orange shirt and green slacks.

‘Go on, that's not a proper stretch: do the job properly. Stand up – like this, see – and put your arms above your head. That's it. Now turn your hands to the ceiling, link the fingers and push, hard as you can.'

Doing as she was told, Kate was rewarded by a terrifying crunch from her upper chest.

‘There! You'd pay an osteopath twenty quid to make them do that to you. My price is half a snifter at lunchtime. And you can show me the joys of Kings Heath. Such as they are,' he added dourly, looking at the rain drumming down on the car park.

‘I'd much rather talk to Stephen Abbott – I'm sure—'

‘When you two have stopped playing at Darcey Bussell or whoever, you could try getting some work done.' Crowther, his voice so cold with control he might have had advanced lessons from Graham. ‘A word, please, Power.'

They snapped to attention.

‘Yes, sir,' Mark said. ‘Only we were both getting a bit stiff, like. I'll go and get us some water, Kate. Unless you'd prefer tea.'

Since the question was clearly rhetorical, Kate said nothing, simply waiting for Crowther to say whatever he wanted to say. Until it became quite obvious that Kate was expected to make some sort of report.

‘The negative stuff first, sir. Mark and I have scanned the files for any sign of pro-Zionist or even Jewish connection which might have attracted the attention of a far right political organisation. As far as we can see, there is none. And though her husband was –
is
– an expert on the Second World War and Hitler's extermination policies, it seems simply to be as an historian. He seems to have no axes to grind.'

‘That's the negative. What's the positive?'

‘How well do you know Birmingham Reservoir, sir?'

Crowther pulled a face but rallied. ‘I thought I was asking you the questions?'

‘Sorry, sir. But it is relevant. You see, Rosemary Parsons was on the committee trying to preserve a building out there. What we hope is that these files' – Kate patted a pile of five or six – ‘are connected with that. That's our next move, Mark's and mine, that is. To read through them.'

‘Maybe you should have started on those first. It's a matter of prioritisation, isn't it, Sergeant? Now, if you're going to meet Doctor Parsons at the airport, you'd better be moving, I'd have thought.'

She stared. ‘I thought Brady and Carter were—'

‘They're on to something else. There'll be someone from Family Support to back you up, should you need her. I want you to put him under pressure. Yes, Power, a lot of pressure—'

‘But the man's just lost—'

‘Has just killed?'

Kate buttoned her lip. Putting bereaved partners on the spot had never been her favourite activity. Not that she couldn't, if she thought it necessary. The thing that really worried her was the delay in contacting him. However Crowther had missed that list of phone numbers in the kitchen was beyond her. He'd be very lucky if Parsons didn't whack in a complaint. ‘How's the rubbish search coming on, by the way, sir?'

‘I'm sure SOCO will let us know when they find anything.
If
they find anything. I still think it's a domestic.'

‘A domestic? But he was out of the country?'

‘A little naïve, aren't you, Sergeant? I'm sure he'd have ways and means – he's a doctor, after all.'

Patronise her, would he? ‘His doctorate is on the Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto, nineteen forty to forty-one.'

A hit. She'd scored a hit.

But he continued without so much as a blink, ‘To my mind, his exit from the country the morning before his wife's death is a little too pat to be entirely credible. We shall see. Meanwhile, I'm glad it wasn't I who was responsible for the expenditure of all these resources.'

Now that was impressive – a man who could be grammatically correct even at the moment of bollocking. No doubt he was such an expert he could give Graham lessons. And then the image of Graham's stricken eyes and taut mouth – far clearer than the actuality had been – swept before Kate's eyes, and it was all she could do not to reach for the phone.

Mark was hovering with plastic cups of water. DI Crowther nodded at him, then at Kate. ‘Remember: put him under pressure.' He left.

She dug in her desk. Damn, she'd not personalised it, had she. Back at Steelhouse Lane there'd have been some aspirin in her drawer.

Mark passed her the water and a couple of files before he asked, ‘What's he said to upset you?'

She blinked hard. ‘Nothing. It's just – well, I seem a bit on edge this morning.'

‘I hadn't noticed.'

‘I obviously deserve an Oscar, then. You know I lost my partner last summer. I had this dreadful nightmare last night – I'm not quite over it yet.' She took a deep breath. ‘Seems he wants us to give Rosemary Parsons' widower the third degree.'

‘What's happened to Brady and Carter?'

‘He's got them on to something else.'

Mark splayed a hand on the files. ‘I'd have thought these had priority. If Rosemary's been busy campaigning to protect something people don't want protected, maybe she's put someone's back up.'

‘My reckoning exactly. I had a trip out to the reservoir last night – I'd have thought it a prime site. And where there's a prime site there's developers.'

‘And where there's developers … It'd make sense. Let's talk about it in the car – we can catch a bite at the airport if we hurry.'

Something clanged in her head as she reached for her bag. ‘Best if you drive,' she said.

 

Michael Parsons might have starred in a movie about World War Two as a brigadier, or perhaps a Royal Naval commander. He had the classic good looks and elegant carriage, even the well-cut clothes and slightly drawling accent, of the upper classes in World War Two movies. So this was where the money came from. Kate told her proletarian hackles to give themselves a rest. All he was at the moment was a man in shock.

‘I still can't take it in. I still can't believe it. Will I be able to see her? Did they – make a mess of her?'

To hell with giving him a hard time. Except it was an order. ‘You'll be able to see her shortly, Doctor Parsons. After all, we'd like you to identify her formally for us. I take it you haven't any other family who could do it?'

‘No. No, we never had children. Too many hostages to fortune, we always said. We always planned a long retirement together.'

‘Look, sir, the press'll be waiting,' Mark said gently. ‘The authorities here have found an alternative route out for us, but we may have to make a dash for it. OK?'

Parsons managed a shaky laugh. ‘I don't think I'm up to much dashing. This sounds so crass. So bathetic. Only I haven't eaten – not since … I couldn't, last night. The hotel people called a doctor – he gave me something to knock me out. And then I was too … it was such a dash to the airport. And of course, I'd had no time to tell them about my eggs allergy, so when the in-flight snack was scrambled eggs …'

‘Sit down, Doctor Parsons. We'll find somewhere private and get you tea and a sandwich,' Kate said. ‘Anything else you're allergic to?'

‘Just eggs. Oh, and nuts. I'm sorry, this isn't a moment to be talking about my health.'

‘It's certainly not a moment to be eating the wrong thing and getting ill,' Mark said. ‘It may only be an interview room, but we'll sort something out for you to sit on while we find some food.'

 

‘Rosemary used to be a teacher.'

Ah! That explained the handwriting – all those neat sentences on the board, in grubby books.

‘She loved teaching. Little children, the sort that run around like little animals and bob up and down with excitement. But then things started to change. She wasn't working in a particularly tough school, but she came home one day with the news that the little boys – five, six, that's all – had a new playground game. Rape. And from there they went downhill. “How can you feed their minds,” she used to say, “when they've no one to see they've had a proper breakfast? How can they respect and love books if all they have at home are TVs and videos? How can I teach family values, when ninety-five per cent of them come from broken homes?” So when she reached fifty, I persuaded her to take premature retirement. It was as well I did – they ended the scheme soon after. After all, we didn't need the money. But at least her little pension gave her some independence.' Dr Parsons reached almost blindly for the tea and fumbled it into his hand. ‘Not that she needed it. What was mine was hers.'

Kate was ready to pour him another cup: Mark had persuaded someone to produce not airport disposable but china cups and saucers, milk in a jug and hot water to go with the tea. There was a selection of sandwiches spread on a large plate, and a small plate for each of them.

All very civilised. They might have been in a select hotel rather than an interview room courtesy of the Transport Police. But a hotel room wouldn't have held a tape machine recording every breath, every half-suppressed sob.