Power Games (15 page)

‘Neither do I, sir. But if you'd be kind enough to listen to me, I can offer a very simple explanation.' Kate hoped she sounded calmer than she felt. Her head now ached so badly she could hardly see Crowther, let alone focus on him. She gripped the back of a chair – mustn't pass out on him.

‘I'm sure you can. A very plausible one, no doubt.'

She made a huge effort. ‘Do you seriously think that if I were planting evidence I'd leave my bloody prints on it?'

‘Don't take that tone with me, Sergeant. I think it's time you left the building. I'll be in touch with you in due course.'

‘With all due respect, sir, we've got a murder on our hands.'

‘Which is precisely the reason you will not be in the building. And why you will not be talking to any of your colleagues, either. Get out of my office, Sergeant. And if you're still in the building in ten minutes' time, I'll have you on a charge of insubordination as soon as you can say knife.'

Kate took a deep breath. ‘I shall be talking to my Police Federation representative. You'd better be sure, sir, that you're following the approved procedure to the letter—'

‘Out! Now!'

The office heaved like an oily sea. She left.

Painkillers. Now. Something really strong. There was a Lloyd's on the corner opposite Worksop Road. Thank God she'd left the car at home this morning. She wouldn't be safe driving. Not with eyes that hurt too much to open.

Equipped with something – she'd no idea what the pharmacist had given her – she turned for the traffic lights. And leapt back, as a car hooted her out of the way, his passenger yelling at her. Reeling, she staggered into another pedestrian.

‘Fucking pissed at this time of day! Should be ashamed of yourself.'

Another voice. ‘Hang on, mate. Can't you see she's bad?' And someone took her arm. ‘Kate, come on. It's me. Simon. What's up?'

‘Simon?'

‘Yeah. You know. Down Sainsbury's. Selling the
Big Issue
, right? Come on, chick. Let's get across this lot while we can.'

Someone gripped her arm, quite hard, above the elbow.

‘Now, where are you going?' Simon asked.

‘Home. Just up here. I'll be fine. Honestly. Thanks, Simon.'

‘You got a migraine or something?'

‘I don't get migraines.'

‘Always a first time. Or even a stress headache. That's what my mum used to get. Now, where you got to go?'

‘Just up here. Just up Worksop Road.'

‘I'll see you up there. Plenty of time. And if you like, I'll make you a nice cup of tea.'

If she drank tea, if she drank anything, she'd throw up. She knew she would. But he could get her some water for those tablets.

‘Which house, Kate? This side of the road or the other?'

‘Far side.' For the life of her she couldn't remember the number. Maybe she'd recognise it when she saw it. If she could see it.

 

‘There – soon have you feeling better,' Simon said, taking the empty glass from her. ‘God, you got this place looking nice. I feel – you know – this place is clean. And I'm—' He picked at his clothes.

‘Don't be daft.' And then a bubble of thought surfaced. ‘Unless you want to pop your stuff in the washer. And have a nice bubble bath or something. Only if you want to.'

He flushed scarlet. ‘Would that be – I mean—'

‘There's a unisex bathrobe. And you can tumble the stuff dry. So long as you can do it. The detergent's on that shelf.'

‘But—'

‘Up to you. A nice private bathroom for you …' The world started to ebb and flow.

‘You ought to be having a lie down, not worrying about baths and washing.'

She managed the tiniest of nods. ‘Going to lie down. See you in a bit.'

Halfway up the stairs, she realised her legs wouldn't take her any further and she finished on her hands and knees.

 

It was dark when she woke. It took her a moment to place herself. Then information arrived quite separately in her brain, like the names clicking up on a station destination board. Dark. Bed. Her own bed. The bedroom in the house she must now call hers.

So why bed? How had she got here?

No. She wasn't dressed. Not dressed?

She didn't remember getting undressed.

The words on the board were clicking more quickly now.

Someone must have undressed her. Simon! Simon must have undressed her.

She was up and out of bed before she remembered her head. Except it wasn't hurting, not apart from a distant dull throb. Yes – she clicked the light – there were her clothes. She picked through the neatly folded pile. All there. All except her bra and pants. Jesus, what sort of pervert was he, to take her bra and pants? It was only as she fished in the drawer for spares that another fact registered. He hadn't taken her bra and pants because she was still wearing them.

Cold. The central heating must have switched itself off. But she'd better go to the bathroom before she could risk the stairs.

It smelt of lavender. Her soap. And was immaculately clean. The only sign that someone had used it was a corner of towel sticking coyly from the linen basket.

The same was true of the kitchen. The washing-machine and tumble-dryer doors were ajar. Someone had used but washed up a mug, a plate and a knife.

There was a note on the kitchen table:

What a nice kid. And she'd thought him capable of – no, she hadn't seriously thought it. But why was her handbag open? Well, she couldn't in all honesty blame him if he'd helped himself to a few quid – he'd have lost a lot of sales by bringing her home. Ah! Another note.

The last person Kate expected to see on her doorstep at nine-thirty on Saturday morning was Sue Rowley, clutching a carton of milk.

‘It was behind that tub of yours,' she said, stepping inside purposefully. ‘Time you turfed out those poor winter pansies and started your early summer flowers. Hm, that coffee smells good.'

Kate bowed to the inevitable. ‘Would you like some, ma'am?'

‘Sue, at this time of day. Please.' She darted a head into the dining room and moved into the living room. ‘Hey, you've got this place looking nice. Is it true what Graham was saying, that you had no water or heating when you arrived?'

‘Nor all that many floors, either, actually.' They were now in the kitchen. ‘And this work-surface took for ever to arrive.'

‘So no hob, no sink. How on earth did you survive? Well, it's looking lovely now. Oh, I like your table – nice wood.' Stroking it, she sat down. ‘I never see ours these days, for homework. A level and GCSE respectively, this summer. Thanks.' Rowley took the mug of coffee Kate was offering and stirred in milk. ‘No sugar, thanks. I've put on half a stone since I joined the squad. I've got these sweeteners. Now, sit down and tell me about your fingerprints.'

Kate did as she was told. ‘It seems almost a point of honour for players not to use the bins for things like ball-tubes and drinks cans and bottles. I mean, the bins are right by the nets. But come mornings I can pick up five or six things – and that's just off my court. I suppose the bottle with my prints must be one of those I retrieved last Tuesday.'

‘“Retrieved?” Where do people put them, then?'

‘There are these heavy green curtains at the backs of the courts. They're to deaden the sound and also to absorb the impact of the balls. Some of the balls get under the curtains so when my coach and I are gathering them up, I bin the bottles at the same time.'

‘Did you notice anything odd about any of the bottles last Tuesday?'

Kate shook her head.

‘But there must have been something odd, surely, for SOCO to notice it?'

‘Someone said they were sniffing the contents of each – to see if they'd ever held a grapefruit juice cocktail.'

‘With knobs on! So what does that tell us about the bottle?' Rowley had fished a notebook from her pocket and started to scribble.

‘That it had been wiped. So inadvertently I retrieved not just any bottle but what turns out to have been a suspicious bottle.'

‘Which I now trust is at the lab. And what else does your find tell us, Kate?'

‘That Rosemary was probably playing on the court I was on. Or the adjacent one.'

‘Only one adjacent one?' Rowley cocked her head.

‘The balls tend to stay more or less on your own court – there are heavy nets to stop them going on to the next. And I was playing on the court nearest the door. Jason – that's my coach – and I don't see why we should walk any further than we have to when we're the only ones on court. The important thing is, it should help us work out whom Rosemary was playing with.'

‘So why haven't you told Nigel all this?'

‘Because he slung me out of the squad – and then out of his office – before I could say anything.'

‘I heard words like threatening behaviour and dumb insolence being bandied around.'

The bastard. The absolute bastard. Then it dawned on her: ‘But you didn't believe them or you wouldn't be here.'

‘Possibly. So now what?'

‘What indeed? I know I made a balls-up of interviewing Doctor Parsons yesterday—'

‘There were two of you present?' Sue asked.

‘Yes, but Mark—'

‘Is an experienced constable – despite his taste in loud shirts. OK.'

‘There were lots of things someone else said about Rosemary I should have picked up. You see, she was friends with that guy out there at the bottom of the garden.'

‘Bottom of the garden?'

‘He's the archaeologist who's after my buttons.'

‘Not a fairy, then?' Sue rolled her eyes.

‘Not as far as I know!'

By this time both women were giggling.

‘You'd better ask Colin for an expert opinion,' Sue guffawed. ‘Oh dear, thank God I didn't say that at work. Such a nice young man, as my mother would have said. Wasted on another man.'

‘Certainly wasted on his present man – poor Colin's going through a really rough patch.'

They were sober again.

‘Anyway, this archaeologist who's excavating my site knew Rosemary. Quite well, I suspect. He's out there now, bristling with potential leads, and I can't even talk to him.'

‘No, but I can. Oh, Kate, the sooner we've got this wretched business sorted the better.' Sue pushed herself to her feet.

‘How did you hear about it all?' Kate asked, opening the back door for Sue to step into the garden.

‘This is between you and me. Rod phoned Graham – asked him what he should do, basically.'

‘Eh? A super asking a DCI for advice?'

‘Well, I would have in his place. Heavens, Kate, it's a delicate one – an inexperienced DI inveigling himself into the MIT and then cocking up something shocking.'

‘“Inveigling”?'

‘Forget you heard that. Oh, all right. But I haven't said this either, mind. The word is that someone high up phoned Personnel, who then put pressure on Rod. Who seems to think I'm some sort of Mother Confessor, for all I'm only a couple of years older than him. Hey, what's that?' She patted a mini-wheelie bin by the back door.

‘My wormery.'

‘Worms? God bless us all!'

‘I had these problems with maggots, you see. And had to have therapy. I mean, someone in my job not coping with maggots! So – just to prove I could – I bought this. You put worms in the bottom and rubbish on top. The result is high quality organic compost.'

Eyes dancing, Sue started to giggle again. ‘Jesus, that sounds like a parable of our times. Oh, dear. Oh, dear!'

‘The difference is that my compost is good, healthy stuff. Or will be. Oh, Sue!' Kate wailed, doubling in laughter.

The older woman made a visible effort. ‘The trouble is, should we protect Crowther's ego or yours? What I shall recommend to Graham and Rod is that it's put about that you're on sick leave – Mark said you'd got a migraine or something.'

‘The jungle drums haven't half been beating,' Kate observed.

‘Mark was on the phone to Graham before Rod was, as it happens. So with a bit of luck you can go back in after a discreet break—'

‘Break!'

‘Oh, say, tomorrow, if I can fix it with Rod. Monday, anyway. And no one'll say anything more about it. What do you think?'

Kate pulled a face. ‘Are you sure I wouldn't be better off back with you and Fatima sorting out those warehouse fires?'

‘Well, Fatima's on sick leave. She tried to interrupt some bar brawl and got two lovely black eyes for her pains. So, God help us, we've got a MIT on the fires. Bloody crazy – you know all about them and you get plucked off the case and shoved in another MIT. Bloody administrators. Now, lead me to this fairy.'

The garden path being as short as it was, there was very little leading. In fact, Kate was afraid that Stephen, despite the radio beside him playing classical music, might have heard Sue's suggestion. If he had, he gave no sign of it, and he jumped authentically when Kate spoke.

 

‘Let me get this straight, Stephen,' Sue said, in a tone suggesting that she was exercising the greatest self-control. ‘Correct me if I've misheard you or got anything wrong. OK?'

Small boy in a corner, Stephen nodded.

Sue counted on her fingers. ‘One. Rosemary was afraid that she was being followed. Two. She was sufficiently convinced to go to a police station and ask for advice.'