Power Games (22 page)

‘One thing,' she said, as Mark put down his handset, ‘that we ought to do, is let DI Crowther know exactly where we're going this morning.'

He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Shall I do that while you deal with the Revenue, ma'am?'

‘Rosemary's bank's the Midland, in Moseley,' Kate said, grabbing her bag.

‘HBSC, rather. I liked the name Midland,' Mark said. ‘I don't like initials and anonymity. I like names.'

Moseley was on their way into the city, for their talk to the anonymous planning officer.

‘We'll stop off en route, then,' Kate said. ‘And deal with the Inland Revenue after the Planning Department.'

‘What about the solicitor?'

‘Let's assume he's got the same letter. No. We'll deal with him on the way back. Leave nothing to chance.'

They headed for the car park.

‘Do you mind using your car?' she continued. ‘I left mine at home. To be honest, it stayed at home. People had parked so tightly it would have taken me all morning to wriggle it out.'

‘No problems. God, look at the traffic. I'll tell you what, there are days I feel like getting my bike out again …'

‘And then you imagine what it would be like to be a cyclist in all that mayhem?'

‘I've got a helmet.'

‘Helmet? You'd need a suit of armour!'

 

‘Newsagent's! What the hell for?' Mark demanded, standing by his car outside the bank. He held his car key ostentatiously.

Kate kept her gaze steady. ‘Because I'm suffering from paranoia. Because—'

‘Oh, I think paranoia's enough. OK, let me work out why we need a newsagent's. Because we've only got one copy of Rosemary's papers. Because we could be in a fatal RTA and we'd get blood all over them and—'

‘Something like that, Mark. You're right. We're going to photocopy them. You'll have one set, I'll have the other.'

‘Sure this isn't overkill?'

‘Just paranoia,' she grinned.

‘Why not make it three sets? Leave one in the car as bait?' he asked.

‘Are you serious?'

He looked straight at her: ‘On the basis of what's in this letter of Rosemary's, never more serious in my life.'

 

They watched four single-spaced pages of accusation go through the copier. Rosemary had recorded the numbers of cars and a motorcycle she'd seen parked near her house. Plus descriptions of drivers. She had listed near misses on her bike. She'd had phone calls on the hour, every hour, on days when her husband had been away. Letters with nothing inside but blank sheets of paper. Harassment – no, that probably wasn't too strong a word – from someone at the tax office: someone who had omitted to type in a name after an illegible signature. Someone had kindly sent her photocopies of newspaper descriptions of car bomb incidents. She'd knelt by the car to check it every time it had been parked outside her house.

It would have been easy to dismiss some of her allegations as neurosis: cars could park anywhere, for goodness' sake – look at Kate's problems in Worksop Road! But it seemed hard to disbelieve some of the others. If only the evidence to substantiate them had been left in her filing cabinet.

‘Poor cow,' Mark said at last. ‘Come on, let's get the bastards that were doing that to her.'

Kate nodded. She'd while away the journey getting those registration numbers tracked down.

 

Finding a space without too much difficulty in a car park near Baskerville House, home of the Planning Department, Mark cut the engine and turned to her. ‘You've been very quiet. Do you want a full-length lecture on Baskerville and typefaces to cheer you up?'

‘You could tell me about that little bronze guy sitting near the fountain in Chamberlain Square. First time I came across him was late at night and I tell you, I nearly tucked my hand under his arm to help him up.'

‘Thomas Attwood – he wanted full adult suffrage, full-employment, prosperity for all, didn't he? Ah, we've got some interesting ancestors, us Brummies.' He turned to her, his face quite serious. ‘It wouldn't do you any harm to go to night class to learn about your adoptive city. Local history. You know, the sort of course Rosemary was on. Brum University – extra-mural classes, they used to call them. Continuing studies, or something, these days.'

‘On top of the promotion exams?' she retorted. ‘Thanks, but I'd rather practise my tennis. Which reminds me, I'd better cancel the lesson tomorrow – I can't see anyone in the MIT being overjoyed if I turn up ten minutes late.'

Again, he surprised her. ‘I wouldn't cancel. Absolutely not. But I'd bloody watch my back.'

‘You mean, OK it at the highest level?'

‘I mean, watch your back. I might even come and pick you up from the Tennis Centre. Just to make sure, like.'

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. ‘You really are serious, aren't you?'

He blushed slightly. ‘Look, you make a good partner, and I don't like the way Crowther's doing things. Hell, he only got the job because his mother was fucking someone at the time.'

‘Married to someone, was what I heard.'

‘Well, the two aren't mutually exclusive, as Neville would no doubt say. If I pick you up from Brayfield at – say – five to eight? I know it means missing a bit of coaching but we'd be at work almost on time, specially if I got the old siren going. You know it makes sense. Go on, laugh – that was my Margaret Thatcher impersonation!'

She laughed, obediently, then demanded, ‘Have you any idea what time I shall have to get up if I'm going to walk down there? OK, Mark – you're quite right. Thanks, mate. And now,' she said, unfastening the seat-belt, ‘we'd better go and check all the planning officers and see if any of them match young Stephen's description. Could be fun if we've got protective bosses and a strong union.'

‘Bugger fun. My kid wants me to get something from the museum shop – if we can wangle the time for that I'd be grateful.'

‘No problems. OK.
Avanti
!'

 

The Personnel Officer to whom they presented themselves was a sari-clad Asian woman in her forties, who sat them down and listened intelligently but was clearly not going to give an inch unless she had to.

‘All we want to do at this stage,' Kate said, still calm, ‘is talk to someone. No accusations, just questions.'

‘In my experience, questions all too frequently lead to accusations, Sergeant.'

‘And if they did, Mrs Gupta, would that be a problem? After all, none of us wants to see the law broken and law breakers get away with it. But I assure you, at present, all we want to do is find out who this woman might be. And talk to her.'

‘If I say no, you can't look at my files, you'll have to go off and get a warrant.'

‘You've no idea how much paperwork that generates,' Kate sighed. ‘And how much time and energy.'

Mrs Gupta came to a decision. ‘I can't show you my files. Data protection, and all that. But I can invite you to walk through the offices with me, and to check out those officers who have dealings with the public. See if one matches the description … Is it a very clear description?'

‘Even to the length of her finger nails, Mrs Gupta.'

 

They set off together down the corridors of local power. Before they had to look at anyone's manicure, however, Mrs Gupta froze. ‘That man there – the short one, with red hair. That's the Chair of the Planning Committee. Mr Benson.'

Benson turned, apparently hearing his name. He smiled, pleasantly but with reserve. Presumably a man with that much power would learn to smile like that very early in his career.

Mrs Gupta's answering smile was embarrassed to the point of shifty. Kate and Mark produced courteous, efficient ones. After a tiny hiatus, Kate stepped forward, showing her ID. She offered a brief explanation.

Benson frowned. ‘Could you find us a private room somewhere, please, Mrs Gupta?'

 

‘Let us be quite clear about this,' Benson said sternly, sitting sideways to a heavy table, and hitching immaculate trousers. He was as slight as he was short, but not lacking in dignity. ‘Just because an application for listed building status misses a particular meeting, that does not necessarily mean that anything sinister is afoot.'

Mark mouthed, ‘Rod Neville lives!'

‘Most planning applications,' Benson continued, ‘are quite properly dealt with by a planning officer – some eighty per cent, in fact. Only the controversial or borderline ones go to Committee.'

‘We're not talking planning applications – we're talking about listing a building,' Kate said. She didn't have time for prepared speeches. ‘Would it be possible to – persuade – an officer not to submit an application? Assuming you wanted – say – to knock down a building without fear of retribution?'

Benson shrugged. ‘We're all human. However incorruptible we like to think we are, we're all susceptible to something.' He looked hard at Kate and Mark in turn.

‘Even the police.'

Might Benson – and this was the merest possibility – be hinting that he knew something she didn't, about Crowther, for instance? No. Nonsense. He was simply throwing the usual stuff about the long since disbanded Serious Crime Squad in her face.

‘Of course,' she agreed briefly.

‘It might help me to help you,' Benson continued, ‘if you could be more specific about the case in question. I can assure you that I will treat all this in absolute confidence, provided I have your word that you'll do the same – to anything not directly involved in your investigations.'

Kate nodded, waiting for Mark to follow suit. ‘Who wants to develop the Lodge site?'

‘Out at the reservoir? No one, as far as I know. I mean, it's an historic building.'

‘But not for long. Not if it can legally be knocked down because someone didn't get it listed.'

Benson frowned. ‘Give me two minutes.' He was on his feet and out of the room.

Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Brisk and efficient or scared?'

Kate wrinkled her nose. ‘I'd go for the former.'

‘God!' Mark raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Are you another graduate of the Neville School of English?'

Not to mention of the Neville School of Sex. Or was she really half-way through the course? Making an effort, she pulled a face. ‘It must be the building. It has that effect on Benson, anyway. He seems quite young to have all that power – forty? Forty-five?'

‘The latter, I'd say.' He stuck out his tongue. ‘The skin under his chin's a bit saggy, isn't it?'

A tap at the door silenced them. A young woman had brought tea and coffee in silver pots. The cups and saucers were china. She put the tray on the table and smiled her way out.

Mark was about to pour when Benson returned. ‘Tea or coffee, sir?'

‘Tea, please. Lemon, no milk.'

Kate hadn't registered the lemon slices. She had the same. Mark settled for coffee and both looked at Benson.

‘Things are never as straightforward as they look, in the world of planning applications,' he began, crushing the lemon against the side of his cup, and replacing the spoon in the saucer with meticulous care. ‘Oh, if you want to extend your property, that's no problem. There is a very clear set of guidelines about what you can and cannot do. The same applies to most small traders. They want to do something to their shop, we can tell them what they can, what they can't. If they want to change the use of their premises, however, things get more interesting.'

‘“Change the use”?' Mark repeated.

‘Say it sold ladies' clothes in a nice quiet side road. But it changed hands and the new owner wanted to operate a take-away pizza service.'

‘The neighbours might object!' Kate said.

‘Quite. So the new owner has to get permission. Now, all this is common knowledge, more or less. But of course the players aren't always small guys. Sometimes it's very big guys.' He allowed his pause to swell. ‘Now, sometimes very big guys play games with each other. X owns a piece of land that Y wants, so they'll negotiate. Now, somewhere in the city – don't ask me where, because it's absolutely not relevant to the case – is a lovely old building on a corner of a highly desirable site. We grant planning permission on the grounds that the building is rebuilt brick by brick and someone can live in it. Fine. So then the developers sell on the piece of land – and house – with planning permission to another consortium, who argue that they are by no means bound to rebuild this house.'

‘But that's dreadful!'

Benson smiled. ‘But legit. Now, what I did probably isn't legit. I took out the MD of the first consortium and reminded him how much he depended on planning permission. So, hey presto, his company buys back the whole shebang and are currently doing up the house. No names, remember, and absolutely no pack drill.'

Nice story, spot how it helped the present situation. Kate smiled politely.

‘Now,' Benson continued, ‘it seems to me as if the same sort of thing might be happening at the Lodge site. Yes, we do have an application from the owners to develop that parcel of land. And an application has been made for an hotel complex.'

‘Jesus – what a wonderful site!'

‘Exactly. But I'm very surprised that the people putting in the offer should be interested in hotels. I can only assume that there's a bit of this bartering going on. Land for land. Site for site. Why else should a charity be trying to build hotels?'

Kate smiled grimly. ‘Because the charity that owns the land is the Anna Seward Foundation?'

Kate and Mark stepped out of Baskerville House and stared over Centenary Square, blinking in the midday sunlight. She seethed with anger. She was sure Mark did too. So the planning officer that fitted Stephen's description was on leave, was she? Back-packing through Greece? Well, it was all too bloody convenient. And it would take time to get at her file through official channels. Time and effort, that was. And then the long wait for the woman herself.