Power on Her Own (31 page)

The question that most taxed her was why she didn't want Paul involved. She'd no reason to believe he'd blab – but his tendency to excessive helpfulness could be a problem. Remember how he wanted to run the football training. And now he was busy sorting out her house. No, Paul would have to interfere – he couldn't help it. And like the posters used to say, careless talk costs lives.

The person she most needed to talk to was Graham, of course. A sympathetic ear, ready with constructive suggestions. She couldn't weep that Cope was stricken with the bug. Funny that it should be so much later than the others – it seemed to eliminate the canteen. And she must find out about Sally – hospital suggested complications. She felt cold. Not gynaecological complications, please. Colin – she hoped he'd be back. And then there was the matter of Selby and his Patience.

‘Graham!' Her face must have shown her surprise and relief.

‘My office, please, DS Power. Now.'

She stared. His mouth was moving but the words didn't make sense.

‘Now.' He turned on his heel and strode off.

She had no option but to follow. She'd never heard him use that tone, not even the first time he summoned her that had been simple authority – this sounded like cold anger. Colin, back at his desk but still pale, raised exaggerated eyebrows. Selby clicked and dragged his mouse. She'd have to sort that out. She registered that Reg was looking serious, that there was no Sally.

The walk to his office seemed very long. The door was closed when she arrived. She tapped. Waited.

‘Come!'

She stood to attention in front of him, a naughty fourth-former. He was seated at his desk, and leaned forward, as if to spring across the desk at her. Then he stood, confronting her. ‘How dare you? How dare you?'

There was nothing to say, was there? Not until she knew how she'd offended.

‘I come back off sick leave to find this!' He flicked an answerphone tape across the desk. ‘Keeping me informed, are you? Wanting my advice? Well, my advice is to keep our squad's work within our squad and not go running to someone else to sort out our problems. Have you any idea how this will look to – to other people? What does it say about the way I organise things that I can't re-deploy people if necessary? At very least you should have asked Cope.'

‘I did. The flea's still in my ear.' Perhaps a weak joke would remind him that they had a friendship growing.

It didn't.

‘And little Ms Power can't take no for an answer. Or, more likely, not no, but just wait until we can sort it. For goodness' sake, you're like a child of four wanting its ice cream now.'

She said nothing. She registered facts: he was white, the bruises ugly browns and yellows. The inflamed eye now looked simply bloodshot. She was shaking: there was distress, but also anger at the injustice of her treatment. Graham, of all people, behaving like a jealous schoolgirl. Why on earth wasn't he simply welcoming what she'd done? It was no more than she'd done before – as a sergeant, she had the authority to ask other areas, other forces, indeed, for support.

He turned to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets. Then he withdrew them, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

There was no point in demeaning herself by offering what he'd see as excuses. And he was in the wrong, she was sure of it. Was it some sort of delayed shock? A row with his wife? Perhaps it hadn't been the most tactful thing in the world to leave messages on his home answerphone. She waited a few moments, and left, closing the door very quietly.

However she tried to school her expression her face didn't feel right. In any case, as long as she was waiting for the call from Giles, she couldn't settle.

Reg looked across at her. ‘Ah, he has his moods, does the Gaffer. Just keep your head down and say nothing: he'll be OK in a day or two.'

Her head was certainly down when Graham appeared, wanting to talk to Colin.

She pounced when the phone rang. Giles must have had time to sort out the files by now. But it was a personal call for Reg. He snapped down the phone at the caller and slammed down the hand-set.

She got up. It was one thing to be hurt dreadfully by someone's temper – it was horribly like Robin's when his wife had been on the phone – but another to let it get in the way of the job. If Giles's sleepless night was no excuse for not searching for the files, how could she chicken out and not tell Graham about them? If he yelled, she'd just have to yell more loudly. She hung round in the corridor outside the office, waiting to intercept him.

He stopped short when he saw her. His mouth tightened.

‘Brayfield Road Baptist Church Boys' Brigade may have had child abuse incidents about ten years ago,' she said flatly.

‘What!'

She couldn't tell whether his explosion was anger at her persistence or interest. He stared coldly for a moment, and then gestured with his head. His office. He closed the door behind them.

‘And it seems someone's busily circulating dirty pictures now,' she continued. ‘Which was how it started first time round. Photos, then rumours about one of the others interfering with kids at camp. My next-door-neighbour's lad left the chapel round about that time – something happened he won't talk about.'

He walked to his desk, sitting heavily. He gestured her to a chair. She chose the hard one.

‘This is stuff you've uncovered through your football coaching, is it?'

‘An adult told me – don't worry, I haven't muddied any waters by trying to talk to the children.'

He nodded. A grim smile softened the rigid line of his mouth. ‘At least that's one thing you haven't put your foot in. These things have to be handled with extreme care. One false move from us and we blow the case before it even gets to court.'

‘I was going to contact Gail this morning, Sir.'

He nodded. ‘What else have you done?'

‘I've asked Giles – you remember –'

‘Yes, the minister you're staying with. Yes?'

‘I've asked him to dig out the records for that period. In fact, I've asked him to phone me as soon as he's found them. I said I'd go and collect them.'

‘Anyone else involved?'

‘Maz, his wife. They wanted me to talk to Paul –'

‘You haven't?' he broke in. No, Paul wasn't his favourite person.

She shook her head. ‘He'd muscle in, wouldn't he? Has to be in the thick of things, Paul. Fingers in every available pie –'

‘– and a few others. Good. Will they be discreet – Giles and Maz?'

She hesitated. ‘I hope so. I laid on the need for confidentiality quite thick. But Maz and Paul are very close: she was offended that I wanted him kept out of it. I felt very bad – she and Giles have been so good to me.'

Graham nodded. He got up again, heading for the kettle. The water bottle was empty, the cups dirty. ‘Which will you tackle?' he asked, managing a faint smile.

They were standing side by side waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘At least Reg Tanner and I seem to have escaped the bug – we ate out on Monday lunch-time. He showed me all his wedding photos.'

Graham nodded: ‘Sound bloke, Reg. Been a sergeant far too long. I gather Sally's had a miscarriage, poor kid. She's unlikely to be back before her notice runs out. There's a new lass coming up soon. Keep an eye on her, will you, Kate? Any hint of any rough stuff – I want to know. Whoever's involved. OK?'

She nodded. ‘Of course.'

‘Anything else I should know?'

Selby? She didn't want to snitch until she'd had one more go at him.

‘There is, isn't there? Look, Kate, I'm running this show –'

‘I know. But I've started to deal with the – the issue. I'd like to see it through if I can. But if I can't –'

‘OK.' He dabbed his hand on the kettle. ‘This is taking a long time to boil. Don't say it's packed up.'

She picked up the trailing cable. ‘I think it helps if you put this end in a socket – Sir!'

Selby was going through files with a pencil when she returned; perhaps she'd been mistaken about his mouse activities earlier. She was glad she'd said nothing to Graham. She still couldn't work out the reason for his over-reaction, his fury. It seemed so personal. Perhaps Colin could enlighten her. Not yet, though – she'd got to get an envelope started for poor Sally. She'd ask Reg if he'd mind organising it – he was the sort of kindly uncle figure to screw the maximum out of reluctant fists. OK, he'd probably be quite maudlin in his approach – but a bit of sentimentality in the matter of lost babies wasn't inappropriate.

By eleven Giles still hadn't phoned.

‘If he doesn't get his finger out, we'll turn up with a search warrant,' Graham said, half sitting on her desk. ‘Can't have him sitting on vital evidence.'

‘He's a friend,' Kate said.

‘OK. Well, you go round and offer to help. Collect the lot, if he hasn't time to sort it out. We'll sort it here.'

She nodded. ‘Now?'

‘Try ten minutes ago.'

It made sense to go back home first, to collect her car, just in case she did have to take the whole caboodle into the city centre. Now she came to think of it, she'd no idea how much was involved – a single file or a whole cabinet-full.

She looked in despair at the cars parked solidly along her street: it would take her five minutes to get out of her space. Not that the car was in front of her house. She'd no idea who that privilege was reserved for. Damn, there was a scar on her front bumper she hadn't noticed before. She did a slow circuit – yes, now she came to look at it, there was a scar on each corner. None hers, she was sure of that. People parking by touch.

She might as well go and check on her post and answerphone now she was here. The door wasn't dead-locked – Alf must be working.

‘You look as if you could do with a cup of tea!' he greeted her. ‘Quite washed out, you look. Here – have a biscuit.'

She took one. ‘How's things?'

‘Well, fine and dandy, once we get that surface. I been doing your security light. Just screwing down the floorboards now.'

‘Find any diamonds?' She explained.

He looked awkward.

‘Alf?'

‘Did find summat,' he said. ‘Not diamonds, though. Not – not very nice, really. I was going to put it on my next bonfire.'

‘What sort of thing?'

‘Don't like to show it to a lady. Not nice at all.'

‘I'm not a lady, Alf. I'm a policewoman. We get to see lots of nasty things.'

He shook his head. ‘Fair turned my stomach.' He burrowed in the back pocket of his overalls. ‘If you're sure?'

‘Sure.'

He slammed a photograph on his saw-horse. ‘There. See what I mean?'

Alf watched while she evicted a seed catalogue from its polythene envelope, and slipped the photograph in its place.

‘You won't be throwing that book away?' he asked indignantly. ‘Not with the state the garden's in!'

She shook her head. ‘Fancy a coffee? I reckon I could use one.' She tapped the photograph as an excuse. Perhaps it wasn't an excuse.

They stared at the frozen images of the man and the boy. At last Alf turned it face down. ‘That coffee,' he said.

He swilled mugs under the outside tap and poured from his flask.

‘I guess the front room's the most civilised,' she said. It was the second time this morning she was having difficulty making her mouth work.

He raised an eyebrow, but followed.

‘That Paul's done a decent job,' he said, running a critical thumb down the window frame. ‘Mind you, he ought to have done, the amount of time he's taken. Must have used a brush with two bristles.'

‘He's been here a lot, then?'

‘Afternoons, mostly. Some dinner times. Thought he'd got a job to go to.'

Kate nodded. ‘Works slowly, you said?'

‘Glad he's not one of my lads. He'd take a month of Sundays to finish a job. Mind you, he says he'll be back to do your ceiling. Arse-ended way of doing things.'

‘Right.' She couldn't think of anything she wanted to say aloud. Her head, on the other hand, was ringing with things she didn't want to hear.

‘You all right? Fancy a biscuit?' He produced some from the bib of his overalls.

She sank on to a flat-pack ‘Thanks.'

‘Don't want to let that sort of thing get to you. Saw a lot worse in the Army. Mind you, that was pictures of men and
women
.'

She nodded.

‘Makes you wonder what goes on in these people's minds.'

She nodded. What went on in the mind of someone who'd give up lunch-time and afternoons to paint a front window frame slowly; to sort out a front but not a back garden.

‘What sort of time would he come to do his painting?' she asked.