‘I suppose I could take you along to Dawlish—show you a bit more of the coast’
‘That’d be useful It’s a nice day for a quiet drive, too’ She meant it as a straight observation.
‘No need to be sarky.’
‘It is a nice day—now Look at it Perfect for September. There’s even steam coming off the street.’ She thought of Madge and her desire for an Indian summer, and her resentments against Sophisticasun Well, she must get stuck into this for the sake of Madge—and all the other Madges no longer getting value for money.
Surly, whether in response to her naive pleasure or simply in role, Craig strode off back down One of the narrow streets. She dawdled, looking around her, trying to fix buildings in her mind Then she stopped dead A tablet on one of the tiny houses told her that Keats had stayed there. In 1818—only a couple of years before his death She’d remembered crying at school when she’d learned what a short life he had God, the discipline and organisation of school seemed a long way away. She could have done with that comfort now: especially a bell ringing to tell her she could go home.
‘Now what?’ Craig demanded, stomping irritably back to join her.
She’d better lie. Any moment now the sniping of their roles could be for real. In any case, Kate Potter wouldn’t be worrying about Keats. ‘I was wondering about that hairdresser.’
‘Yes?’
‘There’d be some in Exeter, I suppose.’
‘Bloody hell, there are hairdressers everywhere, woman. We’re not looking for a top salon here.’
He was right. Forget the good cut that she tried to make part of her monthly routine. She must keep thinking on her feet. ‘I’d have thought a big anonymous place with a brisk turnover of clients, wouldn’t you? Not a salon in a small town like this where you’d be remembered. Or am I getting paranoid? Besides, I shall need cheap clothes: I can’t wear jeans forever.’
‘Cheap?’
‘As you said, cops earn more than the Kate Potters of this world. I need bottom of the range chain stores.’
Craig looked at her anxiously. ‘You won’t need me, not if you’re crawling round the shops.’
‘You could always advise me on colour and style,’ she-suggested, tongue in cheek.
‘Not bloody likely.’ He didn’t seem to have noticed he was being teased. ‘OK. You can go into Exeter in the morning.’
She bit back an angry retort: she hadn’t been asking his permission.
Apparently he didn’t have her forbearance. ‘In the meantime, you’d better make sure the wind doesn’t take that wig.’
Craig drove her along a coast road with impressive views of a seriously choppy sea.
‘Is that the railway there?’ She pointed down to their right.
‘The main line. It runs right along the coast here. We’re dropping into Dawlish now, and then it’s Dawlish Warren—lots of caravans and chalets. And it’s just inland from the next little place, Cockwood, that you’ll find the Sophisticasun development.’
Cockwood was a scattering of cottages and a tiny but idyllic harbour, picturesque as a jigsaw puzzle scene. Presumably some of the little boats bobbing in the breeze belonged to Sophisticasun owners.
‘Nothing but a couple of pubs,’ Craig observed disparagingly. ‘And the railway line.’
‘Is there a bus? I mean,’ she added, as he manoeuvred round badly parked cars, ‘a regular service? Good enough to get me here from Newton Abbot? Or a train?’ As if on cue an HST roared along the line.
He snorted. ‘Plenty of trains, but they don’t stop at every hole in the hedge. And believe me, Starcross, your nearest station is just a hole.’-
‘Bus?’
‘Every couple of hours. When it decides to run.’
‘I’ll have to get a bike then.’ Surely that was unanswerable.
‘A bike on these hills? You’ve got to be joking Maybe a motor scooter or a tiny fart-and-bang motorbike. That’s what I’d go for. But you’d need a licence.’
‘Passed my test when I was seventeen. Not that I’ve ridden one for years.’
‘Something you never forget, riding a bike. IT have a word with Earnshaw when I see her.’
So he got to see Earnshaw and she didn’t? She turned her head sharply enough to betray her disquiet.
‘I do her garden, don’t I? My dear old mum’s. Part of the set-up.’
So he had Earnshaw’s ear on a regular basis. But such a bloody unnecessary risk. Should anyone ask, of course. She hated this punching at shadows. As for her contacts with the others—well, she wasn’t about to ask this man. She’d better just shut up and get on with things.
But that didn’t extend to sharing his bed. ‘Get real, Craig.’
‘Nice try, but—’
‘But we’ve only got curtains up at the one bedroom window.’
‘Then you can sleep without curtains.’
‘Me sleep without curtains! What about you, if you’re so awkward?’
She sat down on the stairs ‘Craig, I suppose we have to quarrel for the sake of our neighbours But I really think we’ve done enough for tonight Let’s just call a truce—a nice audible one if you want—and then behave like the professionals we are Where are the curtains for the spare room?’
‘In the airing cupboard,’ he mumbled.
‘Hang them, then.’ She’d had quite a day. Their drive had culminated in an acrimonious trolley-push round Tesco’s Since then she’d read and re-read her new life, and been questioned on it. Then there’d been six hours of maps and photos and questions about maps and photos interspersed with questions about Kate Potter. Now she was too knackered to do any more ‘I fancy some camomile tea. Want-some?’
He leaned towards her, as if to prod the chest of some rookie constable ‘Truce You want training, that’s what, Power. Kate Potter drink fucking herbal tea You’re off your head’
She mustn’t engage ‘Let’s just say it’s something she picked up in Birmingham Like I picked up the camomile tea-bags in Tesco. If Craig Knowles doesn’t like herbal tea, then he can drink what he bloody does like. So long as he gets it himself.’
‘You’re sure you’re all right, Kate? Rod persisted, the concern in his voice warming her heart. Thank God for mobile phones. Though even they would be out of bounds when she got really stuck into role.
She tried to be more positive. If she smiled, the smile would come out in her voice, wouldn’t it? ‘It’s just jet-lag. And before you say I haven’t flown anywhere, you should have seen Earnshaw’s driving. And there’s no doubt that Teignmouth is in a different time-zone from Brum.’
‘It’s not far off the motorway, though. Would you fancy a visit from your cousin this weekend?’
This time the smile was unforced. ‘Rod, I’d like that more than anything in the world.’
‘So would he.’
She was still smiling when she went to sleep with the mobile phone tucked under her pillow.
Chapter 7
The weekend, and Rod. Kate was sure that it was only the thought of seeing him that had kept her going through the hours of preparation. She only wished her superiors had thought things through as well as she and—yes, she had to hand it to him—Craig were doing. Nothing had quite prepared her for the prosaic little phone call telling her that she’d be starting work the, following week at Sophisticasun, and that she should go in to the agency to sign all sorts of forms and disclaimers But once she’d signed, and been given her instructions, she felt better than she had since she’d arrived. And there was Rod. Only another seventeen hours to go.
Did the secrecy they’d have to maintain add a frisson? Possibly. But being with him in the same room wouldn’t, surely feel like imprisonment, not if it were for the whole weekend Earnshaw had decreed that Craig and Kate should leave as if for a weekend together. Although he was eating into his own free time, Craig dawdled so much setting out that Rod, despite his hundred and eighty mile drive, had reached the meeting place in Plymouth half an hour before they h
ad.
‘Why on earth did they have to land you with such a gorilla?’ Rod demanded, the preliminaries once over. He’d booked in at a suitably anonymous hotel, one of a chain, under his own name Kate had been happy—if embarrassed—for it to be assumed that she was his married cipher.
‘God knows’ She watched with pleasure as he padded, still naked, over to the kettle and returned with cups of English breakfast tea ‘The story is supposed be that although we’ve bought a nice new home—goodness knows how we pay the mortgage on our combined pittances!—the relationship isn’t very good, and I’m happy to work hours of overtime as much to keep out of his way as for the money. Which is how it’s turning out to be’
‘Whose idea was the hair?’ He ruffled it, but with some amusement.
‘These streaks? All the rage, I’m told. I don’t think I can blame him for it. Someone had provided me with a wig, so I had to imitate that. More or less. And less, it has to be said, rather than more Anyway, it’ll grow out’ And though her Birmingham hairdresser would blench at both colour and cut, he’d be able to remedy the depredations of Tammy, the stylist.
‘And you start work—not that I’m sure you haven’t been working your socks off preparing and rehearsing—on Monday.’
‘Yes. Getting out of the house should improve the atmosphere. And I’ll carry on with the garden.’
‘You’re good at gardens. Will you advise me when you come home?’
Home: it was the caress of the word that made her heart leap.
‘It’s so anonymous. Yours—you’ve already set your stamp on your house—and your garden too. It feels more like home than my place has ever done. Though perhaps it’s because you’re there. Would you—would you bring your toothbrush over to my bathroom to see if it makes any difference?’
‘I’m a blue toothbrush, You’re a pink toothbrush…’ she sang, cornily.
And the rest of the weekend passed in a glorious blur of silliness.
—and sex and affection and—yes, it was love, wasn’t it? The L word. The feeling Of ease and comfort she’d once had with Robin, though he was such a different man. Never with Graham. She’d always felt she had to gain his approval. As if he were some reliable, responsible father, the sort she’d never had It was time to let him go: they were better off without each other.
Until five o’clock on Monday morning, she could count herself a very lucky woman. And even though it had hurt horribly to bid him goodbye—they’d risked the change-over at Exeter Services this time—his promise that he’d be with her the following weekend would keep her going this week. Of course, there was always the caveat that work must come first—his or hers. But if the gods had been unkind enough to pull them apart during the week, perhaps they’d smile on them at weekends. Meanwhile, there was his smile to remember—and his touch, his taste, and his smell.
So this was her first day cleaning the lavatories and other, public areas in the Sophisticasun Cockwood complex. There’d been no one to meet her, just an overall and keys handed over by a night-time security guard going off duty. The list of instructions was crumpled into the overall pocket.
A quick look round as she’d walked into the complex—she’d taken a long route, on the excuse, had anyone asked, that she wasn’t sure of her way—hadn’t suggested any of the building works that had been supposed to keep potential purchasers away, but perhaps all the work was internal, and the builders and decorators arrived when builders and decorators got around to it. Or a round tuft, as one of her acquaintances had called it, saying, come to think of it, that you could buy round tuits in the South-West. She must keep an eye open for one of those, too. A silly present for Rod.
Nothing at all suspicious. Nothing to raise a single hair on the back of the neck. It’d be more scary helping kids across the road in Kings Heath. She couldn’t get into the apartments, so she wouldn’t be able to check on whether they too had little surveillance cameras.
So on to the lavatories.
It didn’t need Gary Vernon, the complex manager—how many meanings might that have, varying with the way it was stressed?—to tell her that her predecessor had been a disappointment. Kate believed in clean lavatories with the absolute faith her Irish ancestors might have had in the Sacred Heart. How they’d come to do a volte-face and become Protestants—indeed, fully-fledged Baptists—she didn’t know. Perhaps she could research her ancestry when she retired. In the meantime, as she filled in a chit requesting new (and plentiful) supplies of bleach and other cleaning fluids, she felt a certain sour pleasure in a job well done.
Next job: dusting and vacuuming the manager’s office.
‘Shouldn’t you have done this first? Before I started work?’ Vernon asked irritably, pushing at fair, wispy hair that would—soon give up trying to cover his pate. At least he hadn’t gone for close-shaven brutalism, which wouldn’t have suited his rather gentle face. She put him in his late thirties.
‘Sorry, Mr Vernon. But I didn’t know where the keys were kept. And I could get on and do the other stuff so I did.’
‘Good girl. Well, I usually take a stroll round about this time to check that everything’s OK—I suppose I could do that now. Now, I’ll leave the voice-mail activated, and the fax switched on. So don’t worry about trying to answer anything.’
‘Thank you, Mr Vernon. Goodness! When was this place last given a thorough going over?’ She ran a finger over a shelf in a gesture that Aunt Cassie would have applauded. ‘And those poor plants ‘
Today she wouldn’t even attempt to look at files, though he’d obligingly left the computer running. As she ran her long-handled duster round, she realised it was a good thing she hadn’t. Lurking behind a cobweb was a little black lens. She stared straight into it, giving it an extra tickle with the duster for good measure. Christ! What a good job she’d done nothing untoward. A punctilious wipe down of the filing cabinets and cupboards showed they were filthy and fitted with far from standard locks It looked as if she was thoroughly stymied. But on the principle that she had to do something that might push things forward, without alerting any watcher, she scraped together a hazy plan. Attacking the fax machine with the duster, she mimed getting the fabric stuck. Anyone seeing her would have approved of her determination to wrest it free. In doing so, she removed a considerable length of fax paper. If he needed to replace it and couldn’t, she would leap to the rescue and so impress him with her skills he’d ask her about her background and move her on to clerical work. Well, it was a nice fantasy. Meanwhile, today—and for several other days—she would simply demonstrate, to him and to the little eye, what a good worker she was. To her annoyance, the first thing she had to do was empty the vacuum cleaner, a procedure that took longer than it should have done because there was no instruction manual and the diagrams on the machine might well have defeated a rocket scientist.
‘Still here’ Vernon demanded tetchily when he came back Despite a healthy outdoor complexion, he nurtured his reputation as an overworked middle manager by hunching his shoulders and carrying a file wherever he went.
‘The vac was full: that’s why your carpet looked scruffy. Trouble is, I’m almost up to today’s hours. Looks as if I’ll have to leave it till tomorrow’
He looked harassed ‘I’ve got a meeting in here later. You couldn’t put in a bit longer? Do less another day?’
She pulled a face. ‘They said at the agency I mustn’t do that. I mean, I’m willing to oblige, but you have to fill in proper time-sheets and things’ As he well knew For Sophisticasun’s records and the agency’s He tutted with irritation ‘I have a budget to keep to’
He’d only been trying to screw extra hours from someone on no more than the legal minimum wage. The mean…
‘Oh, dear. Thing is, Mr Vernon, like you said, the girl before me let things slip a bit If you want things brought up to standard She gave him a sudden smile, the one that released her dimples. You’ll find a way, the dimples said.
To her amazement he blushed. ‘L
ook, just do your best for today I’ll sort out extra hours for later in the week If I can’
She looked with touching regret at the dust ‘If you can sort it out, I’ll have another go tomorrow. That’ll be best, won’t it’ Not only best for his organisation, but also best for her plans ‘And then we’ll see how we get on Right, Mr Vernon—give me Just two minutes with this vac, and I’ll be out of your hair’
That done, she trundled her vac and trolley round the rest of the place Even in this building there was a mixture of the new and prestigious and the older and distinctly tatty, so perhaps Gregorie had been telling the truth The manager’s was the only office to be smart, despite its patina of dust. Some of the other offices—the catering manager’s, for instance—were so ill-lit and badly organised she was amazed no one had reminded management of minimum health and safety standards for the workplace. But she was here not to raise a dust, merely to clean it up. She worked with a will, but it soon became apparent that to make any real impression she would have to work far more hours than she was contracted to do. Perhaps this explained the brisk turnover of her predecessors, and there was nothing sinister at all.
So why was everyone taking the whole business so seriously OK, patchily seriously. Silly question, with that little lens in the corner of the manager’s office Innocent businesses didn’t usually run to those Interestingly, none of the other offices seemed to have them What about sound bugging? She’d have to get one of them organised, as soon as she could.
The morning’s hours completed, she returned to her little motorbike. While it was hardly a transport of delight, she’d become quite attached to it since it had arrived on Thursday. She’d already spent hours pottering round the steep-sided lanes, learning all the routes to the complex, which lay between a separate caravan park—yes, run by a different firm, absolutely legitimate according to Craig—and Cockwood village. At first she’d confined herself to learning the twists and turns while the visibility was good. Now she was happy to explore even in the mist that hung cold and damp over the coast She wanted to know it like a native better than a-native. She couldn’t believe it could happen, but one melodramatic scenario was that one day she’d have to make her escape on the bike, maybe in the dark. She would be prepared.
Hidden Power Page 7
