Hidden Power

by Judith Cutler

  There was nothing on TV—as Elly could have told her. What would they be doing tonight, away from all their familiar things?

  At least Peter had the board game, and Elly had the book—if they’d chosen to take them. They might have had more cherished books and toys. Perhaps they would remember her kindly. There was no reason for Gary and Julie to speak of her with anything other than kindness. Was there? So long as Julie got her treatment. At least Vernon should be spared a long sentence. He might not enjoy being transplanted, but it was better than the alternative, spending years in prison while his wife died untreated.

  Hell, there must be something to drink somewhere.

  All the same, he’d never stop looking over his shoulder for the man from Chagford, would he? Kenneth Arthur Hemmings. Such a normal name for a man whose drugs empire ran to millions—those pots had been full of high-grade LSD and Ecstasy—and who enjoyed tormenting people on the side. But the Vernons might not be grateful, any more than she was grateful at the moment. She picked up a mug and slung it as hard as she could at the kitchen wall. She felt so bloody angry.

  And frustrated. Where were the photos? They hadn’t found anything in Gregorie’s car. Where could he have stowed them? Well, if they were anywhere in the complex they’d come to light. She could trust her colleagues to find a pin there if they’d been looking for one. But she’d bet her pension that the contents of the black bag weren’t anywhere near Cockwood—any more than the Escort would be. She still didn’t even know for sure what the photos were. The best she could come up with was the theory that they were the result of hours of silent surveillance on people who thought they could do what they liked in the privacy of their own apartments. A bit of S and M—something kinky while they were on holiday. But why go to the trouble of killing someone? Just for that?

  No. It must be something more serious. Something much more. Cons didn’t kill unless they could help it—it drew too much attention their way. As Vernon had told her when she’d left sensitive material unshredded, you couldn’t make mistakes when millions of pounds were at stake.

  There was a double knock at the front door. It was a signal devised so she’d know that it was Fanny, her liaison colleague, but she checked through the spyhole nonetheless. Yes, it was Fanny, beaming and twiddling her fingers in a baby-wave. At least she seemed to have brought something with her: she was flourishing a carrier bag like the Chancellor on Budget Day.

  ‘I thought you might fancy a curry,’ Fanny announced. ‘And a bit of news. Oh, dear—had a bit of an accident, did we?’ She flicked a shard with her toe.

  A minder sounding like a geriatric nurse was just what she bloody needed. Not that anyone would dare speak to Cassie like that.

  ‘What news?’ Kate seized the carrier and led the way into the kitchen, as if it were her territory. Yet she didn’t even know where the plates were kept.

  ‘They’ve found Craig’s body. Where you said it was. Gregorie says it was an accident, of course.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise. But he does admit he did it?’

  Fanny looked at her, very oddly. ‘Actually, no. He says Vernon did it. And that Vernon hit you. And that Craig came to your rescue and got hit himself. Only harder.’

  ‘Craig came to my rescue?’ Thank God for that. ‘Vernon? Is there any evidence?’

  ‘It may be that something will come up at the postmortem. You know, they can sometimes tell whether the killer was left- or right-handed.’ She smiled, just as if Kate were an infant with special educational needs, not a woman who numbered a Home Office pathologist among her close friends.

  ‘And the photos?’

  ‘He says they were Vernon’s. Hard-core porn.’

  ‘So where are they now?’

  ‘In the Teign estuary, sharing a bag with a big brick. Gregorie says Vernon asked him to get rid of them, so he did. He parked the car on the bridge and slung them over.’

  ‘He must have caused a wonderful traffic jam. There’ll be witnesses, at least.’

  ‘Oh yes. Witnesses that he did it. But not who told him to. And not what they were, of course.’

  ‘They don’t buy the hard-core porn story?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t buy the idea of Gregorie doing anything for Vernon. He claimed that Vernon did things for him, not the other way round.’

  ‘Well, then. I know what you city types think, but we don’t all have straws in our hair, you know. In fact, I think you’ll find rural police are more multi-skilled than the average city cop.’ Fanny nodded the point home, sticking out a stubborn jaw. ‘I might as well tell you, there’s a feeling at HQ that your Mr Vernon may not be the lily-white boy you think he is.’ She raised what looked horribly like a complicitous eyebrow: it said, Women working undercover always fall for the scrote. ‘Still, the big thing is, he’s prepared to sing like a cageful of canaries. Well get a lot of other scrotes even if we do have to send him off to the Costa del Somewhere at the tax-payers’ expense.’

  Kate took another mug from the tree on the windowsill and hurled it at the wall.

  Fanny blinked.

  ‘Oh, sit down and eat your tea, do, while I get this lot up.’ She fished under the sink for a dustpan and brush. ‘That’s the trouble with grand gestures. Always leave such a mess, don’t they?’ She started to sweep. ‘Well, I hope you think it was worth it.’

  Kate stared. It wasn’t like her to do such things. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Well, how does it feel to have located the biggest LSD and Ecstasy factory in the south-west?’ Earnshaw bustled into the—hallway, thrusting at Kate a couple of thick Sunday papers from a Sainsbury’s carrier.

  Kate shrugged, shaking her head. The discovery had been pretty accidental, after all.

  ‘And those lovely bonds you nicked.’

  ‘Oh, those fancy things in the Vernons’ bedroom?’

  ‘Exactly what we were looking for. Even better than the faxed ones you got hold of. Sophisticasun were ripping off British pensioners £1000 a time. Disgusting!’

  Kate nodded absently. Were they even in the same league as all those drugs? Still, the more material for the Crown Prosecution Service the better.

  ‘How about a coffee? Oh, this isn’t bad,is it? Nice and new.’ Earnshaw patted the work surface. ‘Your friend Vernon is singing—like a cageful of bloody canaries.’

  Kate bit back a scream—couldn’t they at least come up with a different cliché?

  ‘His line is that until recently he was just a simple middle—manager. He insists most of his colleagues are just that. Ordinary employees. Then his bosses discovered that his wife was using pot and blackmailed him into working for them. Well, whatever… Aren’t you impressed?’

  ‘I knew all that already, Ma’am. It’s the photos I’m interested in. Shall I—would it help if I were to talk to him again?’

  Earnshaw appeared not to hear. ‘He’s dished dirt on a number of the faces and voices you recorded.’

  ‘Is it accurate dirt?’

  Earnshaw touched the side of her nose. ‘It looks as if it all hangs together, anyway. Apart from the surveillance cameras. He couldn’t explain those. But they’d tie up with your theory about blackmail. And the missing films and photos.’

  ‘Seems such a heavy hammer to crack such a tiny nut,’ Kate said, doubtfully. ‘Anything on something really big and juicy? After all, it was some Big Guns that sent us in. You wouldn’t think they’d bother with comparatively trivial stuff like this. Not unless it was one of them that got his or her fingers burned.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Well, what, then?’

  Earnshaw blinked. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just interested.’ But not enough to hit her head on a brick wall any longer. ‘Any news of Craig’s funeral?’

  ‘You didn’t take much interest in him while he was alive! No, I should think it highly inappropriate if you turned up. Imagine what his wife would thi
nk.’

  Easy sentiment. ‘Ma’am, we’ve been all over this. Let’s write Craig and me off as incompatible. But he was a human being and he’s dead, and I’d have liked—’

  ‘To pay your respects?’

  Not quite. But there was no point in arguing. ‘Tell me: have they established why he was at the complex anyway? And at that hour and in that place?’

  Earnshaw blushed deeply and probably painfully. ‘There was a sense that you weren’t getting things done.’

  ‘Whose sense? Are you saying you sent him in behind my back? Jesus! After all the stuff I’d just got for you! But that doesn’t explain why he should sock me.’

  ‘It might have been Vernon, of course. And it wasn’t very hard.’

  ‘Only because I moved! Are you seriously telling me he was in there with your blessing with licence to knock me unconscious?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But we—you know, with his family—we want a…a decent front.’

  ‘Oh, I bloody do know. Saint Craig. While the truth is he got fed up, decided to act the maverick, and while we were all worried sick about him he nips back to the complex to solve everything himself. Except he doesn’t. He gets himself killed and fucks up a whole enquiry. Shit!’ She slammed her hand on the surface. The kettle slopped. ‘That’s the long and short of it, isn’t it?’

  In a deep silence, Earnshaw laid the newspapers on the table, carefully folding the carrier bag. ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for you to talk to Vernon again. He did seem to like you. It’ll take some arranging of course.’

  Suddenly she was tired of all, the cloak and dagger stuff. ‘We could just talk on the phone.’

  In the event it was face to face at another anonymous house. The officer who let her in was armed. Perhaps she’d welcome a bit of that sort of company herself. Any sort of company, really. Her own, even enlivened by Solitaire and Free Cell on the computer, was beginning to pall.

  She and Vernon hardly acknowledged each other’s presence. Was he feeling tired or guilty at not having been straight with her?

  ‘Let’s go in the garden,’ she said. ‘The sun’s trying to break through and I could do with some fresh air.’

  Her armed colleague stood at the back door, scanning garden sheds and allotments for signs of hostility.

  ‘Julie and the children?’

  ‘Fine. Not happy, but fine. They’re sorting out documentation for Australia and Julie’s treatment.’

  ‘Good. I need to ask you one or two things, Gary—just to get them straight in my own mind.’

  ‘If it’s about the surveillance cameras, I’ve no idea—unless it was to keep an eye on us. The staff. I didn’t even notice that one in my office. I suppose they may have wanted to see if the owners were doing anything to the detriment of the apartments. I’ll tell you this—there was a rumour the Boss wanted some put in bathrooms. Actually in the loos. Sick, eh?’

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s all it was, Kate. And I bet Hemmings had the photos kept in his nearest complex so he could go and take a shufti when he felt like it. Julie loathed him. Said he was far worse than Gregorie. Is that it?’ He shivered in the autumn wind.

  ‘Not quite, actually. I wanted to ask about something someone said right at the start of my stint with you. Someone at the agency. They said your staff turnover was unusually brisk. That people wouldn’t stay long. Why was that, Gary?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was always telling head office we needed to pay more for loyalty. The minimum wage, that’s what people were getting—even skilled people. I mean, cleaners—they wouldn’t expect much. But—well, I never had a proper PA all the time you were there. Remember how you sorted out my fax? Looked after my flowers? And the girls in the office were real bitches to girls who did give it a try.’

  Hmm. Yes, she’d had the silent treatment. ‘But there must have been something else. Jobs aren’t easy to come by, down here. Not out of season. What made people leave? I mean, you expected a great deal of them—they certainly didn’t have enough time to get everything done each day. But for an agency to notice… She turned to him. ‘Well?’

  The bugger was looking shifty. No. Just puzzled. Maybe. It’d be easier to believe him.

  ‘So it’s really just a case of bad industrial relations?’

  ‘They couldn’t even get discount in the shop.’

  ‘OK. Tell me something else. Just between the two of us, if you like. Why should Gregorie, who claimed to be your boss, get rid of those photos at your behest? That’s what he says, anyway.’

  Vernon chuckled. ‘“Your behest!” It must have been really tough for you being Kate Potter. Well, I’d say he got rid of them because he had to.’

  ‘But you can have a guess. And you’d know if there was anything similar at another site.’

  ‘Your people’—he let the words sting a little—‘will have been through every deep freeze in every complex, won’t they?’

  ‘Do you reckon they’ll find ready assembled burgers and hot dogs?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think they’ll find anything else. As I said, the Boss…’ He mimed a man jerking himself off.

  ‘Why not keep them somewhere nearer his—his factory?’

  ‘No point, in taking extra risks.’

  It all hung together. Almost. ‘Come on, Gary: I hate leaving a case with loose ends trailing all over the place.’

  He spread his hands helplessly. No. He knew nothing.

  ‘Let’s talk about Gregorie again. Why should Gregorie be so anxious to get rid of them? And lie?’

  Now he did look ashamed. ‘I should have let you get him arrested. He’s not a nice man, Gregorie. I should have supported you better the night he attacked you. And told you to go to the police, not tried to talk you out of it. The Boss isn’t the only one to take photos. Gregorie did too. And of people—one or two quite surprising people. Some women who should know better find him attractive. Well, more than attractive. Willing to—to do it with him. And he took photos while he was—while they were…’

  ‘I suppose he didn’t try to take photos of women workers? Shit, Gary, why didn’t you support them? Why didn’t they complain?’

  ‘Blackmail. But it was only a few. The rest were just plain pissed off with their wages. And it’s awkward to get to by bus. That sort of thing.’

  She wanted desperately to believe him. ‘In addition to these women?’

  ‘A couple of very famous ones. Well, not famous themselves. But one—let’s just say her dad’s… He wouldn’t want people to know his daughter shagged a bloke in the time-share apartment she owned. Especially in such—well, they were inventive.’

  ‘So Craig died so the information didn’t come out. Tell me, did you kill him? And clout me?’

  ‘I’ll go on oath it was Gregorie.’

  She’d bet he would. ‘Why didn’t Gregorie want the photos saved as a bargaining tool?’

  ‘He did. I didn’t. Imagine—imagine Elly doing that and being photographed. I couldn’t bear to see them. So I thought this Minister might not. I talked him out of it. Said it was too risky. Said if he got rid of them I’d keep schtum. Look, I’m freezing.’

  So was Kate. She turned on her heel and left him where he stood.

  ‘Isn’t it nice when everything comes together?’ Earnshaw observed, rubbing her hands with glee before wrapping them right round a tumbler of the best single malt the Exeter pub could provide. ‘It makes everything worthwhile, doesn’t it Sensible judge. Sensible jury. Sensible sentences. Yes, it was all worth it, wasn’t it?’

  Kate sipped white wine and thought about her new inspector’s uniform hanging up at home and about the supper Rod had promised to cook. She thought of children uprooted from all they knew, a woman desperate to survive and a man who claimed he’d hit no one and had disposed of foul photos. Because they reminded him of Elly. The trouble is, you see what you want to see in everything, don’t you?

  Elly. Peter. Julie. And Gary. Had she fallen in love with th
e whole family? And if she had, did that mean she’d loved Gary, too? If only for that moment by the swimming pool?

  And did she believe him because she wanted to? Certainly it had transpired that when the Home Office initiated the investigation, it wasn’t because anyone expected to find what the press were now calling a Drugs Baron. The Devon and Cornwall Police were still convinced that he was in much deeper than he’d ever admitted, and there was of course no proof for his assertions. Gregorie denied them flatly, but since he was likely to go down for some nine rapes and attempted rapes, he would, wouldn’t he?

  She answered her own questions and Earnshaw’s with the same words: ‘I don’t know.’