Idly, not too keen on getting up, Kate flicked on the radio. The headline she caught on the Today programme was like a blow to her stomach. Another missing boy! This one lived in Liverpool, but her alarm bells started ringing. At least the media hadn’t yet put two and two together to make half a dozen, but they would, soon enough, Kate thought grimly. And perhaps they’d be right to. All she could think about during the long bus journey was the innocent heads of the Newtown school kids.
When she reached the Incident Room, Selby was already on the computer, shifting the mouse and clicking with some determination, and definitely increased speed. She was impressed, and would have told him so, had not Cope hove into view, followed by the rest of the team. Brainstorming time. If there were any brains amongst them. Graham and Colin would be out – they were giving evidence in a court case – and for a moment she felt isolated. But she’d not crossed swords with anyone for a while, and it would be good to have to make an effort to get along with the others. She sat next to one of the older men, just back from his annual leave.
‘You must be Kate,’ he said affably. ‘Reg Tanner. I’ve been down in Oz for a couple of months, seeing my son get married.’
They shook hands.
‘How are you settling in? Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thanks. I’ve been made very welcome.’ By most, if not all.
‘I bet you have, nice-looking wench like you. Ah, better hush-up.’ He turned towards Cope, leading in Graham’s absence.
He didn’t do a bad job, really. He reviewed all the evidence so far and the on-going activities. The main problems were a total lack of witnesses to Danny’s RTA and Darren’s continued silence. He spoke with anger of the injuries and the possible cause of the damage – a Hornby 00 gauge railway engine.
‘Has anyone shown one to Darren – to get his reaction?’ Reg asked.
‘Not as far as I know,’ Cope replied. ‘That’s up to the medics, isn’t it? We can’t go interfering.’
‘Has anyone asked the medics?’ Reg pursued.
‘They have been contacted, with what result I’m unable to say.’
‘There’s your answer,’ Reg muttered to Kate. ‘Bet that would open the floodgates. Bloody hell, there’s some nasty pieces of knitting around.’
She nodded. ‘Have house-to-house inquiries brought up anything, Sir?’ she asked aloud.
‘Only a lot of mish-mashed notes. Maybe you’d care to help decipher them and make a report, Power. At your convenience, of course.’
Which would teach her to keep her mouth shut. While the others tossed ideas back and forth – none of them greeted with much enthusiasm by Cope, but none received with such hostility – Kate tried to close her mind to the noise of the room. There was something, wasn’t there? Something she ought to remember. And as it came to her, she knew it was nothing she wanted to share with Cope. Except she was part of a team. She’d float it gently, and if Cope shot it down, she’d take the rest to Graham. Or start herself. ‘I suppose,’ she said hesitantly, ‘they must take the poor little devils somewhere. Their safe house. There’s no reports at local nicks by neighbours of odd behaviour, I suppose?’
Cope didn’t even bother to sneer. ‘Safe house? Of course. But you don’t suppose they’d be so daft as to behave strangely. We’re working with cunning buggers here.’
No one laughed at the grotesque pun.
The next question was from Reg: had they warned boys’ clubs and other organisations.
‘I think you can rest assured that that’s underway, Reg. Just because you’ve been away the world hasn’t stopped turning.’
And Reg took it. Not a murmur. And yet he was probably even older than Cope, still a DC so not one of the ambitious ones. But a solid, reliable-looking man. Solid in both senses, come to think of it – the sort of man who might have boxed, played rugby, in his younger days.
No, she wasn’t going to push the idea of the safe house. She wasn’t going to mention that conversation she’d heard on the bus that wet morning about a mysteriously under-occupied suburban house. She was going to find the house.
‘Is anyone going up to talk to the scousers?’ Sally asked.
‘Fancy a trip up the M6, do you? Well, sorry to spoil your plans, but you’ll be staying down here. DCI Harvey’ll be going up soon as he’s finished in court. Provided you have no objection, Power?’
Pretend not to have heard? Certainly she couldn’t ask why she should object – that’d be asking for trouble.
‘Eh, Power?’
Bastard! ‘Can’t think of anyone better, Sir,’ she said sunnily.
As soon as they’d been dismissed, she and Reg drifted over to the water dispenser to join Sally: a mutual licking of wounds was due, perhaps.
‘Jesus, Sally, me love, he hasn’t got any better, has he?’ Reg took a plastic cup and filled it, passing it to Sally. ‘And what’s this about you leaving?’
‘I won’t say it’s all down to His Nibs,’ Sally said. ‘But it was a factor, Reg. These bloody moods of his – he’s worse than my mam, and she’s going through the Change. Must be a Male Menopause, like they say.’
‘If he goes on like this much longer,’ said Kate, ‘I’ll ask for a transfer to Traffic.’
Someone yelled for Sally to come to the phone.
‘You’d better get stuck in too, my wench. And I’ll get me a date with my computer. Got to get this bleeder. Hey – what was that you were saying about safe houses and that?’
‘Just a hunch. They must take the poor kids somewhere. And it’d have to be detached. Plenty of parking,’ she added, thinking about her own house. ‘Somewhere where people are out at work all day, and prefer to keep themselves to themselves.’
‘You’re describing loads of places, aren’t you?’
‘But if someone had got nosy – had contacted their local nick …’ She tailed off. Cope was back in the room. Back to a morning tapping keys.
Today, despite all the pressures to get on, she scheduled herself a lunch break. Not to buy curtains: she wanted a plan of Birmingham’s bus routes and a large scale street map. OK, it meant another night at the Manse, but at least there she’d have a floor large enough to spread out her new maps.
The first problem of course was remembering which bus she’d got on. Any number ran along the High Street into town, but they joined it – and therefore left it – at different points. So unless she knew her number, she couldn’t trace the route backwards, couldn’t hope to find that rather nice cul-de-sac the women had spoken about. The one with the house where all sounds were suppressed and a flap of felt kept prying eyes from the letter box.
The traffic was so bad, she decided on impulse to stop off at the Kings Heath nick to find out the latest on the rape she’d interrupted. She found Maureen, the WPC she’d dealt with before, slumped over a coffee in the canteen. The only sign of life was from her left hand, stirring in sugar. Kate collected a cup of tea and joined her.
‘How are you settling in?’ Maureen demanded, straightening up. ‘There’s a rumour you’re going out with a vicar.’
Kate grinned, but shook her head. ‘I’m not going out with anyone, Maureen, much as everyone would love to pair me up with someone or other. My bloke was killed this summer, remember. I don’t want a relationship. Sorry,’ she added.
‘Don’t worry. Everyone treats me like an agony aunt. Last time I was at a conference I got this Chief Superintendent telling me he was afraid he was a transsexual. He thought a bonk with me might help him decide.’
‘I won’t ask if it did! Any news, by the way, of the lads who didn’t have that sort of excuse for bonking? Those young rapists I disturbed?’
‘The girl’s being tested for STDs, poor kid. Nearly hysterical. But she’s not pregnant. And she thinks she might prefer to go and live in Leicester permanently, auntie permitting. And her family over here seem glad to be shot of her. But as to her assailants, no, we’ve got nothing yet. They would have to be sodding Afro-Caribbean �
�� can’t interrogate anyone without being accused of racial harassment and damaging community relations. As if raping a sixteen-year-old isn’t pretty harmful to community relations.’
The women sat in silence for a bit. Then Kate asked, ‘What time do you finish today? Fancy a pizza or something?’
‘You mean you haven’t got to dash off to your vicar?’
‘Avoid his brother-in-law, more like. Which is not always easy when you’re staying at the Manse.’
‘I shan’t be off shift till ten. By which time all my tum wants is an omelette. So we’d better take a rain-check. Unless you fancy eating here? Oh, it’s not that bad!’
‘OK: what do you recommend?’ Kate pushed up from the table with what she hoped looked like enthusiasm. She cannoned into a tall, bespectacled man.
‘OK, Sarge,’ Maureen said. You haven’t come all up here just to ask me what time it is. Problem?’
‘Hole in one, Mo. We’ve got a girl in tears at the desk. No idea what’s the matter – she won’t talk to a man.’
‘Sounds like they’re playing my tune,’ Maureen said, getting up. ‘We’ll have that pizza another time, Kate. Specially if you make it a balti – there’s a good place in York Road.’
So that was that. The traffic was still solid, so she left her car where it was and walked down the High Street towards her home. What she had to do was find out that bus number. And by far the easiest way was on foot. She could pick up supplies at one of the supermarkets, too. And window shop. Yes, those curtains looked good. It’d be nice to shop locally, rather than using the big city centre shops. Provided she could get out here while the local shops were still open.
She’d caught that bus at a stop by the parish church. That’s it. Two shelters, one nearer the lights than the other. Had she got on at the first or the second? For the life of her she couldn’t remember. And clearly it mattered. She’d got on a double-decker, surely. And as she watched, a double-decker came up the main road. And a single pulled in from Vicarage Road, the 35. Were all 35s single-decker? Were any 50s single-decker? And now, since both buses had filled up and pulled out, there was no one to ask.
Suddenly homesick, she crossed at the lights and headed for her house. Just to see the progress, just to see when she could call it hers. That was all.
And she nearly walked past it. She’d forgotten there’d be no hedge and Alf’s team had moved to the front of the house: Aunt Cassie’s dispiriting black was under an even more dispiriting dark grey undercoat. And light grey round the window, which would soon be white.
She let herself in. They’d started on the skeleton of the kitchen now, though nothing could be finished till that working surface came. Not even a slot for her microwave. Upstairs to reassure herself that there was progress somewhere. Her bedroom. Not Aunt Cassie’s now, hers. This weekend she’d put some pictures on the wall, that’d be better. And those curtains in the High Street shop would be just the ticket. If not just the size. She slipped back downstairs to find a tape measure. Working quickly, but, she hoped, accurately, she jotted down the dimensions of each room, including the windows, in her organiser. Right! Ready to build a home.
And ready for some supper. Too late to cook, especially in someone else’s kitchen. She’d get one of those magnificent chicken tikka naans from the chip shop she’d tried before.
The assistant greeted her like an old friend. ‘How many d’you want, chick?’
‘Just the one, thanks.’
‘Only one! But it was three last time!’
She couldn’t explain, could she? ‘I’ve already eaten,’ she lied cheerfully. ‘This is just a snack!’
Paul was washing up when she arrived. He dried his hands, and made much of finding her a clean plate and pressing salt, pepper and any other condiment on her. At last she convinced him there was spice enough in the chicken, and that she needed no more than a plate and a knife and fork.
‘Thanks for all your efforts in my front garden,’ she said, belatedly. ‘You’ve really opened things up. D’you think the wall’s all right? It doesn’t seem to have much in the way of foundations.’
‘Last as long as you, that wall. I thought some cotoneaster would look nice against it – I’ll look out for some. But nothing by the window or you’ll get damp in your foundations.’
She nodded. ‘Maybe a clematis up the side of the bay window. And a hanging basket: I’ve always liked hanging baskets.’ Though for this she’d have to consult her neighbours – they shared the wall, after all. Another chance to talk to Mrs Mackenzie, and possibly the charming Royston.
Although he sat and watched her eat, he got up as soon as she’d finished. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got these piles of marking. Have to love you and leave you.’
‘No problem,’ she said, realising too late she had not made the most tactful response. ‘I’ve got a load of work to get through myself.’
She was running George V round the track when she asked Tim if he ever travelled by bus.
‘Everyone does,’ he said, watching it round a couple of circuits. ‘Dad says it’s better to use buses for going to town and that, because of the parking.’
‘So which do you catch?’
‘Any of those on the High Street,’ he said. ‘They all stop by the hot dog stall. The West Midlands Transport ones and the Your Bus ones. Though Dad says West Midlands took over Your Bus.’
‘Which are best?’
‘I like the double-deckers best. Except they do sway about a bit.’
She reversed George V into a siding. ‘Which one now? So are the double-deckers on all the routes?’
‘Let’s get an HST running. No. Only the West Midlands ones. The big blue-and-silver ones. Except some are blue and cream – that’s their old livery. They’re on the fifty route.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No. The rest are all single. Why?’
‘Just that I got on one when I first arrived and I couldn’t remember which it was.’
He nodded, as if that was explanation enough. ‘Let’s do some shunting,’ he said. ‘Come on: it’s time Duck earned his keep.’ He picked it up: ‘Nice little engine,’ he said, as if it were a pet hamster.
She looked at his blue eyes and blond curls and prayed that he’d never have cause to think it otherwise.
Chapter Eighteen
Kneeling on the floor of her room at the Manse, Kate spread the street plan and bus route maps in front of her. Her Kings Heath bus-stop had been roughly halfway along a very long route, with lots of culs-de-sac that might be possibilities. If she extended her search to allow for women prepared to tackle a stiff walk, there were even more. How many hours’ work to find the right one – more to the point, how on earth would she know it was the right one? One long shot would be to phone all the local nicks just to check whether the well-dressed woman had been public spirited – or plain nosy – enough to report her suspicions. An even longer one would be to start travelling by bus. And to do that efficiently she would have to cover each bus-stop along the route, for the salient time each morning, hoping to see the women she’d overheard.
If she approached Cope she’d get a flat denial and public ridicule. Graham was the only one she could ask. And he was in Liverpool. He’d have his mobile phone with him. Why not phone him – it was only half past ten? But he might be back the following morning: she could ask him then. Except that would postpone action for another day.
Inaction, rather. This could be a long, slow and ultimately unrewarding slog.
Go on: phone him.
What she could do was go in by bus next morning – the traffic was so bad she wouldn’t lose much time. And she would phone all the police stations within the area, just on the off-chance.
She was late, of course, and as she ran from the bus-stop in town kicked herself doubly: the morning she’d overheard those women she’d been even later than this. It must have been after eight when she’d reached the High Street, and here she was, trying in vain to
make that seven-thirty start everyone honoured.
At least she was on the phone, obviously talking to a police colleague, when Cope peered round the door; he’d have to postpone his bollocking, though she couldn’t imagine him cancelling it altogether. She asked, waited, had nil returns. So much for that idea. So when she spoke to Graham she’d try not to overplay the significance of the rest of the plan.
Colin breezed in just as she was brewing some coffee. He put his hand up to give a friendly five: ‘We got him! Sent down for four years.’
‘Is that long enough?’
‘I’d have said seven; Graham said we were lucky to get more than two. So that’s fine.’
‘I thought Graham was off to Merseyside?’
He wagged a finger: ‘Nosy! Yes, he set off last night, must have been about six. All that lovely traffic on the M6. I told him to hang on an hour – wouldn’t make all that much difference to the time he arrived there, after all – but that would have meant going back to Mrs H, and Graham doesn’t like going back to Mrs H if he can avoid it.’
‘Why does he? There’s such a thing as divorce – God knows enough of us end up with broken marriages.’
‘Don’t ask me, ducky – not my scene at all.’ He returned his voice to normal: ‘Thing is, he’s got religion, see? Serious stuff. Not just your C of E on your next-of-kin form. Something unlikely. Seventh Day Adventist or Mormon or something. And divorce is Frowned Upon. Poor bastard. Get him to talk to you. He needs all the shoulders he can find to cry on.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as the sort of bloke who’d cry publicly.’
‘You know what I mean. I only know because – well, there was a WPC he fancied. Almost as much as she fancied him. He’d just made it to Inspector. Oh, out in West Bromwich or somewhere. I knew her – even went out with her before I realised honesty was the best policy. Anyway, she and I keep in touch. I heard all about it from her.’
‘She might have been biased,’ Kate said mildly. ‘Like me and Robin’s wife,’ she managed to add. ‘Even if she’d walked on water I couldn’t have thought any good of her.’
Power on Her Own Page 15
