Power Games

by Judith Cutler

  ‘So when did she take it?’ Ginger-hair asked. ‘Presumably she didn’t just pop a couple of pills while she was playing—’

  ‘No, but someone could have popped them to her. In a drink, for instance,’ Janet put in. An in-putter!

  ‘But when did she drink it? Wouldn’t she notice?’

  ‘Depends what she was doing.’

  ‘Isn’t poison a woman’s weapon?’

  ‘Quite a sophisticated way of poisoning someone.’

  ‘Not if you’re a woman who has hayfever and thrush.’

  The whole group was joining in. Rod Neville leaned back against a wall and folded his arms. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said at last, ‘I think we’re a team already. Maybe it’s time we moved to Kings Heath and put into practice some of the things we’ve been talking about …’

  The Victorian house where Rosemary Parsons had lived for the last twenty years was now sealed by the police. There was still no sign of Mr Parsons. Dr Parsons, according to an envelope lying on the hall table.

  ‘So maybe we’ve gone to all this trouble for a simple domestic,’ said Ginger-hair sadly, looking round the big square hall. A grandfather clock was clearing its throat to announce that it would soon be three-thirty. Ginger-hair was in fact a detective constable called Mark Wright. What he lacked in colour in his hair and eye-lashes – these were almost white – he made up for in colour in his clothes. He was sporting under his leather jacket a brilliant red shirt, with a highly patterned tie. He also wore several impressive rings, two of which included diamonds amidst all the gold. Whether it was ever wise to draw attention to such an abundance of ginger hair on your hands, Kate wasn’t at all sure.

  She felt, in her dark suit, like a pea-hen beside a peacock. And then realised she’d made a more precise analogy than she’d liked: Wright proved to have a nasty scream of a laugh, which he emitted from time to inappropriate time. This was not going to be her most pleasant pairing, was it?

  She caught up with him in the kitchen.

  ‘Maybe I was wrong,’ he said, pointing to a list of numbers pinned by the phone. ‘See – dates – first one, yesterday; hotel names. And those are the overseas dialling codes, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. But why’s this list still here? Why didn’t Crowther take it with him the other night? Damn it, the poor bastard’s probably been trying to phone her, worrying why she doesn’t ring back …’

  ‘If they’ve got an answerphone, of course. Though I can’t imagine an establishment like this not having one.’

  ‘So some poor sap has got to call up Mr – sorry, Doctor – Parsons in – where is he today? Berlin? – and tell the poor bastard he’s a widower,’ she said, feeling horribly that she was leading with her chin. ‘And has been since Tuesday,’ she added.

  ‘Nice to know it doesn’t have to be either of us breaking the news,’ he said. ‘They’ll bring in Family Support or whatever it’s called today to do that. What do you make of the place?’ He looked round at the kitchen.

  ‘A lot of money here. You could fit two kitchens my size into this.’ Hell, she sounded like Stephen Abbott again.

  ‘And five of mine. And it’s all good stuff, isn’t it? None of your plastic and paper pretending to be wood for these cupboards. The real McCoy.’ He tapped a door to prove his point.

  The living room came complete with a huge inglenook fireplace, the oak of the overmantel too dark and heavy for Kate’s taste, and an intricate plaster-work frieze and ceiling-rose. There was a baby grand in one corner, an elegant hi-fi system in another. Apart from that, there was a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a selection of easy chairs, none new. The French doors opened on to what seemed to be an original conservatory. And yes, there was a fountain, and in the furthest corner a tennis court. Some shrubs were already covered with buds or blossom, and there was an army of bulbs ready to break out.

  ‘Loadsa money,’ Wright observed. ‘But it’s not ostentatious, is it?’

  ‘I could live here,’ Kate agreed. ‘Now, what about the rest of the rooms?’

  There were some framed Victorian political cartoons in the downstairs cloakroom, and a pile of reading matter. The dining room was large enough for the table to be kept extended – it would have seated ten with ease, and a quick peer underneath established a couple more leaves could be pulled out to accommodate yet more. Again, a heavy fire surround, heavy velvet curtains, and an impressive ceiling. The pictures on the wall were genuine oils, in big gold frames.

  ‘Not my taste,’ Kate said. ‘But I bet they’d be worth taking to the Antiques Road Show.’

  ‘You bet,’ he cackled. ‘I wouldn’t risk hanging them here in the front room myself – showing Burglar Bill what’s on offer.’

  ‘Burglar Bill’s more likely to go for the hi-fi, isn’t he?’

  Wright pulled a face: ‘There are specialist antiques thieves, remember. They even knock stuff off to order, don’t they? So why didn’t they have a burglar alarm, with all this lot lying around?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Like those folk who smoke? Never going to happen to you. Now, I like that vase …’

  Upstairs was more interesting. Two of the five bedrooms had been converted to offices – his and hers, it transpired. His was much the larger, full of books, with a computer with a nineteen-inch monitor on a desk that looked as if it would be happier with quill pens. Beside it lay a couple of quotations from security firms for burglar alarm systems. Mark tapped them, raising an ironic eyebrow.

  Kate nodded, before turning her attention to the books.

  ‘Seems as if he’s an expert on the Holocaust,’ Kate said. ‘Shelves and shelves of books about it. Some in German, too.’

  ‘Well, he is in Berlin,’ Wright reminded her. ‘Hey, you don’t suppose there’s some anti-Semitic thing here?’

  ‘Why go for his wife, not him?’

  ‘Well, maybe she’s an expert, too. Let’s check out her room.’

  Kate wrinkled her nose as they went in. It was a classic box-room, barely large enough for the filing cabinet and small modern desk it contained. The computer was new, but much smaller than Dr Parsons’. Where he had books, Rosemary Parsons had telephone directories. If his room was a study, hers was an office. Complete, as it happened, with an answerphone.

  Kate pressed the play button. Nothing except three messages from a man believing his wife was alive to hear his affectionate greetings.

  Pulling a face, she patted the filing cabinet. ‘We’d better bag up the files in these. I fancy they should repay a good read.’ She opened a drawer at random. It was only half full. ‘Now, has someone taken something away, or did she buy the cabinet expecting a long hard campaign?’ She checked the other drawers. All of them were practically empty.

  ‘So did Burglar Bill ignore the goodies and take away her files?’ Wright asked.

  ‘Come on: there was no sign of a forced entry. And we wouldn’t be here if SOCO hadn’t OK’d it. Except – hang on – she had no keys in her bag, did she? You wouldn’t need to force an entry if you had someone’s keys. And, if you do someone in in the evening, knowing she won’t be found till the following day, you can spend a happy night working quietly and systematically through a whole house.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the neighbours notice?’

  ‘Big detached house, nice thick privet hedge in front, no house within a hundred yards at the back.’

  ‘And, of course, no alarm.’

  ‘Quite. I bet this is the sort of neighbourhood where you get brownie points for keeping yourself to yourself. We’d better get the boffins on to the computer in case someone’s wiped that. And the fax, come to think of it.’

  ‘That’s it, then. Back to base.’

  ‘Let’s just have a shuftie at the bathroom. I know SOCO will have taken away any pills and potions – I’d just like to see it.’

  And it was worth seeing. While the rest of the house had been left firmly in period, this had had the full up-dating treatment.

 
‘Wow!’ Wright whistled. ‘Looks like something in a posh hotel, doesn’t it? No nasty pipes visible anywhere, all this nice wood and concealed lighting – my wife’d kill for something like this.’

  ‘So would I. I wonder how much it cost to match the tiles to the carpet? And fancy having a separate shower from that bath—’

  ‘That ain’t no bath, lady – that’s a Jacuzzi. Or at least one of those massage baths.’ Another of those laughs. ‘Kate, we’re in the wrong line of business. All the overtime in the world wouldn’t buy a set-up like this!’ His gesture encompassed the whole house.

  They looked at the garage before they left. It housed with comfort an M-registered Saab, a collection of tools, a bicycle rack to fasten to the back of the Saab, and a man’s mountain bike.

  Kate looked around. ‘I wonder what she used?’

  ‘Car or bike?’

  ‘Either, I suppose. There was no car left in the car park, remember, and no car keys. That rack would carry two bikes. I wonder if there was a bike lying round anywhere at the Tennis Centre? A woman as fit as her wouldn’t balk at bowling down there.’

  ‘A couple of hours on court and she might balk at struggling back up the hill,’ Wright said. ‘Come on. Time we were heading back. Neville’s called that meeting for five, remember.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Yes, it wouldn’t do to be spectacularly late twice in one day, would it?’

  Wright looked at her sideways. ‘I’d have thought if anyone could get away with it, you could.’

  She turned, arms akimbo. ‘Oh dear, Rumour’s raising its ugly head again, is it? Look, Mark, if we’re going to be partners, let’s get this straight: I am not fucking my way to the top. I am not fucking Graham Harvey, I am not fucking Rod Neville, I am not fucking Patrick Duncan, I am not fucking Nigel Crowther. I’m not fucking anyone, actually. More’s the pity,’ she added ruefully.

  ‘Point taken, Kate. Points, in fact. And – because the rumour’s bound to reach my wife before you can say partner that I’m at it hammer and tongs with you – I don’t fuck my colleagues either. But I tell you what, you want to watch that blonde in-putter – she’d get her hands in anyone’s knickers.’

  After several false starts – Kings Heath Police Station was a real rabbit warren, despite its imposing modernised exterior – Kate and Wright found the rooms set aside for the MIT’s use. One was a splendidly equipped office, with the computers already humming and plenty of phones. The other was a meeting room, with OHP, whiteboard and plenty of display boards. Rod Neville didn’t have a separate room, just a glass cubicle off the common space. Poor man, no room for his expensive coffee-making equipment.

  He was actually drinking chilled water from a dispenser – now that was a nice idea – when Kate and Mark arrived, both slightly breathless.

  ‘Sorry, Gaffer!’

  ‘OK: you’ve got three or four minutes, so get yourselves a drink. I take it you’ve got a lot to report?’

  They looked at each other, shrugging. ‘Got issues to raise, more like,’ Mark said.

  ‘Haven’t we all?’ Rod smiled.

  ‘Now,’ Rod began, ‘before we start, just a word about our accommodation. We’re here on other people’s territory – we must observe the niceties of civilisation, like not purloining other people’s parking spaces or hogging the gym.’

  ‘There’s a gym? Bloody hell! Where?’ This was from a heavily muscled blonde woman.

  Mark nudged Kate. Kate was too busy noticing a late addition to the team to react. What was Nigel Crowther doing here?

  ‘And one word of warning: I know there are hot drinks machines everywhere, but on no account touch the tea. I’m warned it’s so vile it could have been the stuff that poisoned Rosemary Parsons. They don’t even give it to people in the cells.’

  There was the statutory appreciative snigger. But, Kate thought, as she looked at the others, his little jokes were going down well. His speech patterns were often headmasterly, or, at the opposite extreme, lifted straight from a spin-doctor. Perhaps one of the many courses he’d been on recently had been responsible for the change. Or perhaps it hadn’t.

  ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, since our theoretical bonding was so appositely interrupted this morning, we’re going to have to work on getting to know each other and our little quirks. I, alas, will be less concerned with work on the ground than with managing the infernal budget situation, but I can assure you it is not my desire to limit your overtime that is at the heart of my next dictum. It’s the Service’s policy and it’s for the good of us all: I want you to work reasonable hours, not excessive ones. We shall meet regularly, not to satisfy an insatiable management desire for meetings, but to brief each other. The officer in charge of day-to-day operations was unable to be present this morning but is now with us – Detective Inspector Crowther.’

  Now how had that happened? He was supposed to be running CID on a day-to-day basis here, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he got enough to do, making Kings Heath a better place to live? Or was someone else doing that now? What was called for was clearly a word with Guljar: he’d know the gossip.

  ‘Now, DI Crowther knows the area like the back of his hand – he was born and bred down the road in Moseley, I gather.’

  Pause for a curt nod and not particularly gracious smile from Crowther. Oh, dear. Some men were born to management; others had management thrust upon them. Kate could have wished for Rowley’s homely tangle and rather baggy skirts, instead of that uncompromising wing of black hair and the razor-sharp suit.

  Neville stepped to one side, sat down, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, and assumed his intelligent listening face.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Crowther began, picking up a board marker and turning to the pristine white surface behind him. ‘Now, I’d like to hear from everyone in the team with something relevant to report.’

  Mark Wright fell into step with Kate as they left the room. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What d’you think of the new gaffer?’

  ‘I thought he handled the meeting like a pro. Pulled everything together well, shut everyone up at the right time. Very good.’

  He looked at her sideways. ‘There’s a well-substantiated rumour that if it hadn’t been for you the scene wouldn’t have been preserved and that we wouldn’t have ID’d Parsons. Right?’

  ‘I backed up Guljar – he smelt a rat and so did I. And it was only by coincidence I worked out who she must be: the TV appeal must have brought in a flood of responses, so I probably only saved them half an hour.’

  ‘It would have been nice to have been acknowledged for your part so far.’

  ‘Senior SOCO thanked me.’

  ‘And was summarily shut up for his pains. Poor bugger, having to check through all that litter you insisted was preserved. Still, if that’s what turns you on. Anyway, what have you done to offend young Nigel?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I’m sure he’s just trying to make us into a team. I wouldn’t want prima donnas in his situation, would you?’

  ‘No, but in your situation I’d like a bit of what my gran always used to call fairation.’

  She nodded doubtfully. ‘Mine used to say, “Life’s not what you want, but what you get – so stick a geranium in your hat and get on with it.”’

  ‘Only one thing,’ Mark said. ‘Wrong time of year for geraniums – isn’t it?’

  And she thought of the exhausted cuttings on Graham’s windowsill.

  Chapter Twelve

  On an evening like this, it would be lovely to have a garden to work in. There was still a stiff breeze, but any rain had cleared and the sun was warm. Kate might almost regret that she’d handed over the coaching of the Boys’ Brigade football team – it’d be fun chasing a football around. On impulse, she changed into her running gear. She wasn’t going to pound round the streets of Kings Heath. She wasn’t pounding anywhere, not if she wanted her knee to stay friendly. She might, however, manage a gentle jog, and where better than the reservoi
r? OK, she’d have to drive out to Edgbaston, but she’d be able to look at the Lodge.

  Parking the car, she looked round. The whole place, although it was close to the city centre, was attractive enough to be enjoyed by whole families out for an evening stroll. She wouldn’t be the only jogger out there, but there were far more sailors, hurtling round in small boats, or, quite often, bobbing round waiting to be collected after having been tipped out of small boats.

  Yes, there was the Ballroom – dance hall? – that Colin had told her about. And there – that must be the Lodge. Yes, it did look like a toll-house, except most toll-houses she’d ever seen – and she had to admit she didn’t exactly have a degree in transport architecture – had been either compact two storied affairs or single-storied with a couple of wings. This was a hybrid, not unattractive, but a bit odd. Someone had tacked on the back what looked like a later extension, which might well reduce its historical value, she supposed. It was in a commanding position, controlling the road to the reservoir and lovely views of a surprisingly rural landscape, dominated by the water. So why had no one got round to knocking it down back in the sixties and seventies, when Birmingham was mad for more concrete? It didn’t look to be in bad condition now: so why had Stephen talked about preserving it? Perhaps it wasn’t because it was falling down – perhaps someone wanted to help it on its way.

  Cursing herself – when would she learn not to make assumptions? – she looked around again. Yes, money, that must be the obvious answer. Big money, to take over either the whole site to turn it into ‘leisure facilities’ or simply to develop a small and exclusive part of it – a very good hotel, for instance. She’d better talk to Stephen first thing.