Power Games

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Look, Kate, you’re still looking peaky. Eat well and sleep well today: that’s my advice.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Meanwhile, I shall toddle up to Kings Heath nick and talk to Rod Neville. Come to think of it, I might as well leave my car here and walk.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says,’ Kate said darkly. She pointed at the road. ‘And, as you can see, that’s what everyone does.’

  ‘Thanks for the milk, Simon. And thanks for everything else, too.’

  There were too many lunchtime shoppers pouring into and out of Sainsbury’s for a long conversation, but Kate thought that was best. She was embarrassed, and there was no doubt that Simon was, his blush lasting even longer than Stephen’s, half an hour ago.

  ‘I wondered—’ He stopped to let a family push past, mother, father, three kids under five, all grossly overweight – not, she thought, with overeating, but with the bad diet of poverty. He grimaced, and continued, ‘I wondered whether to ring your bell. Then I thought you’d be better having your sleep out. So I tucked it behind that flowerpot and hoped you’d spot it before anyone else did.’

  Another family, three kids, not babies, their faces stuffed with dummies …

  ‘It was very kind—’

  ‘No more than you’ve done for me. I mean – you know, the washing and that. By the way, are you still interested in that bag-lady? Only my bloke was positive it was Sally something.’

  ‘Not Sally Army?’

  He grinned. ‘After that Sally Bowles business, I was on to that, wasn’t I? Got a clip round my ears for my pains. Thanks, love.’ He pocketed a pound coin, but the woman gestured away the Big Issue. ‘How about Blake? Only he was wittering away about “Pity, like a new-born babe” after his second snifter, and I just wondered … May be a red herring.’ His grin lit up his face. ‘Or a Tiger, more like!’

  ‘Are you sure we haven’t had enough of things “burning bright”? Now, what would you fancy for lunch – are you still trying to be a veggie?’

  ‘After that bacon the other day? But there’s no need, Kate, honest. I’m making a bit—’

  ‘The sooner you can get a deposit for a bed-sit, the happier we’ll all be. OK? What would Sir like for a sandwich filling? Cheese or tuna or—?’

  A quiet look round the High Street shops might be one way of passing the time. But she turned down the idea. Firstly, she certainly didn’t want to run into any of her colleagues, not if the pretence were to be maintained. Secondly, despite the proud Victorian architecture, it was all too depressing: slow moving families straggling over the ill-maintained pavements. If the kids weren’t sucking on bottles full of garish liquid doing vile things to their teeth, they were stuffing crisps and dropping the packets. She looked at the graffiti, the broken pavement, the beggars. Not that it was different anywhere else in a big city. It was just that she didn’t want to be part of it this afternoon. No garden to retreat to? There was only one place to go.

  Aunt Cassie was in the television room, watching an old film. She acknowledged Kate with a flap of the hand, and a terse instruction to sit down and be quiet for five minutes. Kate responded with a gesture of her own – she was going to walk round the garden and would be back soon. Anything rather than sit with the other old people, most of whom were, she suspected, less alert, less well, than Cassie. And today – should she obey Cassie’s perennial instructions to tell her? – there was a distinct smell of urine in the air. Urine and old bodies.

  The garden was idyllic. Despite the sensibly placed chairs and gentle slopes, it was also unoccupied. Perhaps the old might think the wind chilly, but the sun was warm on her face. If she sat, she might go to sleep, so she walked gently round, recording the names of things in flower – all clearly labelled for the ignorant like her.

  Her five minutes up, she turned back. Coming out of the door she had to go in was a trio of figures, two familiar. Graham Harvey, his wife, and – she presumed – Mrs Nelmes. She would try a vague and general smile and see where that got her, as she moved aside to let pass the old lady and her Zimmer.

  Mrs Harvey – Flavia – stopped short. There was more grey in her hair than last time they’d met, but it was still beautifully – if severely – cut. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting my great-aunt.’

  ‘I don’t see her.’ Mrs Harvey’s fine eyes scanned the garden ostentatiously.

  Graham looked acutely uncomfortable. Mrs Nelmes might have rubbed her hands in glee had she not needed them to hold the Zimmer.

  So why was Mrs Harvey going to the trouble of being so rude? She and Kate had only met once, when Kate had taken to the Harveys’ house a get-well message from the squad for Graham. Ever since then Graham had gone to humiliating lengths to prevent her knowing if Kate had phoned, always, as it happened, on the most innocent of business.

  And how rude would Kate be in return? She was on the point of letting rip when she remembered that whatever she said would no doubt rebound in some way on Graham.

  ‘You will when I bring her out here,’ she said. She nodded to Graham and his mother-in-law and headed inside.

  Threatening Mrs Harvey with Aunt Cassie was one thing, cajoling the old lady into the garden would be entirely another. But the film was over, and Cassie was prepared to be entertained.

  But wanted a wheelchair.

  ‘Cassie – you don’t need one! You’re more spry than Mrs Nelmes!’

  Cassie regarded her slowly. ‘Never heard of the sympathy vote?’

  In the event, the clash of the Titans was averted. Aunt Cassie needed the loo, and an outdoor coat and a hat, and by the time the whole process was underway, the sun – and the Harvey-Nelmes party – had gone in. Kate took her for a brisk tool round, barking her own shins on the wheelchair, which had all the steering charm of a badly maintained supermarket trolley. Cassie seemed to enjoy the displays of bulbs and polyanthus, but Kate was all too aware that she considered them pale entertainment. Cassie versus Mrs Harvey – now that would have made the old woman’s weekend memorable.

  But, as Kate knew, it would have made completely impossible the chance of Graham slipping out to phone her about the current crisis. Except it was impossible anyway. Wasn’t it?

  There were several phone messages waiting for her when she got back home. The first was from Mark: ‘There’s all sorts of shit going on here, but we don’t know quite what it is. Any road, the rumour is you’ll be in tomorrow, so I’ll see you then. Oh, and don’t forget to bring some Anadin or something with you. For me.’

  From Sue Rowley: ‘How would you be fixed for a meeting at Kings Heath nick at eight-thirty tomorrow morning? I want to fit it in before Graham goes to church.’

  So what did that mean? It certainly meant that things weren’t as straightforward as she’d hoped.

  Colin: ‘I was going to come round and take you out on the beer, but – well, things aren’t too good here, so we’ll have to take a rain-check. Lots of love, though, Kate. Take care of yourself, now.’

  A night on the beer. Now that would have been good. Even if, with that eight-thirty meeting, half of the beer would have had to be water.

  So what would a sensible young woman do on a Saturday night in? Her washing and her housework, that was it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kate had just loaded the machine and was hunting for the plastic bubble for the detergent when the door bell rang.

  Rod Neville.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Is there a chance of a quick word, Kate? I’m not interrupting anything?’

  Gesturing him in, she grinned. ‘Only the washing, sir.’ Under the hall light he looked weary. No doubt he’d only just come off duty. He dropped a briefcase and a Safeway carrier by the coat-hooks. ‘Would you like a coffee with the quick word? Or a beer? This way.’

  He stepped inside her living room: she had a sense that he was appraising it. ‘Beer sounds wonderful,’ he said at last. His smile suggested he hadn’t found her decor completely
wanting.

  ‘Would you care to sit down, Gaffer?’

  ‘I’d rather be Rod and I’d rather not stand on ceremony.’

  ‘In that case, come into the kitchen and get the beer out of the fridge while I set off my machine.’ It all seemed suddenly so easy. ‘Or there’s the tail end of a nice Chilean Sauvignon Blanc. Whatever sort of glass you want, this cupboard.’

  ‘I thought you were owed an explanation,’ he said, leaning comfortably back on her new sofa as if he were there for the duration, ‘of some of the recent events. I’m not, of course, at liberty to tell you everything.’ He sipped at his white wine, smiling his appreciation.

  ‘The most important thing, Rod, is whether I’m back on the squad. Or which squad, more to the point.’

  ‘Which? Which should it be?’

  ‘I gather there’s a meeting first thing tomorrow with Graham Harvey and Sue Rowley.’

  He smiled and shrugged. ‘That will be purely to up-date them on your original case-load. There’s no question of your coming off the MIT. Absolutely none. Not until we’ve sorted out the tennis centre business, when we all return to our respective units.’

  ‘That’s great! Er – how – what—?’

  ‘How has the little local difficulty been resolved? If you are prepared to accept a verbal, informal apology from DI Crowther, and you’re prepared to go along with the notion that today was sick leave, I’d like you back first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like to be back.’

  He raised his glass. ‘To our continued association, then, Kate.’ He smiled, as if he meant it.

  She raised hers, but confined herself to a guarded smile.

  ‘Now, have you eaten? I’d say,’ he said, ‘from the pristine state of your kitchen that you haven’t. Or at least that you’re not in the middle of preparing a meal.’

  She shook her head. Now what?

  ‘Perhaps we should eat together and I’ll brief you on today’s developments.’

  ‘That would be great. The only trouble, Gaffer, is that I’m not the sort of woman to knock up an interesting meal for two while talking about crime.’

  ‘That’s fine. Because I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table at that restaurant in York Street. Kings Balti. I trust you like baltis, Kate?’

  Liking baltis was one thing, enjoying one in the company of a detective superintendent who happened to be your boss’s boss’s boss was quite another. Not that he was at all in boss-mode. He was charming, God he was charming. All that eye-contact. All that deference about her choice of food. All those witty – and slightly risque´ – remarks about the tropical fish that darted in a tank next to their table. She’d always assumed that someone like him would always try to maintain what he’d probably call a professional distance. Unless – unless … Surely this was a man who wanted sex with a woman. And – oh, yes – she was a woman who wanted sex with a man. But sex with him? His occasional pomposity still irritated her, though not as much as on their first encounters. He was a good cop. And he was good-looking, in a slightly studied way. Nice body, too, as if he used weights. Very nice body.

  Their meal chosen – he produced lager from the carrier-bag since the place was unlicensed – he leaned forward. ‘It didn’t take Sue Rowley to alert me to what was going on,’ he began. His voice was low, intimate, quite wrong for the words he was saying. ‘When Crowther told me he’d had to suspend you for insolence, alarm bells started to ring. Tell me, though – had you noticed any untoward hostility between the two of you?’

  She shook her head firmly.

  ‘Mark – you understand, I spoke to him entirely off the record – asserts that DI Crowther has had a down on your from the start.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t give praise where praise might have been due, but I thought he wanted to make us into a team with no prima donnas. I don’t need ticks and pats on the head.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong job if you do.’ He produced that charming smile. Held it.

  ‘But I don’t want to be publicly bollocked for doing a job badly when I haven’t had a chance to do it properly.’

  ‘I gather he switched people’s assignments at the last moment.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She paused. A kind-faced waiter was bringing poppadoms, an assortment of dips and a bottle opener. ‘But I think you should be talking to him about his management style, not me. After all, he’s quite young for such a big assignment, quite inexperienced. He’s got a lot to prove – perhaps he’s over-anxious.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to him …’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘You sound very understanding – not the sort of person I’d associate with homophobia.’

  She gaped. ‘My—’ She stopped abruptly. She wasn’t about to reveal Colin’s sexual orientation to his superior. ‘One of my best friends is gay. I know that doesn’t mean everything, but it does mean something, surely.’

  ‘You mean on the lines of some of my best friends are Jews? No, of course it doesn’t. But I know Colin’s absolutely happy with the way you treat him. He does admit that his best friend’s heterosexual. In fact, there’s only one person who seems to have less than an entirely happy relationship with you, and that’s Graham Harvey.’

  ‘Sir!’

  His smile was both weary and apologetic. ‘Rod. And I’d say that’s more to do with him than with anything you have or haven’t done. You know he keeps a pair of your gloves in his desk?’ And the thought excited him, didn’t it?

  She raised her hands, palms towards him. ‘No more.’ So that was where they’d gone. Oh, poor, poor Graham. ‘This is not something we should be talking about.’ If he persisted, boss or not, sex or not, she’d be out of there. She owed Graham far more than she owed him.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was completely out of order there. Please – forgive me.’ He waited.

  She nodded, infinitesimally. But she kept her mouth tight, her eyes cold.

  ‘May I pour you some lager?’ He sounded as ashamed as he looked.

  ‘Thanks.’ If she sounded off-hand it was because she felt it.

  ‘I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Oh, God, he was getting it more and more wrong! ‘It isn’t a question of upsetting me. It’s breaking a confidence – someone who can’t defend himself …’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘He’s a friend, Rod. A good friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Hell, this is what happens when you mix business with pleasure.’

  ‘Maybe we should get back to business. Or was that business?’ she asked.

  ‘Certainly not pleasure.’

  They ate in silence for a few moments, till the poppadom she was trying to break into manageable sized pieces exploded all over the table.

  She had to laugh.

  He laughed too. A delighted, unbuttoned chuckle. ‘Thank God for poppadoms – no one can maintain a dignified silence with one. Any more than you can with spare-ribs.’ He mimed nibbling one. And the absence of a finger bowl.

  Soon they were laughing like old friends. Old friends with lust in their eyes.

  The atmosphere in the restaurant had become far too loud and jolly for them to exchange any more confidential information without yelling it in an entirely unconfidential manner.

  She made him laugh over her house disasters; he reciprocated with lost luggage at international airports. The hands that had feigned battles with spare-ribs became animated, slowed, hesitated as they approached hers. Her dimples refused to stay concealed. Their eyes locked. She wanted that mouth on hers.

  Would there be any condoms in the men’s loo? There weren’t in the ladies’.

  As if reading her mind, he excused himself. He returned with a slightly abstracted expression, asking almost abruptly for the bill.

  They’d be passing a pharmacy on the way back to her place – where he’d conveniently left his case. It didn’t close till ten. Now which of them would pretend to need tissues or aspirin?

  It would be less
embarrassing to go in than to hover outside while he did. And she could come out carrying tissues – no pressure on either of them. She could still say no if she wanted to. Assuming he asked.

  As soon as they got back, he fielded his briefcase, looking as fresh and alert as the Chief Constable could have wished.

  ‘The kitchen will be warmest, and the light’s good in there,’ she said, equally business-like. But not, to be truthful, feeling it.

  He was already unpacking notes by the time she’d taken off her jacket. Her answerphone was flashing. On the whole she thought it better to leave it unanswered. She dropped her shopping on the stairs.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘is our list of contacts at the Tennis Centre – you can see your colleagues have been busy. And I understand from Sue that you were playing on this court.’ He unrolled a plan, and pointed. ‘Right?’

  ‘I rather think it was this one … yes, the one with the Bluebeard’s doors: Plant, from which, incidentally, the cleaner’s trolley was emerging that morning, Cleaners, Coaches – I always want to snatch one open and see what falls out!’

  Turning to her, he laughed. ‘At least Bluebeard didn’t keep his dead women in the shower …’

  And – which of them moved first? – it was quite clear that no more work was going to be done that night. And he no more wanted to go home than she wanted him to.

  At some point he said, ‘Do you have an alarm clock? Working day tomorrow.’

  ‘And I’ve got that meeting with Sue and Graham. Eight-thirty. I suspect it would look better if we didn’t arrive anything like together.’ Well, one of them had to say it. And then she laughed. ‘Especially as I made it quite plain to Mark that I wasn’t sleeping with anyone in the service.’

  ‘Mark!’

  ‘He was making it plain he only slept with his wife.’

  ‘Did you want to sleep with him?’

  ‘Certainly not. The man’s got white eyelashes!’

  ‘And – and did you want to sleep with me?’