Will Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘I expected you yesterday afternoon,’ Lizzie observed coldly as Kate presented herself at eight on Thursday morning.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘A day in Germany, a day in Portugal; that should have wrapped it up. Home yesterday morning.’

  ‘There was fog on Faro,’ Kate said flatly. ‘And a signals failure on the railway line from Glasgow.’

  ‘Fog? Oh, for God’s sake, they’ve got radar and computers these days,’ Lizzie objected.

  Kate might have framed exactly the same opinions to fellow-queuers, but to hear the chief architect of all her woes express them pulled her to her feet. ‘With respect, ma’am, you can’t hold me personally responsible for the inability of technology to defeat ordinary weather. Or for Railtrack’s problems. On the other hand, it seems to me that you are responsible for the major cock-up that prevented me from even talking to Leon Horowitz and thus wasted police time and a lot of taxpayers’ money. Here is my report on the events. Feel free to doctor it as you wish to minimise your part in the disaster. So long as you don’t falsely implicate me. Good morning, ma’am.’

  She made the impressive exit such a line demanded. And then had to return. The noise she heard as she shut the door behind her was indisputably sobbing. Lizzie was in tears. So there was nothing for it, was there, but to turn round and go back in.

  ‘A lump? What does your doctor say?’ Kate passed Lizzie more tissues, squatting beside her and holding her spare hand. In her head, pennies were cascading down.

  ‘He … Oh, he said it wasn’t … But he wanted to be sure. …’

  ‘Quite right. So he’s referred you to a consultant?’

  ‘A clinic. I couldn’t go. There was a policy meeting. So I couldn’t go, could I? So they made another appointment, but there was a meeting with the DPP, so that had to go too.’

  ‘Hang on, Lizzie: you’re telling me you have a breast lump – and we all know what we think we’ve got if we find a lump – and you’ve not been to have it checked?’ The woman was off her head.

  ‘You know what it’s like here. You can’t just drop everything—’

  ‘There are some things you have to drop everything for.’

  ‘But these were important. And now the hospital people have written asking if I really want an appointment.’

  So the stupid woman hadn’t phoned to cancel; she’d simply not turned up. Kate swallowed the thought and said, ‘And you’ve phoned up to say yes. Oh, come on, Lizzie. You have to go. The lump’s still there, is it?’

  Lizzie shook convulsively. ‘I don’t know. I’m too … too scared. What if it’s bigger?’

  What indeed? What if it were bigger and had spread? ‘Do you want me to phone? Thing is, Lizzie, whatever date they offer, you’re going, right? Even if the Chief Constable invited himself to tea, you’d still go. And I’ll tell you why you’d still go – because I’ll be going with you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘You know what sticklers the Portuguese police are, Gaffer,’ Kate told a tight-lipped Dave Allen later that morning. ‘They even turned down France’s request to extradite the bloke who was prime suspect in that student murder case, remember. A few words wrong, they won’t cooperate.’ It wasn’t just her own back she was trying to protect, after all. If ever she’d seen a woman near the edge, that woman was Lizzie.

  They were in his office, so no one could hear his words, but the glass walls made her bollocking something to avert the eyes from in comradely support or something to goggle at. At least he’d positioned his chair so even if they had the skills no one could lip-read. And he’d told her to sit, so his bulk hid her face.

  ‘I like my officers to get all the words right, Power. Always.’ He tapped her report, newly doctored after the meeting with Lizzie. ‘What I don’t like is the word fudge leaping out at me. That’s what this document says to me. Fudge. It tells me that there’s been a cock-up and that this is a cover-up. I don’t like that.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Kate hung her head.

  ‘Farting around in the sun when your mates are sweating their rocks off trying to put a case together – it’s not good enough.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And it’s not just that you’ve cocked up, it’s that you’ve wasted time and money on what you must have known would be a wild goose chase. I’m disappointed in you, my wench. Disappointed. And I can’t say I won’t say it in my report on the case, because I will. Any promotion to inspector: you can wave that goodbye for a bit.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He put on his glasses and started to read a file. Kate took the hint, and slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind her. She made herself sit down, made herself look busy. She’d expected no less, after all. And can-carrying was part of life’s tatty tapestry. She was aware of glances, sympathetic or curious, but contrived to ignore them. Only a few minutes before the team meeting: at least no one would be looking at her then. Especially if she made sure she sat at the back. But she’d be ready, just in case. No, she wouldn’t just look busy, she’d actually be busy for the next ten minutes.

  At least Dave spared her a public bollocking. He was too busy up-dating. The psychiatrist in charge of Mr Duncton was demanding a court order before he’d release his medical file, so they’d simply got to wait for all the due processes. Mrs Hamilton was still alive, but her doctors hadn’t let the police talk to her about anything. The medics’ evidence about time of death wasn’t good enough to break Cornfield’s alibi. As for the possible Barr murder back in 1963, well, Jane had waded through all the paperwork, but there was nothing conclusive. There’d been a misadventure verdict at the inquest, the coroner having added a timely warning to all middle-aged men who took too little exercise and then fancied they could risk with impunity the exertion of digging snow. Barr’s body had been cremated.

  ‘All the same, it wouldn’t do any harm to go and stir up Barton, maybe,’ Jane added, glancing with sympathy at Kate, who grinned back gratefully.

  Dave intercepted both looks, but nodded. ‘Not a bad idea. And what has your trip thrown up, Power?’ he added, without apparent irony.

  She hoped her deep breath didn’t show. ‘Steiner refuses point-blank to say anything about Horowitz’s presence or absence when the will was signed. Unfortunately, I cocked up on the documentation for Portugal, and the authorities declined to let me talk to Horowitz in person. Sorry, everyone.’

  ‘Thought the bloody Common Market was supposed to make this sort of thing easy?’

  ‘Too busy subsidising bloody French farmers …’

  No, no one seemed to blame Kate too much. Though that might have had something to do with the cheap fags and chocs they’d be expecting.

  ‘Anyway, I’d say,’ she continued, against all her wishes, ‘it’s time to pull Cornfield in and suggest it’s time he stopped playing chess with us. That’s what he and Steiner are doing. I don’t think either of them has ever lied about Horowitz’s presence or absence – I just don’t think either has ever told the whole truth.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Positive. But I’ve done an OHP acetate of both statements. May I?’ Talk about toadying, but at least it showed something. She flicked on the OHP, focusing it on the wall. ‘There: you see that Steiner gives a fairly detailed account of events, or at least his and Cornfield’s part. But of Horowitz there is nothing.’ She slid the first page of Cornfield’s statement up. ‘Here again there’s plenty of circumstantial detail, but truly nothing to confirm – or deny – Horowitz’ presence. And the graphologist indicates that there is sufficient evidence for her to say that whoever wrote down the will – and no one contests that that was Cornfield – also wrote what purports to be Horowitz’ signature.’

  Dave Allen permitted himself a grin: ‘What are you waiting for, Kate? Go and wheel him in!’

  She responded with a grim smile. ‘Trouble is, Gaffer, Thursday is his day for travelling, remember. He promised me he wouldn’t go anywhere witho
ut letting me know where he was off to. I paged my answerphone after you—a few minutes ago. He’s in Hampstead – should be back about nine, he says. Can Jane and I make a little reception committee?’

  ‘Hampstead, eh? Kate, I can’t imagine him returning to anything less, can you? And while you’re waiting, you and Jane can go and have another word with Barton. Just to keep him on edge.’

  They went nowhere till after Dave had treated them to lunch in yet another obscure pub. This one, promising though it may have been on the outside, offered very meagre fare – baps, that was all, and you could have poor cheese or worse ham, full-stop. Compare and contrast, Kate thought, with herring salad and chicken piri-piri. The food wasn’t important, though, compared with the gesture. Dave might have chewed her ears off, but he bore no grudges. That was the message, which she received gratefully.

  They emerged to find the clear sky filling with big fluffy clouds that threatened to become bigger but much less fluffy. It looked as though the heatwave would soon be over and in a dramatic fashion. The sky was almost brown by the time they reached Dr Barton’s, a trick of the light making the house itself glow more redly than ever.

  There was no sign of his car, and all the windows were shut.

  ‘Sorry for the wild goose chase,’ Jane said.

  ‘Maybe he hasn’t gone far. Let’s have a look-see, shall we?’ She got out, a sudden gust of wind whipping her skirt against her legs.

  When, as predicted, there was no response, Kate peered through the letter-box, which was so small that countless posties and leafleters must have cursed it. She could see very little except the suitcase. At least he’d taken their advice. But she felt uneasy, and led the way to the front window, making hand tunnels to shade her eyes. The place was immaculate but for a couple of piles of books.

  ‘Nothing’ for it, Jane said, returning to the front door to post a note to him to call them as soon as he returned. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Gently back to Sutton. And I mean gently.’ Kate pointed to drops the size of two-pence pieces on the windscreen. ‘The roads will be like skid-pans after all that lovely weather, and Joe Public won’t be able to wait to try his skills. Or not.’ But she didn’t start the engine.

  ‘You all right?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Someone walking over my grave,’ she shuddered. Should she take one more look? There was something – no, she was getting silly. ‘Look, if we’re going to be on really late tonight, we’re entitled to a break. Do you want to be dropped off anywhere?’

  ‘Not round here, nor nowhere round Sutton, to be honest. No, I’d rather get back to work, if it’s all right by you.’

  ‘No problem.’ But there was. For no reason, Kate wanted to go home, to shut her door against the world. It must be the weather.

  ‘You sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Tell you what, let’s call the hospital: see if Mrs Hamilton’s up to visitors. She knows me, after all. They might just let us have five minutes. It’d give us something else to talk to Cornfield about.’

  ‘Suits me. Tell you what, have you noticed you’re calling him Cornfield, not Mr Cornfield? You think he’s done more than forge a will, don’t you?’

  ‘Two minutes,’ the nurse said, with all the authority, if not the title or uniform, of the old ward sister. ‘And that’s the absolute maximum.’

  ‘Thanks. Just before we go in, tell me: has she had any other visitors, family apart?’

  ‘Her nice neighbour called last night with some Polaroid photos of her dog. Just to show he was still all right.’

  ‘And how was she after that?’

  ‘Fine. As fine as she’ll ever be. She’s a very old lady. Her heart’s very tired.’

  Jane stayed by the door as Kate slipped into the side ward where Mrs Hamilton lay dozing. Her hair straggled drably across her face. Dentureless, make-up-less, she looked ten years older than when Kate had met her. Her nightie ruthlessly revealed crepey neck, withered breasts, pendulous upper arms. Even in sleep, her fingers fretted the sheet, convulsing every time the old woman in the other bed gasped stertorously. She was in an even worse state, her face butter-yellow, her mouth sagging. Kate felt a sudden spurt of anger in all the pity. Why hadn’t Mrs Hamilton’s family moved her to the comfort of a private room? Or the nursing home section of the place where Aunt Cassie lived? Surely she had enough capital? Kate’d raise it with the nurse afterwards.

  Meanwhile, she walked lightly but not silently to the bed. The last thing she wanted was to make Mrs Hamilton jump.

  ‘I’m not asleep.’ The old lady’s voice was surprisingly strong. ‘I’m resting my eyes. Who is it?’

  ‘Kate Power. The police officer.’

  Mrs Hamilton’s eyes shot open. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, young lady. What nicer way to slip into the next world reading a good book, drinking a cup of fine tea and with your dog at your feet? But you – I understand it was you – brought me back!’

  ‘I thought you might want to finish the book.’ Kate put her hand on the old lady’s.

  ‘Well, perhaps I should. And how is Edward?’

  ‘Mr Cornfield’s still looking after him.’ Goodness, what if the dog was afraid of lightning?

  ‘He’s a good man. They wouldn’t let him see me, you know, but I understand he came every day. Just like him.

  ‘Did you see him the day … you were taken ill?’

  ‘I didn’t see him. I could hear him whistling and singing to himself. And – let me see – he called over the fence to ask if he could have another bonfire without disturbing me. It seemed to me, when I began to feel unwell, that I could call him and he would come. But I knew he’d try to do as you did, and – though he does not sing Schubert well – it seemed another lovely factor.’ The old lady sighed, then turned her hand to grip Kate’s. ‘I’d hate to die in here. I’d like to go home first. See Edward. All my precious things … Kate, come and see me again. There’s something …’ The grip slackened. At first Kate panicked. Then she saw the quiet breathing. She straightened to leave, then, moved by an impulse she couldn’t explain, she bent and kissed the deep valleys of the old lady’s cheek.

  ‘We have to get a vet, and quickly,’ Cornfield wept. ‘Poor Edward, he always hated thunder and I wasn’t here. Oh, Edward.’

  ‘I think it’s some sort of stroke,’ Jane said. ‘Poor old boy. D’you know the vet’s emergency number?’ She was kneeling beside the old man and the sick dog.

  Cornfield gestured at a sheet of paper blu-tacked to the wall by the phone. Kate’s job: the others couldn’t leave the pathetic panting heap. Edward’s head was in Cornfield’s lap, a front paw resting, as Mrs Hamilton’s had rested in hers, in Jane’s hand. She stepped gingerly across the floor – she’d had to disinfect it, couldn’t leave it as it was – and dialled, as authoritative to the voice at the other end as if a human life were at stake. And perhaps, when she thought about it, it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  This time Kate had a companion in Dave Allen’s room for her morning’s bollocking: Jane.

  ‘A bloody dog? You don’t haul a murderer in because of a bloody dog?’

  ‘Mrs Hamilton’s dog,’ Kate reminded him. ‘And she only wants to live long enough to go home to die with Edward beside her. And we do at least have a statement we both heard that Cornfield didn’t try to scare her to death. Whatever else he’s guilty of, he’s innocent of that. And I reckon he’s innocent of Mrs Barr’s death too. I read through her GP’s notes again this morning, and there’s no doubt she was a very sick woman, only kept alive with devoted nursing. Tell me, Gaffer, have you ever dressed anyone’s leg-ulcers? Well, Cornfield did, every day.’

  ‘And,’ Jane added, ‘he’s got that alibi for the Duncton death, too.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Isn’t it about time the Forensic Lab came up with the spatter info? I’d bet my pension Duncton did it: there’s no sign of the missing sister, no sightings of anyone else. It’s got to be him.’

  Dave broke and pa
ssed round pieces of the Toblerone Kate had bought on the plane. ‘The trouble is, you like this bloke, Cornfield, don’t you, the pair of you.’

  ‘And you liked him, didn’t you?’ Kate patted back.

  ‘Ah. But not enough to let him get away with murder. It’s just too bloody convenient the husband having done it. Mind you, the medics say he’ll probably be in some sort of institution for the rest of his life. Oh, yes – I got that much out of them. Tried again last night, while you were faffing round bloody dogs. Poor bastard. Out of it, isn’t he? Quite out of it. I tried the old trick of getting the medic to leave the room leaving the file on the table so I could have a gander.’ He grinned. ‘Must be losing my grip – it didn’t work. Took the bloody thing with him, didn’t he? Bugger and blast it all,’ he said, slamming his hands on the desk. ‘All I want is to take the missus off somewhere special and the bloody case rolls and bloody rolls.’

  ‘I’ll get on to Forensics,’ Kate said. ‘And then … oh yes, it’s time to talk to Cornfield again. We’d better bring him in here.’

  Dave looked up quickly. ‘Not if it means him leaving that dog on its own, you don’t. You talk to him out there. Better still, wait till tomorrow. If he gets upset, it’ll be bad for the dog.’

  Neither woman let her face so much as twitch. They were leaving the little office when he called them back. ‘What about Barton?’

  ‘“No answer was the stern reply”,’ Kate said.

  ‘Eh? Oh, I learned that at school, too. Something about oysters. OK. Keep trying. I think he’s important.’

  ‘You’re really going for this thirty-year-old death?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Any reason why not? Oh, plenty,’ he said, subsiding in his chair and breaking off more chunks of chocolate, which, when Kate and Jane waved them aside, he ate himself. ‘I’ve just got this niggle, see? My bunion’s twitching.’

  Which, as they all knew, was the hallmark of a good cop. The women nodded and left without further argument.

  ‘Christ! Forensics,’ Kate declared, putting down the phone, ‘had mislaid our bloodstains. But they’re working on them now, and so I should bloody think. They’ll let us have the results …’ On the desk in front of her was a note, in an internal mail envelope. The flap was tucked in, but stuck down with sellotape. She turned it back: yes, the block capitals in re-address slot number 9 were Graham’s. What the hell was he doing, contacting her like this? It was such a risk. She stuffed it in her bag and headed for the loo. Only after locking herself in a cubicle did she dare look.