Staying Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘But he had everything to live for,’ Kate said.

  ‘In my experience, if what you are living for fails, then you might as well die. Right, ladies and gentlemen, as a precaution I shall wait until all those samples have been checked before issuing my final report but you shall have the preliminary one in the morning.’

  Dismissed, they started to troop out, Kate in their midst. But just as she was about to speak to Harvey, Duncan called her back.

  ‘I couldn’t help but be intrigued by what you were saying,’ he said. ‘No doubt all your colleagues know why he should have wanted to live, but it was, of course, news to me.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Could you give me ten minutes to scrub and maybe we could take the smell of this business from our nostrils with a cup of coffee.’

  From the corner of her eye she could see Harvey’s neck stiffen. ‘I’ve an idea we may have to take a rain check on that – there’ll be a meeting back at work,’ she said.

  ‘Could I have a phone number – in case anything comes up?’ he pursued, all dimples and twinkling eyes.

  OK, he’d asked for it. She flashed her dimples, too. ‘The same number as DCI Harvey,’ she said. And then, for the hell of it, for the irony of it – for how often did a woman get asked by one man to join him for a coffee when he was still red with the blood of the last one – she grinned. And added her extension number.

  Jesus, that she should find such a thing funny! But she did. She’d had the giggles over far less funny things after other post mortems: post anatomy-lesson hysterics, one sergeant had called them. Better than bottling it all up, he’d said. And she was sure he was right. Look at the others now, either so grim-faced it might have been their own father eviscerated there on the slab or so jolly it might have been an end-of-term treat.

  Harvey looked ostentatiously at his watch as she hurried up. ‘I think there’s time to talk this through before we wrap it up for the inquest,’ he said. ‘Will you drive or shall I?’

  As she picked her way through the traffic and inched into the last space, she knew she had to say something. That she couldn’t trust the path’s findings? That she had this instinct throbbing away? A combination of the two. When and how to tell Graham she wasn’t sure. Maybe if they all sat down over a coffee, not just the two of them, it would come out naturally. In fact, the more she thought of it, the more she was convinced that it had to be in public: if he shot down her suggestion in private, there was no way she could float it again. It might be better to ask someone else to put the question, the request, whatever it could be called.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ he asked, opening his door as if assuming the answer would be yes.

  ‘I’d like a quick wash, first, if you don’t mind. The smell of the place seems to get into every pore, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Isn’t there a line in some play about the perfumes of Arabia?’ he smiled.

  ‘Isn’t that from the play it’s bad luck to quote?’

  ‘No such thing as bad luck,’ he said. ‘We make our fortunes or misfortunes.’ The smile was completely gone, his face so bitter that she almost cried out.

  Instead, she said slowly, ‘I wonder what Alan Grafton did to bring his misfortune. He was telling me all the precautions he’d taken, all the plans he had for the future. And then—’

  ‘We’ll have to prepare a report for the coroner,’ he said at last. ‘And you want to be the one that does it, don’t you? Don’t you think it’s a hell of a risk, Kate, to grub around the life of someone you knew?’

  ‘He’s dead. He was kind to me when he was alive.’

  ‘You don’t owe him that sort of interest just because he gave you a sweetie!’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it.’

  ‘I don’t like it. I really don’t like it.’

  ‘Tell you what, Gaffer: sleep on it.’ She smiled the professional smile, then blazed at him with the full force of the dimples as he hesitated.

  ‘OK. I’ll think about it. We’ll talk about it in the morning when we allocate tasks. And it depends on the size of everyone’s in-tray, not just yours. So don’t start thinking you’ve got to stay up half the night to clear it just so that you can persuade me.’

  In the same quiet pub she’d taken Fatima to, Colin brought over a couple of halves, and tossed a film-wrapped sandwich at her. ‘You look done in. Mind you, you deserve to. He’d have let you off the p.m. if you’d asked. And rightly too.’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t even need to ask. He wanted me to stay away. Doesn’t want me on the case at all. It’s me that’s driving him.’

  ‘You’re a fool, then,’ he said without heat.

  ‘Thanks. OK, you may be right. But I already know what Grafton had been up to – I’d only have to go over all the stuff he told me with whoever was investigating.’

  ‘True. Anyway, you seem to be able to wrap him round your little finger.’

  ‘Not today. He’s in a weird mood. Foul one minute, kind the next. Marginalises me when he should be introducing me to someone. I don’t know where I stand with him.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor bugger. Mrs H must be giving him a hard time.’

  ‘When is she not?’ Colin sipped his beer reflectively. ‘Mind you, if he’s like this at home, what sort of life would it be for her?’

  Before she could reply, a bulky figure loomed over their table.

  ‘Hi, Gaffer!’ Colin sounded more welcoming than she felt. A dose of Cope was surely the last thing either of them wanted.

  ‘You needn’t sound so bloody cheerful. Hell, why not? End of another day, isn’t it?’ He perched on an inadequate stool, slopping some of his pint, and mopping with a beer mat. ‘You OK, Kate? You didn’t tell me you knew the guy that topped himself.’

  ‘I don’t think I actually stopped long enough to have a conversation with anyone, Gaffer. In fact, I think this is the first time my bum’s touched base today.’

  ‘Better have another sandwich, then.’ He pushed away and headed for the bar.

  They exchanged a raising of eyebrows.

  Colin finished his half before speaking. ‘“Kate”, eh? How did you get into his good books?’

  ‘Worrying, isn’t it?’

  Before they could speculate, Cope was back, three glasses on a tray. ‘They’ll bring some sarnies in a minute. Knew the stiff and watched them slice him open. You’ve got guts, young Kate, I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘I haven’t closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep yet,’ she said.

  He stared at her.

  ‘Oh, it’s one thing telling your head it’ll be all right, isn’t it? And another finding out later. No, I didn’t pass out or spew or anything. I was too busy wondering how he came to have those knife cuts all over his body. The path. reckoned he’d done them himself.’

  ‘Sounds like he was pretty angry,’ Cope said.

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘They say suicide’s the ultimate act of anger,’ Colin agreed. ‘What else could they be, anyway?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I suppose I thought – I don’t know. He was wearing a very smart jumper – it was as if he’d been trying to destroy that. Or, to fit my theory, someone else had wanted to destroy the jumper, and didn’t mind if he got hurt in the process. And I’d have liked this other person to have dragged him, kicking and screaming, to his death. Except, of course, there’s no evidence at all on his body of anyone’s violence except his own. The whole thing’s quite consistent with a not very efficient suicide.’

  ‘So why are you hooked on the idea of murder?’ Cope said. ‘Ah!’ He stopped as the barmaid brought a plate of sandwiches. ‘Thanks, love! You’ll be bringing the chips?’ He pushed the plate into the middle of the table. ‘Cheese and salad. You never know with you young kids: you might have been veggies.’

  Kate smiled. ‘Certainly not a day for rare meat.’

  ‘My dad was one of eight,’ Cope said. ‘The other seven – all older – were girls. Well, my gran decided to keep a few hens – quite a tough old
bird herself, my gran. Had to be, with my grandad drinking himself to death. Anyway, guess whose job it was to kill these birds when they’d stopped laying. Even though he’d be no more than seven and had raised them from chicks. “Just cut their heads off,” Gran said, handing him the chopper. And of course the bloody things didn’t stop running round … No, my dad wouldn’t eat chicken for years. Well into his forties, he’d be. I remember the rows about it with my mum. Still, there you go.’ He plunged his teeth into a sandwich. ‘Thanks, love,’ he added, as the barmaid produced the chips, a huge plateful.

  They smelt good. Kate decied it was an act of duty to stop him eating the lot, and helped herself, liberally. The more food in her stomach, the better she felt. But Cope was eating very sparingly.

  ‘Funny thing, murder,’ he said at last. ‘There aren’t many that people get away with. But there are some clever buggers around, no doubt about that.’

  Kate looked at him.

  ‘And these scientist guys don’t always get it right. In fact,’ he added, pausing to drink, ‘sometimes they make a right balls up. If there happened to be a meeting tomorrow, and if anyone happened to ask my opinion, I’d say we should poke around a bit more before we come to any hasty decisions about what we should tell the coroner.’ He nodded, and took another draught. ‘Despite what those above might say.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Thanks, Gaffer.’

  ‘What if it turns out to be suicide, after all?’ Colin asked.

  Cope shrugged. ‘We have to dig up all the background anyway. And if young Power’s nose is twitching, I’d say we go along with it. So long, of course, as it doesn’t take much time and it doesn’t cost much. Now, about this new Super, Rodney Neville. Have you heard. …’

  An hour and many scurrilous tales about their new overlord later, they split up. Colin was his usual discreet self: no one would ever find out about his movements unless they asked very direct questions. Kate had to get back to the nick to collect her car, and Cope fell into step with her. She sensed he had something to say, but the conversation – if it could be called that – skipped from observations about the weather (it was still raining steadily) to squad gossip and back again. At last they were by her car. Perhaps she should take a risk.

  ‘Well, we’ll see if my brain can switch off tonight. I’m expecting the odd nightmare, I must say. It’s those long cuts down the torso, isn’t it?’

  ‘And in your stiff’s case, they bring a whole new meaning to hanging, drawing and quartering.’ His laughter rang out brutally.

  She joined in. Laughter was the best medicine, they said. Maybe they even meant this sort of laughter.

  ‘Tell you what, Power, I’ve seen more post mortems on more stiffs than kids like Fatima’s had hot dinners. You get used to them, right? And yet—’

  ‘Do they ever stop getting to you?’ She sensed he needed prompting.

  ‘Well, there was one. Really turned me over. Not so long ago, as it happens. There I thought I could cope with most things and I go to this p.m. on this kid. Baby, really. And there’s the pathologist, young lad he’d be, same age as you. And he’s got this radio on, blaring out pop music. And this tiny baby on the slab. And he’s laughing to his mate about what he’s going to do to his bird, and he’s got this baby there. And in he goes. I tell you, Kate, I couldn’t take it. I wanted to smash that bastard’s head. Poor little bugger, doesn’t make its first birthday, and this bastard can’t even give it a bit of tenderness, a bit of pity. I tell you what, I—’

  But footsteps were approaching them, and he broke off. ‘Mind how you go, then, young Kate. And remember what I said: a good hunch is worth a hell of a lot of science.’

  Chapter Six

  Well, she’d got through the night all right. But she’d woken up sharply, at about six, and had been afraid to drop off again. No point in tempting fate. What about a run? No: in this rain, with this cough, it would be crazy, wouldn’t it? As would her football training session tonight. She’d have to phone one of the Boys’ Brigade officers and make her excuses. It was a shame: she enjoyed working with the boys, and hoped they got something out of it, apart, that is, from seeing their team creep up from the bottom of the league.

  One thing she could do was deal with the rest of her holiday washing. After all the months she’d had of no mod cons whatsoever, it was a pleasure to be able to load her new machine – even if to set it she had to stand on the bare concrete floor and to read incomprehensible instructions in a wide variety of languages. And she still had enough time to check on Zenia, who was now progressing visibly, and to beat the rush hour.

  If she could choose a parking spot, she must be one of the first of the squad to get in, so she stopped off to pick up the post.

  ‘After a few worms, are you?’ the receptionist greeted her, looking at his watch.

  She hesitated – was this a snide reference to her loathing for maggots? No, not from Harry – he’d be thinking about early birds. She hoped he hadn’t noticed the missed half second. ‘With a bit of luck. Hey, you look very smart, Harry – what’s with this uniform then?’ She scanned the crisp shirt, the shoulder tabs.

  ‘Oh, it’s all a con. It seems Joe Public doesn’t feel secure if us receptionists are civilians, same as them. They prefer something a bit more official, like. So here we are.’ He preened.

  ‘Looks very good to me. Anything you want me to take up?’

  He reached for a folder over-balancing a stalk of filing trays. ‘This is the latest batch of reports from that Grass on your Mates programme.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  Harry pulled himself up as if on parade. ‘DS Power, you know I’m only a civilian receptionist.’

  She responded in kind. ‘Indeed, Mr Carter. But I also know you were a highly-respected beat cop for years.’ She leaned her elbows on the high counter, grinning. ‘Come on, Harry – you’d nose anything out.’

  ‘Well, funny you should ask, as it happens. I was talking to one of the lasses who works on the dedicated line. Bright kid. Seems there’s a woman phones in. With a posh voice. And she stops in mid-sentence, drops the phone, like. And she’s dialled one-four-one.’

  Kate cocked her head. ‘Did she have time to say anything?’

  ‘Only, “Good morning – I want—”. And stops. According to Mandy. But there’s a bit of a whisper. Inaudible, though. Funny. Then it happens again, same time next day. And again a third day. Same time, same sort of thing. And out of all the calls Mandy’s taken, all these different voices, that’s the calls that stick in her mind.’

  ‘And yours! OK. I’m hooked. You’ll get Mandy to let me know if she phones back, won’t you?’

  ‘With that lot to work your way through, you won’t have time for anything extra.’

  ‘Try me. Come on, Harry, you set this one up for me to get interested in. Admit it,’ she said, grinning again.

  ‘Maybe she won’t try again.’

  ‘And maybe whoever takes the call won’t be Mandy and won’t be alert enough to pick it up. We’ll have to wait and see. Anyway, I can hear my coffee calling me. See you, Harry! And thanks for giving me extra work.’

  ‘Ah, you youngsters don’t know you’re born … OK, Kate: our ears and eyes are pinned open!’

  The reports on the pharmacy break-ins were all neatly clipped together on her desk, together with a note in Colin’s writing that they should check on another couple – they’d been dealt with by uniform while she’d been watching Alan Grafton being cut up. He’d asked for complete lists of missing items.

  Head down, she was in the middle of the rest of her in-tray when first Selby, then Fatima, arrived. Selby headed straight to the kettle, which no one had got round to filling. He shook it ostentatiously. Empty. And no one had had the decency to fill it! So he headed for the machine, which produced a stream of liquid. Stirring it vigorously – it smelt something like coffee, though she knew from experience that that was the nearest it got – he went and stood beside Fatima. Then he
left it, on her desk, while he went and made a phone call. Fatima eyed it and him, and moved the cup.

  So what was he up to? The woman was fasting, they all knew that. So he wasn’t being kind, that much was certain. She looked anxiously at Fatima, but she was apparently engrossed in what she was reading.

  ‘Bloody Nora!’

  Cope.

  He erupted into the room soon after his voice, waving the tabloid papers he always took. ‘Bloody Nora, Power – you and that ugly bugger Grant all over the bleeding papers.’ He plonked them on his desk, conveniently open at the right pages.

  Everyone in the room surged round.

  ‘Made it to Page Three, has she? No, not with them tits,’ Selby yelled. ‘’Ere, Colin, your bleeding girlfriend’s all over the papers!’

  Colin grinned and produced another newspaper. ‘Syndicated to the Independent, too. I fancy this one’s composition’s better. And the definition certainly is.’

  All the papers had much the same headline – variations on the caring face of our boys and girls in blue.

  ‘All very touching,’ Kate said, irritated that she should be blushing. ‘They might have let me comb my hair first!’

  ‘I wonder if Cartier-Bresson let his subjects comb their hair.’ Graham Harvey’s voice was quiet but nonetheless cut across everyone else’s.

  There was a general shuffling to something like order, if not attention.

  ‘Well done, Kate,’ he continued, smiling. ‘Nice to have a star of TV and radio right here in our midst. But not for very long, I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen. The Super wants to see you in his office, Kate. About five minutes ago.’

  ‘Not till she’s touched up her lipstick!’ Cope objected.