Staying Power

by Judith Cutler

  Had anyone listened to him long enough to find out? Not that he’d complain.

  ‘What was his subject?’

  ‘Search me. Look, Bill’s been hanging round for long enough. Not to mention the kid.’

  ‘Nigel! He’s come here?’

  ‘Him or his twin brother. Down the corridor.’ Head already bent over the next item on her desk, Lizzie pointed a finger in the general direction of the interview rooms.

  She was guided to the right one by the sound of laughter. Whatever was going on was clearly not overly heavy. In fact, Bill winked at her as she came in, rather in the manner of that consumer-protection woman on TV.

  ‘Morning, Gaffer,’ he said. ‘Young Nigel here’s just popped in to talk to us. We’ve been talking football. Hey, you’re into footie, aren’t you?’

  So he wanted to keep everything low-key.

  ‘Well, I haven’t been head-hunted by Man. United yet to replace their manager, but it’s on the cards. I coach a Boys’ Brigade team,’ she added. ‘Real big time.’

  ‘But they’re not losing any more, are they? You must be doing something right.’

  ‘You can’t be wrong all the time, Bill. How’s things, Nigel?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I know I should have a solicitor here. And Mum. But I want to say that I shall tell you everything as soon as I can. But not while Dad can still get at her. ’Cause I shall be in big shit with you lot. Big. After what you said about being in trouble for selling real grass. I’m not doing any harm, honest.’

  ‘What does your dad do that scares you so much?’ Hitching her trousers, she sat down astride a chair that Bill produced.

  Nigel’s face flushed, then returned to its usual pallor. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. If I ask, she says not to worry. She says if I get to Uni she’ll leave him and come and look after me. But she won’t. I know she won’t. Because he’d come after her and she wouldn’t want to lead him to me. Fuck it, can’t you just arrest him?’

  ‘On what charge, Nigel?’

  ‘Making me – you know, sell that grass. And – this other stuff. And he’s making a lot of money. A lot.’

  ‘Even if we had all the evidence we needed to arrest him and charge him, the chances are he’d be bailed and could go home. To you and your mum. We have to do everything step by step,’ she said.

  ‘How would you feel about giving evidence against him in court, son?’ Bill asked. ‘Some people wouldn’t like sending their own dad to jail.’

  ‘I’d lock him in and throw away the fucking key!’ He was near to tears. ‘Look, you’ve got to get him. Honest. And keep him in prison a long time. Look at that businessman who got let out after only six months. What if Dad came out that soon?’

  ‘Wasn’t that man in for fraud? They don’t hand down life sentences for fraud, Nigel. Your dad’ll be out sooner or later, anyway.’

  ‘Even if he’s killed someone?’

  Kate froze. She could sense Bill freezing too. ‘Killed someone?’ she repeated at last. Alan Grafton swung backwards and forwards, his trousers dirtied, his jumper slashed. He lay on the slab, grimacing as Patrick Duncan pulled forward his scalp.

  Perhaps gripping the back of the chair would bring her back to the present.

  ‘As good as! You ask my mum. Only she won’t tell you, will she? Because he’s taken away her life, as sure as if – Hey, you thought I meant something else, didn’t you?’ He stood up, swallowing painfully. ‘You thought I meant. …’

  ‘It’s OK, son. Sit yourself down.’

  Nigel shook Bill’s arm off. ‘Has he? Has he? Oh, Christ!’

  Kate touched Bill’s hand, miming coffee, and left him with the lad. He was the expert, after all. A father. And she knew how kind he could be. The drinks machine responded quickly, and she was back probably before Nigel noticed she’d gone. Her pulse was racing. What she wanted to do was prod and probe the agonising spot. What she had to do was remember that the police had to obey the law.

  ‘Look, kid,’ Bill was saying. ‘We’re the Fraud Squad, aren’t we? It’s money problems we deal with. But if you’ve any evidence of any wrong doing, you’ve got to tell us. Any evidence. Any wrong doing.’

  ‘Sit yourself down and drink this,’ Kate said.

  Nigel dashed the cup across the table with the side of his hand. ‘You reckon my dad’s a fucking killer and you give me fucking coffee! I’m out of here.’

  Bill was between him and the door. ‘Sit down and don’t be such a bloody fool. Watch my lips. Right? We want to talk to your dad about money. The only reason we’re not doing that at the moment is your mum’s safety. Right? You’re not under arrest so you can come and go any time you want. But if you want to have tantrums like this, you can bloody have them somewhere else.’

  There was a very long moment before they detected a grudging, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What about that college of yours?’ Bill asked at last. ‘Shouldn’t you be there this morning?’

  Nigel nodded.

  ‘You’re going to be very late. Does your dad get to hear about lateness and missing classes?’

  ‘You know he does.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better hop in my motor. I’ll make sure no one at the college splits. OK? Come on, Kate’ll sort out that mess.’ At least he had the grace to wink at her as he guided Nigel out.

  There was a message on her desk telling her to contact Super-intendent Neville immediately – no clues why. She organised someone to mop up the interview room, and sat down to dial.

  To her surprise, she got through direct to him, unintercepted by his secretary. His tone was curt, but not hostile: she sensed there was someone else in his room.

  ‘DS Power: I gather there’s to be a meeting to discuss strategy in the Sanderson case this afternoon.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I take it you’ll be there?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’d ask you to stay behind here afterwards. We have a squad issue to discuss. So if you have any work scheduled for then, I’d be grateful if you would delegate it.’

  ‘Squad issue, Sir?’ Cope and Selby’s angry faces flew in front of her eyes.

  ‘Correct. Till this afternoon, then, Kate.’

  So despite all the formality and chill of tone, he’d ended on an informal note. Was this to offer some covert reassurance? Dared she phone Graham to find out what the hell was going on? Not openly: he believed in the hierarchy so devoutly he’d clam up. But she could certainly get an update on Simon’s condition, and phone him with that.

  ‘Intensive therapy?’ she repeated. ‘But why?’

  The Brummie voice at the other end said, ‘There was a significant deterioration in his condition. It has to be stabilised.’ All that Neville-like formal terminology from such a homely sounding woman.

  ‘Does that mean further surgery?’

  ‘At this stage I can’t comment.’

  ‘Is it possible to see him? I’m the police officer who found him.’

  ‘I’ll transfer you to the IT Unit.’

  But whatever her nursing skills, the woman couldn’t manage the phone and the line went dead.

  Lizzie was beside her, her hand on her forearm. ‘What’s up, Kate?’

  Kate stared. ‘Young Simon: he’s getting worse.’

  ‘Better get round there now.’

  Such unexpected kindness did what everything else had failed to do: brought tears to Kate’s eyes.

  ‘After all, you may just get something before he drops off his perch. Bill can go with you.’

  ‘Bill’s ferrying young Nigel back to college.’

  ‘Maybe I’d better go with you. You look a bit watery. It’d be embarrassing if you wrapped a car round a lamp post.’

  Lizzie? She’d be the last person Simon would want to see. If he could still see. ‘I’ll be OK.’ She gathered her coat and started through the door.

  ‘Kate?’

  She turned.

  ‘Check back with Welfare if he c
roaks. OK?’

  ‘You look rough: fancy a cup of tea?’ The Bournville Lane SOCO peered at her with concern. He was a middle-aged man who looked like a TV stereotype of a police officer: sturdily built, respectably suited and tied, hair short at the back and sides.

  ‘Love one, Bob. I’ve just been to the hospital. Young Simon.’

  ‘The kid that was beaten up? How is he? He lost a lot of blood, I can tell you. Pity you lot stamped all over it.’

  ‘Sorry. Things don’t look good for him. They’re talking about opening him up again.’

  ‘Internal bleeding? Poor kid. Still all you can say is he’s got a better chance than some street kids.’ Bob leaned back and pointed to a calendar behind his desk. Amnesty International. Packets of cellophane-wrapped cards tottered in an uneasy pile on his bookcase.

  ‘You mean here it’s criminals that go round killing them, not the police,’ Kate said, smiling grimly. ‘Look: I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet. Are those for sale?’

  ‘You choose while I make some tea. Looks as if a few biscuits wouldn’t come amiss, either.’ He busied himself with a kettle. ‘Look, Kate, if you knew this kid—’

  ‘He was a witness. Nice kid. Whatever the Bogota police would have made of him.’ She fished out five packets at random; changed her mind and took ten. She’d have to find some Shelter ones from somewhere. Putting some money on his desk, she said, ‘Is a witness. He’s still hanging on in there, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Now, I’ll tell you what we’ve found so far. Tyre prints. Nice frozen ground, you see. Yours, ambulance, panda: we’ve eliminated those. And a set of new ones which matched some old ones. Good enough, I’d say, to match with the tyres, when we find them. Someone scuffed one of them when parking, I’d say.’

  ‘I’m hoping for an early Christmas present here. Well, an inspired guess. Any idea what sort of vehicle?’

  Bob grinned, gesturing a rabbit coming from a hat. ‘Big one, not small one, that’s all I’ll say. Good, your colour’s coming back. All tubes and machines, was he?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And deeply sedated so you can’t even say anything to encourage him. Come on, Kate, they’re tough, these kids. They want to live. That’s half the battle.’

  ‘I should have asked him to come and stay – it’s not as if I haven’t got room.’ God, how had she said that to this complete stranger? She grabbed the tissues he produced.

  ‘Inviting a witness to stay? Come on, Kate, love, you know what your boss would have had to say about that. And rightly, too. Don’t you repine about something like that. Your job isn’t housing waifs and strays. It’s hunting down a nice flash car for me to ID. And later on I may have something else to ID. You never know.’

  Kate managed a grin. And turned it into an evil one. ‘You don’t have to do all this stuff yourself, do you? Because young Simon was using headed, letter-quality paper as bog-roll. And the loo wasn’t clearing … You don’t suppose—’

  Bob rolled his eyes. ‘OK. I’ll get one of the young lads on that, shall I? Provided you promise not to make any jokes about it.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘No. Leave them to us. Tell you what, Kate,’ he added, as he slipped the card money into an envelope, ‘who would you like us to tie this to? Strictly off the record, that is.’

  ‘A businessman with a Mercedes. Nasty piece of knitting called Sanderson. The only thing is, try as I might, I can’t work out how he should have known I was in touch with Simon.’

  Bob shrugged. ‘That’ll be a nice little job for Uniform, won’t it? Come on, Kate, we shall find something. Where did you and Simon meet?’

  Kate covered her mouth in dismay. ‘I picked him up from his squat, once, and took him to Sainsbury’s coffee bar. About the most public place in Selly Oak. I never thought—’

  ‘Most folk can have a coffee with a friend without getting roughed up, surely to goodness. Implies there might be a bit of guilt there, doesn’t it? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if we found a line in his credit card statement, to show this businessman of yours had been in Selly Oak that day, and his till receipt told us he’d bought his wife a nice bottle of wine from Sainsbury’s at just the right time? Come on, Kate: we’re all part of a team here, and what one of us misses another will find.’

  ‘There is just one thing he could have done,’ she said. ‘Sanderson’s house is alive with surveillance equipment.’

  ‘Well, he might not have left it behind – why should he in a dump like that? – but he may have left some screw holes in a wall, a scuff in the plaster, we can match to a similar piece of equipment elsewhere. We’ll do all we can. Provided you remember: leave the shit jokes to us.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Kate might have been so anxious she arrived for the meeting some twenty minutes early, but Graham was there to intercept her. He smiled and nodded her into his office.

  ‘Come and sit down. You look as if you could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘I could really use a dose of the Super’s espresso – before he went decaffeinated. But some of your real tea would be lovely.’

  ‘On a day like this I was going to offer you hot chocolate. Tell me,’ he said, busying himself with mugs, ‘did you have any lunch?’

  She said nothing. Surely he wasn’t about to share his precious packed lunch with her?

  ‘I thought not. Here.’ He produced a paper plate flexing under an assortment of buffet goodies. ‘Lunch meeting. There’s a fork in here somewhere.’ He burrowed in his desk. ‘You must always try to eat regularly. For the job’s sake as much as your own.’

  Kate nodded, attacking a samosa. ‘Thanks, Gaffer.’

  The kettle boiled, and Graham was on his feet again. ‘There. Assam, with caffeine.’

  Mouth full, she smiled her thanks.

  ‘Lizzie tells me you had to go and see young Simon again. Problems?’

  ‘He’s losing ground. How much longer will you be holding back the media?’

  ‘As long as I can. If he – It’s hard to sit on murder.’ His voice was so gentle it was hard to imagine that he could often be so lacking in understanding. ‘Come, I’m being previous. He’s young … he’s in the best of hands.’

  ‘I notice you didn’t say, “he’s fit”,’ she snapped. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sometimes a bit of anger is good for you. Point taken, anyway. Feeling any better now?’

  ‘You’re not being kind to me because of what’s coming out at the discussions about the squad this afternoon?’

  He raised his eyebrows. Then he laughed. ‘You mean the condemned man’s last meal? Surely you’re not expecting any problems, Kate. You couldn’t manage this as well?’ With a flourish he produced another plate, this barely able to sustain two thick slices of gateau.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to friendly conversation with Cope.’

  ‘I heard his version. It might be useful to hear yours.’

  She gave a bald account and then addressed herself to the cake. To fill the silence, she said, ‘Robin used to cook wonderful cakes.’

  ‘You don’t talk about him much.’

  ‘You don’t talk about your wife much.’

  He looked not at her but at his desk. And then at the big photo. ‘No,’ he agreed at last. Then, straightening as if before a promotion panel, he looked authoritatively at his watch and said, ‘Perhaps we should make a move.’

  The meeting had moved very quickly and efficiently under Neville’s chairing. He was now summing up point by point.

  ‘All the accounting evidence,’ he nodded and smiled at Ben, ‘points to the idea that Sanderson was deeply involved in long firm fraud. That he “bought” materials on the basis of false credit-ratings, given by companies that were mere fronts. We have evidence to suggest that he was disposing of materials thus fraudulently acquired through at least one retail outlet.’

  ‘Remember this morning we’ve run to earth at least two other premises,’ Lizzie put
in.

  While Kate was out. She’d not known of it till ten minutes ago.

  Neville acknowledged his omission with a nod. ‘Sanderson also seems to have a major stake in a questionable educational establishment, though despite Bill’s best efforts we can’t find anything downright illegal about it.’ His voice changed to suggest a parenthesis. ‘Somehow I don’t think Bill’s going to let go of this one. Ever thought of joining the Ofsted team when you retire, Bill?’

  ‘Just let me get at them,’ Bill growled.

  ‘Now let’s look at the evidence about Alan Grafton’s death. Kate, are you OK about this?’

  ‘Sir.’

  He read Patrick’s official report. ‘In combination with the SOCO report, which finds no evidence at all of anyone else’s involvement, I have to conclude that we can’t put this particular case forward to the DPP as one of murder.’ He smiled. ‘We never know what the inquest jury will have to say, though. Sorry, Kate: I know you’d like to nail Sanderson for that.

  ‘We have strong hints from Nigel Sanderson that his father is involved in Nigel’s own drug-forging cottage industry. I’d personally like to make a connection between the vitamin tablets stolen from local pharmacies and those picked up by Kate’s contact from the Met, who has kindly sent me a copy of the forensic science report.’

  Kate nodded. Trust Dai to be so professional.

  ‘I’m happy to tell you that the gilded youth of the metropolis have been forking out huge sums of money – in order to take not E’s but vitamin B.’ He paused for effect and for laughter, which seemed genuine enough although they’d all known what was coming. ‘Meanwhile, other people, maybe on our patch, are no doubt taking all sorts of far more noxious substances as a result of the pharmacy break-ins. I want results now, ladies and gentlemen.’ He paused to consult his notes: Kate could see the meticulous handwriting produced by a fountain pen. He smiled. ‘The only crime we haven’t been able to link in some way with Sanderson – and I don’t need to tell you we need the hardest of evidence to nail a man of his standing – is Kate’s carpet-layers.’