Power on Her Own Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  By Judith Cutler

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  By Judith Cutler

  The Kate Power Mysteries

  POWER ON HER OWN

  STAYING POWER

  POWER GAMES

  WILL POWER

  HIDDEN POWER

  POWER SHIFT

  POWER ON HER OWN

  A Kate Power Mystery

  Judith Cutler

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain in 1998

  by Hodder and Stoughton

  A division of Hodder Headline PLC

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  This eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  Copyright © 1998 by Judith Cutler

  The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0107-2 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Keith Bassett, who told me to write this book; Sarah Bookey, who freely gave of her expertise; Maureen Carter, Frances Lally and Edwina Van Boolen, who have collectively and separately been towers of strength. I am also grateful to the following for their help: the Baptist Union; the Boys’ Brigade; West Midlands Police.

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Listen, Kate. There’s mistakes and mistakes. Some are little, spur-of-the-moment mistakes, like shooting traffic lights you could have stopped at. And there are the sort you think about and still make. And it seems to me you’re specialising in those at the moment.’ Tom dropped his voice, big and booming after all those years of yelling at young constables, and glanced at the other mourners in the church. ‘For a start, why on earth did you come here today? I mean, I know you were both in the squad, but there’s his wife and all his family, for goodness’ sake.’

  Kate turned her face away. He was right. She and Robin had been live-in lovers but he was still very much married. Spent three or four evenings with his kids. Did all the right fatherly things: parents’ evenings and swimming lessons. She’d never asked otherwise. It had been part of their relationship. Like her forays up to Birmingham to keep an eye on Cassie, her father’s aunt. Family ties. You had them and there was no point in making a song and dance about it.

  But there was no denying that she wasn’t wanted here. Oh, her mates from the Met, they were solid beside her, like Tom and Mike, silently reading the order of service. But his family had preferred to ignore her. Not just his wife and kids – and who could blame them? – but his parents, who’d seemed so fond of her. She should have said her last goodbyes in the chapel of rest and left the ritual of mourning to those who were entitled to it.

  Tom gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. She turned back to him, managing a smile.

  ‘And then there’s all this business of going to fucking Birmingham,’ he began.

  She touched her lips; they were in a church, for goodness’ sake. The elderly couple in the pew in front of them had obviously heard: you could see their necks stiffening.

  ‘Sorry. But why the – why on earth leave the Met? And London?’

  ‘It’s – Oh, God!’

  Everyone was standing. They were carrying in his body. Cramming her knuckles against her mouth, she stood too. The coffin. Six policemen, shoulder to shoulder, carrying it. A symbolic helmet – Robin had always been a man for a flat-topped cap – stood proudly on top.

  There were so many in the church that the hymns, familiar tunes with familiar words of faith and comfort, sounded convincing. Just at this moment she wasn’t so sure she could ever believe in anything again. All these monuments: other people had kept going in the face of death and loss. She stared at the memorial tablet nearest her. Anno Domini 1783. Henry and Charlotte Cavendish and their seven children, none of them older than four. How had they dealt with all that grief?

  No, there were no answers in the stained-glass window behind the altar, although the summer light made it blaze with reds and blues. And she was afraid the clergyman wouldn’t have any answers either. They sat down to listen to him.

  He’d done his homework, tried to make it sound as if he’d known Robin all his life, whereas he’d really only known Kathleen’s parents, bastions of his comfortable suburban parish. He spoke of the devoted family man, the honourable police officer, the keen sportsman. Everything except Kate, come to think of it. The widow – Kathleen, never abbreviated – sobbed audibly. The children wailed.

  Kate took Tom’s hand and held it tightly. Fellow officers were entitled to look grim. And she was here as a fellow officer. Full stop. If she forgot that she’d howl. She forced herself to listen to the rest of the eulogy.

  ‘… Called on to make the Ultimate Sacrifice … Dying in the name of Law and Order …’

  He sounded as plummy as a Home Secretary.

  Tom’s mouth breathed warm against her ear. ‘Not so much a sacrifice, more a cock-up, I’d say.’

  Robin had been hit by a police car, smashed into a wall when someone had shot out the driver’s windscreen and he’d lost control.

  And then they all stood to pray.

  Robin had wanted to donate his organs and to be cremated. He’d always said so: been one of the first on the squad to wave a donor card around and press others to sign up. Kathleen had refused to give consent until it was too late, and she was having him buried. Even from where she stood, at the back of the little knot by the open grave, she could hear the thud of the earth as Kathleen threw her handful on to the coffin.

  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’

  She heard no more. All she could think of was the worms that would consume his dear body. No. She wouldn’t disgrace him by being sick. Swallow hard and breathe through your open mouth. That’s
what they told you. She looked at the flowers on other graves; that was a mistake: they were dying fast on the sun-bleached grass. In fact the greenest thing in the churchyard was the artificial turf around the new grave. Even the birds had stopped singing in the heat of the late morning. Maybe they felt they couldn’t compete with the constant roar of traffic and now – God help her! – an ice-cream van chiming ‘The Happy Wanderer.’ All she could do was hang on.

  ‘You never told me: why Birmingham?’ Tom turned to face her, his bulk between her and the family. One by one, they were leaving the grave to go back for ham sandwiches and tea at the family home. A couple of senior officers would put in a token appearance there. The rest of them would hold their own wake: the landlord had been warned.

  ‘Aunt Cassie,’ she said, ‘for one thing. I’m the only family she’s got.’

  ‘Even so – hell, Katie, when you were with Robin you managed to go and see her at weekends: why not do that now?’

  ‘It’s not as if I don’t know the place. Two years on that undercover stuff.’

  ‘Even so – No, you don’t want to leave all your mates.’

  ‘My mates aren’t going to be in London anyway.’ She stretched her fingers, counting. ‘You’re off to the Sierra Leone police; Mike’s being invalided out; Moira and Ted are so wrapped up in each other they won’t want an old misery like me around.’

  ‘Old? Misery you may be, but you’re only a kid!’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘Well, then. Anyway, there’s the others. Andy. Griff.’ Tom unclipped his black tie, and, stuffing it into his pocket, turned away from the grave. ‘What’s up?’

  No one would notice now, and she didn’t care if they did. Like Kathleen, she stooped to pick up a handful of warm, dry earth, and scattered it on his coffin. It made the same hollow rattle. Nothing to say goodbye to.

  And then Tom was at her side, arm round her shoulders, turning her towards the waiting car. ‘Come on, sweetheart. We’ll all be there for you. Time to get pissed.’

  Chapter One

  Kate strode down the endless corridors. OK, they’d scored a hit. They’d sent her to the back of beyond to collect a set of files. She’d bet no such files had ever existed. Everyone must have been in on it – whoever she spoke to referred her to someone else on a far distant floor. She grinned even as she cursed herself for falling for the trick: the sort of thing you’d do to anyone new to the squad, just to test them.

  So why was no one in the office when she went back in? The phone started to ring. Who the hell had been stupid enough to put it right at the back of the desk? She bent to reach it – and was pushed hard forward, arms pinioned. A hand clamped her mouth, the thumb rough against her nose. She tried for a bite: it pressed harder. She struggled, elbowed – used all the tricks in the book and then some – but he was bigger, heavier. Her chest was parallel to the desk top. Now something was pressing hard against her skirt, against her buttocks. Into the cleft between her buttocks. Thrusting, again and again.

  If she let go, if she made her knees bend so he fell forwards … But he pulled her back. She twisted her foot: with a bit of luck she could land a kick.

  And then she didn’t need to. There was a rush of footsteps into the room. Someone tore the man’s hands off her and sent him flying across the room. ‘Stupid fucking bastard. Get the hell out of here!’

  She fell forwards on to the desk top, scattering papers, and lay there panting. Another hand touched her, gripping her upper arm to lift her up.

  ‘Kate? Are you OK?’ the same Brummie voice asked kindly.

  Swallowing tears and spittle, she bit her lips to stop them quivering. She waited for her chest to stop heaving, her pulse to slow, before she spoke. Why was she overreacting like this? ‘Fine!’ she said at last. But her voice cracked.

  Who on earth had rescued her? That guy – the young constable – at the back of the room who’d just smiled and nodded when all the other lads in the squad had yelled and catcalled. What was his name? He pulled a chair up. Sally, the Welsh airhead, was talking about getting her a drink. ‘Water, that’s what you need.’

  Kate needed water like a hole in the head. Whisky: that might just help. Mustn’t think of whisky, Kate, not till six, no, better make it seven tonight.

  ‘Sit down a bit,’ the young man said. Colin, that was it. Colin Roper. Sally’s partner.

  ‘No. I’m fine. Honestly.’ Her knuckles were white on the back of the chair. ‘Not hurt. Just bloody annoyed. Falling for an old trick like that. The second in ten minutes, too.’

  ‘Here you are – best if you sit down.’ Sally inched the styrofoam cup towards her.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a couple of figures in the doorway. DI Cope, that was the beer-belly and her immediate boss; the other was the DCI, his boss, Graham Harvey. Four inches shorter than Cope, and four stones lighter, he managed to bring stillness into the room. He looked around him, for all the world like a school teacher bringing the class to order. He had the slight stoop of a teacher, too, and a weariness about the eyes.

  ‘DS Power?’

  He even sounded like a teacher. They’d all pulled themselves to attention: she wondered if he’d notice if she tried to smooth the back of her skirt.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My room, please. Now. You two – where’s Selby?’

  They were at attention too, shaking their heads. If suspects stood like that, they might as well plead guilty straightaway. ‘If you have to lie, lie good,’ Robin used to say. Mustn’t think about Robin now.

  ‘Canteen, Sir,’ Sally said.

  It was a pity Colin Roper opened his mouth at the same time: ‘Having a slash, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you two later. Remind your colleagues that we’re supposed to be fighting crime, will you, not arsing around. There’s a small matter of a missing child, in case it had escaped your memories. Power?’ He gestured with his head.

  He was holding the door for her. Old-fashioned courtesy, of course. And it meant he could look at her more closely as she passed. He wouldn’t miss the finger-shaped pressure marks across her face.

  She waited in the corridor for him, so they could walk side by side. But he didn’t speak, not until he’d opened his office door, again standing on one side for her to go through first. She stopped in front of his desk, like a school kid in front of the head’s desk, turning to watch him as he closed the door behind him. Although the room was standard issue, he’d got geranium cuttings on the windowsill, and some posters for art exhibitions on the walls. On his bookshelf stood a kettle and a plastic bottle of water.

  ‘Sit down, please.’ His voice was angry, exasperated, and, somewhere, kind.

  ‘Sir.’ Which chair? Not one of the armchairs. A hard one. She sat, knees together, upright, not letting her back sag. In spite of themselves, her fingers clasped and unclasped. Eventually she gave up the fight, gripping both sets of fingers in towards the palms. At least while he could see the white of her knuckles he couldn’t see the bitten nails.

  ‘You look as if you could use a cup of tea.’ He busied himself with the kettle. When they chinked against each other, the mugs had the ring of china. No green fur, not like her last nick where there was a proper penicillin factory.

  ‘I’m fine, Sir.’ What was a DCI doing, fussing round making tea? It was usually a brusque yell to whoever was passing to bring coffee.

  He turned to her, tea bag in one hand, mug in the other. ‘Who are you trying to kid? Selby been his usual charming self?’

  ‘There was some horseplay, Sir. I couldn’t say who was involved.’

  ‘Little DS Arctic, eh? Look, Kate, you’ve had a rotten time this last year, and anyone on my squad who makes it worse will feel my boot up his arse.’ He looked at her closely. ‘What have I said?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’

  ‘Young lady, you’re not telling me the truth. Something happened in there to upset you. I’ve a shrewd idea what it was. If you don’t make a complaint,
I can’t fix it.’

  ‘If I make a complaint, Sir, I’ve blown my job here. There’s these things wherever you go, aren’t there. And I’ve got to work with – with everyone on the squad. Last thing I need’s the reputation for being a grass.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’ He stared at her for a moment, lips tight. She didn’t let her eyes drop. ‘OK. I won’t press you at the moment. Let me know if you change your mind. And remember, there are others involved. You can’t think just of yourself. What about other women recruits who may face the same unpleasantness? Think about that, Kate.’ He poured water in the mugs. A strange smell, like grass cuttings, pervaded the room. The DCI was only giving her herbal tea, when every nerve yelled for caffeine.

  The taste – suddenly she saw worms, little pink worms in a compost heap, the sort of worms which were eating Robin’s flesh.

  She made it out of his room to the nearest loo. Heaved until there was nothing left but bile, and heaved again. It had gone straight to her stomach, all that business. Shock, the doctor said.

  She soaked wads of loo paper in cold water and pressed them to her eyes. Then all over her face. The door opened; she swung away, so no one could see her like this.

  ‘Only me,’ said Sally. ‘Hang on!’

  She was out of the door and back again before Kate had done much more.

  ‘Here: take this.’ She offered a bulging make-up bag. ‘All that mascara running – look a bit like a panda, you do.’

  Kate peered at herself. Panda was the right word. She smiled and opened the bag. Sally went in for bright lipsticks.

  ‘Thanks. That’s really kind of you. There: that’s better. Just what I needed. And – about earlier – thanks.’

  ‘No problem. Maybe you’ve got too much blusher there. Wipe a bit off, eh? Time to move, d’you think? Harvey sent me to find you. Well, to see if you were all right, really. Funny bloke, bit of a pussy cat. Sometimes. Best not to keep him waiting, though, eh?’

  Back down the corridor. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew that eyes watched her through cracks between doors and frames. She could feel the silence fall, deepen. Suddenly Roper put his head round the door of the gents: he grinned and winked, making a silent thumbs up. She smiled back.