Hidden Power

  Copyright © 2002 by Judith Cutler

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Hodder and Stoughton

  A division of Hodder Headline

  The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  24681097531

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Readers will find Newton Abbot, Teignmouth and Cockwood on their maps—but they will look in vain for a Sophisticasun complex or anything like it.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN 0 340 82068 3

  Typeset in Planth Light by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Polmont, Stirlingshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline

  338 Euston Road London NW 313H

  To the memory of my dear friend, Edwina Van Boolen

  Thanks, Keith Bassett, for your bottomless fund of CID anecdotes.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Congratulations on your promotion. You’ll make a great inspector, Kate.’ DI Sue Rowley beamed, shaking Kate’s hand in an embarrassed, official way.

  Kate returned the shake—after all, she was still technically Detective Sergeant Kate Power and Sue was her line manager. But Sue wasn’t usually that sort of manager.

  Then Sue grinned more widely and threw her arms around her in a sisterly hug. ‘And I’m sure it won’t be long before they find a vacancy for you. In the meantime, congratulations, and welcome back to Steelhouse Lane.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s good to be back,’ Kate said. It was, in most respects. Colin Soper, her best mate, was already brewing tea back in the office. And she had this kindhearted woman as her immediate boss. Perhaps the hug had been more motherly than sisterly. After all, Sue was in her mid-forties, and specialised, in her spare time, in urging her not always willing children through the educational system. Because she herself couldn’t afford to let work haemorrhage into free time, she protected her team from overlong hours. The corollary was that they were expected to give maximum effort between eight and six.

  ‘It’s a pity that promotion means you’ll have to leave CID and have a spell in uniform. You’re a good detective. I’d have thought Fraud could have used you while Lizzie’s off sick.’

  Kate shook her head firmly. ‘They need an experienced officer in charge there—I was never doing more than feeling my way.’

  Sue collapsed into her chair, laughing. ‘Don’t you think that’s what we all do? Every day of the week? Anyway, it’s good to know that Lizzie’s breast lump was benign. A little bird tells me she’d never have gone to the hospital if it hadn’t been for you.’ She pushed fingers through already disorganised hair, then smoothed it back. ‘Funny time to have your attack of stress—when they’ve found there’s nothing wrong with you.’

  ‘Lizzie could have stressed for England, Sue. Lump or no lump. The worry about that just finished her off.’

  Sue looked at her shrewdly. ‘It’s a lesson to us all: we need more than work in our lives. How’s your tennis? Or have you packed up?’ She looked sideways at the rain dashing against the window.

  ‘They’ve got a couple of strategic buckets to catch drips from the roof: but the chief advantage of an indoor centre is that you can play even when there’s snow on the ground. Which, for all it’s only just September, there may well be if it gets any colder.’

  ‘You know poor Graham Harvey’s on his annual leave?’

  Kate nodded. Fatima had mentioned it that morning, almost as casually as if she thought Kate would simply want to know about their DCI’s whereabouts. True, Graham was their superior in the hierarchy. But everyone in the office suspected that Graham was more than just Kate’s boss.

  ‘He’s clicked for a rotten couple of weeks, hasn’t he,’ Sue continued. ‘Imagine, walking in the Lake District in weather like this.’

  ‘Not my idea of pleasure,’ Kate agreed. But she’d rather Graham were on a mountain getting soaked to the skin each day than sitting in the comparative comfort of his office just down the corridor. The only snag she could see in her return here was that they’d have to meet again, even work together, under the gaze of all those office . eyes, and pretend that they were friends, not lovers…

  Ex-lovers. Kate had delivered the coup de grace when she realised that their relationship was making Graham as unhappy as it was making her—if for different reasons. She had hated the futile waits by the phone, the furtive meetings, his glances at the clock, even during the stolen moments in bed. He—well, he was a member of a particularly unforgiving Christian sect: his conscience was tormented by the knowledge that he was sinning, and a conviction that while God might forgive, the other members of the congregation certainly wouldn’t. He’d talked vaguely about separating from his wife, and about starting divorce proceedings. But as far as she knew he was still living in his quiet house in the quiet suburb. Fragments of long-past A-level English texts popped into her memory: who was it that was living and partly living? Who lived a life of quiet desperation? The answer to both was Graham. But she knew he could never break free, much as she would have liked to help him. She could have taken on Graham’s wife, but didn’t stand a chance against his version of God.

  Meanwhile, let him walk in the rain and enjoy it so much he delayed his return. Perhaps he could even catch a chills or sprain an ankle…

  Sue was looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and compassion. ‘It really is over between you two, isn’t it?’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘And—well, you know you can’t sneeze in this job without everyone knowing you’ve got flu—there’s a bit of a rumour—’

  ‘About me and Rod Neville. We’re friends, Sue.’

  ‘Close friends?’

  ‘As it happens, yes. And there’s no need to smile like that.’

  Sue laughed ‘I don’t need to when you smile like that! If you’re not in love with him now, you—’

  ‘Give me a break. He’s a charming, attractive man, and I really enjoy his company, but—well, he’s a superintendent, going far, I’d guess, and I’m a sergeant—’

  ‘Inspector.’

  ‘OK, an inspector. But I don’t want people to think I’m sleeping my way to the top.’

  ‘They will, anyway. You’ve no idea how many times I’m supposed to have dropped my knickers to get this desk. At least you’re not in one of Rod’s Murder Investigation Teams any more. And he’s in Lloyd House ensconced behind a big desk while you’re safely tucked away here in Steelhouse Lane nick.’

  ‘But everyone still knows and gossips,’ Kate grumbled.

  ‘Don’t you like a bit of gossip too, or are you in Goody Two Shoes mode? Come on, Kate. Lighten up.’ Sue stood and stretched. ‘Actually, what would worry me most is not the difference in rank but the age difference. I know he’s well preserved, but he’s nearer my age than yours.’

  ‘I don’t see a problem.’

  ‘You will if you stick together like Derby and Joan. He’ll be an old man when you’re middle-aged. And you’re likely to be a widow a long time.’

  ‘Did you choose your husband on the grounds your ages were compatible? Oh, Sue!’

  ‘Funnily enough, he’s eight
een months younger than me. OK. I’ve got a lunchtime meeting with Them Upstairs—the latest Home Office initiative. What about you?’

  ‘I’m off with Colin Roper—he needs a new going-to-court suit and I said I’d help him choose. Maybe the rain’s easing a bit…’

  It might have been, but by the time Colin had chosen his suit, it was pelting down again, and he and Kate were battling across the pedestrianised New Street sharing his regrettable but efficient golf-umbrella. She’d tucked her arm firmly into his, and was holding down her raincoat to protect her skirt.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  They had to stop. A young man, his hair plastered to his head where the wind had blown back his cagoule hood, was accosting them, flourishing a clipboard slipped into a plastic bag.

  ‘Can I ask you just three questions? It’s a travel survey. No catches, I promise you,’ he added. ‘And we enter you in a prize draw. Just to say thank you. Only three questions!’

  ‘Do you have to do a quota before you’re allowed to knock off for the day?’ Colin asked.

  The young man—he probably wasn’t more than seventeen—nodded miserably.

  ‘OK,’ said Kate. ‘Fire away.’

  The questions were simple enough. How many times had she been abroad that year? Where? And if she could choose a perfect holiday destination, where would it be? Oh, and could she give her home telephone number—just in case, the boy added with a wry grin.

  ‘And when do they let us know—if we win?’ Kate laughed But the boy was fighting another squall and didn’t hear.

  ‘Guatemala!’ Colin yelled as he hung up his raincoat and stowed the streaming umbrella in a waste bin. ‘Come on, Kate, what possessed you to say you wanted to go to Guatemala?’

  Sue popped her head round the door. ‘Got any tea? God, I hate working lunches.’ She stepped inside and felt the kettle, flicking the switch on the handle to bring it to the boil again. As she dropped a teabag into the last clean mug, she asked, ‘What was that about Guatemala, Colin?’

  ‘According to Kate, it’s where she wants to spend her next holiday.’

  ‘Oh, I had to say something. This poor kid stopped us in the street, Sue. Absolutely soaked to the skin. But he couldn’t go home until he’d inveigled a certain number of punters into answering some silly questions.’

  ‘Consumer research,’ Colin explained. ‘And just to sugar the pill you get entered in a prize draw for a holiday.’

  Sue looked alert. ‘What’s the prize?’

  ‘I didn’t even ask,’ Kate admitted. ‘Waste of breath.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you win,’ Sue said, seriously enough to make them raise their eyebrows to each other as soon as she’d left the room.

  That evening Colin propped himself up against Kate’s kitchen doorjamb. ‘Fancy you cooking!’ he chortle.

  ‘I’ve always cooked. Well,’ she conceded, ‘from time to time.’

  ‘So what’s prompted this sudden rush of domesticity to the head?’ he enquired, hauling himself upright to top up their wine glasses.

  She shrugged. ‘You have a lovely kitchen like this, you ought to cook in it,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing to do with Rod Neville, then? It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be seen eating with you in public?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we be seen together in public? We do lots of things in public! Damn!’ As she tipped the pasta into the pan, a few drops of water splashed on to her forearm. She licked the place, and rubbed it vigorously.

  ‘So I hear. Art exhibitions. Antiques fairs. Not your sort of thing, I’d have thought, Kate. I’d have seen you at soccer matches, or running or—’

  ‘It may have escaped your notice that it’s still supposed to be summer and that they play soccer in the winter.’

  ‘The season started weeks ago.’

  She stuck out her tongue. ‘And the medics have officially forbidden running.’

  ‘All the same… Shall I chop this parsley for you?’ He picked up the knife and started work.

  ‘Hell, I’d forgotten all about that. So much for me being an expert cook, eh?’

  ‘You can choose a good wine, for all that. Or is that down to Rod, too?’

  She blushed, and, furious with herself, blushed all the more deeply. ‘He doesn’t like cheap stuff,’ she admitted. ‘But then, there’s no reason why someone on my salary with no mortgage should drink cheap wine.’ She raised her glass in a toast. ‘Thanks, Aunt Cassie, for the house.’

  Colin drank. ‘How is the old lady?’

  ‘She’s pretty well got over a head cold. But she won’t let on that she’s better. Oh, Colin, she’s getting more and more self-absorbed. This pain; that ache; her bowels; her bladder.’

  ‘But you still go up and see her practically every day.’

  ‘Of course I do. Though it’s no more than every other day, sometimes less than that. We’re family. And she’s outlived most of her friends, and she’s had rows with those still alive. You know what a tongue she’s got. Plus, I owe her: I know I didn’t enjoy living here while the place was being done up, but I’ve no complaints now. And I wouldn’t have had it if she hadn’t been so generous.’

  ‘True. Is that the only reason you go and see her. Gratitude?’

  She sensed he was asking another question, but answered, ‘I suppose it is. I used to love her dearly, but each time I go up she seems less and less Aunt Cassie and more and more some miserable stranger. There’s nothing to talk about. She used to be such a game old bird, too.’ The saucepan boiled over. She snatched it off the gas ring, which she had to relight. ‘That’ll teach me! Never mind, only salt water—could be worse.’

  Kate had laid the table in her dining room—the table Rod had helped her choose, though she didn’t intend to bring that to Colin’s notice. As she carried the bowls of pasta and salad through, she put them on two layers of mats: she didn’t want any harm to come to the lovely glossy table. Imagine having something from George II’s time in your very own front room. She could hardly believe it. Of course, Rod had pointed out that it was a little early for the chairs she’d bought at a different antiques fair, but both table and chairs were so simple and quietly elegant she didn’t mind. She didn’t even mind that one of the table feet had been badly restored, or that someone long ago had spilt ink on one leaf. All she knew was that for two centuries women’s hands had rubbed it with love and beeswax, and that she was going to continue the tradition.

  Colin deposited the wineglasses on coasters with equal care. ‘Nice bit of wood,’ he said, as Kate returned with the plates ‘Rod chose it, did he?’

  ‘He watched me sign the cheque. And he shoved it into the back of his mother’s people carrier.’

  ‘His mother’s. You’ve met his mother! Oooh,’ he continued, camp as they come, ‘things are getting serious, aren’t they!’

  ‘Like they were when I met your mum and dad?’

  ‘Hardly! OK, that’s something I wanted to tell you this evening. I told them last weekend. About me and Bruno. And how I was gay.’

  She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘How did they take it?’

  ‘As well as could be expected, as they say. Dad went all gruff, but he clapped me on the shoulder as he went off to the boozer and said he wished me well. And Mum had a little weep but said it was because she was happy for me. She’s suspected all along, she says, and she’s just happy I’ve met a nice boy.’

  It all sounded a bit too easy, didn’t it, for a working class Black Country family A lot too easy. But until he admitted otherwise, she must take his account at face value. ‘So am I. And I’m glad you’ve come out. What about work?’

  ‘I’ve told Sue Rowley.’

  Who, as Kate was aware, already knew. As did most of her colleagues, Rod and Graham included. Not through her, it had to be said. Other people had intuitions too: there seemed a general consensus that provided Colin didn’t make a big deal over his sexuality, they wouldn’t either.

  ‘But can you imagine Graham H
arvey’s reaction?’ Colin continued.

  Kate frowned. ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘His sort of Christianity isn’t big on forgiveness, Kate. Not as big as it is on Sin. And if you’re a right-wing Christian, being a homosexual is an abomination in the sight of the Lord,’ he concluded, in a fair impression of Ian Paisley. ‘He may suspect, poor man, but he mustn’t know, or that poor overworked conscience of his may force him to do something.’

  Kate knew her smile was pale and inadequate. ‘I think you’re misjudging him,’ she said carefully.

  ‘You haven’t been and bloody blabbed?’

  ‘Not my secret to tell, Colin. But people aren’t fools. And they join CID because they’re good at detecting things.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She passed the Parmesan.

  ‘Are you getting over him yet?’ Colin asked at last, scooping salad on to his plate.

  ‘What do you mean, “over him”?’

  He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Surely you know the word on the street is that you took up with Rod Neville to throw sand in people’s eyes because you were actually fucking with Graham?’

  ‘And do you believe the word on the street?’

  ‘No. Because I think you’re too honest to treat either bloke that way. But I do think you might go with Rod to take your mind off Graham.’

  ‘We always got on. OK, he was keener than me. But he’s a good man. He knows the score.’

  ‘Are you…?’ He raised an eyebrow delicately.

  ‘Sleeping together? We did at one point but it didn’t work out. He thought I was too much of a maverick.’

  ‘You!’

  She couldn’t work out whether or not he was being ironic. ‘I’d disobeyed a direct order.’

  ‘And then there was Graham. You do like a complicated life, don’t you? Why don’t you fall in love with an ordinary straightforward guy for a change?’