Power Shift Page 17

  Although she closed the door quite firmly—this was one conversation that shouldn’t be casually overheard—he didn’t look round immediately. She crossed to her desk, parking the coffee.

  ‘Graham?’

  He flung round. ‘What the hell are you doing,’ he demanded, his face ugly with anger, ‘going over my head? This should be a straightforward CID job, and you invite an MIT in!’

  She mustn’t apologise. ‘Not my decision,’ she said, as crisply as she could ‘It was made over my head I’m answerable to Oxnard, as operational commander. Talk to him about it, if you’ve got a problem.’

  ‘You had no right to discuss it with him without seeing me first’

  ‘I had every right to tell him that one of my officers is missing Every right and every duty.’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I never thought you’d be so disloyal’

  ‘It’s a matter of hierarchy, not loyalty.’

  He stepped towards her, eyes like ice She hoped hers were equally cold.

  ‘You knew this would reflect badly on me—humiliate me But you chose to go ahead And then to invite an MIT in The clear implication is that you didn’t trust me and my colleagues—your colleagues, Kate, your colleagues, until a few days ago—to do a decent job’

  ‘That’s not true’ Perhaps it would sound less defensive if she added, ‘And you know it I didn’t make the decision Indeed, I had no part in it The only part I’ve played was to recommend which two of my officers should be seconded on to the MIT And even,’ she continued, suddenly more fired up than she’d expected, ‘yes, even if I had had sole responsibility for the whole thing, do you think I’d have asked you to come and sort out my problems Think of it, Graham Working in the same building every day again. Having regular meetings and consultations No, I don’t think so’ She added, more gently, ‘There’s no point in opening old wounds.’

  ‘I hoped we could be friends,’ he muttered

  ‘I hoped we could. I hope we can. But you have to—we have to get used to each other’s change of circumstances.’

  ‘In other words, I have to accept your having a lover. No, a mere DO wasn’t good enough for you, was it, Kate? You wanted a superintendent. I’m surprised you didn’t go for an ACC.’

  She could have slapped his face. ‘So I could flick my way to the top? Grow up, Graham. I slept with you because …’ She tailed off. She didn’t want to remind him and his conscience about their first sexual encounter. He’d come to visit her at home when she’d been on sick leave and had forced himself on her. That she’d been too in love with him to protest was irrelevant.

  He dropped his eyes. ‘You could have reported me for rape.’

  She savoured the words, but said nothing. He wouldn’t understand, would he?

  ‘That was between you and me. The whole of our relationship should be between you and me.’

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve told Rod Neville all about it.’

  ‘Why should I? Oh, he knows we were lovers, but only because when any other man dared talk to me you strutted round like a cock on a dunghill. He didn’t have to be a great detective to work things out.’ Neither did a lot of other people, of course.

  She glanced at her watch: she seemed to have spent too long already this morning having rows or adjudicating them. ‘Tell me,’ she said, changing the subject, if not enough, ‘this letter of yours—is this it?’ She passed him the envelope.

  ‘You know it is,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

  ‘The cleaner found it tucked behind a loo and gave it to me this morning. I believe her when she tells me that it had already been opened.’

  ‘So the letter … ?’

  ‘Whatever you wrote is now in someone else’s hands.’

  ‘What possessed you—’

  ‘We’ve been over this, Graham. I thought my question more pertinent. What possessed you to write to me? What did you say, anyway?’ She regretted the question as soon as it was uttered. And she wished she’d sounded less interested.

  ‘My wife… suspects. She may contact you. I wanted you to—deny everything.’

  So he hadn’t got round to separating from her, much less divorcing her. What a surprise.

  ‘I would have done anyway. What made her suspicious?’

  ‘Something Aunt Cassie said to Mrs Nelmes.’

  She suppressed a 2smile. So Aunt Cassie was still Aunt Cassie in his mind, while he always referred to-his mother-in-law as Mrs Nelmes. And Flavia was still ‘my wife’. Had he whipped himself up into that quite spurious rage about the MIT just so he’d have the courage—or was it even to have a motive—to come and talk to her? When she had so much, so very much, to do. And she ought to be on her way to Ladywood for another quick talk to Natasha. It was quite clear that she didn’t have time to continue these regular conversations, and she ought to break it to the girl in person that she wouldn’t be seeing so much of her.

  ‘Did you come in your car?’

  He looked completely nonplussed, as well he might. She couldn’t explain that all he was today was an interruption in more important business.

  ‘Could you give me a lift? I’m due at Ladywood in about fifteen minutes and, believe me, it’d be useful.’

  ‘What about getting back?’ he objected.

  ‘I’ll hitch a lift from someone there. Or walk. It looks like a beautiful day.’ She picked up her jacket.

  ‘It gives a very bad impression, that sort of thing,’ he said, pointing at her coffee and the unopened croissant bag.

  ‘Thanks, Graham. That would have been my breakfast,’ she said drily, locking the door behind her. ‘I’m just off to Ladywood,’ she told Mrs Speed. ‘I. should be back within the hour. If not, send out a search party for me.’

  At least they had something to talk about in the car.

  ‘A torn. You’re going to all this trouble for a torn!’

  What had happened to his Christian forgiveness?-‘She’s a little girl who was kidnapped and forced into the profession,’ she said quietly.

  ‘All the same.’

  ‘She ought to be at school, preparing for her GCSEs. Except I think she’s too young for them. That’s how much of a torn she is.’ Think about casting the first stone, Graham.

  She was just about to get out of the car when he said, suddenly humble, ‘I suppose it’s off, then—lunch?’

  ‘I shall be eating that croissant, I should think. I’ll call you when all this is sorted, Graham. I can’t see my feet touching the ground till then. In any case, I go on nights this weekend.’

  ‘I’d talk to Oxnard about that,’ he said. ‘I’d have thought you’d be more useful on duty during the day, when the MET’s going flat out.’

  She glanced at him; Yes, he meant it, and it was good, dispassionate advice. ‘I might just do that,’ she paid. For old times’ sake, she dabbed a kiss on his cheek, and was off, running up the steps just as Meg Walker and Natasha arrived. She turned to wave. A grey, metallic-finish Audi had slowed right down as it passed the station. Perhaps it was just to let Graham pull back into the traffic. Perhaps it wasn’t.

  ‘Inside! Quick!’ she shouted. She got most of the registration number before the car I accelerated hard down the Middleway. Enough for the computer, she hoped. First she’d better check all her flock were together. Yes, Madame Constantinou was waiting with distinct disdain by a reception desk manned—there was no other word—by a huge man with the most tattooed hands she’d ever seen. Beside him Mick of the market would have looked a mere amateur.

  ‘Take them through. I want to check a car reg.’

  Meg looked at her hard, but did as she was told. She returned almost immediately. ‘Do you want to check another one while you’re at it? Madame Constantinou reckons her taxi was tailed. And she had the nous to take the number.’

  ‘So despite your precautions, you think someone is on to you?’ DCI Smith reflected.

  He’d joined Meg and Kate in th
e small interview room their Ladywood colleagues had provided, having come, as he grumbled, to the mountain, rather than waiting for the mountain to come to him. Kate would rather, he hadn’t come at all, but when she’d phoned Oxnard with the news—it was serious enough for her to refer it upwards—he’d told her he’d despatch Smith on the grounds that it looked as if Rod was right and everything would tie up somehow. ‘And,’ he’d added parenthetically, ‘it’s always good to keep a man on his toes.’

  ‘According to my contact at NCIS, the gang is likely to be big and efficient,’ Kate told Smith, watching the light glint on his scalp. ‘They must be even bigger and more efficient than we thought.’ She poured coffee and handed it to her colleagues. This wasn’t a moment to worry about falling into female roles

  ‘The cars?’ DCI Smith prompted.

  ‘Both stolen from suburban London drives last night,’ Kate said.

  ‘So they may even have a profitable little sideline in the auto trade,’ Meg put in.

  ‘Quite.’ It was clear Smith wasn’t interested.

  ‘So what now?’ Kate asked. ‘We obviously need another safe-house for Natasha. But now we have to worry about Madame Constantinou’s safety. Can Witness Protection take a hand?’

  ‘You’ve got to persuade her of the need, first of all. It seems she disobeyed your instructions to vary her route: same minicab company, same driver, same car each day. “Because he drove so smoothly”,’ Meg explained drily.

  ‘I’ll work on her,’ Kate said. ‘How do you think we should pursue this from now on, Greg? If the rotating-venue option hasn’t worked, how can we all get together from now on?’

  ‘Do you have to be involved at all?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got the essentials and you’d be more use to me at Scala House. No, I know you’re not part of the MIT, but you’ve worked with one in the past, I gather, and you’d still be in CID if it weren’t for this daft rule that every promotion means a return to uniform.’

  Kate stroked her chin. Giving up this responsibility would certainly make life easier.

  ‘It’s true that what Natasha and Meg really need to do now is go through the story to make it into a formal statement—I don’t envy you that, Meg. But even if I’m not involved, the basic question remains, how can the women get together safely?’

  ‘Dead easy. We move the whole lot to a safe-house. No travelling involved, then.’

  ‘But my kids’ exams!’ Meg wailed. ‘No, I really don’t want to go anywhere. Not that I think you’d get Madame Constantinou to go anyway. She’s very attached to that flat of hers.’

  ‘Twenty-four-hour protection for her there?’ Kate suggested, without conviction.

  ‘And for Natasha, and Meg, and for whoever types everything up? Think budgets, woman.’

  ‘You wouldn’t need a typist,’ Meg declared, ‘provided I could have a nice little laptop with a delete button. Then I could e-mail everything I. got. But I’m not going anywhere,’ she repeated, belatedly.

  ‘Sooner it’s done, the sooner you won’t need to,’ Smith said obscurely. ‘Come on, Walker, you’re an experienced sergeant, not just in CID in general but Paedophilia. The kid likes you. Madame Whatsername knows you. It’s obvious.’

  ‘It’s not obvious at all. I’ve all my Christmas shopping to do—I haven’t even bought any cards. There’s the Christmas exams and then the school carol concerts—no, I really don’t want to.’ :

  Smith sighed. ‘If you got cracking today, you’d likely be finished by Monday night. I can’t Order you to, but it’d make sense.’

  ‘I’ll have to talk to my husband. But there’s no point until we hear what Madame Constantinou has to say.’

  What Madame Constantinou had to say turned out to be a great deal. She said it with considerable drama, as if she’d been taking lessons from Natasha, her usually impeccable accent thickening with every paragraph. Her very hands expostulated that such a venture was completely and entirely out of the question.

  Until Smith introduced the question of her fee. She would pack a case immediately.

  It transpired that Madame Constantinou lived in a flat in a very pleasant development on Bristol Road. There would be at least two cars accompanying the one in which she’d be travelling, and the armed-response unit was going to rendezvous there—just in case, Smith added.

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘Unwelcome attentions, Madame Constantinou,’ Smith said brusquely.

  ‘In that case, I would like Kate to sit beside me. She is a very reliable officer, Chief Inspector Smith.’

  ‘Of course I’ll go with you,’ Kate agreed, heart sinking at the waste of time. But she had an idea. ‘Then when we’ve got your things, the driver can drop me off at Scala House, where I normally work, and take you on to the safe-house.’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ Smith snapped. ‘Get your arse back ASAP, Power—OK?’

  Bristol Road, more formally the A38, was one of the main arteries of the city, taking-traffic from Spaghetti Junction through industrial Longbridge and then to the M5. Although for much of its length it was a dual carriageway, not all of it was, and those sections could clog with traffic very easily.

  The traffic heading south was solid. The driver did an illegal U-turn, heading back through some of Birmingham’s oldest and most distinguished residential roads to turn north up the A38 instead. That, too, was solid. But the police car, and its escorts, pushed its way through, Madame Constantinou making admiring remarks about the Red Sea.

  ‘It must give you such a sense of power, officer—oh, Inspector, I do so apologise.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Kate began easily. Then she saw the expression on the older woman’s face, and followed the line of her widening eyes. She grasped her hand, putting an arm round her shoulder. They were puffing into Viceroy Close just behind a flotilla of fire appliances.

  ‘That is my apartment,’ Madame Constantinou croaked, pointing with a shaking index finger. ‘My apartment. Inspector, it is my apartment that is on fire. My little dog! My paintings! My furniture! My clothes!’ She scrabbled for the door.

  Kate pulled her back, but opened her own door. ‘I’ll see what’s going on,’ she told the driver. ‘Get her out of here—fast.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘It’s not as bad as it could have been,’ the senior fire officer, a grizzled man called Jenks, told Kate. ‘Flats as upmarket as this have very efficient alarm systems. And one of the neighbours heard the smoke alarm and found the front door open and had a damn good go at fighting the blaze with his kitchen extinguisher. Hospital now, of course—smoke inhalation.’

  ‘The door was open?’ She was still breathless from her run up the stairs.

  ‘Yes. And before you ask, I’d say—off the record, for the time being—that it was arson. Look.’

  He wasn’t taking much of a risk. The door had been jemmied open, and the centre of the fire was obvious even to Kate. ‘What’s that stain?’ She pointed.

  ‘Blood. From that.’

  A terrier lay half out of the kitchen, its throat cut. It was clear Kate wasn’t going to be back at Scala House for a while. She’d better let Smith know.

  He wasn’t pleased, interrupting before she could explain. ‘Busy? What sort of busy?’

  ‘Busy with another arson attack and another slit throat.’

  ‘Shit! Have you got the fire-service people there? Put me on to whoever’s in charge.’

  She held out the handset. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Smith, sir, in charge of the team looking into the Spaghetti Junction lorry fire, which,’ she added, ‘involved a remarkably similar modus operandi.’

  Jenks drummed his fingers with obvious irritation as he listened to Smith. At last he said, ‘OK, I’ll see you later at the fire station, shall I? I just thought you’d want to see the scene first hand and fresh.’

  “Course I bloody do. Jesus OK.’ He cut the call.

  From the expression on Jenks’s face, it was a pity Smith didn’t run to such
expressions as ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m on my way’.

  What she still wanted to do, of course, was phone Rod. She gave her conscience a quick check: yes, it was definitely for his professional input. Meanwhile, she made herself invisible while the fire-fighters went through what looked like a well-rehearsed routine of stowing equipment.

  At last—no, it wasn’t very long, considering the traffic: Smith must have put his foot down hard on the accelerator—she heard his voice on the stairs. He was with a plain-clothes officer she didn’t know and Zayn Ara. Well, progress on one front, at least, even if it didn’t need three guesses as to who’d end up doing the routine work.

  ‘No dead humans here, at least,’ Jenks greeted him. ‘just the old lady’s little dog. Nasty yappy things—I’m surprised she was allowed to keep one.’

  She took a pace backwards. She didn’t want to look at the dog again. Not for its own sake, but for Madame Constantinou’s. She had been sucked into something very nasty through no fault of her own. It would be bad enough having to tell her about the smoke and water damage.

  ‘Maybe a neighbour trying to shut it up,’ a passing fire-fighter suggested. So it wasn’t just the police who used ghoulish humour to relieve strain.

  ‘Chummy’s trademark,’ Kate murmured, among the laughter. Smith shot her a sideways glance. ‘You’re sure this place belongs to—’