Hidden Power Page 18

  The front door opened; to her relief—despite Ned’s comforting presence—she heard two male voices. It was clear the men were coming to the kitchen first. One step and she could see both Craig’s face and Ned’s. Time to intuit a bit of truth-telling—or otherwise.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Craig demanded, but looking at Ned, not her.

  ‘Souping up Kate’s bike, of course. Any problems with that?’ Ned’s body language said loud and clear that there better hadn’t be. ‘Who’s your friend, anyway?’

  A good question. A thinnish man with ginger hair and overlarge ears. Kate rather thought he might be the man Craig had gone out with, the night of their first row. Not a police mate, then. Was that good or bad?

  Craig pressed a fingertip against Ned’s nose. ‘None of your business. Nor yours, before you start!’ he flung at Kate.

  ‘It probably is, but so long as he’s here to help you move your stuff, we needn’t make an issue of it,’ she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. Should she insist on accompanying him upstairs? It would be confrontational: the last thing she wanted was further violence. But she didn’t trust him to confine his activities to his own room, or to what little was his in the bathroom. Perhaps she’d give him four or five minutes, and then follow him upstairs, sitting quietly in her own room till he’d gone. The men were hardly out of the room, however, when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello? Kate Potter here.’

  ‘Kate? This is Julie Vernon. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Gary said your partner was coming round tonight. I was wondering…I know we hardly know each other—but would you like me to come round so you don’t have to deal with him on your own?’

  ‘Oh, Julie. That’s ever so kind. But I’ve got a mate here, thanks. She’s keeping an eye on things.’ As she spoke, she pointed at the ceiling, willing. Ned to go upstairs in her stead. But Ned didn’t seem to be into that sort of communication.

  ‘Good. But you must be careful Kate—very, very careful. Keep out of his way. Don’t try to argue. Just let him—’ Just let me keep an eye on him! Just get off the line! Why the hell didn’t I use the mobile, then at least I could have talked and maintained a presence. Kate pointed again, frantically. ‘-now, if you don’t feel secure where you are—and from what Gary tells me, he’s a young man capable of violence—you could always stay here. Or—yes, Gary’s saying something—you could borrow one of the empty apartments: no one would know, would they?’

  ‘It’s ever so kind of you—er, Julie. But I’m sure I’ll be all right. Thing is, he’s here now, and he’d hate it if he thought we were talking about him. And I don’t want to make things worse, do I?’ Oh, to be Kate Power, capable of cutting a phone call as and when required. But the Kate Potters of this world couldn’t do that She’d better try. ‘In fact, I can hear him yelling for me now. I’d better go. But I’m really grateful.’

  ‘No need to be. Now, just be careful—understand?’

  ‘I will be. Thank you ever so much.’ And Kate managed it at last: ‘I really had better go.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Ned demanded.

  ‘I was hoping you’d go and keep an eye on them,’ Kate replied, wilfully misunderstanding. ‘I don’t want Craig to take what isn’t his.’ And she headed up the stairs as fast as she could. And as quietly. But even as she reached her room, Craig barged out of his, prepared to use his bag as a battering ram. His mate had one equally large.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Craig managed.

  She pointed to the bedroom floor. Socks, pants, odd scraps of paper. ‘What about that lot?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You tell me. Are you leaving it there?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘OK, then. So long as you’re not going to run out of things.’

  ‘None of your business if I do.’

  ‘True. So long as you expect to see them in exactly the same place when you come back.’

  ‘They better bloody had be. Or in the airing cupboard.’

  Kate shut his bedroom door, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest. ‘No, I shouldn’t think they’ll be there. OK, then, Craig. See you when I see you, I suppose.’

  He started down the stairs, but turned to face her. ‘Women like you,’ he said, lunging towards her, ‘deserve all they get. Just you remember that.’

  That was a threat, if ever she’d heard one. How would he get back at her? Policemen had been known to plot revenges in the locker rooms—strange mixtures of the crude and sophisticated. He was planning something: she could feel it in her bones. But at least he’d spoken in front of two witnesses. Except—bugger it—Ned was nowhere to be seen. She looked over Craig’s shoulder at his mate, who dropped his eyes as if already guilty.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘See you, then. See you?’ She paused, looking questioningly at Big Ears. ‘Macker,’ he might have said. ‘See you, Macker.’ She tried for lightness. ‘You keep an eye on him for me, will you?’ Just as if she were a loving but misunderstood girlfriend.

  When they’d gone—a good job the paint wasn’t theirs to worry about, the way he slung his bag around—she found Ned watching TV. The flowers and vase were safe on the table beside her.

  ‘Did you hear all that?’ Kate demanded.

  ‘Some, I suppose. Didn’t get noisy, like, so I didn’t come up. I would have done,’ she added defensively, her eyes still glued to the screen.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  Ned wasn’t a bodyguard, after all. Nor did she know she was supposed to be a witness. She left her where she was, and went off to tidy the kitchen and fix a coffee. Then she obeyed her instinct—she ran upstairs to her room. No, all the drawers were as she’d left them. No problems there. But there was something wrong. Wardrobe OK. So what had he done? At last she pulled back the duvet. Ah! The bastard had come up with one of the oldest tricks in the police merry-jape book—a fake turd in the bed. It didn’t take her long to realise it was entirely genuine.

  Chapter 19

  Kate couldn’t fault Ned’s response: ‘Shit!’

  Then Ned asked, ‘Has it messed the mattress and everything?’

  Kate had been too busy with rubber gloves and loos and disinfectant to think about that. She checked: no, the under-sheet had a telltale patch, but not the mattress itself. More disinfectant. A full load for the machine, since the duvet cover had been soiled too. Not the duvet itself, though. So she had an efficient domesticated evening with clean bed linen while Ned was equally efficient with the front and back door locks.

  ‘There, try these,’ Ned suggested, handing over new keys. ‘OK? Then give me your old ones. Don’t tell Knowles, but I can get a good price for second-hand locks and keys—people don’t ask to see receipts when I fix things for them. I’ll get Craig’s off him when I see him.’

  She’d done a good job: there was no need to get officiously law-abiding with her. Kate handed them over.

  ‘He’s not going to be a happy bunny when he finds he’s locked out,’ Ned continued. ‘Wonder what he’ll think of doing then?’

  ‘The usual response would be a load of manure or a load of ready-mix concrete. Dumped on the drive.’

  ‘Manure’d be OK. Useful for that patch you’ve got at the back.’

  ‘By the ton? Quite. But it’s a bit obvious, that. And it might well get him into the manure himself. So would concrete, because this house is presumably rented to the police, who’d have to make good any damage. It might even belong to them. No, the art of revenge is to send something people would be ashamed to snitch about. Because that’s the whole ethos of the police service—you don’t grass up your mates, no matter how badly they’ve treated you.’

  ‘You mean you won’t tell them about him crapping in your bed? Jesus Christ, I would!’

  ‘It doesn’t do to get a reputation for bleating—“real” cops can deal with everything, because if you don’t it shows you’ve no sense of humour.’

  ‘And being
a woman, you’re not supposed to have one of those, are you? So it’s heads they win, tails you lose? Bastards.’ Ned tugged her fingers through her hair, apparently listening to the chug of the washing machine. ‘Tell you what,’ she said at last, ‘there’ll be some of my mates down the pub—why don’t you come along? OK, we’re mostly gay, but you won’t mind that, will you?’

  ‘My best mate’s gay,’ Kate said. If Colin had been here she’d have put her head on his shoulder and wept.

  ‘Right, let’s be off then. I’ll see you back—at least there’ll be two of us to deal with any manure.’

  As if she had no cares in the world—and perhaps she hadn’t, apart from a load of washing it would take forever, on a misty day like this, to dry—Kate packed the camera and binoculars. OK, they were supposed to be for snapping suspicious sites on Dartmoor. But there might just be the chance of photographing the complex with the visitors strolling around. Or not. Safety first, Kate.

  As she pulled up by the admin block and locked her bike—yes, she’d found it considerably more interesting to handle—she almost rubbed her hands in anticipation. While there was a distinct minus about the conference, there was a plus side too: she should have a safe opportunity to rifle through the papers destined for the shredder. Meanwhile, the place must gleam—she owed that to Gary Vernon. So she arrived early and worked with a will. Whether it was the booze she’d sunk with Ned and her mates or the simple fact that she could lock herself undisturbed in the house, she’d slept the sleep of the just and felt ready to vacuum and polish the whole of Devon if necessary. And then she could have a matey cup of tea with the women in the office.

  The parts of the place that were her responsibility, shone. The loos were pleasant to use. And she was well up to speed. Until the vac decided to play up: changing the dust bag, even though it was the second time she’d done the task, took valuable minutes. They’d be here any moment now.

  And then it hit her. What if she were recognised? She’d worried herself silly yesterday, probably embarrassing Rod. And what she should have been thinking about was being seen. OK, the chances were that Knowles and Earnshaw were right—no one would look at a cleaning woman, and if they did, wouldn’t relate her to the sleek specimen Kate had presented to the world before. All the same, the best dodge was to retire to the store cupboard till they were all safely ensconced in the conference room. She had an unexpected bonus: the cupboard shared a wall with the conference room. She could hear Tina and Mandy’s voices as they laid out pads and pencils. They sounded as excited as if the visit were something to do with them. Then there was a murmur of men’s voices, and one woman’s—only one, as far as she could make out. Was there any point in lurking as long as she could, in the hope of picking up information? No. No matter how hard she pressed her ear against the wall, she could hear nothing distinct—pity those listening devices weren’t to hand yet. When they were, she might even be able to put one in Vernon’s office. Why had no one asked her to already? Come to think of it, why had she been too dozy to ask? These rush jobs; The best surveillance involved thorough preparation.

  Right: everyone seemed to be in place. Now all she had to do was return with her gear to Vernon’s office. She could have another look for the delegates’ list. He might even have left one on his desk. She’d carry a duster if any latecomers turned up, face averted she could busy herself polishing any handy window or door. No need. Now: that list.

  But Vernon’s desk was bare. His confidential basket was pristine. Shit. How about a delve into his computer files? What, with the machine switched off, and not the remotest idea of the password? And the little camera keeping its eye on everything she did? Get real, Kate. Better to drift along and talk to Mandy and Tina. They might even have a list, though how she could ask she didn’t know.

  There was no doubt that while the cat was away, they were playing. Mandy had some new nail varnish, of which Tina strongly disapproved.

  ‘What do you think, Kate?’ Mandy demanded.

  ‘Well, my mum would have had a fit if, she’d thought I was wearing anything like that for work. But clubbing—it’d be great for that.’

  Both women seemed satisfied. Kate picked up the bottle and stirred, enjoying the movement of whatever iridescent substance made it glitter. The kettle boiled. ‘Better take them their coffee, then. Hey, give us a hand, will you, Kate?’

  Not bloody likely. Just in case.

  ‘What? Dressed like this?’ She picked at her overall. ‘And sweat—I must smell like a rugby player’s jock strap.’

  ‘Go on—don’t be mean. No one’ll notice.’

  If she argued any more it would be obvious. ‘All right.’ But she wouldn’t. Apparently screwing up the nail-varnish bottle, she managed to drop it, spilling a spot on to the carpet. ‘Oh, God—look what I’ve done! I’ll buy you some more, Mandy—or pay—’

  ‘You’ve got it all over the carpet!’ Tina shrieked. Yes, a drop at least a millimetre in diameter. ‘I’ve got some acetone in the cupboard’ll sort it. You two go on. I’ll fix this!’

  God Almighty, the second this was mopped, she’d be out of there!

  The others returned.

  Kate knelt back on her heels. ‘There. You’d never notice!’

  Tina sniffed. ‘Looks like you’ll have to clean the rest of the carpet. I’d no idea it was so dirty.’

  Kate looked at her watch. ‘OK. In their time I will. How much was it, Mandy? Least I can do is pay you.’ And not flinch when she heard the price. Come to think of it, she didn’t believe it: didn’t Christian Dior sometimes hand out little bottles like this as part of their give-away packs? She was being milked—shamelessly—of a morning’s wages. So much for the solidarity of the working classes. So much for asking for a list of delegates.

  Despite everything, she wished she’d helped with the coffee. What about offering to collect the empty cups? Surely no one would register her. But if Vernon were in a good mood he might just thank her in front of the others. And her risk would be for what? Nothing a bug couldn’t pick up better. Look, the mist was lifting nicely. Maybe the washing would dry after all. Meanwhile, she might as well obey orders. It was just the day for a ride round north Dartmoor.

  No messing about this time. Straight up the A382 to Moretonhampstead: the bike happily devoured the gradients. Further north to South Zeal and Sticklepath—she loved the sound of the places—or into that labyrinth of roads leading from the B3212 towards Chagford. That seemed more promising. The roads were narrow, some of them so steep-sided it was like being in a tunnel. Most had tracks leading off them, wilting fingerposts indicating farms. But she must take care. It wasn’t just the bike’s new power she’d be testing, it was its brakes, too, as the lanes plunged down towards a river.

  She consulted her OS map. The Teign? The river giving Teignmouth its name? Yes, its tributary streams, at least: right up on the moor, according to the map, was a ruin called Teignhead Farm. If she’d gone south and walked through the forest surrounding the reservoir, she’d have been able to see it.

  But ruined farms weren’t on the agenda today. The villages she picked her way through were so small she thought she’d have more chance of finding a pub serving food in Chagford itself. Even that was little more than a couple of streets and a church. A high street. And there was what looked like a coaching inn: the Globe. A-level memories told her it shared a name with an Elizabethan theatre.

  She bought herself a healthy sandwich and a pot of tea: much as she fancied some local cider, she had her licence to worry about. And her neck. The sun was now quite bright. She could pretend to be a tourist. Tourists could stop en route and photograph anything—well, anything vaguely photogenic. There might be something Intelligence could work on. So any remote farmhouse, any hidden barn was fair game. If anyone did happen to remark on her activities, then she could always say she was preparing a book on Devon domestic architecture—the camera might not be up in the Hasselblad range, but the zoom lens was far from innocent
—whoever had organised this knew their cameras. Robin would have been pleased.

  So she nipped round a maze of lanes, stopping wherever there was a view. She developed a routine: Stop, stare—camera.

  Many places deserved photographs, they were so picturesque—centuries old, with heavy thatch. Some were simply pug-ugly. Some had greenhouses, most had barns. Once she was interrupted by a woman on an old black cycle who invited her in to tea. Once she had to leg it hack to the bike to escape the attentions of a bored but snappy sheepdog. The afternoon was drawing in. Back to the A382, then. But she missed a turn and found herself heading west, towards a glorious view with a Technicolor sunset. OK, nothing sinister for the experts to look at here—just a beautiful postcardy scene. The sort of picture Aunt Cassie had favoured for thousand piece jigsaws.

  She pulled over, peered and took a couple of shots. An excited whir from the camera told her she’d finished the film. She might as well call it quits and give up. But Robin had always dinned into her that she must change the film at once: you never knew when you needed a camera.

  Stowing the binoculars in the pannier, she fossicked around for a film. Funny, she’d managed to go through life for a couple of years or more without using a camera. Perhaps the abstinence had been part of her mourning. Now she had one in her hands again, she wanted to point and shoot as much as Robin had always—sometimes irritatingly—done.

  She obeyed the instructions echoing round her head in his voice, tucking the used film back in her pannier and loading, the new. It went in like a dream, the motor humming away as it wound it right through—it was the same sort of safety feature Robin’s had had, to save you wasting film if you accidentally opened the camera. Anyway, it sounded convincing enough—almost like the motor-drives professionals used at press conferences. Then, seeing a feather of smoke coming from the valley at her feet, she thought she might try for one more shot.