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  He headed straight for her. ‘You’re all right, my wench?’

  Before she knew it, he had her on her feet and into a grand, kind, hug. Which brought tears to her eyes faster than she’d feared possible. There was a general stamping of feet, thumping on tables. She didn’t look at Rod.

  ‘We could have called this Operation Queen Bee,’ he was soon saying, sleek and elegant by the whiteboard. ‘Because as you’ll have gathered at the heart of this web of intrigue was a woman. My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, for the mixed metaphor. I think her position is best expressed diagrammatically.’ He printed Beryl Coutts’ name in the middle of the board. Then he drew a series of lines radiating from it. ‘Let us start – inevitably, I fear – with her son. DI Crowther is currently helping the anti-corruption team with their enquiries. He no longer has any part of ours.’

  That was what had caused the unease, then. No one would have known, not for certain. But the rumours would have been rampant.

  ‘It appears that Mrs Coutts, who enjoyed considerable influence in areas other than the Anna Seward Foundation, was moved by two motives when she – arranged – to have DI Crowther moved to this MIT. The first was to have another very swift promotion to decorate his CV – though that might have been counteracted by the other thing she wanted, which was for the investigation to falter.’

  ‘Hang on, Gaffer,’ Mark said. ‘Murders don’t just go away.’

  ‘They might do if a verdict of accidental death goes through,’ Rod said. ‘Which was no doubt the original intention. Thanks to Sergeants Grewal and Power, however, that was foiled: and imagine how difficult the whole enquiry would have been had not the scene been preserved.’

  ‘He was really pissed off when I got Stephen Abbott to identify her so quickly,’ Kate said.

  ‘One of his instructions, no doubt, was to protract everything. So one deduces that the next move was to try to pin the blame for Rosemary’s death on Doctor Parsons. By the time the trial came round, and, one hopes, a not guilty verdict, one imagines that DI Crowther would have acquitted himself so well in other cases that a slight glitch in this could be overlooked. I once read,’ he continued, ‘a study of the playwright Christopher Marlowe called The Overreacher. That’s how I see Mrs Coutts. She was running an extremely successful organisation, investing money wisely, planning ahead well, and then somehow forgot that the trust was simply a charity. Now, the duty of every trustee of every charity is to make money for that charity. That is a duty in law. But she became obsessed with it. Warehouses paying inadequate ground rents are in the way. Get rid of them.’

  ‘Except she didn’t do the dirty work herself,’ Ford put in. He took the board marker and inserted another line. At the end of this he wrote, ‘Blakemore’. ‘It seems that Mr Blakemore wasn’t always careful enough to check the whatd’youcallit – the provenance – of some of the pictures he sold. Put it another way, he lied through his teeth. The Fraud people and the Art and Antiques Squad are having a picnic up in Staffordshire. Somehow or other,’ he said ironically, ‘Mrs Coutts persuaded him to run a couple of errands for her.’

  ‘But where would she find out about his fraud?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Probably bought a wrong ’un from him,’ Kate said. ‘And had a little revenge.’

  Rod nodded and resumed his narrative. ‘He’d no idea how to go about them, of course. Which is why he’s still in the Burns Unit, with – well, very little hope, to be honest. And since he’d in all probability do a great deal of time for the murder of one Sally Blake – thanks, Kate! – perhaps one can’t hope he will recover.’

  ‘Come off it, sir,’ Mark said. ‘A bit of justice – that’d be nice.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s had a bit of natural justice,’ Kate said quietly.

  For the first time, Rod looked at her. But he slid his eyes back to Ford, who gestured him to continue.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Now, Mrs Coutts wanted to develop the prime site out by the reservoir. If she could get outline planning permission, then the land was worth much more to developers. But someone was already ahead of her. The Preservation Committee. Who’d applied to have the building listed. It’s a curious little building that deserves a better fate than ending as rubble under the foundations of an hotel. But Mrs Coutts didn’t see it that way. She suborned one the Planning Officers.’ He drew another line, this one ending in the words, ‘Planning Department’. ‘An ex-Seward Academy girl as it happens. Who had a lesbian relationship in her past and doesn’t want it to become general knowledge.’

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ Kate said. ‘What century are we in?’

  Rod shrugged. ‘Might not be a problem to you or me, but it seems some people still find it so. To continue.’ He consulted his notes. ‘How did Mrs Coutts find out? I should imagine she had reasonably free access to confidential school records.’

  ‘How come a school wants to build a bleeding hotel?’ Mark demanded.

  ‘I don’t think it did. Investigations into planning applications suggest that what the Seward Foundation did want was to expand one of their other city sites, currently owned by Behn Associates. So they would have done a bit of wheeler-dealing with them. Mutual back-scratching. And possibly it was considered a little more “respectable” if a charity was making the application.’

  ‘So why harass Rosemary? She was just one of the committee?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Because she was certainly one of the most vociferous. A lot of committee members had problems, not least Stephen Abbott, the archaeologist whose flat was burgled the other day. Naturally all the committee members have been interviewed. Most admit to nuisance phone calls, that sort of low-level harassment. But Rosemary’s was certainly more extensive, if half the allegations she made in her letter to the bank have any foundation. Inland Revenue are currently checking which of their staff was dealing with her tax returns.’

  ‘Someone educated at a Seward Academy?’ Kate suggested wearily.

  ‘That’s the line we’ll be pursuing. Meanwhile, there have been some recent developments. Sergeant Power – I believe you have something?’

  The team was euphoric, ready to head for the pub, but Rod held them back. ‘And there’s yet one more success to celebrate. We’ve heard from the forensic lab. There’s enough DNA on a certain plastic bottle to match against other samples. One from Rosemary Parson’s body is already on the way. So is one, ladies and gentlemen, from Mrs Coutts. So then we’ll have good scientific evidence to match good solid police work. Well done, everyone.’ He might have added, ‘Especially Kate,’ under his breath, but if he did, she didn’t hear him.

  Chapter Thirty

  However much Kate had fought against sick leave, she’d ended up taking a few days. It was the paperwork that had defeated her. Oh, she’d waded through it, but once the adrenalin had subsided she’d had to agree with the shrink that a little breathing space might be a good idea. The scars were fading already, leaving her skin as sound as the new front door. Alf had sorted that out as quickly as he’d promised, and slapped paper and paint all over the vestibule and hall in less time than it had taken Colin to run to earth a door with a stained glass panel almost the twin of the one that had been lost. Colin had also found details of an antiques fair where he was sure she could get a dining table and chairs to replace those the water had damaged. The insurance company had seemed to think that a good idea. A shop on the High Street had come up trumps with curtains even better than the originals.

  So when Kate looked around her territory this morning, she felt at home in it once more. Content. As if she were a tortoise whose shell had been repaired. She slung her tennis bag on to its new hook, closed the front door behind her and headed for the shower. She flung open windows on the way up. The sun had brought her neighbours out into their gardens already, though it was still only nine o’clock. Next week she’d be back at work and back in the seven o’clock coaching slot: this week she’d allowed herself the luxury of an extra hour in bed.

  Alone.
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  There’d been a change of name for the MITs – to Murder Investigation Units – and a change of structure. Rod would now be in charge of three teams, all led by DCIs. A chance for Graham at last, assuming he’d want to work under Rod. Maybe he’d be more content running the squad with or without a new superintendent. The extra responsibility had meant Rod had been whisked off down to Bramshill. Before he’d gone, he’d done the decent thing with flowers and chocolates and a challenging selection of books. He hadn’t mentioned their nights together and neither had she. Some things you wrote off as experience. She’d just chosen a man whose attitude to the law was much more rigid than she’d realised. He’d been shocked to the core by her cavalier approach. Shocked and unforgiving.

  She was just sluicing off the shampoo and the shower gel when the front door bell rang. Post? Not that she was expecting anything. So she slung on the unisex bathrobe last worn by Simon – no, by Rod! – wound a towel round her head and ran downstairs.

  ‘Graham!’ she said stupidly.

  ‘I’ve come at a bad time.’

  She stood back to let him in. ‘Not at all. I’ve just come back from my tennis lesson.’ She closed the door behind him. ‘It feels very strange, what with a new coach and everything – only both the physio and the shrink insisted I shouldn’t give up.’

  ‘No ill effects?’ His sudden smile told her he didn’t see anything wrong.

  ‘None.’ The shake of her head loosened the towel. ‘Have you got time for a coffee? No, you’d rather have tea, wouldn’t you? Come on through—’

  The kitchen was bright with sunlight, the flooring warm under her bare feet.

  ‘Why don’t you make it and take it out into the garden? Such as it is. While I—’ She gathered up the towel.

  ‘Alf’s been busy?’

  ‘Alf and his army. I never thought Stephen would have worked so fast – yes, it’s all documented for posterity, now – but he finished in record time. And then Alf moved in. OK, I haven’t any plants – all I’ve got out there is earth, till Colin’s landscape friend comes on Saturday – but I’ve got a garden bench.’

  ‘It was plants I came about. There’s – we had – well, the squad wanted to give you something to cheer you up. So I suggested something for the garden. I’ve got some stuff in the boot.’

  ‘Oh, Graham – that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Shall I go and get it now – while you—’ It was as if he became aware for the first time of the trailing towel, the oversized robe. And of her bare feet. He was staring at her feet. He dropped his eyes still further, biting his lip.

  ‘That’d be great,’ she said, too quickly. ‘I’ll just go and—’

  ‘OK.’

  Upstairs, she grabbed bra and briefs from the mess that was her drawer. When she tried to ram it shut, a stocking trailed out. Leave it.

  As she stood, briefs in hand, she looked up. Graham’s eyes looked into hers through the dressing-table mirror. There was no mistaking what they said.

  This must not happen.

  She must not let it happen. Not like she feared it would, not with violence.

  Another man and she could yell the place down – bring the neighbours running. Another man she could stab with the nail scissors if he touched her. Another man – but this was Graham. She turned to him.

  He had his hands on her shoulders. He pulled down the robe, pinioning her arms. She could still fight, still scream.

  Wanted to scream, at the sight of his face. Not the tired, anxious face she knew. But the face of a man driven by forces he’d never come to terms with. Normal, human desires.

  Holding his gaze, she smiled. To remind him who she was? Or to welcome him?

  And she waited.

  He lay across her, his sobs shaking her. There was nothing she could do, trapped by his weight. If only – yes, she shifted, so she could put her arm round him. Then the other. He might not have noticed. All he said, over and over, was, ‘My God, what have I done? My God, what have I done?’

  And until he could listen, she couldn’t tell him.