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  ‘That’s a secret I shan’t even share with you, Cassie.’ He got up and kissed her cheek. ‘Now, I’m going to take this girl home and tuck her—’

  ‘Such language in front of an old lady!’ Aunt Cassie cackled.

  ‘You know damned well I said tuck!’

  ‘Ah, same as that poet did. You know,’ Aunt Cassie continued reflectively, ‘there was a time when I wished young Graham Harvey would do what any man worth his salt would have done—left that Flavia of his and run off with Kate. It would have been the making of him. And it wouldn’t half have been one in the eye for Mrs Nelmes. But,’ she continued, pulling Rod down to her level and kissing him on both cheeks, ‘I’m glad he didn’t on the whole.’

  ‘So am I,’ agreed Kate. ‘On the whole.’

  Chapter 27

  Rod’s mother, Frances, and Kate, their purchases stowed temporarily in the room soon to be Kate’s study, giggled

  their way like schoolgirls into the kitchen. It had been the easiest of days, and Kate felt almost grateful to the injury that had brought it about. They were no longer visitors in each other’s lives.

  The thaw had set in when Kate, gaping, pointed at a stall. ‘Look at all that Ruskin!’

  Frances giggled. ‘Didn’t Rod tell me you two got together when some poor old man smashed a Ruskin vase over his wife’s head? He said she deserved it but the vase didn’t.’

  It didn’t. Look at that one there—all those lovely reds and purples!’

  ‘But that sang de boeuf stuff costs a week’s pocket money. Maybe a fortnight’s.’ She looked at a label. ‘Or in that case a month’s.’

  Kate looked and whistled quietly. ‘I don’t like the shape,’ she ventured, ‘as much as that one there. But even that’s hardly cheap.’

  ‘Leave this to me,’ Frances said. She turned to the stallholder. ‘Tell me, what’s your best on this?’

  ‘So you are going to move in with him,’ Frances declared, raising fine eyebrows high as Kate handed over a cheque. ‘In that case, go for a little stroll—oh, anywhere! I have a housewarming present to buy.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ Kate ventured. ‘He should have told you.’

  ‘Mind? My dear girl, I’m delighted! And he did tell me, to be honest, that he was going to ask you. He was just so anxious and nervous—not his usual self at all. Now go and look at those awful vases and IT catch you up. No turning round!’

  So Kate had inspected some extremely ugly Victorian specimens, trying hard not to smile with pleasure. It would be good to have a friend, not a quasi mother-in-law.

  After Stafford, they’d headed south, to find the M6 solid. The road signs announced there’d been an accident.

  ‘Some poor bugger’s Christmas ruined,’ Kate said.

  An ambulance and fire engine followed each other up the hard shoulder.

  ‘We could sit it out or turn off at the next exit and pick our way through Wolverhampton,’ Frances said.

  Kate made an effort to grin sardonically. ‘That’ll be fun, this close to Christmas.’

  ‘Quite. So what do you say to going a bit out of our way and seeing what they’ve got in the factory shops in Tamworth? Buy a few designer labels? Or are you too tired? You’re a bit pale, you know. In fact, you’re very pale.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She refused to be exhausted by a woman in her sixties. But she couldn’t shake off the feelings of unease.

  ‘But you’d be all the finer for a glass of wine and some lunch. I know this wonderful pub. Now, you mustn’t be embarrassed if they greet me like a long-lost cousin. I meet a friend—here. A special friend Rod doesn’t know about yet. I hope he won’t mind.’

  ‘Is he nice? This friend?’

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘Well, tell him. Introduce them. Soon. So you can have a wonderful Christmas without worrying what he’ll say. And if he says anything that isn’t wonderful and supportive IT eat that vase.’

  ‘That would be such a waste! We met through the Guardian, you know, and…’

  • • •

  Rod was waiting for them in the kitchen, turning serious eyes to Kate. ‘I’ll make the tea. You two go and sit down,’ he said.

  Kate ushered Frances out, but hung back. ‘You’d better tell me.’

  ‘It’ll wait till Mum’s gone.’

  ‘As bad as that? In that case it’s Neil Drew. He’s confessed.’

  ‘Worse. Or better.—1 don’t know. Kate, he’s been in a car crash. He’s dead. Shit. Now you know why I meant to wait.’ He was almost as upset as if he’d known Neil himself. There must be more information, worse information, to come.

  She nodded: she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Do you want to stay in here? I’ll tell Mum you’re not feeling well.’

  ‘She deserves better than that. If she asks, I’ll tell her the truth. Or, at least, part of it.’

  Frances didn’t ask. She looked from one to the other, put down her tea untouched and declared that she was tired and must head for home.

  ‘It’s not what you think, Frances,’ Kate said, as they stood up with her. ‘We haven’t had a row. It’s just bad news about a colleague of ours. He was in an RTA earlier.’

  ‘You police officers and your jargon. Whatever happened to car crashes?’ Then the older woman’s face tightened. ‘Not that one on the M6? While we were laughing and joking about clothes and shopping?’

  ‘Was it?’ Kate turned to Rod.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But…’ Kate began, trying for the right tone, not flip, not morbid, not sanctimonious. She couldn’t find it.

  Rod made an effort. ‘Did you two have a good day? You looked as if you did, when you came in. Before I blabbed that stuff out.’

  Frances made an equally obvious effort. ‘It’s such good news about you two, darling.’ She reached up and kissed her son,

  gathering Kate too. ‘Now, which of you is going to open this? Together sounds a bit risky. Kate, darling, sit down and I’ll put it on your lap and Rod can open it. There, bless you, darlings.’

  They unwrapped a sang de boeuf ginger pot: definitely one of the most expensive items. More hugs, more kisses, and a ceremonial installation on the mantelpiece. Rod poured more tea. Then, as if she valued Kate’s opinion, Frances grasped her hand, asking, ‘Shall I tell him, Kate? Shall I? About my new man?’

  Rod’s pleasure, though Kate was sure it was quite genuine, was muted. He did all she’d have hoped, producing his diary and their joint calendar, and arranging dinner for them all later in the week. But it took no more than one ring of the phone to bring Frances to her feet again, and this time no one argued.

  ‘It seems he took his kids to see their mother, who’s now living near Stoke, and left them there for the weekend. He picked up the A34—’

  ‘Not the M6?’

  DCI Smith shook his head. ‘Any reason why he should? There was a massive tailback after some, lorry jack-knifed. No. The A34. He’s tootling along and then whoosh—he’s off the southbound lane and bouncing on to a four-hundred-year-old oak. The forensic boys are going over the vehicle now.’

  ‘It could have been a genuine accident?’

  ‘Of course. But I wouldn’t bet on it. You see, he knew we wanted to talk to him. That’s why he’d taken his kids away. I’d say he suddenly decided he couldn’t face it and it’d be better for his kids not to have a dad who was a murderer.’

  ‘You’re making a lot of assumptions,’ Kate said.

  ‘You didn’t see his face when I asked him to bring his uniform along, whatever he’d worn the night Bates died. Guilt written all over it. And when I said we’d got a witness, I’ll swear you could see the whites of his eyes. Mind you, to do him justice, he’d packed it up ready for us: it was in a bin-liner sitting on his doormat when we broke in. It’s off at Forensics now.’ He flicked a Polaroid print at them. ‘There you are. There’s the rest of the house, if you’re interested, Power.’ He handed over eight or ni
ne more.

  ‘Thanks.’ She thumbed through. Why had he taken all these? There’d be official video and 35mm photos.

  ‘I promised you’d be kept up to speed,’ he muttered, as if embarrassed by his own generosity. ‘How’s the hand?’

  ‘Improving,’ she said positively. ‘Oh, God. Oh, my God. Look.’ She held out a photo of the living room, the Christmas tree already decorated and a pile of presents beneath it.

  ‘I know. Brings a lump, doesn’t it? I’m a family man myself,’ he added. ‘When my wife lets me see them, that is.’

  So had a man who’d bought all his presents really meant to die before his children opened them? Or was it his way of telling his children-he loved them even though he couldn’t be there? For whatever reason.

  ‘Does Mr Choi’s witness know about the—accident?’ Rod asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Smith said.

  ‘My feeling is that it won’t do any harm to keep him in the dark about it. And I’d rather like the clothes he wore on the—relevant evening to be subjected to inspection too. It would be nicer all round if Drew’s kids thought their dad had died in a simple car crash, not a suicide bid.’

  ‘Something worries me,’ Kate admitted. ‘The bin-liner. If he

  looked as guilty as you say, Greg, why didn’t he simply “lose” it—why leave material evidence hanging around? I’d bet the Christmas turkey you’ll find that jacket was literally spotless.’

  ‘And that the jacket in question will be…?’

  If he’s guilty, who knows? We may never find it. If I’d been him I’d have “lost” it days ago. Except he’d have had to explain how he came to be on patrol in a sweater when everyone else was swathed to the eyeballs.’

  ‘Machismo.’ Rod snorted. ‘Haven’t you seen keenie-beanies

  in their beautiful white shirtsleeves when it’s practically been snowing?’

  ‘Not the macho type, Neil,’ she insisted. ‘So how come he can leave that jacket knowing it won’t incriminate him? I suppose he didn’t simply indent for a new one, complaining that his was torn or needed cleaning after the knife incident he’s supposed to have dealt with at Digbeth. He wouldn’t have needed my authority.’

  Smith made a note.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s found any documentation at Digbeth yet,’ Kate continued, almost wistfully.

  Smith shook his head. ‘Has he been wearing someone else’s jacket, maybe?’

  ‘You mean, swapped the numbers and everything? Not impossible,’ Rod mused. He looked at Greg, and they rose as one.

  ‘I’ll get them all checked over,’ Greg said. ‘How’s that Asian stabbing of yours, by the way?’

  ‘Pretty well tied up. I rather thought I’d have the weekend off, but this is how the gods punish hubris’ He bent to kiss Kate. ‘I’ll bring something in for our supper when I come home.’

  ‘We—well, we don’t really need you. This is pretty routine stuff.’

  Kate nearly gasped out loud. It wasn’t like Smith to refuse an offer of help, was it?

  Rod nodded. ‘I know. But the sooner we know the truth about Neil, the sooner we can work out what to tell his family.’

  Useless. Absolutely useless! Kate was fuming with frustration. Why was she banned from Scala House? Petty bureaucracy, that was why. She was just as capable of working with one hand as with two. She could have spoken to her team, worked with them. Now Neil was dead, they wouldn’t hold her enquiries against her. She’d more than half a mind to get a cab and bugger bureaucracy!

  The trouble was, as she sat down with the phone on her lap, and the directory open at the page, the numbers began to swim and she knew that all she could do was sleep. How much longer was she going to be like this? ‘And bugger the anaesthetic, too,’ she murmured.

  The phone woke her, but she couldn’t get to it before it took a message. It was from her next-door neighbour in Worksop Road. ‘How are you, Kate? Zenia here. Look, some young man turned up with a bunch of flowers for you. Royston said you’d moved, and gave them your address. Believe me, Kate, I’ve dinned it into him never to pass on information about you, but you know what it’s like with Royston—in one ear and out the other. Anyway, catch up with you later, girl. And love to Rod!’

  Kate’s fingers were pressing buttons before her head knew what to do.

  ‘Zenia: Kate. Very, very quickly. What did this young man look like?’

  ‘Hang on—I’ll put Royston on to you’ Under the muffling of a hand, Kate caught the words ‘You got her into a mess, you get her out of it. Get real yourself.’

  At last Royston greeted her. ‘Yeah, man?’

  ‘Royston—quick as you can. This visitor, tell me anything you can.’

  ‘Two of them, man. One stayed in the car—real smooth job. A Beamer five series.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said, to impress Royston. Privately she thought it too predictable for words. ‘Did you see them both?’

  ‘Tinted windows, man.’ What a surprise.

  ‘But the man you spoke to? How old?’

  “Bout your age. Dark hair—bit greasy, man.’

  ‘Skin. Was his face all pitted?’

  ‘Like he’d acned for England, man. ‘Cept he wasn’t English.’

  ‘You’ve saved my life, Royston.’ Well, it was what he’d want

  to hear. She could hardly tell him he’d put her at terrible risk.

  ‘I’ll tell you and your mum all about it later.’

  Again her fingers were in action. Rod’s phone was engaged. Oxnard’s? Messages only. Smith’s? Jesus, if he were her last hope;

  ‘Greg, I have reason to believe’—perhaps the old jargon would press a few buttons ‘that Mihail and at least one friend are on their way round here.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He cut the call.

  Yes, the back door was locked: she pocketed the key. All windows safety-bolted—thank goodness for Rod’s paranoia. But what about fire? She could keep them outside for more minutes than a professional burglar would like to waste. But she couldn’t keep out fire. And fire was as much part of their MO as the knife to the throat. She grabbed the key needed to unlock the window bolts. A window might be her only way out.

  If only she could use both hands.

  Front door: they could pour in petrol and… She must jam the letterbox closed.

  But she was too late. There was someone at the door now. Bloody modern glass doors. She switched off the lights. They’d know she was at home but wouldn’t know where. Dared she pull the door-chain into place? She stripped a sock and shoved it into the letterbox—but not firmly enough. A hand thrust it back. And held it open. She pushed it half closed, to be rewarded by a sharp yell and curses.

  It became a baffle. His murderous intent; her will to live. But he had two hands, she just the one. And little by little he won, wedging it open so he could thrust in the spout of a petrol can.

  She pressed her hand against it, staunching the flow. Hardly more than a few drips. But alongside sneaked a long lighted taper. With her hand soaked in petrol she dared not pinch it out. Burn now or burn later? She fled. There was a whoosh as the petrol caught.

  The kitchen fire-extinguisher? Or the fire-blanket? If she had to use her teeth as a substitute for the damned hand, she’d save the house. All Rod’s precious things. Today’s prizes. No, she couldn’t bear it.

  The blanket first. She’d try that. When it seemed to choke the worst of the fire, she sprinted upstairs for towels to wet. If only she’d taken more notice of fire-prevention leaflets.

  Someone was on the garage roof. He was prising the double-glazing from its frame. Any moment now he and his knife would be in.

  There was nowhere to run. The flames were gaining hold again, despite the blanket. And someone was banging very hard at the front door.

  OK. The back. Of course Mihail’s mate might be waiting for her—it wouldn’t take him long to hop down—but what was worse, burning to death or a quick slit to the throat? Clutching the back-door key
like a talisman, she took to the stairs again. No. Not without something wet. She wasted priceless seconds dithering—intruder or heat? Heat won. She jumped clear over the flames.

  Too late.

  A hooded figure was almost on her. Those objets trouvés of Rod’s might never look the same again, but that was tough. The nearest featured a lovely spherical stone. She dived for it, holding it like a grenade to hurl at the intruder.

  Chapter 28

  ‘You hit a fireman! Why did you hit a fireman?’ Madame Constantinou demanded, waving her fork over a cherry slice. Now that she was simply a lady lunching with other ladies she’d asked to be called Marie—not quite the French pronunciation but near enough.

  ‘Because he was there,’ Meg suggested. She’d eschewed a sweet, protesting that she had to get rid of some of her Christmas avoirdupois, but had agreed that a port might go down nicely.

  Kate nodded. ‘Exactly. I thought he was Mihail or Mihail’s friend, ready to cut my throat.’

  ‘But the trusty emergency services beat him to it,’ Marie said happily, wiping a minuscule smear of cream from her lip.

  ‘Like the Fifth Cavalry.’ But only just. Kate was still having nightmares, waking up screaming at the thought of that silhouetted figure. Rod had quietly spirited away his little heap of stones, in the hope, she guessed, that without a visible reminder of the evening’s events memories would fade. The contractors had worked swiftly to erase any others: new carpets, freshly painted walls and ceilings. There was even a new front door. By some miracle both pieces of Ruskin had escaped damage. Rod had seen to everything, Kate taking refuge with Frances for a couple of days, writing joint Christmas cards and, hand swathed in a polythene bag, putting mincemeat into Frances’s home-made pies. They hadn’t spent Christmas with her: they were both afraid of seeming ungrateful, but Frances had assured them that having the younger generation abut the place would cramp her style horribly—the man from the Guardian was coming to stay.