‘You all right, my wench?’ Dave Allen asked, peering at Kate’s pale face with concern.
‘That wretched bug’s still hanging round,’ she lied. ‘But I’m much better, honestly. And those sarnies smell wonderful.’
They did. Smoked bacon done to a crisp, sausages to die for: what a good job there’d never been anything wrong with her stomach except the shock of Graham’s letter. If she was looking washed out, who could have blamed her, knowing the circumstances? Meanwhile, she took her place in the team gathered in the incident room, all, by now, looking expectantly at Dave Allen.
‘Now, I know that is a bit early, for a Saturday, but I thought the sooner you all knew, the better,’ Dave said, a great beam spreading across his face. ‘It’s good news, bad news time. The good is that we know who killed Mavis Duncton; the bad is that however many guts we’ve all bust, the best we can get is an “unfit to plead” trial.’
So it was Duncton, poor weird, down-trodden Duncton. The team might have erupted into conversation, but there was none of the jubilation that would have gone with nicking a dyed-in-the-wool villain.
‘What next, Gaffer?’ Jane asked, when the hubbub was dying down.
‘There’ll be a little matter of tying up all the loose ends, and although the splatter and all the other forensic tests are conclusive, I still want that paperwork watertight. Just in case. We’ve still got a loose end in the form of Kate and Jane’s dead doctor to worry about. Any news on that?’
‘Only that SOCO say we can start looking at the papers he dropped when he fell. He said he was working on some book: maybe it’s to do with that.’
‘Well, keep the bedtime reading till after the PM. That’s scheduled for this afternoon, by the way. Patrick Duncan’s doing it. He’s sent a message asking if you want to be there, Kate.’
Back at Steelhouse Lane, there’d have been a general snigger. Fortunately no one here seemed to know about her brief fling with him.
‘Seems a perfect way to pass a lovely sunny Saturday afternoon,’ Kate said as dryly as she could. Even thinking about Steelhouse Lane tightened her throat.
‘Right, I’ll tell him you’re on, then. And the other business – that dodgy will – that’ll be going back to Fraud, I should think. Now – ah, come on in, Gaffer,’ Dave said, looking over their heads.
Gaffer? Like everyone else, Kate turned. The immaculate figure of Rod Neville appeared, pushing, of all things, a canteen trolley, on top of which stood a couple of red plastic buckets holding bottles with promising necks. On the lower shelf were glasses and cartons of orange juice. Trust Rod to counter their sense of anticlimax with Buck’s Fizz.
‘Obviously our next move will depend on the results of the post mortem,’ Rod said, perching on the edge of Dave’s desk. Looking exhausted, Dave leaned back, apparently happy to do no more than host the discussion. ‘At least it’ll be the job of the local people to notify relatives and so on.’
‘I can save them some time there,’ Kate said. ‘If there were any family, the obvious person to ask would be my fraud suspect, Max Cornfield. He might even know if Barton had any close friends.’
Rod raised his eyes heavenward. ‘All roads lead to Rome!’
‘Or,’ Kate put in, anxious for once to cap him, ‘is he the still centre of a turning world? A Level,’ she added, turning apologetically to Dave.
What on earth was the matter with him? On her feet in a flash, she asked, ‘You all right, Dave?’
‘I think I must have that bug of yours,’ he said, as if it was an effort to make his mouth work. ‘You haven’t got some Alka-Seltzer or something, have you?’
She was just going to say she never touched the stuff, not with her cast-iron stomach, when she remembered. ‘I ran out. But I can nip and get you some more.’ She took another look. ‘In fact, I’m on my way.’
‘No – I can’t …’ He clutched his stomach. ‘Well, if you wouldn’t mind, my wench.’
Kate sped. It was nice to be able to do something for Dave, whose good-heartedness would have seen her through her crisis, she knew, if she’d cared to entrust anyone with it. The chemist’s was seething with Saturday shoppers; she thought she’d never get served.
When she got back, however, Dave’s office was empty. She left the tablets in the middle of his desk and looked round for Rod. It was unlike him to leave without saying goodbye, now they were back in friendship mode.
Would she and Graham ever get into friendship mode?
She was staring at her desk, wondering what to take back to Lloyd House and the Fraud Squad, when she heard running feet. Jane, hitting a computer keyboard as if intent to punish it for all the world’s crashes, looked up briefly but carried on with her work. So did everyone else. Now the job was done, there was a good chance they could leave the paperwork till Monday and scoot off at a reasonable hour. Dave wasn’t the sort of man to impose unnecessary overtime, any more than budget-eyed Rod was the sort of man to sanction it. And since the panic bell wasn’t ringing, it was none of their business. Kate finished sorting, and strolled over to Jane.
‘I’ll be in touch the moment I know about Barton. And we’ve got to decide when’s the best time to talk to Cornfield.’
‘I phoned him about Edward,’ Jane said. ‘Apparently he’s making a bit of progress. What if we left it till Monday? Dave’s so chuffed about being able to go on his hols now this case is over he won’t mind.’
‘It’s back in Lizzie’s in-tray now – and she might well. I’m happy with Monday though. Let him enjoy his loot while he can. Right, everyone,’ she added to the room at large, ‘let me know when the booze-up is – I’ve got to go and watch a man cutting up a stiff.’ She went from one to another, shaking hands or hugging as the case might be, picked up the files and set off.
‘How urgently do you want the tests done?’ Pat asked. ‘Blood, stomach contents? Not that it isn’t all a waste of time.’
‘Oh, yesterday, day before.’
‘Not urgent at all then.’
‘No. But I think our budget might just stretch to fast-tracking them. But you really think it’s natural causes?’
‘In the absence of anything to tell me the contrary. People do die, Kate: “in the midst of life there is death”. Especially if they trot round with their reading glasses on and leave stuff lying on their stairs and … Oh, of course it’s natural causes. Broken bloody neck. You saw the break. Now, you sit out here while I clean up and then we’ll go and have a drink, and you can tell me why you look like the next candidate for my slab.’
If only she could.
If only she could tell him that she might just fancy being just that. That she couldn’t deal with the pain pressing on her chest, a real physical pain. That she couldn’t bear the weight on her head, the tightness of her throat, the tears burning her eyes. How did the Bach chorale go, the one she’d played at a recent Braysfield Road Baptist funeral? Ich babe genug: yes, she’d had enough.
Pat came bustling back, shrugging into a linen jacket. ‘There. Though I’m afraid all the showering and scrubbing in the world never convinces me I’m truly free of the smell of— Kate, what is it? In this light you look even worse than you did in there. My dear girl.’ He took her by the shoulders and stared at her. ‘For a start, when did you last eat?’
She tried to straighten her back. ‘This morning. We had a real celebration: we wrapped up our murder.’
‘So I heard. I got Dave, remember, when I tried to phone you. A bit of a rough diamond?’
‘Oh, don’t judge a man by his Black Country accent. He’s one of the best, Dave. I wish I could stay with his team. Back to Fraud on Monday, though.’ She allowed herself a sigh.
‘Fraud and the acerbic Lizzie?’
‘Quite.’
‘It isn’t just that that’s getting you down, though.’ He held the door for her, and then tucked her arm into his.
‘Perhaps I am hungry. And I’ve not been sleeping well. Too much jauntering round Europe at the public’s expense.’ Was it the bright sun, the fresh air? She could hardly walk.
‘Not a drink just yet, I think. Come on, Kate: I’m claiming the privilege of an old friend and I’m packing you into your car and taking you home. No, my bike’s safe where it is, and anyway you haven’t a crash-helmet. I’ve a chaise longue in the sun that’ll just fit you, and while you snooze I’ll make you one of my very best Pimms.’
Pimms and thin sandwiches and shortcake. All in his garden, which might have been idyllic had it been more lovingly maintained. As she lazed on the promised sunlounger – trust Pat to describe it in such inflated terms – she amused herself by putting curves into the straight lines, replacing some of the foliage with brightly coloured flowers and generally messing with his obviously low-maintenance plans. It was the sort of garden that Max Cornfield could improve.
He pulled up a chair, passed more shortcake, and was just about to top up her glass when her mobile rang. To take the call or kill it? The latter was tempting. But her thumb found the call button.
‘Kate? Rod here. Could you get back to the incident room here in Sutton at once? Thanks.’ That was it. No apologies, no explanation, no nothing.
‘It’s your own fault for having one of the damned things,’ Pat said. ‘God, I made that Pimms quite strong. Shall I drive you?’
She held up the glass – she’d barely touched it. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be there.’
‘Any idea why he wants you?’
‘The only thing I can think of is that the Forensic Lab people have discovered they’ve sent us the wrong test results or something. Oh, shit and shit and shit.’
‘Will you come back for a meal? I don’t want you not eating,’ he said, wagging a minatory finger. ‘Call me when you’ve finished – that’s best.’
‘I may have to use this,’ she said, managing the first grin for some time as she flourished her mobile at him.
The call from Rod had brought people in wearing a motley collection of gear. Clearly no one had the faintest idea why they were there, and there was a general sulkiness in the air. They’d done their bit, they’d wrapped up a case, they were entitled to a break – and now this. Dave’d have a rebellion on his hands if he wasn’t careful.
The door opened and Rod came in. Something about his walk quietened them. That and the pallor of his face and the way his hand shook slightly as he raised it for silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. Dave Allen died at three-forty this afternoon.’