Kate didn’t find it hard to ignore the answerphone’s flashing light. Whoever, whatever, would simply have to wait till the following morning. All she wanted now was a hot bath, the stiffest of whiskies and the chance of a night’s sleep. But at two-thirty she was still wondering if by chance it could have been Graham trying to contact her, announcing a change of heart, a real decision.
‘Sergeant Kate, I’m sorry to phone you on your home number,’ came Cornfield’s voice. ‘But it really is important that I see you. Would Monday afternoon be convenient? Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me where I should present myself.’
Present myself? What did he mean by such an official term? Come on, Kate. You know what it means. He’s going to make some sort of statement and wants to do it in the appropriate place. You’ve got him. You’ve got him!
‘Wheel him in here,’ Lizzie said. ‘Then we can whip him over to Steelhouse Lane and charge him. D’you want me to sit in on the interview?’
‘That nice kid from Dave’s MIU – shit, Lizzie. Has anyone told you yet? About Dave?’
‘What about which Dave?’
‘Dave Allen. The DCI in charge of the Duncton investigation.’ As if the stupid woman couldn’t work it out.
‘What about him?’ Her voice was so off-hand it was clear she hadn’t picked up the pain in Kate’s.
‘I’m sorry. He collapsed and died on Saturday. Heart.’ She waited for some reaction. Getting nothing, she added, ‘He was a week away from his silver wedding anniversary.’
‘Trust you to play the sentiment card, Kate. You’re just as dead whatever the date.’
‘I was thinking about his wife, Lizzie.’
‘She should have thought about his diet, if you ask me.’
It dawned on Kate that one day Lizzie would be just like Cassie – was halfway there already, come to think of it. She asked, ‘Any news of your hospital appointment yet?’
Lizzie looked furtive. ‘I’ll get on to it today.’
Kate looked hard at her. ‘I think you’d find a slow death from cancer worse than a quick heart attack,’ she said, and left.
Derek was just making tea when she walked into their office, and he cocked a warning eyebrow at her desk. And at Rod, apparently absorbed in the Guardian.
‘Bad news about Dave Allen,’ Derek said. ‘The Gaffer just told me,’ he added awkwardly.
‘Very bad,’ she agreed.
Derek peered at her. ‘Looks like you’ve taken it real hard.’
‘He was a decent man, Derek, and a first-class cop. I liked him very much. But,’ she continued, turning to Rod, ‘I thought you’d be in Sutton, Gaffer.’
‘I was. It took about three minutes to ensure everything continued on its well-oiled wheels. Dave had a good team, there. I thought I’d pop in to see how you were. Kate was there when Dave started his attack,’ he told Derek.
‘He said it was indigestion.’
‘Poor bugger.’ Derek passed her and Rod mugs of overmilked coffee, which Rod took without turning an immaculate hair.
‘Actually, I’ve got news for you, Gaffer,’ Kate said, trying for an efficiency she didn’t feel. ‘Max Cornfield wants to talk to us. Lizzie thought here. OK if I get Jane along?’
‘Absolutely. It’ll take her mind off things. Poor kid looked terrible this morning – well, they all did.’
‘You’re a bit washed out yourself,’ she observed, as much for Derek’s benefit as anything.
Rod nodded. ‘It wasn’t the best of weekends. Look, all this stuff you’ve told me about Cornfield and his millions – any chance I could sit in with you and Jane while you talk to him? I’d like to see a master-fraudster at work.’
‘Master-fraudsters get away with it,’ she said. ‘Actually, if you’ve got time, it’d be a great idea. Add a bit of gravitas.’
‘And it’ll re-skill me a bit. Thanks.’ He gathered his newspaper, checked, apparently, that he’d not disarranged her desk, and took himself off. ‘See you later.’
‘If you ask me, he’s got his eye on you,’ Derek observed.
‘Look, Derek, we’ve been through all this. I’ve had a crap weekend, the highlight of which was a visit to my great-aunt in the Hotel Geriatrica and I do not want any more crap now. And if Lizzie comes sniffing round for gossip, you can tell her what I said.’
‘OK, Sergeant,’ he said.
‘For fuck’s sake, you can drop that, too. If you don’t,’ she added, managing a grin, ‘I shall have to use the ultimate weapon in my armoury and start calling you Ben again. Get it?’
‘Not that! Anything but that!’
‘Well, you’ve been warned,’ she said, still smiling, but applying herself to her desk, and finding, inevitably, a note from Rod tucked in with the rest of her mail.
Dear Kate
I thought a friend might give another friend a book for her birthday. Unfortunately the one I found is rather too large to leave on a desk. Would you let me hand it over at dinner tonight? I thought that new place in Brindley Place? If you’ve no other plans, of course. Could I collect you at seven-thirty?
Rod
She rather thought he could. Perhaps he might even run to a card. It was weird having a birthday with no cards. No nothing.
In fact, that was what she felt this morning. Nothing. She explored her mind as if it were a tooth minus a filling. There were rough edges, from Graham and from Dave, but in the centre, a great gaping hollow. Work might be the best thing to fill it. She stared resentfully at the piles of paper on her desk.
After her mini-spat with Derek she didn’t feel like suggesting a lunch-time drink. But she wanted to be fresh for her encounter with Max Cornfield so she just might take herself for a walk. What if she met Graham? There was always a chance. Not if she took herself in the opposite direction from his usual haunts. So she set off down Livery Street, fairly briskly, because an idea was creeping into her head. Thirty seemed an important birthday, something of a milestone. It might not be the end of her third decade till this time next year, in real terms, but in emotional ones – yes, it had to be. She looked at her hands, still steady, still full of life despite the weekend. She needed to promise herself that whatever happened to rock her off course again, it wouldn’t defeat her; that she’d no longer even contemplate suicide. Had she meant it? Or had she simply been overwhelmed by a dreadful combination? Whichever it was, she mustn’t give in. Dave’s death had taught her that. She would do what she’d promised those nice people in the Jewellery Quarter what seemed like months ago. She’d go and treat herself. No need to wait for Graham to give her anything. No point, more like. As for Rod, only time would tell. And somehow, she wasn’t sure the auguries were good. No. She must do this for herself. Do what she’d never done before: march into a shop and spend a very great deal of money on something for herself. Not a car, not furniture. Nothing useful. Just an affirmation, a very visible affirmation, that her life could go on. Oh yes, there’d be some bad times ahead, some viciously lonely days and nights. This – whatever it was, she didn’t know yet – would keep her company.
To her surprise they recognised her.
‘Any more fraud, Sergeant?’ asked the woman with the rings to die for.
‘Plenty, but none that need worry us today,’ she smiled. ‘Not on my birthday.’ There, it was out.
‘Congratulations!’ came a little chorus from the men working behind the shop.
‘And you’re going to buy yourself a present? Good for you. Now,’ the assistant spread her hands in an expansive gesture, ‘what do you fancy? A nice chain?’
‘I’ve had enough of chains,’ Kate said positively.
She was just opening a hasty baguette when the phone rang. It was Lizzie, with the news that a punter was waiting for her in Reception. Hell, it must be Max Cornfield, a good half-hour early.
But it wasn’t Cornfield, nor was the punter alone in Reception. Well, for all the strange things career police officers dealt with in their years in the service, jungle explorers complete with pith helmets were rare sights. Particularly when they stripped off their safari suits to nothing but a well-filled elephant trunk.
God, she’d been had, hadn’t she. She should have twigged: why should Lizzie have called her? Scarlet from the navel up, her hands were being gripped by the explorer, intent on making her oil his body. Not just the pecs to die for. All parts.
And she had to get out of the situation with neither a disciplinary nor the derision of her mates.
‘Come on,’ she whispered urgently. ‘A Hollywood embrace, please – tip me right back.’
As she went over, she might have been in the arms of Clarke Gable. But she didn’t kiss him. She whispered tenderly in his ear, ‘You make me massage your bloody trunk and I do you for indecent assault.’
He swung her with more panache than she’d have credited over his other side. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Before you could say prick,’ she confirmed. ‘Just give me the message and scarper.’
He slobbered a huge wet kiss on to her – well, he was entitled to a little professional revenge – and returned her to the vertical. ‘It’s in the right ear,’ he whispered. ‘You have to grope for it.’
‘I don’t think I do,’ she said, holding out a hand like a schoolteacher demanding an illicit note. ‘Do I?’
A happy birthday from Lizzie and all in the Fraud Squad. Well, that was nice. She supposed. And when she’d had time to reflect on it, when she was no longer debating whether to snarl or laugh or both, she might think it was.