By nine the following morning, Kate’s common sense seemed to be making a weary come-back. There was no way she could sneak out in her odd spare moments to go and play the great detective. She had work to do here, for a start: someone new to the patch seemed to be making a determined effort to break into all the doctors’ surgeries, pharmacies and even vets’ they could find. What that called for was another morning tapping into databases and liaison with her colleagues in Drugs. But since she was clearly going to spend a good deal of time on the phone, she might as well call Danny’s local nick: find out who’d dealt with the case when the Butlers reported him missing and, more important, who’d attended the fatal accident. The ball business still worried her.
The constable who’d dealt with the accident itself wouldn’t come back on duty for hours yet, but at least she’d left meticulous notes. Dark; wet road; heavy traffic. A couple of well spoken pedestrians who’d done what little they could but had melted away into the scenery as soon as the paramedics had arrived. No names or addresses. And no ball. She left a message for PC Kaur to phone her. No harm in double checking.
And then back to the databases, and a couple of promising leads from Leicester and Bradford to report to a silent and unappreciative Cope.
Lunch-time. She looked in Colin’s direction. He was looking as depressed as Cope, not at all as if he’d want to eat out, but certainly as if he ought to. She strolled across.
‘A quick half somewhere?’ In spite of herself she grinned.
‘What’s up?’
She threw him his raincoat. ‘Tell you outside.’
‘Now. No one’s about.’
‘It’s just that I offered you a drink. When I came I hardly dared. I was into whisky in a very big way. And somehow I’ve forgotten I needed it.’
He looked at her very hard. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I know. Once an alcoholic always an alcoholic. But last night I found myself drinking socially. When you phoned me, I just put down the glass and walked away. All right. One swallow doesn’t make a summer.’
‘Depends on the sort of swallow.’
‘How about a coffee and baguette?’
‘Fine by me. And I’ll show you a suit you should try on in Rackhams.’
‘Fine by me. Provided that –’
‘Provided what?’
‘That you tell me why you looked so miserable back there.’
‘Tell you over that baguette.’
The underpass which had once housed the back entrance to a big department store and now accommodated the Citizens’ Advice Bureau was foul with pigeon droppings: they’d evidently moved there from the Cathedral Close, which was where she remembered them.
‘Depressing sort of place,’ she said, forgetting her earlier glee. ‘There are times I wonder why I came back.’
‘Oh, but there are the new developments! Come on, pedestrianisation and all that stuff out by the ICC: Birmingham’s really becoming a city!’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘You haven’t been to Waterside yet?’
‘Not even Symphony Hall.’
‘We’ll have to fix that. And you can wear that new suit.’
‘I haven’t even seen it yet! Neither, of course, have you explained your glum face.’
He sighed. She’d pitched it wrong.
They walked on in silence.
‘Tell you what,’ he said at last, ‘there’s a really nice cookery shop you ought to see. Be lovely for stocking your new kitchen. Tomorrow lunch-time, maybe.’
‘You’re on. Just to look at this stage, mind. Nowhere to put so much as a teaspoon at the moment.’
Silence again. They were in Corporation Street, and he’d speeded up, only to come to a halt in front of a window display. The suit, presumably. There were several.
‘Selby. It has to be Selby,’ he said. ‘Every bloody time it’s Selby that gets the course. Computers, this time. I mean, he’s a Neanderthal, doesn’t know his Apple Mac from his arse, and now he’s off at Tally-Ho! being taught all sorts of clever gizmos.’
There was a sensible observation to make: that Selby was clearly in need of a course. But that would have been the wrong one. She groped feebly for something else. ‘At least with Selby we’ll get living proof of the old computer adage: GIGO.’
‘He only puts garbage in so he’ll only get garbage out?’ He managed a pale grin; but she hadn’t expected much more. ‘That turquoise one over there: it’d set off your hair something lovely.’
‘Hmm. Trouble is, that skirt’d set Selby off something shocking!’
She called into what she ought to call home before going on to the Manse. She’d asked Maz if she could put a load through their washing machine while she baby-sat, she was so short of clothes. The workmen were just locking up.
‘Glad I caught you,’ said the foreman. ‘Only I’d like to talk to you about that back door.’
Nodding, she gestured him ahead of her.
‘Rotten, you see.’ He jabbed with a horny nail. ‘And if the rest of the place has been double-glazed it’d be a sin just to lick paint on this and forget it. I’d organise it myself but you’d probably get a better deal from the firm that did your windows.’
He was middle aged and could probably have done with the money.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Tell you what, I know it’s the wrong time of the year, but how are you on fences? Look at that!’
‘Flapping like a line of washing, isn’t it? Now, are you asking me as part of Buildsure or you asking me?’
‘Alf, I’m asking you.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks. Now, tell me one thing. Why don’t you ever open your mail? Me and the lads are putting it safe, but –’
‘Where?’
‘In the front room. On the fireplace. There you are.’
She pounced with more glee than manners.
‘And I’ll let you have a quote, like, for that fence?’ he prompted her.
‘I’m so sorry. Yes please!’
She shoved the whole bundle into a carrier ready to take to the Manse. She couldn’t spoil their evening by keeping them waiting. And there was the washing to sort and bag, too. Five minutes of frantic activity, three carriers of laundry, one of post and one of clean clothes for the following day – she’d promised to sleep over so Maz and Giles could make a night of it if they wanted – she was ready. OK, so it was Saturday – a whole weekend – ahead, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be at work by eight: she’d give Cope not the slightest excuse to rebuke her. And if that meant putting in a twelve-hour stint so that she could legitimately take time off on Sunday, so be it.
‘There’s a list –’ Maz flapped her hands frantically
‘Kate, there are dozens of lists,’ said Giles. ‘How to operate the washing machine. Medication for Lynn. Prayers. TV programmes they may and may not watch. It’s my fault. We don’t get out often enough together and Maz has got to the stage where she’s convinced the world will end if one of us isn’t there to tuck them up.’
‘A palpable hit,’ Maz conceded. ‘OK, there’s the remains of a casserole: all you have to do to work out the microwave –’
‘One of the kids’ll show me, won’t they?’
‘Look – we’ll never be able to park if we don’t go now.’
‘So go! I can cope, honestly. Tim’ll help me with the washing first, because he and I are going to operate his trains – that’s right, isn’t it, Tim?’ She remembered in her Latin lessons at school – were there any schools left in the country that still routinely offered Latin? – that there were some questions that were open, and others that, by the speaker’s choice of words, suggested an answer. Her question clearly demanded the answer ‘yes’, though by his face Tim was not specially keen to give it. She’d always pretended to Robin’s children that she needed help with technology, though she always showed she was quick to learn: stereotyping herself as the useless blonde had never been part of her remit. She adopted the same technique for Tim.
‘So I’ve got some white things that want a hot wash, and some coloured ones that might run. So what do we do?’ Maybe she’d qualify for parenthood one day. Not something to undertake lightly in this job, though. And certainly not singly, not as far as she was concerned.
The washing machine was programmed and a ball of liquid solemnly placed on top of the shirts; Tim switched it on. No problems. Nor with the microwave: he even showed her how to microwave a couple of potatoes to go with the casserole.
Lynn floated in at this point: ‘Mum said to help you cook your tea. And show you how to use the washer.’
‘I did it.’
‘You don’t know how.’
‘I do!’
Et cetera.
‘OK, kids. Your dad said something about TV. Is it worth watching or shall I eat my tea in peace in here?’
‘But what about my train set? There’s only half an hour before bed-time.’
She’d come to play trains: play trains was what she had to do. She followed Tim to his bedroom leaving her supper on its plate on the table.
‘What we’ll do,’ Tim said, ‘is this. You see all those carriages: we’ll shunt those into that siding. And then we’ll couple the British Rail livery ones to Flying Scotsman. And we could have a goods train, too. We could shunt some wagons together. You see that little diesel shunter: you could use that.’
Kate had seen that coming. ‘I couldn’t use this one instead?’ She pointed to a maroon steam loco.
‘Duchess of Hamilton! No! She’s a passenger locomotive. Tell you what, you could have my new loco if you like.’ Tim switched some points and turned on the power. A pannier tank bowled out of the engine shed. Great Western livery. Very smart.
‘You haven’t got a Thomas the Tank Engine?’ Kate asked.
Tim looked shocked. ‘You mean with a face? That’s kids’ stuff! Mind you,’ he conceded, ‘I call this one Duck, although it’s in the books, because –’
‘Duck? Did you say Duck?’ She tried not to shout.
But he was wide eyed.
‘Tim: please – tell me about Duck.’
‘That’s what he’s called in the engine books. The Reverend Awdrey. And I thought – well, it sort of suits – I know it’s a bit babyish.’
‘Babyish? But it’s a sort of duck shape, isn’t it?’ She picked it up and traced the outline with her finger. ‘The water tanks look like a duck’s wings. And with no cylinders to conceal the wheels when you’re looking at it from the front, maybe it waddles a bit. Let’s set it off. Yes, those big hub things going up and down, up and down on opposite sides – it does waddle! It’s GWR livery, isn’t it?’ She was trying not to talk too fast, trying not to yell with joy at finding what she suspected was a vital piece of the Darren Goss jigsaw. And there was nothing she could do about it now, not while she was supposed to be putting Tim and his sisters to bed. And who to tell anyway? Cope would laugh in her face, or worse.
‘Yes. Which trucks do you want?’
Kate chose idly, her mind still racing. ‘That Kit-Kat one. And the Cadbury’s.’
Tim laughed. ‘You do like chocolate! Would you like some of mine? It’s all right. It’s allowed. So long as I’ve eaten my tea and so long as I clean my teeth.’
‘Which you’ll be doing soon anyway. Let’s have a couple of chugs round the track first. I’ve hardly seen anything moving, yet.’
‘We could eat the chocolate while we watch.’
This was indisputable. It was good chocolate, too. Swiss.
‘Uncle Paul gave me this. He always buys nice sweets.’
‘You don’t think he’ll mind your sharing with me?’
Tim considered. ‘Not if you don’t have too much.’
At last the locomotives and the rolling stock had completed their adventures, going through level crossings and over what looked like an old Triang bridge. There were a little mirror lake, and farm and a fire and ambulance station. Plots of what might become a village were roughly sketched near the fire station: Tim had clear priorities.
And then it was bed-time. Absolutely.
‘Right: we’ll shunt the wagons into those sidings, and then you can run the passenger train just once more. And then it’s a wash and your teeth and bed!’
So there he was, in his pyjamas, snuggling under his duvet. A couple of teddy bears rapidly joined him. He looked so cute, she wanted to hug him. When she kissed him on the forehead, he solved any problem of what she should do by putting his arms round her neck and hugging her. He smelt warm and clean, slightly minty from his toothpaste. She hugged him back.
As she backed out of the room, ready to switch off the light, something caught her eye. A ball. And her heart contracted. There was a family over in Newtown with no child to tuck up tonight.
Washing. Better put the next load in. And then the post. And all the time, the question buzzing in her head: what to do about Duck?