Clutching a card signed by everyone she could find – from Selby to the women on reception – a gift-wrapped set of Wainwright’s Walks and a potted plant, Kate presented herself at the Harveys’ front gate. The house was in the sort of residential area she rather aspired to: no problems parking your car when you had a double garage – no doubt the one that had housed her mattress – and a wide fancily-bricked area in front of the house itself There were some token winter pansies in terracotta pots. She’d rather expected Graham would be a lush lawn man: perhaps the back garden would be more inspired. In any case, this wasn’t the time of year any garden would be at its best. Except she fancied some shrubs, even in her tiny patch, to give all-year colour.
She pushed open the gate, shutting it carefully – if at some peril to her gifts.
The house itself was probably late eighties: built for status. Why two people should have decided they needed so much space – Graham had never mentioned children – was beyond her. But the trouble was, of course, that houses tended to get nicer as they got bigger. Like cars. Except at least you could now buy a snazzy small car, like hers. She’d like a house that was the equivalent of a sixteen-valve Fiesta one day.
The doorbell chimed rather pretentiously. Why was she so judgmental? It wasn’t as if she’d made any particular effort for the visit. Just her usual working clothes – today, given the gloom of the weather, a skirt and waistcoat in a rather nice dark red which set off her hair, come to think of it. A dark jacket. And yes, she had taken extra care with her make-up.
Movement behind the frosted glass: prepare to meet the dragon.
If she was a dragon, Graham’s wife looked remarkably human. She was about Kate’s height, dark-haired, though hers was beginning to go grey. Her skin was startlingly clear, setting off good regular features: a classic English rose. She’d age as well as Cassie, with bones like that. She was slimmer than Kate – yes, slender to the point of thinness – and neatly dressed. Her skirt was a good deal longer than Kate’s, but not fashionably long – reaching that unkind spot where the calf is at its thickest. And she wore a twinset.
Kate smiled: ‘You must be Mrs Harvey. I’m one of Mr Harvey’s colleagues. DI Cope’s sent me to –’
‘To pester my husband. Well, I can tell you now, he’s not at all well.’
Couldn’t she see the armful of presents, for goodness’ sake?
‘I’ve brought a card from the squad. And these.’ Kate nodded at her armful.
‘You’d better come in. You can have five minutes. This way.’ Mrs Harvey paused: Kate realised she hadn’t wiped her feet, and proceeded to do so, with some fervour, before following her through a square hall into a long living room.
‘Come into the lounge,’ Mrs Harvey said, over her shoulder. ‘I’ll get him.’ She disappeared through another door – perhaps one to the kitchen.
Kate looked around her. Careful good taste in here: the carpets, suite, curtains and wall-paper all co-ordinated. An expensive looking Afghan rug held the whole lot together with a pattern of the rather acid blues and pinks of the rest of the room on a deep red ground. Kate felt covetous. Her house was too small for anything other than plain carpets, plain walls. She hovered. She hadn’t been invited to sit, and yet to look at the pictures might be construed as prying. She looked anyway: English landscapes, too pretty for her taste. On the hearth and on what looked like a home for a CD collection were some dried flower arrangements, the sort of thing that came out like the foundations of bonfires if she tried them. These looked like those in the glossy magazines she avoided even at the hairdressers.
‘Kate!’
The voice came from that other door. She turned. Involuntarily she stepped towards him. Graham’s face was puffed to a caricature of itself, with two lovely black eyes. There was a raw-looking bruise down his right cheek.
As if to give her time, he smiled: ‘You should have seen the others.’
‘That’ll teach you to pick on someone your own size,’ Kate said. The presents grew awkward in her arms. ‘We had a bit of whip round for you.’ She realised that Graham had left the door open, that Mrs Harvey was somewhere behind it. Perhaps she was making tea.
Graham reached for them.
She could see how blood-shot the right eye was. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘There was this pile-up. Mid-afternoon, Wednesday. Broad daylight. You’d expect the fog to have cleared by then. But just north of Stafford – yes, I was nearly home! – it came down like a hand. I mean, I was cruising at seventy – no problem. Anyway, I saw the crashes in front. I managed to get on to the hard shoulder, call for assistance. I was trying to help this teenager in a beat-up old van when there was another series of crashes. And the car behind shunted into this kid’s van.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I managed to get him out before the fires started. And a few others. Didn’t realise I was hurt until the meat-wagon people told me to get in.’ He took the pot plant. ‘This must be terribly hard for you, Kate,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘After –’
After Robin. After her own injuries. That was what he meant. She straightened and passed him the books. He looked around helplessly. This was not a room you just dumped things in.
‘Is there a mat we could put that plant on?’ Kate asked. ‘Or the hearth –?’
But the marble of that was polished. No, not even a newspaper she could spread.
‘Maybe the kitchen,’ he began.
‘Your five minutes are up, I’m afraid.’ Mrs Harvey had materialised. ‘Doctor’s orders, dear. You know what he said.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’ Kate was still holding the card. ‘I’d forgotten this. Look after –’
‘I’ll look after him, all right.’ Mrs Harvey took the plant, sniffing disparagingly. Or perhaps it was just to see if there was any scent. Not with hot-house azaleas, though. There never was.
Kate headed for the door. Graham followed. She turned: ‘I could do with some advice. There’s a major problem at work.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to solve it without him, won’t you?’ Mrs Harvey said. ‘Can’t you see he’s sick?’
‘I’ll be in on Monday,’ Graham mouthed.
She opened her eyes extra wide, pulled a face: would he be fit?
He managed a smile – not a wink. ‘Thanks for coming round,’ he said. ‘Send everyone my thanks. Tell them I’ll be back as soon as I can be.’
‘When the doctor says it’s all right,’ Mrs Harvey’s voice over-rode his.
‘Goodbye then.’ She peered round his shoulder. Mrs Harvey regarded her. ‘Nice to have met you,’ Kate said, like a kid at a party.
On impulse, she went home, not to the Manse. Thank God for chicken tikka naan. She ate it on her lap in her bedroom. Then, slowly at first, and then maniacally, she started to clean her windows. Her bedroom. The back room. The bathroom. The landing. The front bedroom. She might even do those downstairs. The new doors. The windows. And at last, opening the front room door – the room that was to be her dining room – she was hit by the smell of paint. Primer to be precise.
She sat down on a pile of cardboard boxes – her kitchen in chrysalis form – and stared. Someone had started to rub down and prepare the bay window.
How long she’d been sitting there she’d no idea. At last it dawned on her that the phone was ringing, and she sprinted to it.
‘I was afraid you might be at the Manse,’ Graham said.
‘I come home sometimes.’
‘Not often. I tried to get you a couple of times. How are things?’
‘Cope’s weird. Sent me on a wild-goose chase to Devon. But I’ve got this bee in my bonnet, Graham. I haven’t dared tell anyone yet.’ She trusted him to interpret her silence correctly: that she knew she could trust him.
‘Shoot.’
‘One day – just after I started – I was very late in –’
‘I bollocked you, if I remember rightly.’
‘I wouldn’t call that a bollocking. Anyway, on the bus on my way in I overhead these two women talking about a house in their cul-de-sac. Seems the people using it went to ridiculous lengths to maintain their privacy. Graham, it’s the longest of shots – but I want to find that house. May be nothing to do with this case.’
‘May be everything in the world to do with another one. OK, Kate. Find it. Kate. Before I forget. If ever the phone rings back immediately after I’ve put it down, ignore it. You can always one four seven one it. And I’d be grateful, if you ever phone me here, if you dial one four one first.’ His voice writhed with embarrassment.
She didn’t need to ask why. God, another conspiracy. Just so she could talk to her boss. All that just so she could talk to her boss.
‘This house, Graham. It might take a long time to find.’ She told him what she was looking for.
‘I only wish I could help. But there’s no way I can drive for another couple of days. She’s taken my keys, just to make sure.’ He laughed. An embarrassed schoolboy laugh.
‘Any ideas how I could clear it with Cope?’
‘You can’t, can you? Because he’d veto it as a waste of time. It’ll have to wait till I’m back, Colin. But thanks for the call. Always nice to hear from you lads.’
End of call. He wouldn’t win any Oscars for that performance, though.
The phone rang. And rang. She sat on her hands in her effort not to answer. At last it stopped. It started immediately. She went to the loo. At last, she returned, and checked the origin of her call. Graham’s number.
Find it, the man had said. She’d give it till twelve tonight. Couldn’t go on too late and risk being knackered for tomorrow’s match, could she? Matches, she corrected herself. She went back upstairs to retrieve warm, sensible clothes – her thickest tracksuit, and warm cords and sweater for the afternoon. There. But it would be so nice to live in just one house. Picking up her coat and the A-Z she let herself out of her house, locking the door behind her.
‘You look like you could do with your weekend.’
Kate jumped. Literally. ‘Mrs Mackenzie! I was miles away! I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s all right. House coming on?’
‘Slowly. Even when it’s finished, I shall never be able to get it clean.’
‘You want cleaners? I know cleaners.’
‘Would they want to tackle a job like this?’
‘Is the Pope Catholic? You just tell me when. You got a job, they want a job. You got money, they want money. Symbiosis.’ Mrs Mackenzie grinned. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
All those plans for prowling the suburbs!
‘Love one. But –’ she gestured ineffectually at her house.
‘My place. I only like grounds with my coffee, not grit.’ She let them in. The house was silent, apart from the irritating tinkle of a central heating radiator. It still smelt of paint.
Kate followed her into the immaculate kitchen. Shedding her coat, Mrs Mackenzie fished beans from the fridge. She pulled a face while she ground them, but then grinned. ‘Got this new espresso machine,’ she said. ‘Black or white?’
Kate tossed up: which did she need more, a good night’s sleep or wakefulness for her suburban patrol? ‘White, please. Didn’t sleep too well last night. Jenny gets these nightmares and shares them.’
‘Jenny?’
‘The younger daughter at the Manse. Screams in her sleep, poor little mite.’
Mrs Mackenzie nodded: ‘My Royston had a phase of that. Never think it to look at him, but he was a timid child. Bullied. That’s one reason we moved churches. Kate – you don’t mind if I call you Kate, do you? I’m Zenia. Seems my parents wanted to call me after some flower and couldn’t bloody spell it. Pardon my French. Don’t swear, except it’s been a bit of a day. Got this woman on the ward – I tell you she hasn’t a bit of skin left on her.’
Kate looked up sharply.
‘Oh, natural causes. Eczema. Only you feel so helpless. Been dabbling in this herbal stuff. Just because it grows natural, they think it must be good. Well, whatever she was on wasn’t.’
Kate waited. The coffee-maker belched. The smell was making her salivate. ‘You say Royston was bullied? At the chapel?’
Zenia bubbled the coffee into the tiny white china cups she’d reached out. ‘Help yourself to sugar. Bullied at school – that’s for definite. But there was something at the chapel he wouldn’t ever tell us about. Never has.’
Kate looked up sharply. ‘Any ideas?’
‘None. I looked for the obvious things – including sexual abuse, before you ask. Nothing I could see. Tried to talk to him. Had a discreet word with the officers. Maybe some racism, they thought. It’s a very white, middle-class chapel, that one. And he’s much happier now we’ve left it. Happier! Lord, when was a teenage boy ever happy?’
‘How old is he? Hmm, this is good!’
‘Fifteen. Working for his GCSEs. And doing well, his teachers say. I suppose it’s best for him to be polite at school, rude at home, if he’s got to be rude. Get a GCSE in swearing, I sometimes think. Bad company. There’s him in the A stream of a grammar school and he chooses friends dropping out of the comp. That’s kids for you. I sometimes wonder if it’s because I work.’
‘I doubt it. I think trouble’s something all teenagers are prone to – like a virus.’
Zenia bridled. ‘Trouble? I didn’t say anything about trouble. But you never know what they get up to, do you. Watch and pray, that’s what they say. Except the watching’s hard when they dash off the second they’ve done their homework.’
‘Tell you what, if he’s still doing his homework, I shouldn’t think you’ve got all that much to worry about!’
Zenia laughed, but her voice was soon serious. ‘I hope you’re right. That’s all I can say.’ She made an obvious effort. ‘Now, tell me all about this handsome young man my husband tells me he keeps seeing at your house.’
Kate sighed. ‘Handsome pain in the arse, more like.’
Zenia shook her head. ‘When you get past forty, no handsome young man can ever be a pain in the arse. Ever.’
‘This one can. Oh, he means well. But he’s at my house more than I am, doing little jobs.’
‘And big ones – digging out that garden took him a good while.’
‘He’s painting my front window, now. Not now this minute. Now his current job. Except he’s got a job. He’s supposed to be a college lecturer – he doesn’t seem to be spending a lot of time lecturing.’
‘Skivers in every walk of life. Don’t tell me you haven’t got some policemen who sit on their backsides and let the others do the work? Anyway, when you’re in love, what’s a little thing like work? And that young man’s got to be in love.’ As if sensing Kate had had enough of the subject, she got up. ‘Now, I want an honest opinion. I’ve got a bit of a promotion at work, and I saw this outfit in town. And I fell for it. Well, we’ve got a wedding to go to. Joseph’s niece. I haven’t shown it to Joseph, yet.’
‘Let’s see. Go and put it on.’ Kate waved her out of the room. She might as well give up the safe-house search for tonight. She was too weary. In any case she deserved a break and it was good to get to know her neighbour. At first she’d assumed she was just another middle-aged woman. Now – she gasped as Zenia returned.
‘My God – you look absolutely stunning.’
‘You don’t think it’s OTT?’ Zenia turned slowly.
‘Not a scrap. The cut – it’s absolutely lovely.’
‘Cost me a bomb.’
‘It shows. Turn round again.’
Zenia was transformed from a slightly dumpy forty plus into a queen.
‘Is your hair long enough to put up properly? Go on, try! And a hat?’
She didn’t leave till nearly eleven. They’d had more coffee, and Zenia had produced cakes from her deep-freezer. They’d had a feast.
‘You all right, girl?’ Zenia peered at her under the hall light.
‘Be nice just to go home, wouldn’t it. Not have to zap off to the Manse. Though I don’t know why I’m moaning. It’s not all that far.’
‘You know as well as I do it’s nothing to do with distance. It’s your roots, Kate. You’re looking for somewhere to plant them.’