Kate made it to the Manse with three minutes to spare, to be greeted by an anxious Giles and a heady smell of cooking fruit.
‘We’ve got tons of pears,’ he said, as he shrugged on his coat. ‘We’re stewing them in red wine.’
‘An Elizabeth David recipe?’ she asked, straight-faced.
Fortunately there was something more solid simmering on the hob: a curry, authentic to judge by the smell.
‘Naan in the freezer or cook yourself some rice,’ said Maz, grabbing her coat from the kitchen table. ‘Kids in bed soon as you can organise it. Paul’s promised to pop round later to keep you company.’
By whose invitation, Kate wondered silently.
She’d washed up and was in Tim’s bedroom, being allowed to run George V round the track, when she felt, rather than heard, someone approaching from behind. Not Tim. He was fiddling with the HST’s coupling. Not one of the girls – one was in bed, the other singing in the shower. If she did what she wanted, she’d flip whoever it was over her back on to the railway layout – a pity the locos weren’t several sizes larger. Instead, she simply dodged sideways at what she judged to be the right moment, leaving Paul in an ungainly sprawl across the track, to Tim’s loud annoyance.
‘It’s taken us ages to fit this lot together, and you go and knock the lot off. Honestly, you could have damaged it badly, you know.’
‘Sorry, Tim. I seem to have tripped on something. How’s my favourite nephew, anyway?’ Paul moved round the table to kiss Tim and ruffle his hair. Tim acquiesced, but showed no signs of welcoming his uncle’s affection. Any day now he’d be embarrassed by it, and within a couple of years would completely avoid any such display.
Kate watched, smiling wryly: kids weren’t cuddly long enough.
Paul caught her eye. ‘You realise you’re doing my job?’ His tone wasn’t as light and mocking as she’d expected.
‘Job?’
‘Baby-sitting.’
Tim pushed past him: ‘That’s because we’re not babies any more. Kate’s – Kate’s kid-watching,’ he declared. ‘Could you change those points, Kate? They’re sticking.’
‘You’re too old to sit on my knee and have a story read?’ Locking his fingers across Tim’s chest, Paul pulled him back towards him.
Tim pulled away. ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he said loftily.
Paul grimaced. ‘See how the mighty are fallen,’ he said. ‘There was I, for years the patcher of knees, provider of pocket money, fielder at cricket, and generally useful uncle, and now I’m redundant. Well,’ he added, his face becoming lugubrious, ‘maybe the pocket money’s redundant too.’
Tim was too busy with Duck to reply.
The three children finally in bed and lights officially out, Kate wandered downstairs. What she wanted was her bed, but clearly etiquette demanded that she talk at least for a while to Paul. She found him in the kitchen – a bonus, since she could take a chair opposite him without appearing to be picky about where she sat.
‘You all right?’ he asked almost at once.
‘Fine,’ she said. Yes, it was true, she did feel fine. Her outburst this morning seemed to have purged her, and what she was sure would prove a successful afternoon’s work was already beginning to heal.
‘You’re sure?’ He peered anxiously at her face. ‘You look very pale. Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t say no to a drink. But I’m perfectly OK. Maybe a bit tired,’ she admitted. Yes, now she came to think of it, she was knackered.
‘Tired?’ he prompted, reaching glasses and gin. ‘Had a bad day at work?’
‘Very good, actually.’ Yes, all things considered it had been excellent. ‘Perhaps I just haven’t got over the weekend yet. All that football – I’m surprised the kids could kick a ball on Sunday! And then I dashed down to collect my clothes. Time I really settled into my house. Made it my home. Cheers!’ she toasted him. ‘And thanks for all your help.’
‘No problem. You seem to work very hard.’
‘No harder than a lot of professionals. No harder than you, probably.’ Though it did occur to her that recently he’d been devoting a great deal of time to her painting, rather than his work at college. ‘And there are the good days when things come together. My colleague Colin, now. He was looking quite washed out recently, but he gets the right verdict the other day and suddenly he’s leaping round like a spring lamb. Bet you’re the same when one of your kids finally gets the hang of something or gets decent grades in the exams.’
He smiled. ‘They’ve got such problems, these kids. So deprived … What on earth’s that?’
Kate was on her feet and running. ‘One of Jenny’s nightmares.’
Paul had the tact to stay downstairs: he was still sitting at the kitchen table with the gin bottle in front of him when Kate came back. It was clear he’d freshened his drink. She pushed her glass across for similar treatment, but waved at him to slosh in much more tonic.
‘Poor little mite,’ she said. ‘I had to wake her up properly this time. And find a dry nightie.’
‘She wet the bed? At her age?’ Paul looked horrified.
‘Sweat. As if she has a fever. Tim woke up too – he took her one of his favourite teddies.’ It was the one he’d previously lent Kate. ‘He’s such a delight, that child. I wonder what he’ll grow up to be.’
‘Do you want children, Kate?’
‘It isn’t a matter of wanting or not. It’s the circumstances. I expect Maz has told you. My partner was killed this summer. We were happy to have his children. Maybe I’d have wanted my own, my biological ones. Maybe not. But I’m not ready for another relationship yet, and I wouldn’t consider having a child of my own, just for the sake of it.’
Paul nodded, his head down.
Kate waited: it would have been altogether more adult to tell him some of this earlier, rather than simply rebuff him. Should she apologise, or would that make matters worse?
‘Christ!’ he said, making her jump. ‘They make me mad, these single mothers. Totally irresponsible.’ He took a long swig of gin. But he didn’t elaborate.
Kate wasn’t sure she wanted him to. The silence deepened, became increasingly awkward to break. One of them had to make the effort. Just for once she didn’t want it to have to be her.
‘So you didn’t have a bad day at work? Did you catch a lot of criminals, then?’
Good for him. She smiled, shaking her head. ‘Don’t often get to do that. It’s like doing a jigsaw without the picture on the box. And half the pieces are missing. But today I think I found an important bit.’
He pulled himself more upright. ‘Tell me all about it, then!’
It would have been nice to tell someone. But she shook her head. ‘Not until I’ve found the other pieces. And asked my boss if it’s for this particular jigsaw.’
‘Hush-hush is it?’
‘Not especially. It’s just habit, Paul, not to say anything. And policy too, I suppose. I dare say there are things at your college you don’t talk about outside.’
‘Hmm. And one of them’s marking.’ He grinned. ‘Piles of which await my attention even as we speak. OK, Kate – I’ll have to love you and leave you. No, stay where you are: I’ll let myself out.’
But she got up, following him into the hall.
‘I’ll just go and kiss the kids good-night,’ he said, heading for the stairs.
‘Hang on! Look,’ she added awkwardly, ‘don’t you think it’d be better to let them settle? Lynn’s really funny about people in her room these days, and I’m afraid she’ll yell at you and wake up Tim again. And – well, you heard Jenny. I’d hate to have her disturbed again. Sorry. Teaching my grandmother,’ she added apologetically.
His face tightened, but at last he turned. ‘OK. Makes sense. See they have these, won’t you?’ He laid three fivers on the hall table. ‘Night, then.’
The house blessedly quiet, she was torn by two imperatives: sleep, which she ached for, and talking today’s events through with Graham. He’d told her to find the safe house. OK, she hadn’t any proof of anything, only the strongest of hunches, but she needed his help – his permission! – to move things on. She dialled his home number first. The answerphone. And his mobile’s answering service too. She could have wept with frustration.
Perhaps throwing the handset down hadn’t damaged it. She picked it up cautiously and listened: yes, still a dialling tone. She replaced it carefully.
This time she had the sense to phone Colin at home, to ask him to tell Cope in person that she was doing some checking on the Danny case and would be in late. Very late. She’d wait at the 50 bus-stop in the hope of seeing one of the women. Both.
Neither. Chilled and irritated she got on a bus at last and seethed all the way into town.
No coffee. No tea. No one’s job, of course. Colin was working through something with Reg, Sally was dialling a succession of numbers, tutting with irritation as apparently none was answered. The others were quietly going about their business. Even Selby, who was already on his computer, eyes fixed on the screen, his mouse darting quickly backwards and forwards. He’d certainly come on a bundle since this course. She strolled across to congratulate him.
And stopped.
‘Red queen on black king,’ she said quietly. ‘And black six on red seven. Christ in heaven, Selby!’ She could hear her voice rising. ‘A word. Outside. Now.’
When he ignored her she reached across and took the mouse. She closed the solitaire window.
‘You bitch! I was just about to get it out!’ He got truculently to his feet.
‘I said outside. Now.’
‘What the fuck d’you want?’
Keeping her voice low, she continued, ‘I want to talk to you. About that. In private. Unless, of course, you want the whole room to hear? The whole squad to know?’
She whisked him down to an interview room.
‘Sit,’ she said.
He obeyed.
She remained standing. ‘I’d like to know what work you’ve actually done since that computer course.’
He stood, pushing away from the table. ‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’
She leaned against the wall, her shoulder on a greasy spot where countless other shoulders had leaned. ‘No, you don’t. You’d rather tell Cope and Harvey. Fine. No problem.’
‘It’s not – I get my share done.’ Addressing the door, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Share? When the rest of us are working our arses off? Whenever I’ve seen you recently, either in the office or in the incident room, you’ve been glued to the computer, shifting and clicking that mouse. What gen have you got off the screen? What reports have you written?’
‘Just shut the fuck up! I’ve done my bleeding share.’
‘When? Where? Oh, yes. On the streets, maybe, when you’ve been sent out. But not even in meetings – you’ve been messing with that mouse whenever I’ve seen you,’ she repeated. She was blisteringly angry. ‘Out there is a bloke who’s messing up not just kids’ bodies, but their minds, their whole lives. And all you’re doing is playing bloody patience. And that’s just what I haven’t got, not at the moment, Selby.’ She ran her eyes over him. Six foot and fifteen stone taking up space. ‘Get back up there and get stuck into your work.’
‘What about Cope? Harvey?’ Selby sounded genuinely frightened.
‘If you shift the backlog you must have built up – in your own time, mind, Selby! – and that computer stays off, I’ll keep quiet. OK? But if I ever catch you at it again, you’ll be in Cope’s room before you can say ace of spades.’
He looked at her with a degree of hatred and resentment she’d only met before in cons and slammed out of the room. She followed, more slowly.
She stood staring at herself in the mirror over the washbasin. The chance of a lifetime to have a little sweet revenge on a nasty sexist bully and she’d thrown it up. God only knew whether she was right to do so. Half of her would still have liked to spill every last bean to Cope. But you didn’t do that, did you, didn’t grass up colleagues, not even those who’d pretended to rape you as part of your welcome to the squad. No. Not straight away.
She’d warned him, almost officially. Next time it would be her responsibility to report it to Harvey. Cope in his absence. And she would. She’d have to.
God, was it only half past nine?
Cope was waiting in the office when she got back. ‘I want to get everyone into the incident room. That schoolboy’s given us a good description of the man following him.’
Good description it might be. In fact, it was so good Reg fished out his copy of the morning’s Post. ‘That’s your man!’ he said. ‘Aston Villa have just signed him for half a million. You’re sure this kid’s got all his marbles?’
‘So we look for blokes like this character,’ Cope said heavily. ‘Bloody hell, Reg, it’s the only lead we’ve got. Kate, the kid reckons there’s no one in the mug shots. Go and double check, would you? And – where the fuck are you off too, Roper?’
Colin had bolted from the room. There were unmistakable sounds to suggest why. Kate was ready to follow.
‘No, none of your ministering angel stuff.’ Cope thrust a phone at her. ‘Just get on to the caretakers, will you? Tell them one of our tried and trusted men has just spewed his guts up in the corridor and someone’s going to have to shift it before I for one stir from here. I always come out in sympathy,’ he added ruefully as she dialled.
Eventually Reg was allowed to go after him. ‘No, he won’t be going anywhere for a bit, Gaffer,’ he said. ‘Something in last night’s balti, I should think.’
‘Shit!’
Reg laughed. ‘Not the best word, in the circumstances, Gaffer!’
‘OK. Power. You’re the nearest thing he’s got to a partner. If he needs to get home, you’d better take him. Then have a go at ID-ing that young bloke. The rest of us – well, we all know what we’ve got to do.’
By the end of the morning, half the squad were ill, and there was a strong rumour about the canteen.
She knew what response she’d have given if she’d asked Cope for a team of colleagues to check out the cul-de-sac, so she didn’t even bother asking. That was something she’d do tonight. She got stuck into the job he’d given her. She came up with a couple of men who looked not unlike the handsome footballer the kid claimed had followed him, but one was in Long Lartin and the other up in Durham, both for the duration. A cynical part of her brain wanted to believe that the boy had rather wished a footballing hero were following him, but she couldn’t entirely accept that. It was too convenient for one thing. It made more sense to step up the surveillance on his school, and to follow him discreetly on his paper round. Not involved in either of those, she had a chance to turn to some of Colin’s paperwork, and had the satisfaction – if the irritation – of picking up the very bit of information she needed for her car-theft file. She wrapped the whole thing up and took it to Cope.
‘I think this is ready when you are, Sir.’
He stuck out a fist for it. ‘Anything immediate?’
‘I reckon we’re ready to pick him up when you give the say-so.’
He nodded. ‘That’ll be my tonight’s homework, then. Planning it. Jesus, Kate, how can I run this lot when I’ve got two-thirds of the men off?’
‘Let’s just say, “don’t eat in the canteen”, Sir! Seriously, any news of DCI Harvey, Sir? I was a bit surprised he wasn’t in, since he managed to get to the match.’ She’d practised this, outloud in the loo. Professional interest only – that was the message of both voice and posture.
‘Could do with him, couldn’t we? Hang on – what are you doing here? Thought you were supposed to be off sick?’
‘I’ve got an appointment with the shrink coming through, Sir. It’s all to do with my partner’s death.’ She examined her voice: no, no quavers. ‘Anyway, I’d rather work through it. There seems to be quite a lot to do.’
‘Hmph. Well, we could use you, provided you don’t get the screaming hab-dabs again. Christ, woman, what with your maggots and the canteen, we shall need danger money to work here.’
Still no news about Graham. She was just about to make her escape when Reg called her.
‘Fancy a medicinal half? You look a bit washed out, you know. Maybe you’re not over that maggot business.’
Hell! Not that she didn’t owe him a half – several pints, in fact. But she wanted to get moving.
‘Love one. But we’ll have to put it on the back burner,’ she said, remembering saying the same thing to Graham. ‘I’m checking out something – for Graham Harvey,’ she added, unconvincing even to her own ears. ‘Tell you what – I’ll stand you a sarnie tomorrow. OK?’
‘Must be important if it makes you miss a beer,’ Reg said.
She couldn’t work out whether he was joking or not.
‘Just a long shot.’ She shrugged. ‘And these days, if the Gaffer says jump, you just ask, how high?’
‘Or if he wants a Fosbury flop! OK, my wench, we’ll have that sarnie tomorrow. See you!’
Feeling vaguely guilty, she set off. The traffic was so bad, however, she might just as well have had that drink. Half an hour in a pub beat half an hour in a traffic jam any day. But she’d had this feeling before, when she thought she was on to something – she wanted to be alone. She laughed: Me and Greta Garbo both.