Power on Her Own (25 page)

‘Jesus, d'you see who I see?' Colin asked.

Kate nodded. It was a good job Cope was with him or she might have run to Graham.

‘Hey, Gaffer – did you see that goal?' she said to them both.

‘If you don't shut up and turn round, you'll miss the next,' Cope observed, spitting. ‘Go on, kid. In the fucking net, man!'

Alec coughed: ‘This is a church team,' he said.

‘Don't care if it's a team of bloody angels – get it in the fucking net!'

But the opposition hustled it clear. She could have wept. Only a game, Kate. It degenerated into a lot of rather pointless midfield passing.

She realised Graham was beside her. ‘You sure you should be out, Gaffer?' she asked. Public question for a public occasion.

‘Course he should be bloody out. I told his wife he'd got to have some fresh air. Hey up, what's going on now? What's the matter with that kid?'

‘Paul – Marcus's spray. Quick! No, you're not allowed on the pitch. Give it here.' Kate sprinted to the knot gathered round the gasping boy. ‘OK, love. Couple of deep breaths. Good lad. Now,' she smiled at the referee, ‘can I have him on the sidelines for a couple of minutes and then he comes back on? Or would you need us to send on a sub straightaway?'

‘Time you read your rule book, sister. OK, you're playing with just ten till he comes back on?'

Marcus's parents were waiting on the touchline: ‘That's it for today, then, old son. Home we go!'

‘Dad! No, Dad. I've got to stay.'

‘Can't have you getting cold, lad. And you can see your mother's perished with all this standing round.'

‘Dad –'

‘That was a nice goal, son.' Cope had joined them. ‘But you'd better get back on that pitch or you'll get bloody pneumonia. Go on, shift your arse.'

Marcus did as he was told. Cope stomped off. Kate and Marcus's parents gaped.

‘If only we could have won,' Kate said, waving off the last of the parents' cars. ‘It would have meant so much to them all.'

‘And to you,' Colin said quietly. ‘But to turn round – how many defeats in a row?'

‘Fourteen or fifteen,' Paul said.

‘OK, to turn round a run of defeats that long to a score-draw isn't bad. Only a couple of weeks' coaching. Imagine what a whole season's work will achieve.'

Kate imagined. Committed to all those evenings, all those mornings. Still, she had a lot to be pleased with.

‘Fancy Cope coming along,' she said.

Colin finished her thought, out loud, but for her ears only. ‘And fancy him bringing Graham. Nowt so queer as folk, Kate. I'd never have imagined him even visiting Graham, let alone persuading him to come out to something like this. Perhaps he didn't take a lot of persuading. Mind you, Mrs H might have done.'

Kate thought back to the good-looking, neat woman. ‘Wonder what made her like that?'

Colin shrugged. ‘What's made Cope the way he is? Look, I'd best be off – someone's trying to catch your eye, in case you hadn't noticed. See you at your place tomorrow?'

‘Better make it the Manse. About one. We'll get something on the motorway, shall we?'

‘Or better still, before we get on it. Plenty of pubs off the Alcester Road. Lots of them'll do a Sunday lunch fairly cheap. See you, our kid.'

The one trying to catch her eye was Derek. He looked at his watch ostentatiously.

‘Time we were moving,' he said. ‘Especially if you want to change.'

She looked more closely: under his sheepskin coat, he was certainly smarter than she was. She'd have given anything to call off: all she wanted was a hot bath. ‘I haven't got all that many warm clothes,' she began.

‘No problem,' he said.

Would he peel off his coat and wrap it round her?

‘After all, we shall be indoors all afternoon.'

‘So there I was in a hospitality box, amongst all the nobs,' Kate told Cassie that evening. ‘Buffet lunch, wine, coffee, chocs. Even a brandy or liqueur with the coffee. And then you move from the back of the box to the front, and watch it all happen in comfort. There's even a TV screen so if you're too busy talking business to see a goal then you see it again in slow motion.'

‘Did you enjoy it?' Cassie asked. ‘And while you're deciding, you could freshen up my gin.'

Kate shook a couple more ice cubes from the flask, sliced in some lemon, and was lavish with the gin. No point in being lavish with the tonic – Cassie was drinking it almost neat tonight. On the other hand, she herself was so tired she was drinking almost undiluted tonic. She walked back to the bed, and sat down. ‘Enjoy it? Yes, of course I did. I'm not so sure about the company – Derek and Alec's contacts were a bit pompous for me.'

‘You mean rich. You young people and your inverted snobbery. There's nothing wrong in working hard for your money and then enjoying it. You mark my words, these Labour people will be putting up taxes, for all their promises.'

Kate chose not to hear. ‘But it was funny seeing the game at one remove from reality. All these people outside roaring and yelling – and inside we could hardly hear them.' Yes, she'd missed that. Whenever she'd been to matches in the past, there'd always been that huge roar; even if you were still outside it was thrilling. Paul had got the same sort of excitement when that orchestra had tuned up. ‘And it wasn't as exciting as this morning. We deserved to win, we really did. If I can only build up their stamina … They were just run off their legs by the last ten minutes – did ever so well to keep the opposition out.'

Cassie yawned, openly.

‘And such a lot of people turned up. All the parents. And some of my people from work.'

‘Was that handsome young man there? Paul?'

‘Yes.' But she didn't want to talk about him. She wanted to talk about Cope bringing Graham. No. About Graham being there. About Graham's departure, with his unobtrusive touch on her arm. About Graham's wife and the telephone subterfuges Graham had asked for. About the phone ringing as soon as their call was over. But then she found she didn't want to talk about Graham at all. ‘I had a coffee with Zenia Mackenzie last night,' she said.

‘Who?'

‘Zenia Mackenzie – your next-door neighbour.'

‘That Jamaican!'

Kate ignored the disdain. ‘That's right. She sends her regards. She's been very kind to me since I moved in. But I think she's worrying about that lad of hers. Royston.'

‘Royston; Zenia. Where do these people get their names from?'

‘Zenia got hers because her parents wanted to call her after the flower. She's just bought herself a new outfit – she looks really lovely. Which reminds me, I'm off to get my clothes tomorrow. From London. I'm whizzing down with a friend of mine.'

‘Paul?'

‘Colin. My colleague.'

‘But he's the one that's queer.'

‘Gay.' Was it too late to teach Cassie a bit of political correctness? Perhaps she should have picked her up on her attitude to African-Caribbeans. Was it too late? Or was it simply too late in the evening?

She and Colin had only had time on Sunday evening – nearer Monday morning, to be precise – to dash into her house and dump her clothes on any cleanish flat surface they could find upstairs. She'd had no idea she possessed so many. She rather wished her tenant hadn't removed about half the coat-hangers, but, as the woman had pointed out, furnished accommodation might be thought to include such vital items. Two trips were called for when she had time – one to a charity shop with black sacks full of superfluous clothes, another to Woolworth's for a fistful of hangers. In the event, however, Colin rendered that unnecessary: he came in on the Monday morning with two carriers full of wire.

‘Vile things. I'm sure they have a life of their own. Look at them – weaving in and out of each other before your very eyes.' He shuddered.

Kate made them both coffee. Sally and Reg appeared, then Selby.

‘Set 'em up, then, Power,' Cope yelled. ‘And then we'll have a few minutes' private prayer in the Incident Room.'

Kate made tea and coffee impartially, resolving to be at the back of the queue in future. Tea-lady she was not. The huge tins of coffee and tea bags were getting perilously low, but she had a nasty feeling that if she asked who ran the tea-swindle she'd find the prompt answer was her. Though she didn't begrudge a minute of the time she'd spent collecting money since she'd arrived, she didn't want to be typecast. If necessary, she'd stick to water, or invite herself to share the delights of Graham's supplies.

There was no sign of him in the Incident Room.

‘Right, ladies and gents: let's see what we've got. Power, anything on the schools?'

‘Not a lot of blue-eyed golden-haired boys in the area,' she said. ‘But I wonder if we're not taking too narrow a view of male beauty. What if our friend fancies pretty black kids, but just hasn't snatched one yet?'

‘I'm not an expert in male beauty, Power.'

She laughed. ‘Nor am I when it comes to ten-year-olds, Sir!' It was out before she could stop it. The first time she'd ever quipped back to Cope. How would he take it?

‘Come off it, Power: last time I saw you you were surrounded by the little bastards. And a lot of bigger ones, too.' It was his usual jeering tone, but he didn't seem to have taken offence. ‘But the experience seems to have been too much for the Gaffer. He's had to take a sickie or two. Must be the sight of your boobs in that tracksuit, eh, Power? Or that snazzy jacket you were wearing, Roper. Nice bit of cloth, that.'

‘You mean he's bad?' Reg prompted.

‘According to his wife, yes. My guess it's because she blacked the other eye for him. Any road, we've got to manage without him a bit longer. That all right by you, Reg?'

‘Shame. He's a good copper, young Graham.'

‘He can rely on you to write him a testimonial, then. I'm sure he'll be vastly relieved. Right – as I recall we were talking about a particularly nasty crime. Anything else, gents?'

‘Nothing to report from the surveillance, Sir. No suspicious behaviour from anyone. Thing is, Sir,' the young man – Brian Fenton – continued, ‘going to school seems quite a social thing, if you see what I mean. Families come and go together. Very few kids come on their own. Almost all are collected. Maybe we should be looking at schools where the mums come by car and drop their kids off. More time for them to moon round the playground and be picked out.'

Kate nodded. ‘So more middle-class areas?'

Cope nodded. ‘We've already circulated all the schools. But we haven't the manpower – sorry, Kate! – to keep an eye on every bloody school in Brum.'

Kate shook her head sympathetically, her face sober. Inside she was grinning like a chimpanzee, however – fancy the old bastard using her first name after all this time. Probably just a one-off. She braced herself for the next onslaught; he wouldn't want her to get the idea he'd gone soft, would he?

Reg coughed: ‘With all due respect to the ladies present, aren't we being a bit narrow in our investigations? It's not unknown for women to participate in child abuse.'

‘Fenton?'

‘No reports of anyone of either sex hanging round, Sir.'

‘So now you're satisfied the Force has been getting on with its work while you were jaunting round the globe?'

Reg nodded.

And perhaps now was the moment for normal service to be resumed to Kate. The meeting over, he called her back. ‘Power?' But he was straight, business-like. ‘Got a job for you. Sally Richards has been liaising with Family Protection. She'll be packing the job in soon. Mightn't do any harm if we had a bit of continuity.'

Exactly what Graham had thought.

‘Next time she talks to them, you'd better be there.'

‘Sir!'

Christmas had come early this year.

Except there was no Graham. If he'd been well enough to go to the match on Saturday, why wasn't he well enough to work, two days later? On impulse, not allowing herself to think about it, she sat at her desk and dialled his mobile number. She was invited to leave a message. She didn't. His home number? She'd risk it. Any outgoing police call had its number withheld from the caller, so there was no need to dial 141. But she must be ready to dab a finger down to stop the call should the wrong voice answer. The number was ringing. She held on, biting her lip.

And was asked to leave a message on a machine.

But he'd find a way of contacting her; he'd want to reassure her that all was well. He'd mentioned an answerphone. Well, she'd get one this lunch-time and fix it this evening if it was the last thing she did.

‘It's a long process,' Gail, the social worker, was explaining. ‘They don't just grab a kid and violate him. That's too quick. They want the thrill of the chase, too. So they'll single out a child – one who comes alone or plays alone: some kids are natural loners. Maybe the one who gets bullied. So they have a kind, sympathetic adult to turn to. And then, as they gain the boy's trust, the stakes are raised. A visit to the paedophile's house. Oh, not his own, of course. The kid finds a roomful of toys. But the rumour is there are better rooms with better toys. And if he co-operates, he'll get to see it. Maybe “co-operating” means just having his photo taken. But it'll mean more and more as the toys get better, believe me.' She curled her lip in distaste. ‘And don't get the idea you're looking for a Mr Nasty. On the contrary, you're looking for a Mr Nice-Guy, a trusted pillar of society. Every mother's favourite son. The nicest boss.'