Power on Her Own (9 page)

The phone. At first she meant to let it ring. Then she thought of Aunt Cassie, and snatched up the receiver.

‘Hi! It's Paul. Paul Taylor. Is this a good time for me to pop round and have a word about the Brigade?'

‘Not particularly. The house – bit of a mess.' She couldn't tell if her voice was slurred. All she could manage was not to sound sorry for herself.

Perhaps she didn't manage that.

‘We'll go out for a drink, then.'

‘No – honestly. I'm –'

‘Kate – there's something wrong, isn't there? I'm on my way.'

Paul Taylor's shoulders filled the tiny vestibule: she had to back into the front room – she'd decided she'd call it her dining room – to let him through the equally tiny hall.

‘Careful – where there isn't wet paint there's wet plaster. Go on through to the kitchen. I've just made some coffee.' She followed him, still talking. ‘Would you like a cup? Only it'll have to be black: the builders have finished my milk. It probably wouldn't have kept till tomorrow anyway – as you can see, I don't have a fridge at the moment.'

‘Kate – are you telling me you're
living
in these conditions?'

‘Camping out. Oh, I know it's dreadful now, but they're laying the new floor tomorrow, and skimming the walls too, with a bit of luck, and then I can think about such luxuries as sinks and working surfaces.'

‘As opposed to a camping stove on a windowsill. Goodness, woman, are you off your head? The police could surely have found you temporary accommodation. Or what about renting a place? Or B and B with a colleague?'

If only he'd shut up. He was right, of course, on all counts. She couldn't justify even to herself her decision to stay put. It didn't make sense. She was living out of suitcases anyway. Moving the suitcases to somewhere free of builder's dust, somewhere she could have a bath and boil a kettle – why on earth not?

‘I didn't know it would be so bad,' she said at last. ‘And I rather thought if I was around it might make them get a move on. But some of them work very strange hours. The plasterer never turns up before half four.'

‘Doing foreigners. You know, moonlighting. No, I'll give the coffee a miss, I think. Look, go and put some things in a bag. Now. I'm taking you to Maz's. For tonight. You can argue with her. Go on.'

Too woozy from the whisky to argue, she went back to the living room and shoved tomorrow's undies and shirt into a carrier. Make-up. Shoes.

The car? She might be well over the limit. Wouldn't want to risk her licence. Not to mention her job. Get up early and walk back here to collect it, or go by bus. At last – the coffee might just be working.

‘What's the rest of the place like?' Paul's question made her jump.

‘Be my guest. Have a look round. But be careful – there are floor-boards up.'

She followed him up the stairs. ‘The bathroom's nearly ready – but it's very small. I can't give you a conducted tour.'

He shrugged and went in. ‘Hey, no door.'

‘Didn't you notice – no doors anywhere! I'm having them dipped to get rid of the old paint. Then I shall wax them.' Her first positive statement. She must be sobering up.

‘Lovely tiles. Oh, Kate,' Paul emerged. ‘If the rest of the house ends up looking as good as this, you can be really proud of yourself. Which is your bedroom?'

‘The big front one's nice. But with the school opposite it could be noisy. And Aunt Cassie's bedroom suite fits the middle bedroom so nicely – that's it, that pile of wood there. They had to take it apart to get it out so they could plaster. I suppose that was how they got it in in the first place, in pieces.'

Paul squeezed into the front room. ‘It's nice in here,' he called. ‘All those trees!'

‘And all the mummies in their Volvos delivering their kiddie-winks because they're too little to walk.'

‘Can you blame them? These missing kids, these abductions – that little kid last week. Any news of him, by the way?' He picked his way back towards her.

‘He's as well as can be expected,' she said. ‘But no more than that.'

‘What had they done to him?'

‘Enough,' she said shortly. ‘OK, Paul, there's only the end bedroom – the one that overlooks what claims to be a garden. I shall use it as my office. Careful! The floor's only staying up with faith and friction – they've not put the RSJ in underneath yet!'

She'd better stay where she was: walking alongjoists would be a worse test of being sober than walking the old white line. Penalty for failure – a rapid descent through the kitchen ceiling.

Even Paul slipped. Struggling for his balance, he dropped the leather-bound organiser he'd been carrying, more like some business executive than a down-to-earth college lecturer. Except down to earth was what he'd be if he wasn't careful.

‘Wait – I'll get something we can pull it with. Hang on!' She started back down the corridor.

‘No! It's OK. I've got it.'

Nearly, at least. It wouldn't do his jacket much good, lying across the floor like that.

‘There!' He straightened, triumphant. ‘Hey, there's something else, too.' He burrowed again. ‘I can just reach it.'

At last he straightened.

‘Are you OK?'

‘Apart from filthy. Now, what have we here?'

‘Hang on: I thought I heard something – did you drop anything?'

He flicked a quick eye over his organiser. ‘Don't think so. It was probably the last of your rats abandoning a sinking ship. Come on, let's look at this.'

‘The light's better downstairs.'

‘You mean the lights
work
downstairs! Come on!' He flourished an oiled-silk package.

‘Let's use my sleeping bag as a table, in case there's anything breakable.'

They knelt. He passed it to her. She untied the tape. Inside the silk was a little wash-leather purse.

‘Well, you can't break those,' she said, her voice as prosaic as possible.

‘Diamonds!' he breathed. ‘Must be a small fortune.'

She pushed them back into the purse, running her finger tip along the stitching of the sleeping bag to make sure none was trapped. ‘Let's say, they should keep Cassie in that nursing home a few more months. I wonder why she had cut diamonds: I'd have expected uncut ones.'

‘I wouldn't have recognised them, then. You don't feel tempted – he straightened, and stood slowly – ‘to help yourself to a couple – just to pay for the decorating and some decent furniture?'

He was joking. Of course he was joking. She'd better respond in kind. ‘Save me having to go in for the Lottery, wouldn't it? I could do with a new car, too.' The purse was small enough to fit into the front pocket of her jeans. She shoved it down as far as it would go.

It was only when Paul let them into the Manse and called out, that she realised they'd never phoned Maz or Giles to find out how they'd feel about a stranger camping with them. She'd insisted on bringing her sleeping bag: she wouldn't cause them any extra washing and it meant they shouldn't feel guilty about offering her a sofa if there were no spare bed. Damn it, even a clean floor would be welcome, provided they could share their hot running water.

Maz appeared from the back of the house, a pencil stuck behind her ear. Giles came downstairs, in his dressing gown. Paul explained briefly – no doubt he'd tell them about Kate's boozing another time.

‘Why on earth didn't you say? I could have bundled you up there and then!'

Kate shook her head like a child caught out in something stupid.

‘Well, thank goodness Paul had more sense than I did. Come on.' She hugged her, not wincing despite the smell of whiskey which must have knocked her over.

They went into what appeared a well-rehearsed routine, Giles to make cocoa and put the kettle on for a hot-water bottle, Maz to find bedclothes – the sleeping bag was vetoed. Well, they wouldn't want plaster dust on their mattresses for one thing, Kate supposed: there was a little sprinkling on the hall carpet where she'd parked it. Smiling, and kissing her on the cheek, Paul made his farewells.

She was halfway down the mug of cocoa before she remembered the purse. Giles was sitting at the kitchen table with her, Maz just dashing out of the door.

‘Maz!' she called.

She stopped, halfway out. ‘Is it important, love? Only it's Giles's night on duty on the domestic front, and I'm on the computer. Got to get this done for tomorrow.'

‘Two minutes. But I want you both to see this. Paul and I found it under the floorboards. Have you got a sheet of paper? Yes, kitchen towel will do.' There was hardly any space: homework books jostled a pile of books.
Henry the Green Engine, Gordon the Blue Engine.
And there were some adult ones, all about locomotives.

‘Tim's,' said Giles, as if there were any need for explanation. ‘Just mad about railways. And he's too old for these and too young for these. Sorry.'

She undid the purse and tipped.

They both gasped. And sat at the table.

‘Glory be! How much is that lot worth?' Giles asked. ‘At least a new set of toilets, I should think.'

Maz snorted. ‘Gold-plated loo seats! Any idea how many you've got, Kate?'

‘Trust an accountant to want to know that sort of thing,' Giles said. ‘OK, let's count.'

Out loud, like children, they chanted. ‘Twenty-one. Twenty-two! Twenty-three! Twenty-four!
Twenty-five
!'

Kate pushed them around, watching the light play on them. ‘Thank God Cassie's got all her marbles.' Realising what she'd said, she added, ‘If not all her diamonds. She'll have far more idea of what to do with them than I've got. Hey, have you got a safe here, Giles? For collection money?'

‘What sort of ministry do you think we have here? OK, we have a small one. I'll go and pop it in, shall I? Come on, I'd rather you watched me – the thought of gold-plated loos really does tempt me.'

‘If,' Maz said, following too, ‘you really did want to do a heist, can you think of three more unlikely criminals? A detective, an accountant and a lawyer turned Baptist minister. I should think with credentials like that we could get away with murder. How much – seriously – would they be worth?'

Did Giles flick a glance at her ringless finger? There'd never been enough money for anything like that, had there?

‘How much do we insure your engagement ring for, love? Three and a half? We bought that when I was in practice, Kate. Every time we get a major bill I wonder when we'll have to hock it. Well, those stones were about the same size as yours. So, assuming the insurance value is slightly inflated, let's say each stone is worth a thousand pounds. Twenty-five times a thousand pounds is –'

‘Twenty-five thousand. Even you should be able to work that out, Giles.'

‘Hmm. Another year in the nursing home,' Kate said.

‘Let's hope she lives to enjoy it,' Maz said.

‘Or enjoys living it,' Giles amended, thoughtfully.

The safe was under the carpet in the room Maz had originally emerged from. Her computer was in screen-saver mode, but a pile of papers lay on the printer – a recent laser. The carpet was less new, and the curtains frankly shabby. But the chair was multi-adjustable and the desk looked more solid than the average flat-pack. The filing cabinets looked as if they meant business, too.

As did the safe.

‘No,' said Kate. ‘Don't let anyone see that combination. Even me.' Seeing their blank looks, she added, ‘It has been known for the odd police officer to be bent!'

‘Nothing,' Kate said, dropping her report apologetically on Graham Harvey's desk. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely nothing. I've tried every database I could think of and then some. And – whatever field I've tried – there's nothing to suggest Chummie's on any register with any sort of form. So I reckon we must have a nasty new kid on the block.'