Grave Doubts Part 9

He looked around as if surprised to see the swinging sign above his head.

'I hadn't even seen it! You must think I'm stupid. Is this your local? If so, can I buy you a drink in apology for being dumb?'

Nightingale was almost tempted but she was saved the problem of giving an answer by a shout from across the road. She recognised the familiar voice.

'h.e.l.lo, Sarge.' Cooper dodged the slow-moving traffic and joined her. When she turned to speak to the mystery man he had already melted away into the evening. She shrugged and forgot him.

'I was on my way home. Dot has me walking it at least once a week, says it's healthy. Fancy a quick drink now that we're here?'

'Well I...'

'Come on, the Dog and Duck does a good pint and the wife tells me the wine's quite decent.'

Despite the temperature he was wearing his customary tweed jacket. It had to be quite new as the elbows didn't yet display leather patches. His face was glowing as they entered the beer garden, a cobbled yard into which trestle tables and benches had been squeezed between tubs overflowing with geraniums. They chose a table in the shade by the wall.

'What'll it be?'

'A gla.s.s of white wine please, and a still water if that's OK.'

He was back quickly, carrying their drinks on a round tin tray promoting the last surviving local brewery. There were two packets of crisps wedged between the gla.s.ses.

'There you go. Plain or cheese 'n' onion?'

'I'm not...'

'Plain it is then. Go on, eat them. I bet you didn't have a proper lunch.'

She couldn't argue because he was right. As she opened the packet, the smell of salt, potato and fat made her mouth water.

Cooper told her about his last case, then about his daughter and her baby that was due any day. He followed up with news about his son's job, his wife's garden and the diet that she had put him on. At the end of a quarter of an hour he stood up suddenly and went to buy fresh drinks. Nightingale waited, feeling surprisingly relaxed by his easy chatter.

All the tables had been taken and there was a pleasant buzz of conversation. She tuned out of it and stared over the post-and-rail fence to the cars parked beyond. A silver Saab pulled into the car park and her stomach lurched at its familiar shape. Fenwick stepped from the driver's side and went round to open the pa.s.senger door. She recognised the woman's reddish brown hair and the profile was familiar but a name escaped her. She said something that made Fenwick laugh and Nightingale had to look away.

'There you are another gla.s.s of Chablis, some more water and these.' Cooper pa.s.sed her a plate of sandwiches. 'Smoked salmon on brown bread with lemon, no mayonnaise for you, and roast beef and mustard for me,' he paused, frowned suddenly at his presumption, and said, 'unless you want to swap. This is only a snack before dinner.'

'You shouldn't have, Sarge.'

'Don't be daft. You need to eat. You're skin and bones these days, although I'm probably not allowed to say that. I bet you've nothing but rabbit food in your fridge.'

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it quickly with a wry smile. He was right. Cooper grinned and arranged the plate and paper napkin in front of her. He was about to demolish a quarter of his own sandwich in one bite when the sound of a familiar voice made him twist and look over his shoulder.

'Evening, Bob.'

'Evening, sir.' Old habits died hard where Cooper was concerned.

'Relax, don't get up. h.e.l.lo, Nightingale, how are you?' He sounded happy.

'Fine, thank you.' She forced herself to smile.

'Have a pleasant evening, both of you.' He turned away to join his companion who had been waiting at the door.

Cooper put his sandwich down untouched.

'Well, that's a bit of a surprise!' He took a sip of beer and shook his head at the closing door. 'I hadn't expected to see him out like that so soon. Not that there's anything wrong with it, mind.'

'So soon after what?'

The Sergeant stared at her in surprise.

'You haven't heard? His wife died. She'd been in a coma for years, of course, but she's pa.s.sed away at last. It was a blessing really.'

He took another sip of beer and looked at her with concern.

'Are you all right?'

'I...I hadn't heard.' She blinked a few times and looked down at her wine as she sipped. It was impossible to meet his eyes.

Cooper held his silence but she could feel him watching her as he munched steadily through his sandwich and washed it down with beer.

'Would you like another?'

She stared at her empty gla.s.s in surprise.

'No thanks. I really ought to be going.'

'You should eat something.'

'I'm not hungry right now. Can I take them home with me?' She was already wrapping the sandwiches in a paper parcel, folding the edges precisely.

'Just promise me that they're not going to end up in the dustbin.'

Her fingers hesitated for a moment.

'I promise. I must go. Thanks for the drink, it was very kind of you.'

Inside her flat she was greeted by a soft whirring from the fridge as it pumped out hot air in an effort to chill its contents. She opened the door and changed the temperature setting, confused as to why it should have been on fast freeze in the first place. Had she done that this morning? A shrill bell sounded as she locked the front door. Instinctively she checked the smoke detector but it was silent. As she pushed open the bedroom door it grew louder. Baffled, she silenced the alarm clock and studied the time it had been set for, seven-twenty, yet that morning she'd had to be on duty by seven.

The skin between her shoulder blades p.r.i.c.kled. She was sure that she hadn't re-set the clock. There had to be a logical, non-threatening reason for the change in time but she couldn't think of one. Her hands were shaking as she replaced the clock on the bedside table. If she hadn't reset the fridge and alarm clock then someone else had and that person could still be in her flat.

She slammed the door of the bathroom back hard. The handle hit the wall with a thud and bounced back. The shower was on full but no one was lurking behind the curtain. The spare bedroom was empty, the built in wardrobe crammed so full of clothes that there was no s.p.a.ce for someone to conceal themselves. That left her sitting room.

Nightingale took a large knife from the wooden bloc in the kitchen and checked that no others were missing. Forcing her breathing steady and silent she crept towards the partially open door. She bent down and looked through the gap along the hinges. When she was sure that no one was hiding behind the door she moved into the room, aware that sweat on her palms was making the knife handle slippery. The sofa was in its normal place, flush to the wall. That left the curtains on the two picture windows. One faced south, the other west. The curtains had been pulled closed. Had she done that this morning to keep the room cool? She didn't think so and her hands started to shake. It was almost impossible to keep her breathing under control, her throat was tight and her heart was beating so hard that the blood in her ears deafened her.

Nightingale switched the knife to her other hand and dried her palm on her s.h.i.+rt before gripping it again even tighter. In self-defence cla.s.s she had been taught to move surely and only to carry a weapon if she was confident that she would be able to keep control and use it. She took a long, silent breath and frowned. Which window? Choose the wrong one and she would present her back to the intruder.

She was about to choose south window when the right hand curtain in the west window twitched. It was the faintest movement. When she blinked the material was hanging still again but it was enough to decide her. In one fluid run, she reached the drapes and yanked them back, her right hand raised to strike.

There was an awful shriek and a ma.s.sive black cat twisted towards her, arching its back and spitting in fury, as ready to attack as Nightingale had been. She jumped away in shock and checked the other curtain quickly to confirm that n.o.body was there. The cat regarded her with pure hatred, its claws gouging great tufts of wool from her cream carpet.

At first she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, then she found that she was doing both. Whoever had set this practical joke, for that is what it had to be, couldn't have known of her childhood fear of cats, particularly black ones. Her mother had had a cat very like this, a malignant animal that had hated her for no reason. One day it had lain in wait on the stairs for her to pa.s.s below and had laced its jealous claws beneath the skin of her scalp.

It had to go. With this creature in the flat she couldn't think straight. Yet it stared up at her, confidant and quite at home. Nightingale edged back towards the hall where she had left her bag without taking her eyes from the cat. She opened the clasp and pulled out her wrapped sandwich, wrinkling her nose in displeasure at the smell of the warm smoked salmon. There was a click of claws on wood as the cat walked into the hall, nose and tail twitching in time. She threw a piece of salmon and it took a few steps forward watching her with deep suspicion. She backed off towards the front door, giving the animal more s.p.a.ce. It settled into a preparatory crouch. Nightingale waited, hoping that greed would overcome distrust. Minutes pa.s.sed then its hindquarters s.h.i.+vered and the tail flicked, just as her mother's monster had done as it stalked baby birds. Another quiver and it finally pounced.

The slice of salmon disappeared and the cat licked the floor where it had lain before looking up expectantly for more. Nightingale opened the front door and set another piece of fish just outside, then a third on the top of the stairs before throwing the last piece onto the half-landing below her.

The cat made a run for the second piece, grabbed it and swerved away as she went to push it outside. She missed but it ran along the landing anyway and she slammed the door behind it. Through the peephole she watched it turn and stare at her flat before eating the third sliver and heading down the stairs.

Her hands were shaking as she locked the door again and wedged a chair beneath the handle. She scrubbed the floor clean, vacuumed the carpet and dusted everywhere that the cat might have touched, then she ran a bath. The intrusion into her flat, the sight of Fenwick with Claire, and the news of his wife's death had stretched her feelings to breaking point. It occurred to her that she had at last arrived at a clear choice. She could give in to the self-pitying malaise and fear that had threatened to overwhelm her since the trial or pull herself together.

Whoever put the cat in her flat must have hoped to scare her witless and make her paranoid but they were going to be disappointed. She felt something of her old courage return, a grain of tough self-sufficiency that she feared had been lost forever.

As her bath filled, she checked the answering machine: six calls, five silent heavy-breathers and one message. 'Welcome home,' a man's voice said, then laughed. The fine hair on her arms rose and she rubbed them vigorously. On her PC she had three Emails from 'Pandora'. She deleted them all.

In the warm, lavender-scented water she laid back, closed her eyes and tried to think. She should report the break-in and the phone calls. They were linked the last message made that clear and somebody had invaded her home; she had to take that seriously. But would her colleagues at Harlden treat it the same way? One or two of them would; George Wicklow and, of course, Bob Cooper, but there were plenty of others who still resented her promotion and would spread the story about with a negative twist. Neurotic, that's what they'd call her; attention-seeking. And Quinlan would insist on her moving away for her own good. The thought of the consequences of making a formal report made her shudder but she could no longer ignore the fact that somebody had decided to try and terrorise her. It was time to do something about it and she would after her s.h.i.+ft finished tomorrow.

Mentally she was beginning to feel better. Physically she was a wreck. She could count her ribs even if she didn't breathe in; her wrist and anklebones were sharp; her head ached and her eyes were hot and dry. It was possible that she had a temperature. She told herself that all she needed was a decent night's sleep and a good meal to put her right, and she almost believed it.

After her bath she cooked herself scrambled egg on toast and made herself eat it all. She felt sick but more alert than she'd been for some time. Before going to bed early she re-checked every possible entry into her flat. They were all secure, with no marks to suggest how her intruder had gained access but she looked up the name of a locksmith to call in the morning anyway. At nine o'clock, she took a half a sleeping tablet, hoping that its effects would have worn off by six when the alarm would wake her. The next thing she was aware of was the bell from the clock, faithful to time, summoning her to the morning. With gritty eyes and a dry mouth she rose to confront the new day.

Blite met the team at the rendezvous point. It was already twenty degrees even though it wasn't yet seven o'clock. Despite the heat, the Inspector was wearing a jumper beneath his jacket and he looked terrible. The whole team was to be positioned out of sight around the estate. One of the more experienced officers objected.

'There are only ten of us, including you. Shouldn't there be more?'

'Waste of resources. We know where the post office is and all the attacks have been within three hundred yards of it.'

He jabbed a grubby handkerchief at a plan of the estate opened on the bonnet of his car. In two dimensions it all seemed logical, and Blite had only visited the location once. Perhaps he'd forgotten the walkways and stairwells, the ants' hill of pa.s.sages that made up the site. They would never be able to cover it.

Nightingale stifled a sneeze and took a sip of water from one of the bottles she had remembered to bring with her. Two others were frozen solid within a rucksack in the hope that they would hold their chill during the heat of the day. Blite coughed again and spat phlegm onto the cracked tarmac before putting a hand to his ribs. Mentally she shook her head. Blite didn't have the instincts of a wombat and was a useless operational officer.

She studied the plan, superimposing onto it her limited knowledge of the estate. If the attackers doubled back, away from the post office, they had a choice of at least four escape routes, one of which pa.s.sed close to the derelict flat in which she was sentenced to spend the day with Richard Rike the doughnut monster. Even with her limited experience she estimated that they needed another four officers. She opened her mouth to add her concern to that already raised.

'With respect, when one takes into account the walkways above, and the alleys, it will be very difficult to cover all possible escape routes. The teams on the periphery will be too far away if there's an attack.'

Blite looked at her in astonishment, his disdain undermined by his bulbous red nose and watering eyes.

'When I want your opinion, Sergeant, I'll ask for it. Now shut it and get into position before the whole estate is awake.'

Rike pulled at her sleeve and she followed him.

'That took b.a.l.l.s,' he glanced at her, 'so to speak, but it was hopeless, I could've told you that. I've worked with him too often to even bother any more. We'll be OK though, he usually has the luck of Old Nick. I reckon he's sold his soul.'

'As long as he doesn't sell ours as well while he's at it.'

Rike opened a greasy bag and shoved it towards her. 'Bacon sarni? Home made by Linda, my better half. She got up early to see me off.'

It was said with pride and she took one to avoid hurting his feelings.

'Why is Superintendent Quinlan giving Blite so much of the tough stuff?'

'Instead of DCI Fenwick you mean?' He eyed her shrewdly but she was a good poker player. 'Rumour has is that the ACC wants to see more on Blite's CV ASAP. Thinks Quinlan's kept him in the backroom too much.'

That made sense. Word on the evergreen and usually healthy grapevine was that the promotion boards were looking for more 'real' police experience these days. Front line skills were in demand again.

In their stinking hide, Nightingale s.h.i.+vered and stifled another sneeze. She cursed Blite's germ-ridden briefings. The first bottle of water went quickly but she was sweating so much that she didn't need to go and find another room to squat in to relieve herself. The s.h.i.+vers started before eight and she took two Nurofen. Rike seemed fine.

'Never catch cold, me. Const.i.tution of an ox. Me grandad lived to ninety-three, and two of his sisters are still alive. A long-lived family we are. Doughnut? Feed a cold, they say.'

Nightingale shook her head and rubbed one of the icy bottles against her forehead. Sweat trickled between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and down her back. Richard slipped out for coffees and this time he remembered her order. She sipped the bitter, black liquid and turned from hot to freezing cold. This felt more like flu and she cursed her stupid body for its weakness. It's all in the mind she tried telling herself, then sneezed three times. Her radio transmitter squawked loudly and Richard rushed to turn down the volume. The operations centre had DI Blite back with them and he ordered Rike to another vantage point about thirty metres away. He slipped the radio into his pocket and turned to go.

'Don't forget this.' Nightingale handed him his Kevlar vest and he touched his forehead in thanks.

An hour later, she could see him pacing back and forth in his tatty s.h.i.+rtsleeves, trying to walk the cramp from his legs. Her own muscles spasmed sympathetically and her back ached. Part of her brain said that it would be sensible to call in sick but then she remembered how much worse Blite had been and guessed that he would only tell her to stay put. But when she found herself about to the leave the flat for some fresh air her stupidity made her shudder. There was no question in her mind now that she had to go home. One call to Operations and a replacement would be on its way.

She looked around for her radio but it was nowhere to be found. Rike must have taken hers with him by mistake after he had silenced it. All she had was her mobile phone. One b.u.t.ton dialled Harlden station and she waited impatiently for the switchboard to answer.

There was quite a stir in the Operations Room when DI Blite collapsed. Sergeant John Adams, the nearest first aider enjoyed being at the centre of attention but his pleasure faded as he stared down at Blite's corpulent form and the contagious air around him.

'It's this viral flu,' said Sergeant Wicklow knowingly as he watched John check vital signs and call an ambulance. 'My next door neighbour's got it. He's been terrible. In bed for a week, doctor out every other day.' He jerked his hand towards the man lying unconscious on the floor. 'Should have stayed at home. All he's done is bring his germs in here.'

John wasn't a fan of DI Blite but he recognised a very ill man when he saw one.

'This might be pneumonia. Be a bit more sympathetic, poor b.u.g.g.e.r's not well.'

Wicklow sniffed without compa.s.sion and turned his attention to his duties. The first priority was to alert the Superintendent that his SIO on a live operation was out cold. Quinlan's response was predictably direct.

'Find Fenwick, quickly.'

The Chief Inspector was tracked down to another endless meeting on new procedures that the Superintendent had delegated to him. He listened, suddenly attentive, and went to find Cooper for a briefing. Despite the Sergeant's studied neutrality it took Fenwick less than five minutes to share his concern that the surveillance was under-resourced. He swallowed a sharp remark that would have betrayed how little respect he had for Blite and called Quinlan's office. On his way up the stairs, with Cooper increasingly lagging behind, he asked about the gang's MO.

'Are they armed?'

'A baseball bat. No guns or knives so far.' Cooper paused at a turn in the stairs and gulped in air.

'That's bad enough. What back-up's been arranged?'

'The minimum and an alert in Ops to be on standby.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y stupid, penny-pinching p.r.i.c.k.'

'Pardon, sir?'

'Nothing. I'll see you in Quinlan's office.'

Then he was gone though the door.

'We need more resources, sir.'

'So soon!' Quinlan laughed. 'I had expected ooh, at least,' he pretended to consult his watch, 'another hour before this request.'