Free Staying Power by Judith Cutler

‘The women on that programme are actually top-notch officers,’ he said. ‘And it certainly wouldn’t do you any harm, career-wise.’
    â€˜Oh, don’t you start using his lingo!
Minded, personable
– is it pompo-verbosity or verbo-pomposity?’
    He stiffened. If she’d forgotten the difference between them in rank, he hadn’t, had he? And then he smiled, his face softening, his eyes warm. ‘Not many people have read Gowers’
Plain Words
, Kate. I think it’s pompo-verbosity, though.’
    â€˜We had this brilliant English teacher,’ she said, helping herself from the tin of biscuits he was shaking at her. ‘She made us read Gower and that essay by Orwell, the one in which he listed all the rules no writer should break. Not part of the syllabus, but useful.’
    â€˜And it explains why your reports are always a pleasure to read. And I shall look forward, of course, to what you have to say about Grafton. The brother that ID’d him will be at Grafton’s house to unlock it for you this afternoon.’
    Colin looked up from his desk as she went back into the office. ‘Harry says he thinks the woman who wouldn’t talk may have called in again, but she spoke so quietly they couldn’t make out what she was saying.’
    â€˜Get them to do something with the tape – enhance the quality.’
    â€˜Costs money,’ he said, half-heartedly. He was feeding her a line, wasn’t he?
    â€˜If she cares enough to call three times – what do you think, Gaffer?’
    â€˜You and your bloody hunches are going to bankrupt the Force,’ Cope grunted. ‘Beg your pardon, the Service. Go on, see what them boffins can do.’
    She nodded. ‘By the way, Gaffer – this Grafton business. Thanks for your support – I take it it was you that got me on to this Grafton case?’
    â€˜I like a woman with a bit of spirit,’ he said.
    â€˜Whatever that’s supposed to mean,’ she said, as she and Colin headed for the stairs.
    â€˜â€œYes”, I suppose. Plus an implied criticism of Fatima.’
    â€˜Kate! Sergeant Power!’
    She turned. It was Fatima herself, gesturing to the phone.
    â€˜Hell! I’d better get it, though!’ Who on earth might that be?
    Fatima covered the handset as Kate came through the door. She grinned, mouthing, ‘A man. Personal.’ As she passed it over, however, she added, ‘Not the same one as the other day, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
    Kate pulled a face. That was precisely what she had been wondering, hoping even. ‘Kate Power,’ she said, her disappointment making her curt.
    â€˜Detective Sergeant Power?’ She recognised the voice but couldn’t place it. ‘Patrick here. Patrick Duncan. We met in fairly inauspicious circumstances yesterday. I wondered if you’d had any more thoughts about the deceased?’
    â€˜I’m checking out his papers and so on this afternoon,’ she said.
    â€˜To help you with your theory that he had everything to live for?’
    â€˜We need as much background as we can get,’ she said, noncommittally.
    â€˜Trying to blow my thesis out of the water, eh? Well, you won’t succeed. But I think you should try. In the interests of truth. Why don’t we talk things over – a drink, perhaps – this evening?’
    â€˜I’ll check my diary.’ All she had planned, of course, was a visit to Aunt Cassie. And a basketful of ironing. ‘It couldn’t be before eight-thirty,’ she said.
    â€˜Shall we say nine, then? Any preferences for where we eat?’
    â€˜Eat?’
    â€˜Why not? After a day’s work!’
    She mustn’t make a big deal out of this. ‘OK. No preferences, anyway. The only places I’ve checked out so far socially are a pub near Symphony Hall, a Balti restaurant in Kings Heath – oh, and a wonderful