Free Power Games by Judith Cutler Page A

legislation, there were about ten boys’ places to every one girl’s. So you’d have thought a chain of private grammar schools would have been the answer to a whole lot of maidens’ prayers.’
    â€˜â€œMaidens’ prayers”?’
    â€˜Just a Black Country expression.’
    Kate nodded absently. It was either that or yell. Finally she settled for a bit of irritation. ‘Colin: where’s all this going? So why do they own land, not just schools? And why in Brum?’
    â€˜Not much of a capitalist, are you? They need property and investments – I bet they’ve got land all over the country, not just here – to bring in income in ground rents to fund the trust. They’ve got to maintain the schools and pay the teachers.’
    â€˜So the girls don’t have to pay?’
    Colin roared with laughter. ‘Not much, they don’t! Only about two thousand a term, give or take the odd hundred.’
    â€˜Jesus! Where did you find that out?’
    â€˜Saw an ad in the
Evening Mail
the other night.’
    â€˜Well, we know there’s money in education. So I suppose these are particularly high-class establishments with state-of-the-art everything. And what the fees don’t cover, the ground rents do. Any idea what else they own?’
    â€˜What sort of else?’
    Kate pulled a face. ‘No idea. What do organisations like that usually own? Buildings? Pictures? You wouldn’t care to find out, would you? Just so we know where we are when we start talking to them.’
    â€˜Talking to them?’
    God, where was he today? ‘Well,’ she said with irony, ‘all these embarrassing fires are on their land. They might just have a view. Hi, Fatima! Come and join us! Colin’s just about to put the kettle on.’
    Colin pulled a face, and himself to his feet. ‘Yes, boss. Tea or coffee, Fatima?’
    â€˜Tea, please.’ She bowled a lemon at him, overarm. It spun in the air. ‘Black, with a slice of this, please.’
    â€˜You’re not slimming or anything, are you?’ Kate demanded.
    â€˜No. Just that the milk supply’s been a bit irregular and the shop down the road’s open all hours.’
    â€˜Like Ronnie Barker’s?’ Colin asked.
    â€˜No, like Safeway. OK, Gaffer,’ Fatima continued, ‘I’ve checked the A. and E. department at all the hospitals within the West Midlands. There are no young people with burns or possible explosion-related injuries.’
    Kate looked at her. ‘No young people. What about older ones?’
    Fatima blinked. ‘I didn’t know you wanted to know that.’ My God! First Colin and now Fatima! ‘But,’ she continued triumphantly, ‘before you hit the roof, I did ask, just in case. And there was one, in the Burns Unit in Selly Oak. A middle-aged guy. Art-dealer.’
    â€˜And why did he end up there?’
    â€˜He was trying to light his bonfire.’
    Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you believe him?’
    â€˜He wasn’t in a position to talk to me. Very bad facial and chest burns. Admitted early last week. Still seriously ill.’
    â€˜Did you get an actual time and date of admission?’
    Fatima shook her head, biting her lip.
    â€˜I know the theory was that our arsonist’s likely to be a teenage hell-raiser! But get on to the blower to them – I like dotting i’s and crossing t’s.’
    â€˜Or drinking them.’ Colin placed a mug on her desk. ‘There you are, Kate. And Fatima.’
    â€˜Thanks, Colin. Thanks both of you. Not that it gets us any further forward, not yet—’
    The phones, which had been unnaturally quiet for some time, now rang, one on Colin’s desk, another on Kate’s.
    â€˜Kate?’
    She half-recognised the voice, but it was a very poor line. ‘Oh! Stephen! Have you got news about my buttons?’
    â€˜Yes. I’ve been checking with