Free Power Games by Judith Cutler Page B

some of my colleagues. One’s a real expert on buttons. D’you fancy dropping round to here in your lunch hour? I’ll stand you a sarnie in the Edwardian Tea Rooms.’
    Lunch hour? Now that was a nice civilised concept. She looked at her watch. Didn’t time fly when you were enjoying yourself! ‘Sounds good. In about half an hour?’
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    She was just leaving the building when she heard Graham’s voice behind her. Turning, she stopped to wait for him.
    He looked very tired, very grey. But his face lit up in an answering smile and he took the last four or five steps at a run. ‘Any news of your buttons?’
    â€˜I’m just on my way to find out. Stephen Abbott – he’s in charge of finds like mine – phoned me a few minutes ago. It concentrates the mind on the paperwork, taking a lunch break. How are you?’ She hoped she didn’t sound as concerned as she felt. To cover, she asked, ‘How was your weekend? Did you get away from Birmingham?’
    â€˜Fine. Yes, fine. This gathering tomorrow night—’
    â€˜Gaffer?’
    â€˜Ah, you probably don’t know. There’ll be a note on everyone’s desk by two. Rod Neville’s just heard he’s going to head up one of these MITs. He’s inviting everyone to a jar or two after work.’
    â€˜That’ll be good,’ she said, without emphasis. ‘Will you be going?’
    He pulled a face. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve really got such a lot on—’
    â€˜Graham: you should be there. You really should. Or people will say it’s sour grapes because you didn’t get it.’ OK, sergeant talking to DCI this wasn’t. More friend to friend. Which they were. But it wasn’t always a good idea to speak so bluntly.
    He stared. ‘It was always going to be just a sideways move for someone.’
    â€˜You might know that. He might know that. But you know the smart money was on you.’
    â€˜So whoever put it on lost it. Well, we’ll see about tomorrow night,’ he said at last. ‘I take it you’ll be going?’ He turned towards Colmore Row. ‘You know, Neville thinks a great deal of you. As a police officer.’
    Kate fell into step with him. Shoving her hands deep into her pockets – the wind was cold despite the bright sun – she grunted non-committally. It was interesting that Graham should need to qualify such an apparently innocent remark. She wouldn’t mention – not to him, not to anyone – that she suspected Neville found her attractive. It was bad enough that being on the accelerated promotion scheme gave her a reputation as a Butterfly, a PC Curriculum Vitae, without giving anyone cause to suspect she might fancy sleeping her way to the top. Goodness knew there were enough rumours about her and Graham. And she couldn’t, after that strange moment in Aunt Cassie’s room, deny the tension between the two of them. It might ebb and flow. But it was always there. Even when, maybe especially when, he was angry with her. And if his anger was unjustified, as it often was, what was the cause of it?
    â€˜And’ – the sound of his voice made her jump – ‘as a woman. I rather think.’
    She wouldn’t bite. ‘You know they call him Superintendent Smarm?’
    He managed a laugh. ‘He’s a good officer,’ he conceded. ‘Good to work under.’
    She might just risk it. ‘Don’t you think, Gaffer, that that could have been better expressed?’

Chapter Eight
    Stephen unlocked another door deep in the entrails of the museum, ushering her through into a vast but dingy corridor. He gestured. ‘I suppose if you go backstage anywhere – even somewhere as prestigious as Symphony Hall – you get the same difference between front of house and backstage areas.’
    â€˜Like in a stately home—’
    â€˜That’s right. Magnificent