Power Games Read Online Free Page B

– and we’re into April tomorrow.’
    If only she could have said yes. What was she letting herself in for? Endless phone calls to try and find an expert; time-juggling to fix an appointment for whoever to come out; endless delays to the garden if the site were interesting.
    He took her silence as the negative it was. ‘So you’d rather I got on with the other things? I mean, I’ve still got those two stumps to get out.’ He pointed. ‘And I suppose I could fix the toilet roof. Yes, I’ll tell my mate to hold the hard-core another couple of days. Your word is my command,’ he added, with a flourish.
    Or her silence. Time to say something. And not to correct his idiom.
    â€˜Yes. You’re right. I’ve got to get someone to check it out, haven’t I? Well, maybe we should look on the bright side. It may turn out to be something to tell your grandchildren about.’
    â€˜Or a damp squib.’ He looked at one of the buttons. ‘Doesn’t look much …’
    â€˜It’s just that there are so many of them, isn’t it? I don’t sound very grateful, do I, Alf? But I am. Any other bloke would have just dug the whole patch over without even a second thought. How about a cuppa to celebrate your find?’
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    As she fished it from her sports bag, her tracksuit reminded her it needed washing. She might as well put a load in while she prepared and ate her supper. And better check all the pockets, in case she’d left in a tissue and everything ended up covered with shredded paper. No. None in her tracksuit pocket. Nor anywhere else. But – yelping, she was up and across the kitchen, grabbing her waterproof and fumbling in the pocket.
    Her hand came up triumphant. My God, fancy forgetting the old woman’s ring! Supper had better wait. Except – she twirled the ring gently – it wouldn’t hurt it to be cleaned in some of the stuff she occasionally used herself. Any more than it would hurt her to grab – if not the chicken risotto she’d promised Lorraine she’d try to cook – a chicken sandwich.
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    â€˜I never know where I’ve put it,’ Mrs Sargent said, pushing her ring on to her finger. It looked very bright, very new, against the deeply weathered skin. ‘So I couldn’t ask anyone to look for it. But it’s as precious to me as those old photos are to Len.’
    The Sargents were side by side on Mrs Hurst’s sofa. A BMW parked in the road outside suggested that their daughter might have arrived.
    Kate smiled, embarrassed. ‘And how’s Billy Budgie?’
    â€˜He’s fine, bless you. Mrs Hurst went and got him some of his favourite seed and he’s perfectly happy. I don’t know how he’ll like the trip down to Cornwall.’
    â€˜You’re off to your daughter’s, then?’
    â€˜She’s got a granny flat all ready for us. She’s always wanted us to move down there but we’ve never quite got round to it. Not with the garden.’
    â€˜Round tuits are much in evidence in Cornwall,’ announced a strong female voice. ‘You can get earthenware and pottery round tuits in all the gift shops. Meg Hutchings, Sergeant.’ The card she flipped to Kate announced she was an LLB and Barrister-at-Law. With a presence like that she could have been a Law Lord.
    Pocketing it, Kate suppressed a smile. At last the Sargents’ legal problems were in formidable hands.
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    Kate didn’t stay long. It was obvious from the savoury smells that Mrs Hurst was taking her duties as hostess seriously and was producing a good meal, and under Meg Hutchings’ steely gaze Kate didn’t find herself equal to the very dry sherry on offer. Hutchings asked for – and got – Kate’s card.
    â€˜I shall be in touch, Sergeant. Your conduct was entirely commendable today.’
    â€˜Far from it, Mrs Hutchings. In official eyes I was foolish