Power Games by Judith Cutler Page B

that knee?’
    â€˜Protesting a bit. But it might as well shut up because – yes!’ She was getting more and more accurate.
    Now all that could be heard, above the constant hum of the extractor fans chilling the place unbearably, was the plop of the balls that Jason fed to her, the clip as she struck them, and then a more distant thud as they bounced off the far end of the court.
    So when a woman screamed there was no doubt about what it was. A serious, terrified scream.
    Kate hurtled through the door. The cleaner – a redhead in her forties whose skin was so white she might disappear if she got any paler – was yelling at the receptionist, and sobbing. She was pointing, it seemed, at the women’s changing room. Kate pushed her way in. No, nothing in the lavatory area. She checked the individual cubicles. Nothing. So into the changing room itself. No. Nothing. Until, that is, when she ducked round to the shower area.
    On the tiled floor, just by one of the drains, lay a woman’s body. Naked.
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    â€˜We’ll have to stop meeting like this,’ Guljar said, pushing through the centre’s front doors. ‘What’s up, eh, Kate? Has that budgie of yours started playing tennis?’
    The thin constable behind him grinned nervously.
    â€˜I wish. No, a body in the women’s showers. A middle-aged woman, fifty, fifty-five, possibly. Judging by her face, that is. No immediate sign of foul play.’ A woman she wouldn’t mind looking like in twenty-five years’ time. Oh, the flesh wasn’t as firm as hers, but there were no varicose veins, no pads of fat. The hair had been high-lighted – where it had fallen forward Kate had seen more grey than the woman would have wanted made public. Whoever it was had cared for herself.
    â€˜Natural causes? Too much running about – a woman her age, you know.’
    â€˜No, I don’t. I know lots of women aged fifty-five who could run me off the court without raising a sweat. But let’s wait to see what the police surgeon has to say. I’ve just preserved the scene, that’s all. On a temporary basis, of course. I wouldn’t want to offend you Uniform types.’
    â€˜I should hope not.’ There was a flicker of irritation, all the same. Then he grinned, sardonically. ‘I mean, it’s bloody typical, isn’t it, CID muscling in on the only two interesting incidents in this patch this month. Come on, just to show there’s no ill-feeling, show us this corpse, then.’
    â€˜You’re sure? I could just finish my lesson and pop into work?’
    â€˜Another pair of eyes never hurts. Come on, I’ll get young Des here to log us in – just in case we do have a crime on our hands.’
    The thin constable swallowed hard and produced his notebook.
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    The police surgeon, Nesta Holt, was a spruce young woman a couple of years older than Kate. She straightened and shook her head, addressing herself to Guljar. ‘Well, she’s dead, all right. Classic heart failure, I’d have said. But—’
    â€˜â€œBut”?’ Kate put in, looking down at the dead woman, resisting the urge to wipe a trace of saliva from the corner of the slack mouth.
    â€˜Well, it must have had a very sudden onset. I mean, physically she looks fine. Look at the muscles in her arms and legs. I wish a lot of the kids I see exercised as well as this. And no, none of the warning signs of long-term heart failure. No sign of high colour in her cheeks which might have suggested blood-pressure problems. Nothing unnatural here. As for time of death – how long have those heaters been on?’
    â€˜Heaters?’ Kate looked round. The low roar she hadn’t originally registered came from the hair-dryers, both of which had been kept on with, now she looked more closely, Blu-tack between the dab-button and the body of the machine. She pointed. Guljar whistled and made a note. ‘The