Power on Her Own by Judith Cutler Page B

first aid. He’d been hit by one of those wretched bull-bars – were there really wild cattle in the Bull Ring to confront innocent motorists? – so there might well be internal damage. Bloody things. Why didn’t someone have the guts to ban them?
    At last, leaving everything to the experts, she looked for another bus herself. She was going to be late. Very late. She phoned in. She didn’t recognise the voice at the other end but he promised to explain to Cope. There was no way she would risk irritating – what was it they called the Governor up here? – that was it, the Gaffer.
    She’d been busy on the computer for fifteen minutes when the room went quiet around her. She looked up: no, it wasn’t Selby creeping up behind her. He was safe behind a pile of files, fingering an angry blackhead on his forehead.
    â€˜Good heavens, if it isn’t little Miss Power, deigning to make an appearance.’ It was Cope, his voice awash with sarcasm. ‘Well, I’m blessed. And to what do we owe the honour? The Smoke getting too boring for you, is it? Thought you might pop in on your little provincial friends for half an hour before you go and powder your nose in time for luncheon?’
    â€˜Sir –’
    â€˜Stand up when you’re talking to me, Power. That’s better.’
    She stood fiercely to attention.
    He walked behind her. ‘What do you call that?’
    Something scraped the back of her neck.
    â€˜Sir?’
    â€˜No, you wouldn’t know, would you. It’s a neck, Power. A neck. And in my day women police officers wore their hair in some approximation of neatness. I suppose you la-di-da folk from the Met think you’re above such considerations. But we don’t here, Power. Oh, I know we’re CID, and posh with it, but a neck is still a neck, Power. And it isn’t supposed to be covered with hair. Understand?’
    â€˜Sir.’
    Cope stalked round to face her. She focused two inches above his head.
    â€˜And what has her ladyship been doing since she graced us with her presence?’
    â€˜Collecting data from STATUS, Sir. And preparing a report.’
    â€˜Goodness me. On this pretty little computer? Lap-top, d’you call it? Is it your own, Power?’
    â€˜Sir.’ It was quicker to type straight on to computer than prepare a hand-written document no one else could read. And all the main frame ones were occupied.
    â€˜Dearie me, how very generous of you to bring your own equipment in. And what happens if I pull this plug out, DS Power? What’s the word when one of these things packs up?’
    â€˜Crashes, Sir?’
    â€˜The computer crashes, does it. Dearie me. And crashing would wipe the morning’s work, Power?’
    â€˜Sir.’
    He yanked. Turning to his audience, he concluded, ‘Dearie me, how very careless of me. Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to do it all again. Well, what the hell are you lot gawping at? Haven’t you all got work to do? Or has crime suddenly disappeared from the streets of our city?’
    So what bastard hadn’t passed on her message? She looked round at her colleagues, thawing after their rigid silence. She’d spoken to a man, which, come to think of it, didn’t rule out too many people. A man with a Brummie accent. Half the squad were Brummies.
    There was no reading anyone’s mind, however, and she plugged in the computer again and carried on with her work.
    â€˜You must wish me in hell.’
    She jumped. ‘Colin?’
    â€˜You asked me to tell Cope you’d be late.’
    â€˜I didn’t realise it was you: I’d have been friendlier.’
    He shrugged. ‘Well, it was. And I wrote it down to give it to Cope. Left the note on his desk as a matter of fact.’
    â€˜You’re saying all that song and dance was a put-up job?’
    â€˜Maybe. Or maybe he didn’t get the message.’
    â€˜Come on,