Power Games by Judith Cutler Read Free Book Online

working in my own time, so it could take – well, several weekends. Are you sure you’re prepared to put up with that sort of inconvenience?’
    Put up with several weekends of Stephen? Not half! Despite the fact that the garden designer wanted to plant the shrubs and roses in early May at the latest.
    â€˜If it’s covered with garden path, it’s gone forever, hasn’t it?’ she said, reflectively.
    â€˜It depends on the path. In one sense, a few inches of solid concrete are a very good way of preserving your site. Think about all those city-centre sites that are preserved under tower blocks.’
    â€˜But people can’t see them. Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that I’m thinking of opening my place to the public. But I wouldn’t be putting concrete on this – blocks on top of hard-core. No?’ She too stood up as gracefully as the knee would let her: certainly not as elegantly as Stephen. ‘Then it seems to me I’ve no option, morally at least. Your show must go on!’ She made a grand gesture.
    He nodded briefly. ‘OK.’
    She was taken aback by his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked at last. She had, after all, added goodies to her Friday evening’s Sainsbury’s trolley in the hope that Stephen – whom she’d met briefly at the museum in her Friday lunch break – would stay. Her social life might be improving, but it currently didn’t include attractive male company – not heterosexual male company, at least. Colin was the most delightful friend, and she was more than happy to be his beard. Potential lover he was not, however. And her last relationship had shrivelled on the vine. As for Graham …
    â€˜Why not?’ he said. He stopped. ‘I ought to tell you you won’t be able to claim treasure trove or anything.’
    â€˜I wasn’t expecting to. Isn’t there some new legislation …?’ Interesting it might be, but it wasn’t at the core of every officer’s knowledge.
    â€˜That’s right. A new Treasure Act. There’s a portable antiquities recording scheme.’
    â€˜Is there indeed!’
    â€˜Hmm. Run by the Department of Culture, Media and Sport,’ he said. ‘Known in the trade as “duckmess”,’ he added, with a grin that lit up his whole face.
    But the transformation was short-lived.
    They trudged down her building site garden towards the kitchen door.
    â€˜What are you having done, precisely?’ Stephen asked, staring at the holes, still awash with water after Thursday’s downpour.
    â€˜Having tree stumps removed. The trees – three or four sycamores – were towering over the house. And my neighbours’ houses.’
    â€˜Nasty things, sycamore roots. And then? I mean, there’s not much you can do with a patch this size.’
    She bridled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. OK, it’ll never be Chatsworth, but with a bit of clever planting, a bit of trompe l’oeil, it could be quite attractive.’
    Hands on hips, he looked around. ‘You’ll still be overlooked by all those houses. That’s the trouble with terraced houses. I prefer a bit of space.’
    â€˜So do I, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
    He stared at her. ‘Come on, you’re in the police, aren’t you? You’re not on local government rates.’
    She stopped by the back door to pull off her shoes. Mud and gravel and new kitchen floors didn’t mix. He scraped perfunctorily at his boots, but seemed inclined to keep them on.
    â€˜Would you mind going stocking-footed? Otherwise I shall have to be like my mum, and lay down newspaper wherever you’re likely to walk.’
    â€˜I can’t think why you didn’t have quarry tiles – they’d have been more appropriate for a house this age.’
    â€˜Two factors. Money – sorry, but even police officers have cash-flow