she didn’t have much first-hand experience to measure it by. Her father had succumbed to prostate cancer when she was eleven and although her hazy memories suggested that her childhood belief that her parents were devoted to each other was not far off the mark, her mother had re-married within twelve months. The step-father had proved to be an alcoholic and Hannah and her elder sister hadn’t shed many tears when his liver had packed up permanently. While she’d been at university, her mother had died of pneumonia and her sister had emigrated after meeting an Italian on holiday. Isobel had divorced Silvio after a couple of years but had stayed on in Rome, teaching English as a foreign language, leaving Hannah to make her way in the police force. Apart from a couple of fellow students and (a big, big mistake that made her go cold simply to recall the gleeful gossip that her surrender provoked) a handsome but boastful fellow police cadet, she’d slept with no one but Marc. Listening to fellow women officers, she’d sometimes wondered if she was missing out. Too late to worry now. She was doomed to respectability. She was a Detective Chief Inspector.
Upstairs, the shower was roaring. Presumably Marc was trying to sluice away the troubles of the day. He’d already tried one solution; a bottle of Glenfiddich stood on the breakfast bar alongside an empty glass. While munching the toastie, she channel-hopped with the TV remote. True to form, when she fancied half an hour’s escape, the screen was filled with soap opera actors shouting at each other, demanding “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?” The alternatives included a documentary about AIDS in Africa and a close-up of a bowel operation in a hospital drama renowned for its gritty realism. She’d moved into the kitchen to wait for the espresso machine to finish gurgling, when she heard heavy footsteps bumping down the stairs.
‘Fancy a drink?’ she called. Perhaps his mood had nearly run its course. If not, she could always retreat into the bathroom herself and relax with a long soak in the tub while the aromatherapy candles gave the steamy atmosphere a tang of rosemary and juniper.
‘I’ll have a whisky. Neat.’
He was framed in the doorway and as she turned to face him, it struck her yet again what an attractive man she shared her life with. At least she hadn’t become indifferent to him, at least he still had the ability to turn her on. His features were smooth and regular, his gaze clear and penetrating, and she knew that if he touched her in a certain way, she would melt: not a matter of choice, not a decision to be made, he could still do it for her.
She gave him a conciliatory grin. ‘Bad as that, huh?’
He replied with a grunt and wandered off to the living room. When she followed with a well-filled tumbler and the bottle of Glenfiddich, he was watching the TV without the sound. The documentary had finished and been replaced by a football match. Two European teams she’d never heard of. She switched off the set and put on the CD player. Erik Satie; not her sort of music, too ethereal, but Marc was a fan. He gulped the whisky down without uttering a word. The coffee was still too hot, so she went to sit cross-legged on the rug, right at his feet. She caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath as he poured himself another generous measure.
She pushed the glass to one side with a firm shake of the head. ‘If you drink much more of that tonight, you’ll be no good to me later on.’
He still didn’t say anything as she eased off his socks and began to stroke his soles. Foot massage was something he liked, something that often formed a prelude to making up after an argument or a period when they’d been too busy to spare enough time for each other. Suddenly she realised how much she wanted this to end in their making love, to magic away the troubles of the world.
‘Want to tell me all about it?’ There was no hard skin anywhere on his feet, no callouses, no corns; he just didn’t have physical blemishes, this man. Already she was getting into a rhythm, moving her hands up and down, up and down.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he said hoarsely.
She could feel the tension in his body. He hadn’t closed his eyes yet in surrender to her caress, let alone made a move to unfasten her blouse or jeans.
‘Come on, talk to me,’ she whispered.
‘It won’t help.’
‘Hey, relax.’ She ran her nails lightly over the surface of his feet ‘You’re not the only one who’s had a difficult day.’
It was true enough. They were no nearer to finding their anonymous caller. Bob Swindell had reported that Dale Moffat in particular had been hostile and unco-operative when questioned, but Linz didn’t recognise the voice of either of the sisters. The likeliest candidate remained Jean Allardyce and she’d gone AWOL. Tomorrow they’d have to try again. How much did Marc care about that, or about anything other than his own preoccupations? Increasingly of late, a sceptical voice kept quizzing her: just how tough can it be, running a bookshop, for God’s sake? Opening and shutting pretty much as you please, answerable to no one but yourself?
‘Is that so?’ He lifted his legs, pulling out of her grasp. ‘Sorry, it keeps slipping my mind how much more arduous your job is than mine.’
‘I never said that.’
‘You were thinking it, though.’ With a defiant glare, he picked up the tumbler and took a mouthful of whisky. ‘Don’t deny it, Hannah. I know you too well.’
Her cheeks started burning and that made her angry, with herself and with him. She hauled herself up and said, ‘For God’s sake, what’s got into you tonight?’
His eyes were glistening. For a few seconds she was afraid she’d gone too far and that he would dissolve into tears. ‘All right. If you really want to know, it’s to do with this inquiry your people are running. Leigh called me earlier. She and Dale have each been given the third degree by a pair of your DCs.’
She was baffled. ‘Is that all?’
‘It’s enough.’
‘Leigh’s getting it out of proportion. The team was only conducting routine follow-up interviews.’
He tossed back the remainder of the whisky. ‘Is this simply because Daniel Kind has turned up on the scene? Because his father never accepted Barrie’s guilt, you want to keep the son happy by going through the motions, is that it?’
‘This has nothing to do with Daniel Kind.’
‘You’ve not spoken to him?’
When she hesitated before replying, she saw a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘He and I have talked, yes. What about it?’
‘There’s no need for your sidekicks to go around upsetting people all these years later.’
He poured himself another finger of Glenfiddich. In some bizarre way, he seemed to regard himself as having scrambled on to the moral high ground. With no bloody justification at all. The sheer unfairness of it made her skin prickle.
‘What’s the problem?’ Her voice was rising; she couldn’t help herself. ‘I don’t get it. For God’s sake, Dale and Leigh aren’t kids who need to be seen in the presence of an appropriate adult. They’re mature women, they can cope with a few questions.’
‘Leigh told me they pretty much reduced Dale to tears. Don’t they realise she’s a lone parent? That she’s… vulnerable?’
‘Vulnerable? Don’t make me laugh, she’s about as vulnerable as Cruella de Ville.’ Hannah softened her tone as she added, ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that you and she used to see each other. Fair enough if you still want to look out for her. But there’s nothing to fret over. Bob and Linz were only doing their job. No one’s accusing her of murdering Gabrielle Anders.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ he snapped. ‘Routine investigations are all in a day’s work for you, but the sisters aren’t used to being interrogated. Made to feel as though they are being secretive, holding stuff back, obstructing the police in the course of their inquiries.’
‘Dale and Leigh were both working at The Moon under Water at the time. It was possible that either of them might have been our anonymous caller.’
‘Ludicrous.’
‘Or they may have seen something, without even realising its significance. We have to cover all the bases.’
He took another drink of whisky. ‘This is so typical. You people do anything you want.’
‘You people?’ She reached out and seized his wrist. ‘Hey, this is me. Your partner, remember? I’m not you people.’
