‘Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t have you down as the nervous type, but.’
His phone rang again. He listened, said, ‘Grand. I’ll sort it.’ Listened again. And said, ‘Stick to the bugger. But don’t get close.’
When he put the phone back in his pocket, his hand did not reappear and she realized he was leaning forward with his arm reaching under the table. She pressed her knees tightly together in instinctive defence against a potential grope, but felt nothing. And now he was straightening up, glancing at something between his finger and thumb, before dropping it to the floor and grinding it beneath his heel.
He said, ‘Bit of glass got stuck underneath. Didn’t want you scratching your knee.’
‘What? Oh yes. Thanks.’
She wasn’t really paying attention. She seemed much more interested in the garden.
He said, ‘You sure you’re all right, luv? You look a bit pale to me.’
Now she met his gaze and with a visible effort at composure said, ‘Yes, really, I’m fine.’
He regarded her doubtfully but once again she was looking down into the garden. He followed her gaze but saw nothing to explain her interest. Then he thought he glimpsed a familiar figure. And the surprise of recognition sparked a suspicion of what might be troubling Gina.
‘It’s not just me dropping the jug,’ he said. ‘You thought you saw him again, didn’t you?’
She didn’t deny it, just nodded.
‘Like you thought you saw him when you were driving around first thing. And there’ll have been other times?’
She didn’t deny it. In fact she seemed glad to talk about it.
‘At first it was every day,’ she said. ‘Then less and less frequently-till today, that is. Before that the last time it happened was nearly a year ago, the start of November…’
Now she paused, and he said, ‘Tell us about it, luv. No need to be embarrassed. Think of me as a priest. Or a doctor. That way I get to take your pulse.’
That should have been worth a smile, but she clearly wasn’t in the mood for smiling. Hesitantly, not looking at him, she went on with her story.
It had been a winter night. Mick Purdy had taken her out for a meal at their favourite trattoria. They had fallen into a regular pattern somewhere between friendship and dating. She’d no idea where it might lead, but she knew she enjoyed his company.
That night perhaps they’d drunk a little more wine than usual. On her doorstep, she’d asked if he’d like to come in for coffee. He said lightly, ‘Better not. I’m up at the crack tomorrow.’ But she’d sensed the real reason behind his refusal was he didn’t trust himself not to try and move their relationship along faster than he thought she wanted. Tonight, though, he’d got it wrong, and when he leaned forward to give her his usual formal goodnight kiss, she’d responded with a far from formal pressure. A few moments later she’d found her hands were inside his clothes and his inside hers, and she’d felt him hardening against her, felt herself softening against him, felt ready to give herself to him, here, now, in the doorway, standing up, like a pair of teenagers with nowhere better to go.
Then over his shoulder in the vaporous wintry glow cast by a streetlight she’d glimpsed a figure, muffled, indistinct, not much more than an outline, but she had known it was Alex.
She’d closed her eyes as Mick’s lips found hers again. When he broke the contact she’d gasped, ‘Let’s go inside before you have to arrest us.’
And as they’d practically fallen across her threshold, she’d glanced along the quiet street once more and of course the phantom figure had vanished. And when she woke in the morning with Mick’s arms around her, she’d felt the past and all its sorrow had vanished too.
But of course it hadn’t. How could she have fooled herself? It had been lurking, in the mist, behind the lamplight, ready to step forward once more when summoned by something as simple as a magazine photo through the post.
She told Dalziel this, or a version of it, bowdlerized, but she guessed he got the picture.
‘And now I’ve started seeing him again,’ she concluded. ‘Crazy, eh?’
Her attempt at being casually dismissive was unconvincing.
‘Can you still see him?’
She looked into the garden and shook her head.
‘Not to worry, luv,’ Dalziel reassured her. ‘Happens to us all. Look at any crowd of strangers, you’re sure to see some guy who looks like some guy you know. I mean, when I looked just now, I saw someone who’s a dead ringer for my DCI.’
The difference being, of course, that Dalziel was absolutely sure it was Pascoe he’d seen, and could still see.
Things had become very interesting, he thought. Had it been the ‘bugger’ Gina had clocked? He could have asked, but at this stage he wanted to keep ahead of the game, particularly now he was certain there was a game, and a complex one at that. And telling her about the bugger would have meant telling her about Novello, and she was a card he definitely wanted to keep up his sleeve.
That the woman might be watched didn’t surprise him. Someone had brought her here, so presumably they’d want to keep an eye on her. But from keeping an eye on someone to bugging them was a large step, suggesting a worrying level of fore-planning.
‘So where do we go from here?’ he asked.
He had detected how troubled she was and from his own reading of the woman and from what Purdy had said about her, she needed an action plan, or at least the prospect of activity, to keep her demons under control.
She said, ‘I’ve thought about what you said this morning. I don’t want to turn my search into a circus that could frighten Alex off. But I’ve got to let him know I’m here so that, if he wants to see me, he can make up his own mind.’
For the moment he let pass her implied assumption that her husband was still alive, and close.
‘Mebbe you don’t need to let him know you’re here,’ said Dalziel casually.
She said, ‘You mean, it might be Alex himself who sent me the picture? But if he wants to contact me, why doesn’t he just pick up a phone?’
‘Mebbe he wants you up here to take a closer look without you seeing him,’ said Dalziel. ‘Check out if you’re likely to be tying a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree.’
At last she smiled and said, ‘Bach, Pal Joey, and now Tony Orlando. You’ve very catholic musical tastes, Mr Dalziel.’
‘You should hear my Al Jolson imitation,’ said Dalziel. ‘So?’
‘So, if that were the case, what form do you think the yellow ribbon or its absence might take?’ she asked.
‘Wedding ring, for a start. Which you’re not wearing. On the other hand, you’re not wearing an engagement ring either.’
‘To see that would mean getting pretty close,’ she said, glancing round uneasily.
‘Nay, good pair of field glasses would do the trick,’ said the Fat Man.
The plaintive wail of some reed instrument came drifting up from the garden.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Clarinet. I love the sound it makes.’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Like the bagpipes: fine at a distance out of doors if someone else is paying for it. What’s your weapon?’
‘Piano, mainly. But I play the violin too, and I can tootle a flute if I’m pushed.’
‘A real one-woman band,’ he said. ‘Alex musical too?’
‘Not so you’d notice. I mean, he doesn’t play anything. But he likes to listen.’
‘Good husband material then,’ said Dalziel. ‘So how’d you meet?’
‘At college. I was secretary of a music group. I wanted to book a room in the Union for a concert, Alex was on the Union committee, he was in charge of bookings, he had that kind of head, he was a very good organizer.’
Good enough to organize his own disappearance? wondered Dalziel.
‘So how’d you feel when he let on he wanted to be a copper?’ he asked.
‘No problem,’ she said, surprised. ‘Should there have been?’
