In some ways, ex-Detective Inspector Kirsty Webb was glad she had resigned earlier that day. Justice as far as the law was concerned was a matter of science. But people weren’t machines. She didn’t know what the other woman, even now crumpling in on herself, deserved. That was way beyond Kirsty’s area of expertise. Police didn’t get to make that call. Their job was to unearth the facts, and Kirsty didn’t believe she had the moral compass to put these facts in order and make a judgement. She was glad she didn’t have to.
She’d made a call to Detective Inspector Natalie James just before she had handed in her notice.
She figured things would fall as they did.
Chapter 115
I stood by the window, watching Alison Chambers walk to her car once more.
A week had passed. She still swung her hips, still flipped the bird at me over her shoulder as she got into the driver’s seat. Nothing had changed, it seemed, but everything had.
Like I say, some cases you win, some you lose – and some you win but it doesn’t feel like it.
I had killed a woman and that wasn’t something you just shake off like the rain from your hair.
I remembered the noise, the shouting, the mayhem. At the time I had let it wash past me. But it still visited me in my dreams at night. I knew how that worked, though. In time it would pass. My hands might have been bloody but my conscience was clean. I had done the job I had been paid to do.
When I hadn’t made contact as agreed, Sam had called the contact in the USAF based at HMS Warrior a mile away that Jack Morgan had given us and had come in ahead of them. They weren’t far behind him. The Palestinians took two more casualties before they were overrun. Score three for democracy, nil for terrorism, I figured. Only, like I say, it didn’t feel like that.
Men in black suits arrived. In the old days they would have been CIA and MI5. Nowadays it was Homeland Security for the US of A and some unknown quasi-military unit sanctioned by the Home Office for us. Either way, it was like a Mafia clean-up crew sent in to eradicate evidence, dispose of the bodies.
The professor and the remaining members of her team who were still alive – including Ashleigh Roughton, the CUL rugby captain – were spirited away. Turned out that Roughton thought the professor was in love with him as well.
As far as the suits were concerned – officially, we were never there. Del Rio and I left to settle matters with Brendan Ferres. Harlan Shapiro was taken to be reunited with his daughter and they were booked on a hastily scheduled jet to fly them straight back to the States first thing in the morning.
I never saw either of them again.
Part of me felt that Hannah should have stayed behind to face some sort of music for the sequence of events that she had set in motion. Mostly, though, I felt glad that it was all over. Hannah and her father were back under the watchful eye of Jack Morgan. They were his concern now.
I turned and looked at Bogart and Bacall. Marlowe looked like he was judging me, as ever. I didn’t care. It was Friday evening, I had the weekend ahead of me and once again Dan Carter had a date lined up. I smiled at Bacall. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’
Chapter 116
If the cool blonde at reception was pleased to see me back at the restaurant once more there was no clue to it in her perfectly made-up face.
I was wearing my blue tie again, with a black linen suit this time. It gave me an air of casual sophistication, I thought. I didn’t want to send out the wrong signals. After all, it was just a dinner. Not a dinner date. We had both been clear about that. Very clear.
Blondie ran her finger down the list of bookings again, her left eyebrow raised a minuscule amount once more, enough to make a point.
‘Ah yes, Mister Cotter. I remember you couldn’t stay very long with us on your last visit.’
‘It’s Carter,’ I said. ‘Dan Carter. And no, I am afraid something came up. Work. You know how it is?’
‘Might I recommend you turn off your mobile phone?’ she said. ‘You were very lucky we were able to fit you in again at such short notice. I’d hate for another evening to be spoiled for you.’
Frankly, it looked like that was exactly what she would have liked. And she was right. I should have turned my phone off. But doing so then, after being practically told to do so by a jumped-up waitress, was never going to happen.
‘I can’t do that, I am afraid,’ I said. ‘I’m a surgeon. Heart surgeon. Paediatric heart surgeon.’
See, that’s the trouble with lies – they can run away with you. My companion snorted but said nothing, and the receptionist inched her eyebrow a scintilla further heavenwards.
‘Follow me, then, please, Doctor Carter,’ she said.
‘That’s Mister Carter,’ I replied. I guess she’d thought she’d catch me out. She’d have to get up a lot earlier in the morning to do that.
‘That a new suit, Dan?’ asked Kirsty as we were led to my table.
I laughed. ‘Hardly. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’ve got a label still on the back of your trousers.’
The receptionist chuckled and held out a chair for Kirsty. I swept my hand around the back of my trousers. There was nothing there.
‘You’re too easy,’ said Kirsty as she sat down.
I joined her and picked up the wine list. ‘So why were you running late?’
‘I had to see someone.’
‘So are we celebrating?’
‘Did I get the job, you’re asking?’
I nodded.
‘As far as that goes, no, we are not celebrating.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Sorry that I’m not moving to Manchester?’
I looked at her. Her emerald green eyes still the kind that a man fell into and drowned. ‘Sorry that you didn’t get what you wanted,’ I said.
‘Are we still talking about the job?’
‘What are you going to do now?’
Kirsty picked up the menu. ‘I’m going to consider my options’
‘I’ve heard the prawn cocktail is very good,’ I said.
She laughed. I liked the sound of it. Gave me an idea I’d probably regret.
Twenty minutes later and our starter arrived. I was having creamed truffled goat’s cheese, with asparagus and pickled beetroot. My partner, as they say, plumped for the twice-baked Norfolk dapple souffle with a mixed-leaf salad and a herb vinaigrette. No drop scones and fish eggs for us.
I took a sip of my lager, picked up my fork and was about to spear a beetroot when my mobile phone rang. Noisily. I smiled apologetically at the diners at the neighbouring table and fished it out of my pocket.
Even as I looked at the caller ID Kirsty snatched it out of my hand. She saw who was calling too and switched the phone off, throwing me a withering look as she did so.
‘I cannot believe that woman.’
Alison Chambers, of course.
Moments later her own phone trilled – a lot more quietly than mine had. I shrugged at the neighbouring diners again. What could you do?
‘Kirsty Webb?’ she answered. A degree of coldness that would have chilled an Inuit creeping into her voice.
