Butler’s mouth fell open and he took a step backwards. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said. Then, seeing the look on her face, he said, ‘You’re not, are you?’ And, predictably, he took to his heels.
He’d taken two steps when Sam landed on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs and two teeth out of his mouth.
It was going to be a very long, very farcical evening, Carol thought wearily.
Paula ran her thumb and index finger down the glass, making a path in the condensation. ‘So you see, I don’t know what to do for the best,’ she said. ‘On the one hand, I owe Tony for the help he gave me after…after I got hurt. On the other hand, I don’t want to go behind the chief’s back.’
Chris had a pile of photographs they’d printed from the emails Stacey had solicited. All of the subjects had been at school with Robbie and none of them had alibis other than partners or spouses for the previous Thursday. She sorted through them again, rearranging them according to some set of criteria known only to her. ‘You could always run it past her,’ she said.
‘According to Tony, she’s already blown it out of the water.’ Paula reached for the photos and looked through them critically. Most of them had printed up pretty well. They looked like people, as opposed to police mug shots.
Chris shrugged. ‘What you do on your own time is your own business. So long as you don’t do anything to jeopardize an existing investigation.’
‘But should I be doing it at all?’ As the evening had worn on, Paula had grown less convinced of the appropriateness of what Tony was asking.
Chris put her hands flat on the small bar table, thumbs underneath, as if she was going to tip it over in one swift movement. She looked down at her neatly manicured fingernails. ‘Once upon a time, there was somebody I thought I owed a favour to. Kind of like you with Tony, but for different reasons. She asked me for something. Just a phone number, that was all. A number I could get easily and she couldn’t, not without questions being asked. Anyway, I did the needful. And that was the first step on a journey that got her killed.’ Chris sniffed hard, then looked Paula straight in the eye. ‘I do not blame myself for what happened. If I hadn’t done her that favour, she would have found another way of getting what she wanted. What’s important to me is that when she called on me for help, I was there. When I think of her now, I know I didn’t let her down.’ Chris let go of the table and gave Paula a rueful smile. ‘It’s up to you. You know what it is to live with consequences. You have to think about where you might be with this six months, a year down the road.’
Paula was touched. Chris didn’t often share personal stuff, not even with her. She knew everybody else thought there was a special bond between the two of them because they were both lesbians, but they were wrong. Chris treated Paula exactly as she treated everyone else. No special favours. No secret intimacy. Just a sergeant and a constable who respected each other professionally and liked what they knew of each other. Paula was comfortable with that. She had friends enough outside work and the one time she had succumbed to a close friendship at work it had ended up causing her more grief than she cared to think about. But tonight’s revelation was a reminder that she still had a lot to learn about her sergeant. She nodded. ‘Point taken. The only question is when I’m going to be able to follow it up. It’s not like this is going to ease up any time soon.’
Chris glanced at her watch. ‘You could be in Sheffield by nine if you left now. That would give you time to talk to people in the pub. And if you check into a cheap motel, you could talk to the housekeeper first thing.’
Paula looked surprised. ‘But I’m supposed to…’
‘Kevin and I can manage Amatis. It’s probably a waste of time anyway. I’ll cover for you in the morning. If Carol gets lucky in Newcastle, she won’t even notice you’re not around.’
‘If she’s doing interviews, she might. She likes to pull me in on those if they get sticky.’
‘Good point.’ Chris smiled. ‘I’ll buy you a couple of hours. I can tell her you were exhausted and I told you to take your time coming in. But you need to do your bit. You need to make sure you catch up with the housekeeper bright and early. You think they do breakfast meetings in Rotherham?’
Paula grinned. ‘She’s Polish. They work all the hours God sends. She’ll totally get an early meeting.’
Chris shoved the pile of photos towards her. ‘You better take these. If it’s the same killer, he might be among this lot.’
‘What about you and Kevin?’
‘I’ll go back and print out another set. It won’t take long, not now Stacey’s got the file set up. If I call her now, she’ll have them done by the time I finish my drink and get back.’ She reached for her glass. ‘And you need to get your arse in gear, Constable.’
Paula didn’t need telling a second time. She scooped up the pictures and headed for the door, a bounce in her step. She didn’t want to think about how awkward it would be to prove Carol Jordan wrong. What she was focused on was proving Tony Hill right.
Paula had never done the lottery. A mug’s game, she’d thought. But as she walked into the Blacksmith’s Arms on the outskirts of Dore, she wondered if maybe she’d been wrong. Danny Wade’s house was only quarter of a mile away from the pub, and she’d swung past it on her way there. What she’d been able to see through the gates had made her whistle. She could think of lots of ways to fill a mansion like that without once having to resort to 00 gauge. She made a mental note to check out who was going to inherit. It never hurt to eliminate the obvious. Or not, as it often turned out.
The pub matched its environment. Paula reckoned it was a lot more modern than it looked. The ceilings were too high, for a start. She guessed the beams might be polystyrene, but it didn’t matter. They looked authentic. The bar was decked out with wood panelling and chintz, tables and chairs grouped so that it imitated a drawing room rather than a saloon bar. At one end of the room, old church pews flanked an inglenook fireplace where logs blazed on substantial iron fire dogs.
Paula guessed they had a lively lunchtime and weekend trade. But at quarter past nine on a Friday evening, it was much quieter than a city-centre bar would be. Half a dozen tables were occupied by couples and foursomes. They all looked like accountants and building society managers to her. Smartly dressed, nicely turned out, scarily interchangeable. Stepford couples. In her leather jacket, black jeans and solitude, she stuck out like a hoodie at a Tory fete. As she walked to the bar, she was aware of conversations pausing and heads turning. A middle-class version of
There were a couple of blokes sitting on high stools at the bar. Pringle sweaters and dark slacks. They could have wandered straight off the nearby golf course. As she drew nearer, she realized they were probably a couple of years younger than her. Barely in their mid-twenties, she guessed. She thought her dad probably had more sense of
