“Fuck him,” he sighed, as his anger subsided. “Let him and his apes do the legwork. Go to Cook’s place and question the neighbours. He’ll have to share what he finds. I’ll go over his head if he doesn’t.”
“Hmm,” said Miller. It was as much as she dared.
“He’ll have set up an incident room, I know it. In that shiny palace of his. Power points and everything.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s all very well. Frees us up to pursue other avenues of enquiry. Well, me, I mean. You, Miller, are going to be my spy in the camp.”
“Sir?”
“You’re going to liaise with the wankers and report back what they’ve discovered. If they discover anything. The wankers.”
“Sir.” Miller started the engine and pulled the car into the traffic. Men! This stupid pissing-up-the-wall competition. They were supposed to be on the same side! She’d point this out to Brough if she thought it would do any good. Brough got a lot of leeway, she knew, because of who his dad was, and because of some great service he’d done before he came to Dedley - she didn’t know the details but she was sure that was why Regional indulged his little fort-making at the decommissioned station. Perhaps the bad blood between him and Stevens would never be resolved. Stevens seemed to think Brough was a ‘grass’ for some reason. Whatever.
Miller wasn’t looking forward to being the go-between going between these two stubborn idiots. But Brough had ordered it and, more crucially, David had asked her to, so she would give it her best shot.
She dropped him off at the former Dedley police station before heading down the hill to Regional HQ. Perhaps it might be worth popping her head around Ian the technician’s door while she was there.
***
Brough worked until nine thirty. Most of it involved looking at the information that had so far been gathered over and over again. Some of it entailed pacing up and down his precious little office and the rest comprised doodling abstractedly in his notepad.
“Cooee.” Alastair appeared in the doorway. He knocked on the open door anyway and stepped in.
“Hello?” Brough was clearly surprised.
“You did say see you later,” Alastair reminded him. “It is now later and here you are, seeing me.”
Brough consulted his wristwatch.
“Come on.” Alastair unhooked a jacket from the back of the door and threw it in Brough’s face. “Let’s go for an Indian.”
Brough fought his way free of the jacket. “What about your running?”
“I’ll have salad.”
Brough tidied his notes away and locked them in the desk drawer. Alastair waited in the corridor while Brough switched off the lights and locked up.
“Your jacket?”
“It’s not mine.”
***
Twenty minutes later they were poring over laminated menus in The Gondola. Why an Indian restaurant had an Italian name was a mystery Brough didn’t feel like investigating.
It was a large place, grandiose and tacky on the inside but rather drab and unprepossessing on the exterior. It overlooked the bus station and there were always taxis lined up in the rank. Good, thought Brough. I don’t fancy another late night walk through the town centre.
They ordered drinks and starters. At first, the talk was a little stilted. They mentioned their respective days without going into much detail. Alastair teased Brough. He said, not for the first time, that his little lapdog fancied the pants off him.
“Who, Miller?” Brough was aghast. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“And why wouldn’t she?” Alastair placed a hand on Brough’s thigh under the table. “You’re not half bad looking when you’re not scowling.”
Brough raised his menu as a barrier. His leg squirmed. What if someone should see?
“I’m serious,” Alastair continued, although the grin that split his face suggested otherwise. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I bet she dreams about being with you. About doing the nasty. In her Hello Kitty bed. I bet she has a Hello Kitty bed. Looks the type.”
“Miller’s alright,” Brough said, defensively. “Stop being such a little bitch.”
“Oho!” Alastair gaped in mock horror. He took his hand from Brough’s thigh.
The waiter returned and took their orders for the main courses.
“Thought you were having salad,” Brough took his turn to do the teasing.
Alastair shrugged and added a garlic naan to his order. “I’ll do another few laps of the park in the morning. Unless you can think of a better way to burn off calories.”
Brough turned red. He glanced nervously at the waiter who looked a picture of serenity and discretion. “I’ll have a garlic naan too,” he coughed.
“Very wise, sir,” the waiter smiled, a knowing twinkle in his eye. He snatched up the menus and trotted away. Brough was stunned.
“What did he mean by that?”
Alastair laughed. “It’s best if both people have eaten garlic.”
Brough harrumphed. He snapped a poppadom in half and spooned chopped onion onto it. It took him until after the main course - and three pints of cold beer - to begin to relax again.
“So...” Alastair was looking at him from across the table, his chin resting on his knuckles. “What’s your story?”
“My story?”
“I’ve been banging on about myself for the past hour or so. My sisters and my alcoholic father and all the rest of it. You were listening, weren’t you?”
“Of course I was bloody listening.”
“Sweets?” The waiter was back.
“Um, what?”
“Dessert menu!” the waiter announced proudly and left them with another laminated sheet as if it was some great favour. Brough peered at the colourful illustrations with their overblown names: fantastica, sublimo, bombe this and bombe that. Bright green and orange concoctions in extravagant little pots. Some of them even came with sparklers.
“So, tell me about yourself. I don’t know anything about where you’re from.”
“Southampton,” Brough’s nose wrinkled. “What of it?”
“Of course, I mean, I know, everyone knows, about your dad -”
“So, why ask me?” Brough was uncomfortable with being interrogated. He almost began to feel some sympathy for the perps.
“Alright, Mr Defensive,” Alastair held up his hands in surrender. “I just want to know you better. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry. There are some things I don’t like to talk about.”
The waiter came back. Brough pointed at something randomly. Alastair ordered Irish coffee.
“Your nose,” Alastair pointed.
Brough’s hand flew to it. “Is their vegetable balti on it?”
“No, but I’ve seen enough faces on my tables to recognise a nose job when I see one. What’s the story with that? I mean, you’re cute enough and I bet you were before you had it done.”
“I, um, it was an accident. During training. At Hendon. Football match, actually.” It was a complete fabrication. Brough felt terrible but it wasn’t the time or the place for truth-telling. And he wasn’t sure he wanted Alastair to know. Never mind being uncomfortable with his past, there was also the possibility he would be putting his... his friend in danger.
Alastair nodded. He was being lied to and he knew it. But he chose to let it go. For the time being. Why spoil a nice meal?
The waiter set his Irish coffee before him and a plastic penguin on a plate in front of Brough.
Brough stared at it in disbelief.
“Pull his head off,” the waiter whispered, “he’s vanilla on the inside.”
***
While the detective inspector and the pathologist were enjoying their Indian, Detective Sergeant Miller poured herself
another glass of Temperanillo and carried on with her packing. She didn’t know what to do with half of the stuff. There was no room at the home for all of Mum’s things. Neither would there be room for them at her new place. She supposed most of Mum’s things would have to go into storage until - until Mum was no longer likely to want any of it anymore.
This thought led to a larger swig than usual. Should have got two bottles, she scolded herself.
She rolled a porcelain shepherdess in bubble wrap and tore off sticky tape from the dispenser. Now, had Mum asked for this one for her room or could it be consigned to the box labelled ‘bric-a-brac’ along with the glass Siamese cats and the souvenirs of foreign holidays Mel had brought her back?
Another swig.
Can’t wait to get shot of the place, if I’m honest, Mel reflected. Lived here all my life but at last I can get a place of my own. Going to cost me a bit, having to find rent for a little flat, but selling the old homestead is unavoidable - imperative, even! - to finance Mum’s bed and board at the Dorothy Beaumont. Can’t say I’m sad to see the back of it. It’s cramped my style, living with Mum all these years. Should have flown the nest yonks ago.
She took another warming swig but she derived more comfort from an idea that occurred to her. David rents a flat, doesn’t he? Of course, he does. She picked him up outside it practically every day.
It was a talking point. A topic of conversation. A shared interest. She could ask him what he pays for it. How he found it. What he recommends.
Perhaps he would agree to go flat-hunting with her. Two detectives on the case together, they’d be sure to track one down in no time!
Mel looked at the packing she still had to do.
Bugger it. She refilled her glass, found a large packet of posh crisps in a cupboard and took them both to see if there was anything decent on the telly.
***
With the bill paid and a handful of coins left on the stained tablecloth as a tip, the detective inspector and the pathologist smiled their goodnights to the grateful waiter, who shook their hands and held the door open for them. Brough couldn’t get away fast enough. Alastair was amused.
“Have a good night? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What it sounds like. He thinks we’re going home to fuck our brains out.”
Brough was horror stricken. He glanced around to see if any of the other people leaving the restaurant, the taxi drivers in the rank, the bus drivers in the station and the man in the moon had heard the outrageous remark.
Alastair giggled. A gust of liquored coffee wafted into Brough’s face. Brough backed off. He raised his hand to catch the eye of a Sikh who was leaning against the bonnet of a black cab a few cars up the line. The driver signalled back and got into his taxi. Brough looked back to Alastair.
“You coming?” he asked. Alastair’s grin split his face again and he practically skipped to join Brough.
In the back seat, he expressed his surprise at something hard pressing against his leg. Brough reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the plastic penguin.
“For you.”
Alastair accepted the peace offering with delight. He grinned all the way back to Brough’s grim little flat, holding the gaudy toy like a precious and much coveted jewel.
***
Later still, Brough lay awake in the darkness, with sweat cooling on his body. Beside him, Alastair breathed in the regular rhythm of the sleeping. Brough looked at the curve of his shoulder, the tangle of his curly hair on the pillow.
I shouldn’t be letting anyone get close. I shouldn’t be exposing them to danger. I shouldn’t be enjoying myself like this. I shouldn’t -
He sat up. He reached for the shirt he had discarded on the bedroom floor. He thrust his arms into the sleeves and swung his legs to the mat.
“Where - going?” Alastair murmured.
“For a piss.”
Brough padded into the bathroom that wasn’t a bathroom because there was no bath. He had his piss, as advertised, and let the tap run for a while so that the water he splashed his face with would be cool. He washed his hands and ran them over his face. He looked at his nose in the magnifying side of his shaving mirror.
The surgeon had done a bloody good job, he thought. The new nose changed the whole look of his face completely. His mother had cried her eyes out. It took her a while to come to terms with her son’s new look. “I suppose it’s just another kind of handsome,” she had said. Eventually.
But if Alastair could tell it wasn’t his original hooter, could someone else? Miller had never mentioned anything and, Alastair was right, she did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time gazing at him.
He splashed his face again. He was too jittery lately, imagining things that weren’t there. Grey ladies. It was the case. A lot of pressure. And the previous case - that was still taking its toll...
He was about to push the shaving mirror aside on its extendable arm when he glimpsed a figure standing behind him. He yelped like a trodden-on dog. He fought against the arms that enfolded him until Alastair’s voice brought him to his senses and he could calm down.
“It’s me, it’s me!” Alastair repeated. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What are you up to? Sneaking up on me in the bathroom!”
“I’m sorry,” Alastair kissed Brough on the shoulder. “I just wanted to - to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I love you.”
“Oh.”
***
The next morning, Alastair came out of the shower, damp and slightly steaming, a towel around his slender waist, to find Brough in the kitchen, all suited and booted. He waved at a plate of toast on the table. Alastair slinked onto a chair and grabbed a triangular slice.
“You got up early,” he said as he munched. “I was hoping we would shower together but you’d locked the door.”
“Hmm,” said Brough. “Tea or coffee?”
“Got any juice? Orange or something?”
“Sorry.”
“Listen, about last night -”
A pained expression came to Brough’s face. Alastair decided not to pursue that line of discussion.
“No, I’m sorry,” Brough handed him a bottle of water from the fridge. “Spicy food. Makes me restless. Bad dreams.”
“Hmm.”
“I have to dash. Miller’s on her way.” As if on cue, a car horn sounded in the street. “That’ll be her now. Or at least her car.”
“Funny.” Alastair stood up and tried to plant a kiss but Brough turned his face away. He grimaced as he tore off a sheet of kitchen roll to wipe crumbs and margarine from his cheek.
“I’d best be off,” he said. “Can you make sure everything’s locked? Thanks.”
He was gone in a second. Alastair stood a little nonplussed for a while. Then he heaved his shoulders in a sigh. His towel fell off.
***
“Morning, sir!” chirped Melanie Miller as Brough fastened his seatbelt. “Hold up; you’ve got...” He recoiled as she began to dab at his face with a ball of tissue.
“Get off me!” he snapped. He snatched the tissue from her and inspected his face in the wing mirror.
One of those mornings then, Miller thought as she pulled away. Goodo.
6.
Loretta Phipps paid her admission fee, stuffed the ticket stub in her purse then shoved her way through the squeaky turnstile.
First mistake, she reflected, renewing her chewing gum. Should have met the bloke out front. Then he could have paid. She rechecked the text message on her mobile. 11 a.m. by the penguins.
It was like something out of a rubbish spy film. The kind her ex-husband would make her sit through. Along with the westerns. The interminable westerns. Well, she was shot of him now. This morning
could herald the start of a new adventure, a new romance, a new life with someone better.
Hold up, Loz, she scolded herself. Don’t go getting ahead of yourself. This is only the fifth in a line of blind dates and look how they ended up! Don’t get your hopes up, my wench.
She checked the time - where would she be without her mobile! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bothered wearing a wristwatch. It was 10:25. That was the buses for you. If she’d waited for next one, she’d have been late. Now she was too early.
Could have a look around, she supposed. Have a squint at some wallabies or something.
A pinch from her five-inch heels put paid to that idea. She’d be doing more than enough walking around later on The Date proper. She flashed her teeth and chewing gum at the young lad operating the chair lift.
“One please, cocker,” she said. With some difficulty and no elegance, she manoeuvred herself into the chair - perhaps she should have gone for less restrictive clothing - and the young man secured the safety bar.
The chair lift shuddered into life and began its slow climb up the hill - in effect, the castle’s mott - but rather than gazing around at the view, Loretta chose to check out her makeup. Pink lipstick on her incisors. Damn it.
Oh well, there was bound to be a Ladies at the cafe at the top. She could sort herself out in there and be fresh as a daisy for Gavin when he arrived. She looked at the time again. Plenty of time for a cuppa and to freshen up.
The chair jolted to a standstill. Loretta scrambled ungainly to terra firma. She made a mental note not to go back on that bloody thing when Gavin was with her.
Regaining her composure, she tottered along the path towards the keep and the Grey Lady Cafe.
***
A dull murmur of conversation buzzed in the briefing room at Regional HQ. Most of it was about football and the telly but, Brough was certain, some of it must have been about him. He and Miller sat on a two-seater sofa, aware that Stevens and his cronies were behind them and no doubt, talking behind their backs.
And what was with all the upholstery anyway? It was a briefing room, for crying out loud, a place of work not some jumped-up hipster coffee shop. Brough had also turned his nose up at the plates of artfully arranged croissants and American muffins. What was wrong with Rich Tea biscuits all of a sudden?
Grey Ladies Page 5
