me.”
She shook her head, toed the tarmac with a Doc Marten. Yeah, she was royally pissed off with him, but it wasn’t just that. She was crap at letting people get close. Been badly burned over
the years, best not to chance it at all. So, naff banter was easier than opening your heart; being in denial beat being in too deep. And wordplay was less risky than foreplay. The snort was loud
and unwitting. Yeah right. She should be so fucking lucky. Morriss duvet action meant changing the sheets. Bev... the born again virgin.
The big man ran his fingers round the hat’s brim. “Just that... you’ve been distant, Bev. I thought I’d give you some space...”
Space? More like a black hole.
“ I’ve been distant? I’ve been...” She jerked her head round. The rising volume had startled the pigeons. They were winging it, scared shitless judging by
the brickwork. Hands on hips, she lowered her voice. “ You accuse me of...” Footsteps approaching. She held fire. Two uniforms sauntered past, synchronised smirks on their
faces. Across the way, Powell gave them a cheery wave as he got into his car. Grenadier Guards’d give them a march past next. Place made Piccadilly station look like a mausoleum.
“Why don’t we go for a drink? Bite to eat? Somewhere quiet.” Byford asked.
Tempted. Torn. Teetering. “No ta.” He’d just given her food for thought, and she’d not let Frankie down. Again.
He cocked his head. “We could... talk.”
Her raised eyebrow was pretty voluble. He’d not even told her the outcome of the inquiry, the fact he was back on operational duties. She only found out ’cause it was all over the
nick by the time she came out of the Haines interview. Word was that Knight would stay on as SIO with Byford acting in an advisory capacity. Like that was going to happen. Knowing Byford if he was
back in harness he’d be chomping at the bit for a taste of the action. Either way he could’ve had the decency to give her a heads-up. She’d e-mailed to say great, thanks for
telling me, big of you. OK, maybe not those exact words.
“Fair enough.” He dug in a pocket for car keys. “Knowing how arsey you can be....”
“Arsey? Me?” Damn cheek. Uncharacteristic use of slang there, though. Must be feeling a tad prickly too.
“... I just want you to be the first to know...”
“First?” It was a night for snorting. “Do me a favour, guv.”
“... that I’ve resigned. I’m jacking it in.”
“So what did you say, my friend?”
Frankie and Bev, glass in hand, were slumped in opposite corners of a chocolate leather two-seater like a mismatched pair of slightly wonky book ends. Even without the candlelight glow La
Perlagio would look impossibly glam, raven-haired, long-limbed, Nigella only less obvious. No mean cook either. She’d learned at her father’s knee and when she wasn’t working in
his restaurant, sang semi-pro: blues, a little jazz, local joints mostly. They’d met on the first day of primary school, closer than some sisters. Even so, it had taken Bev three hours before
she could open up enough to spill Byford’s beans, make that bombshell. Actually, Bev mused, it had taken three hours, two bottles of Pinot and a couple of Calvados snifters. Between them. Bev
wasn’t greedy. The fettuccini Alfredo with scallops and garlic bread was good. But she’d forced that third portion down. Like hell. Smiling, she swirled the shot glass, feeling
surprisingly mellow. Wonder why...?
“Earth to Major Bev.” Frankie gave her almost full wine glass a flamboyant wave. “Is there anybody there, please?”
“Watch it!” Flying vino. She ducked but failed to dodge the fallout, sucked a few drops off her arm.
“Open another bottle if you’re that desperate, Bevy.”
“Funny girl.” Tight smile.
Amy Winehouse was saying no to rehab in the background. Bev was toying with the idea of a nightcap. Frankie straightened, tossed back the pre-Raph locks, turned face-on. “Put
She shook her head, toed the tarmac with a Doc Marten. Yeah, she was royally pissed off with him, but it wasn’t just that. She was crap at letting people get close. Been badly burned over
the years, best not to chance it at all. So, naff banter was easier than opening your heart; being in denial beat being in too deep. And wordplay was less risky than foreplay. The snort was loud
and unwitting. Yeah right. She should be so fucking lucky. Morriss duvet action meant changing the sheets. Bev... the born again virgin.
The big man ran his fingers round the hat’s brim. “Just that... you’ve been distant, Bev. I thought I’d give you some space...”
Space? More like a black hole.
“ I’ve been distant? I’ve been...” She jerked her head round. The rising volume had startled the pigeons. They were winging it, scared shitless judging by
the brickwork. Hands on hips, she lowered her voice. “ You accuse me of...” Footsteps approaching. She held fire. Two uniforms sauntered past, synchronised smirks on their
faces. Across the way, Powell gave them a cheery wave as he got into his car. Grenadier Guards’d give them a march past next. Place made Piccadilly station look like a mausoleum.
“Why don’t we go for a drink? Bite to eat? Somewhere quiet.” Byford asked.
Tempted. Torn. Teetering. “No ta.” He’d just given her food for thought, and she’d not let Frankie down. Again.
He cocked his head. “We could... talk.”
Her raised eyebrow was pretty voluble. He’d not even told her the outcome of the inquiry, the fact he was back on operational duties. She only found out ’cause it was all over the
nick by the time she came out of the Haines interview. Word was that Knight would stay on as SIO with Byford acting in an advisory capacity. Like that was going to happen. Knowing Byford if he was
back in harness he’d be chomping at the bit for a taste of the action. Either way he could’ve had the decency to give her a heads-up. She’d e-mailed to say great, thanks for
telling me, big of you. OK, maybe not those exact words.
“Fair enough.” He dug in a pocket for car keys. “Knowing how arsey you can be....”
“Arsey? Me?” Damn cheek. Uncharacteristic use of slang there, though. Must be feeling a tad prickly too.
“... I just want you to be the first to know...”
“First?” It was a night for snorting. “Do me a favour, guv.”
“... that I’ve resigned. I’m jacking it in.”
“So what did you say, my friend?”
Frankie and Bev, glass in hand, were slumped in opposite corners of a chocolate leather two-seater like a mismatched pair of slightly wonky book ends. Even without the candlelight glow La
Perlagio would look impossibly glam, raven-haired, long-limbed, Nigella only less obvious. No mean cook either. She’d learned at her father’s knee and when she wasn’t working in
his restaurant, sang semi-pro: blues, a little jazz, local joints mostly. They’d met on the first day of primary school, closer than some sisters. Even so, it had taken Bev three hours before
she could open up enough to spill Byford’s beans, make that bombshell. Actually, Bev mused, it had taken three hours, two bottles of Pinot and a couple of Calvados snifters. Between them. Bev
wasn’t greedy. The fettuccini Alfredo with scallops and garlic bread was good. But she’d forced that third portion down. Like hell. Smiling, she swirled the shot glass, feeling
surprisingly mellow. Wonder why...?
“Earth to Major Bev.” Frankie gave her almost full wine glass a flamboyant wave. “Is there anybody there, please?”
“Watch it!” Flying vino. She ducked but failed to dodge the fallout, sucked a few drops off her arm.
“Open another bottle if you’re that desperate, Bevy.”
“Funny girl.” Tight smile.
Amy Winehouse was saying no to rehab in the background. Bev was toying with the idea of a nightcap. Frankie straightened, tossed back the pre-Raph locks, turned face-on. “Put
Similar Books
