shirt and rolled up his sleeves as if he was settling in for the night. He looked troubled and Donovan wondered what exactly Wightman had discovered on Gemma’s laptop. Wightman stood beside him, methodically sorting a thick wedge of papers into several separate piles and stapling them together. Short, fresh-faced and thickset, Wightman was in his late twenties, although he looked barely eighteen and was the newest recruit to the team.
DCs Nick Minderedes and Karen Feeney came into the room immediately behind Donovan, having just got back from knocking on doors in Ealing.
‘Sit down, everybody,’ Tartaglia said, looking up. ‘We’ll be ready in a minute.’
Donovan deposited the bag containing Tartaglia’s takeaway on a filing cabinet behind him and pulled up a chair between Minderedes and Feeney. Feeney sneezed three times in succession, took a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose loudly. Her eyes were watering and she looked bedraggled, sitting there wrapped up in her limp mackintosh.
‘You OK?’ Donovan asked.
‘Just tired,’ Feeney said. ‘Nothing knackers you like tramping the streets for hours at this time of year. And one of my shoes has sprung a leak.’ Her voice was thick and nasal and it sounded to Donovan as though she was getting a cold. Feeney took a small mirror out of her bag and peered into it, dabbing her pale cheeks and wiping away the shadow of mascara from under her eyes. ‘Will you look at my hair,’ she said, turning her attention to her frizz of bright red curls. ‘Just takes a drop of rain to ruin a good blow-dry. Thank Christ I wasn’t planning on doing anything exciting later.’
‘That makes two of us,’ Donovan replied. ‘I had a hot date lined up with Jonathan Ross but I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘Sorry you ladies lead such dull lives, but I really did have something on for tonight,’ Minderedes muttered gloomily. ‘And it’s the third bloody time I’ve had to cancel this chick because of work. She’s going to give up on me at this rate.’
Hunched in his overcoat, he took a stick of gum out of the pocket, peeled off the wrapper and put it into his mouth, chewing vigorously as if to compensate for what he was missing. Small and wiry, with thinning dark hair, his eyes were an unusual shade of green, almost yellow, and he had a permanently hungry, restless look, as if never satisfied with anything for long.
‘Anyone I know?’ Donovan asked, unravelling her scarf and unbuttoning her coat, feeling hot and a little sweaty from her brisk walk back to the office.
‘The new barmaid at the Bull’s Head. You know, the one with short dark hair. Polish, with big…’ He gestured, cupping his hands in front of his chest.
‘But she barely speaks English,’ Feeney said, raising her eyebrows.
He grinned, still chewing hard. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Donovan shook her head wearily. Minderedes’s success with women was beyond her. He had the emotional maturity of a teenager, although he knew how to turn on the charm in a crude sort of way when it suited him. She prided herself on being one of the few single women in the office who had never succumbed. She wasn’t quite sure where Feeney stood in that respect.
As Wightman started to pass around a set of papers to each of the assembled group, DC Yvette Dickenson came into the room, carrying a mug of something hot.
Tartaglia looked round at Dickenson. ‘Anyone else coming?’
‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘They’re still out checking the names Mr Kramer gave us.’ She walked over to where Donovan, Feeney and Minderedes were sitting, pulled out a chair from a nearby desk and eased herself down onto it carefully. Yawning, she took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes and started to polish the thick lenses on the edge of her shirt. Nearly eight months pregnant, she seemed to be finding most things at work a strain, although she wasn’t due to go on maternity leave for another few weeks. Donovan
DCs Nick Minderedes and Karen Feeney came into the room immediately behind Donovan, having just got back from knocking on doors in Ealing.
‘Sit down, everybody,’ Tartaglia said, looking up. ‘We’ll be ready in a minute.’
Donovan deposited the bag containing Tartaglia’s takeaway on a filing cabinet behind him and pulled up a chair between Minderedes and Feeney. Feeney sneezed three times in succession, took a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose loudly. Her eyes were watering and she looked bedraggled, sitting there wrapped up in her limp mackintosh.
‘You OK?’ Donovan asked.
‘Just tired,’ Feeney said. ‘Nothing knackers you like tramping the streets for hours at this time of year. And one of my shoes has sprung a leak.’ Her voice was thick and nasal and it sounded to Donovan as though she was getting a cold. Feeney took a small mirror out of her bag and peered into it, dabbing her pale cheeks and wiping away the shadow of mascara from under her eyes. ‘Will you look at my hair,’ she said, turning her attention to her frizz of bright red curls. ‘Just takes a drop of rain to ruin a good blow-dry. Thank Christ I wasn’t planning on doing anything exciting later.’
‘That makes two of us,’ Donovan replied. ‘I had a hot date lined up with Jonathan Ross but I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘Sorry you ladies lead such dull lives, but I really did have something on for tonight,’ Minderedes muttered gloomily. ‘And it’s the third bloody time I’ve had to cancel this chick because of work. She’s going to give up on me at this rate.’
Hunched in his overcoat, he took a stick of gum out of the pocket, peeled off the wrapper and put it into his mouth, chewing vigorously as if to compensate for what he was missing. Small and wiry, with thinning dark hair, his eyes were an unusual shade of green, almost yellow, and he had a permanently hungry, restless look, as if never satisfied with anything for long.
‘Anyone I know?’ Donovan asked, unravelling her scarf and unbuttoning her coat, feeling hot and a little sweaty from her brisk walk back to the office.
‘The new barmaid at the Bull’s Head. You know, the one with short dark hair. Polish, with big…’ He gestured, cupping his hands in front of his chest.
‘But she barely speaks English,’ Feeney said, raising her eyebrows.
He grinned, still chewing hard. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Donovan shook her head wearily. Minderedes’s success with women was beyond her. He had the emotional maturity of a teenager, although he knew how to turn on the charm in a crude sort of way when it suited him. She prided herself on being one of the few single women in the office who had never succumbed. She wasn’t quite sure where Feeney stood in that respect.
As Wightman started to pass around a set of papers to each of the assembled group, DC Yvette Dickenson came into the room, carrying a mug of something hot.
Tartaglia looked round at Dickenson. ‘Anyone else coming?’
‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘They’re still out checking the names Mr Kramer gave us.’ She walked over to where Donovan, Feeney and Minderedes were sitting, pulled out a chair from a nearby desk and eased herself down onto it carefully. Yawning, she took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes and started to polish the thick lenses on the edge of her shirt. Nearly eight months pregnant, she seemed to be finding most things at work a strain, although she wasn’t due to go on maternity leave for another few weeks. Donovan
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