stamped on the fags so they could all get on with it.
By mid-morning heâd made a decent stab at clearing his desk, though there were still a good many âshit waitingâ folders bulging in drawers or sitting on his computer. Heâd fired off a dozen emails, completed the paperwork on as many requests for mobile-phone records and typed up surveillance logs for which he was being pestered by three different units. It was hard enough keeping up with the paper-chase when you were doing what you were supposed to . . .
âWant to grab some lunch later?â
Paul looked up as DS Gary Kelly pushed aside a box file and leaned against the edge of his desk. âI can only pray youâre not talking about the canteen.â
âI was thinking about that Chinese place opposite Waterloo Station,â Kelly said. âCracking all-you-can-eat of a lunchtime.â
âSounds good.â
âI mean, you know, only if youâre still here , obviously.â Kelly was short and sandy-haired, with a smile that changed his whole face, squashing his features. When Paul had first met him, he wasnât sure if people called Kelly âSpudâ because of the Irish name or the potato face. âI know youâve been hugely busy.â
âYeah, sorry, mate. Bits and pieces to sort out. You know how it is.â
Kelly leaned down, lowered his voice. âNo, I donât, to be honest.â He nodded towards the nest of workstations. âI can understand you not wanting this lot knowing your business, but we go back a bit.â
Paul laughed. âThereâs no big mystery, I swear.â
âSo, letâs have it then.â
âIâll fill you in at lunchtime, all right?â
Kelly nodded. Seemed happy enough with that.
âNot that thereâs anything too dramatic.â
It would give Paul a couple of hours to come up with something. A fuck-up on an old case that had come back to bite him in the arse; some mess he was trying to get himself out of on the sly; maybe a few personal odds and ends he needed to deal with.
Kelly was a good friend, meaning he was easy enough to bullshit.
âHowâs the missus?â
âSheâs fine,â Paul said, looking back to his computer screen. âHuge, but fine.â
âYou still excited? Or have you hit the âscared to deathâ stage?â Kelly had two kids and a wife who had just fallen pregnant again. âSeriously, mate, itâs hard work, but youâll love it, I promise you.â
A good friend, but there was plenty Paul hadnât told him.
âBy the way, I need to get fifteen quid off you.â
âWhat for?â
Kelly stuck out a hand. âTheyâre organising a leaving do for Bob Barker, a week on Friday.â
Paul dug into his wallet for the notes. âWhere is it?â
âStill arguing about that.â Kelly took the cash. âBe handier for us if it was round here, but some of those old buggers he worked with on the Flying Squad are pushing for somewhere north of the river. Iâll let you know.â
Paul looked past him, saw Detective Inspector Martin Bescott heading his way; pointing, open-mouthed, in mock-surprise at seeing him.
âOh yeah, he wants a word,â Kelly said.
The DI wouldnât be quite as easy to deal with as Kelly, but Paul knew he could handle it. He stood up and walked around his desk, smiling. Said, âI donât suppose a note from my mum would be any good, would it?â Fifteen quid down already, and a tricky ten minutes with his boss on the cards; but still, not too much that was going to piss him off this morning.
Not with what Kevin Shepherd was offering.
Shepherd had called a few days before: full of it, like they were old friends or something; tossing out an invitation to dinner that night at some new Italian place with âproperly cooked spudsâ and no âfucked-up French saucesâ. That was how
Emily White
Dara Girard
Geeta Kakade
Dianne Harman
John Erickson
Marie Harte
S.P. Cervantes
Frank Brady
Dorie Graham
Carolyn Brown