vengeance to God. He’s never far away. Your time will come when our objective is secured.”
Victoria re-crossed her legs and felt sweat catch on the back strap of her bra. She suddenly realised if the room did not rate the air-conditioning switched on, no-one had booked the room out. The meeting was off record.
Sean agreed with Victoria’s suggestion they should meet in an Italian café off Church Street, Stoke Newington. He considered it close enough to the crime scene and neutral enough for neither to lose face. The clink of spoon on cup, the scrape of a chair and hiss of espresso steam, along with the chatter of echoed voices, gave no chance for eavesdropping. Mothers, kids, workers, students, all gave the place normality. Victoria presented the same image he remembered, a good figure, smart clothes, her eyes bright and inquisitive. It was the same image that had tempted him two years ago to love the person beneath. In the first seconds of eye contact he realised her appeal had not diminished.
“I recommend the cappuccino,” she said, and without waiting for a reply called his order to the counter.
“Black coffee,” he countermanded and sat in the chair opposite, watching the twitch in her smile.
“When we did our undercover training together, you always drank cappuccino.” The smile became warm and seemingly innocent, if he hadn’t known her from old.
“Times change. You still sleep in clam-tight pyjamas?”
“Only when I’m on operations with a large hairy male beside me. Other times I have a preference for silk.” She paid the waitress three pounds. “My treat.” She smiled again, raised carefully plucked eyebrows and snapped closed her purse.
One up to her, he thought and felt himself mellow.
“How are the girls?”
“Rebecca’s in rocket mode. I swear her skirt hitches higher by the hour. Sophie, thank goodness, is still a child.”
“Trouble is, little girls grow bigger every day. Hope they’re not giving you too hard a time.”
Sean sipped from his cup and detected the sensual smell of her perfume over the aroma of coffee. “I have a mature nanny, she keeps house and looks after the girls with best friend love. She’s French and her cooking is magnificent.” Victoria eyes widened in mock surprise. She knew that, he thought, and wondered what else she had researched on his personal life. That his bank balance was always stretched by school fees, his clothes past their throwaway date and his mortgage hovering on arrears. “How’s it with you?” he asked. “Hear you left the job.”
“Principles are hard to live with. I’m now a spook; K Branch, serious crime.”
“Active or administrative?”
“Covert mainly. Not a lot different from SOCA.” She sipped coffee then touched a napkin to her lips.
“And this operation?” Sean watched her eyes come up, big, brown eyes that locked onto his. Cups clattered on nearby tables and the espresso machine again hissed steam.
“Business … in a very personal way. Like it or not, MI5 hacks all main police computers including the Met Crime Report Information System. When Sinclair, and then Cobbart, lifted details on my casework, I got an automatic e-mail. Out of the blue came an opportunity to clear the record. I talked to Cobbart, made downtime, and here I am.”
“You want to screw Creech?”
“In a most unsavoury manner.”
“So, where do we start?”
“Sinclair was murdered,” she whispered, glancing at those who sat nearest.
“No proof.”
“He was a serious alcoholic and probably suffered from acute depression, but you must remember, he was also a member of the old school. A good Mason, in the right lodges; a good club member, and for most of his career, a good copper. He may have shot himself, may have taken a long swim out to sea, but jump from the window of a derelict council flat in Stoke Newington, never.”
That’s what the Old Boys would think, Sean thought. That’s
Victoria re-crossed her legs and felt sweat catch on the back strap of her bra. She suddenly realised if the room did not rate the air-conditioning switched on, no-one had booked the room out. The meeting was off record.
Sean agreed with Victoria’s suggestion they should meet in an Italian café off Church Street, Stoke Newington. He considered it close enough to the crime scene and neutral enough for neither to lose face. The clink of spoon on cup, the scrape of a chair and hiss of espresso steam, along with the chatter of echoed voices, gave no chance for eavesdropping. Mothers, kids, workers, students, all gave the place normality. Victoria presented the same image he remembered, a good figure, smart clothes, her eyes bright and inquisitive. It was the same image that had tempted him two years ago to love the person beneath. In the first seconds of eye contact he realised her appeal had not diminished.
“I recommend the cappuccino,” she said, and without waiting for a reply called his order to the counter.
“Black coffee,” he countermanded and sat in the chair opposite, watching the twitch in her smile.
“When we did our undercover training together, you always drank cappuccino.” The smile became warm and seemingly innocent, if he hadn’t known her from old.
“Times change. You still sleep in clam-tight pyjamas?”
“Only when I’m on operations with a large hairy male beside me. Other times I have a preference for silk.” She paid the waitress three pounds. “My treat.” She smiled again, raised carefully plucked eyebrows and snapped closed her purse.
One up to her, he thought and felt himself mellow.
“How are the girls?”
“Rebecca’s in rocket mode. I swear her skirt hitches higher by the hour. Sophie, thank goodness, is still a child.”
“Trouble is, little girls grow bigger every day. Hope they’re not giving you too hard a time.”
Sean sipped from his cup and detected the sensual smell of her perfume over the aroma of coffee. “I have a mature nanny, she keeps house and looks after the girls with best friend love. She’s French and her cooking is magnificent.” Victoria eyes widened in mock surprise. She knew that, he thought, and wondered what else she had researched on his personal life. That his bank balance was always stretched by school fees, his clothes past their throwaway date and his mortgage hovering on arrears. “How’s it with you?” he asked. “Hear you left the job.”
“Principles are hard to live with. I’m now a spook; K Branch, serious crime.”
“Active or administrative?”
“Covert mainly. Not a lot different from SOCA.” She sipped coffee then touched a napkin to her lips.
“And this operation?” Sean watched her eyes come up, big, brown eyes that locked onto his. Cups clattered on nearby tables and the espresso machine again hissed steam.
“Business … in a very personal way. Like it or not, MI5 hacks all main police computers including the Met Crime Report Information System. When Sinclair, and then Cobbart, lifted details on my casework, I got an automatic e-mail. Out of the blue came an opportunity to clear the record. I talked to Cobbart, made downtime, and here I am.”
“You want to screw Creech?”
“In a most unsavoury manner.”
“So, where do we start?”
“Sinclair was murdered,” she whispered, glancing at those who sat nearest.
“No proof.”
“He was a serious alcoholic and probably suffered from acute depression, but you must remember, he was also a member of the old school. A good Mason, in the right lodges; a good club member, and for most of his career, a good copper. He may have shot himself, may have taken a long swim out to sea, but jump from the window of a derelict council flat in Stoke Newington, never.”
That’s what the Old Boys would think, Sean thought. That’s
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