The Last Girl (17 page)

He looked dubious. ‘How long will you be?’

‘Not long,’ I lied.

‘Right.’ He threw back the sheet and swung his legs off the bed. ‘I’ll book a table at Torino’s for nine o’clock.’

I checked my watch again. ‘That actually doesn’t give me much time.’

‘I actually know.’ He leaned back and kissed my shoulder. ‘Better hurry up.’

In fact, I was ready forty-five minutes later, a near record considering I’d washed my hair and prettied myself up too. I wore a yellow cotton dress with a full skirt, an item of clothing completely unlike something a murder detective would wear. It was a dress that deserved high-heeled sandals so I dug them out, resigned to sacrificing
comfort
for fashion. Only women would think it was a fair trade-off, I thought, pivoting to see myself in the mirror. The fact was, the right shoes made all the difference, and Torino’s wasn’t far to walk. Or stagger.

Rob was reading when I went to tell him I was ready. He had managed to fit in a shave as well as changing into a clean shirt and jeans. Generally, he looked a lot more like himself. He glanced at me, then did a double-take. ‘Wow.’ He stood up and crossed the room, putting one hand behind my neck to draw me close enough for a kiss. ‘I meant what I said earlier, by the way.’

‘What do you mean?’ My voice was sharp.

‘You look beautiful today.’ He frowned a little. ‘What did you think I meant?’

‘Nothing.’ I checked my straps weren’t showing, acting casual. ‘Ready?’

‘Half an hour ago.’

‘Well then, what’s keeping us?’

‘Not much, I suppose.’ He still looked puzzled.

I chattered about nothing all the way to Torino’s, a small Italian restaurant in Battersea Square. That was a grand name for a triangle of pavement beside a surprisingly busy road, but on a warm summer night it was filled with tables from the nearby cafés and restaurants, and tiny fairy lights strung across the square gave it a magical feel. Rob had managed to book a table outside. I sat down opposite him and smiled, feeling relaxed for the first time. What did it matter that he had said he loved me at that particular time, in that particular way? Or that I hadn’t said the same in return? He knew me well enough to know I was wary of commitment, pathologically afraid of feeling too much for someone else and getting hurt. Trust was the issue, not love, and I couldn’t explain even to myself why I found it so hard to trust men – except that I saw good reasons every day to avoid making that mistake. Even Rob, who seemed to be a cut above the rest – certainly better than my last
boyfriend
before him – made me edgy. Especially when he surprised me. But why did I have to analyse every word for signs of impending doom? We were together, and that was all that mattered.

‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Lots,’ I said, disappearing into the menu, and when I resurfaced it was to the pop of a champagne cork. ‘What’s this?’

‘I just felt like it.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Drink it while it’s cold.’

There was something tremendously uplifting about drinking champagne for no particular reason, especially on an empty stomach. I got the giggles halfway through the first course, and Rob didn’t help by speculating about the couples dining around us.

‘They’ve had a row. This is a make-up or break-up dinner, and I think – yes, it’s going to be a break-up.’ The blonde three tables over dabbed at her eyes, smearing mascara. Her dining companion was staring at his food, obviously wishing he was somewhere more private. His ears were scarlet. ‘Oh, there she goes …’

The blonde was threading an unsteady path between the tables.

‘Maybe she’s just going to the loo.’

He shook his head. ‘She threw her napkin down on her plate. She’s not coming back.’

The man she had been with summoned the waiter.

‘Ordering dessert for both of them,’ I suggested.

‘Getting the bill.’

‘Damn,’ I said softly, watching the waiter print it out. ‘You’re good at this.’

‘People are people.’ He leaned towards me, dropping his voice as he indicated the next table to us. ‘They haven’t had sex yet but he’s pretty sure tonight’s the night.’ An ultra-posh boy in a pink polo shirt was pouring wine for
his
date, who was all tousled hair and lip gloss. ‘She’s not going to let him near her, but she’ll send out all the signs that it’s going to happen. He has at least two more dinners left in him before he gives up hope.’

‘What makes you say that, you cynic?’

‘He’s scrawny, he has no chin whatsoever, his signet ring is the real deal and he’s wearing a pink shirt without irony. He must be rich. She, on the other hand, is not only well off but a bit of a looker under the make-up and hair. She can do better. In fact, she’s probably only with him to meet his mates.’

‘What about them?’ I indicated an older couple who were drinking coffee, holding hands across the table.

‘Married. But to other people. Tonight is their one chance to be together.’

‘How sweet.’

‘Is it?’ He shook his head. ‘They’re hurting the ones they’re supposed to love the most.’

‘Only if they find out, surely.’

‘Whether they find out or not, it’s still wrong.’ His mood had changed and I wasn’t really surprised that the next thing he said was, ‘How’s work?’

‘You asked me that already.’

‘You said you’d hit a dead end.’

I told him what had happened that day with Lydia, and at the end of her father’s interview. ‘Funnily enough, Kennford didn’t hang around to see if Derwent was all right.’

Rob grunted. ‘I would have wanted to put a couple of miles between me and him too.’

‘He took it well, actually. He made a big deal out of how it hadn’t been a fair fight and Kennford had taken him by surprise.’

‘Oh, because it would never have happened if he’d been on his guard.’

‘No, he’s far too good at fighting for that.’

‘I would have loved to see him go down.’ Rob sounded almost dreamy as he imagined it.

‘It made my day – that and Godley telling Derwent he wasn’t allowed to arrest Kennford for assaulting him because it was his fault in the first place. Even better, the commotion attracted the attention of anyone who was in chambers, so on my way out I bumped into a barrister I’d met before. I didn’t know he was at Kennford’s set, but he’s been there since he qualified, apparently.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Kit Harries.’

‘I know him. Good bloke.’

‘He’s one of the only ones who does any meaningful prosecution work there. He said there’s not much competition for it so he gets his pick of what comes in. He’s being monitored for Treasury Counsel.’

‘Ooh, fancy.’

‘I hope he gets it.’ Treasury Counsel prosecuted the majority of serious crimes – murders, terrorism, the big stuff. Kit, who was fair and round-faced and misleadingly young in appearance, seemed an unlikely choice for them. But he was good at his job, I’d found, and I’d liked him a lot. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t really talk to him while the senior clerk was watching, but he mentioned he was going to be at the Old Bailey tomorrow. I thought I’d drift along and see if he had any inside information on Kennford.’

‘Good thinking.’

‘Thank you.’ I trawled through my salad, picked up a baby new potato on the end of my fork and examined it critically. ‘You know, my mother would say this wasn’t fit for human consumption.’

‘How come?’

‘According to her, potatoes this small are pig food. She hasn’t really accepted that they’re considered a delicacy now.’

‘And given that we’re talking about your mother, I
imagine
she never will. Eat up, piggy. But make sure you leave room for dessert.’

‘I’m not sure I can manage it. Coffee, though.’

‘Keep you awake.’

‘It would have a job.’ I yawned. ‘Sorry. I’m not bored. Just tired.’

‘Didn’t you sleep earlier?’

I shook my head.

‘Now I feel even more of a heel for passing out.’

‘You needed it.’ I hesitated before I went any further. Something warned me to tread carefully. ‘Is everything okay at work?’

‘Fine.’ One word, no detail. I ploughed on.

‘It’s just that you seemed so worn out. I haven’t seen you like that – ever, actually. And I’ve seen you busy before, you know.’

‘It’s a different kind of work. Lots of watching and waiting. It’s all right when it works out, but when it all goes to shit you don’t have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve got the bad guys. And we didn’t, today.’

‘Bad intel?’

‘Bad op.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Sitting in the back seat, you can see how it should be done. When you’re the one calling the shots, things aren’t always so clear.’

‘Your boss got it wrong?’

‘Basically. Picked the wrong moment to try to arrest the wrong people. We blew our cover and got nothing.’

I sipped my champagne. ‘What’s her name again?’

‘DI Deborah Ormond.’ There was nothing to read into his tone, which was matter of fact.

‘Is she nice?’

‘She’s okay.’

‘She’s supposed to be good.’

‘Not today.’ He put his knife and fork together. ‘I’ve forgotten, did you want dessert?’

‘No.’ I wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Are you enjoying it, Rob?’

‘What, work? It’s fine.’

‘Are you sorry you left the team?’ I had to know, even though it was basically my fault he’d gone. I was the one who’d revealed, without meaning to, that we were a couple. And we’d both known the rule: relationships were not allowed in Godley’s team.

Rob knew what I was getting at. His eyes were steady as he reached across the table and took my hand. ‘I’m not sorry about us. Not even a little bit. The new job will be okay once I’ve settled in.’

So it wasn’t okay now despite what he’d said. I smiled anyway, or tried to, and joined in the discussion with the waiter about which dessert involved the most calorific intake. After Rob had absorbed something involving near-lethal levels of chocolate and I’d had an espresso that put a stop to the yawns for the time being, we walked back to the flat. We didn’t say much on the way, but Rob’s arm was around my shoulders and we walked in step with one another, in harmony.

Over the remainder of the meal I had talked myself out of being worried. There were bound to be problems with settling in to a new team, plus Rob had to get used to being a DS and all the extra responsibility that involved. He was working long, irregular hours, living off crap food and dealing with different levels of stress and frustration than he was used to. Of course he was a bit ill at ease. And he knew I would blame myself if he wasn’t happy. He was too fair – and too nice – to let me torture myself about it. That was enough to make him cagey about work. I couldn’t force him to talk. I just had to be there for him, I decided, and avoid adding to his problems by pitching a fit about never seeing him, and him not trusting me, and anything else my paranoid mind suggested.

Rob’s flat was on the third floor so we’d been able to
leave
the windows open. Even so, the air was like soup when we got back and a mosquito was whining in our bedroom.

‘Do you think it’ll rain?’

‘It should.’ Just as Rob answered me there was a low growl of thunder. ‘Too far away.’

‘Miles,’ I agreed. ‘Do you think we can leave the window open, then?’

‘If we don’t we’ll die.’

I got ready for bed while Rob stalked the mosquito, hunting it around the room with single-minded determination. It had been doing a fine job of lying low but made the mistake of flying past him and he caught it in his hand.

‘Ha. Look at that.’ The insect was a black smudge on his palm.

‘My hero.’

He lay down and turned out the light. ‘At least I caught something today.’

I was halfway to dozing already. ‘Well done.’

He laughed and leaned his cheek on the top of my head for a second. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘You too.’

‘Any second now.’

But I was aware he was still awake as I fell asleep. And at four, when the rain finally came, he was at the window by the time I woke up enough to remember it was open.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked, fuzzy with sleep.

‘Never better.’

‘Come back to bed.’

‘I will. Go back to sleep.’

I did, and maybe Rob did come back to bed for a while, but when I woke up in the morning I was on my own. The flat was quiet. He had already left.

Chapter Eight

AT THE OLD
Bailey I did my own version of a stakeout, loitering outside the robing room for an hour until I saw a familiar round face emerging. He was rigged out in full court regalia, his gown billowing as he walked, but his horsehair wig was squashed on top of the stack of pages and books he was carrying. Like most younger barristers he only put it on at the last minute rather than parading around in it. I couldn’t imagine having to wear a wig to do my job, let alone the Batman cape, but it lent him a certain dignity that Kit desperately needed. He had to be in his late thirties but his face had all the hard edge of a particularly sweet-natured choirboy.