The Reckoning (25 page)

As he pulled up outside the house, he whistled. ‘Very grand.’

‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? It’s practically falling down. Besides, I only have a tiny bit of it.’

‘Which is your flat?’

I pointed. ‘Ground floor. I’ve got the bay window.’

‘Thief magnet,’ Derwent observed. ‘Never rent on the ground floor. Especially if you’re a woman on your own. Too dangerous.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ I got out of the car and slammed the door as hard as I could. I hoped it would make his ears ring. I heard his window whine down as I walked towards the front door and braced myself for the comeback.

‘Look after yourself, Maeve.’

I turned, suspicious. ‘Are you being
nice?
’

‘I’m just worried you’ll sue me if you have any long-term damage.’

‘For everything you’ve got and then some.’ I waved as he drove away, tyres squealing. Derwent was not what you could call understated. I walked up the steps and let myself into the house, planning a long soak in the bath to get rid of the hospital grime. A night in front of the TV sounded like a good plan.

A good plan it may have been, but it wasn’t meant to be. Chris Swain was standing in the hall talking to a jaw-droppingly handsome fair-haired man – on the short side, but green eyes and a dazzling smile made up for the lack of height. Chris was somehow diminished by him, even though he was a shade taller. Then again, he was the sort of person who would never stand out in a crowd of two. The pair of them turned and stared at me.

‘Jesus, Maeve. What happened to you?’ Chris’s hands clenched into fists. ‘It wasn’t your boyfriend, was it?’

‘Oh no.
No
. Definitely not. And he’s not my boyfriend anyway.’ I floundered, not having thought of a reason for my injury. ‘It was just an accident at work. Nothing serious.’

‘What sort of an accident?’ Mr Beautiful had a great voice too, resonant and mellow. ‘Oh God, did you fall off the pole?’

‘It’s the height, isn’t it? You must think I’m a pole-vaulter because I’m so tall. Because I know you’re not suggesting I’m a stripper.’ I was trying not to laugh. His timing was impeccable; I had a feeling I was looking at my neighbour the actor, and his next words confirmed it.

‘Brody.’ He held out his hand. ‘We haven’t met, but I’ve heard all about you. Maeve, isn’t it? What is it you do for a living that’s so dangerous?’

Half-speed thinking let me down again. I found myself telling him the truth. ‘I’m a detective constable with the Metropolitan Police.’

‘Are you serious?’ Chris was looking stunned.

‘Absolutely.’

He shook his head and said, for no apparent reason, ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’

‘I’m off duty,’ I said drily. ‘There’s no need to panic. Unless you’ve been breaking the law, of course.’

He laughed, but he didn’t look pleased. It was the same old shit, the same wariness for no apparent reason, the same us-and-them knee-jerk response and I couldn’t be bothered to deal with it. I turned to let myself into my flat.

‘Where are you going?’ Brody draped himself over the wall beside my door, one arm up so he could lean his head against it in a typical poster-boy pose. ‘Why don’t you come upstairs for a drink?’

‘Because I’m tired and I need a bath,’ I snapped. He was cute, but I wasn’t in the market for flirting. As if he realised I was out of patience, he straightened up and dropped the smarm.

‘Come for one drink. Chris is coming too. He’s got the gin and I’ve got the tonic. If you have any ice, you’ll have earned your place at the table.’

A tray of cubes was the only thing in my freezer compartment. I wavered. ‘I do, actually.’

‘Then you can’t leave us hanging.’ He gave me a pleading look. ‘Just one drink. You look as if you need it after the day you’ve had. And I definitely do. Do you know how hard it is to get a decent G&T in Romania?’

‘Is that where you’ve been?’

‘For months. And now I’ve finally been written out.’

‘Killed off?’

‘Not quite. Married, which in kids’ TV is the same thing. My story is over.’ He bowed deeply. When he straightened up, he was laughing. ‘Christ, it’ll take a while to lose the medieval courtliness. I hope I don’t get an audition for
EastEnders
until I’ve got it out of my system.’

Agreeing seemed to be my only way out of this conversation. I was struggling to keep pace with it as it was. ‘You’re on the top floor, aren’t you? I’ll come up with the ice in a few minutes.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the prospect of a drink with the Vladimir and Estragon of Northcliffe Road. Walter, of course, is Godot. Szuszanna is noises off.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard her and Gyorgy going at it? The music is supposed to drown it out, you know, but they still sound like foxes fucking. I haven’t the heart to tell her.’

I looked at Chris. ‘Do you understand half of what he says?’

‘Not even that much.’ He shrugged. ‘Come on, Brody.’

The two men started up the stairs, Brody taking them two at a time, holding his hand out as if he was clutching a sword. Chris trudged after him with his head bent, watching his feet as he climbed, not an ounce of showmanship in him.

‘This is how I stormed the castle,’ floated back down to me. I unlocked my door, shaking my head in wonder. I had had some strange housemates in my time, but Brody Lee was in a category of his own. In spite of myself, I was rather looking forward to getting to know him better. Besides, I needed distracting. I wanted noise and conversation and not to think about work, or the look on Godley’s face when he said he would teach Skinner a lesson, or the fact that a fourteen-year-old girl was missing and every passing second made it less likely we would find her at all, alive or dead. Not thinking about all of that seemed like the best idea I’d had all day.

I wasn’t what you would call a slow mover, but it took me a while to get myself ready for socialising. I had wanted a bath – I had dreamed of a bath – but I settled for a shower, peeling off my crumpled clothes with relief and dropping them in a pile on the bathroom floor. If I never wore them again, I wouldn’t be heartbroken.

I stood under the shower with my eyes closed for several long minutes, letting go of the day before I spent time with civilians. It was hard to explain the things I did and saw as part of my job and I hoped against hope that I could put Brody off if he asked about it. He did seem like the kind of person who would be happy to talk about himself all evening. On the other hand, he had a quality I would have liked to possess, the ability to put a question in such a direct way that the person on the receiving end finds themselves answering whether they want to or not. I was regretting already that my cover was blown. Not that it mattered. I hadn’t been looking for reasons to arrest my new housemates. I was more than happy to give them their privacy, assuming they were prepared to give me mine.

I could have stayed in the shower for longer but I couldn’t ignore the fact that the water was stinging on my skin. After I had dried off I stood in front of the long mirror in my bedroom to take stock, discovering an elbow raw with carpet burn and a bluish shadow down my left thigh, the promise of a really lovely bruise that ran more or less hip to knee. I had fallen with a clatter, taken by surprise. It wasn’t remarkable that I had souvenirs. Annoyed by the enormous square bandage I unpeeled the tape, gambling that what was underneath would be less eye-catching. It was not a pretty sight – a bluish red bump with a puncture at the centre where the edge of the TV table had broken the skin.

‘Survivable,’ I said to my reflection, not allowing myself to meet my own eyes in the mirror. I got dressed briskly, pretending it was business as usual, but I felt somehow fragile. I had not allowed myself to slow down after the attack that put me in hospital some months earlier, as if admitting I had been properly hurt would make my recovery harder. This was nothing in comparison, yet I wasn’t able to shrug it off. It made me feel vulnerable, and I hated that.

I brushed my hair in Brody’s honour but that was the extent of the prettying up; I was too tired and battered to try to look good. Anyway, I didn’t care enough to bother. I had identified Brody as a flirt, the kind who charmed women just to keep his hand in, and although he was easy on the eye, he didn’t do it for me.

His flat, however, most definitely did appeal. When he opened the door I gasped, and not just because I was still out of breath from climbing the stairs.

‘Wow.’

‘I get that reaction a lot. You look pretty wow yourself, if it comes to that. Nice top.’

‘I was talking about this room.’ I walked past him, turning in a circle to take it in.

‘My last girlfriend did it. She was an interior designer. Very keen on paint.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You can imagine how interesting.’

I was barely listening. The flat took up the whole attic of the house, and practically all of it was one open-plan space. The ceiling was steeply pitched but that added character, even if it would have irritated the hell out of me to live with it. Brody, being pocket-sized, probably didn’t bang his head as much as I would have. The whole thing was painted white – floorboards, ceiling, walls. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture, though it was an appealing mixture of contemporary and vintage pieces in tones of beige and cream. It was cynical to wonder if that was because the colours went so well with his hair, but then I was cynical by nature. I dodged under a chrome floor lamp that arched over ten feet, ending in a big paper lantern. It cast a pool of light over the coffee table, which was made of wine crates glued together. This was clearly the height of hipster chic rather than cheap student-style improvisation. Three glasses were already sitting on the table, fizzing gently. Chris was leaning back in a scruffy tan leather armchair, one foot crossed over the other knee. He waved at me awkwardly and it was a gesture so unstudied in comparison to Brody’s careful elegance that I felt a rush of affection for him. If it was mixed with pity, he didn’t need to know that. I waved back.

‘I’ve poured already,’ Brody said.

‘So I see.’ I handed him the bowl of ice. ‘Do the honours.’

He dropped three cubes into each drink as I sat down in the chair next to Chris, and handed me a glass. ‘Get it down you. You’re one behind. We couldn’t wait until you got here.’

‘Desperate for a drink?’ I wasn’t surprised; I had smelt it on his breath as soon as he opened the door. It explained Chris’s flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.

‘Darling, you can’t imagine.’ He looked at the table. ‘Shit. I forgot the nibbles. Can’t have drinks without nibbles.’

‘Don’t worry on my account,’ I began, but he was gone. I heard him rummaging in the tiny kitchen, opening cupboards and clanking bowls.

I turned to find Chris leaning towards me.

‘Ignore most of it. He always takes a while to settle down when he’s been away. He’s not always such a luvvie.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ I took a sip and the burn from the gin almost drowned out the sweetness of the tonic. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Yeah, he knows how to make a proper drink.’

‘Don’t tell anyone but I used to be a barman. And I might be again if I don’t get another gig.’ Brody put a bowl of cashews down between us. ‘Fair warning – these are a few months out of date.’

Chris peered at them. ‘You know, I have a phobia of dying in a stupid way. Being poisoned by a dodgy nut would be on the list. Are you sure they’re okay?’

‘Nope.’ He leaned over and took a handful. ‘It’s like Russian roulette, isn’t it? Come on, Chris. Live a little.’

I took advantage of the bickering to set my glass down on the table. The ice would melt and dilute my drink a little if I left it for a while. I wasn’t a big drinker and I didn’t like getting drunk with people I barely knew. Too many victim statements began with that scenario. And that pretty much summed up why cops weren’t like normal people.

As if Brody had read my mind, he turned to me. ‘So, Maeve, we’ve been speculating like mad on what you actually do. What sort of thing do you detect?’

‘Serious crime.’ I left it at that, hoping that a bald answer would deter Brody from asking anything more. His eyes narrowed.

‘What counts as serious? Murder? Rape? Child abuse?’

‘That sort of thing.’

He paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. ‘You’re shitting me, aren’t you? You don’t investigate murders.’

‘Quite often, actually.’ I looked at Chris, who was still leaning back, a cryptic half-smile on his face. The only sign that he wasn’t completely relaxed was that his foot was tapping restlessly. ‘Is that so hard to believe?’

‘Yes,’ Brody said instantly. ‘You’re too pretty. You’d never get cast on a cop show. Not as the heroine, anyway. You might make a good job of being the hero’s girlfriend.’ He raised his eyebrows at me as if inviting me to suggest he’d be an ideal person to play the hero.

‘I’ll stick to real life, then.’ I picked up my drink and took another minuscule sip for the sake of having something to do. The raw alcohol almost made me choke.

‘What are you working on at the moment?’

I couldn’t face telling him about the murders. ‘We’re looking for a teenager who’s gone missing.’

‘Don’t they do that sort of thing all the time?’ Brody sounded completely uninterested.

‘Some do. We just want to trace this girl to make sure she’s okay.’

Chris was nodding, earnest as ever. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Cheyenne.’

‘Classy.’ Brody popped another nut into his mouth. ‘What happened to your face? Did you get punched?’

‘It was an accident.’

‘Come on, give us the details.’ He looked at Chris. ‘Cagey, isn’t she?’

‘Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it, Brody.’ Chris’s voice was quiet but firm.

‘I think our Maeve was being brave. I think she threw herself in front of someone to protect them from being hurt and she caught the punch instead. Am I right?’

‘Completely,’ I said, nodding slowly. ‘You couldn’t be more right.’

‘Thought so. It’s like a gift. And I bet I’m right in saying that you like living dangerously.’

‘Not particularly.’