She’d carefully watched all the trains arriving from York from around two in the afternoon. Unless Jack Hawksworth flew, which was unlikely, she was convinced she could meet him off one of these trains before he could disappear into the well-secured clutches of Scotland Yard. The tension building in her gut was about whether he would sneer and march straight past her. That too she considered unlikely; he probably wouldn’t be rude to a woman’s face. She was counting on that quality she sensed in him.
The board told her that the train arriving just before four had pulled in. Tired as much as stiff, she strolled over to the entrance of the platform, casting a hope that she’d see him because she couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for the next one. Her mouth felt thick from too much caffeine and she dug in her bag to find a mint.
Looking up after finally finding a battered old packet of gum, she slung the two remaining oblongs into her mouth and scanned the barrier where passengers were streaming through. Chewing determinedly, she couldn’t see him and was sighing her disappointment, twisting on her heel to head back to the main board, when she caught sight of a familiar tall shape disappearing ahead on the long strides of his ever so slightly bowed gait. He loped like Colin Firth as Mr Darcy, striding down the long gallery corridor of Pemberley. She pulled her bag’s straps high on her shoulder as she legged it after him, cursing the heels she wore.
‘Jack!’ she yelled. She couldn’t let him dip from her sight and leave the station. ‘Jack!’
He swung around as her cries finally reached him. He was frowning as she rushed up, breathing slightly hard. ‘Sorry, sorry . . . I, er . . . I couldn’t call out “Detective Superintendent” or everyone would have turned.’ As it was, people were glancing their way.
‘Lauren, right?’
‘Er, yes,’ she confirmed. Today she was dressed more formally but curiously didn’t feel any more confident beneath his greyish gaze. No policeman should be this distracting. ‘From—’
‘From the fabulous My Day. Yes, how could I forget?’ It was dryly said but somehow he managed not to make it entirely scornful. If anything, he looked amused . . . and somehow that was worse; now she felt like a joke. ‘Are you following me?’ he asked when she didn’t reply.
‘Not technically, no.’
‘Ah, coincidence?’
‘No.’ She couldn’t lie to him, for some reason.
He gave her a grin she desperately hoped was genuine. ‘So, what are you doing?’
‘Waiting for you?’
‘I see. How nice.’
She laughed now, fresh mortification spilling out of guilt and despair and making her feel like the worst kind of annoying journalist. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what? I can hardly complain about a greeting party at King’s Cross . . . that would be churlish, surely?’ It was said kindly but with the slightest hint of warning.
She looked at him, unsure of where this could go. Was he cross? Was he disgusted? Was he simply laughing at her?
He checked his watch and she got ready for the polite excuse. ‘Do you feel like a drink?’
Had she misheard? She stared a moment longer than seemed intelligent, making sure she hadn’t. ‘Yes,’ she lied.
‘Good. Do you mind a walk?’
Lauren shook her head, taken by surprise, and felt herself smiling as she tried to keep up with Hawksworth’s distinctive Darcy stride.
‘Been to The Queen’s Head?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I think you’ll like it. It’s a rather old-fashioned pub from Victorian days.’
‘You don’t care for gastropubs?’
‘Well, no, I’m not a fan, but to be fair I think some of the newly renovated pubs have breathed new life into dying places. I’m all for not losing the pub culture, but I do yearn for the old kind of slightly grubby pub with its sticky bar and cosy atmosphere.’
‘You sound like my dad,’ she admitted.
‘Please don’t tell me I’m old enough to be your father,’ he bleated.
She laughed. ‘No, not at all. My dad’s sixty-two and you’re what . . . thirty-five, thirty-six?’
‘You’re kind,’ he said in a tone of disbelief. ‘Add a couple.’
‘I’ve dated men my own age who look twice yours. You could step in for James Bond when Daniel Craig gets tired of the role.’ Did she really just say that? Lauren . . . oh, Lauren, she thought. You idiot!
He gusted a self-conscious laugh. ‘You know how to flatter, Lauren. Come on, here we go,’ he said, slowing to open the door of a cute-looking pub with a cloud of second-hand nicotine hanging over the drinkers.
‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.
‘No. Hate it. My grandad smoked like a train and my father did for the first few years of my life.’
‘Good. I can’t wait for the law to go through that forbids it.’
‘Do you reckon they’ll be able to enforce it?’ She looked doubtful.
‘By the end of this summer, there’ll be no more smoking allowed in this or any other pub in England. Imagine that – a clear atmosphere.’ His certainty made her feel optimistic, but she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t because of pub smoke . . . more his truthful manner. She doubted Hawksworth made a promise he wouldn’t keep or held an opinion on something he didn’t believe wholly in – or even said anything without consideration. That was refreshing. The last man who’d caught her attention had been a liar, a thief, a full-on rogue and a cheat. ‘What’s your poison, Lauren?’
‘Er . . . a gin and tonic would be great, thank you.’
‘Are you happy to find us a seat and I’ll bully my way through to the bar?’
She nodded.
‘I also have to make a call. I promise to make it quick.’
She guessed he must be making a call to the woman in his life, explaining that he’d been waylaid by work and would be home soon. She wondered where he lived, what sort of partner was waiting at home; he would probably make a good dad, but she sensed he wasn’t one. So, a professional couple maybe? She’d either be in health . . . perhaps a GP, or she could see him with an artist. Someone who sat at home in their airy, glass-filled villa that let loads of sunlight into one of the rooms they’d designated a studio. She’d be a modern artist . . . abstract, lots of colour. Lauren could picture her barefoot, in slim jeans and a baggy pastel sweater, golden hair carelessly scooped up. No make-up because even in her mid-thirties she was still fresh-faced and far too pretty to improve upon her features. They’d have a dog called Buddy that they called Boo just between themselves. Bugger it, she felt envious of someone who may not even exist. She peeped through the pub-goers and could see him speaking on his phone while paying for the drinks. He looked hassled. Was she the cause?
A few moments later she watched him shoulder his way through the drinkers to find her tucked away at a small table.
‘I asked for a slice of lemon. Hope that’s okay?’
She grinned as he handed her the gin and tonic. ‘It’s perfect.’
He sat. ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking her glass with his before sipping on a small beer. He gave a soft sigh of pleasure as it seemed to hit the spot. ‘So, Lauren. Why the stake-out?’
Straight to the point, then. Be direct back, Lauren, she urged herself. No squirming. ‘I know you’ve been north to visit the crime scene where Davey Robbins was murdered.’
She watched the formerly amused grey gaze turn troubled. ‘I can’t talk about that.’
‘Well, I’m writing about it.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Probably as much as you do.’
He paused and she could see he was thinking back over his day. ‘Ah, the nosy reporter from The Yorkshire Gazette?’
She grinned. ‘You make a good detective.’
‘And I have to hand it to you, you’re a wily journo.’
‘Thank you . . . if that is a genuine compliment.’
‘It is. And meeting me . . . how does this fit into your plan?’
‘To
be honest, I thought if I could catch you off guard – you know, surprising you at the train station where you least expect to see media – you’d accidentally spill something to me,’ she said, not sure if she was trying to be amusing or just candid.
‘You have caught me off guard, which is why we’re here, drinking like friends, and I didn’t just stomp away. But that doesn’t mean I lose my focus. I don’t like being followed.’
‘If I apologised, I wouldn’t be sincere because now I know I’m onto something.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of you! Why would such a senior guy from Scotland Yard make a trip to freezing North Yorkshire unless the murder victim was of interest to him and the case he’s working on?’
‘I’m not working on a case.’
‘I think you’re lying.’
They both paused to sip their drinks, like two fencers touching swords and testing each other.
He smacked his lips and put his beer down. ‘I’m not lying.’ She believed him. ‘I’m not working a case.’
Semantics. Try again, she forced herself. ‘An operation, then.’
He said nothing but his eyes narrowed.
‘An operation?’ This time it was loaded with query.
‘I can’t say anything, Lauren.’
‘I knew it!’
‘It’s actually not what you think.’
‘Then set me straight.’
He considered again. His pauses were awkward for her but apparently not for him; he looked at ease as he pondered his internal battle to tell her more.
‘Set you straight? Okay, then, I think you’re extremely talented; few would have sleuthed out what you have as agilely and swiftly. And I also think the magazine you work for is insulting to that talent.’
Lauren grimaced at his words. ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she said as a throwaway line so she could look away awkwardly and not confront the truth of what he’d said.
‘All right,’ he said, pausing. She waited for some sort of placation. He picked up his glass again and looked at it. ‘I’m drinking a beer called Old Speckled Hen. Now, this beer originated from the Morland Brewery in Oxfordshire to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the MG car factory based there. Curiously, it was named for one of the old MGs that the workers used to run errands in and around the factory and the town. And because its regular and somewhat careless use resulted in it becoming covered in random flecks of paint, it won itself the nickname of “Owld speckled ’un” and that morphed into Old Speckled Hen – the first brown ale brewed by Morland.’ He stopped talking and stared at her, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he grinned. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t know that?’
Lauren couldn’t help blasting out a laugh of pure joy. ‘Tell me something else I don’t know.’
‘Er . . .’ He grinned, searching for another item of trivia to share. ‘This area is believed by many to be where the legendary battle between Queen Boudicca and the Roman invaders took place. The story goes that the final resting place of the warrior queen of the Iceni is under one of the platforms here.’
She stared at him. ‘You should go on Mastermind. Are you always like this?’
He shrugged. ‘You asked me to tell you something you didn’t know.’
Lauren laughed helplessly. ‘Detective Superintendent Hawksworth, you’re fun.’
‘I’m pleased, because I sensed we were about to disappear into a melancholy conversation.’
She studied his expression, which was far too kind in this moment, then nodded. ‘I hate my life,’ she admitted.
‘So change it.’
‘That’s easy to say.’
‘It’s easy to do, Lauren,’ he replied as fast as a whipcrack on her words. ‘It’s all up here,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘Make a decision to make a change and you’ll find yourself on a new pathway. All it takes is one simple decision . . . to take control. And, of course, if you can choose the right pathway, you’ll change your life for the better. If you don’t choose wisely, then at least you tried and you can shift pathways again. Stagnating is what will do you in.’
‘He took all of me . . . all that I owned, all that I was.’ Jack waited, didn’t comment. ‘I fell for everything about him. I really loved him. What I realise now, with the clarity of pain, poverty and humiliation, is that I loved the character he projected; it was all acting. He was good at it too: romantic, affectionate, supportive, exciting, fun . . . I was all in and I’d never been in love until I met him. My girlfriends used to joke I’d be the old spinster among them and always available to babysit. And then Dan came along.’
She sipped her drink, tasting the pleasantly sour tang of the lemon, and hardly noticed that her companion hadn’t spoken but was watching her earnestly. She felt slightly mesmerised by his gaze and, without planning to, kept talking. ‘He was such a catch. His lifestyle was thrilling, you know? He called himself an entrepreneur, and when we met, he was involved in a new tech start-up, which was exciting. He was on the brink of leaving Britain for the US – headed for Silicon Valley, but planned to buy an apartment in New York.’ She sighed. ‘Fuck! I fell so hard for him, his lies, his promises. We got engaged – it was a whirlwind. My family was astonished and so happy for the old maid; my friends were all jealous because he was handsome and charming and apparently loaded. He drove the right car, he had the right address, dressed like a mannequin . . . clearly worshipped me.’
‘All smoke and mirrors?’
She nodded, wiping away helpless tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I’m sensing you don’t talk about this much.’
‘You’re the first person I’ve revealed my feelings to since I came home from America. I’ve avoided all my old pals. They’re embarrassed for me but probably think he dumped me, when in fact I had to escape him, borrow money to get home.’
‘Your family?’
‘It’s a terrible disappointment for them. I don’t want sympathy, but I also don’t want them to know how deeply angry I am for being so gullible.’
‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Oh, it’s my round,’ she said, As she reached for her bag, she felt the warmth of his hand on hers.
‘Let me, Lauren. I’ll put it on the Met’s expense account.’ He stood before she could protest. ‘Same again?’ She sniffed and nodded. He was back surprisingly fast with a refreshed pair of drinks.
‘Another Hen?’ she asked, trying to lighten her own mood.
‘Ah, no. This time I’m having a London Pride.’
‘Will you be sharing its history with me?’
‘I think I’ve bored you plenty already.’ He grinned. ‘Cheers again.’
Their glasses clinked. She shook her head. ‘You are far from boring. Tell me something else I may not know,’ she said, harking back to their previous conversation, wishing she hadn’t deflated their happy atmosphere.
He watched her over the top of his half pint as though reaching a decision. ‘That you are onto something that is a long way from simply titillating.’
The glass was halfway to her mouth. ‘Are you playing with me?’
He shook his head once, slowly.
‘How close?’
‘Enough that you’re stepping into dangerous territory.’
‘Shit! Tell me.’
‘No. It doesn’t work that way. Tell me what you know. If, after I hear it, I deem it’s permissible, I’ll talk to some people and see if we can let you in on some stuff.’
She sat straighter, hardly daring to believe they were having this conversation.
‘But Lauren . . . this is not a discussion to be having with My Day.’
She shook her head in confusion.
‘I’ve spoken to the man at the top of our media team about you.’
‘What, just now?’ She frowned.
‘Yes, that was the call.’
So much for the gorgeous artist waiting at home and Boo the dog.
‘Wha
t did he say?’
‘I’ve told him you’re not going to let this go.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘He did when I told him you were my welcoming party at King’s Cross.’ He smiled and she gave a self-conscious chuckle. ‘The head of our press office is a genial sort of fellow.’
‘What does that mean for me?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet, but at least I’m following protocol. If you do too, then it might mean that we can offer some sort of exclusive briefing.’
Her mouth opened in surprise.
‘I’m not promising anything, Lauren, but if you follow my suggestions and you respect confidentiality, then just maybe you’ll get your scoop.’
She nodded.
‘I need to know if I can rely on you, though.’
‘I promise.’
‘Someone had to tip you off,’ he remarked.
She looked down. ‘I can’t talk about that.’
‘You’re going to have to.’
‘I really can’t.’
‘But you want me to share highly confidential material?’
It felt like a stand-off. And Lauren could tell he was in no mood to negotiate any further – and if she was honest, he had been more than generous in not simply giving her the finger at the railway station.
‘It was a friend,’ she said finally, knowing he needed her to capitulate. ‘Well, actually she made it clear I’d burned that friendship by cornering her for information.’
‘Cornering?’
‘She thought I would leverage an indiscretion of hers from years ago that could bring grief to her family.’
‘You’d do that?’ He looked disappointed.
Lauren was surprised by how much his disappointment hurt and indeed mattered to her. ‘No, never. I was just pressing for information.’
‘She works for the Met, presumably?’
‘I won’t give you her name because, in her defence, she told me nothing connected to any of the crimes; she doesn’t have that sort of access.’
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