by Amanda Fleet
He laughed, letting it rumble in his chest. He held her gaze for a moment before turning back to the cooking.
‘What just went in? I didn’t recognise the smell.’
‘Tarragon. French tarragon.’
‘Surely it should be half-French tarragon.’
He laughed again. ‘No. I learned all my cooking from my mother. And how to eat it all from my father.’
‘It all smells delicious. I’m starving!’
‘Five minutes.’ He turned the heat up under the pan and rummaged in a drawer, putting knives, forks and napkins in front of her.
‘Set the table? And draw the curtains?’
Summer grabbed the cutlery, slithering off the bar stool with alacrity. The room filled with the scent of herbs and meat. By the time she returned to the boundary of his domain, LB had served the chicken breasts and was adding cream to the saucepan, a look of deep concentration on his face as he stirred the sauce.
‘You really do love cooking, don’t you?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Actually, I really love eating good food. The one has to precede the other.’
He smiled at her and turned back to the meal, pouring the sauce over the chicken and adding a small sprig of tarragon to garnish. He drained the potatoes and slid them on to the plates, added the carrots, and waved her over to the table. Summer grabbed the wine and he followed her with the plates.
‘Sorry. I should have put the vegetables in a dish. But be flattered. I’m normally only this informal with family.’
She laughed, shaking her head at him. ‘Thank you. This looks delicious.’
He shrugged modestly and flicked his napkin across his lap. Before he could pick up his knife and fork, Summer leaned across and unthreaded his tie. He watched her with raised brows as she pulled it through his collar, rolled it up and put it on the far side of the table.
‘There. Now you look a bit more like Benedict and less like a cop.’
‘But I’m still a cop. Just a cop without a tie on. Why does my job bother you so much? What’s lurking in your background that makes you rail against it so much?’
‘I don’t know.’ She leaned back, stretching the distance between them. ‘My dad hates cops. Consequence of being busted for drugs so many times, I think. Maybe it’s rubbed off on me.’
Her voice was light but its flippancy didn’t convince him. He tried to imagine being brought up in a household where the police were distrusted so much. Coppers in the late twentieth century hadn’t always been known for their liberal views and he could believe that her parents’ alternative lifestyle hadn’t gone down well.
‘Did they ever bust the house?’
Summer toyed with her food, unable to look at him. ‘Mmm. Several times. All batons blazing. Thing is, Dad never dealt. He and Mum might have consumed, quite copiously at times, but they never dealt. Possession is nine tenths of the law though, right?’ The bitterness rang through her words.
‘Was he convicted? Of dealing?’
‘No. Both he and Mum were fined for possession once. After that they just got smarter about hiding it. They never dealt though. Not that that stopped the cops trying to prove they did.’
LB watched her push her food around. The wounds must be over twenty years old and yet they were still raw. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What? That my parents were hippies? Or that the police tried to plant evidence on them? I’m sure if you’d been a copper then, you’d have done exactly the same.’
‘But I wasn’t. And I wouldn’t. Don’t tar me with that brush. I’m really not that kind of copper.’
‘I know. I’m sorry… I’m not really angry with you. Maybe you’re just an easy target.’
‘Easy? I’m six foot three. You can’t bloody miss me.’
She laughed.
He stroked the back of her hand. ‘I’m really not that kind of copper.’
‘Sorry.’ She pulled her hand away.
He shrugged, dismissing her outburst as lightly as he could. She cut a slice from the edge of her chicken and popped it in her mouth.
‘Wow. This is amazing!’
He smiled modestly.
‘Your mother’s recipe or one of yours?’
‘One of my mother’s.’
‘Well, you can tell her that it’s excellent.’ She took a long drink from her wine. ‘Why no wife?’
He blinked at her, surprised. ‘Er… not all that compatible with the job, I suppose.’
‘Never come close?’
‘Once. But it never quite happened.’
‘What, did she crease the cushions too much?’
He smiled. ‘No. She just got tired of coming second.’
‘You don’t seem that sad.’
He sighed. ‘Regret is a pointless feeling. However much I regret it, however much I might wish things had been different, what changes? Nothing.’
‘That’s quite defeatist.’
‘No. That’s quite realistic. And anyway, she would have creased the cushions too much.’ He lifted his glass, his eyes holding hers over the rim, a smile poking into his cheek.
‘Well, she missed out on some great cooking, that’s all I can say.’ Summer speared another piece of chicken.
LB shrugged.
‘Girlfriend?’ she added.
He shook his head. ‘Don’t have time.’
They ate in silence for a few minutes, and he wondered how truthful his last answer was.
‘Benedict?’
Startled, his head snapped up, making her smile at his reaction. ‘Sorry. No one calls me that. I’m usually LB at work, or Ben. What did you want to ask?’
The smile on her face melted away. ‘Answer me honestly. Do you think Patrick’s dead?’
‘Until we find a body, we hope he’s alive.’
‘Don’t give me that! That’s not what I asked,’ she snapped.
He picked up her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. ‘At risk of riling you, you have to think he’s alive unless we find a body. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.’
‘But you think he’s dead?’
He breathed deeply. ‘I think the more days that pass without finding him, the slimmer the chance of finding him alive, yes. But I have to think he’s alive until we find a body.’
He squeezed her fingers, peering into her face. ‘As soon as you assume he’s dead, you’ll lose the urgency to find him.’ He kept rubbing her skin until she looked up, and then slipped her fingers into his again.
She nodded hesitantly. ‘You have beautiful hands, by the way.’
He laughed with surprise. ‘Thank you. What made you say that?’
She shook her head. ‘They’re just beautiful hands.’
They finished the meal in silence. After clearing the plates away, LB handed Summer a second bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
‘I think we both need it,’ he said when she raised her eyebrows at him.
More wine poured, they sat down on the sofa again, Summer still withdrawn. LB touched her hand softly.
‘Are you okay?’
She blinked away a blur of tears. ‘What would you do if I said no?’
‘What would you let me do?’
‘Hold me.’
He offered an open arm to her. She scooted down the sofa to lean against him and he tucked both arms around her, resting his cheek against her head.
‘Can you stop being DS Stewart for the rest of the evening and just be Benedict?’ she mumbled from the crisp cotton of his shirt.
‘I’d be delighted to. Since I’m supposed to be on holiday.’
He shifted his position to lean into the corner of the sofa more, taking her with him.
‘Still comfy?’
‘No.’
He laughed, letting her wriggle and rearrange herself against him, and then settled his arms around her again. She wormed her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, stroking the hairs on his chest. His hands carded her hair and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
>
‘There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better, is there?’ His voice was low.
‘No. He’s either dead or lost. And I know things between us weren’t close, but he was part of my life for a while and he asked for my help. And I’ve spectacularly failed him.’
LB struggled for words. None of the facts they’d uncovered about Patrick were helping to find him, and he knew platitudes would merely irk her, so he let her cuddle against him, his hands rubbing soothingly over her skin.
‘If it’s linked to the child trafficking, am I safe?’ she mumbled finally, her voice still shaky.
‘Why wouldn’t you be?’
‘Because I’ve done as much digging as Patrick.’
He breathed deeply. ‘I don’t think it’s linked to Malawi.’
‘What’s your current working hypothesis?’ She snuggled closer.
He rested his cheek against the top of her head. ‘Gut feeling is the Hamptons. Absolutely no evidence though.’
‘Hmm. Who’s Bruce Macdonald?’
‘I thought you wanted me to be Benedict, not DS Stewart?’
‘Yeah. DS Stewart wouldn’t tell me. I was hoping Benedict would.’
He shook his head, smiling, and she nodded and looked away.
‘Can I stay here tonight?’ Her fingers were still stroking his chest.
He laughed. It was a while since someone had asked him that.
‘Not while I’m on the case, no. I don’t get to stop being DS Stewart that much!’
Summer bunched her lips. ‘You wouldn’t have a case if it wasn’t for me.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t you have a spare room?’
He groaned, shaking his head. ‘Yes. But you still can’t stay. Why don’t you want to go home?’
She burrowed against him again. ‘I don’t really want to be alone with my thoughts.’
He stroked her neck. ‘I can understand that.’
He rubbed his thumb over her cheek, gazing at the flecks of ice-blue in her grey eyes. His heart surprised him by starting to pound. Summer’s eyes held his for two breaths before she reached up and kissed him, her lips soft against his. His breath caught in his chest. Her lips were still on his and belatedly he returned the kisses, letting his fingers tangle in her hair. Eventually she drew back, inky black pupils crowding out her irises.
‘And I really can’t stay?’
He didn’t reply, his mind still turbulent. She brushed the ball of her thumb across his mouth and he pulled her back to him, his lips seeking hers again. Her breath was warm against his cheek. Somewhere, deep inside his brain, he could hear a small voice protest. He ignored it, moving his hand down to the small of Summer’s back and drawing her closer.
Many moments later, she eased back slowly, smiling. ‘You kiss me like that, but I can’t stay?’
‘No, you really can’t.’ He sighed. ‘However much I might want you to.’
‘And do you? Want me to?’
‘Mmm.’ He kissed her again briefly. ‘But not while I’m on the case.’
She sat back, pulling away from him and looking down at her lap.
‘You have no firm leads as to where the hell he is. What if we don’t find him for months?’
He brushed her hair back from her forehead, doubting that her frustration was over his lack of availability.
‘We will. And anyway, I’m handing it all over to the guys in Edinburgh on Monday. I’m only seconded while I’m on holiday.’
She nodded, studying her knees. ‘What does the L stand for? In LB?’
He looked surprised for a moment. ‘Promise you won’t tell?’
‘I promise. I don’t promise not to laugh if it’s really awful.’
He chuckled and tipped her towards him comfortably, settling his arms around her waist.
‘Lucien.’
‘Lucien?’ She stared at him, trying the name out again almost silently. ‘It’s actually quite a beautiful name.’
He snorted. ‘It isn’t when it gets shortened to Lucy in the playground.’
A long, unfettered peal of laughter burst from her. ‘No. I guess not. When did that stop?’
‘When I got big enough to make it a foolhardy act. I’d adopted Ben a long time before that, but you know what kids are like.’
‘You’re talking to someone called Summer who has no useful middle name. Of course I bloody know.’
He smiled. She leaned away, breaking the embrace, picked up her glass and drained it.
‘I guess you should call me a cab since neither of us is fit to drive and you’re determined that I can’t stay.’ She twirled the empty glass by its stem and looked at him, mischievously. ‘Lucy.’
He held her gaze feeling a smile prickle his mouth and trying to maintain a more serious expression. ‘I guess I should. Pick you up at half seven tomorrow?’
She frowned.
‘We’re meeting Helen Wright.’ Obviously it wasn’t only his brain that had turned to jam in the last few minutes.
Her face cleared. ‘Sure.’ She wriggled away from him and put her glass on the table as he called her a cab.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said as he closed his phone.
The silence while they waited felt awkward. If he wasn’t on the case would he have let her stay? Maybe they’d both find out on Monday.
He looked up at the sound of a horn pipping outside. In the hallway he helped her into her coat then pulled her into a close embrace. ‘Try and sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’
She looked up and he dipped his head to kiss her, breathing in her scent, tasting the tang of apricots and herbs on her tongue. She stroked his cheek, his stubble rasping against her skin and he caught a groan in his throat before it could escape. Her teeth grazed his lips, making his heart race. The small part of him determined not to let her stay, for the sake of the case, began to dwindle.
The taxi pipped again and they parted, grinning at each other. Summer grabbed her bag and scurried out, waving once she was inside the cab.
LB leaned against the doorframe until long after she was out of sight. He sighed, and ducked back inside.
Two seconds later and he would have seen Summer’s taxi heading back towards him at speed.
Friday Night
Kate’s hand missed as she went to pick up the glass, flumping on to the table instead. She peered at the glass, confused, wishing it would stop moving around and going so blurry, and closed her eyes. They flashed open again immediately in a vain attempt to stop the world twirling. After a bit of experimentation, she found that lying on the sofa with one foot on the floor and her arm on the table made the room move at a speed akin to the London Eye, which was manageable. She wanted to cry but all of her tears had been exhausted hours ago.
She’d been clinging to her marriage, adrift and in turmoil. Her career was in tatters, her children wouldn’t speak to her… all she’d had left was Paul, and he’d gone and got Bruce to break into Patrick’s flat, which could only bring more problems. Christ, she just needed it all to end.
She made a determined effort to sit up and focus on the strip of pills on the table, pushing them through the foil and piling them into a heap. One by one she popped them in her mouth and sipped at the wine until both the pile of pills and the glass of wine were gone.
She wished he was here. She wanted him to know what he had driven her to. Wanted to tell him one last time that she loved him. She sloshed more wine into her glass and stared at her mobile, willing it to dial by itself. Eventually, she leaned over and grabbed it clumsily, punching at the screen, blinking hard to see it. It took her four attempts to get it right but finally it was ringing.
‘Yes?’
He sounded cross and she sighed down a gulp of air.
‘Paul? Please come. I’ve done something really very foolish.’
The phone fell from her grip and she closed her eyes. She could hear faint voices tinkling in the background. One of them sounded so like her husband. Oh, she wished he wa
s here. Then he would know what he had driven her to.
***
The floor was cold under him, adding to the chills that shook his body. Despite this, sweat poured off him and he ached to his core. He curled tighter into a foetal position, unable to get warm and only marginally more comfortable on the floor than in the chair. His bound wrists pressed against his chest; his ankles screamed with pain. The basement was pitch black, a thick darkness that smothered everything. Try as he might, Patrick couldn’t even see the floor beneath his face.
He rolled over, trying to stop shivering. The door above opened, blinding light flooding the room. A figure swayed in the doorway before descending the stairs towards him. Patrick peered at him. The man was covered in soil, the sharp tang of it smelling better than Patrick did.
‘I’ve just been digging your grave.’ The man pulled up the chair and sat down. A beer bottle hung loosely in his grasp. He was very drunk. The fact terrified Patrick.
‘No one will find it. It’s a great place for that. There could be thousands of bodies out here. No one would know.’
Patrick’s body was wracked with shivers and he looked up at his tormenter, panicked. Was this it? Were his final minutes going to be spent on the floor of a basement, covered in his own blood and filth? Not the heroic ending he might have hoped for once.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ Patrick whispered, hoping he could keep control of his bladder and guts.
‘That’s the order. But I’m too pissed to deal with you tonight.’ He sniffed, lip curling. ‘You stink of rotting flesh.’
‘I think it’s my ankles.’
The man leaned over and yanked up the cuffs of Patrick’s jeans to reveal blood-soaked socks and swollen, suppurating wounds. Pus oozed out around the black plastic, leaving a yellowish crust where it had dried. The man sat back.
‘They don’t look good. Septicaemia, I’d say. Lost some good comrades to that out in Iraq. Better men than you,’ he spat. ‘Men who knew what their duty was and did it, regardless.’
He stood, grabbed Patrick by his collar, hauled him to his feet and threw him into the chair. The effort made him sway again. Patrick could smell the alcohol billowing off him.
His captor fixed him with a blearing eye, then turned on his heel and left. Patrick breathed hard, trying to settle his heart rate. The lights to the basement were still on and he stared around, desperate to see a way out. The door was wide open at the top of the stairs but just as Patrick was summoning the energy to try and make a break for it, the man returned, his bulky outline filling the doorway. Patrick stared at him, then felt his guts recoil as he saw he had a Stanley knife in his hand, the blade glinting dully. The man held it in front of Patrick for a moment, before letting it trail slowly over his throat, making Patrick tremble involuntarily. The man laughed.