Kelly padded to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The water was hot and she stepped straight in. She couldn’t still her mind, but washing her hair helped a little. The city was grimy and her skin felt deeply unclean. Even her nostrils had dirt in them.
After she’d finished, she wrapped herself in a thick towel and lay on the bed to call Johnny.
‘Hey,’ she said, grateful for the sound of his voice.
‘Kelly? How’s it going? When can you come home?’ He got straight to the point, but it was just what she needed to hear. The close proximity to Matt in such an intense environment was challenging, and more than once she’d questioned her motives for coming.
‘Soon, I hope. There’s so much still to do, but I think there are a few developments up there as well that might bring me back. It’s just good to get to know what I’m dealing with down here, face to face. What have you been up to?’
‘I took Ted to Tarn Hows. The weather was spectacular. We cracked open a flask of tea and chewed over his younger days, when he first set eyes on your mum.’
‘He can talk once he gets going.’
‘I don’t mind. It’s good for both of us. We appreciate the same things.’
Kelly nodded, though Johnny couldn’t see it. She knew what he meant, and in her small, clinical hotel room, she pictured the two of them sitting on a picnic rug drinking tea.
‘When’s the last time you saw Graeme?’ she asked.
‘Millar?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Our last session, probably, so you were there. Why?’
‘It’s just I think finding the murder victim shook him. Could you check on him? See if he’s ok? Why don’t you ask him out for a pint while I’m away?’
‘Of course, I will. Is this as a friend or do you want me to pry?’
‘Come on, Johnny, you’re so good at it. It’s not as if I’m asking you to spy on him.’
‘All right. Anyway, are you naked?’
‘I’ve just got out of the shower.’
‘Oh Jesus. Don’t tell me that.’
She lay back on the bed and smiled, closing her eyes. She sighed deeply and realised that the tension in her shoulder blades had returned, something that hadn’t bothered her in ages. She tried rubbing it, but she couldn’t reach. ‘I need a massage.’
‘You’d better come home, then. Have you finished for the day?’
‘For the day, yes, but I’m going back in after I’ve had a floppy sandwich from the corner shop.’
‘Nice. Can’t you find something better in our capital city?’
‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘If you stay down there longer than three days, I’m coming to camp in your room. I don’t think Premier Inn would notice an impostor. And they wouldn’t challenge a cop; I could be vital to the investigation.’
‘We’d get away with it, I’m sure.’
When they’d said goodnight and hung up, Kelly imagined Johnny meeting Matt, and wondered what they’d make of each other. They were so different. She pictured Matt staring at Johnny’s flip-flops, but also at his broad shoulders and assured eyes, and she knew she was with the right man. She closed her eyes and her mind floated to what Johnny had said. His daughter, Josie, was more than capable of looking after herself, and he was due some time off from mountain rescue volunteering. It might not be such a bad idea, having him to come home to after a day in the office with a man who constantly seemed to be pushing her buttons. Every time they got a quiet moment, Matt tried to fill it with some reference to how cosy they’d once been, and how well he knew her. It irritated the fuck out of her, but he was right about the latter.
Her phone went off again. Matt. Ears burning, she thought.
‘There’ve been no major developments, Kelly, though an artist has produced a good picture of one of the workmen who spoke to Alexandros’s neighbour, and we’ve got a close-up of all three men from the front view of the van, which I’ve sent nationwide. I was calling to see if you wanted to meet me for a nightcap, just to throw a few ideas round; maybe grab a bite to eat?’
Kelly stared at her phone. It was an innocent enough request. They were colleagues, working the same case, facing the same headaches – not to mention growing hunger – and she didn’t want any animosity to disrupt that. It had been easier than she’d thought, seeing him again; how could a few pints hurt?
‘Sure. The Premier Inn isn’t exactly fine dining, and I think their vending machine is out of egg mayo.’
‘Which one are you at?’
He could have accessed the information himself; after all, his force were paying for it.
‘Just under the North Circular at Brent Cross.’
‘I know it. I can be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Christ, give me a chance. Thirty?’
They hung up and Kelly looked in the mirror. She couldn’t be bothered drying her hair. The sun was shining through her curtains and it looked like a warm city evening. She slipped on a pair of jeans and a thin-knit V-neck, then slid her feet into some pumps and grabbed a jacket, just in case. At the last minute she applied a little make-up, simply because of her age – or at least that was what she told herself.
He was waiting for her downstairs. He was wearing the same shirt and trousers as earlier, and looked like a knackered copper after a fuck of a day.
‘You haven’t been home?’
‘Nah. I should have a bed in the office really. We’ve got this army cot thing, and I have been known to bed down for the night. Don’t worry, there’s a shower room and I’ve got a locker.’
‘So, where is home now?’ She had no idea why she asked. She supposed it was her turn to make polite conversation.
‘About ten minutes that way this time of night, and an hour in the morning.’ He nodded towards Hampstead Heath.
‘Nice.’
‘It’s about as nice as I could afford.’
‘I don’t know; with London weighting, you can’t be struggling.’ She nodded to the iPad under his arm. ‘Do you ever turn that off?’
He shook his head, and Kelly knew they were bedfellows of habit: she never turned hers off either.
‘Come on, there’s a great Japanese place along here.’ He pointed down the main road, which to Kelly looked like every other road in the capital, the skyline dominated by high-rises and office blocks. She couldn’t remember feeling this claustrophobic when she’d worked here.
Matt slipped his iPad inside a smart black mini briefcase with a shoulder strap, and they began to walk, passing high-end restaurants, dive snooker halls, deserted parks, gleaming Bentleys, and people asleep under cardboard in doorways, all cohabiting in disharmonious harmony.
The restaurant looked busy and the buzz flowed out onto the street when he held the door open for her. The music was a chilled mix, more appropriate to a beach hut, but super-relaxing. They were shown to a booth and handed menus. Kelly had clocked the sushi as she walked in and it stimulated her taste buds. A few beers and some sweet-savoury fish, along with delicate salads and noodles, was a treat indeed. There was a new sushi place in Keswick, but she and Johnny hadn’t tried it yet. She felt a pang of guilt, but she was dining out with a work colleague, that was all.
‘It sounds like you’ve got a solid team up there, Kelly.’
‘I have. We’re tight. I don’t know how you remember everybody’s names in that place.’ It was true: the number of daily assigned officers was phenomenal, and then there were the regulars who worked shifts. ‘There are only five of us, and I like it.’
‘You seemed to cope all right when you were here. Has your memory slipped?’
She glared at him.
‘So, what sort of things have you investigated since the trafficking case?’
‘A few punchy cases. We tick along.’ She wasn’t about to be pulled into a cock-off. She studied the menu.
‘I heard about your mother. I’m sorry.’
Kelly looked down at her hands, at the ruby ring Johnny had
given her, and was taken back to her last Christmas with Wendy.
‘Hello.’ Matt waved across her face. ‘Earth to Kelly. I’m trying to get in and maybe clear up a few things, but you’re as cold as a dead body, Kell.’
‘Don’t call me Kell. I thought we were sharing a meal and throwing ideas around?’
He spread his hands. ‘I just want to get to know you again after what happened, that’s all. Come on. Open up a bit, you’re so serious.’
She smiled coldly and put her menu down.
‘I’m going to say this only once. You’re a twat and you sold me down the river to get promotion. The Coryn Boulder case was not my fault; you knew what I knew. I’ve moved on and I think you should too. There’s no way in. I’m not that person I was three years ago, and neither should you be.’
‘We almost got married.’
‘Thank God we didn’t!’
‘You’re so sexy when you’re mad.’
‘You’re lucky that I’m hungry or I’d walk out right now. And I need a beer.’ She raised the menu to cover her face and stared at the pictures of the prawn, salmon and avocado uramaki.
Chapter 21
Philip Tooting was catching up on the goings-on in the business world since he’d been away. He reclined comfortably in the back of the Mercedes S-Class saloon. It would drop him off at his favourite London club, where he’d checked in for one night only. His wife had no idea he was back in town.
The sun glowed orange on the great whitish-grey Portland stone facades so typical of the area. Colossal chunks of the stuff had been dragged from Dorset to construct most of Regency London. The car left the bustle of tourists outside the BAFTA and the Royal Academy and entered the quieter, more understated class of Mayfair. Tucked behind the exclusive clubs and fancy restaurants of Piccadilly, Berkeley Square was a haven of elegance, where even the air seemed fresher away from the rush and intensity of ordinary people pursuing regular business. Nothing about the square was common. The central garden was the largest of its kind in London, and Georgian architecture still dominated the quadrangle.
The Montague Club occupied one corner of the prestigious W1 footprint, rising up five storeys, with a further two beneath street level. In the eighteenth century, it had been the family home of one of the wealthiest families of the era. It was a typical Georgian town house: a geometric arrangement of large sash windows in rows of threes, with each side reflecting the other in perfect symmetry. Decorative pediments completed the doll’s-house charm. The club had undergone renovation over the past couple of years, and its membership – by invitation only – had been refreshed with a younger, hipper generation made up of fashion designers and pop stars. But the old guard remained, still frequenting the Regency-style saloon (ladies were asked politely to socialise elsewhere, in any one of the rooms more appropriately designed for their delicate sex), leaving the younger ones to inhabit the bohemian rooftop bar, or the soundproof glass room in the basement, which served Michelin-star canapés and belted out cool jazz.
The immense black wooden door was guarded by two innocuous porters in subtle attire, who were in the know about every single one of the club’s current members and their guests. Philip adjusted his tie and brushed fluff from his dinner jacket before folding the newspaper away. There was no rush to get into work tomorrow, despite the police breathing down his neck about two lab technicians who’d been caught with their bloody pants down. Then there was George. Philip had liked the man. It was a tragedy. A burglary gone wrong, they were saying. He was a damn good scientist too and would be sorely missed by the company. But what the police thought Philip could do about any of it was a mystery. He was in no position to shed light on their inquiries. They were just being awkward, which was their job, he supposed. Well, they could wait.
The car slowed and pulled up outside the club, and the driver got out and walked around to open Philip’s door. He thanked him and they confirmed his pick-up time for tomorrow.
One of the porters acknowledged him with a nod and opened the door of the club for him. As he stepped inside, it was like coming home. There was nowhere on earth quite like it. No one else could match the understated English hospitality, learned over centuries of history and decorum. Dubai had the money, but no antiquity. America had the space, but no finesse. Paris had the quality, but no manners. Asia had the precision, but no charm.
This was perfect.
Bermuda was a regular bolthole, the ideal place to let off steam and get some serious work done without the nagging irritations of his office. The house belonged to a friend, of course, but he was at liberty to use it any time. His first-class airline tickets were also the product of a long-standing bond between old buddies here at the club. Philip’s basic salary was a modest million, before benefits, of course, but there were members here whose money couldn’t be counted. And it was never discussed. Friends helped one another, that was all. And that was why he was here.
The members of the Cambridge rowing alumni association ranged in age from twenty-nine to eighty-two, and they met once a year to do what boys did best: smoke cigars, catch up, and perhaps gain a few more contacts. Of course, there were fabulous female rowers too, but this club was exclusively male, and mostly white.
Straight away he spotted a few old chums walking up the grand staircase to their private room, and they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, chatting about wives, children, jobs and the weather. The serious stuff would come later, over port and cheese. Handshakes and booming exclamations rattled through the marble halls, and the portraits of ancient members stared down at them, listening in, still attendant to the festivity. Apparently Churchill used to play here as a little boy, when he lived across the square, and his impressive likeness cast its eye over them with gloriously rotund approval.
Philip carried very little with him; he was in what the military members called ‘fighting order’: a credit card, his yellow original Café Crèmes, a lighter and his room key. The men were distinguishable only by the colour of their hair or the thinness on top; otherwise, they formed a steady stream of dinner-jacketed gentlemen with highly polished shoes, hands in pockets and healthy belly laughs, snaking towards the dining room that awaited them. There would be speeches, and acknowledgements of members no longer with them but not forgotten. The older portion would trail off around midnight, with a few diehards propping up the private bar until the early hours, brandy in hand, money and politics in mind. Most of the attendees lived in or around London, employed either by banks or government offices, but a sizeable number travelled there for the weekend, enjoying the club’s hospitality and catching up with old friends.
The dining room glowed softly, lamplight warming the claret walls and bouncing off silver and crystal. It was a good turnout, with over a hundred expected, and the bar was busy and loud. Philip lost the men he’d walked in with and greeted other alumni on his way to the bar. Around twenty of those attending tonight were Montague Club members like himself, including the man who approached him from the other side of the room.
‘Philip. How the hell are you?’ It was a familiar voice, and one he’d been hoping to hear tonight. Christopher Slater was a rarity: an ex-CEO who people actually liked. Sometimes he was mistaken for a civil servant, something that encouraged his wrath. In his eyes, there was nothing worse. He was a non-executive adviser for DEFRA, he told people, not a civil servant. Philip had learned this early on in their friendship.
‘Christopher, how good to see you. I trust the old girl is in good spirits.’ Philip always referred to the Permanent Under-Secretary for DEFRA in the same way. It was irreverent and rude, and that was the point. Philip went back a long way with Robyn Hastings and disliked her intensely. She was one of the breed of female senior civil servants, like Dame Charlotte Cross from the Department of Health, who strutted about the halls once dominated by men, decrying the sins of their male counterparts while at the same time sticking fingers into as many illicit pies as possible. It was the ultimate ruse: the ne
w wave of female power politicians could be trusted like none other, couldn’t they?
‘Chugging along like a vintage locomotive, all piss and wind.’
Both men chuckled.
‘Drink?’ Christopher asked.
‘Absolutely. I’ll have a pint. I managed to get a room here tonight, so I have a free pass from Lady Tooting.’
Christopher raised his eyebrows in knowing approval. ‘She doesn’t know you’re here.’
Philip only had time for two pints before the bell rang for guests to take their seats for dinner. As always, he was sitting with Christopher, and they made their way to their usual table. The Colonel was already there, sporting a red nose, glass of claret in hand, and telling his neighbour a long but no doubt very entertaining anecdote. Sure enough, the man laughed out loud at the punchline and the Colonel was able to turn to greet his old friends. Journeys, accommodation and the weather were discussed. The latter was an apt talking point because London was heating up to record levels for June, and they were all thankful for the air conditioning.
The clamour of voices from the bar stilled to a steady chatter as men took their seats and shook more hands, recognising faces from adjacent tables. Menus were perused; the Montague Club never let them down. The head chef knew that tonight’s gathering required meat in all its guises, and plenty of it, alongside gutsy sides and artery-clogging desserts. The bar staff were also aware that this was one of the busiest events of the year (excepting the military officers’ reunions), and they stood ready to pour wine and take bar orders.
Bold Lies Page 11