Lynn had first met her briefly in the line of duty, and then, after she and Resnick had started living together, Jackie had come up to Nottingham on a couple of occasions and stayed, once for a conference on community policing, and once for a meeting of the Lesbian and Gay Police Association, of which Jackie was a member.
Although she would have been loath to admit it, it had unsettled Lynn when she'd found out Jackie was gay, picturing someone who would be either outlandishly butch or femme the minute she was off duty. Butch, most likely, Lynn thought-she couldn't picture Jackie in pink frocks and lots of girlie makeup. But when she realised neither to be the case-and found-her other fear-that Jackie was not in the least bit predatory, she'd been able to relax and enjoy her company.
At Jackie's suggestion, they met in the Assembly House, a large old-fashioned boozer in the north end of Kentish Town, which, like so many, but with less-disastrous results, had modishly reinvented itself by virtue of knocking down a few internal walls and sanding the floors, then adding a decent kitchen where the chef laboured in full view of the clientele.
At shortly after six, the place was still uncrowded and they sat at a corner table with their backs to the tall, broad windows and the slow-moving rush-hour traffic.
"Sorry about earlier," Lynn said, as soon as they were settled. "Overtaken by events."
Jackie waved a hand dismissively. "It happens."
"Too often."
"Tell me about it." Jackie took a good pull from her glass. "So," she said. "How's Charlie?"
"Oh, you know… Charlie's Charlie."
"Looking forward to retirement?"
"He keeps watching those documentaries about elephants, the ones who, when they know their days are numbered, lumber off into the jungle to die."
Jackie laughed. "Get out of it, he'll be fine."
"You think? I'm not so sure. I can't see him taking one of those security jobs, like so many do-but I can't see him being happy just sitting around, either. Mind you, with our staffing levels the way they are, they'll be begging him to stay on."
"No, get out while the going's good. Reinvent yourself. That's what I'm going to do when my turn comes."
"Oh, yes? What as?"
"A trapeze artist. You know, high wire. Get a job with one of those little touring circuses. Hampstead Heath, Clapham Common, that sort of thing."
"You're kidding!"
"No, I'm not. In fact, I've already started taking lessons."
"Come on!"
"Yes, from this Hungarian woman who used be in a circus in Russia. She and her partner, they were the Flying Romanovs. Until he fell and broke his back."
"Terrific."
"She's sixty if she's a day, but still got an amazing body."
"You sure this is about learning the trapeze?"
"Very funny."
"Nothing wrong with the older, more experienced lover."
"You should know."
"Bitch!"
Jackie laughed again. "So," she said, lifting her glass, "what was this business you wanted to see me about?"
Without going into too much detail, Lynn explained as best she could.
"You don't think there's any doubt the girl-Andreea? — could be mistaken?" Jackie asked.
"She seemed pretty certain."
"And the reason you gave her for his being there, the Customs and Excise guy, that he was simply working undercover-you don't think that's right?"
"If the rest of what she says is true, it's difficult to swallow."
"I don't know. If he is undercover and in the place as some kind of customer, he's got to play along. He can hardly-what did they used to say in the papers in the old days? — make his excuses and leave."
"I suppose not. But what Andreea said about the girl-"
"Hurting her?"
"Yes."
Jackie sighed. "Maybe he let himself get carried away-it could happen. Especially if you had leanings that way in the first place. Or maybe she had her own reasons for exaggerating, not telling strictly the truth."
"It's possible."
"But not what you want to believe?"
With a wry smile, Lynn shook her head. "I don't know."
Jackie finished her drink and held up the empty glass. "Your turn."
Lynn made her way to the bar. The pub was busier now, a mixture of people dropping in on their way home from work, old fogeys for whom the place was still a home from home, albeit with new decor, and women who looked as if they'd spent the bulk of the day getting their legs waxed and their highlights retouched, to say nothing of taking on an extra few degrees of tan. Music-there must be, she thought, some kind of ska revival-meshed with the increasingly dizzy conversation.
The barman who served her was Mediterranean-looking, with dark hair only a touch too long and eyes which brought butterscotch disconcertingly to mind: white T-shirt and blue jeans, neither of which, as far as she could see, left a great deal to the imagination. Fit, wasn't that the modern term for it? Tasty, some would say.
"Lust at first sight?" Jackie Ferris said, with a nod towards the bar, when Lynn returned.
"A girl can dream, can't she?"
"Long as you don't talk in your sleep."
Lynn laughed and spilt beer from her glass as she set it down. She was enjoying Jackie's company. Enjoying, for a change, being out of the confines of Nottingham and in the big city. The Smoke, did anyone still call it that? Charlie, aside.
"So what are you going to do?" Jackie asked.
"About Daines?"
"That's his name?"
"Yes, Stuart Daines. And I just don't know. If I come out and face him with it, he'll simply deny it, brazen it out, her word against his. Maybe I'll ask around. On the quiet."
"You don't trust him, that's pretty clear."
"He makes me uneasy."
"Like the guy behind the bar."
"No, definitely not like the guy behind the bar."
Jackie was smiling. "I'll ask around, too. If anything, it's easier for me than you. Anything I get, I'll let you know."
"Thanks, Jackie."
"Now, what exactly can we do to get you off with this feller?"
Twenty
On the Monday of that week, a few days before, at approximately fifteen minutes after nine in morning, a black Vauxhall Astra swung into the lay-by outside the post office on the Loughborough Road and two men-Garry Britton and Lee Williams-jumped out, leaving a third behind the wheel. Britton was black, Williams white; both were carrying guns, a shotgun with sawn-off barrels and a pistol, which they pointed at the line of ten or so mostly elderly customers, ordering them to the floor.
Britton, wielding the shotgun, shouldered his way through the narrow shop towards the counter, where one of the two staff on duty had already pushed the panic button linking them with the police station less than half a mile away on Rectory Road. Pressing the gun up against the reinforced glass, he ordered both clerks to hand over the money from the cash drawers where they were standing.
A man in workman's overalls started to push open the door from the street, saw what was happening, and ducked away.
"Quick! Quick! Be fucking quick!"
The shotgun smacked against the glass and one of the clerks screamed. Outside, the Astra's driver was blowing his horn.
Several of the customers, huddled between the floor and the side wall, were crying; one, a woman in an old-fashioned tweed suit, her grey hair tied back in a bun, was praying loudly.
"Shut it!" Williams yelled in her face. "Fuckin' shut it!"
She began to sing instead, a hymn.
Williams drew back his arm and swung the pistol towards her face.
The car horn was louder now, more insistent, and beneath it the first sounds of police sirens could be heard.
"Out! Out! Get the fuck out!" Britton snatched an envelope containing some couple of hundred pounds and ran towards the door. Turning to follow him, Williams tripped and half-fell, stumbling out onto the street as the Asian proprietor of the newsagents several doors away made a grab at his arm.