"Your whisky sour, sir."
"Sure," Frank said.
"Thanks."
When Cathy arrived outside the main convention room for her interview, she had managed to patch up most of the damage, though the skin around her eyes was darker than usual and her face was pinched as if she were suffering from too little sleep. Which was partly the truth.
"You okay?" Mollie asked, concerned, stepping forward to greet her.
Cathy nodded: fine.
And from anything other than close up, she did look good: a cream linen suit with wide lapels, a green satin shirt and, poking out from beneath slightly flared trousers, the ubiquitous boots.
"Cathy, I think you know Sarah Dunant."
"Sure. We met at the Edgars last year."
The two women smiled and brushed cheeks and set off towards the platform, Mollie leading the way.
"So which part of the States are you from?" the woman was saying.
Ana, "how long are you over for?" And,
"Oh, interesting."
Frank all the while hearing Cathy's voice / wonder if that isn't long enough? Eight years. Close to. Saying it, it didn't seem so long. But living it. He shook his head. Some days he could scarcely remember when there had been anything else.
"Sorry," Frank leaned sideways towards the woman's stool. "I didn't catch what you said."
"I said, do you want another drink here or are you ready to move on somewhere else?"
The music had shifted again, back from some guitar band that reminded Frank of the Byrds, back to the Crusaders, the album they made eighty-one, eighty-two? – with Joe Cocker.
"I'm okay here," Frank said.
"Unless you're getting restless?"
She shook her head and slid her empty glass towards his; all this time they'd been talking and he still hadn't got a good look at her face.
"Two more," Frank called along to the barman.
"Same as before."
The convention room was comfortably full, without being overcrowded.
Mollie had been able to spot a few of the more vocal feminists, identified them from previous events she had helped to organise.
Representations of Women in the Media. Melodrama and the Family. She had talked to quite a few of them at length, respected what they had to say. Liked them.
After a brief introduction in which Sarah Dunant had placed Cathy Jordan's work within the context of post- seventies crime fiction, she led her through a series of questions about her career, its false starts and now its successes. Dunant then summarised the prevailing politically correct readings of crime fiction and asked Cathy for 210 her opinions. There were questions from the floor, searching rather than hostile, and then the interview was over: polite, professional, non-contentious.
Cathy had opted to close the session with a reading and she chose the opening chapter from Dead Weight. Instantly, the caustic, slightly self-deprecating voice of Annie Q. Jones buttonholed the audience and when she finished it was to warm applause.
Mollie came on to the platform to thank both women formally and bring the proceedings to a confident close. Now she could take them to the hotel bar, buy them a drink, make her excuses, take herself home and rest, thankful that the evening had passed without incident.
Still in the bar, Frank was explaining the difference between a latte and a mocha, though he wasn't sure if his companion were still listening and if she were, whether she had understood. Where previously there had been several feet of space behind them, now they were constantly being banged against and jostled by one or other of the young people who stood in groups around them, smoking and drinking and laughing. The volume of the stereo had increased four-fold and whatever was being played now seemed to consist of a thumping bass and very little else.
"You want to try somewhere else?" Frank asked, mouth close against her hair.
"I thought you weren't interested?"
"I'm interested." He wondered how long her hand had been on his knee.
"Then let's go back to your place."
"How d'you mean?"
"You've got a room, haven't you? You're staying at a hotel?"
Frank shook his head. Now that he could see her, he liked what he saw. Liked her breath, slightly sweet, upon his face.
"We can't go there."
"I thought you were here on your own. Have you got a wife or something?"
"That doesn't matter. We just can't go back to my room, that's all."
He let his hand cover hers, where it was still resting, high on his thigh.
"What's wrong with your place?"
"We'll go to another hotel," she said, and smiled.
"As long as your credit card's good for it."
"Hey, don't worry about the money. But d'you think we'll get into somewhere this late? Town strikes me as pretty busy."
"Don't worry about that," she said, getting carefully down from her stool.
"Just trust me."
Thirty-eight The first time Resnick had seen Sharon Gamett; the sun had been showing weakly through winter clouds and the earth beneath their feet had been coarse with frost. All around them. the high stink of pig food and pig shit. Other officers, silent, as they lifted a stretcher across the ruts, the body of a young woman sealed beneath thick plastic that was spotted here and there with mud.
Now, as she pushed her way through the bar towards him, Resnick realised that she was both taller than he had remembered and likely older too. The only black face in the Sir John Borlace Warren.
"Your local?"
Resnick grinned.
"Not exactly."
After Sharon had rung him with the information about Marlene Kinoulton's probable drug supplier, he had put through a call to Norman Mann at Central Station and the choice of meeting place had been the Drugs Squad officer's shout.
"Pint?" Sharon asked.
"Guinness, thanks. Half."
By the time she had been served, Norman Mann had joined them, lager in hand, dark hair thick on his head and curling up over the collar of what had clearly been bought from a job lot of black leather jackets.
Resnick shook his hand and did the introductions.
"This Richie," Mann said, once they had elbowed their way into a corner, 'had our eye on him for quite a while. There's a blues he does his drinking some nights. No sense looking for him there too early, but by the time we've supped a couple of these, we could wander down. See what's what' "You think he'll talk?" Sharon asked.
"Give us anything we need to know?"
Norman Mann winked broadly.
"Always a chance. Smoked enough weed, we'll be lucky to shut the bastard up."
The room was small and, in the way of most hotel rooms, anonymously airless. Frank had tried to kiss the woman as she leant back against the door, clicking the lock, but she had swerved her head aside.
Then, as he had reached towards the light switch, she had caught hold of his arm and ducked beneath it, twisting him round till he was hard against her. She had kissed him then, her mouth slippery over his, teeth blocking out his tongue.
"At least now you're going to tell me your name?" he said.
"Why? Isn't it better like this?" in the dark? "
"Yes."
But it was not quite that, the curtains only partly pulled across and light enough from the city shining through; he touched her face and she shuddered, almost before the touch, as if anticipating something else. His skin against hers was surprisingly soft. At first, she squirrel led the tip of her tongue into his palm and then drew her teeth down and around one of his fingers, nipping it a little at the knuckles before drawing her lips back along it so slowly that he moaned. With a laugh, she bit down into the fleshy round beneath his thumb.
"Hey!"