They finished their food, paid the bill and lingered over their drinks for a while longer. Eventually Blackstone said, ‘You’re obviously not driving home tonight. Let’s get a cab, go back to mine and have a nightcap. I just picked up a jazz CD that might interest you. Maria Schneider, The Thomson Fields. Heard it?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll like it. But let’s go, before it gets too late. I don’t know about you, but I’m not the night owl I used to be any more. You can come to the station with me in the morning before you set off home, and we’ll see what we can find on your Mark Vincent.’
Banks finished his pint. ‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ he said.
Gerry made her way up the A1 for her meeting with Aunt Jane that evening. It was full dark already, and the road was busy with the last of the rush-hour traffic. Her windshield wipers were whipping back and forth at top speed to clear the filthy spray thrown up by the lorries ahead of her. The A167 through Northallerton would probably have been a more pleasant drive, Gerry thought as she slowed down for the roadworks north of Scotch Corner. Though the rain had stopped for now, for which Gerry was grateful, when she looked out from side to side, she saw lights gleaming on lakes where there should be fields. This was the danger point. The ground was so waterlogged that it couldn’t absorb any more moisture. One more heavy shower and banks would be broken and barriers breached. Low-lying neighbourhoods would be flooded, streets evacuated, and perhaps even people would be killed.
She pulled into the village of Hurworth-on-Tees and parked outside the church opposite the Bay Horse, where she had arranged to meet Aunt Jane for dinner. It was an expensive restaurant, she knew. She had been once before with a potential boyfriend who had been trying to impress her. The meal had impressed her very much, but unfortunately the suitor hadn’t. Her girlfriends had always said she was too fussy when it came to boyfriends, that she never gave anyone long enough to get to know them, but from Gerry’s point of view, she wasn’t so desperate for a man that she was willing to take the second rate. And in her experience the second rate didn’t take long to spot, and was second rate for good reason.
Aunt Jane was already waiting at a table Gerry had reserved in the warm, soft glow of the dining room. The voices of the other diners were muffled and the servers came and went without fuss. She hoped she might be able to get some useful information tonight. She had been disappointed by the mugshot on the police Internet archive. It resembled the person in Ray Cabbot’s sketch, but not enough.
Aunt Jane stood up to greet her, all six foot two of her. Gerry thought herself tall at six foot, and indeed she seemed so at work around her colleagues — only Winsome Jackman matched her — but Aunt Jane put her in the shadow. She was broad-shouldered and full-figured, clearly fit and sturdy, but in no way unfeminine. In fact, Gerry noticed a number of men in the dining room sneak an admiring glance as she stood up. Jane also looked a good ten or more years younger than fifty. Her blond hair was piled high, and that made her seem even taller. Statuesque was the word that came into Gerry’s mind. She wasn’t wearing a uniform tonight, but a simple black dress with a high neckline and a red waistcoat buttoned up the front. Bangles jingled like wind chimes around her wrists, and a simple string of pearls hung around her neck. The hoop earrings were just the right size. As usual, Gerry marvelled at her elegance just as much as she had marvelled years earlier.
Aunt Jane was an honorary title. There was no blood relation between the two. She was Gerry’s mother’s best friend from their schooldays and, though the two had gone in very different directions, the friendship had endured. When Gerry was younger, they didn’t see much of Aunt Jane, who, she later learned, had been serving in both Afghanistan and Iraq, but when she did come to town it was like Christmas. Her energy and enthusiasm for just about everything were infectious, and although Aunt Jane and Gerry’s mother were the same age, to Gerry, Aunt Jane always seemed more vibrant, more fun and far, far more cool. That was unfair to her mother, she now realised, but back then she had just been an impressionable child. Aunt Jane had taught her a few martial arts moves to use against the boys who pulled her hair at school; Aunt Jane had taken her for a pillion ride on her motorcycle and made her promise never to tell her mother; Aunt Jane had helped her choose the colours that suited her and showed her how to apply lipstick, eye-liner and mascara before she was officially allowed to wear make-up by her parents. And then, of course, she had disappeared back to Afghanistan again as suddenly as she had arrived. A leg injury caused by an IED had put paid to her active service, and she now walked with a slight limp, like Terry Gilchrist, but the army had found her a suitable desk job at Catterick, and she had seemed happy enough to leave the world of action behind.
‘Well, look at you, stranger,’ Aunt Jane said as they both sat down. ‘It’s been too long. Why haven’t you been to see me? It’s not as if I’m far away now you’re up in Eastvale.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ said Gerry. ‘Just, you know, being the new girl and all... it’s a hard job.’
Aunt Jane smiled. ‘No need to tell me that,’ she said. ‘I just miss my old friend Geraldine, that’s all. You must come and see me more often.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Gerry. Aunt Jane was the only person apart from her mother who called her Geraldine.
‘How’s Tess — I mean your mother. I haven’t heard from her in ages, either.’
‘She’s fine,’ said Gerry.
‘Still lecturing at the poly?’
‘It’s a university now,’ said Gerry. ‘They all are. Have been for years. But, yes, she’s still working.’
‘Dad still drafting wills?’
Gerry laughed. ‘He’s still working, yes.’
‘Good for him. Aidan’s still carrying a torch for you, you know.’
Gerry felt herself blush. Aidan was Aunt Jane’s son, and they had been out together a few times in their teens. ‘I thought he was married now.’
‘Oh, he is,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘Mariette. Nice enough girl. But it doesn’t stop him pining for you.’
‘Oh, stop it,’ said Gerry. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘You always did embarrass easily. Shall we study the menus? Wine?’
Jane already had a glass full of red wine in front of her, and the bottle stood open on the table.
‘Just a drop,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m driving.’
Jane poured her some wine. A bit more than a drop, in Gerry’s opinion, but she said nothing. ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ Jane said. ‘I’m not. Driving, that is. One of the perks of rank.’
They clinked glasses and Jane put on her reading glasses to examine the menu. In the end they both decided to have moules marinière for starters and settled on pan-fried halibut with black carrots and various foams, ketchups and sauces for Gerry, and for Jane a 28-day matured fillet steak, cooked rare, with hand-cut chips, onion rings and vegetables. They put in their orders and leaned back in their chairs.
‘You were asking about a Mark Vincent,’ Jane said finally. ‘May I ask why?’
Gerry leaned forwards and lowered her voice. She had known when she set up the meeting that if she expected to get information she had to be willing to give some, and she trusted Aunt Jane as much as she trusted anyone. More than most, in fact. ‘He’s a suspect in a case we’re working on,’ she said.
Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, I assumed that much,’ she said. ‘What case? And don’t try to weasel out of it.’
‘A shooting. A mass shooting.’
‘The Red Wedding?’
‘Shhh,’ said Gerry, glancing around nervously. ‘Yes.’