Twenty-three
The doorman of the Grosvenor House Hotel nodded almost imperceptibly at Talbot as the DI walked in, not even glancing at the uniformed attendant.
His eyes, and his mind, were elsewhere. He passed through into reception. One of the receptionists glanced across at him briefly, then returned her attention to the computer before her. Talbot could hear the printer chattering away as he passed.
A couple was checking in, the woman leaning against the counter looking around. Talbot noticed that she slipped her right foot in and out of her shoe as she waited.
Two men in their early fifties walked past him, heading for the lifts, both of them speaking in hushed, almost reverential tones, as if they were reluctant to disturb the stillness of the lobby.
Cigarette smoke accosted him as he entered the Gallery Bar. Although there were only half a dozen people in there, the stale air made it seem as if each of them was already half-way through their second packet of the night. The smoke seemed to refuse to disperse, gathering instead like some invisible cloud which enveloped him as he entered.
Christ, he wanted a cigarette!
A couple of heads turned as he walked in, slowing his pace, gazing around.
Searching.
He saw her sitting at the bar, just a glass for company.
As Talbot approached her, he noticed that she was fumbling in her leather clutch bag for something. He ran appraising eyes over her.
The long blonde hair, brushed gently over the shoulders of her charcoal grey jacket, which was fastened by two gold buttons. Beneath it she was wearing a white blouse and, as she crossed her legs, the black skirt she wore slid up an inch or two to reveal her shapely thighs. She looked down and brushed a piece of fluff from one of her black suede high heels.
Talbot sat on the stool beside her, aware that she still hadn’t seen him.
The barman, on the other hand, had and he ambled towards the policeman.
‘I’ll have a Jameson’s please,’ said the DI. He looked at her. ‘And whatever the lady’s having.’
Gina Bishop looked first at Talbot then pushed her glass towards the barman who moved off to refill it.
‘Talbot,’ she said, managing a small smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you,’ he told her.
She pulled a packet of Silk Cut from her handbag. He watched as she lit up, the flame of the lighter reflecting in her large brown eyes.
‘You still trying to give up?’ she said, pushing the packet towards him.
He nodded, reaching for a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar.
The barman returned and set down the drinks.
‘That’s a nice outfit,’ Talbot told her, allowing his gaze to travel up and down her shapely form.
‘It’s Louis Feraud,’ she told him, smugly.
‘A present?’
‘I bought it myself. From Harrods.’ She took a sip of her drink.
‘You must have had a good week last week.’
‘Every week’s a good week.’
He smiled and took a swig of whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’ she wanted to know.
‘I’ve already tried the Dorchester and the Hilton. This was the only one left.’
‘You’re not a detective for nothing, are you?’ she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
‘I knew it had to be one of the three. You’ve been working this same beat since you were twenty. That’s when I first arrested you, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ She sucked on her cigarette, then blew the smoke in the policeman’s direction. ‘Look, I’ve changed a lot in five years.’
‘Yeah, you’re more expensive now.’
‘But I’m worth it.’
‘Then how come business is slow tonight?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing. What’s wrong, no one else to arrest?’
Talbot sat back on the bar stool, drink in hand, and looked at her.
‘What are you looking at?’ she demanded.
‘I bet that outfit cost more than I earned last month,’ he commented finally.
‘Probably,’ she said, amused. ‘We’re both the same, Talbot. We both get fucked, it’s just that I get paid more.’
He ran a finger over the sleeve of her jacket.
‘Louis who?’ he said, looking at the material.
‘Feraud,’ she said, indignantly. ‘I didn’t expect you to have heard of him.’
He nodded.
‘And whose designs were you wearing the first time I picked you up? Dorothy fucking Perkins, wasn’t it? You’ve come a long way, Gina.’
‘Look, Talbot, did you come in here to reminisce or is there a reason for all this?’
‘What do you think?’
She nodded, finishing her drink.
‘My place?’ she asked.
‘It’s closer, isn’t it?’ Talbot said, downing what was left in his glass. He left a five-pound note on the bar top, waited for his change and pocketed it.
‘Aren’t you going to leave him a tip?’ Gina said, picking up her bag. She pushed the portable phone inside.
‘For bringing two drinks?’ he said, incredulously.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Talbot. You’re still a cheap bastard.’
He grinned crookedly at her and offered her his arm, which she took.
They left the bar together.
Twenty-four
He wasn’t afraid of death.
Why should he be?
At thirty-eight years of age, the Reverend Colin Patterson had already stood over enough burials and interments to know that those who went beyond went somewhere better. It was always the relatives his heart went out to. He hated to see suffering, and many times in the past ten years he had struggled to find the words to ease the suffering of those who had lost someone close. It was never easy. It wasn’t always possible. But he did his best. That was all God had ever asked, that he did his best.
He would do his best in the army too.
Patterson had thought long and hard about his decision to join the army as a chaplain but he felt that he could do more good there than here in this part of southeast London. He needed a challenge and, despite his family’s protests, he felt that challenge would come amongst fighting men, not amongst the parishioners he’d known and ministered to for the last decade.
His mother had mentioned Bosnia, Belfast and the Falklands, although he’d respectfully pointed out that particular conflict had been over since before his ordination. She had been unimpressed. It could happen again. If not there then some other godforsaken corner of the world.
Patterson had listened attentively to all her arguments, but his mind had been made up before he’d even mentioned it.
He paused beside one of the graves near by and straightened a metal vase which
had been blown over by the wind. As he straightened up he glanced at the headstone: in loving memory of a dear father and husband. Patterson smiled affectionately and continued his walk.
The cemetery gates were opened at nine and he’d already seen a number of people moving around the large necropolis which was Croydon Cemetery.
A number of them he knew by name, the others he was on nodding terms with.
The priest glanced at his watch.
He was due to conduct a burial at eleven.
Plenty of time.
There was a bench to his left, beneath a large oak tree which had already shed several dozen of its large leaves:
they lay like a yellow carpet over the graves beneath the tree.
A bird was singing higher up, its shrill calls wafting pleasingly on the gentle breeze.
Patterson made for the newer area of the cemetery where the more recent interments were sited. The path on which he walked sloped down gently, past a tap which was dripping water. He stopped and turned it off as he passed.