He snapped out of the trance he was in. ‘Sorry. Thank you, Carmella. I think I’d have been able to figure out what it was anyway,’ he said, taking it from her. He held out his hand to Jenny. ‘You must be Jenny. Lovely to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Jenny, shaking hands with him and handing over the flowers with a smile. Carmella had pre-warned her not to go in for the kiss on the cheek. Patrick wasn’t much of a kissy person, she said – although obviously Carmella didn’t see that side of him at work anyway. He just didn’t strike her as very tactile. He looked very different to how he’d looked at work earlier, in a bright blue shirt that clung to his body, tucked into the sort of jeans that cost about a hundred and eighty quid. Carmella wondered if Pat had bought them, or whether Gill had.
‘So, when did you find out we were all turning up?’ she asked as they followed Patrick into a small hallway, squeezing past a pushchair and a small pink tricycle. Voices from the back of the house indicated that the other guests had already arrived.
‘About half an hour ago.’ Pat grinned ruefully. ‘Gill told me she was cooking the lamb to make some shepherd’s pies and that we were going out for a curry. I was getting narky with her for insisting I had a shave and put on a smarter shirt. For a curry? I should’ve known something was up. Let alone that she’d bought a great big leg of lamb just to mince up for shepherd’s pies . . . you wouldn’t guess that I’m a detective, would you?’
‘I won’t tell Winkler,’ Carmella said.
‘You’d better bloody not!’ He nudged her affectionately. ‘Come and meet Gill and everyone.’
This, if Carmella thought about it, was the bit that was making her nervous. Although normally fairly unshockable, she’d been very taken aback to hear Patrick’s wife’s message on the voicemail of her mobile a week ago, inviting her and Jenny round for Pat’s birthday. Even though she had worked with Pat for over three years, she had never met his wife, and Carmella and Jenny had indulged in a fair bit of curious pillow talk about what she was like.
They both felt deeply sorry for her, of course, and for Pat – what a nightmare, to suffer so badly from post-natal psychosis that you almost kill your baby, and then end up in a secure hospital for over a year and a half!
When Carmella had confessed her dread about this event to Jenny later as they lay in bed, Jenny had laughed and kissed her and said, ‘Speak for yourself – I can’t wait! Your boss, his wacko wife, his boss – that he’s clearly got the hots for – her husband, who probably has no idea . . . What could possibly go wrong?’ She had then cackled annoyingly, until Carmella whacked her with a pillow to make her stop.
Now, Patrick took their coats and showed them through to a surprisingly spacious kitchen-diner in which Suzanne Laughland sat on a sofa with a man who Carmella recognised, from the photo on the DCI’s desk, as Suzanne’s husband, Simon. Another woman – Gill, obviously – stood near the counter with a sleepy toddler in her arms, swaying gently from foot to foot.
Bonnie had her thumb in her mouth and her head on her mother’s shoulder. She wore an all-in-one flannelette jumpsuit thing with feet, and for a moment Carmella suddenly felt like her ovaries would explode. She and Jenny had talked about having kids, but neither of them thought the time was right; not yet. She was so busy at work, and Jenny wanted to better establish herself in her new role as deputy head in a local comp, before thinking about motherhood.
‘Ah, this must be the beautiful Bonnie!’ Carmella exclaimed, rushing over, beaming. ‘She’s gorgeous!’ But her beam faded as Gill held up her free arm as though stopping traffic.
‘Please don’t, she’s almost asleep!’
Bonnie’s head jerked up and then slumped back down again, her eyelids drooping and her curls bouncing. Gill spoke again, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry. I’m about to take her off to bed. You must be Carmella. I’m Gill.’
Carmella shook hands with her. She couldn’t help feeling chastened, as if she’d committed a huge faux pas, which then made her annoyed, because she hadn’t. Gill wasn’t how she had imagined her. She was taller, bigger. Her face was pale, but she had clearly made an effort for the occasion – her long brown hair had been professionally straightened into a sleek curtain and her lips were glossy with coral lipstick. She wasn’t beautiful, certainly, though nor was she plain. She had the sort of smile that lit up her whole face and transformed her.
‘Pat, will you sort out drinks while I get Miss B down for the night? I won’t be long; she’s pretty much out for the count already.’
Simon stood up and stuck out his hand. He was shorter than his wife by about three inches, with a receding hairline and very slightly bulging eyes, but in possession of the sort of charisma that meant it was possible to overlook the physical flaws. ‘Hi! I’m Simon Laughland. Where have you two come from tonight?’
Several minutes of awkward small talk ensued, about where they all lived, and what Patrick had got for his birthday – Gill had bought him tickets for The Cure in March, which impressed Carmella. She was finding it hard to tear her gaze away from Suzanne, who looked completely different to her rather buttoned-up work appearance. She was wearing a short grey silk dress, killer heels and her blonde hair was in long, loose curls down her back.
Patrick handed around a tray of something sparkling. ‘Well, it is my birthday,’ he commented, slightly sheepishly. ‘The missus insisted. I’m sure a little sip or two is allowed . . .’ He looked at Suzanne, who smiled at him.
‘Of course!’ she said, raising her glass. ‘To Pat! Happy birthday.’
Carmella noticed that Suzanne hadn’t waited until ‘the missus’ returned to do the toast.
After that, the evening progressed in the way of most dinner parties where the guests aren’t already close friends: awkward and slightly stilted for the first hour, until alcohol – mostly being consumed by Jenny and Simon, with Gill sipping at a small glass – smoothed off all the scratchy edges. Loud, muffled music through the thin party wall was mingling badly with the mellow Spotify playlist that the Lennons were playing, so Patrick turned it off. For a while nobody talked shop, out of deference to the civilian attendees – Simon, it turned out, was a management consultant – until Jenny brought up the subject.
‘So,’ she said in Suzanne’s direction, as Gill cleared away the remnants of their prawn cocktails. ‘What’s the latest with the big investigation? Thanks, Gill, that was delicious – I love a retro starter, me . . .’
Carmella frowned warningly at her. An expression flashed across Gill’s face that suggested perhaps she thought Jenny was having a dig, although Carmella knew she wasn’t.
‘She’s not kidding. It’s your favourite sort of food, isn’t it, darling?’ Carmella added hastily. ‘Prawn cocktail, Black Forest gateau, gammon and pineapple – you’re a seventies throwback.’
‘Are you any closer to finding who killed those girls?’ Jenny persisted, ignoring Carmella. ‘Jessica McMasters was a pupil at my school, you know. Everyone’s devastated.’
‘We’re working flat out,’ Patrick said – defensively, Carmella thought – from across the kitchen, where he was carving slices from a fragrant garlic-studded leg of lamb. ‘What do you teach, Jenny?’ Carmella could tell he was anxious to change the subject and she felt slightly annoyed with Jenny.
‘Geography – and I’m deputy head too. So, any new leads? Carmella won’t tell me anything!’
‘Oh I know,’ Gill interjected. ‘I’m always badgering Pat to dish the dirt and he never does!’
Carmella made a face at Patrick and he grinned back at her. But Suzanne, who was completely sober, upbraided Gill. ‘Dish the dirt? We’re talking about young girls being murdered here, not the gossip at the local WI!’