‘Excellent,’ said Quill.
‘The smeared one at the Staunce scene, by the message on the wall, is the same as one found inside the Spatley car. So, since Tunstall was in custody for the Spatley murder when Staunce was killed-’
‘That should clear Tunstall of suspicion.’ Quill indicated the objectives list. ‘I’d say we’ve achieved objective seven there.’
‘-but said fingerprint doesn’t appear in any criminal database, so Forrest’s office is asking us to help build a case against Tunstall by looking into the possibility that he may have had an accomplice.’
‘This is what happens,’ sighed Quill, ‘when only one suspect is visible.’
* * *
An hour later, Ross found Costain alone by the tea kettle. She made sure she was calm, and then she walked over to him. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘About tonight.’
‘Too late,’ said Costain, slurping his tea as he moved off. ‘I booked the table.’
Ross stood there for a moment after he’d left, annoyed at how easily he’d shrugged that off, and at how it turned out she didn’t mind that.
* * *
That evening, Sefton put the Xbox controller down on the table and closed his eyes. ‘I killed someone,’ he said.
Joe took a deep breath and slowly lowered his own controller. ‘I wondered what you hadn’t been saying,’ he said.
Sefton told him everything.
Joe held on to him. Finally he said, ‘You killed someone by accident, someone who was trying to kill you.’
‘I know that.’
‘You lot would normally get counselling and compassionate leave-’
‘And be investigated and interviewed and all that, and I could do with that and all.’
‘Because that would end up with you being officially told you hadn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Probably.’
‘Well, you haven’t.’
Sefton considered for a moment, and realized that, as always, Joe had helped him frame how he really felt. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I have.’
* * *
‘Russell Vincent bought our paper,’ said Sarah, dropping her bag onto the kitchen table.
Quill motioned for her to be quiet. He’d just got Jessica to sleep. He went and closed the door of her room. ‘And that’s a good thing?’
‘It’s a great thing. We get to keep our jobs.’
‘Then that’s a brilliant thing. Russell Vincent is … that media tycoon who’s on telly all the time, the one who-?’
‘He’s the owner of the Herald. Opinion leads, long lenses, that one.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh indeed. He’s personally famous for taking on the Bussard Inquiry into phone hacking. He told them his firm had once used it to get celebrity gossip, but that when he found out, he’d fired everyone involved. He gave the inquiry access to his entire communications network and told them to go fuck themselves.’
‘I remember.’
‘But, hey, whoever owns my paper, I am still, thank God, employed as a journalist.’
‘Excellent.’ Quill rooted around at the back of a cupboard and found a dusty bottle of cava, which he uncorked and poured into two glasses, after giving them a quick rinse under the tap.
‘He actually bought our whole group. Seven local papers in all. There’s a reception on Sunday night for all the employees. You’re invited too — there’s a plus one.’
‘Sure. Depending.’ He clinked glasses with her. ‘I can ask him how he got the inside track on the Ripper murders.’
‘Yeah, don’t do that.’
‘Like he’d tell me.’
* * *
Costain parked outside Ross’ housing block in Catford half an hour early. This he never did. It felt as if he was conducting surveillance. He was only early because he was nervous. He knew he looked good and smelt good. He’d prepared. But still he was nervous.
He waited, enjoying the late evening sunshine. He put the radio on, but all he could find were news stories about it all kicking off in Wandsworth now, about how people were throwing bricks and setting light to shops across London, Toff masks everywhere, taken up by rioters as being an easily available way to hide their faces. He switched off the radio and tried to put it all out of his head.
He had one clear aim in mind for this evening, and he had to focus on it.
* * *
Ross had interrogated her wardrobe until it failed completely. Neither of her dresses was useful. But it was either those or something she’d wear to work.
Why shouldn’t it be something she’d wear to work? She wanted to find out what he was after, not to make herself more attractive to him.
It was a pity about her and Costain. Everyone else had someone to talk to. Someone they got to go home to at the end of the day. The two of them had nobody, and it was likely to stay that way.
She finally decided on new jeans. A polo shirt like the one she’d worn to work. At least it wasn’t the same shirt. She tried things with her hair. She undid a couple of buttons.
She did them up again just as the intercom buzzed. He was three minutes early.
* * *
They took the tube to Chancery Lane and walked up the Gray’s Inn Road to an Italian restaurant, where Costain had booked a table outside. He couldn’t stop feeling nervous. More than nervous. Why? There were high stakes, sure, but he was used to that. It wasn’t as if tonight was definitely going to be the big pay-off, that she’d immediately trust him and tell him what he wanted to hear. No, this was an undercover job; this would take weeks of slowly earning her trust. Only then to betray that trust, if she did have access to what he thought she did.
He looked sidelong at her face as they walked. That betrayal would be a terrible thing, but he had to do it. He had no choice. He was trying not to notice how tight those jeans were. Being attracted to her made what he was planning to do feel a lot worse.
He was aware they’d been silent for a long time. No small talk, which seemed fine by her. They reached the restaurant and were welcomed and seated by staff who seemed very pleased to have paying customers. He looked at her poker face again across the table. It wasn’t as if he’d actually been on many dates; of course, this wasn’t a real date. He had an objective here. So. Small talk. ‘I used to come here a lot,’ he said. ‘The food’s good, it’s an Italian family place.’
‘Sure,’ said Ross. It was almost a shrug.
The waiter arrived and they ordered wine. When it arrived it was very welcome.
Costain pointed to his glass, worried that she might have thought he was going to drink drive. The reflex to be good, every moment, was deeply programmed into him now. ‘I can always take a taxi when we get back to yours.’
She frowned, and he realized that she thought he meant he was already thinking about what might happen at the end of the evening. He suppressed an urge to explain and decided to move on to other topics. ‘So-’
‘Do you mean you brought girls here?’
He closed his mouth. Then opened it again. ‘No. Well, yeah. Maybe sometimes. Actually, it was usually just me. When I was undercover.’
‘But sometimes?’
‘Yeah.’ He found he’d said it almost as a question, almost as if he was asking her if that was okay.
‘Where are you from? What did your parents do?’
Oh. Okay then. ‘I grew up in Willesden. Then moved out of London. I came back to the Smoke after I became a police officer. More opportunities down here. When I became an undercover, I went back up north again between jobs. Safer.’
‘You didn’t say anything about your parents.’
That level tone of hers. The way her eyes were fixed on his face. He felt as if he was being interviewed about his part in some unspecified crime. He took a sip of wine and carefully smiled. ‘Are you analysing me?’
‘You know all about me. You were briefed about my family. If you don’t want to talk about-’