Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

25

Friday, 10 August

Some bastard had parked in his space. Harland gripped the steering wheel angrily, revving the engine and lurching the car onward, past his house. Nowhere to park – that was all he needed right now. He eventually found a spot on the opposite side of the street and manoeuvred into the kerb behind a large white van. He switched off the engine and sat for a moment, waiting for his breathing to slow down, for the red mist to pass over. It wasn’t a big deal. Not really.

He locked the car and trudged back down Stackpool Road, his eyes taking in a series of front rooms through gaps in curtains, people on sofas and the flickering glow of televisions. Next door’s garden looked bright and cheery, with colourful pink flowers neatly bordering a large red-leaved bush. The space in front of his own house was an untidy no-man’s-land of cement paving and weeds. With nobody caring for them, the little shrubs had choked and withered, but that had always been Alice’s thing. He had neither the understanding nor the inclination to restore them.

He unlocked the door and went inside, irritably tugging a sheaf of flyers from the letterbox and screwing them up in his hand. Somehow they taunted him, reminding him that the house was empty.

Except it wasn’t.

She was still here, haunting every room. Usually, he tried to distract himself, thinking of work, staying out late until he was tired, or wretchedly stoking the lustful feelings he had for other women. But her presence was everywhere, joyful and sad, eager and shy, an eternally outstretched hand that he could never hold again.

He sighed and placed his keys in the bowl, the noise of metal on porcelain stark in the silence, then walked through to the kitchen.

They told him that it would get easier, that the pain would diminish with time. But it didn’t. Yes, he had developed coping strategies, cheap tricks to try and push her from his mind, but he wasn’t stupid. It didn’t matter what clever names they gave their techniques – at best he was deluding himself, at worst he was betraying her.

He took a beer from the fridge and closed the door. There was a small snapshot of the two of them together that she’d stuck to the door with a magnet. He paused, staring at the image, the two faces smiling out at him from the past. They’d been in Devon when it was taken – a weekend away, walking along a quiet beach, their whole bloody lives ahead of them. He took a deep breath and stared at Alice, her long blonde hair golden in the sunlight, her lips smiling, her eyes full of mischief. And him beside her, his head leaning in against hers, laughing at something she’d said. He envied his former self, and hated who he’d become. She’d be so disappointed.

He turned away from the memories, walking over to the counter and rifling through the drawer for a bottle opener. Even here, so many little utensils that he’d never used, more of her things that had been left behind to torture him. He closed his eyes, knowing that there was no escape from it. Not tonight.

He needed some air. Wrestling with the top bolt, he unlocked the back door and took his beer out into the enclosed garden, where he sank down wearily to sit on the steps. Lighting a cigarette, he slumped against the door frame and fought back the first tears that welled up in his eyes.

Not here. Not yet. A quiet smoke and a drink first, just to calm the nerves.

He sat there, utterly alone, watching the cigarette slowly turn to ash between his fingers. In his darkest moments, he flirted with the thought that it might have been better if they’d never met. It wasn’t just that he’d have been spared the pain of loss – it was the fact that his future was suddenly stripped of hope. He’d found the person he was meant to be with, and he’d lost her. Now, the best was behind him, and all that remained was regret. Once again, an appalling sense of guilt washed over him and he pushed the idea away. Such thoughts were beneath him.

The smell of a barbecue came to him from one of the nearby gardens. He could hear voices, but they were some distance away. Sighing, he got to his feet and went indoors to cook.

There seemed little point in eating, but somehow he forced himself. A reluctant concession that he made to her memory – what she would have wanted. Some evenings it was a way to pass the time, to distract himself, but that wouldn’t work tonight. He settled on a simple microwave meal and switched on the TV while he waited for his food to cool down. The voices from the screen dispelled the oppressive silence, but he was under no illusions. This was going to be a bad night.

Later, when everything was neatly put away, he stood in the hallway, looking up the stairs to the dark landing. He felt so tired, but it was a weariness that sleep couldn’t touch. Reluctantly, he placed a hand on the end of the banister and made his way upstairs. The thick carpet that had once seemed so homely now muffled his footfalls, creating an unwelcome hush as he paused outside the closed bedroom door, then slowly turned the handle.

The door swung silently inward and he followed it into the stillness of their old room. Pale sun streamed in through the lacy net curtains that she’d chosen, the last light of the day glowing on one side of the bed and casting long shadows across the floor.

Everything was just as she’d left it – clothes in the wardrobe, make-up and skincare products on the dressing table, a pretty little jewellery box next to her bedside lamp, on top of the book she’d been reading. He’d resisted every offer of help, every kind suggestion to clear things up. Nothing was different, except for the ugly web of cracks in the mirror he’d made on that first night back here. He’d not slept in this room since.

Her presence was much stronger here, and the terrible sense of loss more intense. When he took flowers to her in the cemetery, it was somehow disconnected and remote, as though it was happening to somebody else. It was different here. This room was where he spoke to her, where he mourned her.

The duvet felt soft and welcoming compared to the sofa bed he slept on downstairs. He eased himself gently onto his side of the bed, reaching out to retrieve the nightshirt from under her pillows. Lying down, he scrunched his face into the soft fabric, eyes tight shut. The smell of her clothes and her hair had always provided a sense of comfort, but even that had faded now, and he was unable to recall her scent. Curling up, he buried his face in the pillow, sliding his arm out across the empty half of the bed.

And wept.

26

Wednesday, 15 August

‘So how have you been, Graham?’ Jean asked.

Harland sat with his hands on his knees, staring down at the beige carpet. It felt different coming here today – none of the usual reluctance, just a weary sense of resignation as though all the fight had gone out of him. He glanced up at Jean and managed an empty smile. She was wearing a casual grey jacket with a knee-length skirt and patent-leather shoes, her mousy hair gathered back so that it fell behind her shoulders. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked at the floor again.

‘It’s been . . . difficult recently,’ he admitted. ‘The past few weeks . . .’

She watched him calmly as he faltered, giving him a moment before gently breaking the silence.

‘Well, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you,’ she said patiently. ‘Perhaps you can tell me about what’s been happening in that time.’

He took a breath, tried to compose himself a little, then nodded.

‘I have missed a couple of appointments,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s all right,’ she nodded. ‘How have things been?’

Harland sat back in his chair.

‘Up and down,’ he began, then paused and shook his head. There was no point pretending. ‘Down quite a bit lately. I don’t know, maybe I just need more sleep, but little things have been bothering me, and I’ve been finding it hard to keep a lid on my emotions.’

He glanced up at her, willing her to take the conversation from him. Talking wasn’t easy just now.

‘I see.’ Jean sat back in her chair, notebook balanced on a slender knee. ‘Have you had any difficulty sleeping recently?’

‘I’ve had a few rough nights, yes.’

‘Difficulty getting to sleep again?’

He glanced up at her and nodded.

Jean wrote something in her book, then inclined her head and gazed silently at him.

‘What was keeping you awake?’ she asked.

Wasn’t it obvious?

‘I’ve been thinking about Alice a lot.’ He felt he had to speak carefully, control the rate at which he released the words in case they got away from him, pulled him too close to the edge.

‘That’s understandable,’ Jean said. ‘When do you find yourself thinking about her most?’

‘Evenings usually,’ he shrugged. ‘When I get home it’s sometimes not too bad, but lately . . .’

. . . it had been getting worse and worse.

‘Has she been on your mind more frequently in the last couple of weeks?’

He nodded, eyes downcast, saying nothing.

‘All right,’ Jean said. She paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you think of anything that might have triggered this?’

Harland’s shoulders sagged a little.

‘I fell asleep in our bed.’ He hesitated, then sighed. ‘In our old bed.’

Jean looked up from her notes.

‘Are you sleeping in another room?’

‘Yes.’ No need to elaborate – just keep it simple. For some reason he didn’t want to tell her that he camped out on the living-room sofa.

Jean put her book on the table and leaned forward, clasping her hands.

‘Why were you in there, in your old bed?’

Harland raised his head a little. He suddenly felt cold, exposed.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘I just needed to feel close to her I suppose.’

‘Okay,’ Jean nodded. ‘And what happened?’

‘I lay down on the bed, must have fallen asleep . . .’ He sighed. ‘I had a dream about her.’

‘Do you remember the dream?’

Harland nodded.

‘Can you tell me about it?’ she asked.

‘We were together, in a meadow with long grass . . . fooling around.’

‘Fooling around?’

He bowed his head, struggling with the memory.

‘We were having sex,’ he said quietly.

‘I see.’

Harland shut his eyes tightly. He hoped she didn’t see, hoped she couldn’t divine how he’d woken up to that awful moment of confusion, how he’d wondered where Alice was before the sickening realisation had come flooding back. He didn’t want her to know how he’d sat there, sobbing uncontrollably as he’d felt the sticky warmth in his shorts, humiliation on top of his loss.

Shame and fear swirled around him – he had to say something, move the conversation on.

‘Maybe I just need to drink less coffee,’ he said, looking up with a weak smile.

Jean’s large blue eyes studied him for a moment.

‘Graham, have you been sexually active with anyone since Alice passed away?’

She knew. She knew exactly what had happened. But at least she was allowing him the opportunity to gloss over it.

‘No,’ he said quietly. There was an uncomfortable thrill in telling her this. Was it the release of opening up, even partially, to someone else? Or was it that he found the discussion of sex with another woman exciting? Jean was certainly attractive. Gazing at her legs, he suddenly felt a guilty flush of arousal.

‘No,’ he said, more to himself this time. ‘I’m not seeing anyone.’

The conflict raged within him but he forced it down, as he forced down other unwelcome emotions. Bury it deep, starve it of oxygen until he couldn’t feel it any more. He set his jaw and forced himself to meet her steady gaze.

‘All right, Graham,’ she said after a long moment. ‘Have there been any other significant events since we spoke last?’

And just like that, the crisis passed. Her questions moved away to other matters – work, diet, exercise – and he coasted through the rest of their discussion.

But as he sat there, watching the clock above her desk counting down the minutes to the end of the session, he felt an odd sense of resentment building inside him. And unlike lust, that was impossible to subdue.

27

Thursday, 16 August

Harland stalked into the meeting room. He’d been in a bad mood anyway, and this part of the morning was unlikely to improve things. Putting his coffee on the table, he walked over to the window and stared out at the traffic for a moment, idly wondering if he had time to slip downstairs for a cigarette. But it wasn’t to be. Behind him, the door opened and he turned to see Pope enter, followed by Mendel. He sighed and walked round to his seat.

‘What’s this little get-together in aid of?’ Pope asked, opening his notebook and squinting up at the others through his glasses.

‘Progress review on the Severn Beach killing,’ Harland said quietly as he sat down. ‘And Blake wants to have a word with us.’

‘Must be serious then,’ Pope nodded thoughtfully.

Mendel caught Harland’s eye but remained silent. They both knew how this was likely to go, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

Blake arrived exactly on the stroke of ten, breezing into the room and making his way to the head of the table, where he pulled out his chair but remained standing for a moment.

‘Good morning,’ he said, as though noticing them for the first time. ‘All present and correct? Good, good.’

He sat down, leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

‘Now then,’ he began. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on this Severn Beach business over the last few weeks and I thought it was high time we had a frank discussion about where we are, and how we see things proceeding.’

Harland listened, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup in front of him. A frank discussion about how Blake saw things proceeding would be more accurate.

‘Graham’s been filling me in on the progress of the investigation, but I thought it might be useful to include everyone in this.’ The Superintendent paused, looking at each of them for a moment, then adopted a chilly little smile. ‘James, perhaps you’d like to start us off?’

‘Sir?’ Mendel sat up in his chair.

‘I’m interested to hear your perspective,’ Blake said. ‘How do you feel things are going?’

‘Well,’ Mendel’s eyes flickered to Harland, then back to the Superintendent. ‘It’s a strange one, really. At first it seemed like a pretty standard sort of job. Boyfriend gone bad, maybe. Or I suppose it might have been an opportunistic hit by some weirdo, but I was never really sure about that, to be honest.’

Pope frowned at this, but Mendel pressed on.

‘Anyway, that was how it looked at first, but then everything changed when we got a match on that house key from the Oxford murder.’

‘Go on,’ Blake nodded, patiently.

‘Well,’ Mendel shrugged, ‘when we connected those two deaths, the theories didn’t fit any more. We dug around but there’s nothing else to link the two victims, and with the distance between them, it’s quite possible our killer comes from outside the area.’

Harland dug his shoes into the carpet as Mendel spoke, anger welling up inside him. What the hell was Blake playing at, undermining him in such a blatant way? The pompous idiot already knew this, so why ask to hear it all again?

‘Then we found out about the body in Brighton and the one in Hampshire,’ Mendel continued. ‘Again, no apparent connection with the other victims except the single souvenir that linked them.’

‘Souvenir,’ Blake mused quietly. He didn’t look up, but focused on his finger as it traced a series of tiny circles on the table in front of him. ‘That word has disturbing connotations.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mendel said, risking a barely perceptible shrug towards Harland. ‘Anyway, now it looks like we’ve got hold of something big. This could tie in any number of unsolved deaths, and we’re pretty close to the front of things, if the timeline’s anything to go by.’

‘The front of things?’

‘What I mean is, some of these cases go back a good few months. Ours is one of the most recent – there’s only the Hampshire one that we know of since.’

‘I see.’ Blake nodded to himself for a moment. ‘Thank you, James.’

Harland glanced at him, suddenly beginning to grasp what was going on. The Superintendent was leading Mendel along, getting him to restate their same unsatisfactory position, before letting Pope muddy the waters.

‘Russell?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pope looked along the table attentively.

‘What’s your view on all this?’

‘It’s been quite a challenging case,’ Pope began. He leaned forward in his chair, clearly relishing the audience. ‘At first the evidence suggested a failed sexual assault or something of that nature. There have been one or two similar incidences along the Severn Estuary, so it was a natural line of enquiry to follow.’

Harland gritted his teeth as Blake nodded approvingly. This wasn’t going anywhere useful.

‘The house key we found on Vicky Sutherland did seem to indicate a link between our victim and the man found dead in Oxford,’ Pope continued. ‘Thames Valley now think there may be some connection to another body found washed up at Brighton, and Mendel did turn up an item belonging to the dead woman on a body recently discovered in Hampshire.’

‘And your conclusions are?’ Blake asked.

‘Well, sir, it could all be the work of one man. We might be dealing with a serial murderer of some kind, but I think we have to keep our minds open to all possibilities.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, just because something from one victim turns up somewhere else, it isn’t necessarily proof of a direct link.’ He looked around at the others. ‘I mean, an item stolen from one victim could well turn up in the possession of another, and that sort of false positive could steer us in the wrong direction. I’m not saying I think this is the case, just that we shouldn’t attach too much credibility to any single theory.’

Mendel was shaking his head.

‘It’s all very well keeping an open mind,’ he interrupted, ‘but these souvenirs are the only tangible leads we’ve got. We have to figure out what their significance is, and we really need to see if there’s another link in the chain, something tied in with the next murder.’

‘If there even is a next murder . . .’ Pope muttered.

From his place at the end of the table, the Superintendent watched the two of them arguing, his face serene. Harland looked away in disgust. Exactly as the scheming old bastard had planned it. And Pope had played his witless part too.

‘If I may?’ Blake spoke quietly, forcing a sudden silence from the others. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I think it’s clear that while there are still a number of avenues for us to explore, this is becoming a more complex matter, and we may need to re-evaluate how we can best serve the ongoing investigation. Certainly, there are local aspects to the case, and we must be seen to be doing everything necessary on these . . .’

He paused, looking briefly at each of them, then sat back in his chair and gazed up at the clock on the far wall.

‘However, I do take on board the point about the most recent murder being in Hampshire, so perhaps the ball is now moving more into their court.’

What the hell . . .?

Harland’s head snapped up at this.

‘With respect, sir.’ The words were coming now, and all he could do was control the volume, stifle the urge to shout. ‘We put this together. We made the link to the Oxford murder and it was Mendel who tied in the Hampshire one. Up until then, these were just three separate unsolved cases.’

As soon as he said it, he knew he’d lost the argument.

So damn stupid.

Blake regarded him calmly for a moment – a figure of patience considering the outburst of a child – then sighed.

‘I’m not completely new to this case, Graham,’ he said, pointedly. ‘I do read your reports, and I understand – and appreciate – the considerable effort that the team have put into this.’

He paused until it was clear that there would be no further challenges, then continued.

‘Sadly, I don’t have unlimited resources, and there are other cases that will need our attention as time goes on.’

‘Sir?’ Mendel’s face was serious, clearly worried that they were about to be shut down.

Blake held up a calming hand.

‘All I’m saying is that we may need to consider how we prioritise things over the coming weeks.’ His voice was measured now, reasonable. ‘A good general fights the battles he knows he can win, but I do feel we may need something more to go on if we’re to tip the balance on this one.’

He looked around the table, a firm gaze at each one of them.

‘We’ll see how things go over the next week or so. I understand there are still some enquiries to be chased down, so let’s see if anything new emerges before I speak to the boys in Hampshire. But whatever happens, I want you all to know that you’ve done some excellent work on this. I’m proud that Avon and Somerset were the ones who first spotted what was going on in these unsolved killings.’

Already talking about the case in the past tense.

Harland bowed his head, numb with anger and frustrated at his own stupidity.

Only Pope looked satisfied as Blake left the room.

‘Won’t be a moment, sir.’ Josh looked up from where he was rinsing out the kettle.

‘Take your time,’ Harland murmured, slowing as he entered the kitchen and turning to lean against the wall. Rubbing his temple, he let his head roll back and stared up at the fluorescent light, listening to the rush of water from the tap and the click of the kettle switch being pressed down. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the wall and moved over to the sink to empty the dregs from his mug.

‘Josh?’ It was Firth, leaning on the door frame, peering in. ‘Still on for tonight?’

Josh turned to her, confused.

‘What do you mean?’ he replied. ‘I thought you said it was tomorrow?’

‘No . . .’ Firth straightened, an edge of annoyance creeping into her voice. ‘It’s tonight. I made a point of reminding you.’

Josh frowned, then looked down. ‘Damn.’

‘So?’ She leaned forward, not allowing him to avoid her gaze. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Can’t,’ Josh shrugged. ‘I promised Mary I’d take her to that Thekla place tonight. I could have sworn you said the film was tomorrow.’

Firth sighed and shot him a withering look.

‘Heaven help us if you ever make detective, Josh.’

Harland smiled despite himself. He turned round, putting his back to the sink. Firth caught his eye and her expression softened.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t be.’ He moved over and patted Josh on the shoulder. ‘Some people take a while to make detective . . .’ a flicker of a grin ‘. . . others take a while to make tea, right, Josh?’

The young officer looked up at him warily and nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured.

Firth took a step backwards, then hesitated and looked thoughtfully at Harland.

‘A few of us are going to the Watershed this evening,’ she said. ‘They’re doing a special showing of Dirty Harry, and there’s a spare ticket if you’re interested?’

Harland leaned back against the countertop.

Thanks, but . . .

He was going to say no, that same automatic response that insulated him from all the other social situations he could no longer face, but something in her look stopped him.

The simple, friendly offer of an evening out – the sort of thing normal people did.

‘Sir?’ Firth raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Well . . .’ His thoughts flitted briefly to the empty house that lay waiting for him. ‘If you’re sure it’s okay.’

‘Great!’ Her face brightened. ‘The film starts at seven forty-five and we’ll be meeting around seven at the Pitcher & Piano – you know where it is?’

Ten minutes’ walk from where he lived.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘I know it.’

‘Brilliant. See you there then.’

She turned and almost bumped into Mendel, who had appeared behind her.

‘After you.’ The big man held up his hands, moving aside with a theatrical flourish to let her through.

‘Sorry sir, thanks.’

Mendel waited until she had passed before moving calmly over to the sink and lifting the kettle briefly to feel its weight. Satisfied there would be enough for the three of them, he nodded approvingly to Josh, then looked across at Harland and frowned in puzzlement.

‘What on earth are you smiling about?’ he asked.

It was cold when they emerged from the small cinema, shuffling out into the darkness to stand on the covered waterfront walkway as the rest of the audience streamed past them. Lights twinkled on the water while Harland fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes.

‘So,’ Gregg looked at his watch, ‘it’s quarter to ten. Shall we grab a beer somewhere?’

‘Not here.’ Jamieson, a stocky young sergeant whom they knew from the Southmead station, cast an unhappy glance at the crowded bar behind them. ‘I don’t want to be stood around queuing all night.’

‘What about The Ostrich?’ His girlfriend, Kirstie, was a PCSO with wavy red hair and a strong Bristol accent. ‘It’s not far and it’ll be a lot quieter.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Gregg nodded. ‘Come on.’

He turned and began to lead the way between the knots of people and the packed bar-front tables.

Harland paused, struggling to light a cigarette in the swirling breeze that blew in off the water, scowling as the flame danced away from the tobacco. While the others started along the quayside, Firth hung back a little, watching with growing amusement as he turned this way and that, pulling his jacket taut like a cloak against the wind.

‘Are you okay there?’ She looked different out of uniform, with her leather jacket and faded jeans. There was writing on her T-shirt – something French that he couldn’t quite make out.

‘It isn’t easy being a smoker these days,’ he sighed. Shielding the cigarette with his hands, he clicked the lighter once, twice, then finally lit up on the third attempt. ‘See what I mean?’

She grinned and fell in beside him as they started walking after the others.

‘I love that place,’ she said, gazing out between the metal pillars and across the rippling gloom of the harbour basin. ‘They show all kinds of cool films you wouldn’t normally get to see on the big screen.’

‘I know,’ Harland agreed. ‘I used to be a member there. Haven’t been for a year or so, but I always enjoyed coming. It’s a more relaxed atmosphere than you get in the big multiplexes.’

They turned left and strolled slowly out onto the sweeping metal lines of Pero’s Bridge, the noise of their footsteps echoing out across the dark water below them.

Firth walked with her head inclined to one side, and turned to glance back towards the cinema.

‘Do you know what?’ she mused. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve watched that film all the way through.’

Harland slowed and peered at her doubtfully.

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Seriously.’ She had turned back to him now. ‘I recognised a lot of it, but I hadn’t seen all that stuff with the ransom bag, or the bit where he tortures the guy in the football stadium.’

Harland chuckled to himself as they came down off the bridge and onto the cobbled pavement, following it around the Arnolfini building.

‘So,’ he asked her, as they wandered under the glare of the street lights and across the narrow roadway of the Prince Street bridge, ‘now that you’ve seen it right through, what did you think?’

Firth gazed up at the old-harbour cranes lining the quayside ahead of them.

‘I love that whole seventies vibe,’ she smiled. ‘Clint Eastwood was so cool, and didn’t he have amazing hair?’

Harland ran an involuntary hand across his scalp and shook his head.

‘I think I’d rather have his sunglasses,’ he replied.

They crossed the road and walked along the cobbled waterfront – luxury apartments and young trees on one side, old boats creaking against their moorings on the other. Ahead of them, the others seemed to have slowed down a little. Gregg, glancing back over his shoulder, noticed them and beckoned them on.

‘Keep up,’ he called.

Firth raised her hand in polite acknowledgement but made no attempt to hurry.

‘Let them queue up to get served,’ she laughed under her breath.

One last footbridge carried them across a narrow channel to The Ostrich, a grand old three-storey inn that stood alone on an exposed corner of the quayside. Bench tables filled the space between the building and the water, most of them occupied, all lit by the bright warm glow of the pub.

A young couple scampered towards them in a tumble of laughter and echoing footsteps. The girl ran with abandon, long hair swishing from side to side as she dragged her boyfriend along by the hand.

‘Sorry guys.’ The slender young man smiled apologetically as he jostled past before being pulled away along the shadowed quay.

Firth shook her head, watching them go.

‘Funny how differently people treat you when you’re not in uniform,’ she smiled.

Harland nodded thoughtfully. Firth was wearing make-up. He’d not noticed it before.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘let’s get inside before Gregg buys his round.’

Harland began to move, then hesitated, staring up at the illuminated windows.

‘Actually,’ he said slowly, ‘I think maybe I’m going to call it a night.’

Firth turned and gazed at him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry; are you on early shift tomorrow?’

Harland met her eyes for a moment, then looked down.

‘No . . .’ He suddenly felt a cool shiver of guilt.

Enjoying himself, forgetting, letting his guard slip . . .

He forced himself to look up at her. ‘I’m just tired.’

She studied him as they stood there under the light of a street lamp.

‘Are you sure? More than happy for you to join us . . .’

He looked at her and shook his head.

‘It was really good of you to invite me. I enjoyed it.’

‘I’m glad you came.’ She offered him a brief smile. ‘’Night . . . sir.’

‘’Night.’

He watched her push through the doorway into the laughter and murmuring voices of the pub, then turned his back on the glaring lights and walked away, following his long shadow over the cobblestones.