There is a small, square mirror on the back of the door of the DCI’s office. It isn’t standard issue and the previous incumbent didn’t have one, but Latimer never leaves his office without glancing at it. Satisfied that not a short silver hair is out of place, he strides ahead of Pete through the main office. As he walks, his head darts from side to side. In spite of his instruction that he doesn’t want to see any decorations until Friday the eleventh, two weeks before the big day, paper chains and tinsel have started to creep in, like weeds in the outer corners of a neglected garden.
Liz is waiting by the door with Pete’s jacket. Her short, corn-coloured hair – rarely flat on her head after ten o’clock in the morning – has the look of a fight in a hay barn. She shakes his jacket, matador style and he pulls a face.
‘Don’t rock the boat.’ She steps behind him so that she can more easily pull the jacket up over his shoulders. As their bodies touch briefly, he can smell her perfume. And her sweat. ‘Good luck,’ she tells him.
In the corridor the two men go separate ways: Latimer to the meeting room, Pete downstairs to reception.
Maggie Rose, in a woollen coat the colour of her name, looks up when he is just a couple of feet away. Away from home, dressed to be among people, she looks different. Her lipstick is the same colour as her coat, giving her mouth a fullness he didn’t notice before, and she’s used a softer shade of the same colour on her eyelids, a hint of pink on her cheeks too. The pink contrasts sharply with the blue of her hair and eyes, with the pallor of her skin. She looks like a character from one of his daughter’s storybooks.
‘It was good of you to come.’ They are shaking hands.
‘No it wasn’t.’ Even beneath a leather glove her hand feels cold.
‘Excuse me?’
She takes her hand back, but stays close. ‘I came partly because it’s never a good idea to get on the wrong side of the police, partly because I wasn’t particularly polite to you last time we met and I’ve been feeling a little guilty, and partly because I expect something in return.’
‘Ah, yes, you mentioned. Do you want to talk now?’
She glances round, takes in that the reception area is quiet. ‘OK. Here it is. I’ve got a pretty good idea what this is all about, and I know I’m not going to like it, so you owe me. Agreed?’
‘In principle,’ says Pete, cautiously.
‘Next time I need to talk to a detective, next time I need information, you will take my call.’
He pretends to consider. ‘OK. But once only. Then we’re quits.’
‘We’ll see.’ She pulls back the sleeve of her coat to look at her watch. ‘We’re late. Are you planning on blaming me?’
Pete thinks of Latimer, kicking his heels in MR 3 upstairs. ‘Oh, trust me, taking the blame on this one will be my very great pleasure.’
‘Miss Rose, DCI Tim Latimer. Very good of you to come in. I’m a big fan.’
She tilts back her head and looks at him curiously. ‘Of what?’
Pete hovers in the doorway, watching the two of them. Maggie is tiny in front of Latimer but, somehow, the physical presence that normally gives the boss such an advantage pales beside hers. It isn’t just her wacky colouring, either. It is her stillness. Her calm.
‘Of yours,’ Latimer says.
She’s getting the benefit of his vigorous two-handed shake now, of the gentle politician-style double-pat on the back of her hand, the one that says, I’m pleased and gratified to be in your presence, but I’m in charge here, let’s not forget that. She still hasn’t removed her gloves.
‘I’ve read all your books,’ Latimer is still talking. ‘Excellent stuff.’
In six months, Pete has yet to see the boss reading a book.
Latimer finally drags his eyes away from Maggie. ‘Come in, Pete, I assume you’re joining us. And can we sort out some coffee?’
‘Not for me, thank you. Where would you like me to sit?’ Maggie’s eyes, a gleam in them now, are making their way around the conference table. They pause on the taut figure of Brenda Sykes, skip over the family liaison officer sitting next to her and fix on Latimer.
‘Why don’t you sit at the end?’ he says.
Pete pulls his chair out noisily and sits opposite Brenda and the FLO. ‘Miss Rose,’ he says, ‘this is Mrs Brenda Sykes, the mother of Zoe Sykes, the first of Hamish Wolfe’s victims.’
‘I know.’ Maggie gives Brenda a gentle smile. ‘I’ve seen your photograph in the papers. I’m very sorry about what happened to your daughter.’
Brenda’s eyes fill. She mutters something that might have been ‘thank you’. The FLO reaches out and pats her hand.
‘I’m not sure how much you know about Zoe’s murder, Maggie,’ Latimer begins, ‘but—’
‘I know that Zoe’s body was never found, but that there were enough similarities between her case and those of the three murdered women for the Crown Prosecution Service to charge Hamish Wolfe with her murder too. Unsuccessfully.’