She gazed out, fidgeting with the glass of white wine she’d bought at the bar. After her rush to get here, Doug was late. Before coming into the pub, she’d glanced up the street at his house. Dusk was drawing in, but no light shone through the green-and-gold glass in his front door. Doug was usually Mr. Punctual. She dug her mobile from her bag, double-checking she hadn’t missed a call or a message, then laid it on the table.
Then, with a sudden shake of her head, she picked up the mobile and slipped it back into her bag. What could possibly look sadder than a woman alone in a pub, desperately checking her messages?
The pub was filling up now and standing patrons were eyeing the empty place at her table. She forced a smile and put her bag firmly on the chair. Half her wine was gone, and if she got up, she’d lose the table. She took a tiny sip, then pushed her glass aside. Where the hell was Doug?
She should have stayed at Gemma’s. But she’d felt awkward there, too. Uninvited, a stray. Gemma’s world seemed complete in itself, brimming with children and dogs and even the bloody cats, a life full and always in motion. She thought of her own flat, empty and uninviting, and wondered how she’d got to such a place in her life.
Then she remembered Gemma’s face as she’d told her about her father-in-law, and she chastised herself for being selfish.
She’d taken her mobile out again to send Gemma a text when, from above her, Doug said, “Sorry. Bloody tube.”
“Jesus!” She dropped her mobile for the second time that day, and had to grope for it on the floor as Doug moved her bag and collapsed into the chair. “Where did you come from?” she asked as she sat up again, mobile in hand.
Doug nodded at it. “You were busy.”
“I wasn’t—” She shook her head. “Let’s not argue. Get a drink.”
He touched her glass. “Another round?”
She started to say yes, then realized she just felt terribly thirsty. “Just some sparkling water, please. With ice.”
Doug raised an eyebrow at that, but got up again and threaded his way to the bar. They knew him here, the place was his regular. She saw the barman smile as he took Doug’s order. Where, she thought, did she go that anyone knew her?
It had been different when she and Gemma had worked out of Notting Hill. She’d known the best coffee shops and sandwich shops and bakeries, and had in turn been recognized and welcomed. She’d met mates from work for drinks at the pub near the station, where the staff greeted her with smiles and knew her usual. None of those things had happened at Brixton—somehow her routine there had never gelled. She felt . . . displaced. With Andy gone, Doug and his house and this pub were the closest things she had to familiar territory.
Doug came back, balancing a pint in one hand and a large bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass in the other. Melody took the glass gratefully. She filled it from the bottle and drank most of it down.
“Are you okay?” Doug gave her a concerned look as he slid into his chair.
“Yes, just—it was warm today and I’ve been back and forth across the city.”
Doug looked surprised. “You went home?”
“No.” Melody drank more water. “I went to see Gemma. I wanted to know why she didn’t come in today. Krueger was furious, said Gemma had been seconded to some big case. I hadn’t heard a word from her and I was—” She stopped, not wanting to admit how betrayed she’d felt.
“Did you talk to her? What happened?” Doug put down his pint and absently wiped the foam from his lip. For a moment, he looked like a little boy eating an ice cream, and Melody was tempted to smile.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly like that.” She told him about Reagan Keating, the girl who had been found dead in the garden, and about Gemma’s connection through her friends. “So Gemma got a bit steam-rollered, and I suspect Superintendent Krueger was royally hacked off because Marc Lamb didn’t even consult her before borrowing her from Brixton.”
“It will be Gemma who takes the fallout, not Lamb,” said Doug.
Melody nodded. “I’m afraid so. But I wish . . .”
“What?”
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to admit, even to Doug, how much she wanted to be back in Notting Hill, working on a case with Gemma.
“It’s never a good thing when people start calling in favors. You’re well out of it,” said Doug, and she knew that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“Yes.” She poured more San Pellegrino into her glass. The ice was gone, and the water had done nothing to slake her thirst.
Doug leaned towards her, his face intent. “What about Denis? Did they know anything?”
“It wasn’t ‘they.’ Duncan’s in Cheshire. His father’s ill. But,” she said, before Doug could interrupt her, “Gemma said he went to see Denis yesterday, at the London.”
“But he can’t talk. Denis, I mean. If he’s in—”
“An induced coma, apparently. Because of the blow to his head. But, Doug, Gemma told me—” Melody paused, not certain she was supposed to repeat this, but Gemma hadn’t cautioned her against it. “Gemma said that Denis had a liver transplant. That’s why he was away.”
Doug looked at her like she’d gone bonkers. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t know either?”
“Of course I didn’t know. I’d have told you.” He thought for a moment. “How did he keep something like that quiet at the Yard? And how did Duncan and Gemma know? Is that why he’s been avoiding me?”
Melody could hear the hurt in his voice. She thought about how badly she’d felt, shut out by Gemma for one day, and for the first time really understood how Doug must have been feeling the past few months. “No,” she said, “I don’t think— I got the impression they didn’t know, either. Someone must have said something at the hospital.”
Doug sat back, sipping at his pint and frowning. “Cagey bugger,” he said at last. “And that’s not the only thing Denis Childs has kept quiet.”
“You found out something.” Melody’s pulse gave a little flutter. She wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread. “Tell me.”
“You know I didn’t see any of this. For the record.”
“Just tell me.” She found she was gripping her glass.
“I did a thorough search on the Web—you’d be amazed at what’s out there,” Doug said. “Denis Childs was a perfect candidate for a cop on a path to the top. University—Oxford”—this he threw in with a pleased little smile—“where he read Classics. Then, Hendon, graduated top in his class. After that, the usual couple of years in uniform, then a transfer into CID, where he quickly made detective sergeant.”
Melody waited, wondering if strangling him might be worth going to prison.
“He moved around a bit, again, not unusual, and did his courses. Then”—Doug paused for another sip of his beer—“he vanishes. Boom. Just like that. There’s no record of any posting for three years. Then he reappears, in central London, promoted to DI.”
They sat staring at each other. Finally, it was Melody who whispered, “Bloody Special Branch.”
“That would be the logical assumption.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean counterintelligence,” Melody said. “He could have done anything. Protected the queen, even.”
Doug grinned. “That would explain your father’s hints about a checkered past, all right.”