Ifind myself staring mindlessly at my screen, once again at a dead end. None of the leads so far have panned out, and I’m no closer to figuring out who poisoned Delores Abernathy. Ivy Chappell had been another of those dead ends. She admitted to drugging my tea, which Tristan had ended up drinking by mistake, but so far we’ve found no evidence that ties her to the arsenic poisoning.
As much as I love my job, this really is the unglamorous side of police work. It’s nothing like it is on TV; instead, it’s hours, days, or even weeks of painstaking investigation that most of the time don’t pan out. This case has been one massive frustration from beginning to end. Why use something as dated as arsenic? Why kill an old lady with dementia who had no money and at best only had a few more years left anyway?
I need a break, I think as I rub my forehead in frustration. And not a quick run to the shitty coffee machine on the next floor. I mean a real break, maybe a weekend away with Tris, no work, no interruptions. Just the two of us.
My phone vibrates across my desk, and I see the name Samuel Stone flash across the screen as I pick it up and answer.
“Sam,” I greet. “That was quick. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m very good at what I do,” a deep familiar voice answers, one heavily laced with a Yorkshire accent, and for a moment I feel a fleeting pang of homesickness. Even though I’m happy in London with Tris and would never go back up North, it reminds me of my family, something I really don’t particularly want to think about.
“You found something?”
“More than just something,” Sam rumbles. “Let’s just say finding Maeve Landon’s real name is just the tip of the iceberg. You’re not going to believe the shit I dug up on her.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Not over the phone. Can you meet me?” he asks.
“You’re not in Leeds?” I remark in surprise.
“I’m in London, have been for some time.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask, slightly hurt that he didn’t tell me we were both in the same city again.
“I…” He goes quiet for a moment. “I had some stuff I had to work through first, but that’s part of the reason I’d like to see you face-to-face… there are some things I need to say.”
My stomach drops a little, wondering what it is he has to say to me. “Okay, where are you?”
“I’m at Charing Cross at the moment. I have something I need to do first, but can you meet me in Covent Garden in about an hour?”
“Sure,” I answer, checking my watch. “Where?”
“There’s a coffee shop called The Black Penny on Great Queen Street.”
“I’ll find it.” I nod even though he can’t see me.
“And Danny?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you. It’s been a long time,” he says reflectively.
“Yeah, me too,” I say quietly.
We mumble our goodbyes and I hang up the phone. Rising from my seat, I unhook my jacket from where it’s draped across the back of the chair and pull it on. I probably should include Maddie if Sam has information about our case, but I don’t. There’s unfinished personal business between me and Sam. I haven’t seen him since I left home and moved down South to London. I tried to stay in contact, to check in on him and see how he was doing, but it was clear at the time what he wanted was space, and as his friend, all I could do was respect his wishes.
I shoot Maddie a message and manage to navigate my way out of the building without running into her. Not that she wouldn't have understood, but I guess I’ve got some mixed feelings seeing Sam after all this time, especially after what happened to him.
By the time I’ve made my way to Covent Garden, I’m pretty much bang on time. Bustling my way through the crowds of tourists, past museums and market stalls, I manage to find The Black Penny and head inside. It’s got a nice feel to it, urban and laid-back, with blackened wood cladding, exposed brickwork, and Edison-style lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling on long black wires.
As if drawn by a lodestone, my gaze lands on the man tucked at a wooden table towards the back, his head down as he stares at something on his phone and ignores the coffee cup tucked next to a manila file beside him. I wander along the long gallery-style counter, ignoring all the salads and sweet treats, and instead opt to just grab a plain coffee.
After thanking the short hipster guy sporting a cartoon villain moustache and standing behind the counter, I head toward the table. Almost as if sensing my presence, Sam looks up, and I draw in a slow breath and force my feet to keep moving. He looks so different from how I remember him but a hell of a lot better than the very last time I’d seen him, lying broken in a hospital bed.
“Danny,” he says quietly as he stands.
I set my cup down on the table and stare at him, wondering how I should greet him. Fuck it, I decide, pulling him in for a hug. He stiffens for a moment and then relaxes, his arms coming up tentatively as he presses his palms to my back.
