“Polly?”
“There’s a lot more than meets the eye with that lady.”
“Oh? She writes novels, yes?”
“That’s right. Crime novels. Knows a lot about murder.”
“Doesn’t make her a murderer.”
“Write what you know. Isn’t that what they say?”
Had that occurred to the police? wondered Carol. Should they be raiding book festivals? Taking DNA samples from the top crime writers and checking them against their unsolved murders? Carol had heard Richard Madeley was writing crime novels now. There was definitelysomethingnot quite right about that man.
“More than meets the eye, eh? I’ve met a few murderers, more than you, I’d say, and she doesn’t seem the type.”
“Neither do you,” said Elisa.
“Thank you.” Carol liked Elisa. She had a twinkle in her eye. Carol returned it with a twinkle of her own. “Come on, then, why should I be looking at Polly? Other than the fact she writes about murder. It doesn’t feel like a lot to go on.”
“Because of her past, I suppose. I shouldn’t say…I’m not sure anybody else knows. It was a long time ago.”
Carol left a pause. An amateur might rush in with “What past?” but that would give Elisa a question she could choose not to answer. Leaving silence was better. People don’t like dead air. A good piece of gossip burned a hole in the pocket. Carol stayed still until Elisa looked up and met her eyes.
“Polly used to be married to Desmond.”
Thirty-Two
Laura Welsh stoodat the bar in the Unicorn. It was starting to fill up, the leisurely afternoon crowd swapping with the thirstier after-work drinkers. Punters were closing their laptops and ending the pretense that they were in the pub to do some work. That was the thing about North London: Every public space was filled with people pretending to work. But working hours were over, even for those who were kidding themselves that they were writing a screenplay, and it was time to have some fun. A bar girl was fiddling with a remote control, trying to find the right sports channel for a demanding man in shorts and a polo shirt.
Like nearly all London pubs, the Unicorn had been infected with the gastro disease (the menu offered baked Camembert) but it still maintained some boozer charm. Intermittently, Laura heard the sound of pool balls clattering onto the table for another game.
She was pissed off to be buying the first round, but that was the way it went. The youngest in Major Crimes always bought thefirst round. Never mind that the youngest was on the worst salary, never mind that the youngest wouldn’t be staying long enough for the four other coppers to buy her a drink in return. In the Met, those were the rules, and anyone not playing by them was a wrong ’un, not doing their time. When some of these blokes had been at the bottom of the ladder, you could still buy a round for a tenner. Now? In London? Five drinks cost the price of a flight to Sharm el-Sheikh, which is what she wished she was on.
Her friend Ruby had sent her a last-minute deal, suggested she join her for a week in an okay-looking three-star all-inclusive. The food would probably have been shit, endless buffets of suspiciously colored pastries, but some sun would have been nice. Laura had said she couldn’t get out of work. What she hadn’t said was that it was her choice. She could have easily got the time off, she had some leave owed to her, but Laura wanted to solve this case. Something about it had got hold of her. Something about the way Bob had reacted when he’d seen that it was Sir Desmond Crisp who’d died. Laura had to know the whole truth, and she feared that, if she left, maybe she never would.
There was something else too. The Carol Quinn interview had been a disaster. The old lady had pulled their pants down. They’d had no evidence, and Carol had known it. Laura had thought they had the right woman; it had to be her. A serial killer arrives at a retirement home and someone gets murdered? Carol was going to confess and Laura Welsh was going to be the woman who drew it out of her. A high-profile case and Laura would be at the center of it; word would spread around the Met that there was a hotshot new detective on the scene who had made the monster crumble. No one would stop Laura’s rise.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. Laura picked up her tray of pints and put three bags of crisps into her mouth.
“No smoky bacon?” said DI Pauline Crouch, in her gravel-voiced Geordie, as Laura arrived at the pub table.
“Sorry, I went for three plain.”
Pauline took a bag for herself, unimpressed. Pauline was a legend and a bitch. She wasn’t interested in helping the women she’d blazed a trail for. Some people left a ladder, others took it away. Pauline trod on your fingers.
DI Trev Pickle waved a pack of cigarettes. “Ciggie?”
Pauline and DI Steve Talbott stood up.
Laura looked to Bob. “You not going out?”
“Given up.”
“You’ve smoked five today.”
“Well, I’m giving up again.”
“I’m proud of you. It’s your willpower that blows me away.”
